My brother always told me that when I can't speak my mind, I must write it down…

I should probably start with the fundamentals. My name is Bridgette Grayson, but everyone calls me Bridge.

I'm a former Royal Air Force airman on the wrong side of thirty with too many stories to tell, and I've been to too many funerals. Afghanistan's taken more than its share from me.

My twin brother, Leonard or Leo, has just been kidnapped. And with him being a Royal Marine, this is not something to just idly fret over.

All our lives, from the time our parents were murdered right from under us, Leo has been the mouth and I've been the brain. We became a singular unit inside two bodies.

Now that he is gone, I've been without a voice and quite literally cannot speak.

In fact, I've barely spoken my entire life, save for my brother and few others.

There was a man I knew in the military and my brother and I both befriended him in camp. He was a doctor, with a unsettlingly bad bedside manner. Trust me, I had a broken wrist once after a flight and the weeks I spent going to him was both a hilarious and painful adventure.

But he and my brother were the best of friends, I found I could trust this man. I kept up with him after we parted ways on our way to home. He left for London and I went back to Edinburgh with my brother. We sent letters back and forth, him to us and us to him. John was a dear friend to us. The only we had. He told us he was sharing a flat with some eccentric consulting detective.

And then my brother was taken. I'd gone out for a goods run on a cloudy Thursday. When I returned, the white porch was covered in glass from the windows and the door looked like someone had a go with a crowbar. I dropped my bags, ignoring the cracking noise the eggs made when they hit the steps. I took out my gun - which since coming home I'd made a habit of having on me when I went out – and when I went inside…

Blood, glass and torn clothing. Everywhere. Signs of a weapons discharge, and a note.

Time to collect, my dear Bridgette.

Collect the firstborn of the Grayson family, but since you and Leonard were born at the same time, I only need one of you! Oh, and I expect five million dollars for your brother unharmed (much). Since I'm in a good mood, I'll give you a month to mull it over. I've got all the time in the world. Have a nice day!

Rumplestiltskin

P.S. That was funny, you're supposed to laugh.

I'm leaving things out…When our parents were killed, I made a deal with a man they knew.

A deal with the Devil.

Only the Devil was once an angel.

This man was always a monster. I could tell. A monster who laughed.

His name?

Moriarty.

I made a deal with him. Leo and I needed money to keep us going until our eighteenth birthday, a bus ticket, and recruitment papers to go to the military, somewhere where we'd at least have a home. And he wanted something in return. He said if we were to become soldiers of any kind, that one day in a few years…he'd want one or both of us to become his soldiers, then. Blackmail. I couldn't find the words to refuse, I'd just lost my parents. I needed to be sure that my brother and I would be taken care of.

But this was different. He wants ransom. Five million dollars. I know how he wants me to get that money. He expects me to kill. I'm a pilot, not a killer.

This is to be my diary, detailing my life in a loud world without a voice and my brother nowhere to be found.

I am in need of two men.

I'm having nightmares at night, and I'm a mute who can't scream.

I need a doctor.

My brother's just been kidnapped and I'm being forced to negotiate ransom with Lucifer's evil twin.

I need a detective.

I'm off to London, diary. I'll be in touch.

- Bridge


PRIVATE BLOG - Draft 1:

8th, July

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock isn't my only friend. It's been a hot July so far, and yet when I saw her again, every nerve in my body ran absolutely cold.

It started as just another Saturday, if unusually hot. I was sweating bullets in a wife-beater and shorts, and Sherlock was in a damned sheet again. Probably has the right idea, him. We had two fans going and I was trying to position them to where it'd circulate fresh air. Had half a mind to run out and buy an air conditioner out of pocket.

Sherlock, being him, was doing that thing with his hands and lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling from the sofa. His hair was curlier in the heat, but the sheet was dry, no sweat. Sometimes I wonder if he really would turn out to be human if I dissected him.

Then I heard Mrs. Hudson call from the stairs, her old lady's legs climbing up them. "John! There's a girl here for you!"

I raised my eyebrows. Been a while since that happened.

When our landlady reached our doorstep, she added, "Wouldn't say a word, though. Just held up a little note that had your name on it."

"No…" I said, my lips spreading in a grin. I haven't seen the Grayson twins since…well, a long time.

Sherlock had ignored us for the most of it, until I started for the door and he had gotten up to follow me. I turned and put a hand on his shoulder. "No, you get some clothes. We're having friends over."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "John, I'm afraid I haven't a clue as to who you're referring to. Your parents aren't in town, are they?"

"No, they're old friends of mine. And if you're rude to them, they could both probably kill you in a variety of different ways, now will you get something on?" I said quickly, still holding a smirk.

All the great Sherlock Holmes had to say to that was, "Very well, then."

I hustled down the steps and opened the door. I'd expected there to be two now, that Mrs. Hudson had only seen Bridge because Leo was in the pub grabbing a bite after a long trip from Edinburgh. But still…there was only Bridge. And the heat disintegrated into frigidity.

"Bridge."

She had cut off her dark hair was the first thing I noticed. Really short, almost like a boy's. The Bridge I knew was one of those pilot girls who loved having her hair in the wind, though wouldn't dare talk about it. In fact, I've only heard her say two words to me in the entire time I've known her. "Where's Leonard?", mostly. Her eyes were sharper, gray like ash but there was something so obviously off.

"What's wrong?" I asked, coming up to her but not touching her.

Being a woman who wouldn't speak, you learn to read her face. She was wearing leather, she meant business. She was holding six or more sticky notes. The first, which I noticed had my name on it, she discarded into a waste bin outside the pub.

The second she held up.

Leo's been kidnapped.

My heart sank and I paled. "By who?"

She threw that note away and lifted another.

Moriarty. Ever heard of him?

No…

When I looked away from the note, Bridge – a woman I'd never imagined could cry – was on the verge of tears. Leonard was her whole world, her family. That much I gathered from our time in Afghanistan. She'd die for him gladly. And here she was without him.

She threw the note with the name on it and pried another from the others, trying not to break down.

Could I stay with you for a while? I have no place else to go. I need to find him. He's all I've got.

"I'll help you." I answered, almost immediately.

I met her sparkling eyes for permission, and she nodded. I pulled her to me and held her. She didn't really cry, like most would. She's not that sort of girl. She just needed to hold onto something. I hope she didn't mind the sweaty shirt. Bridge was alone. How could I not help her? In a way, she and Leo were family too. Leo…

And in the clutches of a man like Moriarty, who knows where he could be?

My mind answered that question before I could finish my thought. Sherlock.

"Listen, Bridge," She peeked up at me through her eyelashes as she let me go. "My detective friend, you remember?" She nodded. "He and I'll help you find Leonard. I promise you I'll bring him back to you. Understood?"

Bridge gave me a stare then that I'll never forget. Her ash-gray eyes turned hard and her gaze was nearly impossible to look away from. I held it. She clutched my shirt again, her hands balled into fists. I knew exactly what she was saying, I knew her well enough.

You keep that promise, John Watson. Or I'll never forgive myself for trusting you.

For now, I'm calling this case the Gemini Parable.