It was late November, midnight. The air was perfectly clear, not a cloud overhead. Stars, visible when observed for long periods and away from garish city lights, painted a canvas of constellations and dotted beauty across the inky sky. But all she knew was that this clearness, this ethereal, lucid sky meant only one thing: the cold night air would cause hypothermia, and it would kill her long before he found her again. She had already felt the beginning symptoms. Her fingers fumbled with the rusty zipper on the stained jacket, stolen from his flat. She tried to speak, to talk herself through the situation, but only found herself mumbling through some incoherent babble. When she walked, trying to find a way out of the cramped alley and into a safe location, her feet stumbled and she nearly fell. Yes, it was hypothermia. The beauty of the night meant nothing to her. She would either die from exposure or from his wrath. She had no other choice. She ran.
Bursting from her hiding space between the immense brick buildings, she tripped over bins and trash bags strewn over the uneven ground. At first, she fell into an open container of glass bottles, cutting her palms and face on their razor edges. She bit on her tongue, forcing back the scream that wanted to escape. He would hear her. He would find her. She made her legs work again, forced her feet to carry her away from the alley. She fell again, stumbling onto a bench just moments after leaving the alleyway. Again, she bit back sobs and forced herself up. Her legs pumped faster. Her breath hitched in her throat, then came out somewhere between a sob and a gasp. The cold night air burned her teeth, her throat, her lips. The thin clothes she had stolen did nothing to protect her from the vicious wind that bit at her skin. She knew that she wouldn't be able to run for much longer. Soon he would find her.
Rounding another corner, she sprinted a few more blocks, and then tripped over an exposed grate in the sidewalk. Tumbling to the ground, she collapsed and held bleeding hands and knees close to a bruised face. Ugly gasps escaped chapped lips. Her throat felt bloody and raw. Her skin burned from the sudden pocket of cold air that encased her body. Dragging herself from the sidewalk, she crawled on hands and knees up the nearest set of stairs and sat there, panting with exertion and terror. It wouldn't be long now. He would have men searching every corner of the city. No one was coming to help her. She rested her weary head against the door where the steps led. She had given up.
Suddenly, the door gave way. In spite of herself, the girl screamed, alarmed at the unexpected movement. Twisting quickly, she jumped up and began sprinting away from the open door of the flat. An elderly woman's voice stopped her. She turned at the foot of the stairs. The woman's voice was so concerned, so inviting, so matronly. And she was so tired, so cold, so very tired…
"And did you see his face?" John asked, gesturing wildly while imitating the terrorist's look of surprise when he and Sherlock had appeared at the supposedly safe criminal rendezvous. "Oh, that was good. That was very good. Should do that more often."
Sherlock offered a smirk beside him.
"Well, we used to, John. But remember, you're a family man now. Can't be out at all hours of the night, catching murderers and internationally wanted terrorists. Can you imagine what your wife would say?"
"Sherlock Holmes, was that a joke?" John answered, laughing while feigning surprise. "You know Mary loves it when I get out of the house at night…" John's voice trailed off, his smile disappeared, and his eyes widened. "Oh, Sherlock, she's not having…she's not…is she?"
Sherlock stared intently at his friend, then released a short burst of hearty laughter.
"Of course not, John! Mary simply enjoys her evenings alone to watch the television and eat biscuits and read a specific brand of novel."
He stopped as John held up a single, gloved hand.
"I have no need to hear about my wife's evenings alone from my best friend, Sherlock," he said firmly. He checked his watch and gasped. "Speaking of which, look at the time! I've got to get home, she'll be worried sick…"
Sherlock let out a heavy sigh beside his friend, his breath visible in the frigid November air. They rounded the corner to 221 Baker Street.
"No, John, your wife is in bed reading trashy romance novels while drinking expensive red wine. She's already assumed you're staying the night. Besides," he smirked, "Mrs. Hudson's stayed up all evening, waiting for us to arrive. She's even put the kettle on. You wouldn't want to disappoint her, would you?"
John's eyes furrowed. He lifted his hand to the knob as Sherlock ascended the staircase outside the flat. "How could you possibly know that?"
A raised hand cut him off. Sherlock stood silently, then dropped to his knees and pressed his face to the stone steps.
John sighed. "For God's sake, Sherlock, would you please come-" Sherlock stood abruptly.
"Someone's been here, John. Hurt. Bleeding. And if my deductions are correct, which they always are, that person…" he opened the door. Inside, Mrs. Hudson stood, her hands wringing and her eyes wet with tears. Sherlock smirked. "Is currently residing inside our flat."
"Oh John, Sherlock, please she's upstairs. I didn't know what to do. She was so cold, and she was bleeding, and her hands, and I just didn't know what else to do!" Mrs. Hudson continued on, following John and Sherlock as they darted up the stairs. "She seemed so cold and all the blood I just didn't –" her wavering voice and intermittent sobs were cut off by John's brusque voice as they burst into the flat.
"Mrs. Hudson. I need you to get something warm and sugary. Bring it up here. Then get every blanket you can find, and bring it here as well. Do you understand?" Mrs. Hudson nodded, then darted back down the stairs. Suddenly, she turned and ran back up.
"Sherlock?" she called.
The tall man, still wearing his long pea coat and thick scarf, turned slowly to face the older woman.
"Yes?" he hissed, his eyebrows rose in annoyance.
"I…I didn't know where else to put her, so…" Sherlock's eyes rolled and he turned his back to the landlady.
"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson. Tea. Now."
As he heard the woman dart down the staircase, Sherlock slowly walked down the hallway to his bedroom with John following close behind. The door stood slightly ajar. Inside, a single lamp illuminated the dark room. Its light cast a glow on Sherlock's bed which, while usually in shambles and unused, was now home to a solitary, sleeping form. Sherlock wandered over, silently beckoning John to follow him. As he reached the headboard, he crouched down at eye level with the girl. His eyebrows furrowed. He pulled off a leather glove and held his hand immediately in front of her parted, chapped lips. A sigh of relief escaped him. She was breathing, but barely.
"Hypothermia has slowed her body systems," he Sherlock mouthed to John.
The doctor nodded, turning and darting from the room, hoping to find Mrs. Hudson and the additional blankets. Sherlock turned back to the sleeping girl. Her body was tightly covered with sheets, but her face was turned toward the single lamp. Sherlock gasped quietly while examining her exposed face. Long, brown hair draped in tangled, matted waves across his pillow. Eyes, screwed tightly shut, were surrounded by deep lines of exhaustion. Her right eye was swollen, black and blue from bruising. Shallow cuts ran across her face, and a deep gash trailed across her left cheekbone. Suddenly, she sighed deeply and turned away from the light, shifting underneath the sheets. One of her hands came free as she settled back into the pillow, on which Sherlock observed deep rashes and irritation, likely caused by forced bonds. He sighed and stood, turning off the lamp and stalking from the room.
Closing the door behind him, he came face to face with a concerned John and hysterical Mrs. Hudson.
"She'll be fine. Don't bother waking her for the tea. It will only upset her further. Lay the extra blankets over her, and wait for her to wake in the morning," he said quietly, turning away and walking down the hallway. John nodded to Mrs. Hudson, who sighed and took the blankets into Sherlock's room. John watched her go inside, and then stalked after Sherlock, who was now seated in his deep leather chair in the living room, his eyes closed, his hands folded lightly at the fingertips in front of his face. John cleared his throat. At the sound, Sherlock's eyes darted open. He smiled at John as the doctor raised his eyebrows at his friend's enthusiasm.
"We're accepting the case," Sherlock said, smiling and closing his eyes to the world.