Hi all! It's me again, and I have just finished Sherlock Holmes. Again. I wrote this because it has been stuck in my head for weeks, and I thought getting it out here would help. Probably only going to be a few chapters, so you have been warned. Thank you so much for any reads, reviews, comments, etc. Even if you just say one word. Thank you, and now enjoy the show! (Love from August Songs)
Disclaimer: I am not dead. So these ain't mine, now, are they?
It was a normal day for John until he found the girl lying on the roadside.
John whistled as he walked along. Since Sherlock had not had a case for three weeks, he was in a positively terrible mood, shooting the wall and glaring at his skull, so John was out for some fresh air. The dirty, crowded streets of London didn't bother him too much by now, and he was in a decent mood when he reached the store. As usual, he purchased the groceries and was about to turn the corner when he heard the shriek. It stood his hair on end not only because of its piercing pitch, but because of the voice that uttered it. A young girl's, a child's. A tortured cry. John didn't wait a second, dropping the groceries and sprinting lopsidedly towards the sound of the scream.
Evie had been curled on the ground for half an hour — no, she corrected herself, twenty-eight minutes and fifty two seconds — before they started the burning. She knew they normally didn't start so early, but evidently, as she allowed her eyes to crack open into slits, she could see that her tormenter's affair had been discovered. Bruise on thigh - looks like pointed shoe heel - woman mad - smells like woman's perfume, not wife's - wife kicked him - shoes tied from yesterday, worn all night - got home late last night - wife found out about affair). She decided to open her eyes a bit more, just to see if there was anyone else with problems, but immediately regretted it as her vision first blazed in the sun and then poured a series of images into her brain, which were transferred to facts too fast for her to recognize. The images came flooding in: woman to left - Rosalind Donovan - sister a police - mother died a while ago, inherited small sum - men are Jones, Sean Revanado - SEAN HIRED - JONES DATED ROSALIND IN HIGH SCHOOL - SEAN ISN'T SURE ABOUT TORTURE— Evie closed her eyes, and tried to stop her brain from analyzing any more of the images stuck in her head. It never works, she thought as a slight smirk painted itself across her face. Shouldn't you know that by now? She could vaguely feel, as if from a long way, her skin burning as the lighter hit her hand hard. She could barely tell that she was being burnt; she had learnt to shut those things out. She could definitely feel the crack that meant her finger had snapped, inducing the first shriek. The people chuckled meanly. Evie waited for the second, inevitable snap of her wrist, but what she got instead was a soft hand on her side. She shied away (was this another attempt at making me less wary?) but was met by only another hand around her waist. The man picked her up, and she whispered, as quickly as possible, "Leave me."
The man replied (strong accent, hint of Middle East) "You crazy? You could've died!" Then, despite her attempts at keeping her eyelids closed, she had to lift them to get some information about this oddly caring man. Immediately the man's shirt filled her eyesight. Checking pulse expertly - medical - walks with semi-permanent limp, shoulder shot - army - old tan, still strong - Middle Eastern sun and hint of accent - not too long ago - shirt has Afghan make - Afghanistan - labelled J. Watson––––– she closed her eyes, then, and let Watson's motions rock her to sleep.