No sooner had I arrived in England than I decided that someone was trying to kill me.

I suppose it shouldn't have come as a surprise, given the shameful circumstances under which my mother and I left our adopted country. But as the taxi from the airport took the corners too sharply for me to hold on, I cursed the day I decided that medical school in England was a good idea. I scrambled in my purse for mace, and then remembered that the TSA screener had taken it stateside.

For my protection, of course.

I tried to open the taxi door, only to hear the dull click of the lock. The window, however, rolled manually. If I couldn't jump, I could at least scream for help. The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder and pulled a gun. He shot twice at the back window, which shattered. I screamed, and he suddenly turned his attention back to the road and spun the wheel to avoid an oncoming truck.

The car tipped wildly for a moment, then rolled twice, landing back on all four wheels with a precarious shudder. I was seeing stars but I thrust myself through the now jagged window and out into the dark London night.

I began to run.

It had been seven years since I'd set foot in London, and here I was again, running pell-mell down the foggy, cobbled streets. I never thought I'd be back, and now I was desperately wishing I wasn't. A heel broke, and I kicked my shoes away. There was a light up ahead, and I threw myself into a pub, gasping for breath.

"Help! Please, help." I panted into the suddenly silent establishment. "Someone just tried to shoot me, please call the police."

The red-faced patrons were frozen in place, comically still with pool cues and lazily smoking cigarettes. The bartender put down the glass he was polishing and reached for the phone. "Easy now, miss, we'll take care of you," he reached for the phone. "What's your name, love?"

"Sara Watson," I said, doubling over with a cramp.

The phone jangled as the bartender slammed it back into its cradle. "Watson?"

I suddenly realized I should have lied. "Uh…" I scanned the room. The surprised faces had turned hard, frowning. I took a step backwards. "Please, I need help."

"Like we needed help, eh? Seven years ago?" A man at the back stood and spit through chapped lips. His red-lidded eyes bored into mine. "I think you'd best leave, little miss."

I backed away, slowly, and then flung myself through the door, the shame of my father's crimes burning up my face. I stood in the doorway, heart hammering, listening for footsteps, or the squeal of tires, or the bark of a gun. All I could hear were the sounds of the pub slowly coming to life behind me. Barefoot for the loss of my shoes, I slowly stepped out into the unusually cold night. I was alone, utterly alone – no money, no cell phone, and completely lost. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and I took another step forward into the night.

My head snapped back as I was grabbed from behind. A dirty hand clamped over my mouth and someone dragged me into the alley beside the pub.

"Don't scream. Don't say a thing. Do exactly as I say." It was the red-eyed man. "I'm going to call a cab. Don't take the first, or the second, but wait for the third. Tell the driver to take you to Baker street. Have the landlady pay him. Wait for me there."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "Holmes?" I whispered into his palm. He loosened his grip slightly.

"The third cab," he repeated, and pushed me away. I spun to see him in the half-darkness, but his back was already to me, and he opened a door to the pub and disappeared behind it.

I'd been in London for an hour. It's really a wonder he hadn't found me sooner.