Four Years after the Fall . . .
Sherlock had long ago mastered the art of looking interested in what someone was saying, filing away the information, but not actually heeding what they had to say. It was very useful for listening to uninteresting things, such as cases or clients, and he could solve most of them without even having to completely pay attention to the client's sob story. Like now, for example.
"And I'm so worried he could be dead, and I don't –"
"Most likely."
The client, (Woman, mid-twenties, tall, copper hair, single, or hiding ring, looking after toddler, possibly older, girl considering bracelet, nice complexion, mascara only, cares about what people think though, possibly drunkard, mint green eyes, sparkling) looked at him stunned. "What? Are you –"
"Sure? You have been describing - in poor detail, I might add - the exact characteristics of the serial killer, Oliver Moran, who is known for his violent and bloody murders, and the boy of your description - tall, pale skinned, brown hair - was his latest victim. I know because I autopsied him. So, yes, I'm sure. His name was Walter, yes?"
"Holmes!" whispered-yelled Watson, who was sitting next to him.
"What?" Sherlock looked to Watson quizzically as the client, a 28 year old woman sitting right across from them on the couch, started scrounging in her purse, probably for tissues from the wetness on her cheeks.
"I merely did what she asked; I don't see the problem -"
"Holmes, she didn't ask – "
"She asked for me to figure out where her son was, I have figured it out, so why –"
"It was her brother! And you could have been more subtle!"
"Being subtle isn't going to help her. I was merely doing her a –"
"If you say favor, I am literally going to slap you."
"Oh, come now Watson, quite being so –"
"And don't you say dramatic! I am not –"
"I'd appreciate it if you both would shut. Up."
Sherlock felt something cold and hard against his neck. He flashed his eyes to the client, and was extremely surprised when the once thought of demure woman sitting across from him, turned out to be the one holding the gun (Revolver, heirloom judging from wear and the gilt details, custom made, or repurposed, eight sockets instead of 6, one bullet) to his neck. Now, instead of the mother that came to 221B seeking aid for her brother, out jumped an annoyed – and likely psychotic – apparent killer, as she held the gun like a trained militant. John noticed the gun, and the person holding it, and made ready to leap for it, but he caught Sherlock's eye at the last moment, and stilled. The client – possibly assassin – noticed the almost attack and backed away from them both, keeping the gun trained on Sherlock.
"Now, Mr. Watson, I wouldn't do that if I were you. I promise, I won't hurt your precious flatmate as I still have need of him."
Watson merely glared at the simpering tone and snarky grin she gave him, but a spark of recognition in Sherlock's mind made him turn his head. He studied her again, giving nothing away. (Woman, mid-twenties, tall, copper hair, single, or hiding ring, looking after toddler, possibly older, girl considering bracelet, nice complexion, mascara only, cares about what people think though, possibly drunkard, nothing! The same as last time! But something must have -)
"Alrighty then, John, Sherlock, let's get down to business, and defeat those Huns, hm?"
They both glared at her. Watson more than Sherlock, Sherlock just kept studying her with his green eyes –
(That's it! Her eyes! They're different. They aren't green anymore. They're black like . . . no. No, it couldn't –
"Pph – Damn Brits. Don't even get the - *sigh*. Never mind. Anyway! Let's continue then, shall we? As you can probably guess, I'm here for a reason, not to assassinate though, thankfully. For you both anyway. No, I come for something a bit, well, domestic. A gift, to be precise. A-"
"A bullet to the brain, maybe? That would fit the present –"
"WHAT did I say about talking, hm? . . . I hope you remember Sherlock. You seem to be very . . forgetful as of late."
She moved closer to Sherlock, pressing the mouth of the gun to his forehead. Watson, noticeably agitated about the whole situation, gripped the chair's forearms until his knuckles were white and leaned slightly forward. Sherlock was his usual self on the outside, calm and condescending, but on the inside he was nervous, anxious . . . terrified. Because he knew now who this person was, in front of him. The way she yelled at him, the way she looked, even the way she held herself, proud and haughty with the gun in her hand. Her eyes . . . they were truly the windows to her soul.
"*sigh* . . . I apologize for that little, um, outburst. It seems I'm quite on edge today. But I'm off topic. I have a gift for you, Sherlock. Do you mind?" She pointed to her purse on the table. He raised his eyebrows at her, but reached inside the bag anyway, pulling out a very light box in a striped navy blue design and a black bow on top. He set it down next to her purse and when she gestured for him to open it, he pulled off the top.
(. . . Nothing? Why would there be nothing - )
"Do you know why the box is empty, Sherlock? No? Come on now, you're the world's only consulting detective, aren't you? You must have figured out!"
" . . . you have the gift –"
"Yes! I do have the gift! Can you guess what the gift is now? Come on, it's quite easy!"
"It's the gun, isn't it?"
Both Sherlock and the client looked at John, Sherlock with disguised shock, and the client with humor/surprise. John blushed faintly and said again "It is, isn't it?" The client smiled at him and nodded. She picked up the box and held it in her free hand, flat against her palm. And with a flourish and a grin, she put the gun in the box, and closed the lid. The grin still on her face, she put the box down on the table next to her purse, and sat on the sofa that she had been sitting on only moments ago.
"Now, I have a little story for you, if you both will listen. It's short, I promise, and since I'm not waving that gun around anymore, I can tell it without fear of anyone getting hurt. What do you say? Care to hear my tale?"
John was seriously debating whether or not to just tackle her and call Lestrade straight away, and hopefully lock her away in some loony bin somewhere before she waved another gun around, but Sherlock was practically glaring at him to stay seated. He seemed to trust her more than John did. But then again, Sherlock was anything but trusting. Demented and suspicious, always; but trusting, never. With a nod from Sherlock, she was on her way.
"Right, well. It was 18 years ago to date that I lost my brother the first time. He was the same age as I was, as we were twins and all. I was older, but only by 3 or 4 minutes, but that's not important. I lost him, but he didn't die. No, he ran away. Where, I don't know, but he went on to become quite famous. Anyway, about 8 years after he ran away, 10 years ago from now, I lost my parents. They were killed, shot with that very revolver. 2 years after that, I lost my older sister and my niece, both shot and killed with that revolver. A month later, my brother in law died; again, from that revolver. A year later, my fiancé died, from the revolver. At this point, there are only two bullets left in the gun. The second to last one, it killed my brother. My twin brother, exactly 4 years ago, to the day. You want to guess how he dies? With a bullet to the brain. He put it there. He put all of them there."
The flat grew eerily silent. While Sherlock stared at the client, John had a look of pity on his face. He knew what it was like to lose someone, everyone really, as being in the army on the front lines always meant someone you knew wasn't going to make it. Even if he was a doctor, he couldn't always save everyone. He still thought she was crazy, but maybe she had a reason now for her madness. Though, something was slightly familiar about the whole situation, like he had met her somewhere –
"What is your name? I don't seem to remember it." This was Sherlock.
"I never said it, did I? Well, lets fix that then!" She stood and held out her hand. "Ann. Ann Moriarty."
. . . to the day.
A/N :: I'm aiming for this story to be updated every Sunday, so as I have ample time to read and review it. I would love reviews, so please give me one, even if it's something mean. It still means people are reading it. Also, if you have any ideas for a main conflict, please review with your idea, and if enough people ask for it, I might put it in. Thank you!
P.S. REVIEW! . . . (please?)