Sherlock belongs to the BBC, and this text is in no way affiliated with the writers or actors.
Hello, everyone! This is the first fanfic I've attempted, so I am eager for any criticism and advice. I ship Johnlock but I'm not 100% ready to write any slash just yet, so this relationship is purely platonic (unfortunately).
"Sherlock!" Yelled John, "What the hell is this?" John storms into the sitting room clutching a glass beaker which appears to contain several wiggling amphibious creatures.
"They're tadpoles, John. Surely a qualified and intelligent doctor like yourself is able to recognise tadpoles. Really, what a ridiculous question."
"Yes, I know what they are," He fumes, "But I was more curious as to why they were in my bloody sock drawer." Slamming the beaker down on the coffee table so forcefully, drops of the murky liquid spills onto the scratched wood. At the sudden noise, Sherlock glances up from his laptop and raises his eyebrows in amusement at John's outburst. Turning back to the computer screen he says, "I was conducting an experiment to gage the optimum temperature at which tadpoles grow the fastest but with a limited supply of oxygen and your sock drawer-"
The remainder of Sherlock's explanation is abruptly cut off by the ringing of the doorbell. Sherlock and John glance at each other instinctively and it is clear both are thinking the same thought; client. Sherlock leaps out of the chair and bounds down the stairs, two at a time. Like an excited Labrador, John notes with a chuckle. A new case could mean a no longer bored Sherlock and, to John's delight' no more unexpected and unwelcome experiments. John listens for the sound of the front door being flung open and soon enough, there are two pairs of footsteps on the stairs.
John's eyes widen in surprise as he takes in the woman before him. Well, not quite a woman, he corrects himself, but a young girl around the age of 17 he guesses. He glances towards Sherlock's face which looks crestfallen, obviously the girl is not interesting enough for him, and he flings himself in his leather chair with an exasperated sigh. Turning back towards the girl, John smiles warmly and holds out his hand.
"Dr John Watson, and this is my colleague Sherlock Holmes," He says, nodding in Sherlock's direction. The girl falters for a millisecond and then smiles weakly as she shakes John's hand.
"I'm Samantha Bisney." She lets go of John's hand as quickly as she had grasped it, and moves her right hand back to the blue and green flower patterned shoulder bag, and grips it tightly. She makes no movement to sit down and instead stands awkwardly by the door. After a few tense moments Sherlock barks from his leather clothed throne,
"Well, sit down." Samantha's brow furrows ever so slightly and John is just able to catch the slight hitch in her breath as she moves to sit in the seat furthest away from Sherlock. John gives him a look of pure disdain before pulling a stool closer to Samantha's chair. John looks directly into her face and notes the lines spilling from either side of her tired, grey eyes, giving her the appearance of someone far older than a teenager. She stares at her bag, which is now perched on her lap, and suddenly looks up at John as he speaks to her.
"And how old are you, Samantha?" He asked politely. Sherlock rises out of his chair brusquely, and moves towards the door.
"I'm going out, to get some air. Text me if you need me." He loops his scarf over his long neck, and leaves.
"Sherlock!" John calls, but the front door has already slammed shut. He turns his head back to the girl.
"Sorry about him, he can be a bit unpredictable. You were about to tell me your age?"
"Oh, I'm 15." She hastens to reply. John gives a small start. He hadn't realised she was so young. The lines around her eyes age her far beyond what he had thought. There are thick, black shadows resting beneath her eyes, larger on almost anyone he had seen, and there's an unpleasant redness of a sore on either side of her mouth. Her hair, shoulder length and blonde, is clean but not styled, and hangs over her face. There is a good inch of light brown roots atop her scalp. She wears a thick, navy jumper, several sizes too large on her, which drops almost to her knees, and faded jeans swallow her, although their style gave the impression they were bought to be tight, and fitted. He remembered features like this when he was working shifts at St Barts, before leaving for Afghanistan. John's own eyes soften as he flicks his own eyes over Samantha, making his own deductions. Finally, he addresses her.
"How long?" She turns her hands over and over in her lap. Exhaling slowly, looks him squarely in the eyes.
"2 years, 3 months." John breathes in sharply. Samantha's tired eyes moisten and she turns her attention back to her tangled fingers.
"And. . .and the last time?" He dreads the answer. The girl makes no attempt to reply.
"Samantha?" She raises her head and stares straight at John.
"Yesterday afternoon." John shakes his head sluggishly as though he can't quite absorb the thought, then he reaches towards the girls' trembling hands and holds them softly.
She suddenly shoots up from her chair and reaches into her flowery bag, pulling out a piece of repeatedly folded paper. She thrusts this into John's hands with unwavering fingers.
"This is his name, address, and the number of the Swiss bank account he's been using to store the cash he's syphoned out of this company's account." She stabs the piece of paper with her index finger, a crazed look of rage flashing on her face.
"That should be a good few years." John stands up and takes the piece of paper gently away from her hands. The look on her face fades and she is left looking like the little girl she is. John looks at her seriously and speaks.
"Samantha, I will personally make sure he stays there for life. And I will personally make him feel nothing but guilt for the rest of his miserable life. I promise you this." Samantha nods and at all once, she cannot contain her relief. Tears spill from her tired eyes, and run down her face. She hides her face in her hands and sobs. John reaches out to her and she lets him pull her into a fierce, protective hug. She weeps uncontrollably against his woollen jumper, and he strokes her back soothingly.
After a full 3 minutes, her sobs subside and her tears stop coming thick and fast. She breaks away from John's arms and he passes her a box of Kleenex from the coffee table. She blows her nose noisily and smiles sadly at him. Then she frowns.
"There are tadpoles on your coffee table." And then she lets slip a slight giggle.
"They're an experiment." Sherlock walks into the sitting room holding two takeaway cups of tea, he's clearly just been down to Speedy's. He passes one to Samantha before giving the other to John. He walks out of the sitting room, in the direction of his bedroom. John frowns at Sherlock's disappearing silhouette, and turns back to Samantha watching her thoughtfully as she sips cautiously at her tea.
"He hasn't poisoned it, don't worry." John jokes. Samantha smiles timidly back at him with tired eyes.
"I'd better go." Samantha rises slowly out of her chair, wiping her still damp eyes with her free hand.
"Have you got somewhere to stay? I imagine you don't want to go home right this minute." John stands and faces her anxiously. Samantha picks up her bag from where it fell to the floor during John's comforting embrace.
"A friend from school lives on Penfold Street. I'll be there in about 20 minutes and she's expecting me. I'll be fine." She hooks the strap over her right shoulder and starts to head towards the stairs, accompanied by John. When they reach the front door, John pauses and digs out an old Co-op receipt and a pen.
"Here's my mobile," He says as he scribbles down the 11 digits. "In case of… anything, really." He passes to Samantha, and she nods gratefully before heading out onto Baker Street.
John wearily trudges back up the flight of stairs and enters the sitting room, where he unexpectedly spots Sherlock sitting straight backed in Samantha's discarded armchair. John raises his eyebrows and sinks into Sherlock's regular but now empty leather chair.
"Care to tell me what that was all about?" John asks with a faint trace of annoyance. "You left the room as fast as you could after you brought the poor girl in." Sherlock rests his head on the tips of his fingers, elbows balanced on the armrests. Sherlock ignores John's question
"How did you do it?" Sherlock demands. "How could you possibly know?" His brow furrows in puzzlement. John grins cheekily at his bewilderment, but then remembers Samantha and his smile fades.
"You forget, Sherlock," answers John sombrely. "I am a doctor."