Author's Note: Set in A Scandal In Belgravia during the 6 months when Irene is believed to be dead and will move onwards from there. Rated T to be safe. Also, quite possibly a few spoilers for those who haven't seen all episodes. Anyway, without further ado, enjoy.
Chapter 1
As Sherlock stepped over the threshold of the crime scene, a modern flat in a state of dishevelled despair, his brain immediately kicked into gear, pale eyes soaking in every scrape, scratch and splinter; every detail.
After suffering three exceedingly arduous days spent sweltering in the heat of June, cooped up in the flat without a case and bearing the burden of boredom, Sherlock Holmes was practically jumping for joy when he received a call from a certain Detective Inspector. Needless to say, after spending three days caged in at Baker Street with a bored Consulting Detective, John Watson was also delighted by the news.
Upon arriving at the crime scene, an eager Sherlock had sped from the vehicle leaving John to pay the fare. A few days without a puzzle had obviously left the man starving for a good crime to solve, as he merely swept past the officers and into the high-end block of flats in search of Lestrade, paying no mind to the apparent 'idiots' of Scotland Yard.
"Midnight burglary," said DI Lestrade as he stepped beside his consultant, "Owner arrived home around 1:30 am to find this mess." He gestured to the rather beaten about room; settee knocked back, coffee table upturned and an elegant mirror, no doubt an expensive antique, reduced to a pile of shattered glass upon the wooden floor.
"No other residences in the building were disturbed and the CCTV in the entrance hall confirms the arrival of two heavily geared men at 12:26 this morning; their faces shadowed by hoods," Lestrade continued.
Sherlock turned his attention to the Detective Inspector, "When did they leave; the exact time?"
Lestrade sighed, "Well that's why I called you. They didn't leave. At least not the way they entered the building, anyway. There are also alarms on each of the fire exits and none have been set off or appear to have been tampered with."
"Why are Scotland Yard on this? Doesn't exactly scream high profile, nor is it your division," Sherlock all but sneered, slightly condescending in his tone.
"Well it's not, but the order was given from higher up. This specific building is one of seven that the crown uses to temporarily house trial witnesses. The security throughout the entire building is top end." Lestrade sent a subtle nod to John in greeting as the military doctor entered.
"Naturally. And of course, not all of the residents are witnesses so as to not raise suspicion or draw attention to the address," spoke Sherlock, his eyes darting about the scene, vaguely registering John's entrance, "You want me to find out how they left. You want me to find the snag in the system."
Lestrade merely gave a curt nod in response.
Without another word, the Consulting Detective got to work. He delved into his pockets to retrieve his magnifying glass as he stepped over to the large, imposing window before crouching down to inspect the frame.
The once flawlessly glossy, white window frame now boasted a large, dingy scrape along the length of the bottom pane. Sherlock glanced over at the upturned coffee table. One of the men tripped, scuffing his shoe against the frame in an unsuccessful attempt at balancing himself before falling atop the table, he thought.
He took a whiff of the offending mark. Black, rubber sole. Heavy duty boot.
A faint hum of music reached the detective's ears. He merely brushed it off, paying it no mind in favour of examining the fractured mirror.
"Hope he's not superstitious," Sherlock mumbled beneath his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed John hum in acknowledgement, observing his friend.
Glass paperweight aimed at the centre of the mirror, making contact just off target-
Thedrone of music persisted, breaking him from his thoughts. He merely shook his head.
… judging by the shatter pattern and the contrast of large to small pieces, he continued.
The buzz of a base was relentless. Sherlock huffed indignantly as he stood, whipping his head about the room in search of the offending tune.
His gaze settled upon the unusual sight of a redheaded girl perched upon a wooden dining chair set behind the front door. So that's why I didn't notice her when I stepped in.
Sherlock's piercing orbs swept over the girl. Her unruly copper locks flowed down the length of her spine as her verdant, almond eyes swept over a battered, and obviously loved, copy of Pride and Prejudice perched upon her lap. Sherlock noticed the headphones clamped over her ears, no doubt the source of the incessant thud of music.
15, 16 – no older than 17. Socially anxious, judging by her nervous habit of fiddling with the corners of her book cover, coupled with the neutral colour of her clothes; obviously an attempt to blend in. Self professed 'bookworm'. Is content to hunch over her book whilst ignoring the world around her.
With a huff, Sherlock strode over to his distraction.
"It would be immensely helpful if you were to turn down that awful drone people like to call music," he hissed impatiently.
Yet it seemed as though his request fell upon deaf ears. The girl had obviously not noticed his presence beside her or her fingers would have gripped the page of her book far firmer if his prior deductions were correct concerning her social anxiety.
The murmurs of conversation continued around the detective. Nobody else seemed to notice the racket but him; least of all Lestrade who was stood across the room, filling John in on the details of the case.
With his frustration building at an alarming rate, Sherlock gritted his teeth before firmly prodding the girl's shoulder. Wide almond eyes flew up to meet his fierce gaze, her dainty lips parting with a gasp.
"I am trying to solve a crime here, which is more than I can say for you," the detective ground out. The young girl merely continued to stare up at him, looking positively terrified to say the least. She didn't seem to notice her book clutter to the floor nor her headphones slipping down to hug her neck. Sherlock sighed at the display of idiocy.
"What's going on here, Sherlock?" Lestrade inquired as he approached, John trailing behind.
"This girl seems to enjoy showing off arresting displays of stupidity," Sherlock answered.
As he stood beside the Detective Inspector, John mentally sighed. His flatmate had gone from pissing off constables to picking on children. Oh what joy.
Lestrade frowned, "Oi, watch it, Sherlock. I put up with a lot from you, but that does not include insulting my daughter." He spoke, a finger pointed in the 'sociopath's' direction.
Sensing the tension between the two men, John stepped forwards; "You brought your daughter to a crime scene?"
"Well I know it's not exactly professional, but I didn't have a choice. She's on an inset day. I would have made other arrangements had there been time, but her mother left me in the lurch. I wouldn't have allowed it had this been a murder scene." In that moment, Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed drained as he swiped a hand down his tired face, an expression of exhaustion marring his features.
Ignorant to the DI's expression, Sherlock merely responded with a roll of his eyes, earning a glare from his blogger. Noticing Sherlock's indignant gaze, Lestrade preceded to glare at the man.
Sherlock merely ignored the man's glare, remaining indifferent. "She's what, 16?" He turned his attention to the silent teenager. She had long since picked up her book, though she stared at the men intensely, observing their exchange, the spine of her book bending beneath the terse grip of her pale fingers. "Didn't take you for the overbearing type, Detective Inspector, even if you are a marginally capable law enforcer. It would seem that you have coddled her into an idiot."
In an attempt to quell the rising tension once again, John stepped over to the young girl. "What's your name?" he asked warmly. Even to John Watson, her anxiety was evident.
Though he received no answer. Bright, glittering eyes merely remained locked upon the two men beside him.
Lestrade proceeded to step forwards, almost toe to toe with Sherlock, pressing a finger into the man's taught chest. "She's 17, and no, I am not overbearing, but when it comes to my daughter, I do not take risks. I've only just moved into my new flat and it's not safe for her there," he responded, attempting to remain calm.
Noticing Lestrade's clenched fists and protective stance, no doubt fueled by irrational parental instinct, Sherlock's response was sparse. "She's not a cat."
"No, you're right, she isn't," Lestrade paused, noticing a slight smirk quirking at the corner of the Consulting Detective's mouth upon hearing his words. Though Greg Lestrade was not amused in the slightest. "But she is deaf."
Silence. Nothing could be heard save for a ding out in the hallway announcing the arrival of a lift. It seemed that everybody present had ceased all work in favor of observing the verbal tennis between the two men.
Sighing at his outburst, Lestrade proceeded to step around both blogger and detective alike, approaching his daughter. He placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder, causing the girl to turn her attention to her father. "Come on, Ellie," he spoke gently.
As both father and daughter took their leave, Sherlock had the decency to bow his head. The girl could obviously read lips, so why hadn't she answered him when he directed a question at her? Was he really so frightening or was she really so damaged?
He turned to his blogger, "Not good?"
John merely shook his head.
So, here's the first chapter!
You must be wondering why Ellie was supposedly listening to music when she can't hear it, but don't worry, it will be explained (though if you're observant, you may have already deduced it).
Anyway, please tell me whether you think I should carry on or not. Otherwise, I suppose this could sort of stand as a rather bleak one shot.