Sherlock and John sat in the flat trying to work out a particularly bothersome case. To John, none of the pieces fit quite right together. A man left London for a trip to New York in America. He was found in Australia. The bothersome part was he was dead. John was reading aloud the case file to Sherlock who paced around the room.
"Found dead in Australia Monday evening. Left London Friday morning. Estimated time of death, around noon on Sunday. Body was found wrapped in a garbage sack. Severe head trauma, likely cause of death." That was the answer somehow for Sherlock.
"Drugs. Half the time it is always drugs. Or a gang. One of those two." Sherlock's eyes widened in delight. "Or perhaps both of them together. A gang dealing drugs! What a wonderful combination." John shook his head, and put the file on the table.
"Something's just not right with you." John said smiling. Sherlock turned and faced him, his hand at his chest.
"Well of course. I'm Sherlock Holmes." There was a knock on their door and they both turned to look. Mrs. Hudson poked her head in.
"Excuse me boys, I'm sorry to interrupt. But there is a young lady out here who needs to speak to you. I would say it's very urgent. This girl looks like she could use your help." Sherlock rolled his eyes. She said that about every person that walked in. Everyone in her eyes who came here needed help.
"Show her in then." John said. Mrs. Hudson left and said a few words to the girl. The door then opened completely and revealed an indeed, very young lady. She walked in and Sherlock's head started to spin in a frenzy of deciphering her.
Young, yes. No older than 17. She was beaten, bruised, cuts, a few small scars. Bulling? Highly unlikely, he thought. She was too attractive to be bullied. Were they self-inflicted? The scars on her wrist indicated those wounds in particular were self-inflicted. So the rest were someone else. So she was having a hard life. But a hard life with whom? Boyfriend maybe? No, couldn't be. She had no jewelry on. Jewelry was an indication of a boyfriend. So it was the parents. Child abuse. Sherlock's heart softened slightly at the thought at this young girl being harmed by her parents. The idea also made him sick. He exchanged a short look with John. Seeing John was worried also, Sherlock quickly offered up the couch to the young girl.
"Please, have a seat." Sherlock offered, indicating the couch. She walked over, not saying a word and sat, wincing slightly as she did. He was concerned she would tell them her parents abused her and wanted it to stop. But that was not their job to do that. Child services would have to help her. They were quite useless in this situation. "I'm afraid we can't help you much in a situation like this. This is a job for child services. You have to be taken away from your parents so they stop doing this to you." John looked at Sherlock slightly angry he had said that to her. "We really can't help her John. Am I right it's your parents?" The girl was not alarmed. She had expected this. But she had much more she needed to tell them.
"Yes." She said simply. John and Sherlock shared another glance.
"We can't do much in a situation like this." John said sympathetically.
"That's not it though." She quickly said. They each looked at her intently. "My name is Jane Moriarty."