The girl ripped her arm out of Lestrade's grasp. Sherlock, dressed in his long coat, was caught up in the excitement. He circled around the girl, whose eyes flashed anger. "You know far more than you're telling us," Sherlock intoned. "Why don't you tell us why you ran?" The girl's eyes, filled with hate, followed his movements.
"If you're such a genius, why don't you tell me."
"Oh, I don't know that - not quite yet. But I do know a good deal about you."
"Oh, really? What could you possibly know about me?"
The smug smile from Sherlock. Infuriating. John pulled Sherlock's sleeve - "Sherlock, not now..."
"I know that you're right-handed. The bows on your shoes lean right. The graphite smudges on your right hand say so too - and you've been drawing recently. More seriously, I know that you're not angry at us for bringing you here. You're scared. You've been abused, for a while now, too. You keep your back towards the corner. You watch the people close to you. Carefully." The girl began to fidget uncomfortably. "I know you come from a troubled family. You look down or off to the side if you're not making direct eye contact, obviously you're used to being told off. You've been seriously sick before - you have needle scars on your arm but no signs of drug use. You aren't accepted by a lot of people: you constantly tug on your clothes or shift from foot to foot...seen that before. Oh, and you're depressed. Self-harm. You pull your sleeves down, hiding the evidence. And you rub the scars, almost imperceptibly, but still noticeable."
John rubbed his face. He hated it when Sherlock did this, intruded on people's lives. Sherlock was aglow, feeling clever and hoping he had gotten the girl to tell him what he wanted. If nothing else, it had been fun. A good deduction and all.
None of them got what they were expecting. The girl's face crumpled, a tear streaked down her cheek. She reached out and hugged the consulting detective. "Thank you," she sobbed. "No one else ever saw...I was so good at hiding...You saw it! You saw...I only ever wanted someone to see."
John gave her a cup of tea. They listened to her whole dismal story, down to the crime she'd witnessed. Sherlock listened to the story of the girl's private war, and his face softened. All she'd ever wanted was someone to talk to, someone who would listen to her.
I was just thinking, people miss so much, but Sherlock sees everything…and this happened.
Ps. I know what it's like for people not to notice, if you ever need to talk, there are plenty of people willing to listen.
The- thousand- shadows- project. tumblr. Com is a blog dedicated to listening. If you need to share your story, know that there's always someone who will help.