John pulled the book he wanted off the shelf, swearing under his breath as about a dozen more followed it and landed at his feet. Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope, or in any way to get up to help John replace the books. He just glanced at John, his brilliant blue eyes illuminated by the light from the lenses of the microscope. John picked up a small book that had fallen out with the larger ones, and flicked through it with a little frown.
It was a diary, written in neat loopy handwriting that John didn't recognise as Sherlock's. Or indeed anyone else's handwriting that he knew. He picked out a few names he did recognise, Lestrade for one. But the most prevalent name was Sherlock which appeared over and over with an exotic looking 'S'. John flicked to the first page and read the name of its owner.
"Who's Annie Christmas?" he asked Sherlock, pottering into the kitchen.
Sherlock looked up sharply, looking at the small notebook in his friends hands. He looked distant, his jaw tightening.
"Sherlock?" John frowns at Sherlock's silence.
"She… we lived together for a while. When I was younger." Sherlock said quietly.
"You lived with a woman?"
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I just… how come I've never met her?"
"She's dead."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"What for? You didn't kill her." Sherlock replied, taking the book from John and snapping it closed.
John sensed a little apprehension from his friend, and followed Sherlock into the lounge. Sherlock put the book on his desk, and went to stand by the window, looking out onto Baker Street sightlessly as if deep in thought.
"What happened to her?" John pressed.
Sherlock turned his head a little, taking in a sharp intake of breath. He blinked slowly, choosing to tell the truth.
"She died." he replied bluntly.
"I get that. What happened?"
"It matters very little."
"You wouldn't have kept the book if it didn't mean anything."
"It's her diary. It has some good observations in it, so I kept it. That's all you need to know." Sherlock replied, beginning to get teasy with John's persistence.
John sat down and looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John. He sighed and began to tell Annie's story.
Annie Christmas could hear the strains of his violin before she walked up the stairs to the living room. It was a nice tune, pleasant. But not when you've got a headache that threatens to make your head explode. Which she did. Annie opened the door with a gentle push, and smiled to herself.
Sherlock Holmes was stood against the backlit curtained window in profile, his eyes closed, lost in the moment. A lit cigarette hung from his lips, the smoke curling around him in the dimly lit room, it hung in the air creating a faint miasma around the lampshade hanging from the ceiling.
Annie leant on the door frame, closed her own eyes and just listened, her head pressed against the frame of the door. She found her headache melting away, and the tiredness that had threatened to make her fall asleep at the kitchen table disappeared completely.
"Sherlock, that's beautiful." Annie sighed.
Sherlock didn't turn round. He just arched one of his eyebrows, and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He smiled at her ever so slightly, and finished his mournful little tune. He stood for a moment with the bow by his side, and the violin still tucked under his chin.
"It's three am." Annie sighed, drawing her threadbare cardigan around her chest.
It was cold in the room, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice as he lit another cigarette.
"Did I disturb you, Annie?" he asked putting the violin in its case, and closing it with a snap.
He wasn't disturbing her at all. She'd got used to his company, and the fact he barely seemed to sleep.
"You've got to go and talk to Lestrade tomorrow and I said I'd drop you off at Scotland Yard, remember?" she asked sitting on the sofa.
Sherlock turned to look at Annie, and nodded. Sometimes she felt a little like his mother, but he seemed to have got used to her speaking like that to him. She couldn't help it, sometimes he just reminded her of a little boy who just needed to be looked after.
"Yes, I remember Annie, dear." he sighed, sitting beside her.
It had been a busy week for them, plenty of cases but none of them had been particularly interesting in Sherlock's eyes. But this latest one had really piqued his interest.
"So there's a second body. Before you ask, I heard you talk to Lestrade on the phone earlier. Did it match up with the first?" Annie asked, laying her head on the back of the sofa, and looking over at him.
Sherlock sat back in thought for a second, then mirrored her, the curls of his hair falling into his eyes slightly.
"Yes. He is quite the advisory." he replied.
"He? You worked out it was a 'he'?" Annie asked, lifting her head a little.
"The way the bodies have been laid out, the notes, the fact that both the victims are women. It points to a man."
"The bodies disposal and the fact they're women… I get that it can point to a male killer, even I got that. But how do you get that from the notes?"
"The handwriting. They are strong, bold, especially the vowels. A male hand has written them."
"You're amazing, you know that don't you?"
"You do frequently remind me." Sherlock smiled.
They fell silent, looking up at the ceiling.
Annie must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes again Sherlock had gone, and the curtains had been opened to reveal watery spring sunlight. She was stiff from sleeping on the sofa, but the smell of coffee was enticing her downstairs.
Annie opened the door to the kitchen and Sherlock was reading the morning paper. He looked grim.
"What's happened?" she asked, thrown by his scowling at the paper.
"We've run out of tea." Sherlock muttered.
"Then have coffee." Annie replied, picking up the coffee he'd made for her.
He looked over the top of the paper and grimaced. She poured another mug of coffee, shovelled two sugars into it and dropped it in front of him. She gave him a look.
"Well, it's not there for the good of your health." she said sitting down and lighting a cigarette.
Annie looked at him again. Sherlock sighed and took the mug in his hands. He glanced into the mug with a look of distrust.
"This will be the fourth time you've tried to get me to drink coffee." he said frowning.
"Yes, and this time, I put sugar in it." Annie replied with a smile.
The previous three times she'd tried to get him to drink it she'd just put milk in it and it ended up in the sink. This time however, he raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise.
Sherlock watched Annie drive with a hint of interest. She wouldn't trust him in a car on his own, so she opted to be his personal driver rather than have him causing trouble in the middle of London. And this car was new. Sherlock listened to the news on the radio like he always did, and Annie swore at cyclists like she normally did.
Annie opted to stay outside while Sherlock talked to Lestrade about what he'd found out. She would only have had to walk all the way back down stairs for a cigarette anyway. It was a bad idea. Before she could scream, Annie was bundled into the back of a taxi, a strong smell of chloroform hitting her nostrils.
Annie came round in a grim little room. The wallpaper was peeling, and the bulb in the fitting was flickering. She was in a chair, and unusually she was not tied up. Not what she was expecting in a kidnap. She felt woozy, but she knew that she was in terrible trouble.
Annie looked up and frowned at the laptop in front of her. There was a webcam, and looking at her was Sherlock, his jaw tight. Annie tried to look round, but stopped when the cold metal of the barrel of a gun brushed her cheek. A hand began to snake over her shoulder, loosening the top button of her shirt. Annie didn't move, didn't even flinch as her captor undid the second button.
"Shall I leave her like the rest, Sherlock? Shall I take her dignity from her like the others?" the captor breathed.
Sherlock looked pale, but Annie wasn't sure if that was the screen or not. The captor pushed the gun into her cheek and she moved with it. He slid the barrel down her neck and pressed it into her jugular.
"What do you want? I'll give you anything. What do you want? Money? Passage out of this country?" Sherlock asked desperately.
"I want you… to be destroyed, Sherlock Holmes." Annie's captor replied.
A rough hand grabbed Annie by the throat and dragged her backwards off the chair.
"Talk to him, talk to your dear Sherlock." he hissed into Annie's ear.
She looked into the webcam, holding back the tears that threatened to burst forth.
"When he kills me, find him Sherlock. You find him." she said calmly.
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then nodded once in understanding. The gun moved again until it was at her stomach. Then he fired. Annie fell to my knees in shock, pressing her hands over the gunshot wound, shocked look on her face.
"You get here quick enough, you save her life. Run, Sherlock Holmes." Annie's captor cackled.
Sherlock's face disappeared from the screen and Annie's captor swept out of the room too. She was there alone, but he was coming. Sherlock was coming. Time seemed to creep by slowly, each moment felt like a lifetime to Annie. She'd begun to feel weak, her head hitting the floor at last. Something shifted in the dim light, and she turned towards it. It was Sherlock, he looked stunned and sick. He went to Annie's side and lifted her up, holding her head gently.
"Annie, I…" he faltered.
"You're going to have an emotion, I know." Annie smiled.
"Yes. I never meant for…"
"Sherlock. You have to find someone, you need someone to keep you sane. Find someone, Sherlock. And then find the guy who did this. Before he can do it to someone else."
"Annie…" Sherlock sighed.
Annie was so close to him she could see the tears in his eyes, she could feel his breath on her forehead. She lifted her hand and wiped away the tear on his face with her thumb.
"Sentiment, Sherlock?" Annie sighed.
He bowed his head, her hand still pressed to his cheek. Then her fingers slipped. And she was gone.
John was quiet for a long time, taking it all in. Sherlock, for something to do, picked up his violin and started playing, his back to the room. John watched him feeling confused by what he'd just heard.
"You cared about her?" he said quietly.
"She was the only one who would put up with me. Apart from my dearest brother, but even he had his limits." Sherlock replied.
"Did… you love her?" John asked.
Sherlock stopped playing, and looked back at John with a little frown that John took as a no.
"She was a friend. A friend who died because I was young and naïve." Sherlock said, returning his eyes to the window.
John felt for him. He knew somewhere deep inside, Sherlock felt more than he was letting on. He got up and nodded to himself, making plenty of noise to let Sherlock know he'd left the room. Sherlock paused his mournful little tune again, and looked down at the book on his desk. He pressed shaky fingers to the cover, and closed his eyes.
"Annie…" he sighed to himself.
John watched him from the crack between the door and the frame. Sherlock blinked a few times, his eyes glistening with emotion. A single tear slipped down his face, and he caught it roughly with the back of his hand, sniffing hard.
In that moment, John got it. He got why Sherlock was the way he was. Closed off, emotionless. Because he'd been hurt in the past, and Sherlock thought if he looked at things emotionlessly he would be able to deal with it better. John suddenly understood a lot more about Sherlock, all thanks to one young girl John had never, and would never, meet.