Okay, I spent the longest time I have ever spent writing a first chapter to a story on this little thing right here. 6,561 words long, not including this note, and it would have been longer had it not occurred to me: "HEY! Maybe I should break it into chapters so it's easier for people to read!" So, yes. Here it is. I spent pretty much since I've been a fan of Sherlock writing this thing. I was introduced to it MONTHS ago, like in September or something and I've been writing this ever since. Why?
Well…
I know that this fandom consists mainly of people who are grammatically accurate, mature, and have a good sense of humor.
As my first offering to the holy gods that are Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, I wanted to make it special. Alas, I suck at writing Sherlock, and I couldn't seem to get him right no matter how many times I edited or completely redid the scenes he appeared in. Writing him made me want to flip every table in my house. I am also well aware that some other characters may not be entirely accurate. Please leave a review and tell me what you think. I am requesting critics. Tell me what I did that you found not up to par and I will do my best to fix it. Thank you for reading and spending your time on this. :)
"AH!"
Blair tossed his jotter into the air, squealing with a womanlike voice for a fifteen-year-old boy. The sound echoed and bounced off the walls of Blair's living room, making it even louder to those inhabiting said space. Ace stepped back nonchalantly from hitting one of the young scientist's pressure points, a blank expression clouding his tightened eyes. Blair whipped around to look at his aggressor, eyes lit up in aggravation. "What the bloody hell, Ace?!"
"What?"
"What did you do that for?!"
"I'm bored. Entertain me."
Blair sighed crossly, rubbing in between his eyes. Ace truly was his father's son.
Name: Blair Watson
Age: 15
Parents: John and Mary Watson
Preferences of free-time: Studying to become a master at science- NOT including pseudo-science- as he would so heatedly inform you.
He cursed the young detective in the back of his mind, questioning silently to himself why it had to be him. Why was he putting up with this man? What gods that be cursed him in such a way? "How would you like me to do that?"
"Start dancing to Milkshake and let me paint you."
"Stop joking."
"Sorry, I thought you might find that comical."
Ace simpered marginally, his white teeth peeking out from behind his lips. "After all, it should be ME who doesn't know how to have fun. Your father was the NORMAL one."
Name: Ace Holmes
Age: 14
Parents: Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper
Preferences of free time: Deducing where his pet dog has been and solving cases, along with making Blair feel uncomfortable any chance he gets.
"Normal, yes…" Blair rolled his eyes, sarcasm dripping from his teeth. "My father wanted danger just as much as yours did."
"My father didn't necessarily want danger; he just wanted to be right."
Blair stood from the seat he had taken hours ago at his desk, walking over to the computer on the opposite side of the room, madly keying words into Google and scrolling down swiftly. "What are you doing?"
"Look at you, acting like you haven't figured it out yet."
"I haven't. I don't bother myself with such trivial deductions."
"Oh really now? And figuring out what your dog ate while he was on a walk by himself isn't?"
"Well that's different. It's trivial but it interests me because he can't tell me himself, and YOU won't make me a dog translator."
Blair was not about to start that argument again.
For the moment, he would change the conversation.
"I'm looking up cases that we can take since you're oh-so desperate for something fun to do."
Ace chortled and looked over his shoulder, smiling at the variety of cases that were popping up on the screen. "Oh how thrilling! Look at how many robberies there are!"
"Why is it always robberies that interest you?"
He shrugged.
"I'm not really sure, and I'm not going to dwell on it."
"Fair enough."
"OH!" Ace's pale finger extended and lightly tapped the screen. "A locked-room murder case!" Blair moaned in discontent. Sensing his friend's discomfort with the pick, he cocked an eyebrow and looked at him with that condescending look he could have only inherited from his father, his blue eyes interrogating him. "You mean ANOTHER locked-room murder case. Can't we do something interesting like a killing spree case?"
"I would, but mother told me no more after I got that bullet in my arm."
Blair pouted. "Fantastic."
"You're preaching to the choir."
The two turned their attention back to the case, not speaking again until the young man clicked to find an address. "Go fetch Lyra and Aroha."
The detective started to whine. "Oh just go, you wailer."
Aroha raised an eyebrow at the murder scene as yellow tape warned her to stay out, draped over the surroundings of the apartment room. She turned to look at the two young men, her red hair falling over her right eye as she frowned in revulsion. "Are you serious?"
Ace ran a hand through his curly black hair and groaned, mumbling something about his father and bumbling police idiots. Blair looked at her with a perplexed mien, urging her to elaborate. "This is… inane! It's kind of obvious what happened, isn't it?!"
"You'd be surprised how little logic the people of the police force have when it comes to this sort of thing." Ace's slurred annoyed reply came, his lips curling into a tight frown in a way that reminded the people present of a small toddler who had requested an astronaut toy and gotten a cowboy instead. "Well can you blame them?" A softer voice that still held a huge presence lured the heads of the three to a direction behind him. Lyra pursed her pink glossed lips and held her elbow with one hand. "That person was once alive, interacting and smiling and laughing with other people. It must be distracting to see dead bodies one after another all day long, and kind of mind-boggling and scary, too. It could make it hard to focus."
"Yes but what you fail to realize is that these people did not reach where they are right now by letting themselves be affected in such a way, and with how often they see it, as you stated, unless they are new to the job- which should only be one or two at a time, they should be USED to it by now." Lyra sent a glare at Ace, her light brown hair, tied in two tiny ponytails behind her ears, blowing as she huffed, her eyes discreetly glancing at the crime scene once again before she turned away. Blair gave a light-hearted scowl at the young Holmes as he turned back as well.
He was as harsh and bold as his father was, if only with a little better of a censor and sense of humor. It irked him, sometimes, the way he treated Lyra, but he didn't let it annoy him too much. Lyra could handle it, seeing that she was Ace's own flesh and blood.
"So which one of us is going to give the police force a slap in the face this time?"
The four turned into a circle and proceeded to play rock-paper-scissors, Ace coming out to be the victor, as he typically did. They had no idea how he seemed to know what and when they were going to throw down their hand, but he always did. They suspected he just had an unrivaled amount of luck.
He then continued to walk under the yellow tape, arrogantly ignoring the calls of the older figures that yelled for him to step back outside of the lines.
He then shamed the detectives on the scene by explaining to them that the killer was invited in, since there are no signs of forced entry, that the killer exterminated the victim from behind when they weren't expecting it, there being no real struggle since the entire room was intact, before walking over to the door. He stopped and gave them a look that said 'just watch this, you incompetent morons' before opening the door, locking it before closing the door again and turning the handle to show that the door was still locked.
If they were a cartoon you would see steam puffing out of their ears.
Blair chuckled as Ace returned to them, reinforcing his tie's grip on his collar. He placed his hands in his pockets, looking up at his friend. "They were shocked, I'm guessing?"
"Of course they were. They were embarrassed, too. Not that I blame them, really. I, myself, would be ashamed if a kid twelve or more years younger than I am did my job better than I ever could."
"Modest, are we?" Aroha snickered as Ace gave her a grin.
Name: Aroha Patchkins
Age: 16
Parents: Mark Patchkins and Susan Cruell
Preferences of free time: Teaching younger children in the art of American Kenpo, studying mixed martial arts for herself, karaoke nights with the gang.
Lyra jabbed Ace in the elbow, earning a strong screech that reminded Blair of his earlier womanly howl. "We better get to the station soon. Mother will have a conniption if we're late for gun lessons again. She wants us to be able to protect ourselves."
"Says you- I am perfect at gun-use."
"You're still learning just like I am."
"Let me put it this way, if it was school, I'd be on lesson nine while you'd still be on lesson two."
Lyra sucked her cheeks in to hide their redness from her witty, egotistic brother, crossing her arms and twisting away. "Either way we have to go, now."
Ace let out a deep breath. "I suppose you're right. Father probably wants to run experiments on me again and he'll get antsy if we take too long with Mr. Lestrade."
"Mrs. Holmes still allows him to do that?" Aroha exclaimed, all the surprise of a terrified child. "Mrs. Holmes?" Ace's eyebrows both rose simultaneously. Aroha stuck her hip out, pressing one hand on one bone, surprised and intrigued by his curiosity and ignorance on the subject.
"Yes, Mrs. Holmes- your mother."
"She isn't Mrs. Holmes. They aren't married."
"Yes they are, Ace. Mr. Holmes just doesn't like labels so he and your mother don't refer to each-other as husband and wife, even if they are legally married." Blair bantered at his friend's nonsense that he knew Sherlock had pressed into his mind, no matter how much they both denied it. Ace scoffed and turned around. "We'll see you two later, then." Lyra offered an apologetic look which was quickly waved off by the two teens. She quickly followed after Ace, not wanting to get on Mr. Holmes's bad side.
"A little more to the right, Lyra. Perfect shot, Ace."
Lyra tried her best to ignore the sweat dripping down her brow as she aimed at the target, her grip subconsciously loosening on the gun. Ace was next to her, shooting right in the middle, through the inanimate target's head every time with little to no effort. She looked over at her brother, pressing her lips together tightly inside her mouth, biting them hard enough to break the skin behind them. Ace was perfect at everything, just as his father was. He thought like him, shot like him, spoke like him, looked like him and even smiled like him- he just did it more often. Lyra smiled to herself. He tried so damn hard to be like his father without realizing he was trying at all- and it worked. Heaven knows that's more than she could say.
She wouldn't even know where to start. Following Mr. Holmes in his footsteps wasn't just any task, she had decided. Said tracks were covering the walls and floors and sometimes the sky- very hard to follow, indeed.
"Lyra, keep your eye on the target." She yelped as her sudden train of thought was interrupted, shooting the loose-handled gun through the ceiling, flying backwards and dropping the weapon as quick as the bullet fired. Her back hit the wall and she let out a 'ugh' as her butt collided with the floor. "Lyra, you must have a better handle of that gun."
Ace snickered at her as he let his arms fall to his front, still holding the gun confidently. "Mr. Lestrade, this is difficult! Why can't I try something like a bow and arrow?"
He laughed gently as he helped the girl up; assisting her to dust off in the areas that he wouldn't be convicted as a pedophile for touching. "Do you think you could carry a bow and arrow around without anybody noticing?"
Lyra stared at him, her eyes scanning his playful ones. "N-No?"
"Do you think you could carry a bow and arrow around without feeling burdened by its weight?"
Lyra continued to stare at his eyes before sighing and hanging her head to look at the floor. Ace was still silently snickering under his breath, and she wanted, with all of her breath, to shout at him to cut it out and to shove off but she knew that such a thing would only make him unfathomably irritable and annoying to everybody around him. She wouldn't do that to her mother OR to Mr. Holmes- even though he of all people could handle it better than anybody.
"Your mother and father have asked that I teach you two to use these weapons. You're going down a very dangerous road and they're worried."
Lyra nearly scoffed at the idea.
"Now come on, relax and try again." Lyra nodded as she stepped back up to her booth (STILL trying to ignore the infuriating laughter coming from her right side- oh good; Mr. Lestrade shut him up), getting ready to fire again.
She shot the gun twenty-two more times that day before their mother arrived to pick them up, all shots missing.
"ARGH!" Lyra flopped down onto her waterbed in an uncomfortable position, and had she been in any better a mood she would have shifted if only a tiny bit. Her right leg was crossed over her left to the point of it hanging over the side of the bed while her left leg was at the entire other side.
Learning to do something and being stuck after the first step after TWO FULL YEARS OF LEARNING IT was extremely exasperating and exhausting. Ace shifted in the room, and Lyra could tell that he was smirking. His movements hesitated and for a few seconds she almost wondered if he was still in the room.
"Was it really that bad?" Ace sat beside her on the bed, reaching over and readjusting her leg so that it wasn't bent uncomfortably anymore before turning to flip her over to face him. "Yes, it was. I keep embarrassing myself and your laughing doesn't make it any better." She ruminated, eyeing him with an awkward glare she couldn't quite get to be as intimidating as she meant for it to be. He smiled down at her, once again cocking his eyebrow. "Sorry, you know it amuses me to see you fail. It's like watching Blair try to rap. You know he's never going to get it, but it's adorable and hilarious all at the same time so you keep encouraging him to try it."
"Thanks." Lyra hissed, turning away from him. "So I'll at least be cute and funny when I die because I can't shoot a gun." Ace reached up and gently patted her head, exhaling. "Come on… not everybody can be as good as a Holmes."
Lyra's eyes narrowed at the cruel reminder that Ace probably had not intended to provide.
She was the daughter and he was the son of Molly Hooper.
She, however, was NOT the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.
Name: Lyra Holmes
Age: 16
Parents: Molly Hooper and Jim Moriarty
Preferences of free time: Belly-dancing
Jim Moriarty- ruthless criminal mastermind and professor, also known as "Papa", considering Sherlock all but disowned her, was her father.
Ohhhhh but Jim wanted her.
She had to take a separate route to school every day- mixing it up to make sure "Daddy Dearest" couldn't trace her.
Because if he could, then he'd pull up next to her in the back of a pitch black car, slowing down to keep at her pace while he rolled the window down to beg for some quality time together.
He was never forceful, no… he was smart enough to know that being forceful would only get her to become even MORE distant than she already was. Not to mention, if he dared lay a hand on what Sherlock considered to be MOLLY'S kid (he ignored the Moriarty part completely until he had to deal with her face-to-face, for example, everyday life), he'd get a very vexed consulting detective on his hands and the two were trying to keep it under wraps until the children became older. Because, let's face it, they both would lose their 'heirs to their job' if things were to get TOO too messy.
Molly had barely realized that she was pregnant after Jim from IT dumped her, and it was Blair's mother who had brought it to her attention in the first place, that she may be heavy with a child. The disgruntled pathologist had instantly gone home and taken a pregnancy test.
… And then six more consecutively.
… For the next week every day.
She had then taken every step she could to hide the pregnancy from the world's most haughty dick (take that either way you want to), only to fail miserably when he found sixty pounds of chocolate hidden away in the drawers of her desk.
Needless to say, Molly face-palmed when Sherlock all but locked her in 221A for the remaining duration of her pregnancy with Mrs. Hudson. It was a long- LONG nine months (she had hid it from him for all of three days), complete with Sherlock insisting that all of the check-up's be performed by himself or John. When she refused that, he had doctors come straight to the house.
She pretty much went stir crazy- well; she would have, had her friends and family not come to see her and had Mrs. Hudson's cookies not been so deliciously chocolaty.
Lyra shook the thoughts from her mind, intending to pay more attention to her brother who had just gone on some form of a rant on what it meant to be a consulting detective. She loved him, she really did, but when he started talking she would just zone out…
"And- are you even listening to me?"
"What do you think?"
"No. Am I right?"
"I don't know, you tell me."
Ace groaned in disappointment. "Oh for the love of… should I REPEAT what being a consulting detective entails?"
"Why should you? YOU'RE the one that's going to inherit that job- not me."
"And why wouldn't you be able to as well?"
"Because I'm not a real Holmes."
Ace's eyes widened at that comment, seemingly perplexed. As he was about to say something more there was a knock at the door, creating a diversion for Lyra to get away from the chat.
"Ace?" The door slowly creaked open and the great man himself stood there in the doorway, dressed in his usual dress-clothes, casual for him, peeking in to see if his son was home. "Yes?" Ace's attention was instantly diverted to the man, his hands placed coolly in his pockets. Sherlock's smug grin reached his lips once more. "Come; tell me about your case while I test you." Ace lifted an eyebrow for the fifth time that day and nodded, looking back at Lyra.
"We'll continue this later."
There was no questioning tone to see if she was alright with it, it was a demand.
Lyra nodded and looked back out the window. Sherlock took a few moments to welcome Lyra back, who simply smiled and thanked him, afterwards uncomfortably leaning back against the glass of the window.
Sherlock shot her one last glance, eyes pointed at the girl's body language before he closed the door, leaving her to herself.
Why it was that Lyra wanted his attention as badly as Ace did- she didn't know. She assumed it was a primal need to be loved and accepted by your parents.
But she did not belong to Sherlock. She was not his flesh and blood nor was her personality anything like his. Her father was Moriarty, and even if he wasn't around to raise her she was still supposed to instinctively crave for his attention. But she didn't. She wanted nothing to do with him. All she wanted was to hear Sherlock refer to her as his daughter if only once.
Molly wished for it, too- but she never brought it up. She knew it might be asking a little much of the man who hardly wanted Ace. Ace was created mainly for the information Sherlock could gather through him, accompanied by the perk that he was somebody he could pass the job of consulting detective on to. Molly agreed to give Sherlock a child to experiment with (she made it clear experiments were to be nothing more than questioning him on his day and/or cases and quizzing him with games, a clever way to get him to be a 'caring' father) under the premise that he would marry her. It took him a while to consider the proposal but he ultimately decided it was worth it.
Even so, Ace was still pretty much Sherlock's most prized possession, regardless of whether or not he considered him to be a thing or a person.
She was simply Molly's AND Moriarty's child, nothing more but at the same time nothing less.
She guessed she should be grateful for that.
If only she could prove- just once- that she was as intelligent as Ace, perhaps he would gaze at her with some type of proudness as opposed to the look of tolerance she saw every day. She shook her head, laughing at the thought. No, it might intimidate him. It might instead make him think she's more like Moriarty than he originally assumed. It might look like she was challenging Ace.
"Oh, Lyra, the places your mind takes you… hm?"
She huffed and watched as the clouds slowly moved, taking their time across the canvas of the sky, the pink and purple blending into each-other. Blue accents were the only trace of what had been there hours before. It was getting dark enough that the streetlights lit up, the empty streets illuminated- the lights bouncing off the pavement. She blinked and pulled her forehead away. Taking a closer look, it seemed as though two men, clad in colors that reminded her of autumn, were exchanging some form of drugs. "Hmmm…" A Cheshire smirk crossed the lips of the young girl sitting by her window, her thoughts drifting to a much different place.
"So it was a one?"
Ace nodded, huffing. "It was one of those cases where we all had to do rock-paper-scissors to see who would emasculate the police- figuratively speaking, of course." Sherlock hummed in disapproval. "How boring."
"Tell me about it, even Lyra figured it out."
His father elevated an eyebrow at that, sipping his coffee. "I wouldn't put it past her. She IS Moriarty's child."
Yes, but she's yours now, too… Molly thought bitterly, cleaning the counter before she forced Sherlock to fold the clothes. She had tried dropping hints- hints that she knew Sherlock would pick up on, but none of them ever seemed to work. Lyra wanted to be a Holmes, she wanted no part in crime, and sometimes she wondered if he ever saw that. She shook her head, realizing that Sherlock was making a note of that somewhere in that jumbled up mind of his.
Behind her, he was indeed glancing sideways in her direction.
"Well, yes but… she still is nowhere NEAR as intelligent."
"Yes, she's like your mother."
"Thanks." Molly murmured sarcastically. Sherlock shrugged. "Just stating the facts." His 'wife' slurred something under her breath about killing him in his sleep, hanging the cloth along the sink. The consulting detective looked back towards his son, who was sitting awkwardly in his seat, hoping that his ever-observant father wouldn't notice his discomfort. Sherlock smirked all-knowingly. "Lyra is bugging you, isn't she?"
"How can she not? Do you know what she said to me while I was up there?"
Molly's ears perked up at the mention of her other child, sitting down at the table with the two men of the family. "She told me that she couldn't be a consulting detective- and I know she probably couldn't, she's not smart enough for that, but that's not why she doesn't see herself fit to be one."
"I'm listening" is what Sherlock's expression said.
Ace took a breath, pausing in his miniature rant. He never saw Lyra as his sister; he didn't consider her to be family. She was a friend who lived with him. But because she was a friend he cared about her and her mental and physical status. If she were upset then he would by all means take care of whatever was causing the older girl distress- painfully.
"She said that she did not consider herself a Holmes- that she couldn't be a consulting detective because of her lack of heritage."
Molly's breath hitched. "Are you… joking?"
Ace looked at her in that way, the look he gave when he was worried, when her baby was actually upset, and she knew her answer.
Molly and Sherlock looked at one another, the latter's eyes narrowing as he stood up from his seat. "Well then, Molly, you want for me to fix this, don't you?"
"I'd like that very much, yes." Molly stood as well, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
The trio was about ready to call the missing member down to have a chat, only to be interrupted by the sounds of gun-shots coming from right outside their front door.
Before anybody could say anything else, Ace and Sherlock were rushing outside to see what was happening.
Lyra dodged a few bullets successfully. "HEY! BE QUIET, DAMMIT! YOU'RE GONNA GET MY PARENTS OUT HERE!" The last thing she needed was Sherlock and Ace Holmes rushing onto the scene as they usually did. This was her time to finally impress them and she was not about to waste it.
Another shot sounded and she very narrowly missed it- thank goodness for her light weight. "I'm serious! You think I'm kidding? My brother will kick your ASS!" She dodged another, rolling on the ground. She hoisted herself up on the bar of the staircase, shifting to the side to avoid yet another fired bullet. "That's my job right now!"
She groaned at the sound of the door to apartment 221B opening, knowing exactly who it was that was stepping out. She hurriedly dodged another bullet and got closer to the shooters, carefully.
"Lyra! What the hell are you doing?!" Ace screeched, Sherlock taking out his gun beside him. "What does it look like? I'm failing to apprehend criminals!" Ace's eye twitched and he sighed, looking over at his father. The man had his gun ready to fire, pointing it at the two men in a shot that would surely take one out. "Honestly, this is stupid- even for you!"
"I'm just trying to be helpful!"
"Oh yes. You're very helpful, Lyra. Taking on criminals with guns right outside of our house alone is very helpful!"
"I don't need the sarcasm!"
"You're right. You don't. You need HELP!"
"LYRA!" Sherlock's booming warning was a little too late, as the said girl was distracted enough for one of the criminals to get a hold of her. She let out a yelp as she struggled to get herself untangled from the arms of the 'villains'. You could have just left them alone, Lyra. Nope. You had to go and prove your worth. The annoying afterthought clung to her mind, penetrating any other thoughts she may have had, turning them into metaphorical Swiss cheese.
These guys should be a piece of cake! They're newbies! They're not even knocking me out! They have the back of a gun right there and they STILL won't touch me!
Lyra attempted to bite the upper-arm of one of the men holding her, only to realize that his jacket was too thick for such an attack.
Wait…
It's the middle of summer… why is he wearing a coat?
Well, had she noticed it, Mr. Holmes and Ace probably already had. Sherlock held a cold exterior as he typically did, shooting at the criminals as Ace fired at them as well. Lyra's eyes widened. That plan was dangerous for her, too, wasn't it? She shook the thought from her mind and started to observe what was around her. Maybe there was something she could use to escape?
There was a black car around the corner- most likely belonging to the men. If they were poor enough to have to exchange drugs on the street then they wouldn't leave their Mercedes unattended- if they had one at all, which was a stretch all on its own. But then again they're dumb enough to exchange drugs right in front of Sherlock Holmes's flat… Lyra's bitter thoughts grew deeper, a budding annoyance emerging from the pits of her stomach.
She couldn't tell what he was saying, but she could hear Sherlock's growing voice raise as he continued to fire away at the men, urgency somewhere in the tone.
He had figured it out already.
Oh, yes, he indeed had.
Lyra's eyes trailed up from the ground the man's hold was forcing her to stare at to look upon the consulting detective(s). She was in danger, now. She knew it. Usually when Mr. Holmes figured something out his demeanor could be read as calm or "in control" but not this time. He had definitely realized what they were doing- for pete sake he was Sherlock Holmes of COURSE he knew- but she couldn't figure out why it was his tone read like he didn't have a clue?
Something clicked in Ace's mind upon hearing his father's edgy voice. Something snapped at the brutality the thought hit him with.
"SHIT! LYRA!"
She was then really, truly, worried. When Ace sounded scared you knew there was something wrong. Her head snapped up to look at her attacker's just as the criminal holding her looked at the other, nodding.
The man who wasn't burdened by the captive teen ran up, dodging the Holmes's men's bullets all the while, in front of the man who was now tugging on Lyra painfully, yanking her away. She let out a yelp at the sudden tightened grip but nevertheless continued to fight her way out of the man's strong hold.
Fruitlessly.
The shooting became more consistent, now, the shots fired more rapid and with less of a rhythm.
There were people crowding at their windows. Children climbed up on whatever they could find (stools, chairs, toys, etc…) to see the commotion, only to have their parent or legal guardian pick them up and flee from the scene as fast as possible. Ace growled to himself. They were curious enough to watch, but not worried enough to call the cops?! The train of thought died down and he returned to his shooting.
He, like Sherlock, wasn't accustomed to feeling "emotions" very often, but the moment that Mercedes whipped around the corner with the back door opening, allowing the man carrying Lyra to jump in…
He gritted his teeth together at the drop in his stomach.
The criminal still behind gripped at the open car door, only to find it hit the lamp-post and came back to slam on his fingers, causing a scream to emit from his throat at the sudden impact. His grip didn't slip, though. The grip tightened through the pain as he hung out from the side, his gun still shooting bullets that punctured random objects, the car speeding off with a roar.
Sherlock jogged after the moving car, firing at it. Eventually, nothing came when he pulled the trigger.
He gave a glance down at the weapon before cursing under his breath and throwing it to the ground.
"Out of bullets."
Ace opened his own to find that there was all of one bullet left. He wanted to throw it to the ground in anger, too, but knew that it might just shoot and hit something by accident.
Oh, what the hell?
He switched the safety-mode on and threw it with enough force to break a heavy, thick, vase.
Blair sipped at his hot chocolate, looking over at Aroha and securing the russet blanket she had over her body. She looked over at him and simply smiled weakly; stealing his cup and taking a sip she knew he wouldn't mind her robbing. Their pet dog, Gladstone, was chomping away at some treats, blissfully unaware of what was occurring around him. Ace sat in the chair at the dining table with Aroha and Blair, watching nothing in particular across the room. In fact, he stared at the dry wall, his mother sitting on the couch in the living room. Her hand was up to her mouth as she cried into a handkerchief Miss Mary Watson had provided. The red-head's delicate hand on her back was no great deal of comfort to the weeping woman. It wasn't of any help to either of them. Mary's crystal-like eyes were narrowed in a depressive way, her high-boned cheeks paler than her typical rosy red. Mrs. Hudson held the steaming pot of tea, going around and pouring it into the cups of the family gathered around. Sherlock paced back and forth, his hands folded tightly as his shoes clicked and clacked against the floor. John sat and watched his best friend as he went back and forth, not quite sure what to say to make it all better- to make it all go away.
No- nothing that he said would make it go away: the shocking notion that Lyra was kidnapped.
Ugh. No. Wrong again. That wasn't the real reason for the upsetting atmosphere. It wasn't the concept that she had been taken, was the person that had stolen Lyra that had everybody worried. Anybody else and the consulting detective would have figured them out with the snap of his fingers or a pull of his violin strings. This was no ordinary man they were screwing with, though. And there were reasons as to why it was Lyra that was taken.
Number 1.
Ace would have figured a way out.
Aroha would have fought her way out.
Blair would have psychologically messed with his captures.
There was nothing Lyra could do.
Number 2.
Kidnapping Lyra was the perfect place on the "Piss Sherlock Holmes Off"-o-scope. Molly or John or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade and he'd have your head. Mary or Blair and he'd be angered that John is put into a place of grief thus the end result that he would want your head. Aroha he wouldn't care about and he'd just solve the case and save her because it would keep him entertained. Lyra and he'd be stuck between thanking you and saving her because Molly would be- was in- tears.
Number 3.
Lyra was the only one that mattered to this criminal. Everybody else he could care less about (save for his rival). She was the only one he wanted.
"Sherlock." John started. Sherlock interrupted him, his finger suddenly wrenching through the air as if it was official sign language.
To John it was, and he knew it meant he should shut up.
"Ace, where has Lyra been going for her dance lessons?"
The raven-headed boy looked up and snorted in response, earning a scowl from Blair. "How should I know?"
"You're my son."
"Okay fine." He shifted in his seat, arms crossed, looking away from the relative. "Let me think."
Sherlock was about to scold him for even needing to think about something so simple when Ace shot up in his seat, hands slamming against the table. "She gets her lessons at Sidetell Street. But that's not where he took her!"
"Of course it's not. It's where she always visits AFTERWORDS that he took her to. You said she visited her friend…" Sherlock stopped in mid-thought.
"Cynthia Griffith."
"Yes, yes… her… after her lessons, didn't you walk her there?"
"Yes…"
"And you said that it was because her lessons are the only days she can't avoid him?"
"Yes."
Sherlock nodded. "He's taken- Cynthia, was it? - under his iron fist and he's going to threaten Lyra with her life to join him."
Molly looked up from her sniffling at her 'husband'. "That doesn't seem like his style, though. Doesn't he usually" she paused to sniffle and wipe her eyes "do something much more elaborate?"
"Oh, he would, Molly, but he's trying to lure us. He wants us to know he's taking it easy. He just wants to talk. He's not trying to kill us- yet."
"But he will." John added.
"Yes, of course he will."
He turned to the door of the room, back facing John as he sat on the bars of the staircase, before turning back to face him. "Once he has Lyra's help to do it."
"So who is it, again?" The room's attention, minus Molly's and Blair's, turned on Aroha as she sat and gripped the blanket tighter, silently cursing the cold air-conditioning of the room. "The man that kidnapped Lyra. Who is it?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and faced away from the fighter. "James "Jim" Moriarty."
Lyra hung her head roughly, caring less about her surroundings and what pain they might cause her.
Stupid Lyra… stupid, stupid, imprudent Lyra!
She held no visual of her surroundings, having shut her eyes closed entirely the moment she was shoved into the car. It was some type of defense mechanism- keeping her from comprehending the true capacity of her situation. All she knew was that she was comfortable for the moment. She wasn't chained. Her hands weren't tied behind her back and there was no force restricting her movement. She assumed that, for this reason, any exit that existed was locked tight. The floor was something soft, definitely carpet, and it smelled of air freshener. There was a heat coming from somewhere. It wasn't hot or loud enough to be a fire, nor did she smell any accents of wood in the air. A candle? Yes, that was where the sweet scene was coming from.
She had wondered what color the room was, vaguely, but she gave up the curiosity for her sanity.
The men had been gentle with her when they set her down; she had no idea why.
Then again, why had they taken her in the first place? What was it that they were gaining from this, exactly? She laughed bitterly under her breath. "Don't even think about, Lyra. You're no detective."
"That's right. Detectives are angels… and I know you aren't one."
Was that…?
No.
She shut her eyes tighter, refusing to open them for fear of what they would see. "Oh, come now, darling. Daddy just wants to talk with you."
She felt dry fingers reach under her chin, tilting it up. She chose to not fight against it (for the moment). A new smell circled around her nose, some type of cologne. She liked it, it certainly wasn't cheap. Since when did he ever do cheap? He didn't. "How do you know…?" She bit out in response to his earlier statement. "How do you know I'm not an angel like them?"
"Because…" She felt a light, temporary twist of his arm- an indication he had shrugged his shoulders, or he had adjusted himself to get something from somewhere.
In a fit of panic, in her fright and fear of the dangerous man in front of her, and possibly out of a lapse in strength, she opened her eyes.
He was sitting there, an innocent smile upon his face, like he could do no wrong.
It was laughable how contrasting his words and face were.
"I know you're a demon like me."