The deep blue truck sped around the corner, tires splashing the puddles in the gutter of the road. However, the sky was now clear and the outside world clear of rain or precipitation of any kind. The pair inside were growing weary of the long car ride that they had both endured so far, and dreaded the longer route ahead.
"Sherlock claims he knows a shortcut to your location, Lestrade. Though he's not familiar with the area. I'm not sure how I feel about that." John casted a sideways glance at the consulting detective at the wheel who stubbornly ignored the comment and continued driving, eyes trained blankly at the road. There was a pause. "Right, well, there's a road that cuts right through an old town. Silent Hill or something like that?" He shrugged, neither caring about the name of the town, nor bothering to correct himself. "Right, well, we'll see how it goes. I'll call you back within the next few hours." And with that, John clicked the call off and tossed his phone on the dashboard.
The two rode in silence for a few minutes, and they came across a wooden, weather-worn sign that read: BRAHMS 13MILES. Sherlock inhaled. "Following Silent Hill. We'll cut the time in half John." John grimaced, and stared out the window, not replying. It was beginnning to darken, adn the sun was settling over the horizon; the sky darkening and a vague later of fog settling in over the road. They went on for a few more minutes, until Sherlock begged John to let him stop over for a smoke break. John reluctantly agreed and he found himself leaning against the car next to Sherlock, inhaling the second hand smoke with a small frown resting on his lips.
Sherlock drew in a deep breath from the cigarette, and leaned over to put it out against the car, but something in the mirror caught his eye. He paid it no mind, concluding that it was simply a trick of the lack of adequate light and the amount of fog that covered his vision, but then he stopped dead when he saw the figure again. He whipped around a saw a girl about a half mile down the road.
"John," Sherlock whisperd, "look." He gestured down the road a ways, and John looked in the direction, tilting his head at the girl. She looked no more than 12 years old, wearing a deep purple dress with a lace-like collar. The dress had long sleeves that covered her wrists, and was just as modest in the length of the skirt. John took a step forward.
"Hey, you alright?" He called to the girl, who only turned to look at him for only a few seconds before turning her back and running down the road with no reply. "No, wait!" John called, but to no avail, the girl kept dashing down the asphalt, slowly disappearing amongst the fog. John started to run after her, but Sherlock caught his shoulder.
"What are you doing," Sherlock looked into John's eyes, with that expression he used when John was doing something sentimental that Sherlock didn't understand.
"She might need help, Sherlock!" Sherlock stood there for a moment, thinking. He then released his grip and briskly walked along with John, descending away from the familiarality of their vehicle and followed the obvious path to find the mysterious girl.