It happens like this.
One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else-closer to them than your closest family. Perhaps this person carries within them an angel-one sent to you for some higher purpose; to teach you an important lesson or to keep you safe during a perilous time. What you must do is trust them-even if they come hand in hand with pain and suffering-the reason for their presence will become clear in due time.
Though here is a word of warning-you may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn't to save you but show you how to save yourself. And once this is fulfilled; the halo lifts and the angel leaves their body as the person exists in your life. They will be a stranger to you once more.
-Lang Leav
-/-
She needed help.
Her heart was pounding in her ears, adrenaline coursing through her veins, and blood running down her side. When she slid into an alleyway that night to find a place to sleep she hadn't expected to find one of his men waiting for her in the shadows. Her exhausted body hadn't been able to react as fast normal and, although she had been able to dodge the bullet somewhat, it had found its way through her side. She began to run immediately wanting to put as much distance between her and the shooter as possible. It wasn't likely that he would follow her, no, that had just been a warning, she knew when they were out to kill her and that wasn't it. But that didn't mean he wouldn't take it upon himself to finish her off.
She was already exhausted making her more susceptible to infection, especially considering she had gotten into a scuffle with one of His men earlier in the day which lead to her rolling around in a wet ditch, soaking her completely.
She could get a motel room and try to clean herself up but it was too risky, her cash supply was running low and she was already in too much trouble with the police in the UK as it was. She didn't need the police and His men up her ass at the same time.
She stumbled through the empty streets trying to fight back the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed help. She turned a corner and a wave of relief washed over her at the sight of a lone shop with its lights still on. She forced her feet to move a bit faster. All she had to do was get across the street-the thought was cut short as her knees gave out and she was sent tumbling face first onto the sidewalk.
She grit her teeth as pain shot through her entire body, a few stray tears running down the black paint around her eyes and into the fabric of the black balaclava covering her nose and mouth. A taxi started driving towards her and panic set in. She was vulnerable, completely out in the open and if the driver or it's occupants called the police she'd be screwed. She wouldn't be able to stop them and she'd be stripped of everything that was protecting her including the backpack that contained her entire life.
She sat up and managed to retreat into the shadows, the effort causing her vision to blur and her head to lull to the side as unconsciousness began to creep up on her. She glanced back down at her side and slammed her eyes shut at the small pool blood already beginning to form beside her. If someone attacked her now she wouldn't be able to fight back. When the car stopped in front of her, her heart felt as if it was going to beat out of her chest. This was it, game over, she lost. She hung her head and focused intently on the ground hoping the occupants of the taxi wouldn't notice her but of course they had to live at the door she was propped up against.
"Are you alright?" The first man asked.
"Obviously not John, she's been shot." A deeper voice replied.
She sighed shakily and looked up at the two men, the only thing visible to both were her green eyes.
"C-can you help me? I can't g-go to a hospital, p-please help." She pleaded. If she could just get them to take her in and stitch her up she could be long gone by morning.
The shorter man stooped down beside her and scooped her up in his arms without hesitation, trying not to jostle her too much as he carried her up a flight of stairs and into their flat.
Black dots danced in front of her eyes as she continued to beg the man carrying her not to call the police or take her to the hospital.
"You can't...the police...don't...arrest...no...please..." She threw her head back and forth trying to shake away the darkness that was threatening to take her. As the taller man opened the door to their flat she lost her battle, her head falling limply to the side as she slipped into oblivion.
-/-
"So what now? Do we ring the police?" The man carrying the now unconscious girl asked.
"John, if she wanted the police, I don't think she would have nearly bled out on the streets. She doesn't want anyone to know she's here." His flat mate said matter-of-factly as he shed his trademark black coat and navy scarf.
"Well then, I guess I'll see about cleaning her up." The shorter man replied, carefully laying the girl down on the surprisingly clean table that was usually covered in specimens, papers, and other scientific equipment. Sherlock heard water running as he collapsed onto the sofa and over the sounds of water hitting the sink, he could hear the rustle of light fabric and water swishing around.
John carefully wiped blood and paint away and began checking for any more injuries as he peeled away the girl's layers of clothing. Slightly uncomfortable with having an unconscious and very naked woman on his table, he had lain a towel across her chest and hips. There was no telling what would happen if she woke up and realized she was undressed and on a stranger's table.
Finding nothing life-threatening besides the gunshot wound but noting the yellow bruises on her ribs and fading scars that seemed to cover her from toe to shoulders, he tilted her forward to check her back. He stared at the marking for a while before finally leaning around the doorway, making eye contact with a lounging Sherlock.
"You might want to see this."
"I'm not sure I want to see you man-handling some poor girl, but if you insist." John had an arm across her chest, supporting her weight on it to allow the girl's back to be clearly seen. On her left shoulder blade was a raised, pink scar in the shape of an M. Sherlock ran his middle finger over it and guessed the mark to be a few years old.
"What do you make of it?" John asked in a concerned tone.
"It's a branding, to prove ownership of something, like they do with livestock." Sherlock's gaze followed her spine, noticing random scars decorating the skin, most likely from a knife, and patches of unevenly healed skin that could only come from being burned.
"She's clearly not livestock." John looked confused and a little horrified.
"Clearly. But she is someone's property. At least, they seem to think so." Sherlock looked a little excited at the thought.
"No. She's not property, she's a human being." John didn't miss Sherlock's interest, although he was still disgusted at the thought of someone owning another person.
"Your human being is getting cold." Sherlock remarked, walking out with an amused look.
It was morning before John Watson had finished stitching and cleaning the wound of the girl they had found on their doorstep. After deeming his stitch jobs satisfactory and cleaning up his medical supplies he turned to his flat mate who hadn't left his spot on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.
"Is there anything we could cover her up with?"
"What's wrong with the way she is now?" Sherlock seemed to find entertainment in John's obvious discomfort at the young woman's lack of clothing.
Ignoring Sherlock's teasing, John asked, "Would Mrs. Hudson have any clothing she could lend?"
Sherlock glanced at the girl and shook his head. "Her clothes wouldn't fit. This girl's chest and hips are larger than Mrs. Hudson's. I think one of your shirts might work and a pair of my night pants. Her legs seem to be longer than yours."
After carefully depositing her on the couch, John went to gather up the clothing and pain medication. Sherlock took this opportunity to really look the girl over, trying to gain any clues about who she was.
Scars covered her body, much like the ones on her back, only larger. Without her face covered, Sherlock guessed she was early to mid-twenties. She obviously hadn't slept in days judging by the dark purple bags under her eyes, meaning she knew who ever she was running from was getting close. Looking at her legs, he could see toned muscles under the honey colored skin.
Even though she was well-rounded, Sherlock was surprised to see her skin stretched over her ribs, almost enough to be starving but not too much as to weaken her. So she wasn't fed on a daily basis.
Her natural tan was fading, backing Sherlock's previous observation of her being on the run for a while.
Taking a closer look at her mahogany colored hair, Sherlock could safely say that she hadn't had her hair cut in a few months, judging by the dead end that curled up at the tips. He also noticed how her hair seemed to be uneven in places meaning when she had done it she had done it herself.
The contents found in the woman's backpack told Sherlock her preference was guns, but she still frequently used knives judging by the condition and small flakes of dried blood left behind. The way she had hidden her face told him that she had some sort of military background or training, not very many people knew that covering the area around yours eyes would prevent facial recognition on camera. So she was on the run from someone who was doing whatever they could to find her, most likely the person who had branded and tortured her.
She had a small wad of cash and a few cards, all with different names, in a plastic baggie in a pocket inside of her jacket. Confirming to Sherlock that she was the one who had been robbing the small shops in London.
And that was all Sherlock could conclude about this strange woman for now. Once she came to though, he was sure he would know more.
-/-
When John returned an hour later he dressed the girl in one of his white T-shirt and a pair of Sherlock's grey night pants. After dressing her he studied the girl again, this time taking in her features.
Her oval face had full lips and big round eyes, cheek bones that were high but not as sharp as Sherlock's, and a nose that appeared to have been broken several times. Full breasts and hips created an hourglass and long arms and legs ended with slender fingers and toes. Wavy, mahogany hair ended at her elbows, the fineness of it visible in her eyebrows and eyelashes.
Whoever she was, she was bound to be missed.
-/-
Pain.
That's all she could remember. She couldn't even remember what He had said the murky gray liquid in the needles were but it hurt, it hurt so bad. Don't scream, don't scream, don't SCREAM!
His men pushed her thrashing arms and legs down on the table, strapping her down and injected her again and again. Her back arched up off the table as she begged between sobs and agonized screams for the pain to stop.
She could hear His voice inside her head, talking to her, telling her exactly what He was going to do to and she knew He wasn't bluffing.
She heard the words that she had cried out so often in her sleep yet knew she had never spoken aloud. "Please…Stop…I'll do anything…I just couldn't do it any longer…I couldn't take anymore…Please…Please don't do this to me." She felt the sob that ran through her and heard Him laugh as she cried.
"You should have listened baby, that's all you had to do. I own you, your never getting away from me." He cooed, she could hear the sadistic smile on his face growing wider as he spoke. She could feel hands tugging at her very core, ripping at her flesh as she was allowed to let out the real scream that was waiting in her throat for it's release.
"Does it hurt yet? Your own little piece of hell on earth?"
-/-
She had learned over the years that waking up right away wasn't a good thing to do. She kept her eyes closed and carefully listened to her surroundings, it was something that had saved her several times. When she heard nothing except for the steady sound of breathing of the person sitting across from her she carefully shifted her body to make sure she hadn't been tied up. Thankfully she wasn't but she could tell that the clothes on her body weren't hers meaning she had no weapons easily accessible.
"John. She's awake." Sherlock didn't move from his spot on the couch, deciding to let John handle the girl while he observed.
Her bright green eyes shot open immediately and slowly began to focus on her surroundings. There was a table between her and the man across from her, one of her switchblades laying in the center. Without hesitation she lunged for the blade and scrambled behind the couch, putting that much more distance between her and the curly haired man.
Sherlock sat perfectly still as he watched the woman lunge for the blade and stand behind the couch. Her jaw was set in determination, the slightest bit of panic evident in her eyes. John came in with a glass of water and the prescription bottle and the woman's eyes began to take in every detail about him. "I see you're finally awake. If you don't mind, I'd like to check your vitals."
The man who spoke was easy enough to read, he was open with emotions and reactions and the way he stood unguarded. His haircut, and the way he held himself said military. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he looked her over. He must be the doctor, she concluded.
The taller man was a different story however. She took in his dark suit that covered his long, pale limbs. gun-metal blue eyes held no emotion in them as he watched her; his legs crossed, his fingers steepled, his tailored clothing. Glancing behind him she saw experiments, papers and scientific equipment scattered where ever there was space. He was smart, always thinking, always looking for something to do, something to solve. He was deducing her with a completely blank expression, trying to take in every little detail about her, gauging her reactions to the situation she was in.
What attracted Sherlock the most about this girl was the caged animal like demeanor, the scars, the branding, and the puzzle surrounding her. Judging by her reactions so far he didn't think she was going to be a particularly pleasant study. Good. He didn't want this to be too easy.
Clearing his throat, John broke the intense silence between the two, "I'm not going to hurt you I just want to be sure you're alright." Her eyes cut over to him and sized him up.
She didn't think the doctor was a threat but he did have military training and she was injured. Maybe she was just being paranoid but paranoia wasn't always a bad thing when you were on the run. She had to think this through before she let him get any closer. There were three doors in the room, one was most likely a bathroom, one a bedroom. The door to the left of her was slightly cracked open and she could see the corner of a bath mat. The door to the right was closed and the door beside it had shoes sitting beside it. Okay so that was the exit, now she had to decide it she could trust these men.
John made a move towards the girl and she pulled out her switch blade, holding it out in front of her and if looks could kill, his body would already be cold.
The man stepped towards her and she held her knife out in front of her in warning. She needed more time to think about this. Judging by the amount of sunlight in the room she guessed it to be around 11. It was about 1:30 last night when she was shot meaning they had had almost 11 hours to call the police but here she was still at their flat. Maybe she could trust them.
Clearing his throat again, John decided to take a different approach, "I'm John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a doctor and he's a consulting detective. Do you have a name?"
Sherlock snorted beside him. "Don't be daft, of course she has a name." When John turned back to the girl she nodded her head.
"Syn."
This is just something that's been stuck in my head for awhile and finally decided to write down. Let me know what you think or if you have and suggestions. :)