Girls POV

The London air was crisp and made the lungs of the public tight. People bustled, hurried and rushed back and forth; while others just let it all flow around them. Traffic blurred and screeched, while cabbies bobbed back and forth, weaving in and out. The night was just beginning to waltz into the sky and the day's newspapers flittered across the sidewalks with headlines shouting the news and politics of the moment. And in the scene of it all, no one noticed the girl stumbling up the sidewalk, eyes wide and panicked, breathing ragged.

She had tried to talk to a few people, but they shrugged her off as just another one of the homeless, begging and desperate. They saw nothing past the grimy, torn clothes and bare feet. She asked them all the same questions. Where am I? She finally managed to stumble down a cold street –Baker, she thinks the sign said. It was a biting, bone chillingly cold night. The frost was gathering on the lamp posts, and the lights were beginning to flicker on. I can't give up… not after everything… But against her own will, she collapsed against the hard, unforgiving pavement, and rolled to the side, just out of the less than busy foot traffic.

Johns POV

The night was starting to settle in, and I had just put the kettle on when I noticed Sherlock staring out through the window. After pulling out two cups, I went over next to him, trying to see what he was staring at. I knew it would be basically impossible to pull him out of his concentration, but I might as well try.

"What're you looking at?" I asked him, glancing up at the taller man. He didn't respond, or move. Whatever it was had his full and undivided attention. I looked down at the street as well. People were all headed home on the cold early November night. A few cars and cabs hummed down the street as the street lamps came on. The sidewalks were beginning to clear, and I noticed, just across the street, there seemed to be something in the hedges. Squinting my eyes, I tried to focus on the object.

"Jesus, it's a person!" I gasped as I saw the bare feet and long arms. Without another moment, I quickly grabbed my coat and pulled it on as I threw myself down the stairs and out the door. Dodging the cars, I made it across the street in seconds. Bending down on the cold earth, I rolled the cold figure face up. The frost bitten face of a young woman was now turned towards me. Her eyes were shut and her lips were lightly parted. Her clothes were rags, with no shoes and a need for a shower. But she was still breath taking. She was my height, with what was supposed to be a more solid build. But from what I could see now, she looked malnourished and most likely sick. Slipping my arms underneath her knees and around her shoulders, I heaved her up. She should've been much heavier than this. As I carried her across the street, I saw Sherlock open the door and let me pass.

"Thanks," I said, as I stepped through the doorway. But just as I got through the door to the flat, she opened her eyes slightly. At first, she only looked sleepy, confused almost. But when she came to a bit, her eyes flashed open and she shoved herself out of my arms and fell to the floor. She quickly ran to the door, but was stopped by Sherlock, who blocked the exit with his body. She threw herself against a wall and shrunk into herself, pulling back as far as she could. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the sounds of her ragged breathing and frightened noises were like that of an abused animal. Her eyes were wide and panicked, jumping from Sherlock to myself every few seconds. She wasn't standing offensively, but as if she was ready to drop down and wrap herself up to protect from an attack. I held up my hands quickly in surrender.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. We aren't going to hurt you!" I told her, trying to keep my voice steady. Her head snapped my direction when I spoke. Her eyes were looking me over frantically. She just shook her head and pressed further against the wall. I took a step towards her and she let out a whimpered moan, and I could hear her whispering, pleading.

"no no no…. please god no…"

I stopped dead in my tracks, not wanting to frighten her further. The next voice I heard was Sherlock's.

"You've been abused," He stated plainly, "Mentally, emotionally… physically." When he said this, she narrowed her eyes at him, a frightened look flitting across her face. "The way you're standing, you aren't trying to defend yourself; you're trying to protect yourself. You'd rather take the beating you would've gotten, instead of the one you would get for fighting back. The clothing, and physical health suggest poor living conditions; possibly a sex slave, a kidnapping victim? Yes, I think so; you've been trapped for a long time. But you've escaped now, only to fall in the hands of yet another pair of kidnappers?" He finished, looking at her, he had taken a few steps towards her, and was now closer to her than I was. She was staring at him, breath still ragged, and eyes still wide. It was minutes before she spoke.

"Please… Don't send me back to him…" She asked, quietly and staring him in the eyes.

Sherlock's POV

"Please… Don't send me back to him…" She pleaded quietly, her eyes boring into my own. She was physically malnourished, but from the development of her facial structure and her bust to waist to hips ratio, I had to guess she was in her early twenties. And I could tell she was watching me as I was watching her. And not to mention John was watching the both of us. She hadn't responded well to John, so her imprisoner had to have had similar features or traits.

"John," I said, my eyes never wavering from hers, a combination of brown and green. "Show her where the shower is, and find her some clothes." And with that, I turned and went into the kitchen. I needed to figure her out.

John's POV

When Sherlock turned and left, I was still standing there. The woman was still backed against a wall, but her breathing was evening out, and she wasn't near tears anymore. We both looked at each other, her with uncertainty and fear, and I with caution and helpfulness. I kept my hands up,

"I promise we won't let you go back there," I told her, offering a smile. "We want to help you." She stared at me for a few moments, just looking at me. Finally, she swallowed and lowered her hands,

"My names… Asha" She said, offering a very weak smile. I returned it with one of my own. Stepping forward, I pointed down the hall way.

"I'm John, the bathrooms down here, I can show you if you'd like." She nodded a bit, murmuring a thank you.

After escorting her down the hall, giving her a towel and some of Sherlock's old clothes, I left her to the shower. Walking back to the kitchen, I realised I had left the kettle on! Quickly pulling it off, I sent an annoyed glance at Sherlock, who was sitting at the table with his hands pressed together. After pouring myself a cup, I poured one for the stock still detective next to me.

"Figure her out yet?" I asked him, sipping my tea. He stayed quiet, just staring at the wall and not saying a word. It was a good fourty-five minutes until we saw Asha again. She was in the clothing I had given her, which made me smile when I saw the look of shock and possibly annoyance on Sherlock's face. She had rolled up the pant legs of one of the few pairs of his pajama bottoms, paired with an old grey button up of his. She stood in the entrance way, shoulders held back; hands behind her, but her feet were close together and pointed forward. There was an empty chair in front of her, but she ignored it. A silence befell us all, until I spoke.

"Would you like to sit?" I asked her, motioning to the seat. She slowly slid into the seat, watching us both very closely.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked her, placing the cup I had laid in front of the woman.

"No," She said immediately, "Thank you, sorry. I'm just not very thirsty."

"Hmm, yes, it's either that, or you completely don't trust us and tried, to no avail obviously, to escape through the window; which is what I'm guessing the scrape on your forearm is from." He stated, eyes trained on hers. She let out a breath and gave him a small smile.

"What would you like to know?" She asked, looking right back at him. Her voice wasn't very strong, but it was definite.

"It's not what I want to know that's bothering me; it's what I already do." Sherlock's statement surprised me. Nothing rustled him. He was never truly surprised, or shocked. He had already figured it out, and it was one of the possibilities that he hadn't really thought would happen. She motioned for him to continue. Taking a breath, he began. "Let's start with your physical appearance. You're bruises are fresh on your hands and feet, probably from all the running and escaping you've been doing. The injuries on your heels and toes- along with the severity of your frostbite- suggest about 37 hours of on foot travel. By the way John, you'll probably want to treat her, because I doubt she wants to go to a hospital." He interjected quickly, as though I wasn't already paying attention. Her eyes weren't wide in fear, or amazement. She just watched him, almost bored. But a small smile played at her lips. He continued,

"The bruises that I could see on your shoulders, arms and thighs suggest bonds. Either to keep you immobilized or locked up, most likely in the dark for an extended period of time judging from how your eyes were adjusting to the lights. You've been under fed, probably for a year now, judging from the way your bones are visible and the lack of muscle tone that you are obviously used to carrying. How can I possibly tell that? Simple, your walking gait. Your strides are strong, but you don't have the muscles to power it anymore. You lost your strength first when you were abducted from your home. Your home, you are so far from home." He stared at her, his eyes searching over her emotionless face. Her smile had dropped and now she just looked back at him, her eyes blank and heavy looking. "You're from America, the northwest to be precise. Your accent isn't distinctly eastern Washington, but leaning more heavily towards western. You grew up there, near Seattle."

"The Emerald city," I head her whisper, as she was lost in a flood of memories. Tears brimmed on her eyes, but that's as far as they got. They didn't fall, instead they just quivered on the edge, until eventually they just moistened her eyes and receded. She looked back at Sherlock, her eyes finally focusing on the detective. "You're mostly right." She said, a sad small smile playing at her lips as she stood up. "I did grow up in the Northwest, I lived the beginning of my life in western Washington, but I moved over the pass with my family when my grandparents became ill. And it's been three years, not one." And with that, she lie down on the couch, and curled the blanket around herself.