Shot in the Dark
Chapter One

When Belle Tinker drunkenly teetered up to 221 Baker Street in the dead of night, bleeding and disoriented from a stumble over a rubbish bin, she was more than unpleasantly surprised when the key to her new flat did not unlock the front door.

"This looks like the place, doesn't it?" she asked sluggishly, turning towards the street in question, and then proceeded to shrug when receiving no response. She tried the lock again. "Well, shit."

Her eyes widened and tapered as they attempted to focus on the keyhole. The yellow haze of the streetlamp behind magnified her warped vision, and when Belle lurched forwards and grasped the doorknob with small, trembling hands, the key previously in her grasp was launched to the dark London street behind.

"Aha!" she crowed, startling herself by the sudden volume of her voice and stumbling briefly because of it. She glowered at the knob, legs wobbling. "You cannot trick me you dastardly door. Beg for mercy and I shall let you live! No? Fine! En Garde, swine!"

Seven forceful kicks to the door later, each pound resounding into the darkness and reverberating rather painfully throughout her tibia, Belle found herself once again surprised that night, but more pleasantly so. The black door creaked open, a mere two inches, and bright eyes filled the space beyond.

Belle withdrew her boot, blinking owlishly.

"Hey," she chirped. "Who the hell are you?"

The door swung open an additional couple inches, revealing an older woman in a lavender nightgown (complete with lacy frills) with an expression of apprehension fixed across her open, elegant face. Her eyes glimmered, her mouth curving into a perfect sphere of surprise.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she breathed.

Belle stiffened, "Really? Gosh. Where?" then, peering once more at the older woman, this time stepping forward and encroaching her personal space with narrowed, probing eyes: "Hugo? Why do you look like an old woman? You cosplaying the Queenie again? Purple is really not your color, mate."

The woman bristled and swung the door open. She shook her head, voice gentle albeit hesitant. "I'm not Hugo, dearie–"

"Drat."

"–and I do believe you are quite lost."

"Lost? Quite lost?" Belle looked around wildly, mouth agape, and nearly lost her balance again. She looked back at the older woman, fear flashing across her eyes. "Quite lost where? Where am I? I can't be quite lost. This is my flat. Hugo? Why do you look like an old woman? Purple is really not your–"

"I am not Hugo, dear," the woman repeated. "You can call me Mrs. Hudson and, yes, you are most certainly lost and very much drunk."

Belle's face fell. "I am?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Yes."

"Are you sure?"

Another nod.

"Drat," Belle sighed. "I knew it, Hugo."

"Mrs. Hudson," she corrected.

Belle tensed. "Really? Gosh. Where?"

"Right here!"

"Oh!" Belle grinned, then frowned. "Who are you?"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Hugo?"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

Belle shrugged, chuckling jovially. "I don't know! Wait," she blinked, eyebrows knitting over large, glazed eyes. "What are you doing in my flat? Are you drunk?"

"No, nor am I Hugo."

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson released a heavy sigh through flared nostrils, a gesture that had Belle envisioning a miniature horse bedecked in a lavender nightgown (complete with lacy frills) and stamping a hoof indignantly before her, and thusly began chortling with so much uninhibited mirth that she nearly lost control of her physical faculties and flopped onto the ground. When she grasped the door for balance, the older woman abruptly gasped with dismay.

"You poor thing!" she exclaimed, startling Belle when she grabbed her by the wrists, carefully turning her palms skyward. The older woman clucked her tongue. "Silly girl, you've torn your hands to shreds."

"Huh." Belle peered down at the dark splotches of blood across her palms. "Would ya look at that, Hugo."

"Mrs. Hudson," the woman corrected under her breath, examining the various lesions, pulling Belle closer towards the soft light of the flat. She shook her head, arching a maternal brow. "You're too inebriated at the moment to feel this, but you certainly will once you sleep it off. How did this happen?"

"Um," Belle pondered, mashing her lips together in thought. She swayed for a moment, steadied by Mrs. Hudson's firm hold. Then, suddenly, her eyes bugged with epiphany. "Rubbish bin!"

"Rubbish bin?"

"Affirmative! I took it out."

"Took it out?" Mrs. Hudson frowned.

Belle experimentally tugged against the woman's hold, but shrugged when Mrs. Hudson's grip tightened. Safely anchored to the ground by heavy boots and held upright by a gentle touch, she swayed back and forth, one corner of her mouth lifting into an easy, cockeyed grin. Her eyes crinkled.

"Not on a date," she said, chuckling at the absurdity. "I ran into it. In an alleyway. Ya know, took it out. But I apologized."

Mrs. Hudson suppressed a smile. "Apologized?"

"Absolutely," Belle nodded piously. "And profusely, I will have you know—manners, dear Hugo, are free. Then we both went on our merry way."

"Oh, really?"

"Verily. I shit ye not."

Mrs. Hudson released another lengthy sigh, then commenced to startle Belle when she began pulling her across the threshold and into the cozy warmth of the building. She stumbled along, her vision immediately spinning like a helter-skelter as her legs were propelled forward.

"The hell is with this turbulence," she groused, windmilling her free arm in an unsuccessful attempt to slap away Mrs. Hudson's hand, but managed to thwack herself in the face. "Ouch. Not so fast. Not. So. Faaast!"

The older woman glanced behind, tutting disapprovingly as she led Belle further into the heart of the flat. Near seesawing collisions into Mrs. Hudson aside, Belle blinked at her surroundings. It smelled old but clean, and soon the familiar and comforting scent of used books congested her already addled senses, the crooked smile reappearing and widening until a set of dimples peppered each flushed cheek. There were other scents, other sights, and other sounds (for a moment she faltered—was that a violin?), which only became more mottled to Belle the further she ventured inside.

There was a gentle tug at her wrist.

"Come, come," Mrs. Hudson chided. "I'm not about to leave a young thing like you bleeding at my front door. Come along, now. We'll bandage you up nicely and ring you a cab. I'll grab our doctor fellow and make some tea. Goodness knows those two are still up at this hour, the way Sherlock flits about at night."