A/N: Sorry for not having a note on the first page, I was too excited to actually be posting the page and forgot it completely. This story takes place after Sherlock's return from the dead. Some events of season 3 will be featured in my story so spoilers of said season apply. Thank you very much to those who left reviews, it always helps to have them
Standard disclaimers apply.
Chapter 2. Oddity.
Surprisingly John regained his wits first. He bent down to the blonde, pulled forward ever so slightly by a dip that had somehow been made under the girl, woman, he corrected himself as he shifted her hair to check her pulse.
"Pulse is steady, breathing normal. Very tired looking though, bit thin." He remarked, making his way down to the strange necklace lying on her chest. A small tendril of smoke curled up from the blackened and cracked yellow circle in the middle of the grey, well he guessed device. Seeing as he had heard it let a crack of electricity out. He poked it gingerly, wondering if it would zap him too. After not receiving the expected jolt, John quickly grabbed the device and looped the chain gently under her head and slid it away, just in case. Laying the woman's head on to the pillow he grabbed from his chair, he gave the rest of her a once-over but could find no further reason for unconsciousness. A small circular burn rested exact center of her chest, just at the top of her cleavage. That would be a scar for life he mused.
John stood back up, "I can't find any injuries other than a small burn. She should wake up soon; it didn't seem like a large shock." He looked towards Sherlock, who hadn't so much as twitched since his wry question.
Sherlock had, in fact, not even drawn a breath since his aforementioned question. He was much too busy examining this odd occurrence to do something as boring as breath. The odd wave that had gone through the air in the room, as the silver light had flashed and the thunder like sound had shaken the flat, still tingled in his extremities. The smell of ozone, like the aftermath of a storm, permeated the room, the carpet slanted slightly towards the unconscious person gracing the floor of his living room. The tiniest webbing of cracks wound along the roof directly above where the girl had appeared, suggesting some kind of force accompanied her arrival, despite her lack of movement in arriving. Having gained little of help from the deduction of the changes to the room from her arrival, Sherlock shifted his attention to said arrival, just as John moved his hand to the device on her chest.
The device was clearly no longer functioning and so could be more fully investigated later, but brief glance told Sherlock it was clearly used to activate something and that insufficient power, not to mention the acrid smell of a burnt out battery, meant it was of no use any longer. Looking back to the woman again, he really should be more focused, he started from the top and worked his way to her feet in less than three seconds. By the time he was done he felt a rare and exciting feeling, bafflement.
Her long hair, bleached blond in the last two inches said lower class, the rest of her hair was a well-integrated blend of golden brown and light soft blond, a well done stylists job, not a home job like the ends. About a months' worth of growth at the roots, a week more that generally allowed before those of wealth went for re-dying, telling him something had prevented her return to the stylist. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy, she had been crying recently. Chafing, both healing and new under her nose said she had been crying on and off for days. A man's bag still hooked around her left arm seemed full and worn, scuff marks on its base and settling bulge creases indicating it sat on the ground for long periods. Several different shades of mud and dirt and a few descending water-stain patterns, indicating rain, said the owner of the bag used it in different conditions, a few singes and what looked like a repaired bullet hole said those conditions might be dangerous. A black leather jacket, fleece lined said it was meant for wind and cold, loose to move in easily but a zip and buttons to close it tight, designed for weather similar to London. A light pink tank top under the unzipped jacket said she had been inside before she had appeared in such a dramatic fashion. Plain black, slightly tight jeans and new but worn trainers finished her attire, the jeans worn slightly at the knees and hems.
She spent a great deal of time in those shoes, the oddly even wear indicating diverse movements but slightly more wear on the right foot under the right little toe area said she was right handed, that was her lead foot and she knew how to use a gun, spent time with it in that hand, lending slightly more weight. That side held the gun forward, leaned forward slightly to allow fast forward movement. Slight calluses in the woman's right hand backed this observation up. She was well muscled but slim overall, lightly tanned, no dents in her fingers to indicate much desk time.
There was something missing though, Sherlock could tell she was fit, had an active job, knew some form of defence, held a weapon with regularity, and had had little money until approximately two years ago, but her parents had come into it, not her. Her clothes were expensive but chosen for functionality and cared for, not replaced. She had seen perhaps a warzone as John had but he couldn't be sure. Something was off though! A few small scars, not brawlers scars thought, fighters scars. There was something different about her. Something he could not quiet identify.
His brows scrunched up with irritation, dropping down to one knee he laid the other arm over the upright knee and examined her more closely. Touching the wear in the fabric of her jeans at her hip he concluded a gun was normally clipped there but brought his hand back quickly, the material felt wrong. Looking closer he realised all the materials were strange. There was no material in London he did not know, but this was different. His tactile hands skimmed the tank top quickly and brushed down the jacket arm, all of the fabrics were off, something not quite right about each. Every sense told Sherlock this woman was Different, his mind even capitalising the word. Something about her just didn't belong. Even the scent coming from her skin was foreign.
The girl stirred under his hand and he drew it back quickly so as not to be seen as invading her space, they had no way to know how she would react.
"Doctor" she moaned, blinking her eyes a few times.
"Yes, I'm a doctor." Said John gently, "Are you hurt anywhere?" she turned her head slightly to peer at him.
"My name is John, we won't hurt you." She slowly raised her right arm, closest to him and brushed a single finger over his cheek.
"A doctor?" she asked stilting her words slightly, "Not The Doctor? Not my John?" a tear leaked from the corner of her eye.
"I'm sorry, I don't think I know you," he said, feeling oddly like he was letting her down. "I'm a doctor and my name is John but we haven't met." Her arm dropped to the floor suddenly, like she had lost the will to hold it up.
"Not my Doctor." She whispered in an aching voice. She shifted her gaze to the man on her left. "Where am I?" she asked in a soft voice.
The cracked whisper of the woman's voice elicited an unknown emotion in Sherlock, she was so sad and broken, seeming like her life had nothing left in it.
"London, Baker Street, 221B"
The dark and gravelly voice skittered down Rose's spine. Familiarity tickled at her mind. "Who are you?" she asked. Looking first to the man with the dark hair then back to the doctor.
"My name is Dr John Watson that is Sherlock Holmes." He said indicating to the man on her left. "What is your name?" he asked.
Oh the irony she thought, a universe without her beloved Doctor but with his favourite fictional characters. He was gone, her Doctor, the last chance she had of finding him, getting him back and it had failed.
"Crap." She muttered, grief clouding her mind again at the reminder of her loss and the realisation that that fact would never change. Her exhausted mind buckled under the onslaught of distress and slid back to the comfort of unconsciousness. "Rose." She breathed out as her eyes closed.
Both men leaned back slightly, both having curved in towards the woman to catch her last word.
"Well we better get her to a hospital." Stated John getting to his feet and reaching for his phone.
"No," said Sherlock, getting to his feet. 'This woman, Rose, appeared out of nowhere, in a flash of light. Something is going on here, some trick or mystery, but a case either way. I don't want Mycroft getting his hands on this one, there is something odd here. She will most likely vanish if anyone else gets wind of this."
"But Sherlock, she needs monitoring!" exclaimed John, "We have no idea what she has been through or even anything about her."
"Exactly! This one is fascinating, not at all ordinary." Jumping in excitement of the unusual case presented before him. "I see nothing to indicate serious injury or illness, just exhaustion and slight dehydration by the light papery texture of the skin on the back of her hand, nothing some rest and fluids won't fix."
John shook his head in resignation, Sherlock was right, as per bloody usual, the woman seemed in no immediate danger. "Alright, we'll put her on the couch with a light blanket and get some water into her." He bent as if to pick her up but Sherlock, discerning his movements as his muscles shifted to make them, ducked down faster, onto one knee and sliding gentle hands under Roses knees and neck. He was disturbingly drawn to this mysterious woman. Drawn in a different way than he had been to the other mysterious woman he had known, Ms Adler had been shrewd and calculated, a purposely cultivated mystery, just for him. This woman, Rose, was something different, he could feel every sense saying so. Flexing his shoulders and legs Sherlock lifted Rose with deceptive ease and paced over to the couch. Laying her down with almost tender movements, Sherlock considered Roses face a moment longer before turning back to john.
Said doctor was looking on, eyes wide in shock and jaw again inspecting the carpet, as he watched the actions of his friend. Since when had Sherlock been one for such a seemingly personal, caring movement? He blinked and shut his mouth. No that was silly, he thought. Sherlock had caring, and his own, ahem, very unique way of showing it.
"Let's get to work." Said Sherlock with a grin clapping his hands together. "This one will be fun! Call Lestrade and bring him over, have him bring a case file for you to look at."
"What? Why am I looking at another case? I thought we just got one dropped on us?" replied John confused.
"We did, but Mycroft's minions will have undoubtedly noted the shaking building and will be watching for unusual activity. So have him bring some case file or another in as reason to drop by, we can apprise him of the situation and you can accompany the good DI to the station and find out what you can about our guest." Explained Sherlock impatiently as he surveyed the windows for external activity and drawing the curtains slightly. He turned to John again.
"Why are you still here?" he said in his usual brisk manner, rude it's commonly called. "I shall try to get some fluids into our Miss Rose and begin a discreet internet search."
John blinked at the possessive pronoun. He opened his mouth to comment but Sherlock had already moved past him to the kitchen, clearly in deep thought, forgetting John completely. John shook his head and moved to the stairs, grumbling the whole way down and out the front door about detectives much to accustomed to getting their own way. He'd stop by his house first, and tell Mary about the whole situation. Having at least one other female around when Rose woke up was probably a good idea, besides Sherlock wouldn't know how long he was gone, hell a green monkey could pop out of the fire place with a Santa hat on and Sherlock wouldn't notice at the moment.
