Chapter 2
The next day, Jim releases him. Sherlock groans and sits up slowly from the cold, wet pavement—it had rained previously—and rubs his head as the sedative Moriarty had given him slowly works its way out of his system. A siren roars loudly and he turns his pounding head slowly to blink in surprise at the sight of Lestrade driving towards him like a madman. The elderly detective slams on the brakes and leaps out of the vehicle.
"Sherlock! Where have you been? There's been a murder!" He grabs the skinny man by the elbow and helps him into the police cruiser.
"Gavin? How did you know I was here?"
"It'd Greg-and some woman just called and said you were passed out in front of her flat. Gave her a fright, you did." Greg glares at him for a moment. "So, you aren't back into the drugs, are you?"
"No." Sherlock answers coolly. "I was kidnapped by James Moriarty and have recently been set free."
"And why would he do that? Let you go, I mean. You're his only real competition…to let you out would be…unwise."
Sherlock nods. "I know."
"So, you see anything useful or interesting on your short holiday, did you?"
Sherlock thinks about the large and elaborate party Jim threw and about that strange girl. How she glared defiantly in the very face of death itself and did not cower. How she played effortlessly to his melody…it was almost as if she was reading his mind. But that was preposterous. She was homeless and most certainly physically abused, probably by a family member. She had to struggle to simply live, knowing that every breathe she took could just as easily be her last. But still, she was no one important. So why would Jim bother kidnapping her…?
"No." He says finally "There was nothing interesting."
…
The body Lestrade had told him about-it turned out-had nothing to do with Moriarty, which was an enormous disappointment to Sherlock. Either way, he solved in within minutes: the victim—an obese oriental man of about forty years of age—had been killed by his quiet and cat-loving next door neighbor. Sherlock sighs, his mind growling in frustration at the lingering headache and the simplistic case. John rushes is, panting heavily.
He had run here. Why? Wouldn't a cab have been easier?
"Sherlock!" He shouts, relief cascading down his face at seeing his friend alive and unharmed.
"John." Sherlock replied calmly.
"Where have you been?" Sherlock moves away from his friend and walks into the cool night air, hastily hailing a cab. John follows at his heels. "Sherlock!"
"I'll explain on the way, come on!"
…
It's dark. Brooding storm clouds above flash angrily with annoyance at the vehicle's bright white knife of light that cuts neatly through the opaque wall of black that the thunderheads are trying stubbornly to preserve. Missiles of rain explode on the windshield,and smoky fog drifts through the trees and out unto the room, obscuring Sherlock's vision as he drives.
"So, why?" John asks finally. They ridden in silence for house after Sherlock had told the doctor about what had transpired during his brief interlude from 221B. But, John still couldn't wrap his mind around what had happened or why some teenage girl had thrown Sherlock so off-kilter.
"Because we need her." Sherlock keeps his eyes on the road as he speaks, and pitches his voice low. "Moriarty is going to do something—something soon—and a lot of people will likely die, John. For whatever reason—and I don't know why—she is the key to figuring it all out. Moriarty wouldn't have had here there at that little get together otherwise."
"So, we'll just drive around aimlessly until we find her?"
"Yep."
"At night? During a storm?"
"A little rain hardly counts as a storm, John. Don't be so melodramatic."
"Fine, it's not storming yet, then. Happy now, hm?" John says before rolling his eyes and shaking his head in exasperation.
Sherlock goes missing for roughly twelve hours and instead of going to a hospital or the police after being kidnapped, he wants to find some kid. Wonderful, he thinks sarcastically, this is just great.
Sherlock sighs in irritation at John's antics, but refuses to grace his hysterics with a response.
John decides to try again. He takes a deep breath and talks slowly, careful to extinguish any sign of anger: "What makes you think she's even still alive? Sherlock, seriously, this could be dead. She could have been Moriarty's next murder victim—or a trained assassin. You said so yourself, you don't know much about this girl. If Jim could fool you into thinking he was someone else when you first met him, what's to say she's not the same way? What's to say she isn't just some hired gun planted at that mansion to throw you off?"
"She's not." Sherlock shakes his head in dismissal. "She despised them, John. All of them. She hated them because they were immoral: because they were 'bad guys'. This girl couldn't be a killer or a criminal—she has a moral code and as for her being dead, well, she's fought too hard to survive up to this point; why would she go and throw her life away? Chances are, she found some way to escape."
Sherlock's hands tighten on the wheel as he pauses slightly before continuing: "There's something more here, John—something else—and I can't pinpoint it. Not yet, anyway."
Something darts across the road in front of them. Sherlock slams on the breaks and John tenses. Their car fishtails a little on the slick pavement. Lightning bursts overhead and drenches the area in purple.
The car narrowly avoids hitting the person and Sherlock fights wildly for control as they continue to swerve violently across the road. Gunshots explode around them and John realizes with sinking horror that the trees around them are peppered in bullet holes—rifle rounds to be exact. Another flash of movement and their black truck slams into a solid figure that flips up and over the top of the car from the violent impact.
"Sherlock!"
The car screeches to a halt and both men race out of the car.
"Is he okay?" Sherlock asks. "Is he breathing?"
John is silent for a moment. "No."
Sherlock turns to look at the person who had raced across the road first and is surprised to see three beings there instead of one: a small four year old boy, a gray wolf with a SERVICE DOG vest on, and the girl from Moriarty's mansion. With her left hand she clasps tightly to her right shoulder and it is only then that Sherlock can see the blood pooling from her fingers from a gun wound.
"Are you okay?" He asks her. She tilts her head slightly to the side in confusion and he moves forward quickly as he screams, "JOHN!"
John turns just in time to see the girl's knees buckle from underneath hear and Sherlock grab the soaking wet kid just before her head cracks into the hard asphalt.
"We need to get to her a hospital! NOW!"
How'd you guys like it? Reviews are always welcome, and I love to read them. So, if you have anything you want write, I'll be happy to read it.