I don't own Sherlock, umkay?
Damn, that's fast
Sandra, the first Sandra, the original, was very small curled up in the hospital bed. She was thirty-seven years old and she was holding a baby in her arms. She looked scared, almost like she was about to bolt. All that seemed to be holding her back was David's hand, softly placed on her shoulder.
"She's beautiful" He whispered, breaking the silence. Sandra jumped. "What shall we call her?"
She looked up, down and around the room. She looked towards her husband, perched on the end of the bed. "Call her whatever you want" She said, finally, passing her to him. She rolled over and fell asleep.
They put the name 'Sandra' on her birth certificate, but they never really talked about it.
Three months later, David was shipped off. He came back a very different man. He was in a jar, for a start.
"This is Aurie's room" Bryanne pushed open the door.
"Has there been a robbery?" Watson asked. Completely apposed to the spotless flat, this room was a state.
Bryanne blinked, slowly. She hardly ever noticed the mess anymore. She used to constantly nag Aurelia about the state of her room, and eventually managed to get her to start bringing the cups out after only three days. That was a triumph in her books. "No" She answered.
Bits of metal and odd, broken tools were scattered all over the small floor space, strange things in glass jars cluttered up the windowsill.
Someone had, in lipstick, eyeliner and felt tip pen, scrawled a design for what appeared to be a fighter jet engine on the full length mirror, and then filled the spaces around it with doodles of cars and things like "zooooooom!" and "bang!"
A pile of carefully shreaded engine filters hung from a lamp, looking for all the world like a very old cat that had stopped for a snooze just as it was about to ponce on someones head while they slept.
Thousands of tiny designs had been scored into the floorboards. Sherlock lifted his foot experimentally. Sure enough, he was standing on quite complex pictures of the wing of a bird, an electric engine and a mad scribble where someone had obviously made an uncorrectable mistake.
Even the bed sheets were covered in writing, in permenant red, black and blue ink. There were pens in those colours on the bedside table, in case whoever "lived" (and I use this word in the loosest sense possible) in that room ever needed to attempt to draw a dream.
Sherlock smiled. This one might be interesting after all.
"How long?" The voice was clipped and educated, and slightly Americanized. We'll call him Mr A.
Mr A was one of those men who would have loved, loved, to have been like those secret agents or master criminals you seen on the telly, with impressive gadgets and ach-enemies.
To his imense displeasure, he had to make do with a Blackberry (not even an IPhone!) and Paul, the man next door who once let his dog bark all night.
"Seven minutes fourty eight seconds" Answered his companion. He was far more happy with his lot in life, and spoke in a soft Welsh accent. He'll be Mr B.
Mr B did have an IPhone, much to Mr A's annoyence, though to be fair he'd had to buy it himself. He also got on quite well with the family next door, and often went around for barbeques.
None of which matters, of course, but it's always nice to know.
Mr A slowly let the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding out in a whistle from between clenched teeth. "Damn, that's fast"
Mr B nodded, his awe showing in his eyes "Beats number 225 by four minutes eighteen" They peered at the screen, marked 237.
The engine was complete on the table (well, she wasn't going to just leave it there, useless and broken).
Aurelia was trying, and failing, to remove the door hinges with a screw driver.
"This one might be interesting after all" observed Mr A.
"Are you Kathryn Samson?" A young woman, who couldn't have been much older than 17 or 18 was adrift in a sea of baby toys. She was a very tall girl, at least six foot and yet mountains of dolls and things in the hallway reached almost as high as her knees.
She looked tired and stressed and to top off the picture there were three small children clinging to her legs and a television screaming out cartoons at top volume in the background. She sighed "What do you want?"
"Miss Samson, we're looking for any information you can give us on the disappearence of Miss Aurelia Singh..." The door slammed shut in their faces.
John moved to knock again, but Sherlock stopped him. The young lady's eyes had jumped open in shock, if only for a micro-second, when she had heard her friend's name. He had seen that look of terror recently.
He'd seen it on Bryanne Singh's face.
The door creaked open a crack as they began to make their way down the driveway. "'Scuse me Mister" the voice was squeaky and young. They turned. A small boy of about five or six years old stood in the doorway, clutching a toy fire-engine.
"Auntie Reli was scared the other day. She said... don't look at the silver car. Did the silver car take her?" John opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but the boy was dragged back in by his hand and the door slammed shut again.
As they walked away again they could hear muffled arguements coming from behind the door. Someone was crying. It sounded more like an adult than a child.
Aurelia was thinking 'all that glitters is not gold'. What the hell was that suppose to mean?
:) Thanks for reading. It gets better, I promise. Remember, reviews are love (: