Chapter 2

Back in the flat, at Baker Street, Sherlock laid the girl down on the sofa. She seemed to be still unconscious. Sherlock's scarf was now covered in blood and the girl's left arm, under the coat, was dyed crimson. John wondered if she had already lost too much blood and that she really should be taken to the hospital. He was sure, however, that the bullet hadn't cut through any vital vein. So there was still hope.

John left the girl for Sherlock to look after and hurried to his bedroom.

"Put the kettle on will you?" he cried. "I'll need some water!"

Sherlock walked into the kitchen. His mind was fast going through the data. Who was the girl and why did she fight against the Redhead Gang? Was she a bounty hunter? Was there any bounty hunters these days? It could be possible, though, as some private participant had offered a £10000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the Red Captain, the ruthless leader of the gang.

Absent-mindedly, Sherlock took the kettle and filled it with cold water. He looked back on the case he had been working, lately. Lestrade had called him three days ago. There had been a grievous battle in the streets of Camden Town. Three men had been killed, two had been taken to the hospital and, apparently, more was hiding somewhere, licking their wounds. All those men belonged to the Redheads.

He put the kettle back on the base, switching it on, and leaned against the table. His long fingers drummed the edge of the table, as his eyes wandered aimlessly around the room, lost in thought. Unsurprisingly, Lestrade hadn't got much out of the men in the hospital, but Sherlock had been able to deduce, that the killer had been alone, that he was quite small, extremely quick and acrobatic and a crack shot. The three dead men had all been shot in the head but the two in the hospital had been shot in the thigh. Sherlock was sure it was on purpose. It told him that the killer didn't kill if he didn't have to. Yes, Sherlock had said 'he' but, obviously, he had been wrong. The killer wasn't a man but a woman and she was lying right there, on the sofa, in their flat.

Sherlock walked back to the living room.

He studied the girl carefully. The black, hooded coat was warm and of a good quality - not by any means cheap - but her shirt and jeans were mundane, even worn-out. She had black army-style boots, those familiar to paratroopers. Sherlock assessed their size, visually. Obviously the size 5, like that of the killer. The girl also had a professional shoulder holster. And she was small, quick and acrobatic and she could shoot amazingly well.

But who was she? A soldier? Many things referred to an army background but then there was that unbelievable, angelic hair. Would you have a hair like that if you were a soldier? Sherlock wondered, vaguely, how many years it took to grow hair so long. He had a sudden fancy to measure the length of a single hair. It would be a yard, at least. He ignored the idea, feeling a little embarrassed.

He stepped closer and, gently, took her right hand, from whence they had removed the gun. It felt cold, like a piece of ice. The palm was quite broad for a girl, fingers were long and nails short. She didn't have any rings or jewels of any kind or any make-up, as Sherlock now noticed. So not too concerned with womanly things then, or was this done for practicality? Maybe the latter. Or both.

She had a hard and muscled side of the hand and gristled knuckles, which indicated that she had had a long and hard training in some sort of martial art, probably Taekwon-do, considering the unbelievable kicks she had presented earlier. Around her wrist, there was some chaffing, as if she had been handcuffed, not freshly but some time ago.

Could it be, that... well, the Redhead Gang was somehow connected to human trafficking, of that Sherlock was sure. But... no, there was something wrong with that picture...

He heard John coming down the stairs.

"Are you holding her hand?" he asked in surprise. "That's very nice of you!"

"I'm not holding it, I'm observing it!" Sherlock snapped, lettiing the hand drop down and hurrying back to the kitchen. Slowly, he poured the boiling water into the bowl, and as it ran, his mind continued its everlasting work. He thought about the fact, that the killer had been able to run off from the Camden Town battle, even if most of the men there had definitely had a gun, too. And still, they hadn't found any empty cartridges, expect those from the killer's gun. So, it seemed likely that the gangsters had been instructed not to shoot her. But today she had been shot. Why? Was it because the bullet was not meant for her, after all, but for Sherlock? If so, then it seemed likely that she probably did it all in self defence - that she wasn't after them but they were after her. But... two battles during one week? Why didn't she leave the town if they were after him? Why stay nearby? What was it that they wanted from her so badly?

Once the bowl was full Sherlock took it to the main room and laid it on the coffee table.

"You don't need to be ashamed of holding somebody's hand, Sherlock," John said casually.

"I wasn't holding it!"

John smiled. Sherlock snorted and watched in silence as John took a hypo and filled it with liquid morphine. He injected morphine directly into her vein. She groaned a little but didn't wake up.

"That'll do. It begins to work quickly, within 5-10 minutes. Now, get me some clean towels, would you."

Sherlock's phone rang. He pulled it out from his pocket and turned around to get the towels.

"Lestrade?"

John bent over the girl to see what injuries she had on her face. Some blood had dripped from her nose but it wasn't broken. John could also see a deep slit on her left cheek, over the bone. Her eyelid was fast turning purple. She had probably suffered a light concussion after that savage punch. John heard the noise of the punch in his head again and shuddered with anger. How could anyone do anything like this? He decided to glue the cheek instead of stitching.

Sherlock came back with a pile of towels and laid them on the coffee table.

"So no fatalities this time?" he said to the phone.

John huffed in relief and started to carefully remove the girl's coat and the shoulder holster. So, he hadn't kill the man on the roof. That was good. Although, he deserved what he got, nearly shooting Sherlock and actually hitting the girl who was now bleeding under his hands. John heard Lestrade's low voice mumbling on the phone.

"All shots to the thigh, yes, sounds familiar. What? The one on the rooftop was shot to the shoulder? Oh, okay. But he'll survive, too. It makes five for the hospital, then. No, I don't need to come there, I already know all I have to know. Yes, yes, I'll call you tomorrow."

Sherlock ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He eyed John.

"Some day I'll get in big troubles with all this shooting", John said quietly.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Not as long as you keep Lestrade in dark about your gun."

John managed to get off the girl's coat and the shoulder holster, but her shirt was too tight to remove easily.

"Scissors, please."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and grinned. John had turned Doctor Watson now and he had no choice but to obey. He did it willingly, however, as he found it fascinating to observe John performing medical operations. He passed the scissors and John cut off the left sleeve and some of the upper part of the shirt.

"So, are you going to tell Lestrade about her?" John asked. He took a towel, dunked it in the bowl of cooling water and twisted.

"Not yet..." Sherlock said, slowly. "I need more information."

John started to wipe blood off her arm. His moves were gentle and smooth. Then there was a sudden stop and a quick breath.

"Jesus Christ..."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked and stepped closer.

"Look at her arm... It's... full of scars!"

"Cutter?"

"You mean self-harming? No, I don't think so. At least not all of these. There are some old burns and something like... bite marks?"

"She is a fighter of some kind," Sherlock said quietly. "I suppose one would get wounded in those situations." He had a certain tone in his voice and John glanced at him. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and John snorted.

"Don't start again! And besides, I'm not -"

The girl groaned suddenly and opened her eyes. She stared wildly around and tried to sit up. John pushed her gently but firmly back, and made a hush noise.

"Don't worry. You're safe now. I'm a doctor. I'll help you."

She turned her eyes to him and, the fear vanished, as she recognized the man in front of him. She smiled tiredly and lay down again. Sherlock wondered how many times John had repeated those words back there, in Afganistan, and after that, here in London. What he had just said sounded more like a magic spell than just a list of commonplace words. It was because of that special intonation he used. The art of calming, Sherlock thought, rather proudly.

After John had finished cleaning the area around it, he began to stitch the entrance wound. The girl winced and turned her face away. She stared at Sherlock with cloudy eyes. She studied him from top to toe, his curly, ebony hair and slim body, his elegant, restless fingers and long legs, even his black leather shoes. She didn't seem to know, or to care, that too much staring is considered rude behavior.

Sherlock felt a bit uneasy. As if he had been x-rayed.

Then, finally, she raised her gaze and, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt another human being really looking into his eyes, not just there on the surface. Her blue stare drilled into his head and mind, as she walked right into the captivating night in his eyes, without a moments hesitation. She quivered. Her pale lips parted slightly, as she lost herself into that enigmatic, unpredictable, dangerous night. It wasn't a dark night, but awake and cold and silent, like a lonely wolf guarding in the mountains, under the bright, full moon. Not howling, but staying still and observing the quiet wilderness beneath.

In return, she let him come through, too, and Sherlock felt like he had suddenly stepped into a dark, heavy dusk, full of amorphous shadows. To a place with solid ground but straying steps and a lot of silence, desolation and pain, yet something golden and miraculous, dawning from nowhere. Then she blinked and the unique moment was gone. She closed her eyes tiredly and turned her face back to John.

Sherlock shook his shoulders and sensed, vaguely, that something priceless had just slipped from his hands. He pondered what she had seen inside him, and what she might think about it. Yet he wasn't sure if he really wanted to know.

Meantime, John had completed his job but he still had the other wound to deal with. He asked if she could turn onto her side. She looked startled and her eyes narrowed. She gritted her teeth and seemed to think something unpleasant. Finally she turned slowly onto her right side.

"Good, that's - better..."

John cut his words, just for an instant, but Sherlock noticed it and so did she. She stiffened and bit her lower lip. There was a strange look on her face, something Sherlock couldn't define. Was it sorrow or defiance or shame? Sherlock looked at her but she refused to meet his eyes. Her face turned stony.

John continued his work in silence that steadily filled up the room, like water rising in a pool. Finally, he was ready. He glanced at Sherlock and broke the suffocating silence.

"There's a small first aid kit in my drawer. Could you bring it down? I forgot the clips."

Sherlock nodded and headed upstairs and John began to bandage.

When Sherlock came down again, John was already finishing his job. Sherlock glanced at his skilful hands and nearly dropped the first aid kit. The girl's upper back was striped with long welts and deep scars, some of them old and white, some still red and healing. Sherlock had seen that kind of welts and wounds before. Actually he had made such. With his riding crop. He passed the first aid kit to John and their eyes locked for a moment. Sherlock saw a hopeless anger and pity in John's dark eyes and he felt a sudden tightening in his chest. He didn't like to see John suffer. And seeing a girl, or anybody, treated like that was a complete misery for John.

Sherlock wandered to the window and stared down at the quiet street. There was something extraordinary about this girl. Something that provoked many questions and yet answers so few.

He heard John asking:

"What's your name, by the way?"

There was a moment of hesitation and then a quiet answer:

"You can call me Angel."