Chapter Two, in Which Love is a Battlefield

Josephine Conners hummed along to a song on the radio as she scrubbed a baking sheet. She loved biscuit day. She loved baking, but especially biscuits. Not cooking. Cooking was unpleasant, but baking was lovely. Finishing the pan, she rinsed it and put in in the draining rack, brushing a piece of auburn hair out of her olive colored eyes with her arm. As she did, the corner of a pale cream-colored envelope in the pile of mail caught her eye. Hmmm. Looks like an invitation, maybe? Curious, she dried off her hands and opened the letter. Inside was a single piece of paper the same color as the envelope, and on it, typed in a curly font, was the following:

Ian has a secret.

Sarah Jane as well.

I'll keep her as insurance

Don't worry, I won't tell.

A.C.

She read through it once, confused. As she reread it, she began to tense involuntarily. An uneasy feeling bloomed in the pit of her stomach and turned the paper over. On the back, simple instructions:

I'll call with instructions.

When I say "I", I of course mean one of my employees.

Take care.

She began to shake a bit, and grabbed her phone. Probably just a stupid prank. Wasn't the news always full of stupid stuff like this? Still…better to be safe, and all that. She dialed Sarah's school number, a public school a few blocks from their flat. "Hello, Prior Weston Primary. How may I help you?"

Jo breathed for a minute, and then answered. "Mrs. Bertram? Yes, thank you. It's Jo Conners, Sarah Jane's sister."

"Oh, yes, dear, how can I help you?"

"Um…is…is Sarah all right? No one…I mean…nothing has happened today, has it?"

"Well, I did hear Mr. Matthews telling Headmistress Jameson that she corrected him again in mathematics today, but other than that, no…is everything all right?"

"Yes, um…just…I'm coming to pick her up today, okay? Don't…don't let anyone else pick her up today. Just me."

"Well, of course. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes. Fine, thanks. I'll see you later this afternoon."

"Wonderful, have a good day Ms. Conners."

After they had said good-bye and hung up, Jo wrung her hands for a few moments, then grabbed her bag with her keys and phone. She was putting her coat on and trying to dial her older brother's contact number when she received a text from an unlisted number.

Warily, she opened it and licked her lips nervously.

You'll receive the call in 1 minute. Do not leave your flat until then. Answer, or someone will die.

Jo snorted nervously. Someone? How vaguely ominous. How does this person know I'm still in my flat? What is going on? What secret? Does this have something to do with Mum and Dad? The minute ticked by as she shakily pulled on her gloves and hat.

Her phone rang, and she stared at the unlisted ID before swallowing thickly and answering. "H-Hello?" she said hesitantly.

"Josephine Conners. Thank you for answering." The neutral deep voice on the end assured her that if she did as instructed, all would be fine. She was to go check Sarah Jane out of school early and then go to Postman's Park, where further instructions would be related.

"Wait – what? Why – why should I listen to you? I don't even know what this is about. Who are you?"

"My employer wishes to remain anonymous at the time, although he generously signed his initials on your first greeting." Greeting? Seriously? "In order to assure you that we are serious, we would like to remind you that Roses are red and your parents are dead." He said the last few words with a sick kind of glee, and Jo's blood turned to ice in her veins. Those words – those stupid children's rhyme words - were on a greeting card that was found on her mother at the time of her parent's death, along with a rather nasty alternate version of the rest of the poem.

"Wha-?" She breathed, finally.

"You've received your instructions. No police, or we'll just take your sister from the school. As you can see, we've got access to your phone, and will be monitoring any calls you make. We'll also be watching you, so no payphones, duckie. Hold it together. You'll need a clear mind. We'll see you at the park in an hour. He's being quite generous. You've got time to ask your neighbor to watch Lucy. You'll be gone a while."

"Luc-?" But she was cut off. The caller had hung up. She stared at the phone for a minute, and then shivering, called for their cat, Lucy. In a daze, she knocked on her neighbor, Mrs. Lestrade's door, gave her their cat, and began to whiz through a plan in her mind.

She had an hour, and it only took 15 minutes to walk to the school. She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking, and a name flashed into her mind. Molly Hooper. Greg Lestrade. St. Bart's. Time to go.

Molly was finishing paperwork on a deceased Mrs. Bernice Gingham, 78, and Sherlock was studying wax and hair samples under a microscope. John was leafing through a book of eyebrow sketches at Sherlock's request (more like demand), trying to remember the exact shape of a woman's eyebrow who'd fled the scene of a murder two days earlier.

Suddenly, a young woman burst through the double steel doors, clutching her left arm, extremely pale. "Molly you need to call Inspector Lestrade I need help."

Molly looked up, surprise and concern etched across her face. "Wha-who?"

"It's Josephine Conners. I watched your flat a while back, fed Toby. Please call Greg." Her words were fast and she was shaking like a leaf. John looked up, concerned.

Sherlock looked up as well. He'd been bored, and he was a bit on edge lately because his 'sentiment experiment' observations were not going as planned. It turns out, acts of love are more spontaneous and not always conveniently or easily observed.

With a neutral expression and clear gray-green eyes, he studied the young woman in front of him. 5'5". Not thin, not overweight. Normal. Female, 22 years old. Shoulder length auburn hair, olive green eyes. Pet cat, tabby, judging by the hairs on her coat. One older brother, one younger sister. The creases in her pants mean someone in military taught her to fold. Male, and not a father, older brother. Older brother in the military, but not in combat. Technology, or intelligence, maybe? Boring. Clothes and earrings cheap, baked biscuits earlier, not at school but has evening job, she has to earn money and take care of a younger sibling, so parents are gone, probably dead. Common. Plays piano and guitar. Plays piano well, the nearly permanent indentations of her fingertips mean she practices properly and a lot. Does not play guitar well, just learning, teaching herself, because she's holding it wrong and no one's corrected her. Ordinary. Her left forearm, maybe wrist, is sprained or broken, but she came to see Molly, despite being in a hospital. Obviously in pain, but not seeking treatment, and…hmmm. It appears she's hurt it on purpose. Interesting. He sat up and listened, forgetting the slides in front of him. He'd narrowed it down to two salons anyway, and this eyebrow murder case was practically solved.

"Yes, of course, but – what's wrong?" Molly asked as she began to text Lestrade. "Your arm – is it - broken?"

"Yes, well, sprained at least, but I did that on purpose," she dismissed urgently. "Please, he needs to get here as soon as possible. Please – please…" she looked at the ceiling, as though praying.

"On purpose?!" Molly and John both stared at her aghast.

"Yes, please." She waited anxiously, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she waited for a reply from Molly.

"He'll be here in 10 minutes tops. I remember you now, Jo. Your sister is Sarah Jane? Tell us what's wrong." Molly asked, setting her papers aside.

John walked up to her. "Er…right. John Watson, doctor…mind if I take a look at that?"

"Oh…yeah, sure. That's…that's good. Good that. Thanks." She gingerly held her arm out. "Watson? So…" her eyes scanned the room, and lit on Sherlock. "You're Sherlock Holmes." She sounded…relieved?

A smile flashed on his face, and as he stood up to take a better look at her, he rubbed his palms together vigorously. "This is at least an 8, John. About time. Tell me, Jo, your plan for saving your sister."

She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head and nodded. "Um…yeah. Right. Deductions. Okay."

She explained about the card, the call, the instructions, the possible relation to her parent's death. Sherlock filed separate facts away in his head – relevant to case, and relevant to sentiment. He could review the actions of the girl in front of him and their relation to love later.

Jo was still explaining. "He said no police, but I know Greg, I'm scared…I can't…I mean, it would be stupid to just do as they say…my brother's in Iraq and I can't…we don't have anyone else. Greg's our neighbor, and he's nice, and…they're monitoring my phone. I couldn't call him myself – he's police. I know you're friends, Molly, and I was praying you worked today…I…well…St. Bart's is on my way to Sarah's school…luckily. My plan was to pretend to fall and hurt myself right outside…and be forced inside by a bystander…I fell the first time but I wasn't seriously hurt enough, and they're watching me…so I…kind of…rolled into the street and got hit by a moped. On purpose. I've broken my wrist before and knew it might break again so I tried to land on it hard and it worked. The driver insisted I come in and when I did I found you. It took some…sneaking…but…oh!"

Greg came in and stared at Jo, whose (luckily, just sprained) arm was being wrapped by John. "What on earth is this then?" He eyeballed the group, suspicion on his face.

It took five minutes to convince him that it was a legitimate emergency.

It took fifteen to form a plan.

It took ten to reach the school, and five to get Sarah out.

Once out, they were escorted into Lestrade's police vehicle.

Everything went off without a hitch.

Until it didn't.

They were on their way back to Scotland Yard, and an emergency call came in. A mugging. Lestrade was closest. He cursed under his breath, and apologized to the two sisters sitting in the backseat. It would only take a moment, and John was sitting in the back with them, so they'd be fine.

And that's when the hitch happened. Sherlock knew when they arrived something was wrong. The mugger and victim were frozen, as though waiting for an audience. The mugger was yelling, of course, but as soon as Lestrade got out of the car, the victim pulled his own very dangerous looking gun out from under his person, and the two of them opened fire.

Apparently, they were surrounded, as more shots hit the back of the car.

Curses and shrieks filled the car for the span of three seconds, after which John managed to get the girls down, and pull out his own revolver. He almost gagged in horror at the sight of red splattered across the driver's side window – had Lestrade been hit?

And there, in the front passenger seat, was Sherlock, sitting perfectly calm, and smirking. Smirking.

"Sherlock, get down!" hissed John. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Paintballs." Sherlock replied, amused.

"Paintballs?!" John said incredulously.

He turned, and indeed, the red dripping down the driver's side and rear windows was not blood, but red paint.

At this, the girls popped up from their cramped positions on the floor of the car.

Sarah Jane smoothed her blouse and smirked herself.

"Josephine," she said sweetly. "What exactly did the note and phone call say? Tell me the exact words."

Josephine sat for a moment, thinking. A look of confusion and worry was soon replaced with a look of absolute fury. "He didn't." She muttered. "He wouldn't."

Jo turned to look at Sarah, and in tandem, they agreed: "He did."

Josephine was out of the car before John could stop her, and Sherlock finished a text before joining everyone outside the car.

It had obviously been…well…honestly, a prank trap? A trap prank? They were indeed surrounded by five very fit, very well-protected men, in an alley out of sight of the public eye. They were all wearing vests and masks and cargo pants, and were all holding paintball guns fixed to look like real weapons, and they were all grinning at the odd mix of people in the center of the group.

One of the men stepped forward, and pulled off his mask, and grinned all the wider. "D'ya miss me, girls?"

Their reactions were…interesting.

Sarah Jane was a peculiar child. The three men had recognized that at her 'rescue'. She was tiny for a seven-year-old. Her skin was a very pale ivory, and her cheeks were faintly pink, like they'd been painted on a china doll. She wore a business suit, and the hair that fell in soft waves to her mid-waist was exactly the color of summer corn silk. She had green eyes that were similar to Jo's, but they were a bit clearer and much, much colder. She eyed the man with distaste as she smoothed the wrinkles in her dark gray suit.

"What's this about, then?" She asked matter-of-factly, turning so that the three of them – man, Jo, and schoolgirl were in a sort of triangle formation.

"What – what's all this about, then?!" Lestrade sputtered angrily. "You'd better bloody tell me what all this is about then! First, Josephine sprains her arm to get word to me through Molly Hooper that - "

"You sprained your arm?" The grin on the man's face faltered just a bit as he took in Josephine, who was standing with her arms crossed, a look of suppressed rage on her face.

" – her sister's going to be kidnapped by the same people who killed her parents - "

"What else was I supposed to do, Ian? You threatened Sarah with the same message on Mom's card."

"You told him I was going to kidnap Sarah?"

" – and after we save her, we're redirected to a mugging in progress which turns out to be a trap - "

"You used Mom's message?" Sarah Jane raised her eyebrows the man named Ian, showing mild surprise. "That's a bit low, even for you, Ian."

"- which is actually just a bit of fun with bloody paintball guns!"

"Explain yourself!" Three voices addressed Ian – two female, one irate, middle-aged Scotland Yardsman.

His grin returned full force. "You mean you don't recognize me, Greg?"

The inspector's face glowed with anger, before recognition sat in. "Ian? Ian Christopher Conners?"

Josephine muttered angrily, to no one in particular. "A.C. – Agent Conners. I. am. an. idiot."

"But a very brave, very protective idiot," Sarah Jane said generously. At least, you could tell she thought she was being generous.

Jo pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. "I'm going to kill both of you."

"And you may get away with it, after that show." A new voice, soft and almost jovial, interrupted the chaos.

"Mycroft." Sherlock nodded to his brother.

"Sherlock." Mycroft returned the acknowledgment. "Always getting yourself into my business, aren't you."

"Only when you drop it in my lap," he replied cheerfully.

"Hmm." Mycroft turned, sighing noncommittally. "And I suppose you thought you were being funny, Agent Conners."

"Brilliant, actually." The young man flashed his superior a smug grin. "Got to test out these new guns. The paintball function works perfectly." He spun a small knob on the base of the gun, and turned to fire at a trashcan. He silently plugged five holes into it, all right after the other, in a perfect circle. Those holes were certainly not caused by paintballs.

"This mess is coming out of your paycheck." Mycroft replied casually.

"Of course, sir." Ian spun the knob back to "paintball" setting, ignoring the protesting of the brunette girl in front of him. "It was perfectly safe, Jujubee. I'd never put my baby sisters in danger. Not unless they want to be, of course." He winked at Sarah Jane, who offered him a thin-lipped smile in return.

"I really didn't expect you to call in reinforcements, Jo. Sorry 'bout that." He didn't look sorry at all.

Josephine shook her head. "It's not the first time you've indirectly caused me to injure myself."

"And I'm sure it won't be the last," Sarah sniffed.

"So…I guess I forgive you." Josephine offered her brother a small smile, but it was genuine. She opened her arms. "Welcome home."

As Sherlock observed the events unfolding in front of him, he cataloged several possibly important pieces of information on the subject of love and sentiment:

1. Love made you do illogical things, such as attempting to break your own arm to save your sister. He already knew this, of course, having jumped off a roof to save his own friends, but Josephine's example proved that not only sociopaths did this.

2. Love made you forgive others their shortcomings. Ian and Sarah were obviously much, much more clever than Josephine, who mistook Ian's note as a threat (although, without insider knowledge, Sherlock had to admit that it had sounded like a threat to him, too). However, they did not attempt to humiliate her about it. Oh, and Josephine forgave Ian quickly for his own rather ill-humored attempt at a reunion.

3. The undercurrents of emotion among these three siblings was very strong, and reminded him of his own tenuous relationship with his brother. This last piece of information confirmed that without a doubt - where family was concerned – love is a battlefield.