Loud sirens blare as a fleet of squad cars come speeding down the dark streets. They race towards the address registered to the suspect, Andrew Wilcox. As they pull up to the home, fire trucks are already parked outside, having finished extinguishing flames. The police file out of their cars to help set up barricades to prevent public interference before storming up to a small scorched townhouse. Sherlock jumps out of a taxi with John at his heels, and has to be held back from entering by Lestrade.
"We have to make sure the perimeter is secure first, Sherlock! The place just went up in flames and we don't know how bad it is yet." Officers armed with guns kick down the front door at his words and barge into the house. It's only a few minutes until one pokes his head out and gives Lestrade a thumbs up for 'all clear.' Sherlock enters the house, with John at his side, and covers his mouth with a handkerchief because of all the smoke and ash. He wonders through each room, taking notes of the painfully obvious things first. The slightly charred and sporadic pattern of burns shows that whoever started the fire did a poor job at trying to erase evidence. The place is in utter disarray. The furniture is either tipped over or moved from its original place, the curtains have holes in them, the carpet is old and worn, the kitchen floor tiles are filthy, and everything has a thin layer of soot and dust on it. They walk upstairs to find the bedroom in an even worse state. A burst of flames couldn't have torn everything apart.
"Someone was looking for something" Sherlock mutters.
"Maybe it was this" John calls. The detective looks over his shoulder to find that his friend pointing out a small steel box underneath a pile of wood that used to be a dresser.
"Good eye, John. Now if only we had gloves and someone to dust for prints" He looked up and shouted. Grumbling could be heard as someone trudged up the stairs.
"Oh shut up, I'm coming!" said Anderson. The man stepped over debris and fished out the box to open it. "Its empty." Sherlock snatched it from his hands after a brief dusting showed no fingerprints. It was heavy with a broken lock on the side. He shook the box and a faint rattle could be heard.
"Or it has a false bottom." Sherlock smashed it against the wall, causing a few scraps of paper and some stray bullets to fall out.
"That's evidence you crack pot!" Anderson shouts. Sherlock pics up a piece of paper and examines it. The burn marks make it hard to understand but "It looks like a bunch of ticket stubs" Anderson finishes.
"For once, you're correct. But, do me a favor and stop speaking. I can't think. Now hurry up and bag this" Sherlock says. "Whatever was in that box besides a gun and ticket stubs, someone wanted to get rid of it. I need to find out who, and what!" He finishes as he makes his way to another part of the house. John and Sherlock make their way in and out of the other rooms, only to find nothing of importance, besides a computer which had its hard drive wiped (but nothing is ever really gone for good). When they get to the kitchen, a door grabs John's attention. It's hinges looked week and had four thick locks on the outside. He reached for the knob and ended up burning his hand.
"Really John, I thought you were smarter than that" Sherlock smirks as he walks over to him and kicks the door down, sending splinters everywhere. There's a flight of creaky stairs that lead down towards the basement. As Sherlock carefully makes his way down them the scent of smoldering flesh hits his nose. When he reaches the bottom, it's clear this is where the fire started because of the large blackened spot that covered a far corner of the room. "This is where he kept her" he muttered.
The filthy mattress against the wall and the pile of burnt clothes smelled of an accelerant, paint thinner.
"Lestrade!" he bellowed. The DI rushed down the stairs and gave Sherlock a quizzical look.
"What did you find?"
"Wilcox isn't the one who started the fire. Whoever did this was looking for something he had and wanted to erase any trace of it. They're an amateur, no doubt; an accomplice, maybe. We need to find his body."
"Its over here." Sherlock, John, and Lestrade's heads turned to sound of Beia's voice coming from behind a curtain. Pushing it aside, John revealed the body of Andrew Wilcox, resting in a reclining chair with a phone in one hand, and a gun in the other, in front of a television. His eyes have rolled to the back of his head and his body is covered in third degree burns. There's also a box of tapes under the TV (was he watching them in the fire). Beia stood to the side with a louring glare in her eyes as she stared down at him. John can't help but wonder what she's thinking. To see her captor reduced to nothing but a corpse, is it upsetting that he wont face justice, is it unbelievable, or a relief? Sherlock lightly grabs her arm, and the gentleness in his touch doesn't go unnoticed.
"You shouldn't be here" he says. Beia opens her mouth to speak but shrieks instead when a fleshy hand grips her wrist. Wilcox's crust covered eyes shoot open and move to her face.
"You..." he rasps. She tries desperately to pull away and runs off once she's free. Wilcox's ragged breathing echos through the basement. He's alive.
Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs as Lestrade calls for a paramedic. With everything in the house burnt to a crisp, Sherlock explains what he's deduced so far. "I haven't got the patience for this tonight. There isn't much here, but have someone try to salvage what they can of the computer, the video tapes, and find out who called him last. From what I do have, Andrew Wilcox is a not the brains behind Beia's abduction. Whoever helped him was aware he let her go and came to cover up their connections with this ordeal."
"That's it?" Anderson asked from the stairs. "Usually you have more."
"Oh don't try to patronize me, Anderson. It won't work. I'll have more tomorrow once I look over the old case file, but for now, I shall retire." Sherlock pushed past him as he jogged up the stairs. "Come along, John."
Outside of the house, Beia sat on the stairs, frozen in fear. Sherlock leaned down beside and spoke softly.
"Come on, dear. Its time to get you home." She looks up at him and takes the hand he's offered. Sherlock hails a cab and ushers her inside before getting in himself, followed by John. The ride to Baker Street is long, quiet, and awkward. Its past 11 when they arrive. Sherlock guides Beia up the stairs and into the flat.
John watches them they get settled. Sherlock urging her to take another shower and sleep in his bedroom, rather than on the couch. She reluctantly agrees and trudges up the stairs.
John wonders what it will be like living with the two of them (and for how long?).
Sorry for the long hiatus. I had high school graduation and some other junk pile up, so here. Updates will be slow.