John and Sherlock arrived at the address that had been given to them in the letter. It was largely intact abandoned glass factory perched on the edge of a lake in an estate just outside of London. A distant rumble of thunder echoed and John hunched his shoulders, pulling up his collar. "I knew we should have brought an umbrella," he mumbled. Sherlock was already moving towards the main doors of the Factory. John caught up with him as they reached the short set of stone stairs just in front of the entrance. One of the two doors appeared have been jammed open slightly, a rusted padlock and chain lay in a heap in front of the other one. John took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock, "Well, should we knock?" Sherlock seemed to contemplate the idea for a second, "No, we were invited after all." He slowly pushed the door open, and behind it was a very large room that mostly empty except for a few long abandoned pieces of machinery. The only light came from the grimy windows that lined the top of the walls. On the left hand wall, there was a narrow staircase that lead up about a story to walkway with a row of door connected to it. "Well where do we look first?" John asked. Sherlock scanned the floor. "Up the stair. The Dust patterns show they were recently used." They moved swiftly across the factory floor, John trailed behind Sherlock. As Sherlock placed his foot of the first stair, it let out a loud creak. The sound echoed through the empty room. "I am sure our host know we have arrived now," Sherlock said with a hint of humor in his voice. When Sherlock reached the top of the stairs, he stopped. John looked confused but when he came to Sherlock's side, he saw why his friend had stopped. A young woman, probably in her mid-teens, stood about ten paces away with a gun in her hand. The gun was lowered at her side, but she stood in such a way that she could flee or charge at any second. There was a long tense silence, no one moved. John realized he had even forgotten to breath. At last Sherlock broke it. "Hello, We're here to see Mr. Aryd," he said simply, still not moving. The girl remained tense and asked, "Are you Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson?" "Yes we are, what is your name?" Sherlock responded. "Susan Aryd, I am his daughter." "We were invited here by your father." "Yes I know, but he's very sick right now. I am here to explain things for him." John cleared his throat, "You know I… I'm a doctor, I could help if you'd like." Susan glanced from John to Sherlock and then back again, "Alright, both of you should follow me." She hesitantly turned her back and moved down the walkway, gripping the gun a bit tighter. She stopped at the last door and turned around. "He is in there," She said, still no emotion entered her voice. John cautiously opened the door, and headed in side. Sherlock turned as if to follow him but Susan reach out and touched his arm. "No, I need to talk to you." John had knelt down next to a couch where a heavily breathing middle aged man sat, John glanced nervously up at Sherlock who was quickly analyzing the girl. She seemed to be no major threat, her deep blue eyes were dilated in fear that she was clearly trying to hide. The girl dropped her arm and said, "Should we go to the other office?" Sherlock shrugged carefully and said, "I have no preference." The girl sighed and bit her lip. "Ok." She took a few steps down the hall and opened a door. She held it open, and gestured Sherlock inside. "Sit in either of the chairs," She said quietly. Sherlock entered the room, noting every detail of it. There was a desk shoved against a wall with a pile of blankets on top of it, clearly it was intended to be some sort of bed but it had not been used in awhile. In the back of the room there was a large window, in front of it were two mix matched chairs with a small table between them. To the right of it there was a small propane stove. Judging the distance to the door and the amount of visibility, Sherlock chose the chair to the left of the table. Susan shut the door and walked slowly across the room. She sat in the other chair, set her gun on the ground beside her and nervously chuckled. "I would offer you some tea but I'm afraid we're all out." She said, glancing around the room. Sherlock didn't say anything. Susan took a deep breath, and said, "Well you're probably wondering why I insisted on talking to you…" Sherlock nodded slightly and said, "I assume it had something to do with the murders your father is accused of committing." "Yes… But first let me say, you probably won't believe what I tell you… I still feel I need to tell you it, though." "Alright," Sherlock said, his expression did not change. "I'll start… as close to the beginning as I can…" She took another deep breath. "My father and I are a lot like. I never really understood how, but I knew we were. When I was young, I always preferred to be alone, because when I was around people… I never felt… myself, I knew I would just start to feel the way they did. I would meet people and I'd feel… instantly connected to them in a way I couldn't explain or control. My father had always been so distant from my mother, and I never understood why because I knew how much he loved her. One day, when I was about 12, they had a particularly nasty fight. She left the house, and it was just my dad and I at dinner that night. It was then that he explained. He told me he had seen the way I acted around others and that he felt the same way. He said that I was an empath, someone that was highly connected to the emotions of others. My father then began to tell me about his own past. He said… he couldn't explain it… but death seemed to follow him. He had always thought it had something to do with being an empath... Whenever he got close to someone, they would always die. Sometimes he wouldn't even have to be close to them. As of today he's been present at 34 deaths, most of them random strangers on the street. He said it all started when he was 15, my age." She stopped for a second to take a shaky deep breath. "After that night we talked, my dad… gave up… he started giving her all the time she asked for… She was happy but strangely bewildered… One evening my mom called my dad to let him know she was going out with a few friends… There was something both my dad and I felt… a sense of strange foreboding. That night I asked him if I could stay awake late despite it being a school night. He agreed. I believe the television was on but neither of us were watching it. We just stared at the wall…At exactly eighteen minutes past eleven, a strange…. Realization washed over me… accompanied by a feeling of… I guess I'd call it acceptance. I glanced over at my dad and knew instantly that he had felt the same thing. About an hour later, the phone rang…neither of us had to answer it… we already knew who it was… what they would say. My mother had died in a car crash. It was exactly what my dad had feared. I just… that moment made me realize how powerful out empathy was." Susan seemed to choke back tears that were welling in her throat and she changed the subject slightly, "He didn't know any of those people that died last month. He was just there. He wanted to… to help them…he needed to help them because he was there, because he thought it was his fault. He blamed himself." Susan paused for a second, stammering slightly. "I just… I had to tell you all that because… I want you to understand, even if he wanted to, I don't think it would be possible for my father to kill anyone…I don't know if it's a matter of bad luck, coincidence, or being an empath as he says…. But it's not his fault Mr. Holmes. He doesn't want this to happen." There was a silence then, that filled the room. Susan could not meet Sherlock's eyes. Once again, Sherlock broke the silence, "I will not turn your father in to the police." Susan let out a tremendous sigh of relief, her whole body seemed to relax. Sherlock stood up and peered out the window, "but not because of your story." He turned around and looked her in the eyes, "because there is no evidence to suggest that your father is guilty. The circumstances are clearly a set of coincidences. I reached this conclusion prior, but now my suspicion has been confirmed." Susan was still beginning to grin, a few tears of joy slipped from her eyes. "Still Mr. Holmes, I am… so incredibly grateful…Thank you…Thank you so much," she stammered. Sherlock externally brushed it off by walking towards the door, saying, "Excuse me, I must speak with John now. " However Susan could tell that somewhere, he appreciated her gratitude, even if he'd never say it.
Susan, John and Sherlock stood at the doorway of the factory. The clouds had begun to clear, and the sun was poking through. "You need to find some antibiotics, I believe he has a bad case of Pneumonia," John said to Susan, "He will probably live, though, don't worry. Just make sure he stays hydrated, and gets enough rest." Susan nodded in understanding, "I'll do my best Mr. Watson, thank you." "You're welcome. I wish you two luck," John smiled slightly. Sherlock, who seemed rather uncomfortable only nodded and then turned to walk towards the cab that was waiting for them. John jogged to catch up with him, he tried to meet Sherlock's eyes that seemed to be staring off into the distances, "I talked with him a bit… you made the right choice, Sherlock." Sherlock turned his head and said, "Of course. I always make the right choice." John shook his head, sighed and said, "Of course you do Sherlock, of course you do."
As they got in the cab John noted, "We need to figure out what we are going to tell Lestrade." Sherlock said, "We'll tell him the truth." "How much of the truth though?" "Simply our conclusion, if he wishes to press further he can launch his own investigation." There was a brief silence before John turned to Sherlock, "So does this changed your perspective on luck?" "No, why would it?"