Sherlock saw her eyes flash with objection at the term 'helpless' but it was replaced with interest when Sherlock continued.
"From what I've gathered, you are mid-twenties and not originally from London, judging by you fading tan. You've been in a type of bondage; the branding on your shoulder suggest that someone thinks they own you. It obviously wasn't pleasant, leaving you scarred physically and emotionally.
You were held somewhere enclosed explaining your fascination with the sunlight. You haven't seen it for a long while. Your lack of speech makes me believe you were alone in your confinement and haven't spoken a word for quite some time.
The people involved were male. The way you shy away from both John and myself is unconscious, your mind unwilling to trust men. So not only physically abused, but perhaps sexually, too. You retreat into yourself whenever you catch John looking at you. Even though you are completely clothed, you act as if you are exposed. There is a small scar on your upper arm, different than the others. My guess is that it's a new form of contraceptive, much easier than the pill, so someone wanted to make sure you didn't get pregnant." Sherlock paused, gauging Odella's reactions to his deductions. When she continued to stare at him, he went on.
"When you arrived, you were covered in blood. So much so, that the owner of it is most likely dead. So far, you have shown no remorse. Either you're in shock or you generally don't care. Most likely shock, seeing as you have yet to react to the fact that I've blatantly told you that you have been abused. Now that you have been removed from that, I expect you to have some form of breakdown in the next few days, once you realize the seriousness of the situation. Also, you will likely experience withdrawals from whatever drug you have been regularly given. Luckily, John is an adequate doctor and can help you through it.
Now, to make my intentions perfectly clear; I find your scenario interesting. I plan on finding out as much as I can about your past. Not for your sake, mind you, but because I like puzzles, and you, my dear, are puzzling.
What I ask of you is that you do not touch any of my experiments, stay out of my way, and do not bore me. Don't expect me to bother being gentle. I'm not here to coddle you, I'm here to unravel you. John is the caring one." Odella met Sherlock's intense gaze, indifferent of his intentions. Plucking at the hem of her shirt, she cocked her head just a bit, and studied the man sitting across from her.
"Hmm. You're relatively clever, too. I know that and you know that, but I assume you don't want this to become common knowledge. So John doesn't need to know just yet. I'll warn you though, he will tip-toe around you until he realizes you're not going to go on a murdering spree at any moment. Once that happens, you'll have to learn how to say no to the infinite mugs of tea he will insist on forcing upon you." Sherlock's lips turned up in a fond smile.
Standing abruptly, he yanked on his coat and wound his navy blue scarf around his neck. He wanted to check the missing persons list at the station. Even though he doubted he would find anything, there was always a chance he could be proven wrong. A very, very slim chance, but a chance no less.
Turning back to Odella, he pursed his lips. "I shouldn't be gone long. Feel free to watch telly or whatever normal people do. If you need something, our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, is downstairs and can be trusted. Don't touch anything of mine." And with that, Sherlock whipped out of the flat with his coat billowing behind him.
Odella sat there for a while before her curiosity got the better her.
Walking into the kitchen, she was greeted with a dozen unfinished experiments scattered on the counter tops and table. Notebooks, test tubes and the occasional unknown item seemed to cover any and all available space.
Returning to the living room, Odella approached the overflowing book shelf. She read a few titles and stared at others she couldn't begin to pronounce or appeared to be in a foreign language.
So far, most of the flat looked as if it belonged to Sherlock. It was then, she spotted a brown armchair that actually had a somewhat tidy perimeter. Stepping closer, Odella could see short blonde hairs catch the sun. Bills were organized on the table next to it and a mug full of pens was placed at the corner. Finally, some space that was clearly John's.
Turning away form the chair, Odella saw two doors. One of them, the closest, she knew was the bathroom but the other, she could only assume was Sherlock or John's room. Opening the door, she soon decided that the room was definitely Sherlock's:
The bed was unmade, books were strewn across the floor, and bits up paper were pinned to the wall. Most were held up by thumbtacks but a few were held in place by daggers, a fork, decorative letter opener, and...was that a high heeled shoe?
Observations, notes and thoughts were scrawled, not only on the paper, but also on the wall itself. Behind the door hung the Periodic Table with the same, almost unreadable handwriting crowing the space around the elements.
A dark cherry wardrobe held tasteful clothing, mostly in black but with the occasional dark purple or navy blue article of silk peeking out.
But if this was Sherlock's room, then where was John's? Odella highly doubted they shared judging by the pure Sherlock-eness of the place. Thinking about last night, she remembered that after locking herself in the bathroom. Sherlock insisted John go to bed. Closing her eyes, Odella thought about where John's footsteps took him. Upstairs.
Stepping cautiously out of the flat, she climbed the stairs. Passing above a door, she could hear the sounds of a television through the floor below her. Odella figured that this was Mrs. Hudson's flat. She walked slowly as to not give herself away and continued up the steps.
Opening the door, Odella stepped in, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Sunlight shone through the only window and provided enough light for her to look around. A double sized bed was placed against the wall with a small nightstand next to it. The bed sheets and covers were pulled tight around the corner of the mattress so tight, that there left no room for wrinkles.
Pulling open the bedside table drawer, Odella's gaze was immediately drawn to a black gun that took up most of the drawer. Ignoring the weapon, her eyes moved to a prescription bottle shoved to the very back of the drawer. Picking up the bottle, Odella angled the label to the sunlight. JOHN HAMISH WATSON - TAKE 1 TABLET AT BEDTIME FOR PAIN Underneath that was the name of the prescription. Why was John in pain?
Moving to the dresser, Odella tugged the drawers open. Socks, underwear, khakis, jeans, sweatpants, t-shirts like the one she was wearing, and cable knit sweaters took up the top four drawers. Opening the last drawer, she was confused at what she saw at first. Inside was a set of fatigues that had seen action. So John was in the military. Gingerly lifting up the sleeve, Odella saw a red cross sewed to the upper arm. Army doctor, then.
Pushing the drawer back in, she looked around and realized that the bed, nightstand, and dresser were all that the room contained. Now that she had seen the uniform, the way the bed was mad and the way John's shoes were lined up at the foot of the bed made sense. he was used to being orderly. Maybe the prescription of pain medication had something to do with John's tour.
Deciding that she had seen enough, Odella walked back tot he flat. Snuggling back up on the sofa, she drifted to sleep, questions about the two, very different men buzzing in her mind.
John looked at the clock hanging on the wall. It was a quarter 'til eleven, which meant he left Sherlock alone with a woman who has been traumatized almost three hours ago. So far, he's heard nothing from Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson so maybe there hasn't been a problem. Yet.
Picking up the phone, he hesitated for a moment before dialing Mrs. Hudson.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Hudson, it's John."
"Oh, hello dear."
"I just wanted to phone and see if there's been any...trouble from upstairs."
"No, I haven't heard anything since Sherlock left."
"Wait, Sherlock went out? By himself?"
"Yes. About an hour ago."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, John asked, "Did he say when he would be back?"
"No, just that he wouldn't be long."
Knowing that Sherlock's perception of time wasn't always accurate, John sighed. "Could you go up and check on Odella, then? I can't believe Sherlock just left her there." He should have never put Odella in Sherlock's care, even for a few hours.
"Of course, dear. I'm sure she's fine but I'll pop in for you."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Hanging up, John quickly sent a text to his flatmate.
Where the hell are you?!
Trying to convince Lestrade to give me the list of missing persons. Where else would I be? -SH
You should be at home. You can't just leave a potentially unstable stranger alone in our flat!
She is not unstable. At the moment, anyways. -SH
How could you possibly know? You're not even there! Oh, right, you're Sherlock bloody Holmes.
I refuse to tell you what I've discovered if you insist on being so childish -SH
I'm childish? Really? Who throws tantrums and pouts around the flat like a spoiled brat?
I do not pout -SH
John huffed and decided he wouldn't give Sherlock the satisfaction of responding.
Clearly, he didn't need a response; John's phone bleeped again, signaling another text from the detective. Staring at the screen for a moment, John finally gave in and read the text.
Call me -SH
John sighed and hit the dial button.
"It is safe to assume that you are capable of handling someone experiencing withdrawals, yes?" It took a second for John to realize that Sherlock had asked him a question, completely avoiding any type of greeting as usual.
"Yes. I ama doctor."
"Good. I recommend that you gather everything that is needed to make a person as comfortable as possible throughout the experience. I suspect it will start in the next few days and because of her less than desirable physical state, she might have a worse go of it."
"Wait, who are we talking about?"
Sherlock sighed. "Odella. Do keep up, John."
"Right. And you think she will come unglued from not having a fix in the near future?"
"What you call a 'fix' is her being starved and then, out of hunger, being forced to eat food that has been drugged. But to answer your question: yes, I think she will have a difficult time coping with what has and is happening to her."
John rubbed his forehead. This did not sound like fun. "So what did you find out?"
Odella opened her eyes to the sound of knocking
"Dear?"
She jerked off the couch, fear prickling at an unfamiliar voice. She quickly located her knife on the coffee table, but as soon as she looked at the person standing in the doorway, she knew she wouldn't need it.
The small woman walked in. She was a skinny little thing with hair that had once been auburn but now had gray streaks running throughout. Her eyes immediately softened when she saw Odella.
"Hello there. John wanted me to come up and check on you." She took in Odella's rumpled appearance and slightly wild look and her motherly instinct that never left her went into overdrive. "You just sit right down and let me fix you a cup of tea. Alright?"
Odella nodded and watched the tiny woman filler into the kitchen. Grabbing the fleece blanket she had thrown to the floor, she wrapped it around her shoulders and padded to the window.
The sky was somewhat cloudy but Odella could see sunlight reflecting off of car windows. Unlike earlier, the window was now slightly warm. Flattening her palm against the glass, Odella ached to feel the sun's warmth directly, not just through this hint of heat that lingered on the glass. Sighing, she knew she couldn't risk going outside in case someone recognized her.
She could hear the woman, who she guessed to be Mrs. Hudson, humming in the other room. The tune plucked at Odella's memory and images crowded together in her mind: a woman sweeping a small kitchen floor, a soft hand smoothing back her hair while saying a quiet goodnight, a bright smile and shining green eyes like her own, and finally, a closed-coffin funeral and the haunting purple color that marked her own body and that of the woman being lowered into the ground.
"Sweetheart?" Mrs. Hudson's concerned voice snapped Odella into the present and she realized she had been staring, petrified, at the kitchen.
Her mind and eyes seemed to be the only thing that was able to move and Mrs. Hudson had to gently guide her to the couch, wrapping Odella's shaking hands around a warm mug. "Drink."
Fighting the bubbling panic in her chest, Odella obeyed, trying to calm herself. Sherlock's deep voice echoed in her mind, '...I expect you to have some form of breakdown in the next few days...' reminding her just how unstable her mind may become. All she could think was Oh God, it's starting.
She became aware of Mrs. Hudson still by her side, rubbing light circles on her back, watching the distressed girl with concern. Odella breathed deeply a couple of times and finally offered the landlady a weak smile of gratitude.
"Alright, then?" When Odella nodded, Mrs. Hudson stood up. "Hungry?"
Odella felt herself blush as she thought of her breakfast hidden under the cushion she was sitting on and shook her head.
"Just as well. I doubt there is anything edible in the fridge anyways." The older woman set about tidying things around the room, not wanting to leave Odella alone just yet.
She was straightening the books on one of the bookshelves when the flat door opened and Sherlock breezed in, mobile pressed to his ear.
"Yes, yes. Mrs. Hudson is here and Odella is fine." His voice sounded irritated that he had to reassure the person he was talking to.
Unwinding his scarf, he rolled his eyes a the phone and finally managed to break away from the one-sided conversation with a swift goodbye while throwing his coat onto the back of his chair.
"Mrs. Hudson, thank you for checking on Odella. John was beside himself with worry." Sherlock's words were brisk as usual but Odella could pick up a trace of affection as he addressed the other lady.
Smiling, Mrs. Hudson waved her hand, dismissing the thanks.
Odella felt Sherlock's gaze move from his landlady to her and he hmmmed in interest, like he knew she had had her first 'episode'.
"Sherlock? Could I speak to you?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was careful but Odella knew she wanted to talk about her.
"Of course." Sherlock's intense eyes finally left Odella's face as he led Mrs. Hudson into the stairwell, closing the door behind him.
"You do realize that poor woman is..." Mrs. Hudson looked away, unsure of how to finish the sentence.
"Broken? Yes, of course I'm aware." Sherlock knew something must have happened for the landlady to come to that conclusion in a small amount of time.
Mrs. Hudson's uncertainty was replaced with pity, "I was bringing her a cup of tea when she completely shut down and I had to help her to the sofa. And her eyes; I don't know how anyone could look so empty and so full at the same time." She placed a hand ot her chest and her face was so openly sad, anyone could see she had already taken to Odella.
Sherlock wasn't interested in any of that, though. "Did you do something that triggered her actions? Did you yell, touch her, anything?" Mrs. Hudson looked surprised that Sherlock wasn't concerned about the effect, just the cause.
"No, I don't think so. I was just making tea in the kitchen. I was humming, but I don't see how that could-"
"What were you humming?" Sherlock was already steps ahead.
"I can't remember. I'm sure it was just nonsense." Mrs. Hudson floundered under Sherlock intense gaze.
"Are you sure? Without the proper elements, I won't be able to recreate what happened." He was watching her closely, trying to give her a mental shove towards remembering.
"Recreate? You want to make that child loose her mind?" The landlady's voice held disbelief, genuinely worried for Odella.
Waving off Mrs. Hudson's disapproval, Sherlock barely tried to hide the annoyance in his voice. "The sooner she remembers something, the sooner I can help her find her way home." Though Sherlock didn't particularly care where Odella went after he solved the mystery of her past, he deliberately played up to Mrs. Hudson's motherly side.
"Well, just be careful. She is a human being, after all." The older woman turned away and walked down to her own flat.
So everyone keeps reminding me.
Odella had heard them talking outside the flat but couldn't make out any words. The thought of moving closer to the door to eavesdrop crossed her mind but instead, she found herself back at the window.
Hearing the door open again, Odella looked over her shoulder. Sherlock looked a little surprised at finding her at the window when she could have been behind the door, listening to his and Mrs. Hudson's conversation.
Still watching him, Odella's eyes followed Sherlock's path to his chair where he practically threw himself in before returning to watching the midday traffic.
"In less than twenty-four hours, you've managed to unintentionally make your way into the affections of two people; Both Mrs. Hudson and John feel the need to protect you from me. They think that I can't be humane enough to actually help you. They're scared I might break you even more." Sherlock's voice softened, something he rarely did but knew it would weaken the cruelty of the truth in his next words. "But, there isn't much left to break is there?"
Odella's hand clenched around her mug. She could handle Sherlock's tone of distaste and disapproval but as soon as his voice lowered to something similar to pity, she felt her lower lip tremble. Fortunately, the anger she felt towards herself for getting teary eyed forced the wetness behind her eyes down her throat and out of sight.
From his chair, Sherlock could see Odella's shoulders tense and saw her hand grip her cup in anger in her reflection. Responds to unexpected kindness.
Absently running his thumb across his bottom lip in thought, he stayed silent until the tension coming from Odella gradually lessened. "Was it something important?"
Odella jumped slightly, lost in her own thoughts and unused to anyone speaking to her. Turning around, she leaned against the window and waited for Sherlock to elaborate.
"Whatever you remembered. Was it important?" She tapped her fingernail against the mug, and frowned. Was it important? All she saw where pieces, fragments of her life before London, but nothing revealing. Just glimpses of details. She shook her head and sighed.
Sherlock could see she was agitated. She was swirling the liquid around in her cup and biting the inside of her cheek, trying to figure out what was going on in her mind. Her fingers danced across the mug like they would rather hold a pen, than a cup of tea. Now there's an idea.
Standing up, he walked to the desk, careful to avoid getting too close to Odella when he noticed her flinch at how near he had become, and rummaged through the drawers. Seeing what he was looking for, he snatched it up, flipped through it to make sure it was devoid of any experiment notes, and handed the notebook over to Odella.
"I assume you can write?" She nodded, smiling a little at the question. "Anything you can remember, write it down in here. Even if they aren't complete thoughts, record them anyway. I rather hope you would let me look at it whenever I pleased, but for now, I will ask you anytime I wish to see what is inside. Deal?"
She nodded again, flipping through the lined pages. Skirting around Sherlock, she curled up on John's chair, and after picking out a pen from the mug on the table beside it and setting down her now empty cup, she scrawled her name across the front cover. She opened the notebook to the first page and wrote down: woman sweeping kitchen floor, green eyes like mine, woman saying goodnight, closed-coffin funeral. Woman was mother? Pursing her lips, she decided to put down what triggered the memories in the margins next to the list: The sound of MH humming.
Seeing that Odella had written all that she wanted to write, Sherlock held out his hand. "May I?"
Looking up from the page, she regarded his hand warily before handing it to him. As soon as the notebook was in Sherlock's large hand, she quickly withdrew, and snuggled into the corner of the chair.
Sherlock opened the notebook and read the slanted handwriting. "Your mother died?" He looked up and tried to catch Odella's eyes, only to find them closed. She wrinkled her eyebrows, trying to remember. Slowly, she nodded.
"Do you remember how?" Odella shook her head. "Was it an accident?" Here she paused before answering. She was going to shrug but a voice stopped her '...if anyone asks, it was an accident. Mommy tripped and fell down the stairs.'
Eyes unfocused, Odella reached for the notebook and scribbled down exactly what she had heard in her mind and put: man's voice, familiar before handing it back to Sherlock.
"And this was all before you came to London?" She nodded and rubbed at her eyes, heavy with the small revelation. Laying her head on the armrest, she tugged her knees to her chest, tired of talking.
Sherlock watched her play some unseen movie behind her eyes until the lids closed, sleep taking her away.