Alice snapped back to reality. Trying to slow her heart rate down, she opened her eyes and looked up. Sherlock was staring at her, with his thousand-colored eyes, expecting details. "Dammit." She gasped. Cold sweat dripped from her neck and onto her back. John handed her a towel and put his small, yet sturdy hand on her slim shoulder for support. "I was so close to when it happened this time." Saying nothing, Sherlock stared out the window. Rain was falling from the ashen sky and onto the window of their flat. Sherlock put his hands just below his nose in linear formation, signifying that he was deep in thought. These past two months, Sherlock had taught Alice how to access the deepest parts of her memories; he had helped her create a "mind palace." It was nowhere as near as complex as his, obviously, but she had confirmed that it helped finding the memories. On the night his best friend had mentioned her, John had been telling the truth; Alice really was something else. When Sherlock babbled on about a case, Alice listened attentively, and occasionally, gave her view on the case. Not only did she ask the right questions, she had also developed deduction skills from studying Sherlock's work and blog. Sherlock had never much associated much with the opposite sex, save Molly and Irene Adler, or an adolescent. Now he was living with a person who bore both traits. And that he found interesting. It was the time to ask questions while the memory was still fresh in Alice's mind. "How far did you get this time? Give me the details, Alice." Alice slid slowly away from John and stood up to look out the window. The rain was so calming. It helped her concentrate, which was why today was the perfect day to really dig deep into the darkest pits of her memories. Placing her hand on the locket that clung to her throat, she reminisced about the day she had received it. The day of her birth, her mother had told her that her father had saved up euros to buy her a beautiful clockwork locket. She looked down at her ebony painted nails that closed over her necklace. If she focused, she could feel and hear the ticking of the clock inside the minuscule golden doors. Tick tock, tick tock. Alice always wore this necklace to remind herself that wasting time was not an option. Every second, every moment was precious. She had to be quick on her feet and have the ability to gather her vast intellect quickly. "Alice?" Sherlock inquired once more. She clutched the pale blue sofa and did not look at John or Sherlock when she spoke. "It was when I got lost. Really thick move on my part, standing out in the worst area of London, alone, at midnight." She scolded herself on this for what seemed like the millionth time. If she had stayed in the theater instead of running of to look for them- Well, no use thinking of what could have been. Although she constantly told herself this, Alice could never let go of the past, and it haunted her almost everyday. "My phone was dead, so I went to go look for them. And then well... Ah...yes. Suddenly... a hand..." Sherlock had begun to worry. This was the most important part. "Alice this is crucial. You have to try to fight the amnesia. I need something, anything. The color of his skin, a ring, his clothes-" "Sherlock we don't need to rush it." John interrupted. "Give her some space." Alice turned to face the men while she placed her hands over her eyes and sat down. "I appreciate the sentiment, John but its okay. I remembered something." John was surprised, but did not show it. When Alice was with Sherlock, her intelligence was revealed, like a sheet being stripped down from a new sculpture at an art show. He had asked Sherlock why he was so interested in helping Alice. Sherlock had shrugged and said, "I always enjoy a good case, John. And as a bonus, I immensely enjoy showing up the police." John could tell Sherlock had other motives. But what?Alice spoke with confidence, a tone John had not heard escape her lips in a very, very long time. "I remember his face. And get this. Bonus points. He had a name tag."
After Sherlock and John researched the man on the computer, they took a cabbie with Alice to the Novello Theater; a popular theater that showcased a variety of plays. On the computer, back at the flat, they looked up his name and immediately results appeared. Sherlock clicked the first option; a news article that read:
RAPIST ON THE RUN. MURDERER IS
ACCOMPLICE.
Last year, prodigy Alice Watson was raped while she was walking out of the Novello Theater. The rapist, yet to be found, has an accomplice. A man with the same last name (who was recently revealed as the brother) fled the crime scene of the murdering of Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Police officials have searched even the most secluded parts of England and have contacted other nations to beware of the convicts. London's finest detectives are working on the case, and have promised to bring the killer and rapist to justice.
"I assume that was before they discovered you," John whispered to Sherlock. Alice sat in the middle of the two, and John noticed that her head had fallen onto Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's face was unreadable. Several emotions and thoughts seemed to pass along his pale face: shock, annoyance, and... affection? For the long time John had known Sherlock, they had learned to communicate through looks and the blinking of the eyes. This, of course, was developed by Sherlock to use in important situations. For example, if one of them was being held hostage, could not speak, was tied down, etc. Apparently, this was important enough. Sherlock looked at John with the child's head sill laying on his shoulder. What do I do, John, she's LEANING on me, his face seemed to say. John laughed out loud, loud enough to wake Alice. Her stormy blue eyes were unveiled as her eyelids fluttered. "John...?" She muttered. She looked up into Sherlock's eyes as she remained on his shoulder. Sliding away from Sherlock's shoulder and onto John's much softer one, she spoke quickly, "I didn't mean to-" "Oh Alice, what an extraordinary creature you are." Sherlock interrupted. "You have successfully been the only thing to have ever drooled on my magnificent scarf." With disgust and much groaning, Sherlock took off his silk scarf and handed it to her. "You might as well keep it. It is the least precious of my scarves and you haven't exactly dressed in appropriate attire for the rain." Not knowing whether to take Sherlock's remark as a compliment or an insult, Alice took the scarf with gratitude as the cab came to a stop. John paid the cabbie and watched it grow smaller as it drove off into the distance. "Yeah," Alice muttered, "this was the place." They were in the alley that separated the Novello theater from the adjacent building. At the end of the alley was a brick wall about nine feet high; a dead end. Sherlock went off to study the area as Alice and John sat on the steps in front of the theater. A small breeze swept through Alice's hair. Tucking it behind her ear, she spoke. "He really gets off on this, doesn't he?" John seemed lost in thought. "Hm? Oh yes, he does." "And you do this with him? Why?" It was a question John often asked himself. Why does he associate himself with Sherlock Holmes? They had been through hell and back together these past couple of years and became best friends. But John always wondered... Was Sherlock really just a friend? "You don't have to tell me, I was just curious. I'm happy for you John. You look happy and healthy again." As she said this she poked his stomach, which used to be deprived from food those awful months after the war. John smiled at Alice. It seemed as if her time with Sherlock and he had begun to heal her too. Sherlock crept up around the corner and walked towards his flatmates. "John, call Molly. I need her to retrieve records from Bart's Morgue." John stood up and took Alice's hand as she did as well. "Sure, she's there, but why?" Sherlock waved at a cab as it came to a stop. "I think the man who raped Alice is dead."