3.
John sank to the stairs. His face was pale and his hands were shaking. "You better get over here then Lestrade. I'm not telling him."
"Why not? He's your friend after all."
"Yeah," John scoffed, "try telling that to him."
"Oh, you told him did you? I take it he didn't handle it particularly well."
"What do you think?" John replied sarcastically, sighing in utter disbelief at what he was hearing. "Listen, just come over and I'll make him some tea and you never know; maybe the thought of his daughter being a mass murderer might be, err." John's voice trailed off awkwardly to an inward cringe of embarrassment.
"Yeah," began Lestrade, "I'll come over and break the news before he breaks your arm." The police inspector smiled hoping for a laugh, but received a dull silence from across the line.
Hesitantly opening the front door, Lestrade emerged to find John skittering towards him down the stairs, looking behind himself from time to time. "I'm so glad you're here!" John said nervously between his teeth. "You need to talk to..." The smashing of expensive sounding pottery resonated around the hallway of 221B, alerting the police inspector that he was indeed needed quite desperately. A quick glance between the two acquaintances was all it needed for Lestrade to know that Sherlock certainly hadn't taken the news well at all. "After you," John said smiling and clenching his jaw anxiously.
"Sherlock," Lestrade inquired, "Can I come in?"
"Why would you want to do that?" the detective replied indignantly.
"We need to talk to you; John and I."
"John, that deceptive little hedgehog who I thought was the only real person I could trust? HE isn't coming anywhere near me."
There was a long silence. After a moment of eerie quiet, Lestrade and the doctor made their way to the door of Sherlock's apartment, which, strangely, was wide open. Peeping around the door frame cautiously, John looked around the room. Nobody was in sight. "There's no one here!" John whispered as loudly as possible without being too melodramatic. Advancing into the room, the two nervous gentlemen crept about the place, not daring to make a sound. "I don't understand, he should be in here, unless…" Lestrade looked towards the bathroom, then to where the toaster should be in the kitchen across from them and then rapidly back to the bathroom.
"No." John remarked.
Suddenly, a rush of realisation swept across his being, turning is spine yellow and his face pale.
"SHERLOCK!" John shouted his eyes still fixed with Lestrade's puzzled gaze. Sprinting to the bathroom door, the police inspector Lestrade tried the door knob; it wouldn't open. Banging on the door desperately, John screamed at the top of his voice, "Sherlock, what are you doing in there with a toaster! Open this door now!" He pressed his ear against the harsh wooden door straining to hear if a tap was running or water of any kind was flowing.
"SHERLOCK! GET OUT OF THERE NOW! YOU STUPID SON OF A…" John's rage was haltered by the sudden opening of the bathroom door.
"Well, hello." Sherlock emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a large white dressing gown carrying the toaster, a bag of sliced bread tucked under one arm and a plate of toast.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" John demanded angrily. "We thought you went into the bathroom with the toaster to..." before John could finish he was interrupted by a thunderous tone.
"I would do nothing of the sort! Unlike some, I feel I have a great deal of self-value I will have you know Dr Watson, now, pardon me." Pushing past the alarmed pair, the detective quite confidently strode across the room to his arm chair in front of the window.
"Toast?" John asked.
"Yes, what's wrong with toast?" Sherlock asked his eyes narrowing into arrow slits either side of his nose.
"Nothing, it's just,"
"Bloody hell John! Did you forget why I'm here? Why you asked me to be here," Lestrade interrupted. "Listen to me Sherlock. John tells me that you've heard the news, about Emily." Lestrade flinched as Sherlock reached down behind his chair.
The detective sighed deeply, "Yes, I have been informed of the current predicament and I am going to be quite plain with you when I say that I didn't want to know!"
Sherlock picked up a small shoe box, too small for a pair of his size twelve brogues. No, this box was for something far different. Placing the box on his lap, Sherlock opened the lid, concealing the contents from the others. "Huh," Sherlock laughed to himself, "I didn't want to know!" Sherlock held up a small hand gun, pointing it at the bewildered pair.
"Sherlock, think about what you're doing." John tried to contain his fear behind a calm, gentle approach. His days in Afghanistan taught him well under this kind of pressure so John was more than waiting for an attempt at control like this – if it was anything of the sort! John was fully prepared and Sherlock knew it. "Does this make you miss the fighting John?" Sherlock asked, his eyes growing wide and psychotic. "Didn't you miss the war, the guns, the conflict?"
"No," John replied, still as calm as ever, "I found something greater than that. I found a friend."
"Don't be sentimental John!" Sherlock almost shouted. All the while Lestrade was edging his way across the room without the scrutinizing and potentially dangerous glare from the sociopathic detective.
"Sherlock," he said warily, "I need to show you something."
"What could you possibly want now; Lestrade? What could you possibly bring to the table at this point in the game to make me drop the weapon, hm?"
"Let me show you." Struggling to get his hand out of his back pocket, Lestrade opened up his wallet and pulled out a passport sized photograph. "This is Emily," he said, his hand still nervously jittering at the sight of the weapon. Although a police inspector, Lestrade had never been under direct threat with a weapon which could kill. "Here, take it, she is yours after all."
Sherlock reached out and snatched the photograph impatiently. John and Lestrade grimaced as the tangible silence became thick enough to cut through. Dropping the gun, Sherlock stared deeper and deeper into the eyes of his daughter. "She was eleven in that photograph." Lestrade added.
"Was she!" Sherlock smiled, not even acknowledging the fact that John had already picked up the hand gun and tucked it into his back pocket. "How old did you say she is now?"
"Fourteen." John said strolling tentatively over to his friend. Sherlock smiled, looking at the pair, dazed by the strange rush of happiness that surged through his veins.
"She's only a child." Sherlock sighed and tucked the photo between the chair and his thigh.
"She needs you Sherlock," John said placidly.
"Why though, after all these years tell me about her now?" John and Lestrade looked at each other before John took half a step back, immediately sending Sherlock's attention to the police inspector.
"When we said she needed you Sherlock, we really do mean more than ever. You see, in the absence of a parent of any kind, she has lacked…" Lestrade looked to John for help.
"Guidance," John added.
"Yes," Lestrade continued, "She had nobody to help her through the years and we regret to inform you that the path in which she has chosen is, a little rocky."
"How do you mean?" the detective asked, not really wanting an answer.
Lestrade grimaced inwardly, "Sherlock she's in Poland; in a place where children to go to get medical help."
"Why does she need help? Is she sick?" Sherlock's heart began to beat faster at the thought of his only child being ill and him not knowing.
"She isn't sick," John began, "Just… unstable. This is why we're here. To tell you, just so you know. She's killed people Sherlock."
The detective's face turned a pasty white. He swallowed down the shock from his voice but even still it came out croaky and sullen. "How many?" he asked, closing his eyes tightly against the question, regretting an answer.
"Six." John replied after a pause that seemed to echo around the apartment building.
Sherlock sighed and looked at his feet. Adjusting his position in the chair again to something slightly more vertical, he slouched over and put his elbows on his knees, supporting his chin in his hands. Sighing heavily, the great detective stared at an empty patch of floor. An eternity went by, or at least what seemed an eternity. In the space of this eternity, John had sat down and Lestrade had begun to make three cups of tea, the only drink strong and weak enough to wash away the raw taste of the truth.
Sherlock sat upwards slowly, gathering his dressing gown and fixing the belt around his waist. Leaving the room, John and Lestrade's eyes followed his brief journey from the sitting room, across the kitchen and to the room at the back.
"I suppose we should go soon." John said. A sad, melancholy feeling crept its way through John's body. Sighing he adjusted in his seat to move, when all of a sudden, a smartly dressed Sherlock erupted out of nowhere. Lestrade simply stared, mesmerised by the sudden transformation. Fixing his cufflinks, Sherlock began pottering around the apartment, putting things into a small bag which he'd thrown at John's feet. "Passport!" he shouted, slapping his palm against his temple and snapping his fingers. John, looking utterly bewildered, laughed at his friend and shrugged his shoulders easily at the inspector.
"Come on, come on! We haven't all day! We'll stop in at each of your apartments and you can grab whatever. Toothbrush! I've sent for a cab and it should be here in an hour," Sherlock called from the bathroom.
"Where exactly are we planning on going?" Lestrade asked looking puzzled as per usual.
"Isn't it obvious Lestrade?" Sherlock said whilst leaping onto the sofa, "Poland! I have notified Scotland Yard of your departure. HURRY, THE GAME IS CERTAINLY ON!"