A/N: So here's chapter 7! And the beginning of semi-canon! So, there's one weird thing in this chapter. I had a really big spurt of randomness as I was writing this. And in the story, she didn't have her mp3 player at the time, so I just slipped some of that in there. So to those of you who aren't exactly fans of randomness, forgive me. Anyways, enjoy chapter 7!

Falls of Blood: Part 1

Previously...

I laid down on the couch and ignored him. I basically ignored all of them. I wasn't going to sleep yet, though. I wasn't tired.

But I did turn on my music and close my eyes. I just needed to relax. After a while, though, I did fall asleep. Mycroft still hadn't left.

It's been two weeks since the problem with Mark. My arm was healing well; I got the stitches out a couple days ago. I was really excited for today. It was my birthday today; eighteen. Sherlock, of course, didn't really care. This morning, I told him and got an "Oh really? Dear God I'm getting old." That was about it from him. John, on the other hand, was excited and said "Ignore him; we can go do something to celebrate tonight." So, tonight, John, Lestrade, Molly, myself, and Sherlock were going to a club. Reason enough to be excited.

I was looking through my small selection of clothes, searching for something club-worthy. I found blood-red ripped jeans, a glittery gold belt, a black cami, and my old combat boots. That worked. I changed quickly and walked out to the main room and threw on my white leather jacket, practically throwing myself on the couch.

"There she is," John said, standing up from his laptop. "Birthday girl."

"What's there to be so excited about?" she asked from the kitchen.

"Come on, Sherlock," John said. "Eighteen's a big day." Sherlock didn't reply and I rolled my eyes. He always acted like he didn't care, but I knew that wasn't true. He cared about John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and myself. He was happy for me that today I turned eighteen; I could see it all over him and hear it in his tone of voice. And I had to admit, I was getting attached too. Not just to Sherlock, but to John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and even Sergeant Donovan.

I was starting to live in constant fear because of it. I was becoming attached to people again, and I was starting to show it too. I was constantly terrified that one of them would get killed. All because I cared for them.

The three of us left the flat. Well, it was more like John and I left while we dragged Sherlock along behind us. We met up with Molly and Lestrade a few blocks away from the club and walked the rest of the way. We were let in without getting IDs checked, which was probably a good thing. This club's age limit was 18, not 21, but I didn't have an ID yet. We went inside and the first thing I noticed was that it was loud. I liked it; even though the music itself was crap.

After about half an hour, Lestrade got a phone call. He stepped outside and back in in just a few moments. I walked up to him.

"What's wrong?" I shouted over the noise.

"I'm being called in," he yelled back. "There's a problem at the museum."

"I'll just grab Sherlock and John," I replied. "And we'll all go."

"If you really want to." I smiled and rounded up John and Sherlock. And we were off to the museum, ready for another case.

Damn, I left my mp3 player back at the flat. The museum was surrounded by police cars and flashing lights. My focus was jumping all over the place. I could barely keep track of where I was putting my feet.

"Sierra," Lestrade said as I stopped walking for a minute because of the lights and lack of focus. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, regaining my concentration. "I'm just a little unfocused is all."

We continued into the museum, where I continued to be distracted by the bright colors of the artwork. Lestrade led us past a taped-off area, where an empty space on a wall indicated a stolen painting. In the artwork's place, there was a fraction of four letters spray-painted in red:

SH
JB

"Any idea what it means?" Lestrade asked.

"29," Sherlock replied, moving closer to investigate. "SH is my initial. That might be part of it."

"It's mine too," I reminded him.

"46," he said as a response. I took a few steps closer.

"I think we should analyze the paint itself," I said. I reached out and touched the paint. It was still wet. I rubbed it experimentally between my fingers. Something didn't feel right. This wasn't paint. I was confident enough in my deduction to taste the substance. My eyes widened. "It's-"

"Blood," Sherlock finished for me. "This was drawn on in blood."

"Spray painted," I corrected. "Look at the splatters. Someone sprayed blood out of a can."

"That's disgusting," Lestrade said.

"Sounds like something Sherlock would do," John joked.

"Yes, but I wouldn't break into a museum," Sherlock replied.

"Yeah you would," I retorted. "But you were with us the whole time so you're clean. For now."

He rolled his eyes and looked at the ground. "Scuff marks," he remarked."

"It's a museum," Lestrade said. "People walk around here all the time."

"These are fresh," Sherlock argued. He crouched over the mark, blocking it from my view. "I need to see the shoes of all police officers who have been in this area since the painting was stolen."

"What?" Lestrade asked. "Why?"

"For a shoe match," Sherlock replied. "If none of the shoes match the scuffs, we have our first lead."

"Scuff marks are a lead?" John asked.

"Of course," I responded for Sherlock. "If it doesn't match with any of the police, we can use the marks to find out the shoe size and the exact shoe type. This will tell us if our thief is more likely male or more likely female."

"Thank you, Sierra," Sherlock said. "Like I really needed you to explain that for me."

"They needed it," I retorted.

Within five minutes, all of the police were lined up with Sherlock bent over, inspecting their shoes. It was actually an amusing sight. In the end, there were no matches. A lead. Marvelous.

Sherlock jumped for joy at not having a match. He examined the scuff close up, muttering to himself, "Size eight feet, most likely male." He straightened up. "John, Sierra, back to the flat."

"Yes, your bossiness," I said sarcastically with a mock bow.

"Sierra," he said warningly. "I'll ground you again."

"And I'll tell Mycroft if you try that again," I snorted. "The first time was hell."

"Then you'll do well to remember not to annoy me again," he concluded. John laughed and I glared. During my glare, I noticed something Sherlock had missed. There was a scratch on the wall from where the painting was taken. It showed me exactly which way it went.

I decided against telling Sherlock. It would just inflate his ego and he'd save the day again. I wanted a chance at this one alone now that I was eighteen.

"I'll catch up with you later," I said. "I have something I need to do first."

"And what's that?" Sherlock asked.

"Yell at Mycroft," I lied. "For ignoring my eighteenth birthday." He did ignore my birthday, but I wasn't really going to go yell at him. I was going to go after the painting.

"Don't be too late," he said. I nodded and left in the direction that the scratch pointed. I found another scratch around the corner. And another one.

I kept finding them out of the museum. Whoever did this was either laying a trap or incredibly stupid. I hoped with all my heart that it was the latter; I wasn't in the mood for dealing with a trap. It was late, I was tired, and my mp3 player was still back at the flat.

Well, there would be one good thing if this was a trap. I would find the culprit and maybe even the painting. That would be a plus. Not like I wouldn't find it anyway if it were just stupidity.

The scratches led to a dark alley. I stopped. Now I knew that it was a trap. It was too cliché. I sighed. I had no weapon. That was a stupid move. I shouldn't have followed without a weapon anyways.

Actually, the thief might be stupid after all. The whole alley thing was so cliché that it was probably the work of an idiot.

Probably.

I looked at the two buildings creating the alley. One was tall and smooth, an apartment building maybe. The other was rather short with a rusty old fire escape in the alleyway.

I decided to scale the short building for a bird's eye view of the alley. Before moving though, I checked the street corner security cameras. In turn, each of them looked the other way. Thank you, Mycroft. Much appreciated, and that was not sarcasm.

I grabbed the first handhold I saw and started climbing. As I climbed, I ignored my sweaty palms and freezing fingers. I just kept pulling my way to the roof.

I saw no one as I looked down into the alley. It was no doubt a trap. I looked closer, trying to find the trapper. They were nowhere to be seen; most likely hiding.

I pulled off my golden belt and dropped it in the alley. No one came out, but I did see a movement. Person in the dumpster. He – I could now tell that they were 100% male – probably wasn't alone. Dammit!

I knew Mycroft knew what I was doing, so I prayed that he notified Sherlock. If he did, I would personally thank him. I shivered at the thought; being in Mycroft's office and being nice to him.

Never mind.

Well, I had to get my belt back somehow. It was expensive; I wasn't just going to leave it in an alley. I was going to be very stupid now. I knew my idea was stupid, but my judgment wasn't necessarily perfect. Unfocused due to lack of a specific mp3 player. Meh, who cares?

I started down the fire escape into the alley. An image of a waterfall slipped into my mind. I was supposed to be looking for something, wasn't I? It had something to do with a waterfall. I wanted to go to North America and see Niagara Falls. Maybe I could stop by a concert while I was there.

I shook my head. No. Belt, painting. Stay focused. I wanted to scream in frustration. I was cold, tired, and stuck in an alley. I wanted to curl up and sleep. Right here would be fine; it was sturdy... ish. Maybe the dumpster. But wasn't there something bad about that? I couldn't quite remember.

I shook my head again. Belt. Painting. Bad guy in the dumpster. Speaking of, the alley smelled disgusting. I wanted to go buy air freshener and drown this little place in it. Wait, no, that would smell disgusting. What about fresh fruit? If I cut them open to release the smell, that would make the alley smell better. My mouth watered at the thought. Fresh fruit sounded really good right now. Wait. Not fresh fruit; chocolate. Oh, chocolate right now would be amazing.

I felt a strange impact on the bottom of my foot and I was suddenly falling.

Rattly old fire escape.

Painting.

Criminal in a dumpster.

Ground.

I closed my eyes, bracing for impact. I landed with a thump, pain exploding over every inch of my body. Despite that, though, I didn't think anything was broken. I was already close to the ground when I fell. Why the hell did I keep getting hurt? It pissed me off!

After lying dazed for a few seconds, the pain became bearable. I slowly and carefully stood up, clutching my head. I saw smoke rolling out of the dumpster. No, it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. Or was it? For all I knew, the guy could've lit the garbage on fire. But it didn't smell. Odd.

"Sierra," I heard a voice behind me. I froze, literally. I stood still as a stone, probably pale as a ghost as well. My heart felt like deadweight, and my blood felt like liquid ice.

I looked over my shoulder, my body beginning to shake uncontrollably. My eyes were wide, all of my fear, guilt, and love visible in them to all who knew where to look.

My voice turned small, barely above a whisper. My lungs were ice.

And the jar shattered. My heart, my emotions, were free again. All of it; every smile, every fear, every spark of angle I would have felt in the last two years all spilled out as one small word left my lips, leaving a bittersweet chill in my mouth.

"James?"

A/N: Dun dun DUN! And that's all you get this time! I'm interested in what your theories about this chapter are, so please review^^