Gasping and coughing, I stopped running. I looked behind me, only seeing a few harmless joggers—no one to worry about. Leaning over, I braced myself on my legs, feeling a burning sensation in my calves. Everything ached, but I knew that I just had to keep on going—I couldn't stop here, or it would all be for nothing.
I hated exercise.
Dad had insisted that I get back into shape—partially for the mental benefits, but also in the event that a case required some physical exercise. Panting, I couldn't see much of the benefit—I wanted to be back in my room, binge watching Netflix or pondering where to go next in the case.
I most certainly did not want to be out running around, looking like an idea, as I felt like I would cough up a lung. Reaching into my tiny drawstring bag, I pulled out a water bottle and I guzzled it down. Luckily, I wasn't that far from home—it was only another block or so before I would be back at the flat.
My pulse seemed to be beating far too rapidly, and I desperately tried to take in more air, but it seemed to be no use. I spent the remainder of the walk gasping and red faced, probably attracting the attention and judgment of far too many passersby. Uncle was probably tuned in with the CTV, chuckling in amusement.
Of course, it wasn't like he could run anything longer than a mile to begin with. I chuckled, forcing myself to push through, and I almost collapsed against the door to the flat. It pushed open against my touch, slamming into the wall—Mrs. Hudson was always getting on me about that, claiming that I was leaving a dent.
The color drained out of my face, but it wasn't for that reason. Even if I wasn't as brilliant at Dad or Uncle, I knew something was wrong—no one ever leaved that door unlocked. Mrs. Hudson never allowed it, even when she was using her herbal soothers.
"Dad!" I shouted, wearily running up the stairs. Adrenaline pounded through me, allowing me not to notice the way my legs shaped and wobbled. The door to our flat was open, yet someone had carved crudely onto it. I traced it gently with my fingers, feeling each bit of splintered wood.
It was an M.
"Dad!" I screamed again, running into our living room. I didn't take into account the relative unlikelihood that he would still be there—I didn't pay attention to it at all. A scared child had taken over my actions, and I was a whimpering outsider to the entire affair.
I stood in the center of the room, looking around in vain. Various bits and bobs were knocked over, falling onto the floor. Scuffmarks marked up the rug in various ages—a struggle. My heart sank as I saw traces of blood on the wall.
I didn't need a forensic analyst to know whom the blood belonged to.
Gulping, I ran into the kitchen, still hoping that Dad would somehow be here. The kitchen table was overturned, with the beakers that once contained acids and bases shattered on the floor. I bit my lip, and despite my panic, I grabbed the supply of baking soda from the cabinet. I shook it all over the floor, before grabbing some vinegar and dousing everything in the same manner.
"I guess that should be neutralized…" I said numbly, half expecting Dad to be peering over my shoulder to admire my work.
A soft whimper escaped my mouth—Dad wasn't here.
The reality slowly began to settle in. Dad wasn't here. There were signs of a struggle, the flat had been broken into, and our floor had been covered in chemicals and left unattended. The only solution is that someone had kidnapped Dad.
I pulled out my mobile, quickly unlocking it—the password was a simple one to guess. I modeled it after my mother's, thinking it to be a way of connecting to her. And I went into my contacts, finding the number that I had saved as Director Fury.
It was Mycroft's private phone—the one I was only supposed to use in the most extreme emergencies. This would qualify as one, right?
The M carved into our door flashed into my mind again, along with the text message found on the dead girl's phone. Biting my lip, I hit the small button next to Mycroft's contact. The line began to ring and almost mechanically, I raised it to my ear.
"Jade?" Uncle responded, answering almost instantly. In the background, I could hear the shuffling of papers and hushed whispers. He wasn't at the Diogenes club—no one ever spoke a word there, out of some twisted tradition.
I stepped slowly towards the door, softly pushing it closed. My eyes widened slightly at my new discovery, and I found my hand trembling.
"Jade?" Uncle repeated, obviously becoming more and more impatient. The background noise had grown to a quiet din. "Jade, are you there?"
Opening my mouth, I discovered that I couldn't make a sound, even if I wanted to. My eyes swept over the back of the door, my blood chilled and burning simultaneously.
"I'll be there shortly," Mycroft said, his voice firm and unwavering. "Don't go anywhere."
He waited for a moment, to see if I would respond, before ending the connection. I let my breath go out, staring at the back of the door in horror.
Had I just killed my father?
Curled up on the sofa, I stared endlessly at the bulletin board that I had constructed for Dad. Reaching his mobile proved useless—the kidnapper was far too clever than to be fooled so easily. I tried to mentally store the image of everything of the scene, in order to hide it all from Uncle.
Yet instead, all I could do was stare at the wall, wondering if Dad was dead.
There was a soft knock at the door—I didn't move. Mycroft would let himself in like he always did. He had minted a key for himself at some point. Neither Dad nor I had provided it for him, though neither of us was particularly surprised to learn of its existence.
Surely enough, I soon could hear Uncle padding up the stairs softly. His steps were always distinctive, matching his gait. They carried power and confidence, yet also a weakness to them—a weakness no one could place. According to my father, only Magnussen had ever learned Mycroft's pressure point.
"Jade," Mycroft said, his voice tinged slightly with relief. I didn't avert my gaze to take him in—I knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking in the mess of the flat, the destruction and the chaos. Soon enough, his mind would reach the correct conclusion.
And then, Dad would be dead.
"Hello, fatty," I said, my voice filled with despair. I continued gazing forward at the wall, refusing to acknowledge his presence.
"Where's Sherlock?" he asked plainly, stepping into my line of sight.
He had donned a powdered white wig. At any other time, I would have taken this opportunity to laugh at him relentlessly, and point out how silly it looked on his head. Instead, I simply looked at him despondently. It was as if all of the happiness and goodness of the world had vanished.
I couldn't imagine a world without my father—he was my best friend.
He understood me.
"He's resting," I lied lazily. Although, it wasn't too much of a stretch. The note on the door had been very clear. If the government was involved with Dad's kidnapping, then he would be killed.
I had to solve it all myself.
Mycroft frowned a bit, staring at me with partially narrowed eyes. "And where would he be resting, my dear niece?"
A cemetery? A flat somewhere? The bottom of the Thames?
"In his bedroom," I replied softly. I shifted my gaze slightly, a small smile creeping up my face. I didn't feel like smiling—yet there it was, as clear as day.
"Is this the truth?" Mycroft said, gazing towards where Dad's bedroom was. He delicately stepped over the mess of papers and made his way towards the door, hesitating when he reached the handle.
"Of course," I replied. "I wouldn't lie about something like this without good reason."
Mycroft hesitated slightly, and then he nodded. He straightened up, gazing over at me. "I trust you have everything in good hands, Jade."
I nodded.
He paused, before walking towards the door. Without a word, he exited the flat, closing the door softly behind him. It clicked into place, and I could hear him slowly move the knocker into place.
Dad might still be alive.
I grinned from ear to ear, finding a source of motivation for once. There was another option for locating Dad—the homeless network. They had heard of me a few times, and some of them considered me to be family.
It was a little weird, but I wasn't going to let a resource go to waste. Masquerade—or rather, Annette—had said nothing about getting help from a bunch of London's homeless.
There was hope, after all.
As long as I could keep Mycroft out of it, then Dad would still have a chance to live. Even if it meant that I would die in its place, it was worth it. I didn't have much to live for. And as tragic as it would be for a child to die before their parent, it would be much more tragic for there to be a world without Sherlock Holmes in it.
It wasn't too hard to find a homeless person in London. They littered the streets, begging on each and every corner. It reminded me of an Orwell novel, A Clergyman's Daughter, where the poor attempted to be arrested, simply for a warm place to sleep. And as awful as their suffering was, I generally simply avoided looking at them, walking away with indifference.
If you ignored them, they didn't seem to be human.
Yet this time, I actively sought them out. I marched out of the flat, dressed in my coat with the scarf Dad had given me for Christmas—a lovely shade of emerald green. Turning my gaze, I couldn't find any good candidates.
"Under the bridge, then," I muttered, resolved to mobilize the network. I had taken some cash from Dad's supply and stuffed it in my pockets, ready to give it out for motivation.
Everyone worked harder when there was money involved—one of the few lessons of Uncle's that I had paid attention to.
Hurrying down the street, the soreness of my earlier workout had almost all vanished. I almost sped past a homeless man in all of my hurry. Instead, I skidded to a halt, staring at him eagerly.
He raised an eyebrow at me, as if wondering what on Earth I could want. He was about my father's age, white with greying hair. Dark circles outlined his eyes, and his skin sagged from years of substance abuse. The clothing he wore was ill-fitting and mismatched, even torn in some places.
Next to him, there was a little sign made of cardboard that read: Anything helps. God bless.
Well, he did say anything, didn't he?
"I have a job for you," I said, a smirk sliding onto my face naturally. People liked to tell me that I looked identical to Dad like this, with my face framed with messy black hair. I didn't always see it—yet now, I could feel it.
The homeless man frowned, blinking at me. One of his eyes was partially fogged over—early blindness. "What sort of job, miss?"
"I need you to find Sherlock Holmes—the consulting detective who gives out handouts sometimes," I instructed. "I'm sure you've heard of him."
"Sherlock who?" the man said, rolling his eyes a bit at me.
"Sherlock Holmes," I stressed. "I'm sure you've heard of him—he does so much with the network."
"The network?" the man laughed. "Girl, you be crazy. There ain't no such thing as a Sherlock home."
"Sherlock Holmes!" I protested, sighing a bit. "I'll just find someone else who doesn't want to play games with me—someone who will help."
The man didn't seem to be very bothered by my half threat, waving me away with his hand. I huffed and left, walking in the direction of the bridge—there would be more people there, surely one of them would want to help.
Vaguely, I felt the previous man's eyes on my back, no doubt muttering something about how I was insane. But I wasn't insane. My father was real. The homeless network was real.
I could tell what was real.
"Hey!" I called out, running the final stretch towards the bridge. A group of five stood there, wearing more tattered garments and warming their hands around a father. Unlike the previous man, they didn't have the good fortune to own gloves—instead, they had to use socks.
A dirty blonde stared up at me, dirt covering her nose. "Whatcha want, dearie?"
Her eyes gazed over my figure, no doubt noticing the state of my clothing. I smiled awkwardly at her, hoping that I didn't seem to be pretentious—I probably did, anyways.
"I have a case," I said proudly, imagining the way Dad would have announced this to them. Did they grin and immediately agree to it? Did they react with relative indifference, used to this line of work?
They didn't react with confused and vacant faces, did they?
"A case?" a brunette repeated, a deep frown causing her to look older than she was. "I don't know what you're on about, love."
A bit of worry crept up—I recognized the man standing silently. His scar defined him, as it ran the length of his face. He had gotten it working a case with Dad—a nasty cut from a sword.
He had to remember Dad—no one forgot the man they were cut with a sword for! It was absurd!
"Oi, you!" I called out, staring at the man in the back. "You know who Sherlock Holmes is, don't you? He's my father. You've worked for him before."
He frowned a bit, looking at me curiously. "Sherlock who?"
My heart stopped beating. For a moment, everything shifted out of focus, blurring, before it all returned.
"You know bloody well who!" I shouted, my hands trembling. "Sherlock Holmes, the detective!"
The man stared at me blankly. His companions looked at him uneasily, casting sideways glances at me. "I've never heard that name before—never met him. Was he important?"
"Yes!" I cried out. "He…He was also called Shezza! Do you know Shezza, maybe? Really tall, acts like a dick, big coat with collars?"
"Sorry, kid," the man said, his voice empty of the voiced sympathy. "I don't know a Sherlock or a Sezza."
"Shezza," I corrected, my voice starting to hitch.
I threw a glance at them again, my breath becoming more and more rapid. The dirty blonde started towards me, looking at me softly. "You okay, love? You look a bit pale…There's no Sherlock Holmes, dear."
"No!" I shouted, pulling out my mobile with shaking hands. It took me about five times to bring up the search bar, and seven times to type in Dad's name. I clicked, going for results, only to find…
Nothing.
There were articles about the origin of the name Holmes, how common the name Sherlock was, yet nothing on the consulting detective. I bit my lip and entered in his full name—William Sherlock Scott Holmes.
And still, there was nothing.
Dad didn't exist.
"Do you want us to call someone, dear?" the brunette asked, her voice soft and raspy. She was a heavy smoker, I realized, the deductions coming in too fast to be comprehended.
I slowly put away my mobile, my panic mode continuing to rise. Dad existed. He couldn't not exist. No serial killer could accomplish that.
"Is this a joke?" I shouted out, yet instead of waiting for them to answer, I ran. The next gathering place for the homeless wouldn't be too far from here. I sprinted, making it all the way to the graffiti paradise.
Raz, an old friend of Dad's, was painting some sort of masterpiece. I stopped running right next to him, crying and out of breath.
"I need your help!" I exclaimed. "It's Dad—no one knows he exists!"
His eyebrows furrowed at me, and he took a step back hesitantly. "Look, lady, I don't know who you are…"
"I'm Sherlock's daughter!" I pleaded, more tears pouring from my face. My entire body was shaking, and I couldn't see the world. Sometimes, it looked like the interior of the flat—at other times, I could see the various symbols painted onto the walls.
"Sherlock who?" Raz frowned. "Are you high?"
Was I high?
"Sherlock Holmes!" I said, practically screaming at him. "The world's only consulting detective! You helped him find the jade hairpin, the case that he named me after!"
Raz frowned, looking more and more confused. "I've never heard of that man before…"
I sighed in frustration, pulling out my mobile device. Without even thinking, I punched in Molly's number, having memorized it a little while again. It took me a few tries before she picked up, her tone hesitant and confused.
"Hello, who is this?"
"Jade!" I sobbed. "Tell me, you know Sherlock—you fell in love with him, for god's sake! You and him had the thing with the lipstick…and…and with the coffee…He was a famous consulting detective! You were friends!"
There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if Molly wasn't all too sure on how exactly to handle this.
"There is no Sherlock Holmes," she said softly. "There never has been…"
"But you love him!" I sobbed, throwing the phone onto the ground. It shattered instantly, and I couldn't bring myself to care about it. The tears became thicker and thicker, and I held my head in my hands.
Vaguely, I remembered that Raz had been in front of me—he was gone, now. He probably was going to get some sort of help.
"I'm not mad," I muttered, trying to dry away my tears. "Dad exists. Dad is real."
It became almost a mantra, something that I repeated over and over again as the tears thickened. I shifted slightly, feeling an odd force against my back—the force of a wall.
And yet, I was standing, a good few feet away from any sort of structure.
"Sherlock Holmes exists," I repeated, closing my eyes tight. I felt the pressure of the wall again, and I reached my hand out, feeling behind me gently. My fingertips brushed against something, and I opened my eyes.
I had never left 221B Baker Street.