I've got the cache – SH
Three hours after I told you where it was – MH
Had to tag along with a group of teenagers and a couple of adults geo-caching – SH
You still should have found it sooner – MH
They knew where it was and they kept having to stop for the slower members of their group – SH
Just hurry up – MH
I was about to go do it – SH
Good for you – MH
He turned off his phone. He didn't want to continue this conversation. Sherlock always bothered him at the most inconvenient times; he was only half-way through the newspaper's crossword puzzle. Granted, he had started ten seconds before his little brother began texting him.
Avery was dumped unceremoniously on the stage. The bird costume they forced her into was itching in all the wrong places and messed up her hair so much it was almost a nest. The eye make-up is the worst, she thought, eye shadow should not go above a girl's eyebrows and below her cheek bones.
She was standing in front of a microphone on a tiny little stage, a single spot-light glaring down at her. She squinted her eyes and looked into the audience. She could barely see a person and a laptop, the laptop probably had Skype open.
The music began to play from the speakers she could never see.
She had tried not singing before, but that hadn't gone so well for her. She was positive there would be a scar on her back from the bull whip.
She started to sing.
She was sitting in Sherlock's room, breathing heavily.
Why is he taking so long?
She brought the metal up to her wrist.
He should have saved her by now.
She pressed the cool metal against her warm skin.
If only I had waited...
She pulled her hand down, quickly.
If I hadn't hurried over to England...
Blood started to pool on her wrist.
I could have been there to help her...
She looked at the deep red trickling down her arm.
But I'm sitting here, instead...
She placed the razor blade on the table and grabbed some gauze the cover the wound.
Why doesn't he save her?
Skype was open on her laptop. Avery was quite the little singer, when she wasn't being whipped for missing a note.
*CRACK*
"You owe me five quid," Neve said to Sebastian with a smirk.
"Damn, I thought she would make the note. She screams that note regularly."
Sebastian Moran unwound his arms from Neve and reached for his wallet.
"Wait, what? Where's my-"
"Looking for this?"
Neve was holding Sebastian's wallet between her index and middle fingers.
"I'm guessing you already took fifty quid."
"Only twenty-five, this time."
"Perhaps I should start keeping my wallet in my boxers?"
"Just 'cause you want me to go there."
"Naturally."
Sebastian held his wallet in his hands while he grabbed Neve Moriarty and plonked his chin on her head.
Avery was getting another crack of the whip.
She really should stop panicking; it throws her voice right out, thought Neve.
Where did she keep getting razor blades from? John Watson thought as he searched through the flat for the twentieth time that day.
He knew she was cutting herself, but he didn't know how to stop her.
Why did he always do this? He always managed to share a flat with someone mentally unstable. At least he was used to Sherlock's madness.
He couldn't understand her. On the first night he had met her, she had burst into tears for some strange reason. Her friend had been kidnapped, but it was almost like she was taking it too personally.
John was missing something, he was sure of it.
Sherlock was ready now. He had the package he needed in order to get in and save Avery for Eleanor. He liked Eleanor, she reminded him of John; not as good as him, but trying hard to impress. He held a level of respect for her.
She also promised not to tell John about him.
He felt he could trust her, to a point of course.
He would never trust anyone to the same level he trusted John and Mrs Hudson, but she was close. He trusted her more than Lestrade at least.
Sherlock Holmes was wearing an Australia Post delivery uniform and was walking up the stairs to the little house in Elizabeth.
He knocked.
"Package," he called towards the house.
A man with a haggard face and dirty fingers nails answered the door.
"What?"
"Package for you."
"What is it?"
"I just deliver the packages, sir, I don't open them up and rummage around with the contents."
The haggard man just harrumphed.
"Sign here please, sir."
The man went to sign on the clipboard the Sherlock held, but he didn't make it.
Sherlock had clubbed him over the head with a gun and walked inside the house.
