DISCLAIMER: *The characters and the original plot belong to the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" and adapted into a television series by Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss, "Sherlock" (2010-2017), broadcast on BBC television. Except for the OC (Original Characters) all those come from my imagination. *

Notes + Clarification

* Hello! Welcome to my fanfic about our beloved consulting detective. This idea came up and was written around 2016; so, about this time, S04 was coming and I decided to made this fanfiction.
* Forgive me my awkard english, no my birth lenguage. I really want to share my fanfics with people who speak english, so I doing my best in grammar and all. Always trying my best. Feel free and polite to correct me if something is terrible written. Also I'm going to respect the British language as much as I can. I'm not very attached to it (because I am more acquainted to the American English) but I want to respect it.
* This fic is totally centered on BBC Sherlock, especially S3 and S4. It could have reference about the books series and/or other Sherlock Holmes media series.
* There are OC (Characters that are of my invention) if they are not to your liking, no problem if you do not want to read.
* My fic is also available on Wattpad (Spanish &English), Booknet (Spanish) and Inkspired (Spanish).
* This fic is already complete. Updates could be every seven or fifteen days.
* Thank you very much for giving my fanfic an opportunity, I hope you enjoy it just as I do in writing it.

Chapter 1: The girl who came from Northampton

In your mind's eye, lives a memory hard to find blinded by sorrow.
And her cold voice sings a melody, hear her sing.

Akira Yamaoka — Hell Frozen Rain.

The streets in London were colder than usual. Not one living soul remains in them, only silence was who walked through them. Baker Street is, after a long time, the quietest street of the night. For some it was curious not to hear the sudden shots in the 221B or how the famous detective consultant was screaming for joy or courage. The locals never knew exactly what the shouting was about, however, they are still curious on this cold night.

Two in the morning.

While everyone lay asleep, very sure of dreaming about that doubt, in that apartment the lights were on. The famed detective lay on his couch, with his hands under his chin and was breathing hard. Suddenly he opened his greyish green eyes and unable to control the adrenaline that was beginning to flow through his body, the detective jumped off the couch and walked fast, covering his mouth to drown out a desperate scream.

He did not want to upset Mrs. Hudson at this time of night. When did he worry about disturbing her sleep? Unable to control himself, he approached the table and took all the things in it to throw them into the wall with all the strength he had accumulated. Without more enduring, he threw that bloody cry of despair and achieved what, for a few moments, he had wanted to avoid. The light on the stairs came on and Mrs. Hudson's shuddered voice was heard.

"Sherlock?!" There was no answer. He placed his hands on his dark and wavy hair and squeezed it with all his strength, about to want to rip them out. He knelt on the ground and his eyes had crystallized, his cheeks had become reddish and the veins of his hands were protruding, leaving his palpitations be felt.

"Sherlock?!" Mrs. Hudson asked again as she opened the door. "My God! Are you okay?!"

"Get out, Mrs. Hudson!" without looking at her, he screamed.

"But...?"

"Now!" he exclaimed furiously and with his hands hit the ground. Frightened Mrs. Hudson obeyed, closed the door, and went down the stairs without looking back.

Sherlock Holmes stayed in that position without stopping to hit the ground, and he was grateful that it was holding him in those moments. He could feel the objects around him starting to get lost between spiral shapes and asterisks, too, in how that ground moved as if it were a tide. Everything had become both psychedelic and painful.

With his crystallized eyes, and turning into a soft reddish, he agreed to get carried away with what was happening. Everything was unreal; with drugs, that unreality was credible. Looking at how his small living room was lost in a hole, he noticed, in front of him, a strange silhouette. Curious he rose with difficulty from the ground and, as his body allowed him, began to approach it.

"Mrs... Hudson. I told you... to leave..." he babbled.

Every time he felt close to that silhouette, his feet played very badly and made him stagger, but he could not give up on a small amount of drugs, he had to see who that person was. With more steps, getting clumsier, Sherlock noticed that the silhouette belonged to a male being. Frowning curiously, he did nothing but laugh at how drugged he was.

"Hey, is that you, John?" he questioned without removing the huge smile. "I can't believe how quickly Mrs. Hudson warned you, she's such a first-rate gossip," it did not respond. He just felt the weight of the look on that silhouette. "I know, I know what you're going to say, but I want you to—just know it. It's part of an investigation—this has nothing to do with Magnussen or..." He kept quiet.

Sherlock looked away and those words had stuck in his throat, starting to burn him. He closed his eyes and looked for a way to spit them out, yet it was impossible, they burned like a thousand fires. "Moriarty?" a voice asked and listening to him, he left him paralysed.

Sherlock opened his eyes and moved them where that voice came from which, if he were alive, would recognize her everywhere and better visualize who was in his room. "No..." he moaned.

"Did you miss me?" he questioned as he stepped out of those shadows and showed his identity.

The detective had paled, and fear had completely embraced him. Seeing that the one who came out of the darkness was no more and no less than his greatest rival, Jim Moriarty.

"It can't be..." he replied, while his hands covered part of his face. "I'm back Sherlock. And this time I'll make you burn..." The detective closed his eyes and began to look for a way out of this drug-generated effect. "You can't run away, Sherlock," Moriarty continued as he approached him. "This time the game has really started, and you will burn—You will burn as never before!" he cursed.

Those last words sounded loudly in his ears and Sherlock could not stand it. Deep inside he did not understand how Moriarty had returned from the dead. He killed himself before his eyes! No, it was not possible. He took his fingers to his temples and began to think harder, but Moriarty's voice chewed his brain and felt it tear down the enormous walls of his mind palace.

"Get out...! From my head!" he exasperated.

"Oh, Sherlock!" He continued standing in front of him. "Just let me see that heart of yours burn in the living flames of the most horrible fire..." and drew his face toward his ear. "Let me see you suffer, see you disappointed, see you go crazy..."

The detective opened his eyes, staring at that smile that crumbled everything around him. His body began to fall into a void, covered in those words that Moriarty had said.

Silence. Again, everything had been enveloped by silence.

The night continued to freeze the streets of London and during them, a little girl wandered confused, afraid, and not knowing where else she might go. Not knowing what to do, she sat in the middle of the street and began to look at the buildings around her. The girl breathed nervously waiting for a miracle to come to her aid, closed her small brown eyes, tried to control the breath that disturbed her and to her head came images that she had tried to erase in recent weeks: "Please! Please, I beg you! I promise I will help you, but don't kill me..."

"Mum..." whispered as she swam in her memory. "I don't need you," a second voice echoed in her memory. "I never needed you. Now, the girl."

A desperate cry began to rumble in her head and between it she heard: "BOOM!" she shouted as she opened her eyes covered with the most enormous tears. She could not resist and started crying. Her tears ran down her cheeks, causing the dirt were wearing to be removed; she shook her head and looked at the sweater she was wearing. The blood stains were still there.

"Mum!" she shrieked. Her head was flooded with those memories she had blocked. The little one remembered her mother's body, on a large pool of blood; her glazed, empty look and a huge hole in her forehead. "Mummy!"

Unable to control herself, the little girl began to scream in terror. She shook her head, wanting to erase those images from her memory, but it was impossible. They tormented her endlessly.

"You..." That voice came back to her head. "What do you know about him...? Did you want him to help you? Sherlock Holmes...?"

The girl stopped abruptly when she heard that name in her memories. And with her gaze fixed on the horizon, she heard that horrible voice uttering the name at every moment: "Sherlock Holmes... Sherlock Holmes... Sherlock Holmes..."

The little girl rose from the pavement and looked at the night. "221B Baker Street..." she whispered. She began to walk, lost in her memories and hearing the name on her head.

Four in the morning.

The little girl had finally arrived at Baker Street. The temperature was colder than usual, but that did not matter to her and, without further ado, she approached the jet-coloured door with its golden numbers. She took the doorknocker with difficulty and began to strike slowly. Despite her slow blows, they sounded loud, and Mrs. Hudson rose from her bed in surprise. Not understanding what was happening, she put on her robe and left her room to approach the stairs.

"Sherlock?!" she called. "Sherlock, did you call someone at this hour?!"

She got no answer and, without waiting for him to answer her, with some fear she approached the door, not without first taking an umbrella that she had available. Mrs. Hudson knew she had to be careful. She turned the knob slowly and with fear raised the umbrella to venture open the door, taking with her a great surprise to discover who was knocking at her door at this late hour of the night. She was a little girl.

"Oh, my...!" she exclaimed surprised. "But—but you're a little girl."

The little girl observed her stunned and Mrs. Hudson let go of the umbrella, not caring if it broke. They both looked and the lady noticed that this little girl was completely neglected; from her clothes it was concluded that she had wandered for days, in her face the dust and the pollution of the city was noticed, However, what surprised her most was the blood on her grey sweater.

"My God! What happened to you, sweetheart?"

"Sherlock... Sherlock Holmes" inquired.

Mrs. Hudson was still surprised, she turned around went to the steps and she do not doubt it for any moment: "Sherlock, come quickly!" But again, he got no answer. She rolled her eyes, approached the little one and she was frightened at the sight of her action. "Don't worry," she mentioned "I won't going to hurt to you. I just want you to come into my house. Sherlock lives here and you can talk to him, fine?"

Even with distrust she let Mrs. Hudson take her by her small shoulders and when touching her, she perceived that she was cold. "But...! My God, my child, you feel like an iceberg! Quickly I will take you to my bedroom and warm you up, and then I'll call Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson took a quick look at the street, closed the door, and put the key in. She took the girl to her room and when they arrived, she sat her on her bed, discovering that she was in a certain state of shock.

"Let me get you something warm," she repeated as she looked at her with a warm smile. She moved from there and opened her closet to take out a huge mat, with a terrible decoration, but very effective to avoid the cold. She stretched it out, shook it and put it around her. "Wait here, honey. I'll go find Sherlock," she said without erasing her smile.

She did not say or do anything, just observed. Not getting any answers, Mrs. Hudson left her room looking for her tenant. As she arrived and without thinking, she opened the door and to her surprise looked at Sherlock, lying on the floor with red eyes and certain tears sliding down his cheeks. "Sherlock!" she screamed worried and approached him. "Oh my God! What did you do?!" she claimed as she moved her body. "Sherlock wake up!"

"Stop..." he spoke softly. Hearing the sound, the frightened lady brought her ear to his mouth. "Stop... stop shouting. I'm fine."

Mrs. Hudson held her hands close to her chin and looked, like a concerned mother, at Sherlock as he struggled.

"Oh, Sherlock! What a shock you gave me!" she exclaimed as he sat down. He turned to look at her horribly.

"I'm fine," he answered without encouragement. "Why have you been yelling my name?"

"Well, I saw you lying on the floor and I..."

"Not this moment," he angrily interrupted. "Ten minutes ago."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I need you to come to my room."

"Do you have another spider on the wall?" he asked annoyingly.

"No, Sherlock. I think a client just arrived."

A strange and fascinated look came from him and, despite how he felt, he rose from the ground and came out of there. With some confusion, Mrs. Hudson went after him. On the way there were no words; Sherlock came to the room and slammed the door open.

"Sherlock, wait!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson behind his back, "Be subtle because..."

"She's a child," he continued to miss.

"Yes," she sighed as she arrived with him and, over Sherlock's shoulder, he distinguished how she was lying on the bed, sleeping in foetal position. "Mrs. Hudson," he spoke still strangely, "what are you playing at?"

"Nothing, dear. She came asking for you."

Sherlock stepped into the room, looking at the little girl with the dim light that the lamp gave it. She was in deep sleep and he observed everything in perfect detail. He noticed the wear of her trousers, saw the sweater that was handmade and bloody. And more words sprang up around the little one. "Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked strangely.

"She's nine years old, soon to be ten. Originally from Northampton, she probably lived in the middle-class area of the city; because of her sweater, they used to buy clothes from local markets. She has been wandering for three weeks, almost four; she is malnourished, but she is survived and equal to dehydration. She was probably eating out of restaurant trash or stealing food from markets. She witnessed a murder; a relative. Her mother. And that is why she is here; she wants me to help her figure out who killed her mother."

"Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaimed in shock. "What are we going to do?" Sherlock turned around and with a smile saw Mrs. Hudson. "I'll take the case. Let me know as soon as she wakes up, I'll call John."

"But dear, it's almost five o'clock in the morning..."

"Never mind," he interrupted as he left her room. "Speaks to me as soon as she wakes up."

Sherlock went up the steps feeling excited about this new case. He needed to clear his mind after... that incident.

A/N:

Thanks so much for reading. I will be deeply grateful with any comments, constructive criticism, opinions and / or suggestions :3