Hello!
I really hoped the website wouldn't take the previous chapter down. the terms and conditions scared me a bit, but at least i read them.
Thank you for reading, commenting and following! This is so exciting :)
January 15th, 1992
Sherlock was not very good at making friends. Mycroft told him on a daily basis, his mother constantly worried about his social state, and it was clear none of the children at his school wanted to be his friend. They all thought he was a freak, how he could already count to one thousand, knew all his times-tables and who's writing had been perfected at the age of six. Now, at ten, he had mastered cursive and knew six languages. He also knew things about people, just from looking at them. The children were scared of him, and they would all turn their heads away from him as he walked down the corridor.
All except one.
Her brow was furrowed as she looked at him, her green eyes somewhere between cautious and curious. Her thin lips were set in a line, and her dark hair was pulled tight into a ponytail, leaving the perfect fringe. She was the youngest in the class, and the smallest, but she was bright and witty. She was also three years younger than him.
She walked up to him, and extended her hand for him to shake. He stared at it hesitantly.
'I'm not going to bite.' she muttered, and he eventually took it, and shook lightly.
'Sherlock Holmes.'
'I know. Florence Wood.'
'I know.'
Three days later, Sherlock returned to the hospital. Florence had been placed in intensive care, moved from the morgue into a more inviting room, fit for someone very much alive.
He opened the door delicately, in case she was asleep.
She was sitting with her back to him, and even through the fabric of the hospital gown he could see her protruding spine. Her legs were crossed on the bed, but she was facing the wall, her legs almost resting on the pillow.
He watched her for a few minutes, unaware of what to do next.
'Of course I know who you are.' She said eventually, her voice hoarse. She had obviously either been crying or screaming, either of which was not good. She cleared her throat, and turned herself around to face him.
'I wasn't sure.'
'Your face has been in my head every day for eighteen years, Sherlock. I could never forget you.'
Before he could think, Sherlock found himself by the side of her bed, engulfing her in his arms from behind. She tensed a little, but managed to relax, and hug him back. 'It's been so long.'
'I know,' she said, her voice cracking. 'and I'm so sorry.'
'Where were you, Flo?' he said, perching himself on the side of the bed.
She breathed in deeply. Sherlock could tell she was on the verge of tears, and he secretly hoped she wouldn't cry. He didn't want for his first impression of her as an adult to be negative, however selfish that was.
'For the first year or so, I was just in London. It was really terrible. I was just sort of floating aimlessly around the streets at night, and during the day I slept underground. I stole drugs from dens and dealers, and was nearly killed twice. I befriended people, mainly men, who would buy me drinks and the odd meal, just to keep me going. I wasn't enjoying any of it. I missed you terribly, but I couldn't go home. Not in the state I was in, but at the same time, I couldn't stop it.
'One night, just as the sun was rising, I was jumped by seven men, all of which were about thirty. They took it in turns to...' she paused, her lips paling and her sadness replaced with fear. She breathed in shakily, and when she started talking again, her voice was slightly higher. '… then they hurt me, a lot, and just left me. I must have blacked out, because I woke around two to three hours later, because it was already light and a man was bending over me. I tried to run away, my heart was pounding and I was just terrified. I couldn't, obviously, literally everything was broken and it all hurt so much.
'The man tried to be as gentle as possible, but I literally would not calm down. He was dressed in a black suit with a light blue shirt, and a dark blue tie. He introduced himself as Arthur Jackson, and informed me that he would be taking me somewhere safer. At that point, I didn't care, and I would rather I died than lived. He picked me up, which I remember as being surprising because he was so thin, but then remembering that I hadn't eaten properly in days. He put me in a black car. There were three other men, all of which were dressed similarly to Arthur, and they spoke in hushed voices. I remember nothing about the journey.
'We arrived at some warehouse, just outside London. They all helped Arthur lift me out, because every time he tried to move me I would wince or yell or something. He barked something at one of the men, who responded quickly and without question, which made me think that Arthur was the leader. When they set me down, it was on something soft, and as Arthur pulled away there was blood on his shirt. I moved the arm that wasn't broken up to my face, and when it came away my hand was red.
'The men left me then, and I drifted off quickly. When I woke, I barely felt any pain and my arms were bandaged. My face and limbs were clean, but they hadn't touched... anywhere else, which I was thankful for. I laid in silence for a little bit, until one of the men – James, his name was – came to check up on me. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and he called for Arthur. The rest of the men came with him, but stayed back with him whilst James, who I realised quickly must have been the most gentle, came and spoke to me. He asked my name, where I came from, what had happened to me, why I was alone. I didn't tell him everything, I feared they would send me back.
'I spent the next few years with them. I quit taking drugs, smoking and brought my alcohol intake down to two shots, or pints, a day. The men helped me, even supported me by quitting themselves. I had come so close to death, and it had meant so much, I couldn't afford to do it again.
'It turns out they were the British equivalent of a gang, but a lot nicer, and less feared. They were kind to me, but they hated the government. They scared me sometimes. I was nineteen whilst they were in their late twenties, early thirties. They spoke like they could kill me, and they did other stuff, bad stuff, and eventually they trusted me enough to tell me what. They swore me to secrecy.'
'So that's where you were, all this time?' Sherlock asked, intrigued.
'Not exactly. My friends got on the wrong side of a lot of people, and since I was something they all protected and cared about, I was kidnapped for about a year, tortured, but that's okay now, they killed the man-' she said it all so calmly. Sherlock would not have known, if he was anyone else, that this all actually happened to her. But now, as she spoke of her kidnapping, her hand flew to her face and she covered her mouth as she began to cry. Her hands then began to climb up to cover her eyes, and her shoulders shook.
'It's okay.' Sherlock said, his voice quiet. 'It's okay. You're here now.'
He reached out and pulled her towards him. She fell onto his chest, and he stroked her hair, like he did before she went missing. When they were so close Sherlock felt he could be himself in front of her.
He held her as she wept, and as she did so, his mind was racing in a way that he could not stop.
'She's suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, Sherlock.' Lestrade informed the detective as he walked into his office. He had waited with Florence until she fell asleep. She had cried the whole time. 'Her bones are weak, and almost every inch of her body is scarred, self inflicted or not - we can't tell.'
'She just told me what happened to her.' Sherlock muttered, cutting the man in front of him off.
'You don't have to tell me, unless there's information in it that we can use to our advantage.'
Sherlock's mind raced. Should he tell them about the gang? No. They were Florence's friends. She loved them, it seemed, and he wanted to give her the opportunity to see them again, if she wanted to, or if she could. He was aware that they could be dead. He was aware they might not be nice people. But she seemed to adore them, so that's all that mattered to him.
'Thank you.' he said quietly. 'When can I bring her back?'
'Sherlock...'
'I know, Greg.' Lestrade raised his eyebrow as Sherlock spoke. He was aware of the fact that the sociopath in front of him was emotional, which may have caused him to call him by his name rather than something else. 'I know. But-'
'I don't think that's a good idea at the moment. I know your history, and I know what you do... concerning her current situation. She also just... went away, willingly, for eight years. She didn't ever reach out to any of us, didn't tell us she was okay.'
'Yes. I know. I thought she was dead, and now she isn't dead-'
'But we found her dead, Sherlock.' Lestrade said. His voice had gained an edge. 'She was dead. She had obviously overdosed, and she was dead. And that's what concerns me.'
'There must be something that stimulates death. They stimulate everything else.' Sherlock knew he was wrong, as if the heart stops beating there's no going back, but he said it anyway. Emotions were making him stupid.
'If there is, it must be strong enough to actually kill. I don't know, Sherlock. Go home, we'll try and think of something.'
Sherlock guffawed. 'I'll go home, but it's incredibly unlikely you'll think of something, so I'll do the thinking.'
:)
I like sharing this one. It's fun. It's also very scary, so I'd appreciate anyone who comments, good or bad, I really don't mind, it'll only improve my writing.
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