I loved that last chapter. It was so interesting to write, the relationship between Sherlock and Flo, it's really interesting.
I hope you like this one, but I must point out a mild trigger warning. Perhaps not so mild. I'm not sure, but if it affects you, I'm sorry.
The first time Sherlock ever heard Florence sing was at her mother's funeral. When she sang, the entire church fell silent. The cold, grey slabs lining the walls and floor set the mood, and black-clad guests sat uniformly in the pews, listened to her noise.
Mrs Wood didn't have many friends. One could argue that she had none, and that everyone who was there, was there for Florence. The girl who had lost everything.
Even the pigeons that were roosting in the roof stopped stopped their singing. She sung a song she had written for the occasion, a haunting melody that echoed around the room.
It spoke of a pain that was dull at first, but got worse over time. It spoke of a loneliness that made Sherlock feel bad – she surely wasn't that lonely if she had him? He pushed those thoughts aside. They were selfish.
Her voice...
It haunted him.
6 hours remaining-
'Nineteen-eighty-nine. A young kid – a champion swimmer – came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament. Drowned in the pool. Tragic accident.'
They were all sitting in the back of a taxi, on the way to Baker Street. He had the newspaper clipping on his phone, and he was showing it to John, who was sitting opposite him.
'You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?'
'But you remember.'
'Yes.'
'Something fishy about it?'
'Nobody thought so, except me. I was six or seven. I read about it in the papers.'
'Started young, didn't you?'
'The boy – Carl Powers – had some sort of fit in the water. However, by the time they got him out, it was too late. There was something wrong – something I couldn't get out of my head. His shoes – they weren't there. I made a fuss, tried to get the police involved, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left the rest of his clothes in the locker, but there was no sign of his shoes,' he reached towards the plastic evidence bag containing the trainers and looked at them. 'until now.'
5 hours remaining-
'Can I help?' John asked, sliding the slidey doors from the living room to the kitchen open. Sherlock was sitting at the table, Florence opposite him, and they were both looking through pictures and newspaper articles about Carl Powers' death. Sherlock ignored him, and Florence looked up at him, acknowlidging his presence.
'I want to help. There's only five hours left.'
'Shit, really?' Florence said, just as John's phone notified him of a text. He read it and sighed.
'It's your brother. He's texting me now.' he frowned, realising something. 'how did he get my number?'
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'Must be a root canal.' he muttered, and Florence snickered.
'He did say "national importance".'
'How quaint.' Sherlock said, snorting.
'What is?'
'You are. Queen and country.'
'You can't just ignore it.'
'I'm not. Putting my best man onto it right now.'
'Good.' John folded his arms, and nodded, as if satisfied with Sherlock's conclusion. 'Who?'
3 hours remaining-
'Hello, dear.' Mrs Hudson greeted Florence kindly as she came up the stairs with a tray in her hands. On it were three mugs, and she placed them carefully on the table. Florence smiled in thanks, warmed by the fact that someone had made her a drink. 'How's all this going?'
'Okay, I think. We're running out of time, but I think he's nearly got it...'
'Poison.' Sherlock said, looking up from a microscope on the kitchen table.
'What are you going on about?' the older woman said, and Sherlock brought his hand down on the table, hard. The contents of the mugs wobbled.
'Clostridium botulinum!' he yelled. Mrs Hudson winced and ran from the room. Florence stared after her, and John came into the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about. 'It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!' he continued, and they both stared at him. 'Carl Powers!'
'He was murdered?' Florence asked, moving forward in a way that caused her hair to fall over her face. She tucked it back idly.
'Remember the laces? The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing to slip the poison into his medication. Two hours after he comes to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns.'
'Wouldn't the autopsy pick that up?'
'No,' Florence said, her expression thoughtful. 'I remember this one. It's practically undetectable. No one would have looked for it.'
Sherlock nodded and walked over to his laptop was sitting. He opened his website – the Science of Deduction – and typed a message into the forum: 'FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989)'.
'There were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet.' he said, continuing to type: 'Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.'
'That's why they had to go.'
'The killer kept the shoes all these years.' John said.
'Yes.' Sherlock looked up at John. 'Meaning...'
'He's our bomber.'
Florence's phone buzzed from within Sherlock's front pocket, and he got it out triumphantly. 'Well done, you.' the sobbing woman said, her voice anguished. 'come and get me.'
'What I don't get,' John said aimlessly after they had been made aware of the woman's safety. 'is why the bomber gave us the pink phone, but called Florence's?'
'They gave it to you?' Florence said. Sherlock realised he had neglected to tell her about the meeting at Scotland Yard with Lestrade, earlier that morning.
'Mhm. In an envelope. It showed us the basement, and luckily I'd seen it before, otherwise we would have been absolutely lost.'
'So he gave you the phone, all set up and shit, and called me?' Florence asked, picking up her phone and inspecting it.
'Perhaps he thought it to be more fun.' Sherlock said, and John nodded in agreement.
'More fun? To call a different phone?'
'You'd be surprised.' Sherlock replied, his voice casual. Florence shuddered as she realised the implications of what he had just said.
'Psychopath?'
'Low-functioning.' Sherlock said, and his grimace turned into a grin. Florence covered her mouth as she turned away to laugh, and John's gaze flickered between them in confusion.
'Inside joke?'
'Something like that.'
Later that evening, the news spoke of Florence's re-appearance. She watched it, scowling as they depicted her as a 'mindless drug addict' who 'left in a state and didn't come home'. They spoke of her disappearance as an 'act of depression, following her mother's tragic suicide'. Her brow furrowed further. John, seeing her state of annoyance, reached over to get the remote and switched the television to a different channel. He watched with satisfaction as her facial muscles relaxed and she nodded at him in thanks.
'Food?' he asked no one in particular, and Florence shook her head, still staring at the television screen. The look in her eyes had turned to something else – not anger, but a sort of sadness. Sherlock ignored him.
John had been to Tesco's, up the road, to buy Florence a toothbrush, and some shower cream. She had accepted graciously, as she hadn't thought about any of that. He had also offered her his room, but she had declined, saying she was absolutely fine on the sofa, which was the second choice.
She waited until Sherlock had gone to bed, and John was in his room, before slipping off the armchair and scuttling off to the bathroom. She was as quiet as a mouse, and in the time it took for her to realise what she was doing, where she was, who she was living with, she was leaning over the toilet bowl, the contents of her stomach wretched from her body in violent spasms.
She leaned against the wall, her knees bent and her elbows resting on them, thankful her friend was asleep, as he was only in the room next to her. She pulled her hair back from her face, and allowed the tears to flow. She was scared. She was alone. She couldn't call Sherlock for help – how would he receive it? He might have been angry at the behaviour. He didn't seem like the Sherlock she used to know.
That thought made her cry more, and as she wept in the little bathroom of 221B Baker Street, she thought that she might as well die. There was nothing for her here. Sherlock was different, she was sleeping on the couch of someone who she now considered a stranger, Arthur, James and Michael were gone, and she was alone.
How she yearned for their drugs. They were so sweet, and they made her forget everything. That is what she missed. That's what she wanted back.
She stood and flushed the toilet. As she watched the contents disappear, her hands were shaking. She stumbled to the sink, leaned against it. She was still shaking. She looked around desperately for anything to cut herself with. Anything. In her head, she was screaming. She wanted salvation. She wanted peace.
A mirror was placed above the sink, and there was a full length one on the opposite side of the room. She rushed over to it, grabbing a chair with a small hand towel on it as she went. She lifted the chair over her head, ready to bring it down onto the mirror, when she caught sight of her reflection.
She hadn't seen herself in four years. There were no mirrors at the Warehouse, and she hadn't really been anywhere else.
She dropped the chair and walked slowly towards the mirror. It was a tall one, and it showed her whole body. She reached out to touch it, causing the real and virtual fingers to touch. She wasn't certain it was really her.
Her cheeks were gaunter than they had been before, showing protruding cheekbones and hollow cheeks. Her lips were dry and cracked, and thin – thinner than she remembered. She was thinner than she remembered. She looked strange without her fringe, and her eyes were too big. Her nose felt weird.
She looked, and felt, so out of proportion it distracted her for a full three minutes, which is the time it took for Sherlock to find her.
Oooof. if this has affect on someone, I'm sorry, and I'm always open to talk. Writing her character is quite difficult, even though I haven't experienced anything she's experienced before.
Anyway, until next time ;)
