'Sixteen.' Florence breathed, gazing at the large birthday badge that Sherlock had jokingly bought her in her hand. 'How the fuck did I make it this far?'
Sherlock grinned. 'A stroke of luck.'
Florence laughed sarcastically. 'What luck?'
Sherlock gazed at her, his smile fading slowly. She looked back at him, her eyebrows raised. 'Happy birthday, Flo.'
Florence breathed in the semi-fresh air of the riverbank, where the car had been abandoned. She grimaced at the smell – mud, and rot – a lot of rot – mixed with the sickly smell of pollution.
The car itself had been found in a large, concrete-floored open space that apparently served no purpose but to look ugly.
'The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind. City boy. Paid in cash.' Lestrade was explaining, but Florence had already zoned out. She was staring at the interior of the car – covered in fresh, deep red blood. Her eyes closed in disgust, and her stomach dropped. She was never one for being queasy, but now, considering the consequences, the very sight of the liquid made her want to throw up.
'Before you ask – yes – it's Monkford's blood. The DNA checks out.'
'No body.' Sherlock said, and he sounded disappointed.
'Not yet.'
'Get a sample sent to the lab.' Sherlock muttered, and to Florence he breathed: 'go to the woman over there. Use your somewhat feminine friendliness to get some answers from her. You remember how we used to?'
Florence nodded and walked slowly over to the woman, who was sniffling into a tissue. 'Mrs Monkford?' she muttered, and the woman turned to her, and sighed. 'I've already spoken to two policemen today.'
'I'm not from the police.' she said, and her voice was soft. 'I'm here to see if you're okay.'
Mrs Monkford smiled sadly. 'I'm as okay as expected. He had been depressed for months. I was beginning to think he'd do something like this, but not this...' her face crumpled, and her hand went to her face again. From the corner of her eye, Florence saw Sherlock glaring at her.
'Why do you think he hired the car?'
'Are you sure you're not from the police?'
'Quite sure.'
'He said he was going on a business trip. He didn't ever get there, apparently.'
'Isn't it suspicious he hired a car?' Florence asked, fully aware that she was making an enemy. She didn't care.
'No,' she said, her voice growing harder. 'it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all.'
'Was he like that? Did he usually forget to renew taxes?'
'No, he wasn't like that.'
'Wasn't he? Interesting.' Florence said, her face growing bored. She walked away, towards Sherlock, who was walking with John away from the scene.
'Report?'
'Referred to him in past tense.'
'Excellent. Thank you.'
'Am I missing something?' John asked, glancing at Florence with mild resent in his eyes. She frowned slightly and looked away.
'It's a bit early to start referring to your potentially dead husband in past tense – they'd only just found the car.' Sherlock answered, not having noticed the interaction between his two friends.
'You think she murdered him?'
'No. Definitely not. A murderer would not make a stupid mistake like that.'
'Ah, I see.' then he stopped and frowned. 'no, I don't. What am I seeing?'
Donovan, from behind them, yelled something entirely random at them, and John turned around and nodded at her, obviously tired of the conversation.
'Janus Cars.' Sherlock said, ignoring Donovan completely. He handed the business card to Florence, and she inspected it carefully before handing it to John. 'I found this in the glove compartment.'
'Sherlock, would you say, if you were different, that I'm... okay looking?' Florence asked, playing aimlessly with her hair. They were laying on the grass of the local park. Sherlock had just finished his second year at college. Florence had just finished high school.
Sherlock frowned. 'Where has this come from?'
'I'm curious.'
'I wouldn't rule it out as a possibility. If I was different.'
'Hmmm.'
'Aren't you going to ask what I think?'
'As you?'
'Yes.'
She laughed slightly. 'Okay. What do you think?'
'I think you're good looking.' he said, smirking. Florence rolled over onto her stomach and looked at him. He looked down at her, his blue eyes shining.
'Really?'
'Yes.'
'You didn't just say that because you want me to tell you why I said it?'
'No. But can you tell me regardless?' She laughed again, and rolled onto her back.
'Someone told me I was pretty. I wanted to know if they were flirting or not.'
'Oh? What else did he say?'
She rolled over again, her eyes glinting in amusement. 'She said I had eyes like emeralds, and a voice that could reach the charts one day.'
'I don't doubt that.' Sherlock said, his lips creeping into a smile. 'Oh, and she's definitely flirting.'
'Good to know.'
Florence rested her head against the cab window. The car vibrated, and it made her head feel strange, but she felt so ill, her head wouldn't support itself. She was vaguely aware of the two men talking to each other, and was glad they didn't notice as she closed her eyes.
She wondered why she felt ill. She hadn't eaten anything strange in the past few days, she hadn't taken anything – but her head just felt so heavy... she wanted to sleep...
Then the men's voices, the rocking of the car, and the world blacked out entirely.
'Even if we found the body before the timer went off...' Sherlock was saying, mainly to himself.
'Sherlock,' John said, staring at the girl with her head on the window, her eyes closed, and her breathing a little too slow. When the detective kept talking, John repeated.
'What?'
John nodded in her direction pointedly, and Sherlock turned to face her. His face grew softer as he watched her sleep, but then he frowned.
'Something's wrong.' he said, and took her pulse. 'Heart rate is varying. Slower, faster, even faster, slower again. She's sleeping fitfully.' he tried waking her with a gentle shake on the shoulder, then he got rougher. 'she's not waking up. She's been drugged.'
The street seemed to dance as Florence stumbled through it. The lights looked around seven times brighter, and everything seemed closer one second, then further away the next.
That was definitely the wrong pill. What she was given was apparently just cocaine – she had crushed it hungrily, without looking at what it was.
She was scared. Her heart was beating too loud, it hurt her head. She fell into the wall, willing herself to throw up. She felt so ill, she wished for it to be over.
She found herself in a long, dark alley, and something in her mind told her to get out. She heard the men coming before they got there, and suddenly she was engulfed in pain.
:)
