We just left our dearest Florence after a particularly harrowing note she's received from the men she's trying to avoid.

Enjoy!


Hastily pulling on her jacket, she ran out of the bathroom and into the living room, feeling her heart plummet with anxiety.

'They've been here,' she gasped, throwing the note at Sherlock, plonking onto the sofa and putting her head in her hands.

Sherlock read the note, his eyes darting across the page, taking in the writing.

'We don't know if they've been here. They could have slipped it into your pocket in passing.'

'I haven't worn this jacket since I arrived. They must have dropped it off whilst we were out.'

'But,' John said, taking in the note that Sherlock had just handed him, 'if they're your friends, like you say – why would they want to hurt, or threaten, you in any way?'

'Because I deserted them. I had information, really important information, that I fled with. I have things about each of them that could ruin them. I realised I was out of my depth, I took the pill, and the rest – you know. They're angry, and I don't blame them. I was scared. But now, they might want to know what that information is, to diffuse it, and to do that they need the information that was given to me specifically, and I don't know if I can give it to them.' She had begun to cry at this point, and let out a sob when she finished her sentence.

'So they might need to...' Sherlock began, and his expression darkened.

'Get it out of me – the biggest, and only, drug-manufacturing, dealing gang in London, might have to get classified information out of me.'

'I'm susprised they still exist, if I'm being honest.' Sherlock said, and John fixed him with a stare.

'Classified by who?' John asked, and Florence shook her head at him.

'The man who gave me this information.' Sherlock frowned.

'But surely they wouldn't hurt you?' John said, shifting a little in his seat.

'They're incredibly unpredictable.'

'Who gave you the information?'

Florence's eyes widened in frustration. 'I can't tell you!'

Sherlock sighed, matching her annoyance, and placed his hands in the triangular shape under his chin. 'The first thing you need to do,' he said, closing his eyes, 'is contact them.'

'No!' she cried, and brought her hands down from her head. She was visibly shaking, her thin wrists quivering with fright. She ran her hands through her hair, as Sherlock stood and took her wrists, holding her hands in his, bringing them down from her head. John looked at them, his brow furrowing as he realised what Sherlock was doing. He was comforting her.

'It will be okay. Just call them.'

'No.' she kept repeating it, shaking her head, pulling away from him. 'No, please, no.'

'They wanted to know if you were okay. Just tell them.'

She stared at him, her eyes clouding as she thought. She then nodded, and took the phone from her pocket. She stared at it in her hands for a little bit, then shook her head. 'After we've finished this.'


'That's nice,' James said, walking steadily into the main room of the Warehouse. Florence jumped, dropping the glass in her hand. It smashed on the floor.

She had been singing to herself, which James had come to know as a coping mechanism. She hadn't opened up about her life before they had found her, but it was clear something had happened to her. She was always nervous and jittery, and she had frequent panic attacks and breakdowns that left her completely unsociable for days on end.

Florence stared down at the shards of glass around her feet. 'Thank you,' she said quietly, before picking up the biggest bits with her hands. As she leaned down, her sleeve rode up, and James saw several scars on the back of her hand, and on her wrist. He didn't say anything, just found two magazines and used them to scoop the rest of the shards into the old dustbin they lit every night.

'Arthur speaks highly of you. He says he wants to take you out soon.' he continued, trying to break the uncomfortable silence. Florence looked up at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. James chuckled. 'By out, he means on one of our... errands. He thinks you'll be good on the field.'

Florence nodded in understanding. 'What sort of errands?'

'Eh,' James began, 'could be anything. We're the good guys, though, don't worry.'

She looked up at him, a slight smile playing on her lips. She surveyed him, as Sherlock had taught her to do.

His face was somewhat pretty, with thick lips and high cheekbones. His hair was gelled so it sat close to his head, but it was quite long. It was clear he spent a lot of time on his looks, which suggested that he was either seeing someone or was interested in someone. His eyes were an icy blue that you could see straight through. He had seen so much, yet was able to keep his attitude cheerful and friendly.

He seemed like an all in all good guy, so why was Florence so afraid of him?

She realised with amusement that it was probably the pistol strapped to his belt, and the long scar that measured from the tip of his hairline to the base of his lip.


There was indeed a body on the Thames Bank, and it didn't take long for Sherlock to analyse it. Florence didn't take much in, her mind was completely preoccupied. She was trying to structure what she would say to them.

It started with a greeting. She didn't know what greeting, she was overthinking it slightly, so she would just say what came to her head immediately after Arthur picked up. It was one-hundred percent likely that he would put it on speakerphone, so everyone else could hear it, so she had to be careful. She didn't want to say something to all of them that she could only say to Arthur.

She would then proceed to tell them that she was okay. She didn't really know what else to say, other than just that. She didn't know whether to say what she was doing, and she definitely would not tell them where she was. She did not want a house call. Maybe she could say she was with Sherlock – but his information was plastered all over the internet. They would know where she was.

But then again, they could also trace the call. Maybe she should so it whilst she was at Scotland Yard, where she knew they would be headed later.

She ran a hand through her hair. The smell was getting to her – rotting sewage, mixed with the mud of the bank. It made her want to throw up. She stared down at the body in front of her, which Sherlock was flitting around like a fly on an apple. She stared at it, at the marks on his neck. He was strangled to death, the life drained from him like water down the plug hole.

She walked slowly towards it, bending down and using her sleeve to move his head, so she could see the marks better. Sherlock had got out his phone, and was scrolling on it. He frowned at her, but didn't protest.

She moved around the head, inspecting the neck. There bruises under the jaw, and red marks around his mouth and hairline. Something was bugging her, something about the way this man was strangled. She stepped backwards, and Sherlock looked up at her questioningly. She shook her head, and he looked back down at the neck. She was aware of John and Lestrade talking behind her, oblivious to the sudden storm in her mind. She knew who killed him. She just couldn't think.

She watched as Sherlock stood, putting his phone down and addressing all of them. 'He's been in the river a while. Almost all the data has been destroyed.' he grinned slightly, and continued. 'I'll tell you what, though – that lost Vermeer painting's fake.'

As he went into an in-depth explanation of what he was talking about, but Florence only managed to hear half of it. Her mind was a turmoil of deep, black sea, thoughts lighting up the storm like lightning does to the sky. She lost all track of time, and once she regained her stance she noticed the talking had stopped, and all eyes were on her.

'I need to go.' she said, and walked away before they could protest.


Dear Sherlock,

It's unlikely that this letter will ever find you, but on the off-chance that it does – hello. I miss you.

It's been an interesting past couple of years. I have apparently joined a gang. I'm not going to tell you their names, because if this does find you, it might put them in danger, but they're nice to me. They treat me like I'm their little sister – protective, but argumentative.

I started going out on their 'errands' – again, no details because it gives too much away. They're dangerous, but they're fun, and as long as one of the boys are with me I rarely get hurt.

I wonder on a daily basis if you are okay. I don't have access to the internet, otherwise I'd Google you, just to see if you were still around. I worry about you, and Mycroft.

You mustn't worry about me though, if you are. I'm okay. I keep having breakdowns and panic attacks but other than that, I don't think about my mother much any more. I've even managed to talk about the Incident without crying.

I really wish I could see you again. I miss you so much.

So much love, Florence x


Florence woke with a strangled scream. She sat bolt upright, and noticed she was on the couch. She must have dozed off, whilst, and she thought this with a frustrated sigh, Sherlock was talking to her.

Sherlock, she saw, was sitting on his armchair, fully clothed, despite the fact it was four in the morning. He looked at her, his expression unreadable.

'Sorry,' she gasped, bringing her hand up to her head and breathing deeply, trying to calm her fast-beating heart.

Sherlock turned back to the silent TV screen, which was showing the news. 'Which one was it this time?' He didn't sound at all annoyed, just that same emotionless drone.

'A compilation. You let me fall asleep?'

'Your mind was obviously troubled. I didn't want to disturb you.'

'You shouldn't have. I could have helped.'

'With what?'

'With the case.'

'Oh, yes. The case.' his voice went high-pitched as he mimicked the client. '"Mr Holmes, I thought my wife was having an affair, so I shot her whilst I was asleep!"'

'It seemed a lost cause.' she muttered, dropping back down onto the sofa.

'I don't believe in lost causes.' he said darkly, and Florence felt a twinge of guilt, before he paused for a bit. He then jumped up. 'Well,' he said, picking up his violin and holding it to his chin. 'It's slightly more interesting than a stolen painting, although I'm sure we're not done with our anonymous caller just yet.'

'You don't?'

'No – he left us without saying goodbye. If what I think is correct, and this man is playing with us, he would want to make a spectacular finish.'

'So you're going to solve this case in between?'

'Yes, although I suppose there's no helping that poor man now.' he said, completely sarcastically. 'I'll wait 'till the morning.'

'Isn't John asleep?'

'It's morning.' he said, completely contradicting his last statement before shutting up and playing a random melody. Florence recognised it as one of his own, and she smiled, turning to face the ceiling. 'Have you thought any more about trying to find your... friends?' he said when he had finished.

She applauded politely, and they heard the familiar groan from directly above them. 'Morning, John!' Sherlock called, before turning and looking down at his friend.

'No.' she said. 'I know they sent me that note, but I still don't know what they'd think of me. I'm a bit worried about calling them. I left without warning.'

'You seem to do that quite a lot.'

'Yes. Okay. I know you're upset, but do you really keep having to crack stupid fucking jokes like that?'

'I'm not upset. Anymore. And I just still can't believe you're back.'

'I missed you to bits.'

Sherlock chuckled. 'You haven't lost those funny terms, have you?'

Florence shook her head. 'Never.'

'Shame.'

'Nah. You wouldn't have me any other way.'

'Debatable.'

Florence looked at him, her expression dazed. 'What happened when I was here?'

'Not much. I went to the gallery about the painting, John went to the corpse's house and spoke to his... mutuals. We also managed to solve Mycroft's case for us. Almost got killed by a man who was a lot taller than me-'

'Taller? Than you?' Florence asked, cutting him off. It was meant as a joke, but something deep inside told her that this was not a good sign. She knew of one person who was taller than Sherlock Holmes.

'Yes. He got away. Anyway, by tomorrow all the distractions will be over, and we're just waiting on the last of the bomber's requests.'

The thought made Florence shudder. Yet another tedious task, where someone was put in danger. More danger. Danger that would scar them for life, if they didn't die.

'I'm going to bed.' she said, and did as she said.


'Arthur.' James muttered, holding his phone in one hand and beckoning with the other. 'You need to see this.'

'What?' Arthur said, his voice impatient. He walked over, and James showed him the screen. His eyes widened in disbelief. 'Fuck. She's with them.'


OooOOoOoH

This is all very interesting, if I may say so myself.

See you next time :)