Hello! i'm so sorry for the delay in chapters, i've just moved into somewhere with no wifi! it's horrible!
i can keep writing though ;)
thank you for being patient
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'Well, that was fun.' Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 'Of course the man she was having the affair with did it. He knew the husband was an active sleep-walker, it was the only logical solution.'
'And he confessed.' John said, rifling through some papers.
'That's not the point. I solved it before, it was just bad luck that he confessed.'
John looked at him. He thought to say something, but shook his head, realising it was futile. 'You seen Florence recently?'
'How recently?'
'Recently, Sherlock.'
'If you're saying a few hours recently, no. But I saw her yesterday, and I heard movement upstairs.'
'Huh. I wonder if she'll mind me checking on her, she might be ill.'
Sherlock looked at him, frowning. 'No, I'll do it. She doesn't quite trust you yet.'
He flung himself out of his chair as John frowned, and jogged up the stairs, calling out her name to warn her of his arrival. However, when he got no answer and had knocked on her door several times, he opened it regardless, to find she was not in it.
'Florence!' he yelled, just to ensure she wasn't still in the flat somewhere. When he didn't get an answer, his eyes raked the room, looking anywhere for clues. He zeroed in on the fact her bed was a mess, but her covers had been neatly made, the cushions still carefully placed. She was sitting on it, but had been dragged off. The window had been closed as far as it could without making a noise. The glass of water on the table nearest the window had been knocked over, the contents spilled over the carpeted floor.
He spied a piece of paper sticking out from under the lamp on her bedside table, and leaped over the bed to read it. The handwriting was a careful print, but not her own.
Dear Mister Holmes,
We are sorry to have taken Florence like this, but we had to drug her so she could keep quiet. We have some unfinished business. Nothing harmful, she'll be okay, but we couldn't leave this unresolved. Please bare in mind that we all care for her too, so you don't have to worry. We'll contact you when it's done.
Thank you for understanding - A J
Sherlock went through every single person he knew with the initials 'A J'. Eventually, he recalled what Florence had said when they first spoke properly. She said she had been found and rescued by someone called Arthur Jackson, but would he really be dumb enough to put his initials on the paper, when he could probably presume that Florence told Sherlock about him?
Unless he wanted him to know. He had made a point of saying she would be okay, so maybe that was just a... safety deposit, of sorts. Sherlock knew his name. If anything happened to Florence, he could report him to the police.
His eyes swept over the room again before he ran down the stairs, thrusting the note at John. 'They've taken her.' he said, his voice almost calm.
'What?!' John exclaimed, reading the note. His expression was startled, which made a lot of sense.
'The gang that she was with the for past seven years.' Sherlock said, throwing himself onto his chair.
'"Unfinished business" - what do you think that means?'
'She said she left with no warning. She said she had a job – information she had to relay, but never did. She also said that her and Arthur – or A J – got separated. What it was she was sending must have been important.'
'Maybe they're angry with her.'
'In that case...' Sherlock trailed off, his mind switching to thought. John sighed – he hated it when he stopped mid-sentence.
Suddenly, he leaped from his chair and ran towards the stairs. He grabbed his coat from the stand, and just as John began to follow him he was downstairs.
'Sherlock,' he began, moving down the stairs at quite a speed. Unsurprisingly, the detective ignored him. 'Sherlock,' he said, a bit louder. Once again, he was ignored. 'Sherlock!'
'What, John?'
'Has it not occurred to you-'
'Probably has-'
'That this is a gang we're dealing with? Sure, Florence's gang, but a gang, Sherlock!'
'What's all this about a gang?' Sherlock sighed as their landlady came around the corner, an apron tied loosely around her waist.
'Not now, Mrs Hudson,' he said, and John only had time to offer her an apologetic smile before he was pulled out of the door and into the street lamp lit Baker Street.
'We're moving out.' James said darkly as Florence walked into the main room of the Warehouse. It was early, and the sun was just beginning to light London.
'Why?' Florence said, her voice growing panicked. What had happened? Where were they going? Were they leaving London? She had never done that before, and she didn't know how she'd cope.
'We ran into some...' Arthur began from behind her, making her jump. 'Unpleasant company. They know where we are, and they could be dangerous. We have to go.'
'Where will we go?' Florence argued, her voice edgy. She could see Arthur's eyes hardening, but she didn't stop. 'This isn't the nineteenth century. We have to go somewhere that isn't owned, otherwise we'll be prosecuted.'
'I know.' he replied shortly, surging past her and to James. 'Did you hear back from him?'
James shook his head. 'I think today has to be on the road, Arthur. I don't think he's gonna reply any time soon.'
'I've got a place.' Florence began, so quietly the men ignored her. They kept arguing with each other. She cleared her throat, getting their attention before repeating it, slightly louder. 'I know somewhere we can go. It's a shithole, but if it's just for tonight...'
'Brilliant,' Arthur exclaimed. 'will we be undetected?'
'I imagine so. It's an abandoned factory used as a drug den, on the other side of London. Technically I was banned from it, by the inhabitants, but I'm sure they'll make an exception.'
James chuckled. 'Why were you banned?'
'I stole from them on several occasions.'
'Maybe,' Arthur said slyly. 'Just maybe, they'll let you in if we give them some of our own.'
Florence nodded. 'They have a taste for strong stuff.'
'Thank you, Flo. You've saved us.' James smiled.
Florence raised her eyebrows in disbelief. 'Eh.'
Florence opened her eyes slowly. She was in a room she found almost familiar, so familiar she could reach to her side and grab the glass of water that was always left out for her.
When she touched the glass, she realised with horror where she was.
'Arthur?!' she called. 'James?'
Getting no answer, she stood up. She swayed slightly, and her head felt light. She recognised the symptoms – she had been drugged. 'Arthur!' she yelled, feeling her fear intensify. Why was she there alone? Where had they gone? They must have taken her, so why would they have left her?
She wandered through the deserted warehouse, her steps echoing eerily. She heard a muffled voice to her left, so she ran towards it, hoping it was someone she knew. She threw open the door to one of the little side rooms, to find Michael tied and gagged. She fell to her knees, scrambling to help him. His eyes were trained on her, and the second she got the gag off, he whispered: 'it's a trap.'
Florence's eyes widened, and she took a step back. She felt arms around her waist and mouth, holding her in place. Her hands flew to her face, scratching at the hand. She couldn't breathe. Michael looked up at her, his face unreadable. She brought her elbow back hard, hitting her captor in the ribs. His grip slackened slightly, and she wriggled out, running from the room before she could get a look at who it was. She felt no remorse for leaving Michael – he had helped them trap her.
She ran at full pelt down the length of the warehouse, and she could hear the echoing footsteps behind her. She still had no idea who it was, but she dared not look.
She knew her way around the place like the back of her hand, and she had hiding spots, where she would go if Arthur, or any of the others, were angry. She'd wait until they started calling for her, and she'd come out.
The nearest one, she realised, was on the roof.
Knowing her chaser was probably following her, she took hold of the rope that hung from a hole in the ceiling. It was wet, as it was raining, which increased her grip on it. She felt the drops of water begin to soak her as she started the climb – before a hand grabbed at her foot and pulled down, hard. She yelled, and tightened her hold on the rope. With her other foot, she lashed out, hitting whoever was following her in the head. She heard a slight grunt and the hand dropped her leg. She recognised that grunt, but couldn't place it, which made her climb faster.
Nearing the top, she felt another force at the bottom – the man was following her. Her hands knew where to pull herself up, but it was wet – and she was wet, so she climbed a little bit more before hoisting herself onto the roof.
It was just getting dark as she straightened herself, and she could see the cars far down below. She ran over to where the rope was secured, and her hands fumbled at the knot frantically. She was aware of the tightened rope, and how that made it all the more harder. Suddenly, the rope slackened, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. She was yanked backwards, her head hitting the corregated iron hard. Her vision went blurry for a second, and a dark shape loomed over her. She still couldn't see the face. She scrambled out of it's way, avoiding the hole she came through. Her wet hair was in her face, and she pulled it out so she could see clearer. Her t-shirt was sodden, and the jeans she was wearing clung to her legs.
She stood hastily, and almost fainted. She was in a bad shape, that was clear to both herself and the man before her.
She found the face was masked, with a terrifying grin.
'Where do you think she is? We can't just go cruising around London 'till we spot a gang.' John asked, once they were seated in the cab. Sherlock ignored him, his indifferent face lit up by the phone in his hand. The cab was dark, despite the fact it was only just twilight.
Eventually, after the cabbie cleared his throat, Sherlock barked a location and they were off.
