Florence felt her heart plummet, and she backed away slowly. Her feet ran over the corrugated iron, finding her foot spaces, where she could stand without falling. The man before her walked slowly towards her.
'Who are you?'
'That doesn't matter.' the voice said, and Florence recognised it. Like she recognised the grunts, she could not place the voice. No matter how hard she tried. He had an accent – an American accent – but it sounded weird, as if it wasn't real.
Her foot caught the edge of the hole she came through, and she stopped. He carried on walking.
Florence's mind raced. She didn't know what this man would do to her, but she had to think of what to do.
She couldn't run like this. She was backed against a metaphorical wall, whereas in fact it was quite the opposite.
Her head turned to look down the hole. The rope was swinging gently as each raindrop hit it. The water was dripping down her neck, and she could feel the chill. The man was still walking towards her and, as she realised there was nothing else she could do, she stepped backwards.
She fell for a little bit with the raindrops, and it felt nice. She wanted to fall like this forever – gravity seemed to pause. Then she remembered what she was doing, as gravity pressed play again, and her hands scrambled for the rope in front of her. She couldn't reach it. She let out a slight yell in fear as she fell backwards, away from the rope. This was it. She was going to die.
With some difficulty, she relaxed every muscle in her body, and she fell limp. She had read that if you did this, there was less chance of the bones breaking. She didn't know if it would work, but she needed anything right now. She was going to die.
Just before she hit the floor, she felt a pair of warm arms catch her, and they both fell to the floor.
Florence turned towards the ceiling, breathing hard. She sat up, and looked at Arthur Jackson. They stood at the same time, looking at each other. Arthur's face was concerned.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and went to hug him. He stopped her, taking gentle hold of her chin and moving it to see if she was okay. He then did so with her arms, and noticed the cut on her hand.
'Hand?' he said, his voice annoyed.
'Accident.' She really didn't want to tell him how she got it – by raising a chair above her head to try and kill herself. He probably wouldn't have been best pleased.
'You've been away from us for what, nine days? And you've hurt yourself.'
'Accident!'
He smiled a rare smile, and hugged her tight. 'We're sorry we had to... you know.'
'Drug me.' Florence said, disgruntled. 'was there any other way? It felt too good.'
His smile faded as he realised the implications of what he had done. 'Shit. Sorry.'
'What's going on?' James ran into the room, his clothes soaking wet.
'Young Florence here just fell from the fucking roof.'
'What was she doing on the roof?'
'Ask her.'
'What were you doing on the roof?' James' brow was furrowed.
'Running from someone. Michael...'
'Has been dealt with.' Arthur said sullenly. Florence's face fell.
'Is he okay?'
'We – I, thank you, James – have him in that room. He's safely untied. Did you get the face of the man following you?'
'No, he was wearing a mask.' it suddenly dawned on her what had just happened. 'shit. Shit.' she melted to the floor, her head in her hands. 'Fuck.'
James and Arthur exchanged a familiar look – it was clear she was about to melt with emotion. James knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder. She leaned in towards him, and they stayed like that for a while. He planted a light kiss on her hair before standing.
'I'm going to go up onto the roof – he might still be up there.' he said, and made towards the rope. He scaled it with ease.
Arthur knelt down before Florence, his face serious. 'Your friend is probably looking for you, isn't he?'
'Who, Sherlock?' Florence said. 'Probably. But he's no threat to us – you – he knows it would hurt me for him to hurt you.'
Arthur nodded, and stood. 'Okay. We should prepare Michael for his arrival. Do you want to come?'
'Can I hit him?'
'Only if you do it hard and in the face.'
'Done.'
Sherlock stepped gingerly into the warehouse, his footsteps light. He could see wet prints on the concrete floor, and he followed them carefully. He had sent John somewhere else, he couldn't quite remember where – it was not important. All that mattered right now, at that particular moment in time, was to find the gang that had taken his best friend.
He heard voices faintly in the distance, and he abandoned his footprints and followed them instead. His investigation took him through several cold, white corridors, and into a bigger room. There was a hole in the ceiling, and a rope hanging from it. It was swinging, which indicated someone had just touched it. His eyes scanned the room, looking for anything else that might've indicated this. He noticed a wet patch on the floor, and more footprints leading away from it.
Quite suddenly, his mouth was covered with a cloth and he was knocked out cold.
Sherlock opened his eyes quickly, unsure as to where he was. He was in a dark room, illuminated slightly by a small window. The walls were made of iron, and it was rusting in places. He saw Florence sat against the wall, her eyes stone cold and directed towards the wall. She was very deep in thought. She cracked a worried smile when he looked at her.
'Are you okay?' she asked.
'Yes,' Sherlock replied, sitting up. He noticed his coat was on the other side of the room, dripping wet. 'what happened?'
'James thought you were the intruder. He told me to apologise for him – he's gone with Arthur and Michael. You were out for a few hours.'
'Where's John?'
'I texted him from your phone. He's gone back to Baker Street. I was instructed to wait here with you until Arthur got back – they had to go to their second location, since the intruder knows where they are.'
'Intruder?'
Florence tilted her head to the side. 'Mm. He chased me onto the roof, and I fell off it. Arthur caught me, though, and he got away. I hit my head, and I think it's bleeding but I daren't look.'
Sherlock frowned. 'Let me see,' she turned around, and sure enough, her dark hair was stained with the red, sticky liquid. He winced. 'You're okay now?'
'It hurts a little but, yes. I really want to go to bed,' she said, her voice taking a pleading turn. She rubbed her forehead with her hand.
'You sound like a grandmother,' Sherlock grinned, standing carefully. The room swayed, but then went still again.
'No I don't,' she replied, a slight smile on her face. She stood as well.
'Would you like to take a hot water bottle with you, Grandma Florence? Or are you satisfied with the cat laying at the foot of your bed?'
'What about the mints?'
'And the apparent desire to decorate a house completely with beige interior.'
Florence mock-gasped. 'And the reusable shopping bags!'
'And the glasses chain? For absolute ease-of-sight?'
'And the subconscious thing that all old women have, they really hate long hair. I could never cut my hair.'
'You'd be a terrible grandmother.'
'Forget grandmother, imagine the children!' They were both laughing so hard, tears were streaming from her eyes. She began to fall over, her hands covering her mouth, and Sherlock held her steady. She leaned into him, her smile still wide. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her.
'That settles it, then.' Sherlock began, his smile slowly fading. 'You're never having children.'
'They'd be dead in a week.' Florence replied, but the fun had gone. 'I'd probably be dead before them.'
'Not on my watch.'
'Then you'd better watch harder.' Sherlock looked down at the top of her head, and subconsciously, his grip tightened.
'You're not going away again.' he whispered.
Their heads whipped towards the door as a knock echoed throughout the small room. They pulled apart quickly as Arthur stalked inside.
'I see you're awake.' he said to Sherlock, his voice almost a growl. 'It's good to finally meet you.' he extended his hand to him, and he took it, grudgingly. It was cold, and smooth to the touch.
'Likewise.'
'It looks like the intruder is gone. He hasn't followed us, anyway. We made sure to take a few... detours.'
Sherlock observed the man carefully. His face was stunning – prominent cheekbones, a chiseled chin and large, blue eyes. His hair was short, but it still fell over his face slightly. He wore a dark suit, with a light shirt and tie. He was definitely the man Florence described him as.
He looked for the signs of the 'detours' – he was bone dry, but his shoes were wet – it had stopped raining outside. A train ticket was pointing out of his trouser pocket – they had taken the tube. It was a travel card – all zones – which indicated he had taken several different trains to lose their trail. It couldn't have taken long to shake the intruder.
He zoned back into their conversation, as he heard it was getting important. 'I suggest you stay with us, Florence. It was clear that whoever it was, was after you.'
'Why am I any safer with you than with Sherlock? He's got Scotland Yard on speed dial.'
Arthur looked Sherlock up and down, and the detective could feel the hatred radiating from him, which was when he realised that the feeling was mutual. He didn't like to feel that, because he knew that it had something to do with Florence, and that subject still made him uncomfortable.
'I don't know.'
'Arthur.' Florence said, her voice hard. 'Come on.'
'What do you want me to say, Florence? That you should just walk free, into a potentially unsafe London?'
'London's always been unsafe, Arthur. I was fucking attacked, in an alleyway off a heavily populated street-' she hit the back of her hand with the other in time with the last three words, '-whilst high off some random drug someone had given to me the same night. Whenever I walk alone, I get frightened and have to go somewhere where there's people, and a lot of people, otherwise I'll panic. However, when I'm in crowds, I'm constantly battling the sensation that someone is following me, so I want to push everyone out of the way to get to safety. I'll never be safe in London. I'll never feel safe in London. At least, with Sherlock, I'm with someone I know and have known for the better part of my life. And-' she said, walking swiftly towards Arthur and placing her hand on his shoulder. 'It's not that I don't love you to pieces, and James and... Michael, too. But it has just got to the point that I'd rather be with Sherlock.'
Arthur stared into her eyes, a blank stare that was completely unreadable by either of the other people in the room. As his gaze switched between each of her eyes, she stared back at him. Eventually, he nodded.
'Fine. We'll discuss our little... predicament later. But,' his stare turned to Sherlock. 'If anything happens, anything at all-' his expression turned dangerous. 'you will dearly pay. Now go.'
Sherlock Holmes looked steadily into the microscope at one of the specimens he had retrieved from the crime scene. The lab around him was silent, which was just how he liked it, usually. However, this time, he was dunked in and out of reality, into his past and what he could imagine his future would be. He never usually liked to procrastinate, and especially remember, but this time was an exception. The crime scene was linked to her, they had found her DNA, on the tshirt of one of the men murdered. He closed his eyes.
First, he saw him and Florence Wood cycling. She was only thirteen, and he was sixteen. He had just finished school forever, preparing for his college years in September. He was behind her, and watched as her hair flew behind her. The parks of London city were still polluted, but there was grass, which was more than he could say for the streets. She laughed as he sped up and splashed her with a puddle. They were both happy. It was before her depression, before her mother's suicide. It felt good, the sun on his white-shirted back.
Second, it jumped forward, and he was alone. His apartment, all around him, was dark, and it didn't look like his home at all. He was watching the television, the only light coming from the screen. He saw her face pop up, along with the words: 'body found'. He picked up a glass on the table next to him, and hurled it at the TV. It smashed into one thousand pieces, and somehow he started bleeding. He was breathing heavily, and his vision was blurry. He didn't want to accept she was dead.
When he jumped back, his chest hurt, and he couldn't breathe. The specimen in the microscope seemed a million miles away, and his eyes welled with tears. He bit his finger, hard, to stop himself crying. This couldn't happen. He was in a relatively public place, and he was crying. He had to stop. He had to find her.
I have very little time so I'll try and spam chapters for you all.
I came back to see so much support, so many new followers and favourites and I just want to thank you all for everything, this is such an amazing experience, to have people appreciate your work.
Thank you.
