"Jim...where do people go when they die?" A fresh faced six year old Emily asked from her seat at the kitchen table. Her hair resembled, as it always did this early in the morning, a bird's nest that needed cutting. But neither of the two boys in the room wanted to take her. Apparently they seemed to prefer her just the way she was. Even if that meant she did get rather filthy, though how that happened would always be a mystery to them.
"Such serious questions so early in the morning." Jim simply replied as he buttered some toast.
"But where do they go?" She insisted before taking a bite of her cereal from the spoon in her hand, promptly spilling half the milk down her chin.
"Eat your breakfast Em." Sebastian sighed, taking the seat next to her with his own bowl and attempted to tuck the strands of blonde behind his sister's ears. It didn't last long however as she began to swat his hands away with her spoon.
"But I wasn't being rude, I just want to know."
"Why the sudden interest anyway?" Jim questioned as he took the seat on her other side taking a big bite of his food.
"I heard Amy talking to her friends at school saying her Gran-dad got created and that he lives on her mantle piece."
"Cremated." Sebastian corrected her.
"That's what I said, cremted." Emily insisted with a sharp nod, causing Sebastian to practically snort his cereal out of his nose; her attempts at seeming grown up would never cease to amuse him, especially when she said the word wrong.
He took a moment to recover before starting. "Well, some people are, as you say, Cremted." She giggled when he winked at her. "Then some people are strange enough to take what's left of them home so they can look at them, cry for a little bit then show them off to all their visitors." Her head tilted to the side slightly in curiosity. "But others can't be bothered with that, they bury them under the ground in a box, put a block of marble where the head rests and visit every so often." Sebastian shrugged at the end of his explanation. He dreaded the day when she would ask where babies came from, had actually managed to prepare slightly for that moment, but this, he wasn't expecting.
"But what happens to the bits inside you?" Here, both boys frowned as her eyes sparkled.
"I just told you Em, they either get cremated or stuck in a box six feet under the ground." He now watched with a disapproving look on his face as his younger sister actually started drinking the remaining milk from the bowl, hiding her features from sight as milk began to dribble down her chin again and land on her night dress that was two sizes too big for her.
Jim sniggered when her bowl had safely landed on the table again. She now had a milk moustache that she was trying to lick off as she shook her head. "That's not what I meant." She tried dodging the hand that was now reaching for her, but gave in as Sebastian began to wipe the milk away with the sleeve of his shirt.
"Then what did you mean?" Jim asked.
"The bit inside you, the bit that makes you, you. What happens to it?"
"Could you possibly mean the soul?" Sebastian replied, but he only received a shrug and a blank face from her. She looked back and forth between the two boys, one still sitting eating toast watching the other expectantly, the other looking befuddled as he thought of a way to explain this to a six year old. Eventually she sighed, her shoulders sagging in disappointment.
"You don't know, do you?" She slid down from her chair." If you don't than I can find out from Gran." She left the room, nearly tripping on her sleep wear at least twice.
Sebastian let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "What was that all about?" Jim asked, though he didn't really seem interested.
Tap, tap, tap. "Emily."
"No idea." He continued shovelling cereal in his mouth, but stopped mid bite when he heard the familiar sounds of feet running on carpet. He wondered what on earth she could want to know now, hopefully why a year lasted twelve months. Now that he could answer.
Tap, tap, tap. "Emily."
"Sebastian, where do babies come from?" It was Jims turn to choke on his food.
"Emily." She looked up from the plate of food that had now been abandoned to find John on the other side of the window beckoning her to come outside. How long had it been since she'd zoned out? More importantly why on earth would she think about something that had happened when she had been six? In all fairness it had probably been her Mother's fault. As Sherlock and John had entered a shop ten minutes, Teenage Kicks had sounded from her pocket. Instead of following the pair, she had opted to wait outside and find out what the woman had wanted. Apparently, she had, once again, spotted Sebastian. This time he had been stepping off the 106 bus just as she was getting on. Emily had done the usual routine of rolling her eyes, informing her Mother that she was just seeing things, ask the question of what Sebastian would be doing on a 106 bus in the first place and bid her Mother a not very fond goodbye. But she had been stopped during her favourite part. Just as she had been about to hang up, her Mother had asked a question. It shouldn't have bothered her really, but it had deflated her mood from curiously following Sherlock around Chinatown, to more than slightly annoyed with a hint of depressed. Six simple words had ruined her day: "What time are you coming home?" Emily had been silent as the question had sunk in. Her Mother, the one person she was genetically supposed to love, genetically supposed to care for and vice versa, had not even noticed she had moved out of the house. Granted, she hadn't exactly taken much out of her room, but surely it had been enough for someone to notice, but apparently not.
She didn't have much time to answer however as her flatmates had left the shop in a hurry, dragging her along with them. She wouldn't have known how to answer anyway. Instead of saying anything, she had hung up. If the answer was that important to her Mother, she would call back.
As she had walked between her two friends, she had not heard a word either of them had spoken, had just stared into the space in front of her seeing nothing. She had always known the woman who had given birth to her hadn't exactly been caring when she was a child. But this made her feel a whole new level of numbness.
She had barely registered John sitting her down in the little cafe in-between himself and Sherlock, hadn't felt the discomfort of being so tightly squished. Hadn't even noticed when John had gently lifted her legs to rest them on top of his so she had a little more room, only briefly glanced at Sherlock when he had said the name Sebastian.
Strangely though, she did still feel the slight throbbing in her nose from where she had literally bumped into Sherlock moments before the phone call.
She got up from her seat now and made her way outside to find John already offering her his hand.
"Are you alright?" He asked as she took it and fell into step beside him.
"I'm fine." She lied, trying to make her voice sound strong and probably failing.
"You don't sound it." Yeah, she'd failed. "Who was that on the phone? You've been quiet ever since then." The figure of a crouching Sherlock was getting nearer with every step they took.
"My Mother." Her tone was flat. "It was my Mother."
"What did she say?" John squeezed her hand.
"Nothing." She whispered and squeezed back before letting his hand drop and placing hers in her pockets.
"It's been here since Monday." Sherlock stated before John could say anything else. Emily watched as Sherlock straightened and pressed a doorbell, the sound irritating Emily even though it only lasted a few seconds.
She feared if she was alone with John, he would broach the topic of her phone call and quickly came to the decision that she should follow Sherlock down the alley that lay beside the flat.
"No-one's been in that flat for at least three days."
"Could've gone on holiday." John suggested.
Sherlock began to walk backwards as he came to a laddered fire escape. "D'you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" But without even waiting for an answer he took a run at the ladder, managing to grab the end and pull it down to the ground, quickly running up the steps towards the open window. As the ladder squeaked in protest as it returned to its horizontal position, Emily winced at the sound and headed back to the mouth of the alley.
"Sherlock!" She heard John whisper shout that was quickly followed by footsteps running to catch up with her.
As soon as the pair were back by the front door, John began to press the doorbell. Apparently he wasn't feeling particularly patient either as he bent to talk through the letter box. "D'you think maybe you could let us in this time?" But Emily, with her ear pressed to the door, heard no reply. She looked down at John and shrugged. He sighed and tried again. "Can you not keep doing this, please?" After a moment, Emily looked back down at her friend.
"I think he said something." He wasted no time in shouting again as Emily crouched down to take a look through the letter box.
"What?"
"Somebody's been in here before me!" She thought was the reply.
"What are you saying?" John looked down at Emily. "What did he say?"
"I think he said; somebody's been in here before me." She shrugged and turned to lean her back against the door, stretching her legs out before. John allowed the letterbox to close and sigh to himself as he straightened.
"I'm wasting my breath. Why do I always waste my breath?" He asked Emily. She watched as he began to pace a few feet away from the door, glaring at whatever his gaze landed on. It wasn't long before he was ringing the doorbell again however.
Emily sighed and rested her head against the door. "So what's the matter?" John questioned. She glanced up at him to find him leaning a hand against the door and looking down at her. When she looked away and didn't give an answer he sighed. Again. "Emily, please don't make me waste my breath with you, you can tell me, you know that don't you?" If she was still the crying type, she would probably have tears in her eyes now. But she wasn't, instead the feeling of numbness began to fade. John was her friend, he cared for her, and he was proving it right now by asking her what was wrong. She had no reason not to tell him.
"She said something that bothered me. That's all." She answered looking straight ahead at the people milling around.
"Your Mum?" She nodded. "What was it, what did she say?" Emily allowed herself another sigh before she opened her mouth.
"She asked what time I'd be coming home." Out loud, the words that had bothered her seemed like nothing. At that moment she felt stupid for feeling this way. Perhaps it was because she had always held onto that tiny amount of hope inside her that her Mother would one day care for her. "John," She continued before he could tell her exactly what she was thinking and make her feel even more the fool. "She hadn't even noticed I'd moved out." She didn't dare look up to see his face. She didn't want to know what he was thinking.
But when a hand landed on the top of her head, slightly stroking her hair, she couldn't help but look up. He was watching her closely, now taking a moment to examine her face. "That's her loss Emily." He informed her with a solemn expression. She smiled slightly and opened her mouth to talk, but he held a finger up to stop her before she had even started. "Hold that thought." He bent back down to the letter box. "Any time you want to include us." Emily watched again as her friend shook his head in frustration, his anger returning full force. "No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with my..." He had paced from the door but now quickly returned to the letter box to finish his sentence. "...MASSIVE INTELLECT!"
Turning her head the slightest inch, Emily pressed her ear against the door again in a useless attempt to see if she could hear anything as John angrily pressed the door bell again.
"Maybe we should just go?" She suggested as John looked down at his watch. "He is Sherlock Holmes; I mean he can find his way home."
"Few more minutes." John mumbled to her, looking back down at her and noticing she still held a miserable expression on her face. He looked away, not enjoying that his friend felt this way, and tried to think of something else to say.
"Wooh!" John snapped his head back round to see why Emily had made such an odd noise, but the answer of obvious. The door had opened while she had still been leaning her back against it. Now she was lying down on the ground, looking up at Sherlock who was looking down at her curiously before offering her his gloved hand to help her up. She took it and listened as Sherlock began to talk.
"The, uh, milk's gone funny, washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago." His voice was all croaky as if he was coming down with a cold.
"Somebody?" John asked. Sherlock nodded and continued.
"Soo Lin Yao." He looked down at Emily. "We have to find her." He bent down to retrieve something off the floor taking Emily with him as they were still attached at the hand.
"But how, exactly?" Emily dropped her hand from his to allow him to un-fold the envelope he had just picked up.
"Maybe we could start with this." He walked out, grabbing Emily's arm and closing the door behind him. John followed them, his anger from moments before had apparently been forgotten.
"You've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?"
"I'm fine." Sherlock coughed to them.
"Orange juice." Emily stated from her spot between them.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"Orange juice." She repeated. "If you're getting a cold, you need orange juice." She stated as if it should have been obvious.
"Mmm. Yes." She now heard her phone go off in her pocket, but it wasn't a call she was receiving. Someone had sent her a text. As she reached with her free hand into her pocket, she wondered who it could have been from. She knew for a fact it wasn't her Mother, the woman didn't know how to text. Obviously it wasn't Sherlock or John. But she could think of no other person it could be.
As her friends talked over her head, she unlocked her phone, careful not to let Sherlock see her password, and opened the message.
'You look nice today Emily.'
Five words sent from an unknown number. No indication of who it was from. Her heart rate sped up when she thought that somehow a creepy man with undesirable thoughts had managed to get her number. But that sort of person didn't bother writing names in texts. Did they?
Instead of dwelling on it however, Emily deleted the text, let it slip from her mind along with the phone call from her Mother and allowed Sherlock to pull her along behind him.