Hello there! I hope this update finds you all safe and well. How is everyone?

Thanks to everyone who clicked the follow and/or favourite button. It only came to my attention a couple of days ago that somewhere just before publishing the previous chapter this story has gone over 1K followers. I have no idea how many of those people are still reading, but it's blown my mind that that has happened. Thank you to each and every one of you.

Also a BIG thank you to everyone that has reviewed. Please keep them coming as they really encourage me to keep going.

The warm water engulfed Emily's hands as she washed up the utensils left over from the previous day.

She had yet to get dressed but decided that since it was her day off and she hadn't been awoken by her flatmates declaring she needed to come with them, she was going to spend as long as she could in her pyjamas and dressing gown.

She had only slept marginally better then the night before, thanks to her exhaustion. But she felt she would have slept even longer had the traffic outside not been louder than she was used to when she had the previous luxury of windows. They really did need to get in contact with someone about replacing them and decided she would speak to Mrs Hudson at the first opportunity to find out if the landlady had any contacts stored away somewhere.

When she had eventually got up from the warm cocoon of her blankets, she had aimed straight for the kitchen. She had heard the sounds of one of the boys flicking though the different news channels, each of them talking about the explosion from the night before, before settling on their usual one. Emily had no wish to hear about it.

She had also not managed to have her talk with John and wondered if she should just leave it altogether. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be that they knew about her witnessing Carl's death. She certainly had no problem not telling them. With the shock of the sudden silence from the other end of the phone the previous evening, Emily hadn't exactly felt like talking. She suspected that both her flatmates had felt the same and as soon as they had got home, she had trudged up the stairs and crawled under the covers. She thought she had heard her door open at one point, but she had been half asleep and couldn't be bothered to find out who had come in to check on her.

The chatter from the tv was muted as Emily collected the two mugs from the previous evening on the kitchen table. She could feel the gaze of Sherlock on her as he spoke, but she did not turn to meet it. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him." She moved back to the sink again, not wishing to hear the discussion occurring in the next room.

A yawn escaped her as she swirled her hand through the bubbled water, the memory of being a little girl standing on a chair from the dining room in order to reach the sink came back to her. She used to make a game of the washing up. The quicker she washed an item, the more points she could give herself. Naturally nothing had ever really been clean by the time she had finished and someone else had ended up doing it properly a little later. Or her personal favourite had been to pretend the water was a potion but to make it more potent she had to add all the dregs of tea, or milk, or anything left on the dirty dishes to make it more powerful. Naturally those times, someone else ended up finishing the job as they felt she couldn't be trusted. What had been the point in asking her to do it in the first place?

"Your man's on the telly Em." John called to her, bringing her from her memories. She frowned and moved towards the doorway, wet hands raised slightly in an attempt not to let the droplets of water fall to the floor.

"My man?" She questioned, looking at the screen. "Oh. Murderer, dishy Raoul." She continued to watch as he was bundled out of Mr Prince's house and into a car. "Shame. He had nice biscuits." Emily mumbled, not noticing the look that covered Sherlock's face.

"Taking his time this time." Sherlock spoke, turning to watch the phone that rested on the arm of his chair with a keen eye, hoping to distract himself from the annoyance he felt at Emily's words.

The camera filming the events focussed on Mr Prince who was stood at the window watching. "Oh look, it's my friend." Emily pointed with glee at the cat being held in its owners arms. The act made her feel somewhat childish, but she found she couldn't care less. "I miss that cat." She sighed and turned back into the kitchen to continue to wash up. Just in time as well since she heard the name Carl Powers get mentioned.

She couldn't help the flash of memory that suddenly popped up out of nowhere. Of another time when she had been stood at the kitchen sink of her childhood home. This time she had been tall enough to reach it without the aid of a chair and it hadn't been the plates and bowls she had been scrubbing. When her Mother had questioned her the next day about where the sponges and cleaning cloths had disappeared to, she had lied and told her she had had a nosebleed and hadn't managed to catch it in time before it got all over the floor. Thankfully the older woman had been too busy being annoyed about having to buy more sponges than to question anything. Though Emily had suspected that was more to do with Seb backing her up.

Suddenly, Emily felt exhausted. But not the type of exhaustion that could be slept off in bed. It felt like her brain had fogged up and she no longer felt the desire to tidy up the kitchen. She no longer felt the desire to do anything

She dried her hands and flicked the switch on the kettle. Taking a deep breath and a slow shake of her head, she let go of those memories for the time being and went to lean against the doorway again. Perhaps if she was distracted by her flatmates, she wouldn't think about her past.

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual human lives...Just – just so I know, do you care about that at all?" She had apparently turned up just in time for an argument.

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock was quick to answer.

"Nope."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No." Emily could practically hear the bitter smile John wore. "No."

"I've disappointed you."

"That's good – that's a good deduction, yeah."

"What about you?" Sherlock turned his focus onto Emily.

She raised her hands as if surrendering. "Don't bring me into your domestic - "

"Have I disappointed you too?" There was a silence as she thought through her answer.

"I haven't heard the whole discussion, but from what I have heard...a little, yes." She shrugged, "But then you are Sherlock Holmes and so it doesn't really surprise me." She wasn't really quite sure if her statement even made sense, but it seemed that Sherlock had already moved on and turned back to the Doctor.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." Emily watched as the two men stared at each other, only for a message alert to sound, successfully gaining the Detectives attention. "Excellent!" He picked up the phone, sliding along the screen to unlock it. "View of the Thames. South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo." Emily was somewhat in awe that he could tell where whatever he was looking at was located.

She moved back in to the kitchen to make herself a drink, pouring one for John while she was at it. One of them really needed to go shopping. She watched as the last trickle of milk fell from the bottle into her tea. She would have to make a list and make sure John had a copy as no doubt it would be either herself or him that went.

She stirred the drinks, throwing the spoon into the sink, deciding she would take them in one at a time for fear she would spill them.

John had moved to the sofa and was flicking through the papers while Sherlock remained in his chair attached to his own phone now. "Archway suicide." Emily placed his mug of tea down on the coffee table. John looked up to her, flashing a grateful smile. "Thanks Em." She gave him a tired smile in return and went to fetch her own drink.

"Ten a penny." Sherlock snapped irritably.

John threw the Detective a look as Sherlock didn't even glance away from his phone. "Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington." He put the paper to the side and moved onto the next one. "Ah. Man found on the train line – Andrew West." Emily sat down in John's chair, sitting how she had the previous evening, letting her feet swing back and forth as she raised the still too hot drink to her lips in order to blow on it.

"Nothing!" Sherlock eyed the mug in her hands as he pressed a button to use speed dial.

"You didn't want one did you?" Emily questioned. He immediately shook his head as he listened to the ringing sound. "Good, cause I didn't make you one." John chuckled to himself. He picked up his own mug, raised it towards the blonde who raised her own back. She shared a smile with him.

"It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?" There was more silence as Sherlock listened closely before a smile started to grow. Emily paid him no attention as he finished conversing with whoever he had called, turning her gaze onto John watching as he flicked his irritated gaze between the papers before him and the Detective opposite her.

She had been about to open her mouth to ask John to come upstairs with her so she could talk to him, but Sherlock beat her to it.

"Emily." She turned her head to face him. He was already watching her closely. "Make sure you've eaten and get dressed, we need to get going."

"What delights do we have today?"

"Wrap up warm too, we're off to the Thames. You'll see when we get there." She rolled her eyes at his unsatisfactory answer, making sure to only take the smallest sip of her drink. She received an irritated sigh from the Detective and a hint of a smirk from John.

"Hey!" She cried when the mug was suddenly snatched from her hands. She manoeuvred herself so she was now kneeling on John's chair facing the kitchen to watch as Sherlock poured the liquid down the kitchen sink. "Congratulations, that was the last of the milk."

"You know I take my coffee black." He moved over towards her.

"Yes, but you'll have to put up with my foul mood from not having a cup of tea in the mornings until one of us goes shopping." She stood, fake, cheerful grin decorating her face before stomping off up the stairs, muttering to herself about a certain someone being an arsehole.

"Now you've not only annoyed her," Sherlock turned his satisfied face towards the Doctor to listen. "Now, you've disappointed her. You know how she loves her tea." The satisfied look turned to a frown.

Emily did not appreciate being near vast amounts of water.

Even on the rare occasion where her Gran had taken her to the beach for the day she refused to walk on the sand until the tide was as far out as it would go. She couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly that she so disliked, (she had always put it down to watching Carl struggle in the pool, but over the years, she had begun to feel as if it was more than that.)

So when she caught a glimpse of where the three of them were heading, she automatically stopped in her tracks. "Nope."

"What?" Sherlock asked, John too, frowning at her.

"I'm not going down there. I'm waiting here." She crossed her arms over her chest and hoped she hadn't sounded as pathetic as she felt.

"What's the matter?" John wondered if she was about to have a panic attack.

"I just - " It's a stupid reason Emily, you can't tell them, Sherlock will just take the piss if you do, "My shoes - " The two men before her looked down at her feet. The Converse adorning them already messy, leading Emily to mentally wince at herself, "They'll get dirty." She finished lamely.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, starting to move down the stairs. "You can't just wait here." He called to her without turning back.

"I bloody can."

"Em, just come down with us, we might take ages down there." John reasoned.

"No you won't not with mister smartypants deducing everything. You'll only be a matter of minutes."

"But what if we're not?" He took hold of her hand and pulled her along gently behind him as he began his descent of the metal stairs. "I don't like the idea of leaving you alone up there, even if we are only a couple of minutes." She didn't really get much choice as her feet suddenly landed on the pebbled ground.

She looked ahead to find Lestrade standing next to a dead body, watching the three of them approach. If I just don't go near it then it's fine. Emily chanted in her head, noting the smell of chlorine was mixed in with the scent of the Thames.

"D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?" Lestrade called to them.

"Must be. Odd, though ... " Sherlock held up the pink phone "…. he hasn't been in touch."

"But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered as he stepped back to take a long look at the body that was currently lying on a plastic sheet.

"Any ideas?"

"Seven...so far." Emily rolled her eyes, still annoyed with him about her tea.

"Seven?!" The group watched as Sherlock moved closer to the body, squatting down to examine the man's face with his magnifier.

Emily wished she'd wrapped up warmer as she could feel the cold seeping in despite her coat. She looked down at her poor converse. They had sunk the tiniest amount into the mud and she wondered for a moment if there was a hole in her left one as her foot felt increasingly wet. Don't be stupid Emily, the waters all the way over there. She thought to herself as she eyed the Thames with distrust. Maybe it was just going numb, she wouldn't be surprised.

John, who had up to that point still been holding her hand, let go of her before squatting down himself to take a look as Sherlock moved away.

"Cold Emily?" Lestrade had taken position next to the blonde, watching as she trembled. He received a nod in reply and he placed his arm round her shoulder, pulling her closer to share his warmth with her. At first she stiffened, not expecting the man's touch, but when she realised what it was he was trying to do, she relaxed and allowed herself to be held to his side. His hand began to rub up and down her arm. He kept checking from the corner of his eyes to make sure she was comfortable with the interaction.

"He's dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer." John looked up at Lestrade. "Did he drown?"

"Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

"Yes, I'd agree. There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here." Emily thought she heard Sherlock speak but chose to ignore him and rested her head on Lestrades shoulder. "In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition." John continued.

"He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data." He spoke up, quirking a grin. "But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake."

"What?"

Sherlock took a breath, stopping abruptly when he noticed the position Emily was standing in next to Lestrade. "We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates... " He let his gaze linger on the hand that still moved on her arm. He attempted to keep his face neutral, but couldn't ignore the feeling of something stirring inside him. Though he couldn't exactly place what the feeling was, he knew he didn't much like it. Especially since it was not something he was used to.

"Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you – what are you on about?"

"It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds." Sherlock answered.

"Okay. So what has that got to do with the stiff?" Lestrade had moved himself, and therefore Emily, closer to Sherlock.

"Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?" The man beside her sounded clueless.

Emily thought briefly of Lord of the Rings, but didn't dare speak up for fear of sounding ridiculous.

"It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?" John questioned.

"Jewish folk story. A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin – real name Oskar Dzundza – one of the deadliest assassins in the world." He pointed down to the body. "That is his trademark style."

"So this is a hit?"

"Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"But what has this gotta do with that painting? I don't see..."

"You do see – you just don't observe."

"All right, all right, girls, calm down." John spoke up. He couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was souding so exasperated because Lestrade hadn't caught up to him, or because Lestrade still had his arm around Emily who looked rather cosy in her position. "Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?"

Sherlock took a moment to gaze at the blonde who was too busy looking at the dead body to notice. He shook off the irritation he felt at the sight of her snuggled up to Lestrade, taking a step back he pointed down to the body before them. "What do we know about this corpse?"

"That it's dead. Get on with it." Emily snapped. She could no longer feel her toes, and wanted nothing more than to go home.

He rolled his eyes, but continued none the less. "The killer's not left us with much – just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal – maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt – cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie."

"Tube driver?" Lestrade questioned. Sherlock threw him a look that Emily felt was silently calling the man an idiot.

"Security guard?" Both John and Emily guessed at the same time.

"More likely. That'll be borne out by his backside."

"Backside?!"

"Flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died."

"No-no-no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognisable, some kind of institution. Found this," He held up something he had taken from his own pocket, "inside his trouser pockets." Both Emily and John leaned closer from their positions in an attempt to take a look at the findings. "Sodden by the river but still recognisably..."

"Tickets?" John asked.

"Ticket stubs. If he's a security guard it wouldn't be tickets surely?" Emily finally spoke up, her annoyance was forgotten as curiosity took over.

Sherlock pointed over at her, "Good Emily. He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check – the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing." He pointed down at the body. "Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the dead man knew something about it – something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake."

"Fantastic." It was John's turn to be in awe.

"Meretricious."

"Gesundheit." Emily's tone was full of sarcasm.

"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade joined in.

Sherlock turned to meet the gaze of the blonde, raising an eyebrow in question. She felt he was trying to ask if she was impressed, but she simply raised an eyebrow back. Of course she was impressed, but she wasn't going to boost his ego. Certainly not after he had wasted her tea.

"Poor sod."

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character."

Sherlock finally broke the staring contest between himself and the blonde to respond. "Pointless. You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?"

At the grin Sherlock wore, Emily rolled her eyes. "Me." He answered.

Emily watched John sigh before dutifully following their friend. Lestrade looked down at her. "Not going with them?"

"Let's see how long it takes them."

"Warmed up a bit?" He queried, moving his head back up to watch as the two men reached the metal staircase.

"Actually, yes. Thanks for that."

"You looked like you wanted to be anywhere but here." The two men suddenly turned and headed back down the staircase; they had made it halfway up before realising.

"I would have much rather stayed at home, we still need to call someone to get some new windows, finally cut out the noise of the traffic. " It appeared Sherlock was telling John to wait. It didn't take long for him to reach them with his long strides.

He took hold of her wrist, not even bothering to look at Lestrade, before dragging her along behind him. "We have things to do Emily." He muttered to her. She ignored him and looked back over her shoulder to send a sad wave at Lestrade. It looked as if his expression held amusement, and when she reached John it seemed to be mirrored on him.

She felt herself slip a little on the mud, her eyes widened in alarm as she reached her free hand out to grab hold of John's arm, but found she hadn't needed to as Sherlock released her wrist and wrapped his arm around her waist to steady her.

She didn't dare look at John. She could practically feel his laughter emanating from him as her cheeks flushed. "Thanks." She mumbled to the man beside her. He must have indicated for John to head up, for seconds later the Doctor began once more to ascend the stairs

"You're welcome." He spoke next to her ear. Her flush intensified. He moved his hand back to her wrist and, though she didn't need it, assisted her up the stairs.

The trio, seated together in the back of a taxi, had been silent since they had set off to their next destination. Emily was broken from her daydream as Sherlock broke the silence.

"Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?" He had been staring at the phone in frustration.

"Maybe it's not time." Emily mumbled tiredly between them. She still gazed out the window to watch London go by. "Maybe you haven't done all you've needed to before you win the prize of the phone call." John watched her from the corner of his eyes, noting Sherlock was doing the same thing. The detective suddenly leant forward as a thought occurred to him.

"Waterloo Bridge."

"Where now? The Gallery?" John asked.

"In a bit."

"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it? Why have they got hold of an Old Master?"

"Dunno. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data."

"Money." Emily felt sure the answer to John's question was money. Or had she been daydreaming about a better job with better pay? She rested her head against John's shoulder, not paying any mind to what Sherlock was doing on her other side.

She had closed her eyes to rest them for as long as possible, but they shot open when Sherlock called out to their driver. "Stop!" The vehicle pulled over to the side of the road. "You wait here. I won't be a moment. Stay here Emily." John, of course, ignored his friend and immediately manoeuvred himself passed the blonde.

"As if I'd want to follow anyway." Emily muttered to herself.

"Sherlock..." Emily sniggered as she watched John scramble over the railings.

The sounds of her ringtone filled the back of the taxi. Pulling it from her pocket, she was quick to release a sigh at the name that had appeared on the screen. Should she answer it and get it over with or risk her calling again when the boys had re-joined her and get an earful from John about still not answering?

With a quick glance outside to make sure they weren't already coming back, she swiped the screen and held the device to her ear. "Hello?" She made her tone sound as fed up as she felt at that current moment.

"Ah! Good, you're there!" The sound of her Mother's voice was already grating on her but she couldn't help but notice that she didn't sound drunk. Or at least, as drunk as she normally did over the phone.

"Who else would it be answering my phone?"

"Don't give me sass young lady." Emily rolled her eyes. Her Mother had missed the chance to call her that as an actual teenager, so whenever she got called 'young lady' now, she felt as if the woman on the other end was making up for lost time.

"What do you want?"

"I'm with Seb. He's here now - "

"Sebastian isn't coming home. You should know this by now."

"Well, that's not true because he's here right now. Talk to him. I'll pass the phone over." There was a muffled sound as a hand was obviously placed on the device at the other end. Emily raked her free hand through her hair in frustration, tempted to start pulling it out if it helped relieve some of the stress this woman was causing her. She could hear, faintly, her voice talking to someone, trying to convince them to take the phone but she couldn't be sure if that was indeed what was going on as the rings that adorned her Mother's fingers kept tapping on the phone, creating a noise that Emily hated and made her move the device away. "He says he can't speak on the phone right now, he's a little busy."

"How convenient." Emily muttered.

"Your brother is here - "

"Half brother." Emily corrected. She felt a slight thrill upon hearing the frustrated sigh her Mother released.

"Your half brother is here. If you don't believe me then come over."

"Alright." Emily shrugged to herself. "I'll be over soon." She hung up without any further words as she spotted her flatmates coming back from the corner of her eye. She slipped her phone back into her pocket just as Sherlock opened the door.

"Now we go to the Gallery." Sherlock paused and looked back at John. "Have you got any cash?"

"I have." Emily answered, encouraging Sherlock to climb in, shortly followed by John. "I need to go somewhere."

"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"Yes. Got to pop back home. Old home." She clarified.

"Your mum alright?" John asked, sounding worried.

"She's been getting worse these past few days saying my brother is back. I don't think I've ever actually known her this bad before. Just thought I'd go and check on her. Maybe confiscate some booze from her." She smiled sweetly though she didn't mean it.

"Where to then love?" The driver asked, looking over his shoulder at her. She was quick to give him her old address, hoping the boys wouldn't mind. Not that she was giving them much choice.

Sherlock stepped out of the taxi before her, offering his hand to help her out of the vehicle. Confusion etched on her features she accepted the help and turned to face them both when she had stood up straight.

"Text one of us when you're on your way back." John instructed. With her free hand Emily pulled out a few notes and handed them over to the Doctor so he could pay their driver.

She nodded, only realising now that she still had her hand in Sherlocks. She squeezed his briefly in thanks before she let go.

"Good luck." Sherlock murmured to her, knowing how much she wouldn't enjoy this.

The two men watched as she headed towards a house that looked a little run down. Sherlock seated himself back in the taxi as Emily rummaged in her pocket for her keys he knew still held the one that opened the blue front door before her.

"Do you think we should wait?" John asked as he too observed the blonde cautiously open the front door, stick her head round it before properly entering. The door promptly closed behind her, leaving her two friends wondering what the hell was going on inside those walls.

"No. As much as we'd feel better, I doubt very much she would appreciate it." The detective indicated that the driver could continue as he pulled the door closed

"You're right." John nodded, taking note of the number on the door just in case they needed to come back and get her. "I just hope she'll be OK."

Emily carefully closed the front door behind her, the urge to slip her shoes off overwhelmed her as she stepped forward. She managed to ignore it however, poking her head around the door leading to the front room. She fully expected to find her mother passed out of the sofa but was surprised to find no sign of the woman.

"Mother?" She called. Only hearing silence she moved towards the kitchen.

A plate, one glass, one knife and fork had been washed up. Nothing to suggest more than one person had been there.

Her gaze shot to the ceiling above her when she heard a creak. The sound was familiar, though it was a sound she had not heard in a long time.

The torch she kept on the windowsill of the kitchen held tightly in her hand, (she had forgotten just how heavy the item was) she began to ascend the stairs. Mindful of where she trod so as not to alert whoever was in the house by making the stairs whine.

On the landing, she eyed all the doors. The only one to be kept open had always been the bathroom door, to allow the occupants of the house to know that it was free, only closing it when it was in use. It was currently shut. She knocked, but no voice called out to her.

With her free hand, Emily fought with her coat to retrieve her phone. Unlocked and on the call log, she pressed the green phone to dial her Mother's number.

She could her the ringing of it next to her ear, but there was no ringing noise within the house.

She released an annoyed sigh. The stupid woman had told her to come home but had forgotten and left. Emily couldn't help but feel like a fool, like she had just wasted her time.

She turned back to the stairs and stopped as her eyes flicked over to the bedroom that had once been hers; her very first bedroom.

This particular door had been kept shut ever since the awful day her Gran had been taken from her. Not once had she seen it even ajar. But now, she realised, it was the only door that was open. If only slightly.

Do I leave and head back home or do I check? But it turned out she needn't have bothered asking herself as her feet were already taking her to the door. "Hello?" She called out, tightening her grip on the torch. Her Mother had once dropped the item on her own foot and had ended up with the most hideous bruise that had taken weeks to fade. Even if she had no experience using a weapon, she figured she could certainly do some damage to whoever had intruded into her childhood home.

She gently pushed the door open and took a tentative step forwards. The creak she had heard downstairs sounded underneath her foot. Someone had most certainly been in this room, and judging by the fact that she had only heard it once, Emily could only assume whoever it was, was still in the room. Unless they're coming up behind you with their own weapon.

Emily spun on the spot, torch raised in the air ready to defend herself. But there was no one there. Just her imagination making her over think. She released a breath and turned her focus back to the room she was standing in.

The bed frame sat empty, surrounded by the junk her Mother hadn't wanted to look at or get rid of. The wardrobe, she knew had old clothes hanging inside. She did everything she could to not look down at the floor, knowing there would be no stain left, but she would still be able to see the memory of one.

She turned, slamming the door behind her and headed towards her previous bedroom. She grabbed an old rucksack and began to fill it with a few of the books she hadn't managed to fit into her suitcase when she had first moved into Baker Street, along with a few items of clothing.

She didn't bother to be carful about descending the stairs. Allowing the familiar creaks and moans of them to remind her of the happier times she had experienced in this house.

She moved back to the kitchen to place the torch away, pausing as she turned to leave.

She rummaged through the cupboards and found what she had hoped would be there. She even opened the fridge to see if she could steal any milk or confiscate any booze. But the only things in it were rotting vegetables and a week old yoghurt.

Deciding she had had enough of the awful place, she finally made her leave. Mindful to lock the front door behind her.

As she made her way to the main road, she couldn't help the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. Perhaps that wasn't such a waste of time, she thought to herself as she listened to the rustling of the biscuit packets emerging from her rucksack.

Stay safe. Take care.

FB