142 reviews and counting, remember guys 150 reviews earns you a story about their child, and if we get it up to 200 then I'm gonna allow, you, the readers to suggest what sort of reward you deserve ;)
This story gave me a hell of a time. It's changed so much and I'm not even sure I'm satisfied with how it turned out, but at least I finally finished. Enjoy!
Bailey had been homeless for a little over a year now. After running away from home when she was seventeen and catching the bus to London, she'd eaten through her cash quickly and had resorted to begging. She didn't like to beg, and she didn't get nearly as much money as she needed. So when her fellow beggar, Tristan, introduced her to the famous consulting detective she agreed to work for him happily.
He had all the homeless of London running errands for him, whether it was picking up a name or keeping an eye on a suspect, or maybe fetching him cigarettes so his flatmate wouldn't know or any other odd jobs he had.
Of course after he "died", there was a lot more work to be done.
Bailey hovered behind the detective, wrinkling her nose at the constant stream of cigarette smoke that was carried on the wind right into her face. She stood at attention, like a soldier awaiting orders, while the detective paced. The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it under foot, pulling another from his pocket.
"You'll take this message to him. He should still be at Baker Street." Sherlock spoke with smoke curling around his lips, holding a piece of paper wrapped in a fiver out to Bailey without even looking at her.
"Okay..." She peered curiously at Sherlock, the man who was supposedly dead. He turned and stared back at her, his cold eyes stabbing into her being.
"Also..." He added. "Where is Kington nowadays?"
"Mr. Holmes...you don't wanna associate with that man." The beggar girl protested but the detective fixed her in another stare and she fell silent.
"Tell me."
"...He's down on Snow Hill. Afternoons mostly." She murmured.
The detective nodded without a thank you, so Bailey took it as a sign to leave.
She knew her way to 221B by heart, it didn't take long to find her way to the door. She thought she was going to have to knock, but it appeared that the man she was looking for was just walking up to the door. He looked haggard, like he hadn't slept in days. He limped as he walked, and looked at the ground.
"'scuse me sir." She cleared her throat, brandishing the scrap of paper. The man turned around and she saw some form of recognition in his eyes.
"...yes?"
"This is for you." She passed him the paper and then vanished into the crowd without another word.
John stared after the girl with a confused expression, the full importance of what had just happened didn't occur to him until he realized who it was he had once known that sent messages through the homeless network. His heart stopped and he pulled the folded paper open so quickly it nearly ripped.
The message was written in that familiar self important scrawl.
Not dead.
A sob broke through before John had time to stop it.
"That...bastard." He half cried half laughed, folding the paper back up and slipping it into his pocket.
Somewhere along the way Bailey realized that she had become the personal messenger for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Every day she met with the tall thin man behind St. Bart's and ran whatever note he had down to where the doctor waited outside 221B.
John,
Hunting down the assassins. May take some time. I hear the first one shares a certain habit with me, going to interrogate his dealer.
Sherlock,
Stay safe. Don't give in to that habit while you're there.
One day Sherlock didn't show.
"Mr. Holmes?" Bailey crept around the corner of the hospital, staring into the dark alley that she was so accustomed to the man emerging from. Lately he'd been showing up covered in injuries just a little worse than your usual nicks and dents. Could he have gotten himself into trouble? She pictured John's face whenever she brought him one of Sherlock's notes.
John,
Your new flat is very disappointing. Move back into 221B at once.
Sherlock,
I thought the point of this was to lay low. If you want me to move back in, try not being dead.
John,
Your attempts at wit are not appreciated.
Sherlock,
I love you too.
Two more days passed without any sign of Sherlock.
Bailey asked around with the other "Baker Street Irregulars" and no one knew where he could be. It was only on the third day that someone came up with word of the detective's whereabouts.
"I found him down here. He looks like hell." Tristan led Bailey down a tight alley over crates and trash cans. She nearly cried out when she saw the detective laying tangled in the midst of the garbage, his coat spread out like the broken wings of a bird and dried blood covering his pale skin.
"Should we call someone?" Tristan asked, pulling his tattered ill fitting coat closer around himself.
"He's supposed to be dead, we can't just drag him into a hospital." Bailey chewed her lower lip. "His friend. The one I'm always bringing notes to. He's a doctor I think. We can get him."
"Alright. You go get him and I'll stay with Mr. Holmes." Tristan waved her away and Bailey ran as fast as she could to get help.
Sherlock,
Please tell me you haven't been back on the needle.
John,
I need my wits held together at the moment. My usual pastimes would be a distraction. Do not worry.
Sherlock,
Saw that one assassin on the news. Murray. You didn't kill him did you?
John,
Your faith in my character is, as always, astounding. I did not kill him. One of his associates did. Only one more now, Moran.
John struggled to keep up with the homeless girl's quickened gait, his leg picking an inopportune time to stiffen up. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest and worry was eating away inside him. They quickly reached the spot where she said Sherlock was laying. John crawled over the crates and boxes to where another of Sherlock's homeless network was kneeling over the tangled and beaten detective.
"Here...can you give us some space?" John tried to keep his voice steady as he lifted the pale man's head off the ground.
"Yeah sure..." The Baker Street Irregulars backed off, leaving John to care for the detective.
"Oh you stupid sod..." John felt tears pricking at his eyes but he ignored them, pushing himself into soldier mode he grabbed the medkit he'd brought with him and began fixing what Sherlock had broken.
Sometime during, Sherlock awoke with a small murmur.
"...John?"
"What the hell did you do this time?" John growled, his eyes full of concern.
"You shouldn't...be here. If he sees you with me then he'll make you a priority target..." Sherlock sighed, pushing himself up.
"So I should let you bleed out?" John folded his arms over his chest. "What happened?"
"...pushed out a window." Sherlock smirked ever so slightly though John saw nothing funny about it.
"John..." Sherlock sighed and leaned against the doctor. "When you're done, go somewhere safe. I'll end this fast and come home."
"You seem to think I can't take care of myself." John huffed, tying the last bandage.
"John, for my peace of mind." Sherlock insisted, his hand laying lightly over John's.
John,
He's getting sloppy. I'll have him soon.
Sherlock,
Hurry.