Sherlock paced the living room of 221b Baker Street for three hours, muttering to himself. He tried to focus on the background noise of
his phone call with Molly, to find anything that could give him a clue as to where she was, but her face kept cropping up in his
thoughts. He imagined her, slumped on the backseat of a cab crying out into the phone as that bastard hit her. He saw her whimpering at
the thought of Moriarty coming after him. He saw her face streaked with tears as she told him what she truly believed he thought about
her. He saw her crumple in pain when Moriarty landed a forceful, winding blow to her stomach.
Sherlock felt sick. Molly's falsely calm voice echoed in his ear, telling him not to bother trying to find her, to just let her be taken
because she didn't want him in danger. Sherlock's hands tightened into fists as he heard Moriarty chuckling in the background as he
listened to the fear in his pathologist's voice, enjoying her anguish. Shaking his head, Sherlock tried to push Molly from his thoughts.
Fixating on her voice would do nothing to find her. He refocused, playing back the call in his mind. nothing helpful, just the sounds of
traffic rushing past, a bin lorry emptying plastic wheelie bins, Molly trying to control her tears.
Nothing. He had nothing to go on.
No, that wasn't true. He was letting his worry for his pathologist's safety interfere with his thinking. Frowning, Sherlock sifted again
through the noises of the call. He mapped out her evening in his head. Molly would have commented as soon as she saw they had passed her
home, at which point Moriarty would have revealed himself and she would have called John. Their call was roughly twenty five minutes,
making it around fifteen up to the point of their conversation when the car stopped and Moriarty took the phone. With the traffic through
London at that time, they couldn't have been travelling more than thirty miles per hour. Okay so that gave him a rough ten mile radius
from Molly's flat that they could have driven to. Not enough. He needed to know where she was. Sherlock felt responsible for Molly's
kidnapping; without him, Moriarty would have had no need to take her to get to him.
Frustrated, Sherlock threw himself down onto his chair and pressed his fingers to his temples, screwing his eyes shut and replaying the
background noise again. The traffic noises were not helpful, that same sound was all over London. Molly's crying was… Motivating – the
responsibility he felt had driven him to pace for three hours – but unhelpful as far as working out her location was concerned. Nothing
else, just the metallic clunking and dull thudding of a bin lorry emptying the contents of two – no, three – plastic wheelie bins.
Sherlock let out a frustrated cry and smacked his fists onto the arms of the chair.
Immediately, Sherlock scolded himself for letting his frustration distract him. He had to be missing something, some small detail. He
pulled out his phone and stared at it, knowing that he had no new messages, but hoping that Molly would somehow contact him, just to let
him know that Moriarty hadn't yet agreed with Molly that she was of no use to him.
Traffic. Molly. Bin lorry. Traffic. Molly. Bin lorry. Traffic. Molly. Bin lorry.
Bin lorry!
Pulling out his phone, Sherlock fired off a text.
How many are with you this week? –SH
He set his phone down on the am of the chair and steepled his fingers, pressing them to his lips in thought. His phone beeped.
7, is there something I can do for you, Sir?
Sherlock's mouth curled up in a faint smile. He liked being called 'Sir'. Well, it was at least better than being called 'Freak'. He
tapped out a reply.
I need your help. Meet me at the usual spot at 3. – SH
I'll be there. Don't suppose you'll tell me why you need my help?
Not over the phone. – SH
Sherlock dropped his phone back into his pocket and glanced at his watch. 2:30. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on, tying his blue
scarf around his slim throat as he headed out of 221B.
Half an hour later, Sherlock leant against a weather-beaten oak tree in a crowded park, mobile in one hand, a cardboard holder with two
steaming to-go cups of tea in the other. The gadget buzzed, vibrating in his hand, and he clicked on the message.
She talks in her sleep. How very amusing. – M
You won't touch her. Sherlock didn't bother with his initials at the end of his reply. Moriarty knew who he was texting.
Oh won't I? – M
No. You won't.
Sherlock frowned at the few words that appeared on the screen, gripping the phone unnecessarily tightly. The idea or Moriarty seeing
Molly as defenceless and unaware as she would be in sleep was repellent to him. Moriarty could see her, wherever she was, while she was
totally unguarded against his tricks. Sherlock hated the idea of Molly being anywhere near Moriarty.
A small cough sounded in the branches above him, and he slipped his phone back into his pocket. Without looking up, he greeted the
newcomer.
'Danni,' he murmured in acknowledgement. A small figure dropped almost silently out of the tree and landed neatly a foot in front of him.
Sherlock's gaze quickly took in the appearance of his friend.
Danni was fifteen, a runaway from an abusive stepfather. She was a particularly useful member of his homeless network, being skinny and
unnervingly – though not to Sherlock – quiet, she could simply hide in the dark and listen to whatever he needed her to hear, and her
only request was that he bring hot tea with milk and two sugars for her when they met. She was also extraordinarily loyal, and Sherlock
trusted her with a lot of information. She wore an odd combination of clothes Sherlock had bought her when she had been blue with cold
when they first met in return for her services (a blue beanie hat, a scarf similar to his own, and a grey, fitted coat that hugged
tightly to her, making it easier for her to creep unseen into places) and the clothes she had originally run away in (ripped black skinny
jeans, black baseball boots caked in grime and a purple tee that she was beginning to grow out of after 8 months on the street. He noted
that she had lost a fight two days ago with three boys a year older than her, over a safe spot to sleep. She had slept in the rain, and
had woken with her (stolen) mittens missing and her fingers numb.
'Sir,' she nodded, her eyes roaming to the disposable cups of tea that steamed in his hand. He held one out to her, and she took it
carefully, treasuring the heat on her cold hands. She sipped the tea and stared at Sherlock, a slight frown creasing her brow.
'Crikey.' She muttered, taking another sip of tea.
'What?' Sherlock asked, eyebrow rising at her expression.
'You're worried. Nothing worries you.' She murmured, her tone almost admiring him.
'Hm.' Sherlock gave no indication of wanting to discuss the situation, instead turning the conversation to a more important topic.
'You have seven others with you. I need you to run surveillance for me tonight. I need to know which buildings on this line have three
wheelie bins outside them, and when those bins are emptied. I'm looking for an industrial building, probably a disused one. Text me all
results you have by tomorrow morning. Also, if any of your friends notice this man going in or out of any of those buildings, text me
immediately with the address. It's important.' He spoke quickly, pulling a map from his coat's deep pocket and showing a red line that
drew a circle around Molly's apartment building, and a photo of Moriarty.
When he had finished speaking, Danni whistled, three short bars, and seven young teens of varying degrees of scruffiness melted from the
surrounding trees and came toward them, grouping cautiously behind Danni. A two-second glance told Sherlock all he needed to know about
them while Danni issued them with instructions like an unofficial army general. There were two girls and five boys. Three runaways, like
Danni, one orphan, two children born on the street. The last boy, Sherlock guessed around fourteen years old, surprised Sherlock. He
wasn't a runaway or an orphan, and he hadn't long been on the streets. The boy was quiet, and refused to look Sherlock in the eye, and
Sherlock knew why. The boy had been kicked out of his home two months ago, by someone he was not related to.
Sherlock produced seven disposable mobile phones from the depths of his coat pockets and tossed one to each teen, muttering that each one
had enough credit for their needs and that his number was programmed into each phone. Each child muttered their thanks for the phones and
disappeared back into the trees, heading off to the different streets that Danni had sent them to.
Danni stayed a foot away from him, out of accidental bumping range, sipping her tea, savouring it. Sherlock frowned at her, deducing her
past month of living in more detail. She had lost several fights in the past few weeks. She was thinner, and she was suffering the cold,
as she had given her warmer clothing to younger kids and her hands were bruised from beating off people who got too close to her sleeping
spot or to the younger children that depended on her to keep them safe while they slept. Her wary distance told him that she knew he
would see her bruised hands and arms and deduce that she was fighting again. She had promised him when they met that if he provided her
with clothes and food every so often, she would try to avoid being arrested so she could stay available to him, and that meant no more
fighting.
Sherlock sighed and dug in his pocket, pulling out a wad of notes and holding some out to her. Still sipping her tea, Danni stared at the
money but did not reach out to take it.
'Take it. You've earned it.' Sherlock coaxed her, but she shook her head. Sherlock stepped forward, intending to tuck the money into her
coat pocket, but she flinched away and stepped back, keeping the distance between them the same. Sherlock held the money out to her
again, but still she refused it.
'I haven't earned anything yet, Sir. You've already given me tea, that's enough.' She said, draining the cup and tossing it into a nearby
bin. When she turned back around, Sherlock's hands were back in his pockets. Danni eyed him suspiciously. She hugged her arms as a breeze
passed over them, and Sherlock frowned again. She would be of no use to him if she became ill because of the cold. Her hands were already
nearly white from the constant chill.
Danni coughed, quietly and tried to muffle it with her scarf, ignoring his unhappy look. She shook herself and briskly held out her hand
for him to shake. He took it and they shook, her slim hand in his broad one. Then she grinned and turned to walk silently back into the
trees, stopping by another old oak and turning on the spot to speak again.
'You can't trick me that easily, Sir.' She giggled, then ran off into the trees. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked down at the hand
he had shaken hers with. Inside it was the small wad of notes he had slipped into her pocket when she had binned her empty cup. Caught
between irritation at her for giving it back and a small amount of pride at her being aware enough to notice his trick, Sherlock tucked
the money back into his pocket and left the park, heading to a nearby café to wait for John.