Trying to envision Sherlock's adventures before we pick up the story with John in Baker St. How does he become a consulting detective? Does he have a companion? What is his younger self like? Total AU, although I've actually somewhat planned this, even got notes for a sequel going! I'd love if you could review and interject your own theories. I'm really trying to avoid drug use though, so it might not fall completely into the canon.
Lots of love, Logan.
Hazel waited patiently in her attic bedroom window for the strange man who lived in the basement room to come home. It was very late, and she knew she'd suffer for it at school tomorrow, but she really couldn't sleep until he was home.
She cared about him, deeply. Even though they'd barely exchanged a polite nod, she knew she needed him to be safe. How old was he? Under twenty five, for certain. He could look after himself, that much was obvious. But she liked knowing her strange extended family had all made it home that night. She hadn't yet forgiven herself for not bothering the night the girl in the ground floor room hadn't come home.
Shuddering, she wrapped her duvet around her to fend off the drafts coming through the rotten window frame and continued waiting. Eventually, somewhere around 3am, a cab pulled up across the street from their terraced house. She wondered, if he could afford cabs, why did he live here? The man stepped forwards and glanced his eyes up at Hazel's dormer window, and they briefly met hers. She flicked off the light and lay down, embarrassed, even though this was their nightly routine.
She prepared to settle down to sleep when she heard the front door creak, and she felt herself relax for the first time that night. But then... something wasn't right. The basement door was meant to creak, and then she'd hear his light footsteps as he descended. He was coming...up. Of course, he could just be using the bathroom, the only one being on the first floor, but the plumbing was noisy and he always tried to be so quiet.
He paused as he negotiated the narrow, steep spiral staircase that led to Hazel's room. He hadn't turned a light on, and it could be treacherous at the best of times. But then his footsteps restarted, and she felt the breeze of her door opening. Hazel lay with her eyes glued shut, feigning sleep. He spoke, the first time she'd heard his voice.
"If I don't come home, who will you tell?"
"You're the only person who has an inkling of where I live and what I do."
"Is this caring? Is this what this... whatever this... is?"
He stepped further into the room, gently closing the door. She tensed as she felt him moving towards her bed – just a bare mattress on the floor. She felt his light breathing as he crouched next to her.
"Well?" he breathed into her ear, and she felt a strange tingle.
"I... I don't even know your name..." Hazel stammered in response.
"No. But I know yours. I know everything about you. Well, almost everything."
She shook as the man brushed his long fingers down her face. Oh God. This was it. He was going to rape her, murder her, hide her body. She gasped.
"Hazel Naomi McKenzie, 16. You came here with your brother after your parents left you. He's an alcoholic, sharing the large bedroom on the first floor with a different girl... or boy... every other night. You have nothing. Nothing to lose and no one to miss you."
He pulled the covers back and she squirmed into the corner, silent tears falling. She heard him suppress a laugh. He was going to enjoy torturing her.
"Come with me. Come away with me. Now."
"What?"
She received no further response as he took her hand, almost wrenching her from the bed. He pulled her across the room and, ever so carefully, guided her down the stair case and into the hall. As they went down the stairs and reached the door, he bundled her into his side against the chilly wind. Hazel wore nothing but her old pyjamas in contrast to his long woollen coat.
They turned right out the door, and then right again into the back alley way. It was dingy and smelled of piss, and Hazel knew her brother and some of the other residents got up to more than just smoking back here. They ducked down another alley, and she was resisting less now. There was a strange thrill mixed with her fear. Where were they going?
"In here!" the man yelled, pushing Hazel head first through a broken garden fence.
He used his shoulder to smash the kitchen window, and Hazel assumed it must be an empty house, probably up for sale or let. Judging by the condition of the yard, this part of town was even more run down than where they lived. A broken window probably wouldn't be much of a deal to the neighbours.
The man climbed in through the broken glass and then turned to Hazel, a strange wanting in his frosty blue eyes. In a seamless movement he'd gathered her under her arms and hauled her small frame through the window. They'd both received their fair share of cuts, though it was too dark to really see.
The house only had two rooms downstairs, and probably the same upstairs. The tiny kitchen was of no use to anyone as all but the water pipes and taps had been ripped out. The lounge was slightly larger, though the floor was bare. Conveniently, there was an old torn up sofa sitting in the middle of the room and Hazel made her way to it, disregarding how obviously filthy it was. The man still had some standards though, disrobing his coat and covering the length of the sofa with it, so they could sit at least somewhat comfortably.
The summer dawn was barely breaking and Hazel guessed it was closer to 4am now. She could just make out the man's features in the grey light. It was the first time she'd seen him up close.
He had a mop of dark curls atop his head, which spilled down to his shoulders. He was, rather oddly for this time of night, clean shaven, with a cutting jaw line and sharp cheek bones. His eyes pierced hers as she surveyed him. He was well dressed, which didn't surprise her. He always seemed to be glad in some suit or the other. The tailoring was expensive.
"I don't even know your name..." Hazel started.
"And you don't need too. At least, not yet," he had a deep baritone voice, laced with secrets and intelligence.
They sat silently together, for what seemed to Hazel like hours. As the room became lighter, she examined her hands and arms, tracing the little cuts she'd received from climbing in the broken window.
The man had sat motionless all this time, his hands pressed together under his chin and his eyes barely open.
"Scott," he said suddenly, ripping her from her thoughts, "you can call me Scott."
"That's not your real name..." she was wary, but not nervous, he could tell.
"It's one of them," he said shortly, cracking his eye at her.
He felt her curl in on herself, both physically and mentally. She pressed her knees to her chest and tucked her chin in. She'd closed up her emotional walls, and he found it difficult to read her. He attempted a conclusion, a sort of stab at reassurance.
"I'm not here to harm you," he said gently.
She shot him a scorned look of disbelief. It was earned, really.
"You're free to leave – "
"I can't leave though, can I?"
"Well you're not bound by anything, you know the way, I won't stop you."
"No, I mean I can't."
"Oh... I was right," she nodded, "you care. Why do you care?"
"You're different... to the others there."
"A life not worth losing," he cackled.
Her face showed her hurt.
"I'm sorry – "
"No, I know what you mean. You're not a drunk, or a druggy and you're always out like you have some... purpose."
"You have a purpose."
"Not really. I finish school next month and then... nothing. I can't afford the bus fare to college, I'll be stuck. Get a job in a call centre if I'm lucky..."
Scott felt almost compelled into hugging the young girl, though affection wasn't really his thing.
"Is this dangerous?" she asked him finally.
"Relatively," he said simply, shrugging.
Hazel sighed and leaned back against the filthy couch, to Scott's disgust. "And what is it we're doing?"
Suddenly a crash, like an explosion, blasted away the front window. Scott recognised it as being a little distant. The source wasn't in their immediate area. The force sent the sofa toppling backwards, sending both occupants with it. Scott reached out to Hazel, pulling her in close and shielding her from the torrent of glass which rained over them
"This. This is what we're doing!" he yelled, despite their close proximity.
"What the bloody hell?!" Hazel cried, clinging to Scott.
"Gas leak! Or at least, made to look like a gas leak!"
She looked at him, real worry and fear swelling in her eyes as he hopped towards the shattered window. She stood tentatively, easing her way through the rubble to stand by his side.
"That's... that's... our house."
"Was our house, technically speaking."
"Was this y-you? Did you do this? My brother. Oh god, my brother!"
Through a gap in the surrounding houses, they could clearly see the smoke billowing from the shell of their old terrace block. The whole row had gone up. Everything had been shattered.
Hazel flailed away from Scott as he wound his arm around her waist. She shot a punch which he deftly avoided.
"Calm down," h said flatly.
"Calm! Calm! You just murdered my brother, and all those other people!" she was screaming now, tears hurtling down her face.
"For starters no, I didn't, and secondly, would you rather I left you in there to suffer the same fate."
"If you got me out, why couldn't you get everybody out?!"
"Too suspicious, whoever did this can't know I know."
"How did you know it was happening? I don't understand!"
"Well no, you wouldn't. Come on, there'll be police here soon. Can't be hanging around..."
"But... what now? Why me?"
"There's no time, we have to go. I'll explain later."
"No, Scott, or whoever you are, tell me why my brother is dead!"
"You're dead too, technically. They'll find his girlfriend's charred bones in his room and assume it's you."
"But why am I not actually dead?!" the tears were streaming silently down her face.
"Because sometimes, I can care too."
His answer was blunt and took her by surprise. Emotions swirled around her, making her dizzy and confused. From thinking him a murderer to realising her saved her, it was all too much.
"My real name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, and this is what I do."
"Save little girls from burning buildings like some sort of hero?"
"No, you were an... accident. I find the people who cause them in the first place. And right now –" he took her trembling hand and began to lead her towards the kitchen window, "the game is on."