A Hallow Study
Chapter Three

As it turned out, breaking into the Young Manor was easier than they thought. They just had to scale a six foot wall with only slim vines of ivy leaves to hold them up, then jump to a nearby window from the top of a tree. Carla had shimmied the window open by giving the frame a good kick. It wasn't systematic or scientific, but it worked anyway.

Soon, they were inside Young Manor, in the living room where Carla recalled the safe was. The portrait of Eleanor Windsor -Young, her great great grandmother, swung open like a door, and behind it, a perfectly round, golden safe.

"The Snitch, I presume," Sherlock said, approaching the safe. It was digital, the contents accessible by a code. "A six digit code, based on the number of fingerprints on the pad."

"You don't know the code?" John asked Carla, with his arms crossed over his chest. She took three strides forward, past Sherlock and typed seven numbers on the pad.

No good, Sherlock thought. It's a lock with six numbers. When she pulled the handle and the safe didn't budge, she shook her head.

"He must have changed the code when I left," she told him.

"How convenient," John commented, looking away like he didn't want her to hear what she had just said.

"John, do be quiet, I am trying to concentrate here," Sherlock told him, observing the safe again. It was highly possible that Frances had changed the safe's code for them, the pad looked relatively new, one maybe, two weeks old. The numbers Carla had pressed were completely wrong, none of the keys she had pressed looked like they had been touched. As for the others though...Sherlock frowned at the pad.

"Is there any specific date mentioned in the book?" He asked Carla. "Including the year?"

"No. The series isn't time bound, so they never said anything about a year," Carla said. "Although fans do speculate that Harry was born in 1991, and his birthday is on July 31."

Sherlock frowned at the keys and typed the date, 07-31-91. No good. "One more attempt and the alarm rings," Carla informed the two, which made John roll his eyes and think about how bloody convenient that was.

"Six digits, six digits," Sherlock mumbled to himself. "Something a child wouldn't forget. A date, to be sure, but what?"

There was a sound at the end of the hallway, which meant someone was coming in. John and Carla turned their heads to the door. "Housekeeper, probably," she whispered. John nodded, probably the first thing he and Carla had ever agreed on. "We have to get out of here."
"Sssh, I am trying to concentrate here!" Sherlock hissed, and resumed his starting at the keypad as the steps got louder.

Finally he pressed six numbers, and the safe opened. He grabbed the black folio holding the will and closed the safe. John swung back the painting with his hand as the three of them scrambled out the window and onto the street below. Carla had barely taken two steps from the wall when shots rang out across the air and in rapid succession. Sherlock immediately tackled her to the ground behind a car, John ducked beside them. They stayed in this position until they heard a car skid away, and the shots died.

"Still trust her?" John asked Sherlock while placed precariously on the detective's back. Carla was about to say something when he put his hands over her mouth.
"Don't move," said Sherlock. "Shots came from the street, a moving vehicle, probably. We have to go somewhere to hide. Preferably in a two block radius with a crowd, your killers will assume we ran far. Do you know a place?" Carla nodded and they scurried over to a cafe across the street before they huddled into a table, the black folio right in front of them.

"Oh god, oh god, they were trying to kill me, weren't they?" Carla asked, running her hands through her hair, wringing her fingers. "My sister! What if they already killed Frances?" It took John a moment to realise that her fingers were trembling and her breath was becoming quite short. She grasped at her chest as her vision became blurry. Suddenly she realised that her heels were no good for casework as she felt like she was standing over a high ledge, just about ready to fall when Sherlock grabbed her shoulders.

"Carla, Carla, look at me," he said in a firm, almost terrifying voice. "Lookat me."

Her eyes snapped up right into his, like she was staring into bright, blue pools. Her pupils were dilated, and John was about to tell Sherlock to stop when her breath immediately started to slow. "That's right, that's a good girl. Now breathe. I won't hurt you, I won't hurt you. That's a love."

Then, in an almost forceful move, he grabbed her hands, placing one of his on her cheek to keep her eyes focused on him. "We will find your sister. We will find her and your father's killer. Do you understand?"

She closed her eyes like she wanted to look away, but Sherlock shook her quite forcefully. "Do you understand?"
"Y-yes. Of course," Carla answered, her voice now completely calm. She then excused her self to go to the loo and perhaps drink a glass of water. Sherlock asked for the same and settled into his seat, only to have John glaring at him.

"What the bloody hell was that?" John asked, slightly outraged. "You terrified her!"
"If you really think she was guilty, you would have approved," Sherlock said, like he had not done anything mildly threatening in the last few minutes. "Carla is showing signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, possibly unknown to her since it's been left untreated for years. Abuse, most likely, given the way she responded to me."
"Sherlock," John said, sounding like he was trying to keep his voice calm. Sherlock knew that expression. John was contemplating wether or not he would punch him across the face.

"You don't—"

"Sandwiches and tea," Carla said, coming up to them with a small tray of food. "I realised we skipped lunch."
"Not the first time," John commented, picking up a sandwich and a teacup as Carla sat in the booth with them. She noticed Sherlock studying the will like it was about to explode. She bit into her sandwich like she wasn't sure if she wanted to read the will or not.
"This feels wrong," she said, indicating the folio. "I haven't spoken to my father in years. I'm not meant to read this."
"If this is about the money-" John began, but Sherlock shook his head.

"It's not about the money," Sherlock insisted. "I told you your sister was in danger. As far as my considerable deduction skills can surmise, your sister wants us to find this. The Resurrection Stone and your father's will. If you want to find his killer, if you want to find Frances, you need to read this."

The frown of her face did not change, but she took the corner of the folio anyway, opening it for the two to read. John's eyes widened when he realised just how rich Sir Francis Wulfric Young was. His eyes scanned the document until he reached the most important part.

Upon my death, I shall bequeath my entire estate unto my daughter, Francesca Pope Young, to be set up as a trust that shall be active on her 30th birthday. My oldest daughter, Carla Pope Young is to be administrator of this estate until the trust fund is in effect, upon which she will receive a major holding share in the Young Foundation for the Arts.

"What," Carla said in disbelief. "He wants me to…but the Foundation is…"

"One of the biggest companies in Great Britain,"Sherlock said like he had completely expected it. "Obviously, your father was not as austere as you believed him to be. The code to the safe was written at the bottom of what I presume to be a photo of you on his desk—"
"My birthday," she said, in realisation. Sherlock paused, like he hated that she had interrupted him, but pressed on.

"I am, however, more intrigued by what is not in the will, or rather, who," Sherlock said, bringing out his backlight, feeling particularly pleased that it was getting a lot of use on this case. "Like I said before, a will is usually the source of motive. Carla's presence here removes her as a suspect." He waved the light over the paper just enough to reveal the next Hallows symbol and the next clue. "I wonder who is high on your list now, John."

John was about to say something when the next letter revealed itself. "Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands and an object of incredible fascination to all," Sherlock read. "Sounds like a Christmas gift. Any thoughts, Carla?"

She seemed to be in something of a daze, and had not heard Sherlock speaking to her until two seconds later. "Oh, uhm, what was that again?"

Sherlock was about to roll his eyes and repeat the clue when John stopped him. "I say we call it a night," he said, giving Sherlock wide eyes like he was trying to pass on subtext. Which, obviously, the supposedly ingenious consulting detective had failed to pick up on. "Maybe we should all have some rest before we press on?"
"Rest?" Sherlock echoed, his lips tightly curled like he was an upset child. John rolled his eyes.
"Yes, I think it would do all of us some good," he said, nudging his head slightly towards Carla, who was looking out the window and sipping her tea, obviously having run our of energy to pay the boys any mind. Sherlock might have just gotten the hint, his mouth forming an 'oh' at the realization.

"Right. Baker Street it is then. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind another houseguest," he said, standing up to straighten his coat and pull on his scarf.

"I'm sorry?" Carla asked, her brows furrowed as John went ahead to hail a cabbie, the folio in his hand.

"Obviously, given that someone is after you, it would not be wise to go back to your flat," Sherlock informed her, placing a hand on her back to gently force her out the door. "I've asked Lestrade to send over some pictures of the crime scene as well, and I'd like to study them to facilitate a smoother investigation."

"Sherlock, please. I'm fine. We can continue if you wish," Carla said, shrugging off his help as John stood on the sidewalk. Sherlock looked like he seriously wanted to consider the suggestion, but the murderous look on John's face was enough to make him insist otherwise.

End Of Chapter Three