Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's Note: Another chapter! Yay! Sorry for the delay! Thanks again to all my readers! In case anyone is wondering, yes, this chapter and the next couple are going to be flashbacks. I'll let you know when we get back to present day. Let's find out about the almost case!

Chapter Seven

Three Years Ago:

Sherlock plucked at his violin in boredom as Watson turned the page of his newspaper. A particularly sour note caused Watson's hand to twitch and tear the side of his newspaper. The grating sounds had led him to grip the paper so tight it was taunt. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of the detective's lips. He was entirely aware of the effect of his cacophonous strumming on the good doctor.

"For god's sake man, can't you find something else to do?" Watson demanded, setting his torn paper down in his lap. Holmes chuckled.

"I'm afraid not old boy. There is nothing of any interest or importance going on. It's this or –"before he could finish his threat, laced with a tone of amusement, Watson cut in.

"No, I'd rather you didn't," John replied. He highly disapproved of his flat-mate's use of cocaine and other drugs at regular intervals. A smug look touched the expression of Sherlock as he went back to plucking strings of his violin. Watson sighed in pained resignation. A distressed knock came to the door and Lestrade quickly stormed in. Holmes instantly sat up.

"Have another troubling case Lestrade?" Holmes asked good humoredly. Lestrade was so agitated he didn't make a comeback.

"I need your help Mr. Holmes," he replied flat out. Watson and Holmes shared a glance. Sherlock sat back in his chair; the tips of his fingers pressed together, his eyes holding steady on Lestrade.

"What can I do for you?" he asked. Watson gestured for him to take a seat across from them. Lestrade sat but seemed too agitated to stay still.

"My daughter has been kidnapped," he said, his brow deepening with worry. John sat forward instantly in shock.

"That's terrible! Has there been a ransom? Do you have any leads?" he asked quickly, his eyes filling with sympathy. Sherlock seemed unfazed except for a small quirk of his eyebrow.

"I was unaware that you had a child, Lestrade," he mused quite calmly. Watson gave him a warning look, but he ignored it.

"Yes," Lestrade said shortly, and then stood, no longer able to control himself.

"When I got home from work early this morning after a stake out I found the door ajar, lock smashed, and the house destroyed. I searched everywhere for Rose, even asked the neighbors if they had seen her. But she's gone and you're the only person I know that can find her and bring her back," Lestrade explained in a rush, pacing up and down the hall. Holmes opened his mouth to speak, the tiny glint in his eyes the tell-tale hint of a snide remark, but Watson cut him off.

"We'll take care of it," John soothed the panicked inspector. Sherlock threw his companion a small glare. He hated to be told what to do. The beauty of being a private consultant detective, as he often told the doctor, was that he got to pick and choose his clients, and no one else could for him. John met his glare with a steely gaze and with a sigh the detective backed down. He was far too curious not to take the case anyways.

"We should inspect the scene of the crime, come Watson," Holmes said, leaping to his feet in one fluid movement. He had pulled on his coat by the time Watson had gotten to his feet and was at the door when he got on his coat. Lestrade was happy enough to oblige.

"I have a carriage waiting outside. We can go straight there," He agreed, hurrying down the stairs after them. After a short ride they arrived at the inspector's house. Sherlock looked around the front entrance of the yard, studying the ground and plants along the path before slowly making his way up to the doorway. He was in his element now and Watson and Lestrade both knew well not to disturb him. Holmes studied the smashed lock on the front door and then looked around the porch. With a smug smile he nodded to himself and headed inside. Watson and Lestrade shared a look and then followed inside.

The house really was a mess. Things had been shoved around and knocked over in a clear struggle. Tables were knocked over and things scattered around the floor with a lot of broken glass. Watson gasped and took in the destruction.

"This was some struggle…" he mumbled to himself as he looked around the room.

"Certainly looks that way doesn't it," Holmes mused as he walked past Watson and made his way into what must have been the daughter's room. The door was half hanging off of its hinge, part of it smashed where someone had kicked the door opened. Holmes took a quick glance at it and hopped nimbly over a fallen table. The faint crunch of shattered glass seemed to echo through the silent house as the detective took in the room. Watson looked around and felt his heart go out to the inspector. To return home and see this must have been truly heartbreaking. Lestrade lingered in the broken doorway, repressing the desire to groan.

"Holmes?" Watson questioned, hoping for the detective to give some kind of statement on the girl's safety while eyeing a stain of blood on the floor.

"There's something I don't quite understand," Holmes said after a moment of looking around. Both men waited for him to continue; amazed he would admit such a thing.

"This is the bedroom of a young woman, not a child," he observed.

"My daughter is twenty years old," Lestrade replied with a confused expression. Both the doctor and the detective looked at him then.

"Egads, man, how do you look so young?" Holmes questioned in his typical sarcastic nature.

"Holmes." Watson shot him a warning look to match his warning tone. Holmes shrugged and returned to his investigation unaffected. Lestrade looked ready to hit him. John put a hand on the inspector's shoulder to calm him.

"I have all I need to know then, thank you," Holmes stated as he hoped back out of the room. Watson followed with a tiny roll of his eyes and a growing desire to hit the detective just as much as Lestrade wanted to.

"A parting query, however," Sherlock added as he glanced over his shoulder at the inspector. "Just how old are you Lestrade?"

Watson shut the front door behind him with a sharp snap to block whatever response Lestrade might have and glared at Sherlock.

"Entirely uncalled for."

"Tell me you aren't curious too, Watson."

"Does it matter?"

"Well with a daughter of over twenty years of age that would put him—"Holmes was interrupted by Watson opening the door to the carriage waiting by the curb.

"In, Holmes." The detective obliged and got in the carriage followed by the doctor. Together the two rode in silence back towards Baker Street.

"Do you think she's alive?" John finally asked, breaking the silence between them.

"Certainly," Holmes answered.

"Can you find her?" Watson knew better than to ask but his concern for their mutual friend made him.

Sherlock gave an insulted sniff, "But of course." He turned to look out the window then.

"It would seem, however, that we have another case waiting for us first," he said as they approached 221B and both saw a woman knocking on the door. Holmes hopped out of the carriage just as Lily opened the door.

"Please come inside, madam, I shall be with you in a moment," Holmes said and brushed past both girls into the house and up the stairs. Watson sighed and paid the driver before approaching the girls. He tipped his hat and bowed his head slightly to the young woman draped in black. Even his meager detecting skills could tell him she was a widow. Young, and recent to her new status. She turned to him and bowed her head delicately.

"I'm Doctor Watson. I apologize for my colleague. That was Sherlock Holmes. Do come in," he offered and held the door for her. She smiled and stepped inside as Lily moved out of the way. She took the doctor's coat and hat and their guest's outer shall. The widow kept her hat and veil on however, the black meshing perfectly with her black hair twisted into a bun at the nap of her neck. Beneath the wispy material were porcelain white skin and a pair of forest green eyes.

"My name is Ruth Harrington…I was hoping the detective could help me," the woman spoke gently in a small and fragile voice. John marveled at how delicate a creature the young woman was and wondered if she could survive a meeting with his brash housemate. He offered her his arm, concerned that even a trip up the stairs might do this girl more damage. She placed a gloved hand on his arm and together the two ascended the stairs. Watson could hear Holmes pacing restlessly inside the study, feigning patience. When they entered the room, however, he was seated in his chair as if he had been waiting in that spot all along.

"Do sit down Miss…." Holmes gestured to the empty chair that was across the small coffee table from his and Watson's seats.

"Mrs. Ruth Harrington," she corrected him.

"Formerly," he notes. John "accidentally" stepped on the detective's foot as he took his seat. Sherlock made a muffled yelp but swallowed it down into a fake cough and masked his pain with an equally false smile.

"What can we do for you?" he asked.

"I've been robbed, Mr. Holmes, and I was hoping you might solve the case for me," Mrs. Harrington explained.

"What was stolen?" Holmes asked, hardly interested.

"A small safe that contained all of my most important documents…and those of my late husband's," she replied.

Holmes leaned forward. "What kind of documents?"

"Birth certificates, the mortgage on our house, and…." Mrs. Harrington trailed off.

"And?"

"My husband was a member of the military, Mr. Holmes. There were many secrets he kept that not even I was aware of. All I know is that he made me swear never to lose those papers as long as he was gone at sea." She rested her gaze on Sherlock's and the two stared at each other for a moment, as if sizing the other up.

"I'll take it," he replied after a moment, hopping out of his seat.

"I've written my address down here. Perhaps you could come by tomorrow?" She held out the slip of paper and Watson took it.

"We'll be there," Holmes agreed, already at work with something at his chemistry set.

"Thank you for your time," she said with a small nod of her head to the doctor.

"Do you need me to call a carriage for you?" Watson asked, getting to his feet.

"No, I will be fine. Thank you, doctor." She turned for the door.

"Good day gentlemen." With that she was gone. Watson turned to look at Holmes with a frown.

"There was no reason to be rude," he scolded.

"I wasn't being rude," Holmes replied, not looking up from his work.

"Yes you were." John frowned.

"You were the one who stepped on my foot," Holmes retorted.

"Because you insulted that poor young woman!"

"I merely stated a fact. She said she was Mrs. Ruth Harrington and assuming that she is using her husband's last name, I simply pointed out that as her husband is dead she is now the formerly Mrs. Harrington."

"Have you no sense of decorum?" Watson demanded.

"Meaning do I have any pity. You know the answer to that, doctor. No," Holmes replied curtly. Watson snorted and snatched up his newspaper, ripping it open in a huff. Both men continued their stubborn silence for the rest of the evening.