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: Thanks again to all the favorites and followings on my story! I appreciate it a lot guys! Well let's continue with the flashback! Holmes has lots of work to do!

Chapter Eight

"It would seem you spoke too soon yesterday," Watson pointed out as he and Holmes sat eating breakfast together the next morning. More correctly stated Watson ate breakfast; Holmes sat with a cup of tea in front of him but spent most of his time scanning the newspaper.

"Pardon?" Holmes asked, not looking up from his study.

"You said there was nothing out there of interest for you. Now you have not one but two simultaneous cases," John pointed out.

"So it would seem," Holmes replied nonchalantly.

"Are you sure you should be taking both on at the same time?" Watson asked looking over the detective. "After all…Lestrade's daughter…"

"Is alive I am certain. After we stop by Mrs. Harrington's home this morning we will continue on her case. It shouldn't take too long to find Miss Lestrade." Holmes turned the page of the newspaper without pausing to take a breath. The doctor chuckled faintly and finished his breakfast quickly, draining the last of the tea from his cup. As if waiting for this to be a cue, Sherlock leapt out of his seat and began pulling on his coat and hat. Watson followed in suit and soon the two were out the door, Lily waving goodbye to them as they went.

"Be careful!" she called after them.

"I hardly think such a warning is necessary for us," Holmes mused, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I think given the trouble we get into from day to day it is doubly necessary for us." Watson chuckled and fell in step with his companion. Holmes sniffed and either had nothing to say or chose not to respond.

Ruth Harrington's home was small but cozy, tucked into a nicer area of town where every little house seemed to nestle into the next one and the sound of children laughing could be heard and smoke rose from chimneys in a welcoming fashion.

"A family life. How ghastly," Holmes stated.

"Some enjoy it," Watson pointed out.

"Some also enjoy killing. That doesn't make it any better now does it?"

"And I suppose you put death and a quiet home life on the same level."

"Most definitely."

Their conversation was cut short by their arrival to the front door. After a sharp knock the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Harrington much in the same clothing that she had worn the day before. The only difference being that this time she did not have on a hat and veil. Her skin still appeared alabaster against the darkness of her gown and the vividness of the color of her eyes.

"I'm so glad you could come, Mr. Holmes, Doctor," she said as she held the door open for them. They both stepped inside, taking in their surroundings in their own way. Sherlock scanned every nook and cranny of every visible space, categorizing and storing it in his mind for later. John took in some things either for curiosity's sake or for the sake of being polite.

"Your house is very nice," he complimented. In truth her house was very simple. There were little decorations on the walls, tables, mantles, and the furniture seemed rather minimal. It was unbelievably clean however, as if no one lived there at all.

"Thank you," Mrs. Harrington said with a small smile.

"Where was your safe kept?" Holmes asked, going straight to business.

"The bedroom. Please follow me." She led them down a tight hall to a set of doors and opened the one at the very end for them. Holmes went to work instantly and Watson hung back to stay beside the young widow.

"How long has your husband been gone, if you don't mind my asking?" he asked.

"I found out a few weeks ago. He was at sea when it happened…" she trailed off, looking over the room. In part she watched Sherlock as he worked, and in part she saw something entirely in her mind. John watched her silently; concerned for this fragile woman abandoned and alone in this house with the memories of her lost loved one.

Over to one side of the room, Holmes ran a finger over the surface of a small bureau and then studied the invisible dust on his fingertip. He sniffed it and then looked around.

"I believe, madam, you have withheld information from me," he stated, turning his dark gaze upon her.

"I don't understand," Mrs. Harrington replied.

"Something else was stolen from you, was it not?"

"Pardon?"

"Some of your jewels were stolen as well as the information from the safe you kept stored under your bed."

"Oh…yes…well I was more concerned with getting the documents back."

"Yes but the fact that jewels were taken as well tells me a great deal. You must never leave anything out!" Holmes was somewhere between scolding and indignant.

"Holmes." If Watson were to win a pound every time he had to warn the detective, he'd never have to take a patient on again.

"I think I have gathered all the information I need here," Holmes huffed and stalked back towards the front door.

"I apologize. I assure you he is doing all he can to return your husband's documents," Watson reassured Mrs. Harrington as the figure of Sherlock retreated down the hall.

"Of course….I apologize for not telling you everything…" Mrs. Harrington trailed off, looking concerned.

"Quite alright." He smiled. "We will be in touch soon." With that he bowed his head to her and followed Sherlock out in time to see Holmes climb into a carriage. John managed to get in before the driver nudged the horses into movement.

"Care to share?"

"The thief was a woman. I'm still working on the rest," Holmes replied.

"A woman? Are you sure?" Watson asked in surprise.

"Pardon me, have we met before?" was Holmes's sarcastic response. John rolled his eyes.

"Anyways, now we are off to see into Lestrade's case," Sherlock continued on as if John hadn't spoken.

"Where are we going?"

"We're looking for a man. Big, I'd say about six foot. Muscular. A hired help meant for physical labor. Someone familiar with the crime world and Lestrade's police work," Holmes answered.

"Factory worker?" Watson guessed.

"Fisherman, in fact," Holmes corrected.

"To the docks, then," Watson replied.

"To the docks," Holmes agreed.