Coughing. Her body was choking on her own saliva, a gasping, forceful kind of way. The asphalt underneath her felt hot against her legs, like a skillet. Her limbs felt about to snap, as they were weak from the aimless tumble the television had spouted her out into. For a panicked moment, she wondered how she looked, shards of glass sticking out from her skin, splatters of blood trailing in her short platinum blonde hair. Oh, she must have looked absolutely marvelous.
When the episode of coughing had ended, she attempted to regain some of her senses. Her vision taunted her as it faded blurrily, refocusing from time to time. Pain raced up and down her body, and at this point, she had no idea where any of her wounds were. Her lungs ached and she resorted to deep, long breaths.
It took her a full minute to understand that she was pinned underneath her heavy futon mattress. Too weak to move, she scanned her surroundings. To her horror, all her belongings had been flung into an alleyway. She scrunched her eyes in confusion. An alleyway?
Letting out one last sputtering cough, she reached out with a free arm, trying to pry herself free from the weight pressing on her lungs. Her other limbs were trapped and pinned to the dirty floor with a few of the blankets that had been ripped away in the struggle. As the weight crushed down on her, she scrambled and struggled to get out. She figured there must have been more than just a futon above her because it felt like a lion was sitting on top, perhaps snacking on a fresh gazelle.
It must have been midnight, as it had been at her own place, with only the streetlights flickered down on the sidewalk a few feet from her. It put an eerie feeling in the pit of her stomach, reminding her of the television light in her living room only minutes before.
She froze like a Greek statue when she heard the shuffling of feet down the sidewalk. Desperately, she tried to push the mattress off of herself and call for help, but her voice was hoarse and raw from the dust in the air.
"-some tests to run." A baritone voice spoke plainly about a block away, she guessed. Her heart seemed to stop at the familiarity of it. The voice she'd last heard before she was sucked into this alleyway. The voice she only heard in her dreams. A voice, she knew, only belonged the one and only curly-haired consulting detective-
Sherlock Holmes.
In the right moment, the girl would have squealed her fangirling heart out, because they were meeting a celebrity, Benedict Cumberbatch, and his cheekbones. All at once. Again, she clinging to the idea that she was only delirious, dreaming, dead, or in a coma.
Little gasps were all she could manage to get out, watching as shadows inched on the sidewalk a few feet ahead of her. A rambling detective strode past, clad in his iconic coat, with somewhat limping John behind him.
Trying to clear her head, she thought about her state. Most likely a few broken ribs from the way she'd remembered landing. She could feel the trickle of blood down her skin, so she had been cut indefinitely by flying glass. She was concerned about the silverware that had later smacked her head in their blind toss. Squeezing her fist, she fought to remain conscious. She let out a weak cough to grab the pair's attention, which took a surprising amount of energy. Her neck weakened at the sudden movement, and she face-planted in failure and exhaustion. She was going to die under her futon. Who'd have thought?
She tried to let out a gasping sob of relief when she heard the detective pause, "Someone in the alley." He spoke quickly to his friend, stepping nearer with confidence in his claim. She assumed he was examining the oddity of her entire interior design- strewn about the alleyway.
"What?" A softer, yet firm voice asked from the sidewalk in bewilderment. The voice of John Watson, the army doctor she knew only in a fictional world. Sherlock silenced him with a hand.
"Girl. Under the mattress." The detective informed briefly, saving his energy to take in the details of the situation. His eyes flickered over the strange items in a pile of the alleyway, and he took notice of the clothing and household belongings all stacked onto the futon, with the obviously shuddering teenager underneath. He quickly began to shove the large refrigerator off the mattress, along with a printer, which clattered to the ground in broken shards of porcelain. Carefully, he began to brush the items off like a bulldozer.
Skeptical John hobbled over to the situation, crouching and peering under the mattress, where his eyes met a shivering girl. "Uh, it's alright. I'm a doctor." He stated awkwardly, trying to lift the mattress and relieve the weight off of her while Sherlock took care of the mess.
A faint and fragile squeak came from underneath, "I know."
John raised an eyebrow in faint curiosity, reaching a hand out to hold her's in comfort.
An annoyed grunt escaped from Sherlock above, "You sure own plenty of items for someone who lives on her own. You're lucky the stove and dishwasher didn't land on top of you.. or there might have been a different outcome."
John chose to ignore his intruding and crude comment towards the girl. He was focused on her and was glad when she hummed softly, perhaps in humor, but otherwise in agreement. It was always a good sign when they responded.
Suddenly, the weight of the mattress had lifted off her, and she let out a hesitant, shaky sigh, still not trusting in her ability to judge when danger has cleared. Strong hands came from above her, yanking her up by the armpits gently. She ignored the fact that they belonged to the world's only consulting detective and kept eye contact with John.
John gingerly looked over her wounds, gently prodding and poking, "Scraped knees, broken arm, two cracked ribs... glass wounds that will need to be treated. Exhaustion." His hands ghosted over the bleeding disaster, "Don't drop her, she won't be able to walk." He scrutinized the wounds.
"Yes, I saw her knees buckle." Sherlock dismissed casually. He handed the girl off to John, unnerved when it came time for human interaction. He turned to his cellular technology.
It was implied they were to call an ambulance. Sherlock quickly flipped out his handy phone and dialed emergency numbers while John quickly set to wrapping the girl's arm over his broad shoulder and his under her armpit to carry her weight. Her steps were shaky and uncoordinated, and her eyes were dilated, showing the trauma the incident had left on her. He was worried about her consciousness, so he decided that discussion might be best. "So, what's your name?" He asked in his stern, doctor voice.
"Ashton." She spluttered gracelessly, "Uh, but... Ash-sh is fine." Her voice was still dry and croaky, her voice breaking as she winced. She wondered if this was some cruel dream turned nightmare that was playing with her emotions. It seemed lucid enough and very real, as real as her headache pounding right now.
Ashton's mouth flowed words she didn't hear. She babbled on about something that either must have made sense, as she deducted sluggishly from John's expression, or he was just trying to keep her attention. Either way, her tongue, and lips were numb in pain so she couldn't comprehend anything she rambled of.
Sherlock blocked out the conversation, and in the few seconds he waited for the phone to be picked up, he observed the girl as the two shuffled down the street. She was obviously in some sort of shock, which the heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat.
There were obvious scrapes on her knees, suggesting she had been thrown to the ground, and the scratches on her hands showed she had been fully conscious while doing so. Glass cuts ran along the front of her body, the vase shards easily recognized. Ah, the vase. A household item. Obviously, very old- generations old, so, passed down. Gift from a parent, perhaps.
Sherlock pushed that information to the side for a moment. She had a futon, so she wasn't living it big... flat, then. Sherlock's gears churned- American accent. Tourist? No, no, no, stupid thought. Her entire wallet was filled with American money and essentials, nothing hinting England, much less London.
A single bed.. so she was living on her own, then? So obviously not too young into her teens. A quick flip of her wallet confirmed his suspicions. She was nineteen.
Sherlock was quick to give the address and current situation of the teen to the operator, who told him the details of how quickly they'd be there. He hung up in impatience and out of impulse. Sherlock sent a text to Lestrade without thinking too deeply about it.
In a spurt of doubt that they weren't her belongings, he dismissed it immediately. Her wallet was at the top of the stack, along with a few necklaces, diaries he'd barely skimmed in a matter of a second, and letters that all directed back to her- Ashton.
The one thing that grabbed his attention was her clothes. Pajamas. Why had she been in her pajamas? To sleep, obviously. It was midnight.
A single mind-blowing idea came to him. Perhaps, he'd be able to lay out her entire house from how she'd been found in the alleyway, starting with the theory she'd been nearest to her futon. Which made quite a lot of sense; she was in her pajamas, she'd been smothered in blankets and her futon, and he hadn't seen any other bed, conclusion, her entire house had been spouted on top of her. Unfortunately, he had contaminated his beautiful evidence. What a stupid mistake.
Even if it had been, how would that be possible? It was an incredibly absurd idea, even for Sherlock, but all the facts were laid out. Suspicion was pointing to the television with the broken screen, whose glass had failed to appear anywhere. What did the television have to do with it?
And how did she have nothing from England? That thought came to mind, also. Even her pajamas screamed American, with their blue hue, dotted in little white stars and repulsive American flags. Her I.D., her driver's license- America. Had she come to visit someone? Doubtful. There were no signs of luggage, and he was sure a kitchen knife wouldn't be legal on a plane under Mycroft's watch.
He was stumped, and it bothered him like nothing else.
Sirens cut off his inner chatter and he realized he'd been in his mind palace. The teen was barely conscious. The detective watched as paramedics took the girl from John and hustled to get her inside the ambulance. Sherlock hummed softly to himself, "She didn't seem too injured. Doubt she had a concussion."
John huffed, eyes lock on the ambulance carting the girl in. "Did you see her condition? She needs to get to the hospital. Meanwhile-" He cut his gaze with the scene, "-what are you doing?"
"Taking a few photos." Sherlock was quick to answer, sweeping his phone around while snapping various angles. He grinned widely, turning to the blogger, "Ooh- John. What an excellent case, indeed."
And a mystery, at that.
Later...
Ashton's world was white. Maybe death had finally snatched her. Fortunately, she quickly found that was not the case as a blinding light filled her vision and memories flooded her. After a bit of blinking, the blurry image of a hospital room was visible. Obnoxious beeping echoes off the walls. Her head felt heavy, filled with drugs, she guessed.
A black shadow clashed against the white wall caught her attention, and she met her drowsy eyes with a curly-haired man in a black long coat who sat on the chair at the end of the room. She blinked, as her mind must have been betraying her. That was Sherlock Holmes.
His controlled gaze held still. It was like Sherlock was looking at her with a microscope, his gaze never left. He said nothing, continuing to study the behavior of the strange girl.
"You." She croaked out with a whisper. It had a strange rasp of awe to it. A fear and craze she could not describe. A terror in her veins that sparked excitement.
"Me," Sherlock replied, his gaze still unwavering.
Ash let out a breath, "Thank you." It was subtle, quiet, but truthful and meaningful. She would have at least been under that futon for a few days, and just the thought of that made the heart monitor sound an extra beat.
Sherlock held his head high, a spark of pride in himself clearly shimmering in those multi-colored pupils. He was intrigued. The look that he only had when he had a case- and a good one, at that.
Her slow state of mind might have been lagging due to all the painkillers running through her blood, but she still knew to leave herself alone in with the mysterious detective...
...was rather dangerous.
~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~