Chapter 1: Baker Street

I tore through the streets, shoving people out of my way. I could hear them following close behind me, the gap between us growing smaller and smaller. My heart felt as though it was going to beat out of my chest, my lungs struggling to get air. I had to keep going though. If they caught me, I was dead.

I turned the corner, glancing up at the sign. Baker Street. Perhaps I could lose them on Porter if traffic was congested enough. I could only hope that luck would finally be on my side. So far it had been failing me.

I felt my face go numb. I knew I wouldn't be able to make it to Porter. I didn't even think I'd be able to make it down Baker Street. My asthma had decided to raise its ugly head at the worst of times. I could feel my airway tightening, could see the black dots forming in front of my vision. I needed a safe place to hide and quickly.

Looking up, I saw a smaller blonde man getting ready to enter his home. I ran towards him, gasping for air.

"Please...sir...I know...I know you don't…"

A hand grabbed me by my jacket collar and dragged me inside. I watched as the blonde man followed me in, closing and locking the door. I lay on the floor, gasping like a fish out of water, trying my hardest to focus on my breathing. I had to be terrible at one of the things that was most important in life.

"Holmes, what the hell are you doing?" The blonde man said, staring at someone outside of my shrinking field of vision.

"Saving her life," another voice replied. "Use your eyes, Watson, and see that her lips are turning blue as well as her nail beds. Can you still hear us? Nod your head, no use wasting your breath."

I nodded quickly, rolling to my back to see a dark-haired man with brilliant blue eyes staring down at me with tepid interest. I let out a hoarse cry as he lifted me into his arms, whisking me up the stairs. The blonde man followed, hand on my wrist, taking my pulse.

"You wouldn't happen to have an inhaler, would you?" The man carrying me asked.

I could barely hear him over the roar of my heart racing in my ears and my gasps for breath. I managed to shake my head no, looking around wildly, trying to get my bearings.

"Of course you don't. Why would you? Well, I have one in my room, I'll be right back. Focus on your breathing for me, in and out. Watson, if you could make a hot cup of coffee, black, no sugar, no cream." With that, the man called Holmes set me down on a couch, disappearing into one of the rooms off the living room.

I sat up, leaning forward, struggling to catch my breath. Watson disappeared into what I assumed was the kitchen. I closed my eyes, trying to focus. I heard someone re-enter the room and I opened my eyes to see Holmes standing in front of me, hand outstretched to reveal a bright red inhaler with a white cap. I snatched it from his hand and took two deep pulls, holding my breath in-between.

I could feel the vise-like grip slowly releasing on my lungs. Holmes knelt in front of me, staring into my face. I stared back, trying to see what he was thinking based on his facial expressions.

"You are frightened," he stated simply.

"Aye...wouldn't you be... if you had nearly died?" I panted, raising an eyebrow. "Going for...the basics I see...Mr…"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And you should stop talking and focus on your breathing. Your lips are still blue."

I smiled, shaking my head. "I...can't. There's...much to tell...you." I reached inside my jacket, searching for the hidden pocket that I'd sewn on a few days prior. "Here...read this...maybe you can help."

I pulled out some carefully folded papers, as well as a flash drive that I had taped to the bottom. I watched as he read over the notes quickly. Watson came back into the room, holding a steaming mug in his hands. He gave it to me and I took it.

"What is this...supposed to do?"

"Open your air passages," Sherlock said, not bothering to look up at me. "It has the same properties as the bronchodilator. I obviously don't have a nebulizer for you to use, so we must improvise."

Watson knelt down in front of me, taking my pulse. "Go ahead and drink it. I promise, it's not bad. I'm John by the way, John Watson."

I nodded, giving him a small smile before taking a sip. Sherlock disappeared from the room, heading back into what I could only assume was his bedroom. I grimaced at the taste of the bitter liquid, but knew that it had to be done. I couldn't afford to go to a hospital, especially not with the people trying to hunt me down.

Sherlock came back and sat down in the chair, flipping his laptop open before plugging in the memory stick. John had gotten up to retrieve a stethoscope from the kitchen. I raised an eyebrow at him.

"I was an army doctor," he explained. "If you don't feel comfortable with me examining you, we could always go to the emergency room."

"No hospitals," Sherlock and I both said at the same time.

John looked at both of us before sighing. "I'm assuming you have a reason as to why we can't go to the hospital to have her checked out properly."

"I'll tell you in a minute. I'm still reading."

He sighed before looking back at me. "So, are you comfortable with my examining you or would you prefer to go without?"

"Go ahead," I murmured, feeling the dizziness dissipate.

John listened to my heart beat and my breath sounds before inspecting my nails and face. He shined a flashlight in my eyes and made me recite what the day was, who the prime minister was, and what two plus two was. I answered each question, feeling some of my strength return. I let out a cough before leaning back on the sofa.

"So, find anything of interest Mr. Holmes?" I asked.

"A lot of things are interesting to me when it concerns crime. But I have to wonder how credible your information is. And if it is, how did you get it?"

"All in good time Mr. Holmes. First, I need to know if you will help me or if I should find someone else more capable?"

"I am perfectly capable," Sherlock said haughtily. "In fact, I would be the most capable person for this job."

"What job?" John asked, a look of confusion on his face. "Would someone please fill me in?"

Without a word, Sherlock passed the laptop and the documents to John, allowing him to read. I watched Watson read, seeing the horror and realization beginning to creep across his face. He looked up at me before turning to Sherlock. "We can't handle anything like that! We need to call the police, the army! This is much too big for us!"

"Mr. Holmes, it was my intention to bring this to you today. By chance I managed to find you at home while on the run. I need your help." I met his eyes, refusing to let my gaze waver. "Please, I have risked everything to bring this plan to light."

"Holmes...Holmes, you can't be serious," John said, horrified. "Are you actually considering what this lunatic woman has more than likely conjured up?"

I scoffed. "I would not make up anything like this. I need help. I cannot do this alone. In fact, I'm in way over my head as is. I'm a simple thief. I didn't realize that what I'd stolen was as...sinister as that. I've heard your name in the news solving impossible cases. Please. Help me."

"What's your name?" Sherlock asked me, leaning forward, knitting his fingers together.

"My name is Delilah McKinley and I am asking you for your help Sherlock Holmes."

"Consider my help yours."

I ate my dinner quickly, my stomach having been growling at me for nearly two hours. In that time, we'd discussed possible ways of thwarting the heinous act. Sherlock had been trying to get as much information as he could out of me, but I was quickly learning how to sidestep all of his questioning. I wasn't one to give up my personal information easily and I could tell by how impatient Sherlock was becoming that it was bothering him that he couldn't read me as easily as others.

I looked around the flat, taking in the decor. My eyes fell on a yellow smiley face with bullet holes in it. "Who did that?"

"I did," Sherlock answered. "I was bored."

"Well, I suppose you won't be doing that again any time soon as this case will more than likely take up most of your time."

"Yes, for some reason I doubt that I'll be bored. From what I've gleaned from the document, this will take place four months from now. So, now we have to figure out the who, the where, and the why." Sherlock closed his eyes and I looked at John, who shrugged. "Have you got any other information that you can recall? Anything at all?"

I shook my head. "I'm afraid I haven't. I've told you everything that I know."

"This is insane," John grumbled. "Absolutely, completely insane. We need to give this to the proper authorities Holmes."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said, voice soft as he looked up at John. "Because who do you think is in this person's pocket? Where do you think they're going to get all of these things from? The government. The proper authorities as you put it. They're inept and unable to handle something of this magnitude."

"And you are? Sherlock, admit it, this is way over our heads!"

"I hate to interrupt, but I've really got to be going," I said, rising to my feet. "Its been great meeting you both and having dinner with you, but I have to go home."

"And home is where? A cardboard box in an alley? The inside of a half-empty dumpster? Or will you be camping out under a bridge with a bin fire to keep you warm?" The consulting detective rose from his chair, going to stand directly in front of me. "You have no home and nowhere to go to."

I could feel my face pale and my eyes went wide. "How did you-?"

"Know that? I've been observing you for the past two hours. You're wearing four different layers of clothing, no doubt layering up for the colder weather that's rolling in. Your hair, while not absolutely dreadful, is tangled and there's a bit of grease forming at your roots, meaning that you haven't had the chance to bathe in a few days. Your shoes are practically worn through, your eyes have large bags underneath of them, and you ate as if you haven't had a good meal for at least a week." Sherlock smiled at me and I wanted to slap him across the face. "And don't even get me started on the smell."

"Do you really not have a place to go?" John asked sympathetically.

"No. I don't. I've been living on the streets for the past two years. It's why I became a thief in the first place." From behind my back I produced the memory stick. "It's why I'm going to hold onto this for insurance purposes. No tricks, no turning me into the cops."

"Give that back," Sherlock demanded, holding his hand out to me as if I were a petulant child.

I shook my head, a small smile on my face. "I think I'll keep it. You obviously can't handle having something so valuable on you if I can pick your pocket that easily. Now, I'm going to go and-"

"No," John said, getting up from his spot on the couch. "Stay here. You can sleep in my bed. I'll crash on the couch."

"No thanks."

"Delilah, it's a warm place to stay with a roof over your head and no worries about someone sneaking up on you at night. You can get a bath and tomorrow we'll head down to the shop and get you some new clothes."

"But I like these clothes," I protested. "Besides, I don't smell that bad."

"That's because you're used to the smell," Sherlock said with a wrinkled nose. "You can stay here for one night and that's it. I'm not having a thief under my roof."

With that, Sherlock left the room, retreating back into his room. I heard the sound of a violin floating through the flat and I looked to John. "He plays when he's upset. He's quite good. The only problem is, he likes to play at all hours."

"Great," I sighed. "Well, I suppose if you all think I stink so badly, then I should perhaps get a shower."

"You stink horribly!" Sherlock shouted and I rolled my eyes.

"Is he always this impossible?"

"Oh, you've caught him on a good day. Normally he's even more impossible than this."

"I feel so sorry for you." I gave John a sympathetic smile and he laughed.

"It's not so bad once you get used to him. I'll bring you a towel and such, leave it on the toilet for you, alright?"

"That sounds wonderful. Oh. And I don't mind sleeping on the couch. I wouldn't want to put you out of your bed." With that, I went into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

Cautiously, I took the stick out of my jacket pocket and placed it on the edge of the shower. I didn't trust Sherlock as far as I could throw him, even though he had saved my life when I was having my asthma attack. I turned the water on, stripping out of my clothes. I wrinkled my nose when I caught a whiff of the odor wafting off of them. My clothes smelled like a mixture of mildew, garbage, and fish.

'Well, you did have to leap off of a three story building into a trash bin below. And then cross the Thames so that their damnable dogs would lose your scent. And then there was that fish market.' I had to fight the urge to gag as I remembered the smell of the fish market.

I stepped into the hot water of the shower, letting it run over my head. Immediately, my muscles relaxed and I felt a sense of calm come over me. I scrubbed my hair with whatever shampoo and conditioner they had in the tub before I took the time to wash my body. I touched the scar on my stomach and the one on my thigh. I inspected the fresh cut to the back of my calf, wincing at it. It looked awful, but that was what happened when you got grazed by a bullet with no medical treatment. I'd be fine in a couple of days.

Finally feeling clean, I turned the water off, opening the door to find my old clothes gone, a pair of sweatpants and a jumper sitting on the sink and a towel sitting on the lid of the toilet. I dried off quickly, pulling the jumper over my head before tying my hair up in the towel. I began to exit the room when I remembered the memory stick. I grabbed it quickly, hiding it in the hole of the waistband where the drawstrings used to be.

When I entered the living room, I found John setting up the couch, spreading a blanket out over it. He looked up when he heard me come in.

"How're you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you. I truly appreciate all you have done for me. Both of you."

"It's no problem. I'm glad we've been able to help. And listen, me calling you a lunatic earlier-"

I held up my hand. "It's fine. It's in the past. I understand that it's hard for you both to trust people, especially in your line of work. I probably wouldn't be able to trust strangers very well either."

John's cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. "Yeah, well...erm, I'm going to go to bed myself. Let me know if you need anything."

"I'll be fine. Thank you again."

I watched as he left the room, waiting for his door to close before I sat down on the sofa. I touched the pillow, tears touching my eyes as I felt how soft it was. It had been so long since I'd had a proper place to sleep. I wanted to cry, but I shoved the tears away. Now wasn't the time for tears. Now was the time for rest and when the morning came, I would figure out what I was going to do from there.

I lay down on the couch, pulling the covers over my shoulders. I closed my eyes, my last thoughts being the plan that was safely tucked in the waistband of my newly acquired sweatpants and how I'd never meant to put myself into such a messy situation, especially not with someone who could predict every move I was going to make.

What had I managed to get myself into?