Trisha McFarland was a 5'6" bartender from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She visited England to study abroad when she was 21 and never left. Most of her family back home would say it was because of the beautiful country and its culture, but that's because they all were in denial of her homosexuality. She had fallen in love at university with a blonde behavioral science student named Mary. They were together for nearly seven years, engaged for one and a half, before Trisha unexpectedly went missing. Never returned home from the market. Mary spent a good six months working with the police in her area to investigate the missing person case, but with no avail. The police slowly gave up on the investigation, with newer, more pressing files emerging. But she hadn't given up, becoming all but obsessed with the case. She had barely slept, rarely ate, and kept up with the news and media very slightly, with an ear only for news of Trisha. Her life became the case, but as much as her friends at the station wanted to help, their resources were exhausted. Desperate to find the woman she loved, she then turned to someone she'd read about in the papers back when she still had Trisha; a private detective of some sorts who was legended to be the best of the best. He was, however, rumored to be a bit choosy with his work selection, which meant she should hurry to him, present her case before someone more interesting had the chance to. Without bothering to call ahead, she jumped on the first train to London.
She remembered ringing the flat's bell at almost precisely the same time as a man opened the door. He started when he saw her, apparently oblivious to the ringing she had just made. He tried to be pleasant but she could tell he was deeply distressed about something, and she felt mildly guilty for barging in on him unannounced. But she had something important to get to. Never doing anything in halves and with clear signs of desperation, she launched into a full story of her tragedy. He stood in the doorway very still and quiet as she poured her heart out, begging for his help with finding Trisha. He looked more and more uncomfortable, but when he tried to interject she over powered him, asking for him to at least hear her out. He was clearly frazzled but, like a gentlemen, let her finish her case. When she had finally gotten out the entire rehearsed speech, she looked at him through her fresh tears, waiting for a response. He looked painfully awkward.
"Er, that's an awful story, and I'm so sorry but…but I'm afraid…Sherlock Holmes, has um.. he's dead." He had had much trouble getting the sentence out. And for the first time in almost a year, she felt sorrier for someone else over herself. He clearly was in deep mourning, and she could read in his face just how significant of a loss he had suffered.
"Oh dear, I'm so sorry. Please, let me buy you a coffee?" she had asked, sparking one of the deepest friendships of her life.
They were back at Scotland Yard (much to John's dismay), in a similar interrogation room, only this one had a much smaller window to look through, but better lighting on either side of the glass. A handcuffed suspect was sitting behind the table. John wouldn't normally be there for the investigations, but this particular suspect was involved in Trisha's case.
The man was picked up for possessing large amounts of drugs in his car, but Lestrade had called Mary because he had recognized the man's tattoos. He had the exact same ink in the same places as Trisha. All ten of them.
As Mary entered the room, he straightened up in his seat and turned a hardened face to her.
"I already talked to the police," he growled looking away at the wall. Mary inwardly noted the American accent.
"Oh, I'm not a cop, I'm doing my own investigation. I just wanted to have a quick chat with you. About your ink." She said, gesturing to the blue birds on his wrist as she sat across from him. He reflexively covered them with his hands.
"My buddy Lestrade tells me you have quite a lot of them. You want to tell me what they all mean?" she asked.
"They don't mean nothing," he said, clenching his jaw. She watched his throat tense up and nodded.
"So why are you angry about them?" She asked thoughtfully.
"What?"
"You're obviously pissed about the tattoo. Most people either show pride or regret when talking about their ink. You're showing anger. I'm wondering why," She explained.
"My ink has nothing to do with the goods in my car," he mumbled, staring down at the table.
In response, she opened up the folder in her hand and laid ten full size pictures in front of him, each one a picture of his different tattoos. He glanced down at them, and then away in disgust.
"They're pretty girly for a man your size, don't you think? I actually like the feather on your side though. You want to know why? I picked it out." At this, his eyebrows pulled up and together for a millisecond, before his face hardened back up.
"Well there's some genuine surprise. You wanna tell me why you're covered in matching tattoos with a missing woman?" She was pushing him, and he was clearly growing in agitation.
"I didn't know they matched anyone." He snapped at her.
"You just happened to get ten identical tattoos?"
"I didn't want them. The boss…he made me get them. I didn't ask why; you don't ask why when he tells you to do something." It was easy to read the anxiety in his face, as he fidgeted in his seat. His hard criminal facade was falling.
"And your boss, does he have a name?" She pressed, and he rolled his eyes.
"I ain't talkin' 'bout him. Book me for the drugs, fine. But he stays out of this." He was clearly terrified of this man.
Unsure how to handle gang members, she nodded curtly and left the room to consult with Lestrade.
"What should we do?" she asked, clearly excited to have gotten a fresh piece of evidence.
"For now, we hold him. We'll do a background check, search his flat, find out everything we can on him. From what we've gathered, he's pretty low on the food chain."
She shook her head, "No, he can't be. He's trusted with large sums of drugs and the leader knows him enough to ink him up? That's really weird. And he's too terrified of him to not know him personally. I say we press him for more." she said with determination.
"You're not gunna get anything- he's a gang member, they're overly loyal. And besides he's more afraid of what they'll do to him for talking than he is of us."
"If he knows something about Trish-"
"We'll find out what he knows after we have more info on him." His voice was final, causing an indignant roll of the eyes from Mary.
She grunted in protest and tried to argue but Lestrade stopped her.
"Look we've been working on this gang for years, and this is the first big break we've had on them in months. We're gunna have to be careful about it."
Instead of responding she growled and stormed out of the room, sensing the finality of the matter. John gave an awkward nod to Lestrade and walked to the door.
"Hey, uh, about the other night," Lestrade tensely began.
"Don't." John stopped him with a sigh, looking down at the floor. "I'm really sorry you had to see that. I don't, um…usually…" he trailed off, unsure how to explain behavior he could barely remember.
"Look it's fine, I'm not judging. You seemed pretty upset though. Are you alright, then?" he asked, genuinely concerned.
John looked up and tried to smile, "Fine. Thanks." they both nodded then stood in uncomfortable silence.
"Well I'd better-" John began quickly.
"Right, yeah." Lestrade agreed, understanding John's need to run after Mary.
John gave a small wave and then was out the door.
"Are you going to explain to me what taking out your old drug suppliers has to do with your imaginary quest for freedom?" Mycroft asked his brother, who had once again decided to pay an unexpected visit late into the night. This time Sherlock's business seemed to be with him, however, not trifling around his laptop.
Sherlock remained quiet, sitting in his dramatically still way, upon a chair by the window, observing the rain as it drooled down the glass.
"It seems like a foolish-" Mycroft began.
"They're not just...past business associates, Mycroft" he interrupted, "They're one of the most powerful gangs in London, and until recently, they funded nearly all of an old friend of mine's extravagant plans. Honestly I thought you'd figure it out." He was growing impatient with Mycroft's slow wit.
Mycroft was silent as he thought it over. "You think they were working with Moriarty?" He asked, causing a dramatic sigh from Sherlock who flung himself out of his chair.
"No. I know they were. Haven't I explained this? Keep up, Mycroft, honestly." He began to pace, "The fellow I mentioned early, the one I…interrogated in Egypt, he informed me Moriarty frequented a certain underground gambling den here in London, the same you so cleanly keep track of on your computer after they supplied me for a time. I didn't think anything of it until a homeless friend of mine let me in on just how influential this group had become. After looking through the files you gave me on Moriarty, it was child's play linking the two. In fact more than link, I found that they've been quite generous to him in the past. Look through the files yourself, dear brother; I'm sure even you can figure it out." When he finished his rant he smirked inwardly to himself, it had been a long time since he was able to show off.
Mycroft could barely tolerate his brother, but he opened the files anyway and scanned them over.
"But their primary location is unknown. I suspect not to you, however?"
Sherlock nodded, and turned his back to his brother, walking back over to the window.
"I kept notes on the leader's mannerism, important bits of information that I thought might prove useful if I ever needed to find them again. I had them written down in a specific book which conveniently was left alone in my old flat. Apparently Mrs. Hudson couldn't bring herself to clearing it out," he said, rolling his eyes at the strange behavior of the sentimental. He couldn't ignore, however, the pesky glow that accompanied the though of John not being able to either.
"And what book was that?" Mycroft asked absentmindedly, not looking up from his computer.
"Alice in Wonderland," Sherlock responded, peering out the window, smirking to himself at the reference. Mycroft didn't say anything back, still reading over the files.
"With my old notes and all the files you've supplied, I know exactly where they are. Taking out this group will put a halt on all Moriarty's operations still in play; no one will continue working for no pay." He said pridefully, turning to face his brother.
"And you plan on storming in there, taking out a powerful gang single-handed?" Mycroft asked incredulously. Surely Sherlock wasn't that overly confident.
"I won't be alone," Sherlock responded vaguely, a twinge of anxious hope invading his heart, "not anymore."