Chapter Eight: Missing

Demetria and I had done a lot of settling in the eleven years since we had met, and this move was no different. It was unusually easy to feel at home and at ease there in the city, and I tried to forget that I had been at home there, so many years before. Not for a long time, however; my home was where the one person who saw he as human dwelt.

"You graduated from Quantico with the best grades in our year and you actually have the audacity to ask whether the FBI would want you? With your ability to read things as if they were books and your history helping the police, why not?" Demetria glared at her companion, still pacing before her.

"Yeah, but I'm... me. I'm blunt, sarcastic, and too smart for my own good," was the protested reply. It was met with a glare.

"You may be those things, but you're also a genius at solving crimes and you can actually help people. Now quit your whining and write that reply to them or I swear I will write it for you." Despite the stern reply, there was a smile on Demetria's face as she reprimanded her friend.

"Raven, will you please get the finger off the counter? I know it's for a case, but it's putting me off my food," came a familiar and resigned voice from the kitchen. I stared her way, wondering why those few seconds of time had come to me and yet been so fleeting, chased away by the first sound from my friend.

I grinned at her annoyed expression as she held the offending finger aloft. In the five days since my meeting of Mycroft Holmes, I had done as he recommended and not left the city. I had simply made myself able to work on the cases that the FBI was not letting me hand off to someone else, and one of those cases had involved a finger mailed to the various Evans triplets, of which I was an acquaintance. They had asked for me to help, and I had agreed.

"It's for the Evans trio. You do want me to help them, correct?" I questioned drily, still grinning. She glared at me.

"I really hate you sometimes, Rae," she muttered to me.

"I know you do."

She laughed despite herself and I, still grinning, went back to the task I was doing before I lost track of my mind. The day passed; I worked on the case I had, and Demetria went out.

There was a window in my flat, one that looked over the alley. Generally, the alley was empty save for a few garbage bins and some dirt, but there was something else there that evening. Just beneath my window, a tall figure leaned against the brick wall. I couldn't see the face, but the man was speaking to someone on a phone and his figure seemed familiar.

The building across the street held a window,and the man's face was reflected in it. Blond hair, dark blue eyes, and a scar running along his cheek. Handsome and terrifying, all at the same time. He was a predator, and I had seen him before. He was the man who had been across the street from me back in America, the one who had grinned at me and vanished.

Those eyes lifted and caught my reflection in the window above. A lazy grin spread across his face as he turned and met my gaze. I froze as he continued to smile, looking like a cat toying with a mouse.

Hello, Holmes, he mouthed and stepped beyond my sight, far too quick to have been spontaneous. This man, whoever he was, was following me and making sure I noticed it. He wanted me to notice him, to see him.

I slammed the window shut and left the room fast, not running but not walking, either. The man unnerved me.

"What's wrong?" questioned Demetria, looking surprised by my sudden reappearance.

"Nothing."

The rest of the night left me jumping every time a shadow passed beneath my door or I heard unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs. I was almost relieved to be given a distraction when an email appeared on my phone's screen, not letting me see the email address but signed with the initials MH.

It started with a date twenty-nine years in the past, with a child who was given away and never seen by those who knew of her again. It finished with four names at the bottom of the screen, the last living relatives I had. Two names I was not that surprised to see, given what I had gotten from my admittedly limited interactions with the pair. My older brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

I sat staring at the screen for a long time, waiting for the memories I had locked away to reappear. They did not, and I was left only to think that they were tied to people and places, and this information was not. The memories I had forgotten, shoved into the farthest corner of my mind palace, had to do with the family that I was not related to by blood. I could not hide from that past forever, and this case was bringing it to the surface.

My life continued to go on, even after such a pivotal declaration had been shoved onto me. Demetria was herself, and the addition of my real family was surprisingly anticlimactic. Sherlock especially was irritating, with the size of his ego and his perceived superiority to humanity, so I ignored him most of the time.

My investigation into the ammunition used to kill Tessa Lee did reveal one thing: a list of buyers. There were no names, only initials and aliases, but one recurred more than most. One set of initials, SM. No name, nothing. Just two letters that finally gave me a lead after three weeks in the dark and a failed case at the Bureau. I smiled in satisfaction, determined not to let this one thread slip away from me.

Mycroft, who had been present for the past half hour, seemed unsurprised at my sudden satisfaction. He had frequently informed me how alike my mannerisms were to Sherlock, and I supposed that our hours of quiet before a cry of triumph was alike. He sighed as I continued to overlook his presence in the room, frowning at the screen of his phone.

"What's bothering you? Something obviously is," I asked.

"A name you've never heard of, belonging to a person I hope you never meet."

"Who?"

"Moriarty." He spat the name as if it was poison. "I pray that the rumors aren't true, but if they are he's coming back. He almost killed our shared sibling. That man is the greatest adversary any of us have ever seen."

"He's the person you brought me here to help you fight, correct?" I questioned, not at all surprised. I had heard stories over the past two weeks of Sherlock's escapades and near-death experiences, which appeared to be on the rise. His cases, though interesting, were occasionally dangerous.

"Yes. My spies have reported that his network is solidifying again, even though it never really drew apart that much. Someone else must have taken the reins." The last sentence was muttered to himself, a sort of afterthought.

"Ah. Do you know who?"

"I have an inkling," Mycroft spoke. His gaze was far-off, lost in thought.

"Say, did you see Demetria when you came in? She's been gone for a while," I mused.

"No. Should I have? I thought she said that she was going out for something," was the reply. I frowned, sure that she should have returned.

"Raven!" The voice of John Watson cut through the room like a sword, starling me. I whirled to face him.

"What is it this time?" I asked, annoyed. John, to say the least, was not my favorite person ever to grace the planet. Neither, I realized, was Sherlock.

He shoved the door open looking as if he had just seen a ghost. In his hand was a small piece of paper, heavy and cream-colored; it was expensive, as well as being the cause of all the man's angst.

"I think you'd better read this," me said. His voice was grave as he handed me the note, which I deduced had been recently placed on my door and just noticed by the passing army doctor.

Such a pretty thing, your pet human. It would be a great tragedy should something happen to her. Find me, I dare you; really, doesn't every true genius need a bit of a challenge sometimes? Happy hunting, Raven Queen. Do not try to trace this.

I know you will recognize the initials,

JM.

The edges of the paper crumpled under my fingers. I clenched my hands and stood, knowing what the last sentence was about. The unsolved murders which had taken place when I was a young trainee had been signed in blood with JM, and it appeared to be the same person.

"Oh, and someone from Scotland Yard called. They want to meet the sister of the legend," Sherlock yelled from the bottom of the stairs. I heard the door slam behind him, and then I was racing in his path.

"Because the sister of the legend is top priority," I grumbled as I sped after him.