FIVE
the field trip
John had just started to update his blog about the fourth murder and the fact that Sherlock was stumped when the doorbell rang.
It didn't sound like a client, but he figured Mrs. Hudson would get it. Then he remembered that she was out shopping.
He got up, went downstairs, and opened the door. A young girl was standing there.
On the car ride to Baker Street, Alana racked her brains, trying to figure out what she could do.
Thank God Moriarty didn't want her to kill him. She'd had a few looks into his mind while trying to fool Moriarty (never worked) and she could see that he was a caring and compassionate man. She didn't want to hurt him.
Also, when Sherlock found out what she had done, he'd hunt her with a passion.
"No one hurts my John," he had thought last night, and the anger with which he had said it had almost knocked her out of his mind.
Too late. The driver pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street. Moriarty grinned and opened his laptop. Alana shuddered as he pulled up the video chat.
On the screen was her little brother.
When Moriarty had kidnapped her, he'd also kidnapped her brother. Not because he was special, or because he had powers. He'd kidnapped Oliver so Alana would obey him.
In the screen, a heavily armed guard stood behind him. Alana knew that at the slightest gesture from Moriarty, he would fire.
She couldn't let him get hurt.
"Hello," John said, a bit puzzled. "Um, are you here for Sherlock Holmes? He's out right now, sorry."
"Um, well, I've gotten a bit lost," the girl said. "Could I come inside and wait, and maybe call my mum?" At this, tears filled her eyes, which she angrily swatted away.
"Yes, of course!" John said. "You can use my phone."
The girl slumped a bit, almost as if she wished he hadn't said yes. But that was ridiculous.
"Thanks, " she said. "I've seen you in the papers, I just thought, since I was here…"
"Of course, come in," John said warmly. "What's your name?"
"Alana," she said. "Alana Cooper."
Alana stepped inside 221B with John Watson. The door closed.
In the car, Moriarty smiled.
Alana sat on a well-worn couch inside the flat, sipping a mug of tea, and sizing up her opponent.
She could tell he didn't have a gun, (silent telepathy was helpful sometimes) and no other weapons were really in the room. Well, except for the knives stuck in the wall, but it looked like they were in pretty deep.
She grimaced.
"Excuse me, Mr. Watson?"
John came in from the kitchen with his own cup of tea, saying, "Yes?"
"I'm really, really sorry about this."
John had only a moment to look confused before Sherlock's "friend's" skull hit him in the back, knocking him over.
He looked up, now even more confused and angry, and his jaw dropped open.
Alana was levitating above the floor, and a fair amount of his and Sherlock's possessions were swirling around her like a tornado.
She gestured with her hands, and books started flying out from the shelves, hitting him and cutting gashes in his skin.
Forced down by the mound of junk landing on top of him, John had time only to cry, "SHERLOCK!" before a dictionary hit him on the head.
Lights out.
Alana landed on the floor and surveyed the small mountain of books and papers covering John.
One of his hands was sticking out of the pile.
She grabbed it, feeling for a pulse, letting out a sigh of relief when she found one.
"Sorry," she whispered.
She ran down the stairs and out the front door, back to the car, back to Moriarty, back to the cell, and back to his torture.
She hoped that Sherlock would find her quickly.