Hi!

I'm sorry for not updating!

I went on vacation for two weeks, and my dad would get upset every time I opened my laptop or looked at my phone, and didn't participate in activities.

I also may not update as much, because my mom is going to start monitoring how long I spend on the computer.

i'm sorry this chapter is short, but I got stuck. I didn't want the chapter to be super long, but I also wanted some suspense for the next chapter.

Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes was fed up with ordinary people. They didn't know anything.

He and John had already interviewed the entire east side of the street, and half of the west side. How could a whole community not know about an escaped serial killer, and the fact that he had been in their area?!

As he strode down the walkway from interviewing the residents of a number 5, Privet Drive, Sherlock huffed in exasperation. "How could an entire community not know anything that has been going on?!"

"Well, Sherlock," John Watson replied, "perhaps this community is very tight-knit. Maybe they don't go into the cities often because all their friends are here. There are some places like that."

Sherlock huffed again. "I doubt this place is like that. Did you hear? No one knew anything about their neighbors. A few didn't even know their names! How do you not know your neighbors' last names?!"

John just shook his head. "I'm sure we'll have more luck soon. We still have a few houses left."

"Ah, yes." Sherlock said sarcastically. "A few more houses to go, so much could change during that time!"

He never realized how true that statement was.

oOoOoOo

Sherlock rang the doorbell to the next house.

John frowned at the five deadbolts. "Sherlock, I don't think anyone's home." He jerked his thumb to the empty driveway.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, no. There's obviously someone home. If you looked closely, you could see shadows moving inside and hear the sound of feet. You could say it's a pet-" he said as he saw John was about to argue, "but look at the yard. It's much too neat. A little OCD, almost. Whoever lives in this house wouldn't stand having a pet, because it would make everything messy. So, obviously, someone's home."

John looked sceptical. "Are you sure someone's home?"

"Yes." Sherlock said impatiently, "If you listen closely, you can hear footsteps in what I am assuming is the kitchen."

John frowned, but didn't argue. Sherlock turned back to the door, looking expectantly at it.

The top deadbolt clicked, followed by the one directly beneath it, going down the line until all of them were unlocked. The handle turned, and the door creaked open, revealing large green eyes, the color of sunlight filtering through leaves.

The owner of said eyes stood about 2 ½ feet tall, with ebony black curls framing her face, which were held back by a tattered, faded red ribbon. She had fair, peach skin, almost white, with rose coloring on her cheeks, fair, delicate lips, long, dark eyelashes, and a small, rounded nose. Her face was round, as most small children's were, and she had a bit of baby fat rounding out her cheeks.

At first glance she was exactly like every child, but, on closer examination, Sherlock noticed her cheekbones were sharper than usual, her eyes a bit sunken, and dark purple shadows were prominent under her bottom lashes. She wore an overly large t-shirt, covered in many suspicious looking stains, some more recent than others, with another piece of tattered red ribbon to fasten it, and there was an overly strong smell of bleach. Her hands were calloused, and not the soft, new skin of young children, and were damp, which is presumably where the smell of bleach came from.

But all that was nothing compared to her eyes.

Her eyes were as fragile as glass, and yet as hard as steel. They were clear and green, like tropical seas in the sun, and yet as dark and mysterious as the darkest forest. They were sharp, cold, untrusting, having lost faith in the world long ago, and yet they still held a small spark, a spark of life, of love, of hope and joy. They could shatter any minute, and yet could weather the strongest hurricane.

Sherlock felt drawn to those eyes, so much like a pair he had seen before, and yet, he couldn't put his finger on it. He knew he had seen eyes much like those, eyes full of life, and yet, broken, somehow. Eyes that had seen horrors no one should see, and had persevered.

It was obvious from the young girl's body language that she distrusted them, John more than Sherlock. This was a strange situation for Sherlock, as John was usually seen as much more homely and generally kinder than Sherlock, but Sherlock shrugged it off and continued with the investigation.

"Hello. This is my associate, Dr. John Watson, and my name is Sherlock Holmes."

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