3A Dark and Stormy Night
John sighed from behind his laptop. A flash of lightning illuminated the sharp-featured face of his flat mate, who was bored out of his mind. Sherlock had filled this particular Friday with complaints about the lack of interesting cases until John had had enough. He'd told him to shut up before he called Mycroft. Sherlock had glared at him and sulked for a bit, but after a while he picked up his violin and returned to a piece he had been composing. He had been playing for several hours now.
Thunder rolled deep and threatening, almost concurrent with the flash of electricity. It was pouring outside but Sherlock took no notice, despite the fact he was staring right out the window at it. He stood facing the panes of glass wearing a blank expression. His dressing gown flopped around slightly with each dramatic movement of the bow. The detective's mind was elsewhere while his long, thin fingers drew sweet notes from his beloved instrument. That is until he was startled back to 221B by a quite intriguing noise, or rather, a sequence of noises.
The boys heard faint pounding from the door downstairs and Mrs. Hudson answering it. They heard her exclaim:
"Oh my goodness! Are you alright dear?" Whoever was at the door they couldn't hear the response; Sherlock closed his eyes and continued playing. Then:
"Boys! This woman needs your help!" The detective's eyes flew open with a bit of sparkle in them. He gently put down his violin and threw a glance at John, who was closing his laptop. Sherlock made his way quickly to the door with the doctor a few feet behind.
The detective's bare feet plunked down the stairs two at a time and John held in a chuckle at his enthusiasm. He cracked a smile instead. The two reached the bottom and found a soaking wet, disheveled young woman sitting on the edge of a chair with her head in her hands. Her dripping hair was nearly black and pieces of it were plastered to her face. The free strands reached about five centimeters below her shoulders. When she heard the pair she jumped up and came toward them. She stood just taller than the doctor; about 1.7 m, the detective guessed. The woman stumbled a bit and John noticed she was shaking just slightly.
"Please," she pleaded; her voice was strained. "Please, you have to help me."
Sherlock identified worry and exhaustion in her hoarse words. Concern found its way to John's face and he managed to get the woman's thin frame back into a chair. A substantially smaller, but still present, amount of concern leaked into Sherlock's expression as well. He stepped closer and began his observations.
John kneeled next to the young woman's chair and placed his hand on her bony shoulder. "It's okay," he said softly. "It's alright. Tell us what's wrong."
The woman took a deep breath.
"It's my daughter. She's been kidnapped." Her eyes fixed on John's face and then on Sherlock's. The dark hazel orbs were nearly lifeless; they were imploring. John motioned to Mrs. Hudson, "Can we get a towel or a blanket for Miss…?"
"Langley. Maura Langley," she supplied. Mrs. Hudson nodded and tottered off to fetch a few towels.
"Please," Maura repeated. "You have to help me; she's all I have. I know you can help me, I don't know who else to go to. They said not to involve the police but you aren't police, right?"
"No," the doctor corroborated. "We aren't police. We just work with them sometimes." Sherlock scoffed:
"Work in their stead sometimes, you mean." John shot him a glare and waved away the comment.
"Ignore him," he said quietly to Maura. "He's not in the best mood today." Sherlock rolled his eyes and paced about the room to get a better look at the woman. Mrs. Hudson returned with three fluffy towels and laid one around Maura's shivering shoulders.
"Thank you," she managed. John took the other two.
"Let's get some of those wet clothes off you, shall we?" Maura stood, putting most of her weight on the nearby table, and obliged. As John peeled off her dripping coat she continued. "I've seen you on the telly and in the papers sometimes. I know you're good at what you do and you probably are busy-"
"We're not actually very busy at the moment," Sherlock corrected. A hint of surprise crossed Maura's face as she wrung out her hair.
"Oh… Well anyway I wouldn't bother you but I don't have the money they want, it would take me years to make that much-"
"You couldn't borrow the money from someone?" Sherlock interrupted again. Maura's lips tightened and she shook her head. Sherlock noticed she wasn't wearing a ring of any sort.
"Is the child's father aware of her disappearance?" The woman shook her head again.
"I don't even know who her father is." Eyebrows raised around the room. Maura sighed as if she expected the reaction. As she bent to remove her wet shoes and drenched socks she elaborated.
"I don't know who her biological mother is either. I adopted Emily when she was a baby. When I was twenty-eight I decided I wanted a child. But I happened to be single at the time and foresaw no serious relationship in my near future. So I made the decision to adopt. Emily is seven now." Maura smiled at the thought of her daughter.
"Emily's a lovely name," Mrs. Hudson chimed in.
"Thank you, I thought so too," Maura replied.
"Yes, yes it's all very touching but do we have any idea who took her?" Sherlock was growing impatient. Maura's labored breath hitched as if it pained her to think about it.
"I don't know," she said. She rubbed her icy feet to get the feeling back in them. "I've run all the possibilities through my head but I have no idea."
"Hmm," Sherlock mused as he thought. He paced back and forth across the kitchen. John turned his attention to Maura who practically fell back in the chair. The doctor's eyes narrowed as he examined her.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Of course she's not alright John, she's just lost her only child," Sherlock quipped without looking at him.
"Shut up, Sherlock. When was the last time you ate something, Ms. Langley?"
"Please, call me Maura. Ms. Langley makes me feel old. I honestly don't remember… Not since I found out Emily was gone I suppose…"
"And when was that?" Sherlock interjected. Maura thought for a moment.
"It's been about twenty-four hours I guess…"
John's eyes widened.
"Have you drunk anything in that time?"
"I guess I have. It's all been sort of a blur…" she trailed off as the doctor took her pulse and looked at her eyes.
"Have you slept?" he continued his investigation of the woman's health.
"No," she answered.
"Do you feel faint?" John inquired.
"Now that you mention it, yes I do feel a bit woozy." John stood up and extended his hand to her.
"Can you stand?" Maura tried. It took a considerable amount of effort on her part and John had to catch her by the elbows so she didn't end up in the floor.
"Sherlock," the doctor shot him a look. The detective looked up with mild interest. John pointed up to their flat.
"Get Maura some water, please."
"I'm thinking," he replied indifferently.
"Sherlock," the doctor said again, this time with more force. Sherlock exhaled loudly, turned on his heel and went upstairs. John turned to Maura.
"Let's get you upstairs and rehydrated."
Maura smiled at him.
"I really appreciate this, I'm terribly sorry to be so much trouble."
John smiled back.
"No trouble at all."
They made it to the stairs with Maura's arm around the doctor's shoulders and his hand secured under her arm. The woman assessed the stairs; the look in her eyes reflected a mountain. "Can you make it?" John asked. Maura inhaled deeply.
"I can try." She placed her bare foot on the first step and hauled herself up with the doctor's help. They repeated this action on the second step, and the third, taking more effort each time. On the fourth stair Maura's legs gave under her. Luckily John had ahold of her and she didn't fall far.
"I'm sorry," she moaned.
"Don't be ridiculous," the doctor replied. He slipped his other arm under her knees. "May I?"
Maura nodded as she slid her other arm around his neck and John carried her bridal style the rest of the way up. She can't weigh more than 60kg soaking wet, he thought.
"Water's on the coffee table," Sherlock acknowledged when the pair conquered the staircase. He gave no other sign that he noticed them from his seat in the kitchen where he was scanning the newspaper.
"Thank you, Sherlock," the doctor said as he placed Maura on the couch. Sherlock nodded.
"Blankets in the chair," he stated quietly. John smiled when he spotted a stack of blankets right where Sherlock said they'd be.
"Thank you again," Maura was able to mumble before her head lolled to one side and her body went limp. The doctor panicked internally for few seconds until he realized she had simply surrendered to her exhaustion. He shook her gently and managed to get a glass of water in her before she fell asleep again. He then covered her with blankets and joined Sherlock at the kitchen table.
"So," John announced pointedly. Sherlock tossed his gaze up to John's face.
"Will you take the case?" The detective dropped his eyes, straightened his paper, and replied matter-of-factly:
"I don't know."
"What do you-" the doctor stopped himself mid-shout. He repeated in a whisper: "What do you mean you don't know? Don't you want to help her? I thought you were bored?"
"I am. That's the point. I'm not sure yet if this is a boring case or not. I don't know all the details."
John rolled his eyes.
"What do you know?"
Sherlock sighed, folded his paper and placed it back on the table.
"Thirty-six year old, single woman who's never been married, parents died several years ago, few long-term relationships due mostly to commitment issues. She doesn't like to depend on others. No one close enough for her to borrow money from, no one close enough to have any motive for kidnapping her child. Kidnapper obviously isn't anyone she or the child knows: they wouldn't ask for more than she would possibly be able to give them. That would defeat the purpose. The kidnapper doesn't have a personal vendetta; so she was randomly targeted. But why? Kidnappers usually pick someone they know they can get a generous amount of money from: members of high society, politicians, and the like. But this woman is barely supporting herself and her child. You can tell from her clothes: hardy, durable, and old. They look like a uniform. She's a waitress: stress on her hands, arms, and on her hip where she sometimes supports a tray.
"It's been over twenty-four hours since she slept, and she practically collapsed. That seems dramatic, but if you take into consideration her lack of food in about the same amount of time, her hysterics over her lost daughter, and a job where she's constantly on her feet it makes sense. The rain has washed away quite a bit, though. For instance I can't be sure if she has any pets, but due to her financial situation I'd guess not. Unless her daughter really wanted one. Then something small that doesn't require much maintenance, like fish perhaps."
John nodded silently. Sherlock would never cease to amaze him. But he knew better than to say anything about it anymore. It would only feed the man's ego, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He only did that when Sherlock was decidedly pitiful; which was not very often.
"Well, I suppose she can tell us more in the morning." The doctor went over to the coffee table and collected his laptop. He turned to Sherlock.
"I'm going to bed. Keep an eye on her for me, will you? Let me know if she stirs." Sherlock had disappeared behind the paper again and he gave only a disinterested "Mhmm" in response. John sighed and ambled up the stairs to his bedroom.
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Sherlock sat in the dark with his hands clasped characteristically in front of his mouth. He was leaned forward with his elbows rested on his knees. His pupils had dilated to absorb what little light filtered in through the windows. Sherlock gathered from the minute amount of natural light that it was around three o'clock.
The detective was mulling over the case. His mind had been driving him crazy in the past day or so and he was glad to finally have something to concentrate on. In the past few hours he had run across a few anomalies that made the case at least a seven and a half, and intended to take it. Besides, a little girl had been kidnapped and he knew the statistics. The chances of finding a kidnapped child alive decreased substantially after the first forty-eight hours. He wasn't completely heartless after all; though he'd never admit it directly.
Just then Sherlock was startled from his reverie by a muffled cry from the couch. He whipped his head around to observe the silhouette huddled under the blankets for a few moments. When Maura didn't move again he resituated himself so that he sat on the back of his chair with his feet in the seat. Sherlock resumed his earlier stance and did his best to block out any other distractions. His absorption in his own thoughts only made it worse when Maura stirred again.
"Emily!" she yelped. This disconcerted Sherlock so that he fell off the back of his chair. The resulting thud sent Maura upright; her breath heavy and eyes wide as a cornered animal. Sherlock lay in an awkward heap on the floor. He groaned and silently was thankful that John had not seen that and it was too dark for Maura to notice. The detective righted himself and made his way over to the couch. Maura was whispering her daughter's name repeatedly;
"Emily, Emily, Emily, Emily, Emily…"
Sherlock sat on the coffee table facing her. He put a hand on her shoulder and her head snapped up. She stopped whispering and squinted through the darkness in search of a face.
"It's alright. Emily's going to be alright," the detective assured. Maura nodded and took a few deep breaths.
"Go back to sleep," Sherlock directed. The woman lay back down and closed her eyes. The detective stood and pulled the blankets back over her. As he returned to his chair and lowered himself into it properly he only hoped that what he had just told Maura wasn't a lie.
A/N: So what do you think? This is my first attempt at Sherlock, so I hope I'm keeping him in character alright. This is meant to be post Reichenbach, after things have sort of gotten back to normal. The chapters tend to get progressively longer so I hope you don't mind that. I am very excited about this story and I hope you are too! Please review and I hope you're looking forward to the next chapter. I've decided I'm going to put out a chapter a week, sometimes it'll be two because I want to have this all posted before the season three premiere (so excited!). If everything goes according to plan there will be eight chapters and possibly an epilogue. I've written an epilogue but I can't decide if I want to use it. I'll decide once I have the rest of the story written though, so don't worry. I want to say thank you to my wonderful beta mylovelymindpalace! You are invaluable to my process, as I am not in any way British and having a second pair of eyes is always helpful.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the show's characters; they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the writers of the show Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat.
See you next week!
