Intellect. (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

A/N: IF YOU'RE READING MY OTHER STORIES TOO- SORRYSORRYSORRY!! THEY WON'T UPLOAD D: But, if you're not, and just so happen to be reading this as your first taste of my books, then WELCOME!!

Disclaimer- I DON'T OWN SHERLOCK AND HIS CHARACTERS. The only thing I own is the plotline and Amy.

BBC1 TV show 'Sherlock' FanFiction.

Please, if you have no idea about this programme, or have never watched it- Do. Seriously. If you're British, or if you're not British, then look it up somewhere online as it's not on iPlayer anymore.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

ONE.

Pit-Pat, Pit-Pat, Pit-Pat

The sound of rain bounced off the standard, black London taxi, and a rather bored Sherlock Holmes sat expressionless, looking out of the window.

His black hair was matted to his head, damp from the short walk to the taxi; his piercing blue eyes bore through the window at the miserable atmosphere outside- miserable people, miserable weather, miserable everything; his damp, black coat and blue scarf chaffed his skin as he fidgeted restlessly.

His phone beeped- a message. He clicked 'open' and read.

Sherlock- out of milk. Pick some up on the way home.

JW

Sherlock sighed. John Watson, his flatmate, was giving his lame attempt of revenge. Sherlock, however, wasn't stupid enough to get in a row with a chip-and-pin machine. He leaned forward in his seat. "Stop here," he told the driver just as they approached a corner shop. "Wait while I buy milk."

He opened the door quickly, rushing through the shop doors, passing a few irrelevant people.

The milk was at the back of the store, near most of the dairy products, like most shops. He picked up a two-litre carton of Full Cream milk and headed towards the counter at the entrance of the shop. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the cigarettes behind the cashier's head. "No," he told himself mentally. "Remember: you quit. Nicotine patches are your addiction now. Less harmful."

'Just the milk, thanks.' Sherlock mumbled, setting a shiny two pound coin on the countertop. After receiving his eighty-nine pence change, he walked briskly out of the shop and into someone.

Sherlock looked down. A small brunette girl, about his age, with astonishingly strange eyes and an average beauty of a face was looking up tearfully and fearfully at him.

'S-sorry!' the woman stammered.

From what Sherlock could tell on first real glance was: Hair's a mess, face is covered in muck, clothes considerably dirty- the girl hasn't been home in days.

Slight bruises on her left cheek, lower right side forehead, both wrists- maybe she's clumsy, maybe she's abused; probably the latter.

Skinny, hasn't eaten for days; on top of that she's bulimic given the state of her left hand and first two digits, not counting the thumb.

A small rucksack on her back suggests that she's run away from home given the previous information.

'No, it was my fault entirely. Sorry.' Sherlock responded.

The woman went to leave, but he caught her arm. 'Where are you going?'

'I- I...' she stuttered, not sure how to answer. His voice echoed in her head.