Maeve Eavan Moran Moriarty belongs to a Spider and his Tiger. She is their only relation; their only weakness.
At only 11 years of age, she has spilt the blood of many. She can identify every type of gun and can just as easily pull the trigger.
But...
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'Maeve awoke in bed, screaming, face damp from tears. Another nightmare, always the same one.'
"I can't see how I can help you, gentlemen," Mr Ewart glanced at Maeve, "and child."
Maeve was sat next to John on office chairs in front of a Car Dealer, Sherlock up and pacing around.
He was secretly interrogating Mr Ewart, trying to get to the bottom of Mr Monkford's 'death'. Maeve noticed how Sherlock distracted the man in order to get a quick glance and deduction. She admired his skills and ways of doing things greatly. Of course, she already knew Mr Ewart's lies and that he asissted in a cover-up.
She then suddenly remembered the pager that Sebastian had given her, it was in a hidden pocket on her denim jacket. When would she recieve a message from her father?
"Maeve...Maeve." She shook her head and peered to her right where John was tapping her arm. "You ok? You seem a bit dazed." He whispered as Maeve blinked a few times.
"Yes, I'm fine. Just day-dreaming." She smiled as she was sucked back into Sherlock's conversation.
"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" He asked Mr Ewart, shoving a bank note at him, "I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change, I'm gasping."
Maeve could read the slight dissapointment on John's face as Mr Ewart scanned his wallet, "No, sorry."
"Oh well, thank you very much for your time, Mr Ewart. You've been very helpful. Come on, John and Maeve."
And with that, they left Mr Ewart's office, Maeve waiting for what Sherlock had deduced about the set-up.
"I've got change if you still want to-"
"Nicotine patches, remember? I'm doing well. Maeve, I must warn you that I don't suggest smoking, it makes for a very bad habit," Sherlock noted "I needed to look inside his wallet."
"Why?" John questioned.
"Mr Ewart's a liar." And there was the punchline Maeve was waiting for.
Maeve fidgeted in her seat as she waited in the hospital canteen, watching John at the desk buying lunch. Sherlock was upstairs, testing the blood samples found in the car, she wondered how long it would take him to figure out.
Just then, she felt a vibration in her left pocket and scrambled to retrieve the pager, hiding it under the table. A message flashed across the screen:
