Orphan on Baker Street

Forty Second: Interrogation

I sit in a room and stare at my reflection in the mirror that takes up most of one wall. I know it's one way glass, and I'm sure Donovan is on the other side of it. The walls are white cement blocks, and the table and chairs are a shiny metal, like on TV shows. Sherlock sits beside me, his hands folded in his lap. He isn't wearing his coat, just a plain white button up - trousers and shoes included, of course.

The officer who brought me here walks in, followed by Donovan. She holds a folder and large yellow notepad in her hands, and there's a hint of a smile on her face. The officer - whose nametag says "James" - goes to stand in the corner.

"Hello, Mickey," she says kindly. "I hope we can set aside our differences to get this done." Her voice goes up a bit like it's a question, and I nod. I go to pull the blanket closer around me, but then I remember they took it, so I rest my hands in my lap. In the mirror, I see Sherlock shake his head slightly at Donovan's words, his gaze traveling to the camera in the corner near the ceiling.

"So," she starts again, clicking her pen. Her notepad is positioned so that neither of us can see it. "Did you know the victim?"

"No," I say simply. This is very new to me, so I'm nervous and unsure about what to say.

"Then why did you shoot him?" Donovan inquires curiously. Sherlock and I make eye contact in the mirror.

"I saw him earlier at the park. I had a hunch he wasn't near our flat by coincidence," I tell her, messing with a loose thread on my jeans.

"How did you know it was the same man?"

"His hat," I reply, sitting back fully in my chair. Donovan frowns at me.

"He wasn't wearing a hat."

My eyes widen. I try not to look at Sherlock, not even in the mirror, but in my peripheral I can see him bow his head.

"Was there a hat at the scene at all?" I ask worriedly. The woman shakes her head, eyeing me suspiciously. "But he... he was wearing one."

"Are you telling me I'm lying to you? I could show you some photos we got from the crime scene," Donovan says, giving me a glare. She's trying so hard not to say something rude; I'm trying so hard not to push her... so is Sherlock.

"No," I say with an eye roll. Then I sigh. "I guess it fell off when I shot him, and someone stole it. Someone clearly stole it." Now I'm aggrivated.

"You don't need to get an attitude, Miss Ronan," Donovan warns. "We're still looking for witnesses. Now, tell me: why do you think he would be following you? Like you said, you didn't know him, so it would be safe to assume he didn't know you either."

I look around the room as if the answer would just fall out of the cracks in the wall or maybe crawl out from under the table. "He, uh," I stumble over my words a bit. "He just... looked suspicious. He had on a hat and a bluetooth, and he looked too casual to actually be casual, if that makes any sense..." My eyes look down at the table shyly.

"A bluetooth? Who do you think he was talking to, if anyone?" Donovan asks, flipping open a manilla folder. I just shake my head.

"I'm not sure," I tell her. Then she pushes the open folder into my line of vision on the table.

"Look down this list," she tells me. "Do you know any of those names?"

I glance up at her before going down the list. There's an Indian name I can't pronounce, a few that look Irish, and some people that share the victim's last name: Schmidt. Then I see something that might be a coincidence...

"Can I have a picture of the Rickey Henderson guy?" I ask, looking up to Donovan. She pulls her eyebrows together momentarily before glancing over at the officer behind her.

"Get Rickey Henderson's file," she mutters to him. He nods and leaves quickly. I look at Sherlock in the mirror. His face holds an expression of confusion.

James is back a little too quickly, and he slides the folder over to me. I close the one on Schmidt and open Rickey Henderson's. A small square piece of paper clipped to the top corner appears to be a driver's license picture. It's a young man with long blonde hair that covers his forehead; he doesn't smile with his mouth, but I can see in his eyes that he's happy. This photo was probably taken about a year ago. There are a lot of papers in the folder, but I skim down just the first page at his information. He was born one year before me; he's 5'11 and has blue eyes.

"His eyes are gray," I mutter quietly.

"Excuse me?" Donovan says politely. "Do you know Mr. Henderson?"

"Yeah," I nod quickly, looking up to her. "We, uhm... yes, I know him."

"Do you know how he knows Mr. Schmidt?" she asks. I shake my head. Then she takes both folders from me and flips through them. "He's married to Rickey's mother, Bonnie Schmidt."

"Oh... he told me they were just dating," I say with a frown.

"Would you say you were close with his step-son?"

I nod slowly. "Yes."

"Do you think he was close with Mr. Schmidt?"

"No," I say a little too quickly. Donovan just nods slightly and writes some things down on her notepad.

"You didn't know they were connected, though," she says. It isn't a question, but I reply.

"Right. I didn't even know his last name was Henderson," I admit.

"Could you assume Mr. Schmidt knew about you and Rickey and just... wanted to get to know you?"

My eyebrows pull themselves together as I consider this. Maybe the two didn't switch places; maybe it was the same person, and my fear just distorted my perception or something. "I guess," I say reluctantly. There's nothing else I can think of that I could say, so I'm silent after that. Donovan writes on her notepad.

"Well, whatever the reason is for all of this, you still shot him, with a gun I assume you stole-"

"It was my gun," Sherlock speaks for the first time since we've been here.

"I'll have to see your license," Donovan says, glancing at him momentarily before stacking the folders and notepad together. "Anyway, Miss Ronan, you'll be in a cell until we can pull a trial together." She gives the officer a gesture, and he reaches for handcuffs while walking towards me. My eyes widen, and Sherlock and I share a look.

"You can't put her in jail; she's a teenager," Sherlock says sternly.

"You're right, and that's why she'll go to juvenile detention. It shouldn't be too late to get her a bus with some other teens on it. Maybe she can make friends before she even gets there!"

James locks the handcuffs around my wrists, and I begin to tremble nervously. Words fade out a bit as my eyes dart back and forth; the officer leads me out as Donovan and Sherlock argue. Someone clicks a walky-talky, and I assume it's the man behind me.

Sherlock better have a good plan to bust me out.

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A/N: Hey! So, let me know if anything in here is inaccurate - I'm not sure what they call juvenile detention in England, and I don't know exactly how interrogations go. This is permission to call me out!! The only resources I had to find this stuff out was Google (which I didn't take full advantage of) so if anything is wrong, I apologize.

Thanks for reading!
-Nae