Charlie Magnussen wasn't your ordinary, run-of-the-mill daughter of a notorious billionaire. She was special. Like her father, her memory was as acute and unfailing as the many languages she spoke.
Unlike her father, however, Charlie was on the run...
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Toma, the night guard, raced over to the glass double doors and cautiously peered out. "Charlie, we have to go," he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the petite woman clothed in black jeans and hoodie.
Charlie stared down at Sherlock, her brow creased in worry. "Do you think I poisoned him, Toma? Maybe he has an allergy."
"They could be here any minute," he said as his eyes went back to scanning outside. "We might already be too late to leave."
"What if I gave him too much morphine?"
"It does not matter. He is one of them. We must go."
Sherlock's moan rattled the air. He made sure of it.
"Help me get him up, Toma," Charlie said. "Grandmother will help him."
Toma hesitated. "You can not take him there."
"Please." Charlie looked at him desperately. "If he dies, I'll never forgive myself."
"We will be the ones to die if they catch us."
Charlie slipped Sherlock's arm over her shoulder and struggled to get him up. He did everything he could to hold his smile, purposely giving her no help. Instead, he let his tall, wiry frame hang over her shoulders, nearly toppling her to the floor with him.
"You go, Toma. I can't leave him," she said as she struggled again to get Sherlock to his feet.
"Fine," the Night Guard grumbled before racing over to her and taking Sherlock's other arm. Together they managed to haul him to his feet, but Sherlock rested most of his weight on Charlie. He nearly tripped her several times as they hurried down the darkened hall.
Sherlock's lips twitched at the way she panted as she tried to keep him upright and moving along. Good. A small price to pay for making him leave London.
They made their way to a back door where a car waited for them.
Toma briefly released Sherlock to find his key to unlock the heavy door, giving Sherlock the pleasure of leaning heavily on Charlie's shoulders. But despite his best effort to bring her down, she didn't let go of him. Instead, she used her knee to give her extra support, placing it against his thigh, her grip like a clamp around his waist as her muscles strained to keep him on his feet. Sherlock's lips twitched again. For someone who couldn't be more than 5 foot 6 inches, she had remarkable strength. Even he was shocked that she was able to support his entire weight.
He let his tall frame go slack a little more and groaned as he dropped his head to Charlie's shoulder. And that's when it hit him; the fragrance of cherry blossoms filled his nostrils. He breathed deeply, imprinting her scent into his brain. How could he not? After all, he was on assignment. And the mission to bring in the Magnussen brat was going splendidly. At this rate, he'd be back in merry old London by the weekend, just in time for Mrs. Hudson's noon-day tea.
