The Hollow (An Avengers FanFiction)

Chapter Eighteen

The true question was what had drawn my dad over the edge to the point he'd attack both his wife and young daughter. There was a memory. I could feel it egging me on, but it'd always slip away before I could pick it up. One thing was for sure, I needed to tell Lestrade. 

🔫🔫🔫

"You're saying that you, a nine-year-old little girl, walked into a pub and found this in a pocket of a coat?" Anderson questioned as I stood by his desk. 

"People are afraid of the arm," I smiled sweetly, "And so should you." I giggled. 

His face went pale, then he commented, "You're a detective now, so prove to me how strong your arm really is." He snarked, then continued, "I bet it isn't even strong. It's probably just a normal prosthetic." 

"You guys got those big swat battering rams?" I asked. 

"We got it, but I doubt you'll be able to lift it," Lestrade said as he and Anderson carried it in. I smirked. 

"Oh, trust me; I can lift it," I smiled confidently. They placed it on the carpeted floor as I went to pick it up. It didn't take much force for me to lift it up into the air with my special arm. "Don't see why it took both of you to lift this up," I joked, "It's as light as a feather."

Anderson gulped as I stared him down. "Oh, another thing, Anderson," I began. I then took the other end of the battering ram with my normal arm and snapped it into two as if it were a pencil, "Discredit me again, this will be your neck next time." 

His face went completely pale as his jaw was agape. That's sure to scare him. 

"Now, back to what really matters," I said as I dropped the two heavy pieces of the battering ram. 

🔫🔫🔫

It had been two weeks and Mycroft hadn't gotten back to me and in the meantime, the serial killer had killed five more people. Then, the doorbell rang. 

I stood up from my place in Sherlock's chair with sheet music on the floor surrounding it. I put down my guitar on its stand and headed downstairs. I opened the door to met by the somewhat snotty face of the Queen of England. "Hello, Mycroft," I greeted plainly. 

"Yes, hello, Pandora," he said through gritted teeth. 

"Oh, right, come in. While you're here, you might as well take some of your bro's stuff," I said as I let him in. He took one look at my prosthetic arm and I smirked. I loved the power I held over people. 

When we entered the room, I offered him a seat in John's old chair. He politely, yet begrudgingly, accepted the offer and sat down on the old thing. "So, did you get me what I asked for?" I said as I too sat down across from him. 

Ignoring my question, he bent down and grabbed one of the many pieces of sheet music. "This is some of Sherlock's work," he mumbled. 

"Yeah, I found it in a dusty folder box on one of the shelves," I answered. "Anyway, did you get me the information that I wanted?" I asked again. 

He cleared his throat before speaking, "Yes, but I do not believe it is good news."

"Don't care whether its good or bad news; just tell me," I commanded. My hands were in fists, with my knuckles turning white. 

"Your father is alive and recently immigrated to London four months ago," he said, "He works as a volunteer for social services. He's illegally changed his identity as well. His name is now Logan Jeffords."