(LATER THAT WEEK)
(12:28AM)
(MOLLY'S POV)
My mobile goes off, disturbing me from my sleep. I grunt and roll over, hoping that Sherlock will pick it up for me. After another ten unbearable seconds of a 'kawaii' Japanese-cat-song going around on loop, I speak aloud. "Sherlock....can you pass me my phone?"
No reply.
"Sherlock?" I repeat.
I nudge him with my elbow, but I find that I'm just nudging the mattress; there's no one there.
I sit up slowly, frowning as I look around the bedroom for him. "Sherlock?"
I then remember that my phone is still ringing. I shuffle across onto his side, where he should be, and answer my mobile. "Yeah?"
"Molly?"
"Yeah. Who is this?" I croak, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to suppress my headache caused by the merciless glow of my phone screen.
"It's Greg. Is Sherlock at home with you?"
I frown, becoming more and more anxious. "No....why?"
He hesitates.
"Why are you hesitating? Do you know where he is?" I ask, suddenly becoming more awake and alert to the idea of Sherlock possibly being in danger.
"Well, I've received a text from him. It says 'dismantled alarms at Scotland Yard, don't worry, just using your computer -SH'. I wasn't sure if he was joking or...."
I curse.
And Lestrade repeats my curse in agreement.
I sigh. "Don't worry. I'm getting out of bed now. I'll find him."
"Thanks, Molly."
"It's fine. Bye." I end the call and collapse, face-planting his pillow to appreciate the few precious seconds of rest I have left before pulling my body up and going to get dressed. Only then do I notice the note on my bedside table saying, Couldn't sleep. Gone to Scotland Yard. If I'm not back by 10:00AM, I'm either dead, in a cell or in traffic.-SH
"Damn it, Sherlock." I curse again, putting the note back down and pulling my grey cardigan around my shoulders.
**
(SHERLOCK'S POV)
Lestrade's password was a breeze, as were the alarms and security precautions. I was in within minutes. The hardest bit of it all was trying to find the power cable for his laptop.
I scroll through the files, skipping all of his 'personal' ones and I finally settle on the unsolved cases. I open the correct year of the Faceless Child Case and search for the information. It seems to all have been cleared.
I sigh and return to scrolling through his holiday pictures, keeping myself entertained. But after the third page, they take a turn for the worst and I instantly close tabs.
"Well, this was a waste of my time." I mutter, sitting back in his chair. And then I remember about the archives.
After a moment of preparation for the large task of reading and to recover from the scarring images situated on Lestrade's laptop, I stand and begin to the archives.
**
(MOLLY'S POV)
The taxi slows outside Scotland Yard, I thank the driver and get out. I stand in the cold, my fingers shaking as I dial Sherlock's number.
I chew my tongue until he answers.
"Yes--"
"Sherlock, what the hell!"
"Did you get my note?" He asks casually.
"Yes, of course I did! Where are you?!"
"Well, the note told you where--"
"I'm outside Scotland Yard, sleep deprived and incredibly cranky. If you don't tell me--"
"I see you."
I chew my tongue again, trying to suppress the urge to snap at him. I look up at the building, squinting at the windows. "Where are you?"
"Look to the left on the forth floor."
I scan for him and eventually I see a figure stood in the window, waving.
I don't move; all I do is stare blankly at him.
"I'll text you the best route. I've dismantled everything so you should be alright."
I don't reply.
"Molly? Can--"
I end the call and shove my phone back in my jacket pocket, still continuing to watch him.
After a moment, I make an rude gesture at him before continuing on my way into Scotland Yard.
**
(MOLLY'S POV)
I follow the map Sherlock had texted me, my excitement slowly over-coming my anger. Until, eventually, I'm just excited. As immature as this sounds, I feel like a total badass; breaking into Scotland Yard etc. I know it's not a good thing, but it feels good.
I take some stairs down until I get to a warehouse-like room. Shelves stand like rows of trees, their leaves made of torn scrolls and files. "Sherlock?" I whisper, a little too anxious to shout for him. I walk down the steps and across the floor, my footsteps echoing eerily. There's something very unnerving and unwelcoming about it all. But I still continue as silently as I can.
It's like a labyrinth of bookcases that smell like some sort of mould is growing on the paper.
After five minutes of trying to find him without calling his name aloud, I give up and shout. "Sherlock!"
There's a distant reply. "Molly, where are you?"
I look around, in hope that I'll find a feature that stands out a little. "....um, near some shelves...."
"Read out a file you're nearby." He orders.
I walk forwards and pull out a scroll, unrolling it and reading it aloud. "'Aubrey Filipusko, murdered on the seventeenth of March 1806'?"
There's silence. "Oh, I know where you are. I'll be with you in a minute or two." And then there's silence again.
I slide the scroll back into its place and run my hands over the other pieces of paper, intrigued.
Around one minute later, Sherlock approaches me casually with his hands in his pockets. I glare at him, "You're in so much trouble."
He pauses, glancing down at the file in my hands. He glances back up at me. "'Benjamin Jonah Joules, serial killer. Froze his victims', correct?"
I look at the file. "Yep." I know that he's trying to change the subject.
He walks forwards, "Did you know he used his basement as a fridge to preserve their body-parts?"
"Yep, says here."
"Over eighty-three decapitated heads were found in the freezer."
"Also says here."
"Do you know what gave it away?"
I look at him. "What?"
"The fridge magnets on his cadaver freezer spelt 'corpse collection'. He would've gotten away with it if he hadn't have done that."
"Really?"
He nods. "Yep. The police went around because apparently he'd been sighted publicly urinating and when he'd invited them in for tea, one of the officers wandered off and saw a door with 'corpse collection' on the front."
I laugh. "That's amazing!" I forget all about my annoyance as he continues to tell me about this bizarre case.
He finishes his explanation and dithers, watching me. "You'll probably want to know why I'm here. I'm searching for information on an old, unsolved case from a couple of years back; it's just popped-up again. You're welcome to look at it with me?" He's a little sheepish as he's aware of how inconvenient all of this is for me, but I can see the surprise on his face as I smile in agreement.
**
(2:57AM)
(SHERLOCK'S POV)
Molly only lasted one hour before she fell asleep. I wasn't expecting her to last all night, but I was impressed she got this far.
She's curled up by a bookshelf with her head leant on a pile of murder files, her jacket acting as a blanket and a file in her arms --fittingly-- cataloging a sleep-serial killer.
As it's so early and so dark and none of the radiators have been turned on yet, a death-like chill circulates around the cavern of a room like a serpent; finding any scrap of warmth and engulfing it whole.
But despite the cold, I continue my search, every now and then checking if she's still asleep.
My palms are slick with a dark, brown dust that has settled upon the surfaces of the folders and files; the dirt has stained my finger tips, irritating my skin.
I was certain that the case I was looking for would be in this section of the archives, unless it's been moved again. But I doubt they've done that; nobody has the time or effort to search through all these files just to find one case. Well, apart form Molly and I.
As I glance at her, she stirs softly and brings her hands into her chest, as an attempt to warm them. I tuck my current file in my teeth and kneel in front of her, cupping her hands in mine and trying to warm them a little. Admittedly, I'm not much warmer than she is, but I am a little. And so, I take off my jacket and lay it over her before taking the folder back from my teeth and retching at the taste of the sickly, brown dust on my tongue. After a moment, I open the file with teeth indents on the front, expecting nothing more than another fluke, but find myself with a sense of victory as I read the correct file with the correct photographs too.
I smile, despite the images, and tuck it under my arm. The dust, once again, staining my shirt, but I couldn't care less. I move Molly, so she's leant against the bookshelf rather than the murders, and tidy away the folders. Once I'm done, I nudge her, trying to wake her as softly as I can.
She remains asleep.
After another failed attempt, I shrug and sit down next to her, starting to read through the file I'd been searching for for over three hours.
I store quotations and photographs in my mind-palace as I read, but eventually, the transition between reality and my mind becomes slower and slower until it's stops all together and I'm lost to that place where lack of reality and attempted realistic thought are combined.
The abyss where my untamed thoughts lurk in a river of stars; like a long, thin constellation that shifts with its own smooth current.
This is the one space of water I am not afraid of drowning in. I've never been afraid of this.
This speculation of warm, comforting insanity.
And to think I didn't believe it as a necessary, natural requirement; sleep.
**
(7:00AM)
"Asleep in the damn archive? What were you thinking?!" Lestrade exclaims.
Sherlock is the only one not phased by the situation. "I needed to find--"
"You could have asked! All you had to do was wait until the next day to ask!"
"It was too long to wait."
"It was a few hours!"
"It was too long to wait."
Lestrade stares at him, unable to reply to his retorts.
Sherlock looks around the interrogation room. "Is all of this really that necessary?"
"Well, you did break the law." He reminds.
Sherlock remains unconvinced, "I went on your laptop." He corrects, sitting back in his chair. "And I'm depicted at the drama queen...."
He speaks over him. "After you dismantled our security system, broke into Scotland Yard and went for a nap in our archives."
Sherlock pauses, "Ah, I see what's happened here. The alarms are supposed to stop people from breaking in and I've proved them wrong; consequently, you have been sold ineffective alarms."
Lestrade remains just as disapproving as he was at the start of the conversation, only he doesn't have the energy to reply.
Sherlock leans forwards "I assure you, Lestrade, they were working perfectly before I dismantled them." His statement dripping with sarcasm. He ignores his expression and looks at the two-way mirror, "Where's Molly?"
"She's being--"
There's two knocks on the glass and Sherlock knows that she's watching him. He turns back to him, "Why am I the only one being questioned?"
"I'm just killing time." He admits, tapping a tune on the table.
After a moment of silence, Sherlock continues, "Are you trying to get me to apologise?"
"Yes, I am."
"Apologise for what?"
He repeats himself again. "For breaking the damn law!"
"Is this all you require from your 'criminals' before letting them go again; an apology?"
"I swear to god, Sherlock, I will contact the newspapers and confirm those rumours about you with added detail."
He considers the comment for a moment before mumbling a laugh to himself.
Lestrade frowns slightly. "What is it?"
He looks at him. "I wasn't aware you went to Spain. Those beaches, how lovely."
Lestrade is instantly aware that he's seen his old holiday photos, but he remains silent, assessing the situation he's found himself in, "Are you blackmailing me?"
"I'm returning the favour, Gavin."
"Greg."
"What?"
"It's 'Greg', not 'Gavin'."
"I said 'Greg'."
"No, you said 'Gavin'."
Sherlock then realised a mistake from earlier. "Are there any other men called 'Gavin' working here?"
"Yeah, Gavin Skelding."
"Ah."
"What've you done?"
He sits with his hands in front of his chin, his elbows on the table and his fingertips touching. He slowly interlocks them as he thinks about how he's going to word his next sentence. "I put a word in for 'Gavin', misinterpreting that he was not in fact you and, well, he and Kate could possibly be in a relationship now."
Lestrade nods slowly with his eyes on the surface of the table, taking in what Sherlock has just told him. This goes on for another few moments before Sherlock takes a breath, about to speak.
"Shut-up and get out." He says, still not looking at him.
Sherlock silences himself instantly and stands awkwardly, leaving the interrogation room. He meets Molly outside in the corridor and a silent look is shared between them as they walk through some doors. "Where are we going?" She asks, glancing at a police officer as they walk the opposite direction from the exit.
"To the bathroom."
She raises her eyebrows, once again confused by what it sounds like he's suggesting.
He glances at her. "No, not like that. Kate and Gavin are currently, well, busy in the bathroom together and I'm determined to convince her to date Gerard instead."
"Who's Gerard?"
He looks at her. "Gerard Lestrade."
"That doesn't sound even vaguely right. Its rhymes and sounds stupid." She concurs, "It's 'Greg'. You've known him for over five years and you still can't remember his name."
He gives up as he pushes open the bathroom door, determined to correct his mistake once again.
**
(ONE WEEK LATER)
(MOLLY'S POV)
I've never dialled a number this quickly in my life. I glance around the apartment as the contact rings.
John answers, "Hello--"
"John!" I whisper carelessly, "Please, help, it's Sherlock!"
"What, what's happened?" He asks anxiously.
I walk around in circles with urgency as I speak. "It's happened."
"What's happened?" He repeats.
"Armageddon."
He pauses before bursting out into laughter. "He's ill?"
"He's unbearable!" I say, glancing at our bedroom door, "I love him and all, but he's intolerable when he's like this!"
"I've only had to look after him once. It's very rare he gets ill. But when he does, god, he really is--"
"This isn't helping!"
"He's usually too modest to admit he's unfit for work, so you need to let him work."
"But he can't work. He can't make himself dinner, or tea or anything."
"He never did. That's why he has Mrs Hudson."
"But he could, he could make dinner and tea." I remind him. I'm about to continue my stress call when I hear Sherlock stir. I turn back away from the door, my eyes wide, "Please, I can't do this on my own. SOS--" I cut myself off and turn around to Sherlock as he walks slowly into the kitchen. "Who were you talking to?" He croaks.
I put my phone down on the nearby table. "Would you like a drink?" I ask sweetly, blanking his original question.
He sits down on his chair and brings his legs into his chest.
He'd been ill one or two days after we'd gone to the archive. I don't know what could've caused it, but I pray it'll be over soon.
He's lost any co-ordination of his body; he'd been attempting to pin-up the Faceless Child photographs on the wall for over two hours and he fell off the chair twice within the first ten minutes. I had to pin them up for him.
The only way to describe Sherlock when he's ill is that he's like a reckless toddler trapped in a man's body.
I love him, of course I do, but he's so needy. You have to constantly keep your eye on him or he'll wander off and fall down the stairs or something. And, believe me, it's not easy to drag him back up the stairs again. It requires effort, time and a whole explanation to his childish questions like 'why can't I just live on the stairs?'. These aren't things I always have. At one point, I felt like throwing a blanket and pillow onto the landing for him so he can fulfil his dreams of living on the stairs. But then I remember that the rats are currently located there and because there's the possibility that they've evolved, they might just eat him alive.
Another aspect of Sherlock being ill is that he forgets words, and so, improvises by saying totally unrelated words in their places. I asked him if he wanted some breakfast and the conversation ended with the word 'cactus'.
He does an over-exaggerated sigh, just to catch my attention. "I'm dying," he concludes, "A long and painful death."
"You're a ill." I correct.
"No, this is more than a mere cold, Molly. This is incurable." He mumbles, resting his chin on his knees.
"Sherlock, yes, you are ill and you've not been able to be and act like you could have a couple of days ago, but you're not dying. You have no disease and you're not in a life-threatening situation. There's more chance it's an inter-galactic parasite that's going to rip through your torso than there is chance of it being the 'Black Death'."
He looks up at me with a panicked expression. "Wait, could that happen?"
I was going to deny the thought, but instead I see an opportunity. "Yeah, didn't you know? That tends to happen with the common-earth-cold." I say so sarcastically, even he in his gullible state picks up on it.
Sherlock takes his coffee mug in his hand and looks in the bottom of it, discovering its empty. I watch him observing the empty mug for another minute or two before his eyes drift up to mine and he holds it out to me, his actions saying the words he's not been able to grasp.
I take it from his hand and return to the kitchen to make him another cup.
I turn around one minute later. "Should we go--" I falter as my eyes fall to an empty chair and Sherlock is leant with his head against the wall of maps and photographs.
I slowly approach him and slide the mug towards him on the table, still a little wary.
"Um, are you--"
"Thimble-brain."
I watch him uneasily for another moment before putting my hands on his shoulders and turning him away from the wall. "The right word's 'thinking' and you need to go to bed. You're not fit to work."
He turns and looks at me. "But--"
"Sherlock, go to bed."
"Beds are overrated." He dismisses my comment.
"How about a pillow and a cushion on the stairs?" I suggest.
"A little more appealing." He admits, "But I need I solve the case. The...."
"Faceless Child," I chip-in.
"Yes, the Faceless Child Case."
"But you can't--" I falter as he looks at me, offended by my doubt of him.
"Are you challenging my genius?"
"No, I'm--"
"I will duel if need be."
I feel my eyebrows lower at his bizarre comment. "How about we see who can stand on a chair for the longest without falling off?"
He's about to reply but something obviously occurs to him. "Oh my god." He mumbles and then looks at me, "Oh my god." He says it again a little louder, "Oh, my, god."
"You're repeating yourself again." I acknowledge.
He ignores me. "I've got it."
"Got what?-- and if you say 'The Black Death' one more time...."
"No, no. The maps, the photographs. They're all near...." He searches for the correct word, "um, thing-food-place."
"Try again." I encourage without enthusiasm.
"Surprise-waiters."
"Not quite."
"Eating-people-place."
"Now I'm a little unnerved."
"Table-talk-food-bow-tie."
"Do you mean 'restaurant'?"
"Yes, that. The photographs were all found near those things."
"Once again, 'restaurants'."
He ignores my corrections and turns back around to the map, pointing at all of the restaurants. "Pin." He orders, knowing that I won't allow him to go near sharp things.
I reluctantly push a pin into the map whilst he continues to explain, filling in the words he can't remember with other outrageously random words.
"....crocodile chimney-sweep, but that's not the point, our next step will be to target our investigation on these restaurants. These are the only things our locations have in common; they were all between 150ms and 100ms away from a restaurant."
I smile slightly.
"What?"
"Sherlock Holmes is slowly over-coming his illness." I sing slightly.
He smiles, looking at the map and sipping his coffee. "Thank you, Milly."
"Okay I'm going to pretend that didn't happen."
**
(A FEW DAYS LATER)
(MOLLY'S POV)
Sherlock has improved a little; he's gotten better with his words and control over his body, but he's tired all of the time. One wave of deductions or whatever just tires him out completely. I know he doesn't enjoy being ill, but then again, who does.
Despite this, he insists we continue on the Faceless Child Case by visiting the first checkpoint on the map; a café.
It's good for him to work on cases and to think things through I suppose, but I still strongly believe he should rest himself. And I know he doesn't like eating or sleeping whilst on cases, but at the moment he needs those things more than ever. Yes, perhaps I am over-exaggerating a little, but I've never seen Sherlock like this and it's all a little strange. Usually, he's quick with responses and has scaring accuracy, but when he's ill he's a totally different person. He'll attempt to be quick, but fall on his face and his accuracy is no where near as, well, accurate; now it's just scary.
But still, he's better at solving things than I am which just proves the extent of his genius and, for me, is a little bit depressing.
We sit in the window seat and I observe the menu. I can't read the specials because a thick, hard, patch of grease is smeared over the letters.
Sherlock leans forwards with his elbows on the table and his hands in a praying position.
I put down the menu and slide it away from myself with my finger, determined not to get any of the grime on my hands. I look around the grotty café before looking back at Sherlock. "Why're we here again?"
"Looking for clues."
"What sort of clues?"
"Anything that could link the locations. There's a reason for photograph-checkpoints all being near restaurants, but we need to find out what that reason is."
He's getting better at saying the correct words. I think, once he starts thinking and using his brain, he gets better at it all.
To help him, I ask another question. "Why this child? What's the point of her?"
"She's not related to any of the receivers and none of them claim to know her...." I can see him delve deeper into his concepts and construct new theories.
"Perhaps it's just a creepy photo?" I suggest with a shrug.
Sherlock shakes his head. "No, there has to be more significance. If the sender wanted to scare the people, there's more chance, as they're not getting a response from this, they will change the photo. But no, it stays the same girl and same abstraction of her face for every single person."
Sherlock's good at holding lots of information in his head and linking it all together. I am not. It all just overwhelms me.
He continues to look out into nothingness, thinking.
I let him do so, until a waitress comes to serve us. "What can I get you?"
"Could I--"
"We have to go." He interrupts, standing abruptly and walking out of the café. This reminds me of the first time he'd done this, when he was chasing the man from the Cats Case.
It's the same awkward tension as the waitress gives me a sympathetic look as if my date's just abandoned me.
I say the only thing I can think of. "You have really nice shoes." I tend to compliment people's shoes in awkward moments, not that it helps or anything.
Sherlock re-enters the café, "Molly!"
I smile at the perplexed waitress as I stand and walk out of the café after Sherlock.
At least we still have another three to visit; we'll stop and eat in one of them, surly.
We stride down the street, Sherlock knowing where our next stop will be. We ignore the people watching us and contemplating whether we are the two people they've seen in the papers or not. They contemplate this by staring very unsubtly.
I stuff my hands into my pockets and walk beside Sherlock. "So, this photo, you said that it has 'personal significance'?"
"Yes, it has to. But we don't know what that is."
"Right....okay, assuming they all know this child, how do they even identify her? She's got no face." I remind.
He's silent for a moment. "Maybe that's it. Maybe, the sender intended for the photos to be personal, but they just haven't affected the receivers."
"Because?"
"Because the photo isn't significant to them."
"But you just said...." I try to replay our conversation in my head so I can keep track of what we're discussing. "You're saying 'significant' a lot and I really don't know what's happening anymore. There's too much confusion." I sigh, my warm breath evaporating in the cold air in front of my face. Though, despite my confusion, I am determined to remain on the subject of the case. "So, if the sender sent the photos knowing that the receivers are not personally attached to them, why send them? What's the point? The only thing he'd get would be a couple of panicked people."
"What if the sender doesn't want anything?"
"Well, that'd just be wasting perfectly good photographs."
"What if he's disposing of evidence?" He suggests.
"But, that'd just draw attention to the evidence." I add.
He's silent, knowing full well my point is true. I can see this case is annoying him; when he goes silent, you know you should begin to worry about him.
After a minute, he speaks again. "How would you react if someone planted this photograph on you?"
I think for a moment before answering, "Well, I suppose, I'd be a little creeped out. But, it wouldn't bother me too much. I mean, it's just a photograph; what's the harm in that?" I adjust my scarf, trying to keep the cold air from creeping in.
"What if you received another photo?"
"I might tell someone...."
"And another?"
"I'd probably take it a little more seriously, like telling the police or something."
"And what if they ignore your complaints? What do you do then?"
"Well, what can I do? Honestly, I'd just accept that." I shrug, assuming my answer was incorrect.
Apparently it's not as Sherlock continues from my reply, "But he didn't."
"Who didn't?"
"The client," He explains, "he contacted me. He did that because he wants me to find the person who's doing this." He concludes. "But why?" Sherlock asks, trying to get me more involved.
We wait for the cars to pass before crossing the road. I shrug, "Because he's confused and worried?"
"No, if he was confused by the image, he'd follow the same ignorant procedure as you and the other receivers." He pulls the photograph from his coat pocket and shows it to me as we walk. "He's seen something in this photo that nobody else has seen. So," he waits for me to continue.
"Personal significance." I nod, now understanding his hints.
"Exactly. He's seen something in this photo, but more importantly, he's seen something in the girl. I think the client contacted us because he doesn't just want to find the sender, but he wants to find the girl."
All of his points are surprisingly valid for a man who was speaking gibberish earlier this week. I consider our conversation and try to extract the information from it, but don't really get anywhere. I let him speak as I can see he knows what he's on about. "So, theories?" I ask.
"A kidnapping. The child was taken and the kidnapper sent out the photos to different people because he's trying to find who she belonged to. And he knows that the person she did belong to would go to extra lengths to get her back. The kidnapper would then contact them, probably asking for bank details and what not."
"The client?"
"The client. He knows exactly who this girl is, he's just not admitted it."
"Why? Why hasn't he told us?" Something doesn't quite fit. Surly, if he cared for this little girl, he would have spoken up and taken it all more seriously.
Sherlock glances at me, "Let's go and ask him ourselves. His apartment is 78ms away from our next checkpoint."
**
The conversation with the client hadn't gone as smoothly as we'd originally planned. We didn't even have a conversation; we merely got shouted from the other side of a door.
The client obviously didn't want to speak to us, which just confused the situation even more.
Sherlock was determined to speak to him, but I reminded him that we had plenty to go on, so 'gassing him out', as Sherlock put it, wouldn't be necessary.
"....solve the case, Mr Holmes! You don't need my input!" He finishes stubbornly.
"If you tell us, we'll have the case solved by the end of the night." He insists, but the client ignores him with silence.
I nudge him, "Let's go, he's not going to speak."
Sherlock looks at me like a child would look at a parent and say 'please, five more minutes'. Finally, he concedes, glancing at the door before and we stroll away. As we reach the stairs, he speaks. "It doesn't make sense," he complains, "why would he not want to tell us about the girl if he wanted to find her?" I can see this is annoying him. And usually, he's awful at tolerating annoyance, but when he's ill at the same time, it's almost impossible for him. He keeps his eyes forwards as he walks silently down the stairs. I watch him precariously as he walks, making sure he won't fall. Sherlock acts as if it's no effort to step without stumbling, but I can tell he's thinking about his movements very closely. I know this because he occasionally glances down, just to be sure he's not missed a step or anything.
I run my hand down the bannister as I follow him. My voice bounces off of the tiled walls, "You look like you could do with something to eat. It's already one thirty and we've missed lunch and breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"You have to be, you've not eaten--"
"I'm not hungry." He repeats a little louder.
I see this as my warning not to force my ideas onto him. And so, I don't reply.
As we go down the final flight of stairs, he slows and turns to me. "I need to solve this first. If I don't solve it--"
"You won't eat." I finish.
His eyes are sharp as they turn to me, but they're not mean or nasty, just a little cold. "I've promised myself I'd be able to do it. It's what I do. And if I don't, what am I? I've worked like this my entire life and I'm not going to start changing now." His voice and emotionless tone echoes in the dead silence of the stairwell.
"You're not helping yourself by acting like this." I notify, trying to keep my voice soft and gentle.
He's no longer got that sharp and deadly look, but rather a guilty one. His eyes are now downcast as he turns his head away from me.
I step forwards and kiss him on the cheek, my actions showing my acceptance, though it's a little forced. He knows it is.
"We should solve this then, shouldn't we?"
His eyes follow me as I continue down the steps until I too am on the ground floor. I look up at him, "What do you suggest we do now?"
He looks out at the door to the street, his gaze indicating our next task.
I smile to myself at his over-dramatic movements like he's in a film or something. He likes being over-dramatic that way. But he likes that because he's always been that way. Because some things change, he's worried others will too. We both know he doesn't just mean not eating whilst on cases, we both know he means more than that.
There's personal significance there, we can't deny it.
**
(MOLLY'S POV)
(LATER THAT NIGHT)
We had had no joy with the other restaurants; they were just as unresponsive as the first. We had nothing but the photographs to go on. This didn't rest well with Sherlock. He plays his violin whilst I attempt to work. I have a ton of files and forms to fill out.
As I work, I listen to him play the beautiful melodies.
I hadn't heard him play since the bomb all those months ago. Of course, all of his possessions, including his violin, where taken-out with the explosion. He's still trying to get to grips with his new instrument. But, to me, he still sounds just as beautiful.
The quick movements make an elegant sound and the sounds weave together to form a tune. It's an emotional one, but it's calming too.
Sherlock is, once again, finding it difficult to play whilst his mind is so cloudy with all of his stresses and with illness. But despite him supposedly 'playing the wrong note' or 'not changing key quickly enough', he's doing okay. Like I said before, to me, it sounds just as breathing taking.
Once again, night had fallen quickly and one, large shadow lingered over the whole of London like a spirit over a lifeless corpse.
Oh god, that sounded a lot more sinister than I intended. Well, I am filling out cadaver reviews so that's probably the cause of that simile.
He suddenly stops playing and I look up to see what's disrupted the flow of music. He exhales, twiddling the bow in his hand as he lays his violin down on the armchair. "It's not a kidnapping." He concludes, "But the photos were sent to personally effect the receivers. We just need to find out what aspect of the photo affected them."
He's not been able to stop thinking about the case all day. He rambles on, repeating the same words again and again as he tries to make sense of it all.
Eventually, I speak over him, "What're you playing?" I ask, trying to turn his attention away from the case that's slowly eating away at his sanity and well-being.
He pauses for a moment, clicking out of solving cases and into small talk. "I composed it. It was one of the roughs of John and Mary's Wedding Piece."
"I thought it sounded familiar." I say, "Well, you play it just as beautifully as you did on the day."
A moment passes.
"I haven't got the original, but I've remembered what I can." He says.
Like I said before, he'd lost everything in the explosion, everything.
"It's beautiful." I repeat, my words genuine.
He twiddled his bow around his fingers again before putting it next to his violin on his armchair.
"When did you learn?" I ask him. Despite us being together and knowing each other for such a long time, we didn't know that much about one another.
"I started when I was a child. I could play professionally by the age of thirteen."
I watch him; his movements are smooth and soft. I put down my pen on the table and speak. "I wanted to play violin when I was younger, but my parents would've made me decide between violin lessons or ballet lessons."
"You did ballet?"
"For a while, but after a couple of years I lost interest." I lie casually, not too keen to delve into the subject of my past.
A moment of silence passes as we continue to look at one another.
We can hear the flow of London; the cars and trains and people all moving to create a surprisingly calming background noise.
"How're you feeling?" I ask.
"Nauseous, headaches, the usual 'illness' feelings." He replies.
"Right." I smile slightly.
We continue to watch each other but after another ten seconds or so, I break the contact. "Will you at least eat a piece of toast? I'll make sure I won't burn it again."
He nods, but his eyes don't waver from me.
As stupid as it all sounds, this is proving that he can accept change. Whether it's eating a piece of toast to overcome your illness or changing your ways to help yourself cope and adapt as other things change around you.
**
(A FEW DAYS LATER)
(NIGHT)
He's promised me he won't let it get to him and that he won't go over board on this case. I'm glad he's not working himself too hard, it's not good for him to constantly do that because, at the moment, he won't be able to cope with all the work.
I lay in bed, snuggling into the duvet to keep the warmth close against my skin. He said he had to make a call.
Around ten minutes later, he re-enters and gets in next to me.
I turn my body so I'm facing him. "Who'd you call?"
"Lestrade, he wanted my input on something."
I assume by 'something' he means relationship. "Oh, right." I reach behind myself and turn out my lamp, causing cascades of shadow to flow over our room. "Goodnight." I wish him, closing my eyes and listening to the soft sounds of London once again.
**
(SHERLOCK'S POV)
Determination, for me, isn't a just a wish for me to be better; it's a need. If I promise myself I'll solve it, I will solve it.
She believes I'm too ill to work, but no. Admittedly, it's taken me a little longer than it usually would, but I blame that on the medicine I've been taking slowing my mind down.
I'd told her I had to answer a call which, in all fairness, is true. The only part that's not true is that I didn't mention is that it's about the case. Yes, I said that I'd give it a rest and let it go for a while, but if I do that, it gets more and more irritating. An itch I can't quite scratch.
And so, I scratched it.
The waiter in one of the restaurants phoned me up a few days after we'd visited and he told me about this one girl, Hannah James. He told me that she'd changed her name to Susan Murray for legal purposes. After cutting out his babbling about their 'relationship', I was able to fit the pieces together.
Now, we'd all made the assumption that the child in the photograph was either dead or completely out of reach of anyone, and that someone else was taunting others with her photo. That was not true. She was the one planting the photographs on people.
By the age of the photograph I can work out, roughly, what age she'll be now. An estimation would be between 17 and 20 years.
Her task was to find her parents. As soon as she was born, she was taken away and put in a care home.
Age 16, she ran away and age 17 she supposedly commuted suicide. Her body was never recovered.
Hannah had faked her death to get away from everyone who wanted to find her and got herself a new name; Susan.
That's not to say this waiter was my only source of information. Lestrade helped too;
'Lestrade,' I begin, doing my best to sound welcoming.
'Why are you calling me?' He replies bluntly, not returning my welcoming tone.
'I need a favour.'
'No.'
'A favour for a friend.' I try again. Only then do I realise how desperate I truly am.
'You've ruined my chance of being with Kate.'
'You didn't really have much of a chance though, did you?'
He doesn't reply. I can imagine he's glaring at the empty space in front of him.
I see that my previous comment isn't helping me with my intentions, and so, I force myself not to make another comment.
'What do you want, Sherlock?' He asks, obviously irritated.
'I need you to get me some information on a girl called "Hannah James".'
'Why should I?'
'Well, because I'm your friend.' I say. The use of the word "friend" is very important here and is incredibly forced. It isn't often I call Lestrade my "friend" to his face --and I'm not even doing that now; I'm talking to him on the phone. But it's still a challenge to say it without cracking-up.
'You've broken into my department, into my office, into my laptop and you've broken my career and not to mention my heart.' He knows his reply is tacky, but rage is blinding him of any bespoke or logical vocabulary.
'Please.' I squeak, trying to pull an innocent expression despite him not being able to see me. He'll be able to hear it in my voice.
There's a silence as he decide whether he's going to hang up on me or not.
I'm not going to lie, I feel the tension because as much as I hate to admit it, I need his help. He's the only person that can access these files because I can't pull a stunt like I did last week again; Molly will notice. And the police, they'd probably notice too, but I'm more worried about Molly noticing. She may be small and smiley, but she can also be quite terrifying in her own little way.
Eventually, Lestrade speaks. 'Fine.' I hear a shuffling sound down the phone as he holds the mobile between his ear and his shoulder to free his hands for typing.
'You're still at the office?' I ask.
'I have paperwork to do. You know, break-in allegations, the usual.'
I purse my lips awkwardly. 'Right.' I decide that it's probably not best to try to engage in small talk with him again as my previous attempt truly crashed and burned.
There's another silence as his mouse clicks, scrolling through the database.
Eventually, I hear him exhale. 'Right, "Hannah James, committed suicide age 17"? That seems like something that'd interest you.'
'That's the one.'
He sighs. 'Right. She drove off a bridge and the body washed away. Not recovered.'
'No, further back. Birth, upbringing.'
'Sorry, I was assuming you'd be more interested in her death.' He says, but I look past his insult. He is understandably and incredibly pissed at me, and so, I remain silent. 'OK,' he clicks his tongue as he gathers together the information, 'here we are. Her parents are...."George Volt" and "Amy Jackson". But they were underage at the time so....'
'Lost child custody.'
'Yep. She was sent to a care home, "St Abigail's", and she grew up there until....oh.'
'What is it?'
'She ran away at age 16.'
'Thank you.'
'What, Sherlock?'
'That's all I needed to know.'
'But, aren't you going--'
'Kate, yes,'
'No, I mean this is--'
'Tomorrow she's going out to lunch at a local café she likes. She usually orders double-shot-coffee and shortbread. If you get there for 11:55AM, you could offer her a seat at your table. Bye.'
'Wow the hell did you know--'
I hang up.
I'd been given all the information I needed to piece together theories and ideas for why this photo was so appealing to the client. I knew that he was her under-age father, that's why he'd denied knowing her; he didn't know her name, if she was alive or even her age in the photographs, but he knew her. He didn't want to risk telling us unless we got the law involved again.
But the most interesting bit of it all is the 'Personal Significance'; what allowed George Volt to identify her as his own, despite the small chance of it even being her?
We were trying to work out what you could identify this child by and I found it.
It's in every single photograph, but it's always been over-looked. Admittedly, it's subtle, but once you notice it you can't not see it.
On one of the photographs, she's wearing a summer dress and boots with little flowers on the side of them. At first, it seems to be an ordinary image.
Only, if you look closely at her boots, you'll see the bizarre thing. There should be one flower on the right side of the right boot and a flower on the left side of the left boot, next to the zip. But, this girl has both flowers on the left side of her boots, and so, she's wearing two left boots.
Why? Because this girl was born with a fascinating deformity; one only her parents would be able to identify.
She was quite literally born with two left feet.
Oh, that satisfying sensation after you inched a scratch.
Now I can relax and continue to be ill or something; not that I have much of a choice in the matter.