Corruption

It was a Wednesday morning – a particularly cold one even for late autumn – when Sherlock found himself pacing the floor of his flat, trying to make sense of something he found rather odd. He was murmuring to himself, his incoherent words making absolutely no sense to his flatmate who was typing away on that blog of his. Sherlock, for once, was not trying to solve a crime as he did so often. It had felt like he had been home for days, however, so perhaps that was what had gotten him so worked up.

His puzzle: a single sentence, spoken by none other than Mycroft Holmes.

“I have family business to attend to.”

‘family business’

Sherlock, at first, had not had a second thought. It wasn’t until John questioned it that Sherlock became interested.

“Do you have a big family, Sherlock?” John has asked. He had thought Mycroft was Sherlock’s only brother – his only family. Sherlock did not talk about anyone else, hell; he hadn’t even mentioned Mycroft until John had been rudely “kidnapped” by the man. Even that, Sherlock had bluntly stated he was his elder by seven years. So when Sherlock had curtly denied any extra family members, John could only question it further. “What about your parents? Where are they?”

“My father killed my mother when I was 13. She was cheating on him. He killed himself before the police arrived.” Sherlock had stated, in that matter-of-fact voice that John often found annoying and condescending. “Now, would you get me that cup of tea?”

That had ended the conversation, leaving John speechless and embarrassed.

An hour later, Sherlock sat on the couch, fingers rubbing his forehead. He had multiple theories by now – a distant relative died and left their money to his brother; his grandmother (and only living relative, might he add) got into some legal trouble; or perhaps Mycroft was trying to fix something Sherlock had caused. In the back of his mind, however, he knew none of these were true; his father was certainly dead; his grandmother was a kindred soul; and Sherlock hadn’t gotten into trouble for a good week or so. So what now? He had to have hit a mind block. Wrong.

The detective jumped to his feet and rushed to the door, quickly pulling on his coat and wrapping a scarf tightly around his neck.

“Sherlock, where are you going so early in the morning?” John questioned, turning to look at his friend.

“I have some research to do at the library,” Sherlock replied, pulling open the door.

“You know, there’s this brilliant invention called the computer. It’s been around for quite some time, maybe you should try it.”

Sherlock scoffed. “John, I don’t have time to figure out how they work! Now if you excuse me, I will be on my way.”

“Well, I might as well come with you.”

“No, no, no, you just continue on writing about your exciting life in that blog of yours. I won’t be long. Actually…this may take a while.” Leaving no room for argument, Sherlock walked out the door and closed it behind him. He rushed down the stairs and out onto the pavement, hurrying down the busy road to the city library.

He hadn’t even realized he had run into someone, halfway to the library, until he heard someone fall to the ground. Sherlock wouldn’t have stopped, if he hadn’t heard a loud voice swear and ask if that was necessary. If what was necessary? Being rushed? Of course he was rushing; he wouldn’t live forever!

“Excuse you!” Sherlock turned at the voice, mumbling under his breath as though he had been called out by a teacher. He looked down and saw a petite woman sitting on the ground in what appeared to be a rather tight skirt and a frilly white blouse. She had honey blonde hair that was rather messy at the moment, presumably from being thrown to the ground, and hazel eyes that glared up at him angrily. Sherlock caught himself staring for longer than necessary.

“What?” Sherlock asked, as if he hadn’t heard the woman.

Angrily, she huffed and shook her head. “The polite thing to do when you knock someone over is to apologize and help the lady up!” She exclaimed, getting to her feet, and staring at him expectantly. When the man didn’t seem to realize what she had asked, she gave him an incredulous look. “For Christ’s sake! I asked you to pick up my belongings.” She said, motioning to a bag and a folder full of papers lying on the ground.

Sherlock stared at her for a couple seconds before letting out a frustrated, impatient groan. He picked up her things and handed them to her roughly.

“There’s no need to be a child!” She told him, barely believing that any man would act like this.

“I am not a child!” Sherlock snapped at her, cocking his head and giving her a disbelieving look. “I am short on time.”

“Well, Mr. Short on Time, perhaps next time you could be more careful and gentlemanly.” She huffed, crossing her arms over her bag.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” He corrected her, not understanding the weak joke; “You were not supposed to take that so literally.”

The woman smiled. “Sherlock?” She said, “I should have expected you would act like this.”

“I’m Mia Ross, by the way.”

Sherlock stared at her for a couple seconds longer, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t need your name. It’s not as if we will meet again.” He told her, turning around and continuing on his way without even uttering a goodbye.

He could have sworn she had said, “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” but when he glanced behind him, she was gone. Sherlock continued to the library without a second thought about her.