Vague Shadows

Sherlock lunged for Mycroft; had John not been watching, the two of them would have toppled down the stairs, and Sherlock possibly would have beaten his brother into a bloody mess.

John was ready for the reaction, though. He jumped forward and slammed his hands onto Sherlock’s shoulders, jarring him to a halt. Sherlock’s usually-calm eyes were a torrent of rage; his body was tense with anger and his jaw clenched tight as he glowered at his brother. John pushed him back a couple feet and then dropped his hands; when Sherlock began to advance again, John held up his hand.

“Come on, keep it together,” John said to him, giving Sherlock a pleading look. “This won’t help us find Laicee.”

The rage didn’t leave his eyes, but Sherlock grudgingly let out a huff and smoothed down his bathrobe, keeping his distance from his brother.

“Had I known who I was dealing with, I never would have involved Laicee, I swear it Sherlock!” Mycroft said, his voice sincere. “I was only trying to do what was best-“

“For you, perhaps,” Sherlock spat. “Did it never occur to you the danger she would be in?” Mycroft started to answer, but Sherlock cut him off. “Of course it did, several times. Why else would you have played your cards so deceptively well?”

“I needed to keep you safe-“

“So you threw Laicee in the line of fire?” John snapped, rounding on the elder Holmes. “This is low, Mycroft.”

When his brother didn’t reply, Sherlock took a brief leave. He returned moments later, fully dressed, buttoning the rest of his shirt. He looked up at Mycroft.

“Tell me everything, everything from the moment Moriarty began to talk.”

Grabbing his scarf and jacket, Sherlock headed out of the flat, knowing the two behind him would follow. He hailed a cab as Mycroft began to talk. He told them how Moriarty had arrived, disheveled, begging to talk with Sherlock’s brother, saying he had something important. Sherlock listened in quiet concentration, drinking in what Mycroft told them as John directed the cab to Scotland Yard.

“It wasn’t a well thought out plan,” John said to Mycroft. “Sherlock, you would have seen through it instantly-“

“Because it wasn’t meant for me,” Sherlock explained, his face dark.

“He asked for you, demanded you, actually,” Mycroft said, puzzled.

“He knew I wouldn’t come,” Sherlock sighed, giving his brother a look. “Think, Mycroft. Had he truly wanted me to come, he never would have shown up in person, to say the least. John and I both recognize him, but Laicee does not. Do you truly think it was coincidence that this happened on the one day I am ill and incapable of doing my job? No, he knew I wouldn’t come. He played his cards right.”

“Laicee didn’t suspect,” Mycroft said softly. “And neither did I. I led her right into his plan.”

“She would have caught on fairly quickly, had she not been driven by emotion,” Sherlock said quietly, his gaze flickering out the window. “I feel this proves why I continuously say that emotions are a dangerous, dangerous thing in this field.”

“She was worried for us, scared of what would happen,” John murmured, his gut tightening as he pictured Laicee, careless grin and bright eyes, lying dead in a ditch because she cared about them a little too much.

“She is very bright. Had she not been compelled to comply for our safety, she would have started to piece together the broken shards of this suspicious puzzle. What I can’t figure out, though, is why she felt so powerfully compelled to step in for me. She hesitated until you told her we were threatened. What would press her to act like this, I cannot say, but it hardly matters right now.”

John and Mycroft shared a look of wonder and knowing. Of course the both of them knew why Laicee had acted so carelessly in the heat of the moment. Really, was it that much of a mystery to Sherlock?

“Now what?” Mycroft asked as the cab stopped. Sherlock got out and wrapped his coat around him as John fell into step beside him. Sherlock took a breath.

“We find Laicee. I won’t leave her to Moriarty, I can promise you that.”

“You’re very passionate about rescuing her. You care for her, much in the way that she cares for you,” Mycroft pressed cautiously; Sherlock’s keen eyes flicked down to his brothers, and for once, Mycroft could see a hint of puzzlement in them.

“What do you mean?”

John kept his mouth shut as Mycroft shifted his gaze.

“Is it really a mystery to you, what compelled Laicee? What so powerfully compels you now to save her?”

Sherlock looked ahead and furrowed his brows as he slipped into the building. They climbed the stairs quickly, reaching Lestrade’s floor in moments. Anderson was the first to spot them. He drew himself up, as he always did when dealing with Sherlock, and glowered at the three of them.

“It’s afterhours, and I know for a fact that Lestrade doesn’t need you right now-“

“I need him,” Sherlock said curtly, catching the man by surprise as the group passed by. “I’ve come on my own accord, and if you value your health and safety, I would scamper off and leave me to my business.”

Lestrade looked up from his desk as he heard Sherlock’s voice; he was surprised, but the shock turned to anxiety when he saw the faces of the men approaching him.

“Sherlock-“

“I need your help,” Sherlock said, his tone low as he leaned over Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade’s brows flew up; in the five years he’d known him, not once had Sherlock ever come to him for help.

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “What’s going on?”

“Laicee’s in trouble, and we need to find her,” Sherlock said quickly. “From what I can tell, she’ll be in an old building, an hour or so from Baker Street. I can’t say where, precisely, and this is where I need your help. We need to check the buildings and find her, but I cannot do it on my own.”

Lestrade was quiet for a moment; he could see the fire in Sherlock’s eyes as he spoke, he could hear the tremor of anxiety underlying his voice. For anyone else, Lestrade would have turned away at this request, but the desperation of the mysterious man leaning over his desk was enough to make him nod and stand.

“I’ve got maps in the briefing room. We’ll plan out our search, and go from there.”

“Mycroft will fill you in on the details, and John will be there to answer what he can about Laicee.”

“Where will you be?” John asked, looking worried.

“I’ve got research of my own to do,” Sherlock said plainly, turning around and stalking away. John stared after him for a brief moment before turning and following Lestrade into the room.

Ten minutes later, Donovan, Anderson, and several other dedicated staff stood huddled around the table; several police cruisers had been sent out to scope the streets near Holloway, and an ambulance was on call, just in case.

“I’ve told Sherlock, and now I’ll tell you,” Lestrade said to John as he flagged another old building on the map. “I’ve been unsure, but the events of tonight are turning me in the direction I’ve been planning on going. I’m considering removing Laicee from Baker Street, for her own safety.”

John looked up, his face obviously pained. Lestrade met his eyes, and his look softened.

“I understand,” John said softly. “But I’m not happy with that idea.”

“And I’m not happy with the idea of a sixteen-year-old girl in the middle of this sick game between Sherlock and Moriarty,” Lestrade said quietly. When John didn’t respond, Lestrade swallowed hard and met John’s eyes. “Did I ever tell you that I was the one who came to Laicee’s house that day?”

John and Mycroft, who had been listening in, both fell silent. John shook his head.

“I wouldn’t have imagined-“

“Donovan and Anderson weren’t on my team yet, I was alone, and working on my day off,” he said. “We got the call. They needed someone to take control of the situation. It was bad, still terribly painful to witness, even after an hour of the intervention.”

John swallowed hard, staring intently at the map as Lestrade continued to flag buildings.

“I remember the first time I saw her, huddled on the back of the ambulance. She was bruised and shaken, but she still gave me a smile when I walked up to her. It says a lot, I think, about Laicee.”

John looked up now and said what Lestrade was hinting at.

“Even after being torn apart, she does what she can to make others happy.”

“She deserves a happy life, John, and I will do what I have to in order to make that happen.”

Before John could reply again, the door to the room swung open. Sherlock came up beside John, his face flushed and his breath slightly ragged.

“She was spotted in Holloway two hours ago,” Sherlock informed them.

“Yes, Holloway would make sense,” Mycroft said, nodding. “More than an hours walk from where we dropped her, but close enough, nonetheless.”

“How is it you know where she was seen?” Donovan demanded; Sherlock gave her an impatient look.

“Homeless network,” he said dismissively as Lestrade put his pen down and turned to the group.

“You heard him, get to Holloway, and don’t leave a single abandoned building unturned!”

Sherlock and John led the way from the room, racing down the hallway. John raced ahead and flagged them a cab as Sherlock turned to Lestrade. His eyes were dark, and his face was solemn, yet determined.

“I know what this is to you,” he told the Detective Inspector quietly. “But I swear it to you, I will find her, and I will fix whatever damage has been done.”

“You can only do so much, Sherlock,” Lestrade said as he began to back away. “There is some damage that cannot be repaired, no matter how hard you will it.”

Sherlock set his jaw and raced after John as a cab pulled up, Mycroft close behind. The climbed inside, and shouted the orders to the cabbie as the clock began to tick their precious time away.

***

The cab drove off twenty minutes later as Sherlock, John, and Mycroft raced down the street. Lestrade and a couple of men were west two blocks, while Donovan and Anderson covered the east side.

“Over there,” John said, spotting an old mill on the side of the road. Sherlock glanced at it and shook his head.

“Too close to the road. It wouldn’t do. It would have been somewhere secret, somewhere off the path, hidden back in the shadows of the town...”

They continued north, Sherlock’s heart beginning to beat faster. He didn’t know how long Laicee would have now, and he didn’t want to try and guess. Guessing would require imagining all that could have happened to her, and for once, Sherlock refused to use his brilliant deduction skills. The outcome would make his chest ache uncontrollably.

They passed dozens of old mills and warehouses, all of them being deemed unfit. Though Mycroft requested they at least check a couple, John trusted Sherlock’s judgment. He would know best how Moriarty’s mind worked, and he trusted Sherlock to find Laicee.

It was nearly twenty minutes later when Sherlock glanced back down an alleyway and spotted the very edge of a disused factory. He came to a skidding halt; he had almost missed it, tucked back behind a new department store. His gut pulled him forward; this was it.

John and Mycroft began to follow, but Sherlock turned back round to face them.

“Go and fetch Lestrade and the others,” he said quickly. “Bring an ambulance, and bring backup.”

John began to argue, but Sherlock gave him a look that unsettled John to his core and silenced him. The look of fear and anxiety in Sherlock’s eyes shut his mouth and made him oblige as Sherlock murmured,

“Please hurry, John.”

Mycroft and John spun around and raced back down the alleyway, hollering for Lestrade. Sherlock turned back to the alley and hurried towards the factory. He knew no one would have lingered behind, so he didn’t fear being attacked. What he feared was the way he would find Laicee, and that fear was almost strong enough to keep Sherlock from stepping into the building.

The moonlight was dim, but it was enough to maneuver by. Sherlock began to weave through the old shelves; he knew she hadn’t come in this way. There had to have been a back entrance. Eagerly, he pushed through the first room, and came into the next.

It was a huge, wideopen room with old shelves and crates stacked along the walls. And as he stepped inside, his heart slammed to a painful halt. Crumpled in the middle of the floor, abandoned like nothing more than unneeded rubbish, was the lithe outline of Laicee.

Sherlock didn’t realize he was shaking until he reached to unbutton his coat. He let it fall to the ground, freeing his arms as he began forward. He was glad that John and Mycroft hadn’t accompanied him; he didn’t want anyone to see him like he was.

Broken, frightened, sickened…

He increased his speed until he was running unsteadily towards the young, unconscious girl. He called out her name, but it ripped from his throat and collapsed into nothing more than a strangled cry.

“Laicee,” he tried again, his voice breathless and shaking. He fell to his knees beside her, his waivering hands reaching out, his analytical mind processing what he didn’t want to.

Unconscious, ripped clothes, dark stains…

His fingers swept her limp curls from her face, and his stomach tightened. He pressed down on her neck, expecting the worse.

Heartbeat. Faint, but fighting. Cold skin, pale demeanor. Severe blood loss. Bruised face, laceration to the cheek, split lip. Took several hits to the face. He briefly touched her swollen temple. Concussion, possibly mild. Hit with something small, hard, metal. Two indents on the skin, from a clip. Pocket knife?

Gently, Sherlock took her shoulder and rolled her onto her side. For once in his life, Sherlock had to look away. When he finally looked back at her, he was surprised to feel tears welling; his vision blurred slightly and he blinked fast, making them fall down his face. His shaking fingers brushed over the cut mark in her jacket, dipping into the cold, oozing blood caked around the opening.

Slowly, he unzipped her jacket, and examined her.

Stabbed, the blade went between the ribs. Heavy bleeding, possible punctured lung. He observed the rest of her quickly as he heard the wail of sirens. Bruises on her neck, two lacerations to her arms. Badly injured, and for what? For fun? For Moriarty’s sick pleasure?

But as Sherlock sat back, he could now see the glistening letters smeared onto the floor in Laicee’s blood; his stomach dropped.

Game

Moriarty had made his next move in their dual; first the bodies with Laicee and John’s names, and now this.

He could hear John shouting for him. Sherlock steeled himself, hastily wiping the tears from his eyes. He gently slid his arms beneath her, one under her knees, one beneath her shoulder. He stood slowly, lifting her smoothly into his arms and tucking her against his chest. He could feel fresh blood seep from her stab wound, staining his shirt, but he didn’t care. He carried her strongly, his long, pale arms encompassing the young, injured girl.

“John,” he called, his voice tight. He stepped past his jacket, the coat long forgotten. He heard John call for him again as Sherlock began to weave through the racks again. He called out again, and John pinpointed him this time.

“Did you find-“ he began, rounding the racks. He stopped in his tracks, his face falling. “Christ,” John gasped, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to control the wave of despair crashing over him. “Jesus, Sherlock, is she-“

“She’s alive,” he breathed, his voice hoarse as he fell into step beside John. As they walked briskly, John lifted the bottom of Laicee’s shirt, examining the wound.

“Deep, she’s lost a lot of blood,” he said, his voice sounding hollow. “She’s close to-“ his voice broke. “We need to hurry.”

As Sherlock and John exited the factory, Lestrade caught sight of him. His face fell into pain as he looked at the young, wounded girl. Donovan and Anderson stepped back with the rest of the officers, all watching as Sherlock carried her to the ambulance.

And as they lifted her into the back of the vehicle, letting John start to examine her, Sherlock climbed in as well. As she was strapped to the stretcher, Sherlock knelt by her side and slipped his hand in hers.