Deducing Tragedy Part Two: Speak No Lies

Hanna Hooper and Benjamin White were found on a small uncharted island in the Atlantic. They had been there for three years before a passing by cargo ship saw their fire on the beach. When they found them Hanna was very weak, she nearly didn’t make it. Hanna and Ben were big stories, everyone wanted a piece, wanted that special interview, but the two hid away from the press. Hanna spent most of her time at Baker Street with Sherlock and John while Ben was hulled up in his hotel room. No one could get to them.

At least that was the story Mycroft provided.

“Lost for three years on a tropical island,” Lestrade read the article, “clever.”

“My brother has his moments,” Sherlock shrugged sitting across from him. “I’ll assume you didn’t call me here to talk about a fake news story, so what is it?”

The woman in you flat is messing with your head for the sake of her own twisted game, oh, and she kissed me. “It seems the Ripper has decided to leave another note,” he started, averting his eyes to the paper in front of him.

“Another murder?”

“No, he just left the note.” Lestrade shifted uneasily in his seat, looking anywhere but at the Consulting detective in front of him. “On my desk, in the middle of the night, while I was in the loo.”

“And you didn’t see anything?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow.

“I checked the security footage twice,” he huffed, gesturing to his computer, “no one was here.”

“The note?”

“In German,” he said handing him the letter. “And there was no water mark letter on this one.”

“Then what makes you think if what him?” he asked looking over the thin white paper.

“Because the note was addressed to Ann,” he said finally meeting his gaze. “And officially Ann does not exist.”

“Tell that to her Facebook page,” Sherlock muttered looking at the words now.

Lestrade gave him a staggered look, “She’s on Facebook?”

“Well there is a page dedicated to her,” Sherlock shrugged. “Shit Ann Says. Jeremy runs it, not very popular as you can imagine. Ordinary people don’t have the capacity to understand her- Inspector are you stepping out on your wife?”

Lestrade’s eyes went wide, “What? Why would you say that?”

“You’re jumpy, agitated about something. You won’t look me in the eye for more than a few seconds, suggesting you’re trying to hide something from me,” he frowned, “I don’t know why, I don’t care that there was a young blonde woman in here four days ago and you shagged her-”

“We didn’t shag!”

“And I still don’t care,” Sherlock sighed in boredom. “Why do ordinary people care so much about each other’s romantic exploits? It’s all rather dull.”

He was silent for a moment, to alarmed to say anything. “How- never mind I don’t want to know,” he grunted. “It- it was a moment of weakness. It won’t happen again, you understand that don’t-”

“Do I have to spell it out for your tiny little brain to understand? I. Don’t. Care.” Sherlock said standing up. “Have Hanna’s team translate this and text me when it’s done.”

“How- how is she?” He asked standing up before the other man could leave. “Hanna, how is she doing?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “She, is well… why do you ask?”

He shrugged, “Sense of duty. I failed her once before, I don’t want to do so again.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, “Last time you failed to save her from a mad man, what are you saving her from now?”

Lestrade gave him a forced smiled, his hands slipping into his pockets, “Now I'm trying to save her from herself. Because despite what she says… Hanna isn’t okay, not yet.”

~*~

I was in the hospitable for less than a day after I woke up. The Doctors wanted me to stay, to run tests and poke my brain with a needle. Well, probably not but staying longer than necessary left a fowl taste in my mouth. The last time I was here they pulled my dead child from my belly. Cries that I never got a chance to hear echoed off their wall to a point where the noise was almost defining. When I closed my eyes I saw her, that beautiful little girl in the yellow wood.

“Hanna?” John asked, his tone concerned as he touched my elbow and brought me out of my day-dream. “Are you ok?”

I blinked and looked at him, nodding as I gave him a small smile. We were back at Baker Street which had apparently gone to hell since I’d been gone. Books and lab equipment over ran the place. Sherlock had returned to putting body parts in the fridge, I gaged when I opened the door. Granted there was a method to his madness, I could see the elegance behind the arrangement, the flow of his work as he moved around the kitchen.

But something’s had to go.

“What is that?” Sherlock asked; his narrow eyes locked on the mini fridge set up on the counter next to the big one.

“For the body parts,” I explained as I poured a cup of tea for myself. “I know you won’t stop your experiments but keeping them with the food is not going to happen.”

“It’s too small,” he continued to glare at the thing.

“It fits a head, I already tested it,” I rolled my eyes. “There is no good reason you can’t use it.”

“It won’t keep them at the right temperature,” he persisted.

“There is a dial on the side to adjust it,” I countered. “Now are you really opposed to using it or do you just enjoy watching the rest of us nearly vomit every time we go to get a snack?”

He turned to smirk at me, “Maybe just a little.”

I raised an eyebrow, “More than ‘just a little’ you sadist.”

“I knew it,” John muttered in annoyance from his chair. There was a moment of quiet and then it was gone. In front of me on the counter a baby laid, her tiny arms flailing about as she cried and cried. My grip on my tea tightened as I held back from going to her. My little girl was in distress, I needed to help her. But what could I do for a ghost?

I blinked and she was gone. I was standing in the middle of the kitchen while John sat in his chair reading the paper and Sherlock was looking over his new refrigerator. I took a calming breath before grabbing a bag of tea and walking into the living room to take the seat across from John.

Three days ago I woke up from a coma brought on by extreme levels of stress and anxiety. While I was under I saw Molly Holmes my stillborn daughter.

Now I was awake.

And Molly was still here.