Orphan on Baker Street

Forty Sixth: Sherlock's POV

》Sherlock's POV《

Mickey sits in the armchair opposite from me, sipping silently on the cup of tea Mrs. Hudson just made. The woman herself shuffles around the kitchen, cleaning up. A tray with my own teacup sits on the side table next to Mickey, but I don't touch it. My hands form their signature Tent Shape just below my nose as I think - as I deduce.

Mickey didn't get any rest her first night in Belmarsh, but last night she managed to sleep a few hours. She was kept up by stress, worry, anticipation. Her eyes stare out the window past my head with a slight fury; she's angered by something that happened a while ago, or maybe even today. Someone must have said something, probably involving the fact that she was an orphan. My eyes trail to her hand that holds her teacup with a firm but calm grip (she's trying to not let me know she's angry). There's a vertical cut that goes down her forearm, created by a not-so-sharp object but one sharp enough to leave a scar; she was attacked. It disappears into her long sleeve button-up, which is tucked clumsily into her jeans - not her style. She must be trying to look tougher, less vulnerable, less feminine - not that those two words are interchangeable. Despite the fact she was only in there for two days, she seems to have been through a lot. She's strong; she'll get through it and probably learn from it.

Our eyes meet, and she scowls slightly.

"You're deducing me," Mickey says softly. I nod, placing my arms on the armrests. There's a short silence. "How's Moriarty?" she asks.

"He escaped and came here for Mrs. Hudson, but don't worry," I say quickly, seeing the concern in her widened eyes and straighter posture, "I took care of it. He's back in jail." Mickey leans back in the chair, seeming slightly relieved but not fully comforted.

Mrs. Hudson comes up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder. "It's alright," she reassures her niece. "We'll be safe as long as Sherlock's here." Then she walks over and kisses my temple. I try my hardest to not make a weird face and seem to succeed, as she turns around and picks up the tea tray.

"You didn't touch your cuppa, Sherly," she sounds worried. Mickey chuckles.

"Sherly," she repeats. "I'll have to use that more often."

"Please don't," I direct towards Mickey. Looking over at Mrs. Hudson, I say, "And, I wasn't really in the mood for tea, but I appreciate the gesture." This seems to be enough for my landlady, so she smiles and disappears into the kitchen.

"When's the trial?" I ask suddenly.

From the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson calls over her shoulder, "It's next Friday." I nod and take a mental note.

Mickey lets out a disgusted huff. "I need to start thinking about school."

"School," I scoff. "What do you mean? Why?" She's caught me off guard once again.

"I want a good life," she replies, pulling her knees up to her chest, sitting back in the chair curled up. "I don't want to end up in prison again; I want a family, a stable job... an education. I want to be happy, Sherlock."

I say nothing. Mrs. Hudson comes back from the kitchen and nods slightly, sliding the desk chair over so she sits on the other side of the table by Mickey. "I'm sure I could manage to get some things together for you by September," she says fondly. Mickey smiles.

My gaze travels over to the empty fireplace as I think. This is actually something she wants to do, so who am I to try and stop her? I'm a bit hurt, I'll admit - she won't have as much time to help on cases - but if she'll be happy...

John pulls me from my thoughts. He struts in happily, Mary trailing behind him, and another man comes in behind her. This must be the lawyer, and I stand politely, walking over to shake his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes," I introduce myself, staring intently at his face. It's like stone, pale, bald, free of wrinkles - he's in his 30's; his eyes are a piercing blue; his suit was just ironed - there's a burn mark on the shoulder; he has a muscular build, and a tattoo crawls up the right side of his neck (my left), probably part of a full sleeve. I take note that his tie is a navy blue - part of color psychology. He isn't the type of person to make decisions based on his interests, that's evident by his controlled posture and the odd choice of cuff links, which were probably a gift. No, he picked navy blue because it's masculine; it shouts "authority"; it could lead you to think he's successful, trustworthy. This is a man who cares about his impression on others, or maybe I'm thinking about his wife. They have no pets, but he's a cat person. He keeps cat food in his car in case he sees strays. Overall, I trust this man - whether it's the tie or the fact Mary likes him, I don't really care. I believe that he can get us out of this ditch we dug for ourselves.

These thoughts run by as he shakes my hand, flashing me a smile with straight teeth. "Marvin Ramsey," his Irish accent comes as a surprise. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I assume this is Mickey." He gestures towards the girl in the armchair, and I step backwards out of his way. Ramsey goes over and shakes her hand kindly, then turns to Mrs. Hudson.

"And you're... her aunt?" he ventures, holding out a hand to her. She nods happily.

"Yes, Martha Hudson. It's nice to meet you," they shake hands.

"The same to you, miss. This is a nice little building you have," he says politely. They talk about buildings, I guess, and I zone out, sitting back down in my armchair.

The polite small talking of new acquaintences passes, and John asks about seating.

"Just pull the couch over here; there's no need to talk across the room," I say, eyeing the lawyer suspiciously. He doesn't strike me as the type to go along with a lie.

John and Marvin push the coffee table against the wall under the window before dragging the sofa up perpindicular to the desk. Mrs. Hudson offers everyone a cup of tea, and they accept. She runs off into the kitchen as everyone gets situated in seats.

"So, Mickey, how've you been holding up?" John starts kindly. She gives him a smile.

"I've been better. Juvie was quite the experience," the girl responds, leaning on the armrest closer to the fireplace and setting her feet flat on the floor. Ramsey lets out a slight chuckle.

"You were at the one in Belmarsh, yes?" he asks; she nods. "I think that's one of the nicer ones. That doesn't mean it's all nice, though! Anyway, Sherlock, I was told you could relay the information with the most detail." The end of his sentence goes up like it's a question, and his black eyebrows raise slightly.

"Ah, right, well..." I pull all of my thoughts together before taking a deep breath and telling him the story, beginning to end.