Promises Series

Promise of Home - Staying Up

This part is the first of four. It's titled Promise of Home, the first in the Promises Series.

The title of this chapter is "Staying Up" by The Neighbourhood.

A/N: Hi! Um, so this fic is already finished and on AO3. I think I'll update this once or twice a week. If you decide you really can't pace yourself, you can just check it out there.

If anything seems wrong or doesn't make sense, feel free to correct me or ask questions!

The man lay bleeding out at his feet, crimson pooling underneath his body. Sherlock wiped the blade he used to slit the man's throat on a handkerchief that had once been Mycroft's. He sighed. He had to get out of the house soon; Moran was supposed to be the last one, but if any of his assassin associates showed up, Sherlock would be no match for them with just a knife.

Sherlock went from room to room, checking that they were all empty. Most were, except for one that must have functioned as a sort of bedroom. It had a mattress with blankets balled up on one side and a duffel bag zipped neatly in the corner, ready to grab at a moment's notice.

Finish the job, Sherlock, he thought. Finish the job, and you can go back to Baker Street. Back to John.

Sherlock rooted through the bag quickly, looking for money or IDs. He came up with fifteen Italian euros, a chocolate bar with nuts, and a hairbrush that was covered in hair too blonde to be Moran's. Not to mention the t-shirts that wouldn't cover even half the man's body.

This was not Moran's bag. Someone else lived in the house. The question was: were they home?

Sherlock sighed and moved out of the room, scanning the walls and floor for signs of another human being. There were none in all the house except for that room. He pulled out his phone, but when he got to the room Moran's body was in, he slipped it back in his pocket and drew out the knife instead.

A woman was standing over the body, blood threatening to soak into her converse shoes.

"You know, I was going to ask if you'd killed him," she said. "Now I'm just wondering why you had to go about it so messily. Couldn't you just snap his neck or something? Look at that."

The figure turned. It wasn't a woman at all; it was a girl, barely seventeen, with dark brown eyes and a cool expression.

"Easy with that," she scoffed. "I'm unarmed."

"An unwise decision," Sherlock replied, his voice rasping from lack of use. "I'm assuming you're homeless, given by the state of your hair and clothes and the fact that you're here at all. This is obviously a dangerous part of town; there's a man lying dead at your feet, and I've just pulled a knife. Anyone could come in and kill you. So, why aren't you armed?"

"Wasn't allowed," the girl said simply, pushing the sleeves of her navy blue sweatshirt to her elbows. "You owe me new Converse. Cute ones, too, not just black or white or something dull."

"Excuse me?"

"You need to buy me new shoes. It's your fault he's bleeding out so much."

"It's your fault for standing in it."

"It's your fault for making me take his pulse," the girl argued. Her fingers had blood on them. She didn't seem fazed.

"I didn't make you do anything."

"Well, you didn't take his pulse."

"I didn't have to," Sherlock pointed out. "I slit his throat, if you haven't noticed."

"I know you slit his throat; I watched you do it."

"No, I didn't see you here."

She smiled sweetly. "I'm good at hiding."