The Side of the Angels (a BBC sherlock fanfic)

The Universe is Rarely so Lazy - part #1

"Here we be, love." The waiter sets down a steaming cup of tea and a muffin in front of me. I smile up at him.

"Thank you."

He walks away, and I go back to staring out the window. My pulse is irregular, my fingers twitching against the newspaper laid out before me. Holmes Solves Heinous Hijacking. I try to smile at the silly alliteration, but I'm too nervous. Cars, buses, and people scurry out in the street. The sounds of chatter, engines, horns and sizzling food assault me. It's too loud, too bright, too warm. I smell tea, greasy food, soot. Just above me lives the man who could help me. Fix me-or at least fix what's hurting me.

Uncovering the truth won't bring us back. It's my mother's voice, as real as if she were sitting beside me. I shrug it off. She's dead. I won't be reprimanded by her.

~

"Right this way." The sweet landlady, Mrs. Hudson, leads me up the stairs and down the hall. My heart hammers. She taps her knuckles against the door and pokes her head in. "Boys, you have a client."

A beat passes, and then she turns to me and pushes the door open. "Go on in, dear."

I smile at her and tentatively step inside the shabby room. It's cluttered and small, but quite homey. Grey London light seeps through the open windows, illuminating the dust that floats in the air. It smells of tea and gunpowder and... something foul. There are two desks and seated at one of them is a somewhat short man, with close-cut greying hair and friendly eyes, clacking away at a computer. I deduce that he's the one who writes the blog-John Watson.

Next to the sofa, staring at a wall of papers, photos, and clippings, while simultaneously playing the violin, is him.

He's tall-much taller than John-long limbs, high cheekbones, an oddly beautiful face. A distinct face, one you remember. His hair is dark and curly, and when he turns to me, I'm struck by the pale blue of his eyes.

John stands from his desk, "Please sit down," he smiles amiably, pointing to a chair.

"Would you like some tea?" Mrs. Hudson asks me, laying a hand on my arm. I'm so nervous I simply nod.

"I would too." Sherlock says, laying down his violin and moving across the room like a whirlwind, landing in a chair on the right side of the fireplace.

Mrs. Hudson shakes a finger at him. "I'm not your housekeeper." She complains, disappearing into the kitchen. I unlock my legs and sit down in the chair John had motioned to, waiting as he sits in the armchair opposite to Sherlock. A shriek comes from the kitchen.

"Sherlock! Stop putting fingers in my fridge!"

Fingers? I glance at the infamous detective, but he's already watching me. I shift uncomfortably, swallow hard. "My name is y/n. I'm... I'm here because despite what the police say, I believe that my parents were murdered."

John glances at Sherlock, who's eyes are still locked on me, his fingers steepled in front of him. John looks back at me, and I meet his eyes. He's less intimidating than Sherlock is.
"And how old are you?"

I hesitate, ready to lie. I don't want to be seen as a kid, as someone to simply wave off. I want them to hear what I have to say, to think it's valid. "I'm tw-"

"Seventeen." Sherlock interrupts. "You're seventeen, last November."

I blink hard. "How could you possibly-"

"Are you really so blind to the details on your own person, Miss y/l/n?" He insults, pointing to my keychain. "Customized leather keychain, engraved with 11/93, your birthday, probably a gift, I'm assuming from these supposedly murdered parents of yours-I mean who else would put your birthday on there, rather than your name or I love you? The leather is slightly scuffed, but the key is still bright and unfaded, telling me that you have neither been driving for many years nor did you just start. So when did you get your license-six months ago?"