Fallen Angel

Through Tears and Fears

"Kayla, are we doing this, or not?" John said, reading through the files with half a mind while he pulled on his jacket. I remained on the chair I had sat down on soon after Sherlock left, checking the time every few minutes or so.

"There's no point in leaving, Sherlock will be back soon," I told John casually.

It only made sense - there was no way he'd leave us both behind if the case weren't something he deemed unimportant. And he hadn't had time to remove the cameras Mycroft's men had surely placed, meaning that if he had taken us with him, he would have been bothered by several recurring attempts to grab his attention from his brother. I didn't quite understand the dislike that the younger brother held for the older, but perhaps it was Sherlock being Sherlock and Mycroft being Mycroft.

"How can you be sure? This case seems rather important to me..." John trailed off as we heard the sound of a motor from outside. He rushed over to the window to see Sherlock and Lestrade exiting the vehicle while I walked in an easy-going manner to the same position.

Sherlock was carrying a pink phone. I couldn't be sure of it from the distance, but it appeared to mirror the phone Sherlock had described - from 'A Study in Pink', as John had so lovingly dubbed the blog entry he had written on the case. But it couldn't have been...

As John stood at the window in brief surprise, I began rushing down the stairs to 221C and arrived as Sherlock and Lestrade did. John, once realising my sudden absence, followed close after, his expression confused and posture uncertain.

"We found the phone that the you used in your first case together," Lestrade explained as Sherlock yelled for Mrs Hudson.

She came bustling over as Sherlock demanded the keys for both the padlock and the door to 221C. "Remember when you looked here, Sherlock? All the way back when you wanted to see about a flat."

Sherlock swooped in, peering intently at the keyhole. His eyebrows furrowed, nodding slightly. "It's been opened recently."

He begins unlocking the padlock, pulling it off as John and I move closer. Lestrade is a passive witness, standing near the stairs on the other side of the hall.

"No, it can't be - that's the only key," Mrs Hudson explained as Sherlock opened the door, pushing it open.

Sherlock walked in as she began discussing the mold in the flat and the fact that it made it undesirable. I watched in small amusement as his wings ignored the door-frame and faded through, leaving behind brief imprints of Aura. I followed behind, tilting my head to peer into the room. Sherlock, perhaps noticing my curiosity, showed me a picture that vaguely resembled an empty 221B, small patches of mold and dust visible in the dull light streaming in from a window. It could only be here.

"Could you perhaps tell us later, Mrs Hudson? We're on a case, at the moment," I called over my shoulder as John walked in behind me.

"Alright, dear," Mrs Hudson said, slightly downtrodden, but hopeful. I assume that she went back into the flat, but hadn't time to check as Lestrade closed the door behind us.

I looked around, examining the flat. It had a slightly damp feel to it, and it had been empty for a while. The wallpaper was peeling in some places, bubbled in others, but in some places remained intact. The floor was covered in a thin sheet of dust that hadn't been disturbed with the exception of a pair of footprints that had been there for several months.

Sherlock strode over to the door to what, I assumed, was the lounge. He opened it, not caring about disruption he was causing to the dust. I heard John sniff behind me, stifling a sneeze, as we walked into the next room.

Sherlock held up his phone, looking around the room with eagle eyes as he compared the details. Each minute aspect of the room was categorised and taken note of as he ensured that the photo was real. I did the same; taking in the translucent curtains covering the tall window, the dusty floor, the mantlepiece - everything worth noticing, and those not.

Our gaze came to rest where John had been staring since the beginning - a pair of shoes, pointed towards the door. Sherlock made to move over to them, but John flung out an arm to stop him as I, alike, grabbed his shirt.

"This guy's a bomber, remember?" John remarked, and Sherlock nodded. He began walking towards the shoes, wings pointed forwards to protect him if anything went wrong. Mine mimicked the action as I moved them to cover John and Lestrade, also.

Sherlock bent down, placing his hands on the floor as he straightened his body so that his feet were on their toes and his chest was only a centimetre above the floor. His head moved closer and closer toward the shoes and we held our breath as he peered inside them. I began walking up to him, my shoes soft on the smooth and dust-coated floor. I closed my eyes as my wings jolted in shock as a reply to the phone ringing. I heard Lestrade swear softly behind me and John flinch at the noise, as Sherlock pulled out the pink phone to see that an unknown caller with a blocked number was requesting to speak to us.

Sherlock answered the phone with only a small amount of hesitance and turned so that we were forming a small circle within the room. The phone on speaker, he held it so that we could all hear the horrible words that emmitted from it.

"H-hello, se- sexy..." a voice sobbed, hesitant and stuttering through tears and fears. John and Lestrade shared a confused and startled look and Sherlock's wings stiffened, on the alert, as mine did the same in worry.

"Who is this?" Sherlock demanded, moving the phone closer to him.

"I've... s-sent you... a l-little puzzle... j-just to say h-hi." The women took a few gasping breaths as she continued to softly cry.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock questioned, his wings beginning to rustle frantically as John grew alarmed. I moved closer to the phone, wanting to cover my ears and sleep through everything but knowing that these lives were worth more than my comfort was.

"I'm n-not cry-ing. I-I'm... typing," the woman insisted before hesitating before she sobbed again, her tears becoming accentuated, "and th-this... stupid b-bitch... is reading it o-out."

"The curtain rises," Sherlock whispered.

The curtain rose, indeed, I thought bitterly. A theatrical masterpiece was about to unveil, and it would resolve any problems in such a way that the audience would be left on their seats, and nobody would forget the result. The curtain rose, and this victim was the scene's star.

"What?" John asked, confused and agitated.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, showing signs of wanting to begin pacing around the room, playing violin while trying to solve the puzzle before it had begun. Lestrade's fingers were twitching, his eyes frantic.

"No, what did you mean?" John left no room for argument.

"I've been expecting this for some time," Sherlock replied simply, and John's face was wiped blank in realisation before the victim was once again turned into a puppet for the madman.

"12 hours to... s-solve my p-puzzle," the woman spoke, attempting to get her breathing under control, but failing.

"O-or I'm... g-going to b-be... so n-naughty," fresh sobs broke out as we realised what would happen if we failed. It was more than one life at stake. It was however many the bomb would touch.

Sherlock pushed past John and Lestrade and I followed, gently moving through the two men.

"Hey! Am I allowed to go with you this time?" John asked, angry and sad and feeling oh-so-useless at the same time.

"Of course," Sherlock tossed back flippantly, before turning to face the shorter man. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

And thus, the great game, the performance of the century, the torture, began.