The Surrogate Sister (a Sherlock fanfiction)

Chapter 1: Prologue

As the sun sets on a typical October evening, people begin to pack up and file out of Scotland Yard to go home. It’s been another long day, with everyone running around, working on another unsolved murder case. Lestrade decides to stay a while longer, frustrated that he can’t figure anything out, but too stubborn to call Sherlock in for help.

A girl walks into the station. She’s wearing a plain, black sweatshirt and black skinny jeans that are ripped, but clearly not as a fashion statement. Her hood is up in an attempt to hide her long, dark brown hair, which seems to not have been washed or brushed for days. Her beat up, old, black Converse squeak as she scurries across the tile floor. She wears a soft, polite smile as she approaches the woman at the front desk, but a state of urgency is shown in her eyes. With her hands in her sweatshirt pocket, she asks the woman if she may speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“I’m sorry, dearie, but he’s not available.”

But she needs to talk to him. It’s important.

“Well, I’m sorry, but he wishes to not be bothered at this time. If you’d like, you can sit in one of those chairs over there and wait.”

The smile wipes from the girl’s face as she places her hands pointedly on the desk, leaning in close. Not once losing eye contact, she speaks to the woman in a very serious tone, her voice near a whisper. Color drains from the woman’s face as she slowly begins to sit up straight. She hesitantly points in the direction of Lestrade’s office. The girl puts her hands back into her pocket and smiles her sweet smile. She thanks the woman as she walks away.

Lestrade is sitting at his desk, staring at the paperwork and files that are laid out in front of him. He breathes out a frustrated sigh when there’s a knock at his office door.

“What?”

The office door opens and shuts, but no words are spoken. Lestrade doesn’t bother to look up.

“Yes?”

“I need your help.”

“I’m sorry,” his eyes still on his desk. “I can’t help you right now.”

The girl walks over to him. She takes out a ripped piece of paper with scribbles on it from her pocket and places it on his desk. “I need you to take me here, please.” American. Lestrade notices her strong American accent, possibly from the west coast. This is simply not the time or place for a tourist to get directions.

“Sorry, not my division.”

“Please.”

Lestrade looks up to find the girl’s pleading eyes locked on his. He sighs and grabs the piece of paper on the desk. He reads the address scribbled onto it.

221b Baker Street

Lestrade looks back up at the girl, confused.

“Sherlock?”