Unlocked - A Sherlock Story

Carrying A Dearth Of Desire

Season One - Episode Two/Filler Placement

She brought her knees up to her chest and curled up on the tarmac. After being rejected a home by her own father and not wanting to cause Mycroft trouble, she made the inevitable decision to bear the cold of the London air. Emilia wrapped her scarf around her head in an attempt to tame her hair. Taking in the peace and tranquility of Baker Street, she breathed out a sigh of serenity. However, that organised was soon disturbed by the ringing of Emilia's phone. She withdrew it from her coat pocket and used her second hand to shield it from the gushing rain. After pressing the green answer button, she bought it up to her ear.

"Mycroft?"

"Emilia, I'm glad you answered. I called you four times." His voice was dreary and flat.

"Sorry," She apologised, "I was distracted. Is that problem solved now?"

"It is. Apparently, it was an inside job. Jones' Secretary had hacked into the Governments System."

"Mycroft, you ARE the government!" She giggled as her only response was a partially agreeing hum. The conversation flowed as Emilia detailed what happened after he'd left. Explaining how Sherlock refused to give her a home and how John argued with him all night about it (she may or may not have 'overheard' the chat), she blinked back the tears that stung her eyes against the cold morning air. Mycroft stayed soundless until Emilia finished speaking to offer a proposal.

"I highly doubt this would help much, but a friend of Sherlock's needs organised to analyse a body. Sherlock refused; too uninteresting for his liking, so I'd appreciate it if you came along with me to help." Preferable, Emilia wanted to stay sat in the comfort of her home - the steps of 221B Baker Street - rather than helping. The last person who declined a request from Mycroft Holmes had slightly more than just held bollocking, then was never seen in the country again; everyone assumed Emilia's uncle scared him off. Acknowledging this, she didn't decline the request, much to her dismay. Family or not, Mycroft was a scary man, with a notoriety for his harsh and cold temperament; and Emilia was smart enough to keep this in consideration. She agreed to meet him at the morgue at St. Bartholomew's Hospital; where this friend worked - not that Emilia believed Sherlock could ever make a friend. However, she dismissed the matter and made her way over.

The receptionist (who's nametag said Georgia/John) pointed her in the direction of the Morgue and she began to head down the corridor. She felt she's treated her weirdly; Mycroft must have spoken to her. She spoke with a strong Irish accent, yet tried to sound posh. Her tone was soft and almost sickly sweet, unlike how she spoke to whoever was before her. Emilia couldn't quite see all of her face, as a lot was covered by a short mop of murky brown hair, and her dark rimmed glasses were fogged over from the heat arising in the hospital. She picked up on the tear stains on her cheek, and the bracelet on her wrist she kept touching. It was made of small black circular beads that reflected the light from the ceiling and the sun rays that shone through the main door; in the centre was a larger, silver Shamballa bead, to contrast. Emilia assumed this bracelet was close to her heart, as over and over she touched her wrist where it was, as well as fiddling with the beads.

Continuing down the clinical corridor, passing the wards full of the sick and dying, she looked for any signs of colour other than white or grey. Not that they could be counted as colours in her opinion, anyway. The hospital corridor was stuffy and the air has an undertone of bleach. The walls remained white and were scraped in places from the hundreds of trolleys that have bumped into them. The pictures on the walls were cheap benign prints of uplifting scenes and above the double doors were large blue plastic signs with the areas of the hospital that lie ahead. Remembering what the Irish lady at the desk had told her, she noted for the sign to the Morgue, knowing she had to go scalpels another ward to reach it. On the private ward, the atmosphere was completely different. The air had a perfumed scent and the seats were plush. Every surface was dustless. The nurses were unhurried and they moved with a serene purposefulness from room to room on their rounds. There were vases of flowers and beautiful framed pieces of art on the walls. In the corridor was a water dispenser and in most rooms could be heard the noise of a television.