Contact High → Sherlock Holmes (BBC) [on hold]

{ sixty-six }

A/N
Just letting you know that this chapter has mentions of self-harm, and discussions of suicide. If you are uncomfortable with such things, please skip.

Culverton Smith looked out from his skyscraper. Yes, it was truly his own building. Scraping the grey sky with it's arching steel and  panes of glass. Mr. Smith adjusted his white, insanely expensive suit. For being so costly, it was rather ill-fitting. He reminded himself to have his assistant buy a new manufacturing company tomorrow.

He moved from the balcony and back inside. There was a white table with white lights shining down on it. Mr. Smith rather liked the color white. He looked out the window at the glistening lights of London. It had to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

Behind him, he heard the peculiar sound that he new was his daughter's footsteps. Peculiar it was because the young woman had a cane. Her footsteps weren't like most, it was more of a step-clack-step that set her apart. She leaned on her cane heavily, smiling at her father for a long moment before sitting down in a chair one of the staff pulled out for her.

A tall woman with long black hair approached Mr. Smith. She stood for a moment, gathering her courage to speak to him. His beady eyes found hers through the reflection of the mirror and she noticeably flinched. "Mr. Smith," she said softly, "Wherever you're ready."

Mr. Smith looked behind him for a long moment. The table was full now of all the important people in his life. He sighed, "Now, please."

The tall woman put her hand up to her earpiece, speaking to the people on the other line. "Bring them through," she commanded.

Down the hall, nurses with masks on pulled I.V.'s along with them. Every hair was in place under their immaculate hats. Mr. Smith headed to the top of the table and looked every person there in the eye. All of them but his daughter avoided his gaze.

"It's difficult having such good friends," Mr. Smith said, "Friends are people you want to share with. Friends and family." He pointed to his daughter and gave her a jagged smile. The nurses got further down the hallway, gloved hands clutching the I.V. poles tightly.

"What's the very worst thing you can do to your very best friends?" Mr. Smith asked rhetorically. He moved behind his daughter and put his hands on her shoulders. She chuckled at his question, shaking her head slightly. Mr. Smith looked down at her, "Something on your mind?"

Another man looked up uncomfortably, "Anything you tell us stays in this room. I think I speak for everyone." Everyone nodded like they weren't afraid, though they were. Mr. Smith's daughter, Faith, brushed her curled blonde hair behind her ear.

"Well," she spoke up, "What is the worst thing you could do?"

Mr. Smith leaned over the back of his chair, resting his arms on it. He blinked into the white light of the room. "Tell them your darkest secret," he said, "Because, if you tell them and they decide they'd rather not know... you can't take it back. You can't... unsay it. Once you've opened your heart, you can't close it again."

Everyone glanced at each other worriedly. Mr. Smith threw his head back and let out a sharp laugh, exposing his crooked teeth. "I'm kidding!" he said, pawing at the air as he laughed. Everyone hesitantly laughed with him. Mr. Smith dropped his smile, "Of course you can."

As soon as he said that, he nodded to the door. The line of nurses walked in, I.V.'s in hand. Everyone turned to look and a few of them cringed in surprise. "Everyone, please roll up your right sleeve," Mr. Smith commanded, "Roll up your right sleeves, come on."

At everyone's frightened faces, Mr. Smith waved his hands like he was shooing their worries away. "Oh, it's just a bit of insurance," he reassured them.