Orphan on Baker Street

Second: Orphan

By now, they've given me food and some water. My foot taps to the sound of a violin in my head as I scarf down a sandwich. After a while of silence, I take a big gulp of my water and begin talking.

"So," I start, "what's the deal with the shooter?"

Sherlock passes me a newspaper. Then he shoves his hands into his pockets, pacing the room a bit as he explains. "There's a sneaky shooter who's been killing seemingly innocent people. However, the first victim was addicted to heroine; the second was addicted to caffeine; and the third was addicted to porn," he bounces delightedly on his toes as he continues with a small smile, "Now, you may think that the shooter's targeting addicts. But, no, that's too easy for him. The killer's going for something else. He's going for a person." When he finishes, I'm on the edge of my seat. There's a silence.

"Well? Is that it?" I exclaim sadly. He nods with an equal amount of sadness.

"John's not letting me go to the station," Sherlock says with a glare in his blogger's direction.

"Do you want me to help?" I ask, tilting my head curiously. He underestimates me. But how - why? He's smart and clever, which leads me to believe he'd know my exact abilities. Yet, he underestimates me.

"No," he says flatly before walking through a hallway and into a room, slamming the door.

Mrs. Hudson drapes her arm over my shoulder comfortingly. "I'll get him to come around eventually, dear," she whispers in my ear, "Don't worry." She sends me a quick wink before going to take my dishes to the sink.

"In the meantime, Mickey," she says over her shoulder, "would you mind living with me in my flat?"

My eyes widen excitedly. "I wouldn't mind at all, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, please," she chuckles, "call me Martha!" I grin at my folded hands in my lap. "We can sort out the papers later," she says, drying off her hands with a yellow towel.

"Thank you, Martha," I say, standing. We hug each other tightly. I never thought I'd ever be so happy in my life. But, I am. "What about my things?" I ask, pulling back from her.

"We can," she glances around the room nervously, and I start to think there's not an end to the sentence. "We can, um, get you some clothes tomorrow, alright?" She grins at me, and I grin back.

I watch her go downstairs to her flat. After waiting still for a moment, I tip toe out of 221b and onto Baker Street. The streetlights illuminate the way to the orphanage for me. However, it looks a little ominous, so I get uneasy as I close in on the worn building.

I sneak in through the back door. When I broke curfew, I would do this all the time. With light feet, I make it up the creaking stairs - without creaking them - and into my old bedroom. It doesn't take me very long to gather up sheet music, my orange plaid baby blanket, and a few articles of clothing in a small over the shoulder bag. To me, it doesn't seem wise to draw attention to the fact that I'm gone, so I try to get as light of a load as possible. Plus, I'm still getting some things tomorrow, so does it really matter?

As I turn to leave the room, I stop. One of the boys leans against the doorway in his boxers, smirking at me.

"You running away?" he asks quietly, his London accent somewhat soothing. Snap out of it, Mickey.

I choose to ignore him and attempt to push past him. The boy's strength overpowers me, and he pushes me over the foot board of my bed. Struggling as I slide myself backwards, he climbs over onto my bed, too.

"You're gonna leave me?" he whispers in my ear, gripping my arm tightly. "What, am I not good enough?" His grip starts to hurt, and I let out a small whimper. He slaps my face. "Shut up, you untalented filth."

Quickly, I jerk my knee up and hit him right between the legs. This time he's the one who lets out a whimper, and I push him off of me. I run out of my room and down the creaking steps, not caring where my foot lands. The cold night air hits me hard as I run full speed around the corner to Baker Street.

As I push roughly on the door to 221b, I hear a taunting voice calling my name. I pound on the door quickly. The door opens, and I don't take my time going in. Behind me, I slam the door shut on the orphan boy's voice. Trembling slightly, I look up to John.

"Where the hell were you?" he asks. I put my finger to my lips, fearing Mrs. Hudson might hear.

"I was... nowhere," I reply finally, regaining my breath and walking over to the flat I'm staying in.

Feet on the stairs catch my attention as I take a seat at the kitchen table. Straining my ears, I listen to John and Mrs. Hudson's conversation.

"Who was that at the door?" I hear Mrs. Hudson's voice.

"Mickey," John mutters.

She sighs, and I sigh too. "We need to keep an eye on that girl," she says.

"We?"

"Yes," Mrs. Hudson responds. "You need to help me. I know Sherlock won't want to... and Mary's too busy with the baby."

"It's my kid too, you know," he says defensively. I tilt my head - baby?

"But you're a good influence, John," she pleads. "She needs a good influence. Her father was a drug addict, her mother was murdered, and that orphanage certainly is nothing good, despite the name. I need you to help me," she concludes sternly. There's silence, and I guess that he's reluctantly agreed.