Sophia Holmes and the Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror *Completed*

Prologue

"John?" I call, knocking on his bedroom door.

Inside, I hear a scuffle and a bump as he falls off his bed inside and I hold in a small laugh.

Eventually, I hear him struggle to his feet and his soft footsteps as he makes his way over to the door.

Even in the dim light of the hallway, I can still see the huge black bags under his eyes from where he hasn't slept comfortably for days. He keeps having nightmares about the night we were held as hostages at the swimming pool, and flinches constantly at the slighest noise.

"You might want to put that gun away," I suggest, gesturing to the loaded pistol he holds in one hand.

I can't say I blame his current sensitivity. We've all been a bit on edge over the last few days, but as dad reminds us: if he was going to do anything, he would have done it at the swimming pool.

"Oh, right," John says, rubbing his eyes and frowning. "Yeah, sorry. What time is it?"

"One o'clock, as promised," I say brightly, wide awake.

To be honest, I haven't been to bed; I was in the middle of writing up the last case before coming up here.

"I asked you to wake me up early," John sighs, wiping his hand across his face as he yawns. "And by that, I didn't mean one o' bloody clock!"

"Sorry," I shrug. "You're up now, anyway. There's no point in going back to bed. Have you packed?"

I'm refering to the short holiday John has booked for him and his doctor girlfriend to New Zealand, basically just to get away from the activity here at Baker Street for a few days. It's been a tough few weeks for him, and he's agreed that he needs the rest.

"Yeah," he says, yawning again, "everything's sorted."

"I'll help you take it down now. Sherlock's decided you're leaving early."

"And by early be means -"

"One o'clock, yes," I confirm. "The wait shouldn't be too long once you've picked Sally up and tried getting through customs with a gun."

"Her name's Sarah," John reminds me, going back into his room, "and I'm not taking the gun."

"Yes you are," I contradict, and John sighs in exapseration as I follow him in and pick up his hand luggage.

Once downstairs, I put the small bag by the door, then join dad at the dining table where he's scanning through his emails.

"Is he bringing the gun?" dad asks me, his eyes remaining on the screen.

"Yep, it's in," I reply, sinking into the sofa. "He should be down in a minute. Any news on Moriarty?"

"Nothing," he admits, and closes the laptop as we hear John's footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Are you sure you'll be alright while I'm gone," John asks, hoisting a bag packed for a week onto his back before picking up his hand luggage.

"We survived well enough before you came," I remind him. "Say hello to Sandra for me."

"Sarah!" he says, rolling his eyes. "Alright, I'll see you next week."

Not to anyone's surprise, no formal 'goodbye' is given, but I stand up to watch him hail a cab - just about to return home by the looks of things - and drive off to New Zealand.

Now we have a week to ourselves, where do we begin?