My Paper Heart

Danielle Stays

She's alive.

She wants to have dinner.

She's alive. The Woman is alive.

He was wrong. Her body- it hadn't been hers. A very elaborate fake? How? How did she-

She was alive.

The door wasn't locked.

Sherlock paused. What? His key was in the door. He remembered locking it behind him. He always did. Now it's unlocked.

No. Not unlocked. Forced open. The knob in the frame is scratched and damaged. Someone forced it open without caring if it could be locked again.

She's alive. More than that, she returned. She let him and John know that. Perhaps old friends of hers got too close. To Sherlock or to the Woman, hard to say. They came for Sherlock. Her enemies? One of Sherlock's? The odds of Moriarty attacking conjecturally were slim. Then again.

I will burn the heart out of you

He was embarrassingly public about his grief. Moriarty can take advantage of that.

He pressed his fingertips on the door window. It opened. He walked further in, searching for evidence. Moriarty would leave no trace. He was a ghost. A name barely breathed even in death. His men would never dare to leave the door destroyed.

The Woman's then.

Mrs Hudson's door was open. No screaming. The bakery was open. Grocery day. No. Wait. That smell- cleaning fluid. The people behind this left the door damaged, they wouldn't clean up blood and leave the door broken.

A pair of blue rubber gloves with frills. A duster, multiple bottles of cleaning spray, rags, and disinfectant. The carrying case too was distinct. Mrs Hudson didn't own those items. She's out buying groceries.

Danielle.

He turned to the stairs. Scuff marks on the wall. Two distinct and different. The first made by someone going up the stairs, backwards, pushing the wall with their foot. No walking, carried. People carried her up and forced her up these stairs. The second by someone scratching the wall with all their might. The cheap nail polish became chipped, leaving colorful traces in the wall and the stairs. Her favorite loafer had fallen to the floor, abandoned without a care.

He can see it. Danielle, furious and scared. She took defense classes after Moriarty took her. She stood no chance against men like this. Their training included countering hers. She scraped the wall, just once, but just near the bottom of the stairs. They gripped her tighter the rest of the way.

No one was here. No police. Danielle could scream quite well. If people heard screaming, someone would call the police. His neighbors could have become complacent but he doubted that. No. Her captors forced her silence.

Perhaps she screamed for him. Or for John. Both of them? Neither?

He can't focus on that. They went up. Sherlock needed to follow. He quickly grabbed a can of disinfectant, tucking it away in his coat. He nabbed a slip of paper and pen, scribbling a warning for John. He tucked it to the door knocker before closing it. Loudly.

He doesn't need to hide his presence. They watched him walk into the flat.

Sherlock walked up the stairs, calm and steady. The door slowly pushed open. He floated his way into the flat. One man was at the window. Another was heard in the kitchen. Their leader- Neilson, he recalled- stood in the middle, a gun in his hand. Danielle sat in the client chair. The Americans turned it so Sherlock could see her face.