Childhood Heroes {Sherlock Fanfiction}

Pondering Thoughts From The Second Voice In Your Head

Lillian's POV

"Poisoned?"

"Yes, poisoned. There was a small puncture directly to the kidney. It wasn't more than three days old. Honestly, how can those investigators not notice the fork was moved intentionally?"

I quickly hid the bullet into my pocket as Sherlock and Dr. Watson entered their flat.

"Where have you gone?" I took a step aside, giving way to them.

"Another ordinary case from Lestrade," Sherlock huffed, stepping into the kitchen and getting the gingernut cookies.

"I bought some snacks, so uh... enjoy." I averted my gaze from them and hurried out.

"What's in your pocket?" Sherlock inquired before I left his sight.

"My phone," I answered, not facing him.

"The other one," Sherlock's voice became deeper and serious.

I slightly tilted my head to where he was and murmured, "There's nothing there."

He didn't speak so I escaped. My quick and heavy footsteps ran down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was out again, at the bakery as usual, so I had privacy in the flat.

I closed the door behind me. Listening first from the sound upstairs, stifled murmurs of Sherlock and Dr. Watson's voices. I left the door and rushed to my bag. I unwrapped the gun, opening its cartridge, comparing its bullets to the one I saw.

They're the same.

Wait, the gun? The same kind, but not the same one I held years ago.

I tightly closed my eyes and bit my lip.

        What I'm thinking is not true, what I hope will never happen, and what I know can not be trusted.

        Jim Moriarty is (not) the one behind all of this.

•Jim Moriarty - has a pretty Irish accent. Super rich. A consultant. Has a gun. Really really really cool and he thinks I'm really really cool too.

        That it what I wrote about him and I added more that night. He was unpredictable like a tornado suddenly appearing in the field of a farmer, ready to take down anything on its way until it gets weak and disappears in thin air. By the way he speaks and moves, there was a lot to say about him but also nothing. How much of what he said and how much of the things I knew are true and reliable?

. . .

That night, sleep never called upon me due to all the thoughts that racked my mind. It was noise in the void, dots jumping and frying around that kept me awake. There was nothing to silent it, only to lessen it.

And in the outside I could do it.

Unlike before, the skies were filled with cotton candy clouds, with small cluster of stars scattered but no moon. Air grew still and humid. It was about to rain but much unfortunate to me.

Jim Moriarty, guns, bullets, safety, worried, our secret, agents...

        I'm missing something. Might be big, small, at the tip of my tongue, right in front of me. There has to be a connection.

        Or am I just creating their own connection?

        Am I too blind to see it? Deaf to hear it was mentioned many times? Dumber and naive to not recognize all the signs?

        Signs... what were the signs?

        The first note I saw the day my parents went missing. What happened to it?