Orphan on Baker Street

Forty First: Samuel

"You can't go around shooting people, Sherlock." It's Lestrade. He, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and I all sit in Sherlock's flat. "You're lucky I got here before anyone else. How am I going to save your ass?"

"Oh, are you going to risk your job again? Do you really think that's a good move?" Sherlock asks, standing up. His curls bounce slightly as he does so, and I shift my weight a bit. I stand behind the armchair opposite of Sherlock's; Mrs. Hudson sits in it. She clings to a cup of tea, but I doubt it's doing much to calm her nerves like the mint scented liquid usually does.

"Boys, please," she whimpers. The two turn to her quickly. "I just found out that a hitman is after me. And you knew, Mickey." Mrs. Hudson turns around to look at me; her face shows hurt. "You knew, and you didn't tell me."

"I didn't want you to worry," I say. "I didn't want anyone to worry. You aren't even the only person he's targeting; you're just the first..."

My thoughts fade out as I see Sherlock staring hard at me. He's clearly thinking, but I have a feeling that it isn't pleasant.

"What am I going to tell them when they get here?" Lestrade mumbles.

"Tell them a pig came down and shot him for all I care," Sherlock snaps at him. "Tell them Mickey did it; tell them I did it. Did you ever think to tell the truth? Or do you just go around thinking you can cover everything up?"

Lestrade frowns. "What do you me-"

"You aren't going to that AA group, are you?" The consulting detective stands up straighter in front of the man, who looks slightly offended.

"Of course I am," he says defensively. "Where else would I be going?"

"Sherlock," I interrupt. "Now is not the time." He glances at me over his shoulder before pulling off his coat and hanging it up.

"Sit," he says forcefully. "Everyone sit. You're making me nervous."

I sit down in Sherlock's armchair, and Lestrade pulls the desk chair out and sits. There is a very long silence as Sherlock paces about the room, occasionally muttering incoherent things to himself or stopping and glancing around. This goes on for about 5 minutes before I hear sirens wail outside.

"Ambulance," Lestrade mutters. Then he looks up at Sherlock, and so do I. Mrs. Hudson lets out a small sigh.

I hear a commotion outside and close my eyes. This is my problem; I should be solving it, or at least helping. Where is it Sherlock always goes? His Mind Palace... that's where I'll go.

In my head, I imagine myself in a large white room. I assume this is how it starts - a blank canvas - as it's the easiest place to start. My head turns to the right, and in my peripheral is a small filing cabinet. I go to slide open the top drawer. Looking in, I see a scene where I'm standing beside Moriarty in front of the empty graves. The man with the broad shoulders is in the car; Moriarty eventually gets a phone call.

My eyes snap open angrily. "None of this is important," I say aloud. Everyone turns to me with a confused look.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asks curiously.

"None of it," I repeat with a sigh, staring down at the floor. "We should scrap everything we think we know about Moriarty; we need to get Sherlock out of this mess; and we need to get... Moriarty's targets out of this mess." I glance over at Mrs. Hudson, whose eyes are puffy and pink.

"But how?" Lestrade asks.

"Where's the gun?" I ignore him, standing up.

"What are you planning on doing, Mickey?" Sherlock asks loudly. There's a knock on the door downstairs, and I walk over to Sherlock's coat. "What are you doing?" he asks again in the same tone.

I pull his gun from the outside pocket and empty the bullets into my hand. There are only 3, and I put them back in the coat pocket. Then I turn around and look to Sherlock, whose eyes are wide with confusion and a bit of anger.

"Don't let not knowing scare you," I say softly. "You'll know soon enough."

Then I disappear out the door and down the stairs. There are more heavy knocks and a few voices as I approach the door. I pause and think of all of what's wrong with the world - and my life - and let myself fully cry. I jerk the door open, the gun hanging limp in my other hand.

Tears cloud my vision, but I manage to see that the two men standing at the door are paramedics.

"Oh my God," the one on the left says. I glance down at the gun as I cry and put a hand to my face, shaking my head.

One of the men takes me around the shoulders, ushering me out onto the street. I hear someone click a walky-talky and speak into it, saying they have a suspect. A blanket is tossed over my shoulders before someone says, "Take him to the hospital. I'll stay with her until the police arrive."

The stranger and I sit down on the curb, and I continue crying for a little bit. I'm not sure if it's the blanket or the presence of someone else, or both, but I feel a bit better about everything. Once I've calmed down, the man starts to talk.

"I'm Samuel. What's your name?"

"Mickey," I reply shakily, sniffling.

"It's nice to meet you, Mickey," he says kindly. "Some police are on their way right now. They should be here soon, so I'll be quick." Samuel holds my shoulders and leans into my ear and whispers, "Don't mention Jim. I don't care what you do to avoid his name, but don't say anything about him. We will know if you do." The man kisses my temple.

I start crying again but softly, putting my face in the blanket. Samuel comfortingly rubs circles in my back, and the gun starts to feel very heavy in my lap. There are sirens again, and I look up. Then I smooth my hair down, trying to straighten myself out. I look behind me at the 221B door; nothing happens. Looking back at the police cars, I see someone in a uniform come up to me.

"Is that a gun in your lap, young lady?" he asks firmly. He has a buzzcut and dark brown skin. I nod at him. Over his shoulder, he calls for an evidence bag. Someone quickly walks over with a bag, pulling on some rubber gloves.

"Donovan," I choke out. She pauses, staring down at me as if trying to remember.

"Oh," her eyes roll. "Right. Michelle, of course it's you." My eyebrows pull themselves together as she snatches the gun from my lap. I glance over and realize Samuel is gone. Then the officer holds out a hand for me, and I take it and stand up.

"We need to take you down to the station to talk about what happened. But, um, how old are you?"

"I'm 17," I respond, still looking around for Samuel. Was that even his real name? Do They use fake names?

"Alright, I think we'll need an adult present. Do you live nearby?"

I nod before pointing behind myself. "I live in 221B," I tell him. He puts a hand on my back and guides me to the door before knocking. We wait for a little while before there are feet on the steps. Sherlock opens the door.

He glances at the officer then down at me; I can only imagine how terrible I look. There's a moment where I think I see something in his face - maybe hurt, regret, I'm not sure. However, Sherlock quickly returns to his normal and neutral expression before glancing over at the officer, who starts talking.

"Are you Mickey's father?" he asks.

Sherlock hesitates. "No, but her aunt... her legal guardian, that is, is upstairs. Why? Are you taking Mickey in for questioning?"

I frown, holding the blanket up to my face. They forgot to take this back - again.

"Yes, but she's underage, so we'll need an adult present," the officer says professionally.

"Her aunt isn't in the best state to do this now... what about tomorrow?" Sherlock asks kindly. He knows that's not a thing; why is he asking?

"No, I'm sorry, sir. We'll have to do this now. Memory can get distorted over time, so it would be best-"

"Don't tell me what would be best," Sherlock interrupts. Then he sighs. "Would I be able to go with her? I only live here; I'm not anything to her."

"Well, um," the officer glances at me then back at Sherlock, "I'm sure they'll let it slide. Come with me." Then he turns and walks back to the cars, whose lights still flash brightly.