Orphan on Baker Street

Forty Eighth: Sherlock's POV

》Sherlock's POV《

I sit outside in the wide, marble hallway and watch lawyers and convicts pass me by. The bench I sit on with John has a gold plaque that says "In Honor of Bethel Markson", who probably deserves better than a resting spot for strangers. Mrs. Hudson and Mary have gone off to use the bathroom; beside me, John bounces his leg nervously.

"He can't charge her with anything too serious, right? She can't get life in prison... right?" he stutters a bit, and I turn my face to him.

"It's not big enough for life in prison, John, you know that. Just... be still. It'll be fine," I mutter the last words and glance around as the crowd begins to thin out. To my left is the reception desk and front door, as well as the bathrooms; to my right, the hallway extends for what seems like forever, holding more doors to different courtrooms and many benches probably put there in honor of other people.

I spot Rickey sitting beside a woman about an inch or two taller than him with blonde hair pulled up into a neat bun. Her face is worn, tired, anxious, and she rests her cheek on top of Rickey's head. It's safe to say that it's his mother - the victim's wife.

Before I even realize it, I'm standing and halfway to where they sit. Rickey's mother glances up and quickly composes herself, sitting up straight and pulling away from her son. He looks up at me and gives me a polite smile.

"Sherlock," he greets me. "It's nice to see you again." Rickey stands and holds out a hand. I shake it, staring him up and down.

"The same to you." I glance over at his mother, who eyes me suspiciously. "You must be his mother," I smile at her kindly. "I'm Sherlock Holmes." My hand does not extend to her and before she can reply, I turn back to Rickey. "Do you know why your step-father was following Mickey?"

He looks surprised, maybe offended, and I let out an annoyed sigh.

"He wasn't following her," Rickey's mother says, standing and clutching onto her purse tight enough that her knuckles turn white. Do I intimidate her? "He was just on his way home, that's all it was."

"Does he frequent marathons, Mrs. Schmidt? Is he out walking a lot?; because judging by his stature, he's more of a weights guy. He couldn't have been walking that quickly to get home," I say quickly, deducing her as I speak.

"Maybe I was sick," she says defensively. "You don't even know the whole story, so why are you trying to accuse him with no information?"

"I have information, Mrs. Schmidt." I pause. "Your husband was not there by mere coincidence."

"And what makes you so sure of that?" she inquires. My eyes roll around in my head.

"He was moving too fast to have been on his way home, and walking distracts him from drinking. Your husband was walking with determina-"

"Her fiance," Rickey interrupts with a slight frown. "They aren't... they're not married, Sherlock, just engaged." He tucks his hands into his pockets and glances at the floor behind me shyly. I tilt my head slightly.

"Is 'fiance' the word? Is it a word?" I ask suddenly.

"I'm not all that sure," he says, looking back at me. "But I know that it's french and when it ends with an E, it's feminine, which is why it's called 'fiancée' when talking about the girl."

"Do you take French?"

"Yes, sir," he says simply. I smirk.

"No need to call me 'sir'.... I have to go," I glance over at John, who stares back at me warily. "They should be done soon," I say to Rickey. "It was nice seeing the two of you." Mrs. Schmidt opens her mouth to speak again, but I walk off before she has the chance.

I notice Mrs. Hudson and Mary walking back into the courtroom. "Did he call us in?" I ask John. He looks around as if just realizing where he was.

"I dunno," he mumbles, standing up. "I was too busy making sure you didn't make anyone cry."

"Why would I make someone cry?" I snap defensively.

"You-" John stops himself, glancing around. Then he starts again, quieter, "You shot that woman's husband and then had the nerve to talk to her... and you aren't exactly good with being polite; she's in a fragile state, Sherlock."

"It isn't even her husband, they're just engaged," I tell him sourly, "and it's not like he's dead!" John shakes his head, turning around to go back into the courtroom. I follow after him silently.

When everyone's seated and situated, I watch as the jury files back into the room. Mickey has her head bowed, and I wonder if she's praying.

A tall man on the far end of the jury box stands up. He wears a maroon, wool pantsuit, and he's fairly young, recently married.

"Have you decided a verdict?" Judge Marchov asks of him.

"Yes, your honor. We, the jury, find Mickey Ronan guilty as charged," he says confidently. I hear Mrs. Hudson muffle a sob beside me. My eyes cut to the judge, who looks over at Mickey with a neutral expression.

"I hereby find you guilty of shooting Arthur Schmidt and sentence you to 6 weeks of community service and Curfew. Court is adjourned," he says quickly, and the other half of the court is immediately in an uproar. I try not to question anything and stand up with the rest of my party. Mrs. Hudson is crying and hugging Mickey over the small dividing wall. Mary shakes Ramsey's hand, and they kiss each other on the cheek. I move my way into the aisle and exit quickly, smiling to myself. She has curfew! No jail.

A few minutes later, the whole courtroom begins to drain out, some people still shouting that it's "unfair" and "too lenient". She's just a kid, did they really think the judge would send her to jail - even if it's just a detention center in Belmarsh?

Mickey eventually walks out, followed by Mrs. Hudson then Ramsey. I think I saw John's head bobbing along in the crowd that was leaving; he must not want to keep the babysitter waiting too long.

I stand up from the bench that was left for Bethel and smile down at Mickey. She wraps her arms around me in a hug, and I don't have to fake keeping my smile on.

"I'm guilty," she says happily. We laugh. "I have to pick up trash on the highway for two months."

"We must celebrate," I exclaim, looking over to Mrs. Hudson. Her eyes are watery, but she smiles nonetheless. Ramsey chuckles from behind her.

"It was great working with you all! If you need me, just call," he says, handing his card to me. We shake hands, and I nod.

"Thank you." It sounds a little strangled coming out, but I think he knows it's genuine. I stand back and let him say his goodbyes while I look around in the crowd that still stands around in the hallway; has Rickey left?

When I look back at Mickey, I notice that Ramsey is gone. Mrs. Hudson seems a bit uncomfortable.

"How about we go and grab some lunch. Mickey, where would you like to go?" she asks.

"I just want some Wendy's nuggets."