Orphan on Baker Street

First: Gunshots

While I was dumpster diving behind the convenience store, like I always do, I was lucky enough to find myself a new violin. The old, tattered one I usually use is a faded brown that sometimes gives me splinters. However, this new one is blue and shiny.

"I can't believe someone would throw this out," I say in disbelief, my eyes wide as I examine the beautiful thing. To me, this is a unicorn in a field of... well, trash. Not being able to wait to play this, I toss my old one into the dumpster and pick the trash from my hand-me-down dress. It's a pale green and fits me perfectly.

Walking from the alley, I start thinking of which song I should play on it. Right now, I'm happy, so maybe I'll do the opening to The Phoenix by Fall Out Boy. As I pick a fairly open spot to play my violin, I start to get nervous. What if this violin was thrown out for a reason? If I mess up, I'll never be able to get over the humiliation.

In my head, I firmly tell myself to stop thinking negatively, and raise the violin to my shoulder. Placing my chin on it, I delicately slide the bow over the strings in a quick motion, playing the chords by heart. People pass by, occasionally tossing coins into my violin case, but I don't think that's good enough. Putting more passion into my playing, I hold out the last note and transition into a new song - Silhouettes by Avicii. I pause in just the right spots, and this causes people to slow down to watch. When I go back and forth between the smooth rhythm and slight pauses, I have to try to hold back a smile. People flow in from both directions now, tossing money into my violin case at my feet. The speed picks up by now, and I hit every single note perfectly.

It's starting to get dark, so I get ready to stop. At this point, I can safely estimate I've earned about 20 or 30 pounds. Hopefully, it's just an underestimation. Then, I hear a gunshot, and my violin makes a cringe-worthy noise as the bow strikes it at the wrong angle. Quickly, I shove the violin into its case and clasp it shut.

I run away from a second gunshot noise, throwing my case over my back and letting the strap keep it held safely to my body. A tall and swift man bumps into my shoulder as he runs into me, going the opposite direction. Stumbling to a stop, I toss my hair from my face and watch as a pair of men go running toward the shots. Why? Every part of me yells at me for being so senseless as I run after the two. As they round a corner, I peek from behind it. They continue running a few steps before the tall one stops abruptly. A shorter man beside him stumbles up behind him, putting his hands on his knees.

I overhear them. "He got away," the panting one says. There's a pause as I move back behind the corner, so they won't see me.

"We've been trailing him for too long, come on," the same voice insists, "I've got to get back to the flat. Mary's probably worried sick."

"No," a deeper voice comes in, "I'll catch him... eventually."

"Just leave it to the cops," the first voice says, and I hear footsteps coming toward me. I quickly run back the way I came from and duck into an alleyway. The streets are empty by now, and I watch from the shadows as the shorter man goes by, later followed by the tall one in the trench coat.

After I think they've gone by, I slowly walk out from the alleyway. As I turn the corner to return to the orphanage, I stumble into a person. I start to open my mouth in apologies, but a hand from behind me holds my mouth shut and drags me backwards. Writhing and attempting to scream, I'm shoved farther into the alley roughly.

Scared it's the boys from the orphanage, I suddenly feel white hot anger course through me. I spin around quickly, my hair fanning out behind me. Taken off guard, the tall man I saw in the trench coat earlier towers over me, staring hard at me. He makes a gesture over his shoulder, and the shorter man comes around in the blink of an eye and pins my arms behind my back.

"Why are you following us?" he says, his voice deep and monotone.

"I'm not," I say confidently. "I was on my way home and got jumped by some lunatics," I end with a sneer.

"We're not lunatics," the man from behind me says sternly. "Who are you? Are you working for someone?"

"No," I say loudly, "and why does it matter to you who I am?"

Then the tall man throws a punch straight across my face. There's black.

It feels like it's only been a couple seconds when I wake up. However, I realize I'm in a flat and tied to a chair. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the light from the lamp close beside me. Squinting a little still, I can make out the stony expression of a man with black curly hair. Another man sits beside him, arms crossed, his face worn as if he's been through a lot and his hair a light brown haystack with the occasional silver in it.

The tall one smirks as he sees me open my eyes. "Hello," he says with fake happiness. "Now," he leans forward, elbows on his knees, "why were you following us?"

"I wasn't," I spit at him, giving him a harsh glare. With a quick swing of his arm, the curly haired man slaps my face.

"I'll ask again," he continues calmly. He didn't even have to get out of his chair. "Why were you following us?"

"Who's asking?" I say stubbornly, avoiding their eyes and noticing a bullet hole covered smiley face on the back wall.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says, and I can hear the annoyance in his voice. "And my blogger, John Watson."

I eye the man curiously. "Holmes," I repeat, "I thought it was a little odd that someone - some two - would run in the direction gunshot was heard. So, I followed you."

Sherlock runs his eyes over me, and I can see the gears moving in his head furiously.

"Where are your parents?" John beside him asks, frowning.

I open my mouth to talk, but Sherlock beats me to it. "She's an orphan that plays the violin for extra money. They abuse her there, and she doesn't eat a lot - probably because someone takes her food. And she doesn't like cats," Sherlock remarks curiously, glancing to John, then back to me, "What's wrong with cats?"

My mouth opens again to talk, but again Sherlock gets there before me. "Oh, right: You were attacked by one when you were younger, and it left scars on your ankles."

Then a lady walks through the door. She's short and older than Sherlock and John - much older, actually. "How's the interrogation going?" she asks lightly, untying an apron from around her. Before they can talk, the woman exclaims, "Oh! You look so much like my sister."

Slowly, I smile to her. "Really?" I say, "People always told me I looked just like my mother."

"You speak of your mother in the past tense," she points out sadly. "Do you sleep in the Lighthouse Orphanage?" I nod, and then I glance between Sherlock and John. The lady speaks up again, saying, "What's your name, dear?"

"Mickey," I say, giving her a polite smile.

Her kind face falls slowly like a leaf in autumn. "Mickey?" she repeats, barely audible. I nod slowly to her and frown.

"Ma'am," I say, "are you alright?"

John's standing down, ushering her over to his chair. "Mrs. Hudson, what is it?"

"You've grown," she says fondly, her eyes wet. "You've grown so much, Mickey. Your mother and father would be so, so proud." Mrs. Hudson puts her face in her hands and starts to sob. "I'm sorry," she says, "I'm so sorry, John and Sherlock. I didn't mean to startle you." She goes back to sobbing with John rubbing circles on her back, giving Sherlock a confused look.

Sherlock, however, is not confused. "Mickey's Mrs. Hudson's niece, in case you couldn't catch on, John," he says as he walks into the adjoined kitchen. My face lights up.