Chapter Text
Four thousand pounds have gone missing in total over the last three months. There doesn’t appear to be much of a pattern to where the money goes missing from: his map shows more of a scatter than a route. Many small amounts have gone missing from the small businesses, and some larger shops with good reputations have sent pleading messages for his involvement. A certain amount of petty theft is part of life, but this appears to be organised. Very well organised, in fact, which implies the existence of a gang.
Gangs are bad news. Sherlock drops the latest note onto his desk with the other half-dozen which have been accumulating for the last six weeks. He’ll just have to go and investigate at the latest crime scene, he supposes, sparing a longing glance for his valise sat by the door where it has been waiting since last night. The tea-shop which the latest message came from is set a street back from Covent Garden, opposite a small theatre. After he’s finished up there, he can get the train to visit his mother and Enola.
Decision made, Sherlock does not waste time. By time his pockets are filled with the necessary tools of his craft, he has drafted a letter in his mind to send to his landlady, and mostly solved the issue of the missing daughter. The tea-shop is empty, which isn’t a problem. Here he can see the signs of a break-in, and there disturbed dust around the base of a cupboard. The thief came this way – no, the thieves, there are three sets of prints. Two are older and one is fresh, laid with care over the previous excursions.
Sherlock narrows his eyes. Prints which lead in one direction mean two things: there is another exit at the back, or the culprit is still on the premises.
There!
He grunts as the criminal lands a dizzying blow to his temple. Clearly the gang had been waiting for him to start investigating, and he has walked into them just as they wanted him to. Their preparation is evident: a boxing man faces him, scarred and bruised in a way which shows victory in many fights. The man kicks out with more power and reach than Sherlock had expected, landing a vicious blow against his left hip. He staggers a bit but manages to land a blow which makes the man reel back, swearing worse than a docker.
“We’ll git tha yet, tha la'al shite,” he snarls, retreating to a safer distance. Blood streams down his shirt. He touches a hand to his nose and sneers at the blood on his fingers. “And tha la’al lass, too.”
Sherlock draws himself together carefully. That's just a stab in the dark, meaning nothing. Lass doesn’t have to mean daughter. Clearly, this man is from the North – Cumberland or Westmorland, maybe. They talk fast, with accents as variable as the land they live off.
“Gettin’ on three year now, ent she?” The man laughs wetly, wiping a clot of blood from his teeth. “Aye. Aye, and tha canna hide ‘er now, eh? Sweet la’al mite, ent she?” There’s a light to the man’s gaze which betrays an intelligence Sherlock doesn’t like the look of.
He goes for ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man sucks his teeth. “Aye, a’ll bet.”
He squints. That probably meant ‘I bet’, but he can’t be sure.
“’Ere,” the man says sharply, throwing a small item. Somehow, the word has two syllables. It clatters at Sherlock’s feet. “A -what’sit - la’al token.”
It’s a locket. One of Mother’s lockets. Almost trembling with rage, he opens it, keeping a cautious eye on the man who is just watching.
A tiny curl of dark hair is pressed into the glass.
“Summat t’ think on,” says the man, eyes narrow, a cruel smile on his bloodied face. “See y’around, Mister ‘olmes.”
Left alone in the empty tea-shop, surrounded by the fripperies of English tea-time, Sherlock rubs the locket between his fingers. Perhaps that is his heart he can h breaking. He opens the locket to stare at the dark curl. It must have been from Enola’s first haircut, one he had misses. Spending time with his daughter is his life’s only joy. Struck by realisations he wishes he could ignore, Sherlock lets himself out onto the street and loses the contents of his stomach into the street drain.
Many hours later, locket around his wrist, Sherlock has mostly stopped trembling. Fear has driven him to necessary measures. The letter he finally finishes is abrupt:
Mother. Been an incident. Will be unable to visit for foreseeable. Do not panic. SH.
For a long time, he stares at the paper. After ten discarded attempts, here it is. Thirteen words, and he has torn out his own heart. His breath sticks in his chest, and a boule would appear to have taken lodgings in his throat.
He folds it, slips it into an envelope, addresses it. The letter MUST be posted immediately, or he will lose his nerve - and what’s left of the contents of his stomach. No! This is the way it must be! She will forget, and she will grow, and she will stop crying for him - she'll stop running for him as soon as he visits, stop clinging to his trousers as she toddles. All of that will end, and she will grow up happy.
Without him, most people are happier.
Sherlock hides his face in his hands so that the sun doesn't see him sob.