Chapter Text
Not ten minutes after I had first talked to Sherlock that morning, a rather tense situation erupted at the clinic when a deranged young man burst through the outer doors and ordered everyone on the floor at gunpoint. Those of us who had been in our offices, alerted by the sudden noise, stupidly opened our doors to see what was causing the commotion and were also ordered to our knees. I managed to get over to Mary before dropping to the floor beside her.
"I need OxyContin!" the man yelled, waving the Glock 19 handgun.
"Mate," one of the other doctors said, actually very calmly, "this is a clinic, not a chemist. We don't have any drugs here. We prescribe them, not sell them."
"Oh, I know what you have here. Now, somebody get me some before anyone gets hurt." His voice increased in decibels with each word.
Of course, it was just then that my mobile in my lab coat pocket rang and rang…and rang."
"Shut it off!" the man screamed, waving the gun in my direction.
I reached into my pocket and ended the call. There was no doubt in my mind that Sherlock had been on the other end. That was confirmed when moments later it buzzed, alerting me to a text.
"Give it here!" the man with the gun ordered. I reluctantly handed the phone to him whereupon he set it on one of the counters and smashed it with the butt of the gun.
Mary laid a hand on my arm. I don't know if she was afraid I might try to take him down. The thought had occurred to me, but there were twelve innocent lives in the room, counting the staff and patients and I didn't want to risk anyone getting harmed. He didn't seem in the frame of mind that reasoning would do any good, but maybe we could just stall him until help arrived or there was a clear opportunity to jump him.
Meanwhile back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was alternating between watching his newly acquired ward talk to her imaginary playmates on the couch and studying the note for whatever information it would yield. He had been gone for the past two years, dismantling Moriarty's network. So if the man who had left Chelsea was a former client, the case would have to have preceded that period. But he could not recall anyone whose name began with an R who also had a little girl. Although, maybe it was from a case before she was born.
Chelsea had been ignoring him for some time, but she suddenly spoke up. "Id the little hand on the ten yet?"
"What?" he asked, not sure whether she was addressing the question to him or one of her invisible friends.
She turned and put her hands on her hips. "When the big hand id on the twelve and the little hand id on the ten, Dad and I go to the park."
"Interesting," said Sherlock. "Do you know the name of the park? That might help me determine where you live."
Chelsea shrugged.
"I believe there is a park near here, within walking distance even. Would you like me to take you there?"
"Can we go now?"
"Of course," said Sherlock, "after I tidy up your hair a bit. Just let me get a brush and see if I can smooth some of those tangles." He hastily retrieved a brush and comb from his bedroom and called her over to the desk.
"Don't hurt," she said.
"I will try to be careful, but some of these look like you got your head caught in a mixer." He turned her to face away from him and started on the back first. It took several minutes and a few yelps from Chelsea before he accomplished the task. "Here, turn around now and let me look. That'll do. Put on your jacket. It's sunny today but still cool."
Chelsea got her hooded jacket from on the couch where she had shed it earlier. She looked up at Sherlock. "Your coat?"
"Mine is downstairs. Do we have to take Brownie with us?"
Chelsea gave him a shocked look. "Of courde! It wouldn't be proper to leave him here all alone."
"Of course. We must be proper. How about the rest of your menagerie?" He indicated the couch.
"They're all gone," she said.
"Here, then, off you go." He pushed her through the door ahead of him, careful not to step on the rope. "Be careful on the stairs. Hold on to the railing."
They stopped at the bottom of the stairs long enough for Sherlock to grab his coat and then were out the door and onto the sidewalk. "This way, I think," Sherlock said, heading off to the north.
"Don't you go to the park every day?" asked Chelsea who was trying unsuccessfully to match his long strides and quickly fell behind.
"No. Too much…nature." Sherlock stopped and turned around. "Wait. Why are you back there?"
Chelsea had stopped with her hands on her hips. "You're pode to hold my hand."
"I'm supposed to hold your hand? Why?" Sherlock walked back to her.
"It the law," explained Chelsea.
"It's not the law."
"I'm pretty chur it id. I might run into the treet and get runned over," said Chelsea, hands still on her hips.
"Why would you run into the street?"
"I wouldn't."
"Then there is no reason why I need to hold your hand."
"I might get lodt."
"Lost," repeated Sherlock. "Not if you keep up and stay beside me."
"Jut hold my hand," Chelsea demanded, taking hold of one of his.
Chelsea skipped beside him as they made their way up the busy street. When Sherlock glanced down at her she was looking up at him and grinning. "Why are you smiling?" he asked.
"You know," she answered.
"No, I don't know. Hey, hold up. We have to stop here and wait for the light."
While they waited, Chelsea looked up at the street sign and began to say the letters. "B…a…k…e…r Baker!"
"That's very good, said Sherlock.
She motioned for him to bend down so she could whisper and not be heard by the others who were standing on the corner. "I like to hold your hand becaude when I touch you, I can hear you thinking."
"No, you can't," Sherlock said, straightening up.
"Really." She put a finger to her forehead. "In here."
"You're making that up, Chelsea. You're pretending, like with your invisible friends."
"I'm not," she insisted, the sheepish grin still on her face.
"But why are you smiling?" he asked again.
"You know," is all she would say in reply.
Sherlock, exasperated with the non-logic of a five-year-old, took out his phone and sent yet another text to me to hurry, but my phone was lying in pieces on the counter and beyond receiving anything.
Sherlock was right about the park being nearby, but even though it was only a ten-minute walk from the flat, he had never been there. It was one of those rare early spring days in London when the sun was shining and the air was crisp, but not cold. There was a wide, paved walking path between the old trees whose branches arched overhead. Since it was late March, the leaves were just coming out and some smaller trees were in bloom. It was a school day, so most of the other people there were those with very young children and some older folks. Regent's University London was nearby so there were also some younger adults walking, while talking on their phones, or sitting on the benches or grass, working on their laptops or tablets.
"Do you go to school, Chelsea?" Sherlock asked.
"No, Dad tell me maybe when I'm older. But I know my A B Cheed and I can count. Do you want to hear me count? One, two, three, four…"
"I believe you," interrupted Sherlock. "No need to demonstrate."
"Can you count, Lock?"
"Of course, I can."
"What the bigget number you can count to?'
"I have no idea. They just keep going. What's the biggest number you can count to?"
"Two hundred and thirty-nine," she answered quickly.
"So, why did you stop there? Why didn't you just continue to 240?"
"Ran out of time. Dad program tarted on the telly so I had to be quiet."
"But the next time you counted, you could have just begun at 239 and continued onward.'
"No. I have to tart at one."
"But you don't have to start at one."
"Yetch, I do, Lock. That the law," she insisted.
And Sherlock sent yet another text to me to hurry, and yet it was another text which I never received. By this time, the gunman had held us hostage almost two hours and the situation was becoming more tense by the minute. Whatever high he had been on when he had entered the clinic had not abated and his speech and actions had become even more erratic. Someone was going to get hurt any moment if something was not done. Fortunately there had been no children in the clinic that morning, but two of the patients were very ill and needed to receive medical attention.
He had locked the door in the early minutes of his arrival and there were no windows in the reception area where we were being held, but I still found it difficult to believe that help had not yet come from outside. Surely someone had come for an appointment and noticed it odd that the door was locked. After smashing my phone to bits, he had confiscated any other mobiles that we had and had turned them off and had thrown them in a waste bin.
And yet as bad as our situation was, my mind kept going to Sherlock and the five-year-old girl who had been left with him. He was even more uncomfortable around children than he was around adults. I could not imagine how he was coping with a strange child. I kept telling myself that Sherlock himself was so childlike in so many ways, that maybe he was getting along just fine. I had a difficult time convincing myself of that, however. I wish I had been able to respond to his call or text before my phone was destroyed. I just hoped that he did not just go off on some whim and leave her alone. I found out later that that did happen, albeit briefly.
"Aren't there any twings in thich park, Lock?" Chelsea still held onto Sherlock's hand as they continued on the walkway that circled the park.
"Twings? Wait." Sherlock closed his eyes as he sought for a translation. "Oh, swings?"
"Yeah, you know. Twings and other tuff to play on. My park id more fun than thich one."
"I suspect there is probably a playground somewhere here. We haven't actually walked very far and it's a rather large park."
"I think we have walked pretty far," said Chelsea.
Just then two teenage boys on bicycles swooped on the pair from behind. One jumped off of his bike and grabbed the rope which trailed behind Chelsea, yanking it out of her hand. He jumped back on his bike and the two of them sped off down the trail.
"Brownie!" screamed Chelsea. She pulled her hand out of Sherlock's and cradled her other hand in it.
Sherlock left her there on the walkway and sprinted after the boys. The teens saw him chasing them and they turned their bicycles off onto a side trail, left it after a few yards and headed into the woods and down a slope. That was a mistake since the uneven ground and trees and roots slowed their progress. Sherlock calculated their intended path and, continuing at a dead run, circled around and intercepted them from the side. He rammed into one bike and rider at full force, knocking it into the other one. The boys scrambled into a fighting position as he grabbed the rope from the one who held it.
"I don't believe this belongs to you," Sherlock said.
One boy lunged at him, but Sherlock blocked the blow and grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm around his back. "I really wouldn't, if I were you," he told the other youth who had started to come at him. The boy stopped. "I know you must think it's very manly to steal things from little girls, but it's really not. And why aren't the two of you in school? Oh, don't tell me, you've already learned all you need to know." He released the boy he held and shoved him into the other one.
You think you're so tough," said the one whose arm Sherlock had held. "Is it manly roughing up a couple of kids? Wait till my old Dad hears about this. He'll come looking for you."
"I'm not that hard to find. And I'd love to stay and chat with you some more, but I have…" Sherlock looked down at the rope in his hands and then looked around him in a panic. "Oh, no."
In the rush of the chase and brief struggle, he had forgotten that he had left Chelsea alone on the walkway. He took off at a run back up the slope and onto the path and back to the main trail. She was standing exactly where he had left her. "Oh, Chelsea," he said, dropping to his knees in front of her and handing Brownie's leash into her cupped hands. His breathing was shallow and labored after the run. "I am so sorry for leaving you here. Anything could have happened to… Chelsea, are you all right?"
The little girl was standing very still and rigid, her eyes screwed shut.
"Chelsea?"
There was no response from her.
"Chelsea, everything's all right now. Brownie's back…and you're safe. Talk to me, Chelsea."
She opened her eyes and looked at the rope coiled and draped over her hands. She clasped it to her chest and exhaled a long sigh. "I'm OK, Lock. I didn't cry. I almote did, but I didn't."
Sherlock was still kneeling in front of her. "It's OK to cry, Chelsea."
"No, it not."
He reached out and gingerly took her one hand that had been holding the rope when it was pulled from her. It was red where the rope had slid through, but the skin was not broken. "But that must have hurt and you must have been frightened when I…when I ran off like a maniac. I should never have left you like that." He sat back on the pavement. "I am rubbish as a nanny."
Chelsea put a hand on his head. "You're not rubbich, Lock. And you had to get Brownie back."
"Maybe we should go on back to the flat, now."
"Oh, we can walk a little longer, can't we? Come on. Get up." She tugged at Sherlock's arm and he leapt up. "Maybe I tould keep Brownie in my pocket," she said, stuffing the rope in the pocket of her jacket, "cho no one can take him again."
"That's probably a good idea." Sherlock took her uninjured hand in his and they started off.
They had not walked but about twenty yards when Chelsea squealed, "Look, Lock! Twings!" She pointed further ahead where just around a curve a playground had come into view.