Chapter Text
Once inside the back of the cab, Chelsea, still cocooned in Sherlock's jacket with only the top of her head visible, had quieted and seemed to be resting comfortably in his lap. They had traveled several blocks when her small voice whispered, "Lock?"
I'm right here," he answered quietly.
"Your jacket mell like you," she said.
Her comment sounded as if she was oblivious to the horrible experience she had just suffered. "Is that good or bad?"
"Good."
Sherlock smiled. "It's late. You need to try to go to sleep. We'll be home in a few minutes."
"My home or your home?"
"My home."
She was asleep before they had ridden much further. When they arrived at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock carried her upstairs and took her into his bedroom. Holding her with one arm, he pulled back the covers on his bed and gently laid her there, still wrapped in his jacket. He pulled the covers back up over her and then went into the living room and sat down in his chair, his palms together and his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
The scars, the blood, her terrible cries of pain played over and over in his mind as he tried to sort through their meaning. He transferred the pictures John had taken to his laptop so he could study them in greater detail, but that awful bloodied M was imprinted on his optic nerves. Who, besides Moriarty, could have done that to an innocent child? After an hour or so, he stretched out on the couch, but not before he had taken some scrapings of the now-dried blood from her back and a pin-prick blood sample from one of her fingers.
Early the next morning Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, examining a slide of her blood under a microscope, when he heard his bedroom door open. Chelsea, still wearing his jacket, except now with her arms in the sleeves, scuttled furtively without a word through the kitchen and climbed into John's chair. She burrowed face-down into the cushion, the collar of the jacket pulled up over her head.
Sherlock stood and rubbed the back of his neck. The couch had not been kind to it. He went over to John's chair and knelt beside it. "Chelsea, are you all right this morning?" he asked in a soft voice. He rested a hand on her back, but she flinched and he withdrew it.
"Does your back still hurt?"
There was a slight movement in the lump beneath his jacket.
"I can't tell whether you are shaking your head yes or no."
"No," came the muffled voice.
"Chelsea, I need to talk to you about last night."
"I'm chorry."
"What? What are you sorry about?"
"I wa bad. Dad told me to be good and I wa bad."
"You weren't bad, Chelsea. Well, maybe a bit bad when you ran off like that. But that was probably our fault. We scared you, didn't we? We were so intent on our investigation that we forgot you are just a little girl. Why don't you sit up here so I can see you?"
"No. You weren't pode to che. Dad said no one can ever che."
"Why? Chelsea, I asked you last night and you didn't answer. Was it your Dad who made those scars on your back? Did he cut you?"
"No, it was the fairy."
"The fairies?"
"When the fairy put me in plache of the baby Mum and Dad brought home from hopital, they cut off my wingch so I would look like the human baby. I can't fly, Lock. They cut off my wingch."
Sherlock tried to digest the story. It sounded like it came straight out of the changeling tales he had researched the day before. "And your Dad told you that?"
"And my Mum. Before she died, che told me all the time that I wanint her real little girl, but that che loved me and would never let the fairy take me back."
"Chelsea, sit up here and look at me." He maneuvered her into a sitting position and she did not resist. "Tell me about the tears. Why are you not supposed to cry."
"Because it hurt and it bleed."
"What happened last night, that happens every time you cry?"
"Yech."
"So you've learned not to cry?'
She nodded. "But sometime, the tear jut come and I can't top them. I feel kind of weapy now, Lock. I'm afraid I'm going to—"
"No," said Sherlock, taking her hands in his. "No. No. Let's think happy thoughts. Oh, I know. Look what I found." He jumped up and went to his coat hanging on the back of the door. He grabbed the rope from his pocket and thrust it in Chelsea's hands. "Brownie's been sleeping in my coat all night."
"Oh, Brownie!" Chelsea gave a squeal of delight, hugging the rope to her chest. "He ran away lat night. I thought he wa gone forever."
"Oh, he'll probably stick around for another year or so," whispered Sherlock to himself. "OK," he said aloud. "Here's what we'll do. We can't go to the park today because it's turned rainy and cold and you don't even have any shoes until John gets here with them. So, why don't we first take a bath and clean you up and then we'll have breakfast. Do you like waffles?"
"With butter and chirp?"
"Of course, with butter and syrup. And then, oh, I don't know, maybe we can bake some biscuits. Your note said you liked biscuits. What are you favorite kind?"
"Oatmeal!"
"Yeah, and now that I've said that, I probably don't have the ingredients on hand to make them. But maybe we can nick whatever we need from Mrs. Hudson's cupboard downstairs. Come on into the lavatory now and I'll draw you a bath."
He was able to get the sports jacket off of her easily, but the hospital gown was plastered to her back by the dried blood. He was afraid that simply pulling it away would reopen the wounds. He had her get into the tub of water then used the flexible shower head to gently spray warm water on her back until the material loosened enough for him to remove the gown. He gently scrubbed the remaining blood from her back. The wounds appeared completely healed with the scars just as he had first seen them in the lab the night before. He had never witnessed anything like it before and could only hope John would have some medical explanation for it.
Sherlock washed her hair since the ends had dried blood in them, as well, and washed the rest of her, while she giggled and splashed him. When he had finished, he helped her out of the tub and dried her, leaving the large towel wrapped around her. "Let's find you another outfit from your sack," he said, leading her into his bedroom.
"Lock, can I wear some of your perfume?"
"Cologne and no, you may not."
"My Dad till has some of my Mum perfume in hich bedroom. Tumtime, he lech me put a little tiny bit behind both my ear cho I can remember what che melled like."
"Oh, all right. Here. Just a little behind your ears." Sherlock dabbed some on his hand and patted the back of her neck.
Chelsea closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Sherlock sorted through the sack that she had with her when he had discovered her sitting on his steps the previous morning. He pulled out some purple tights and a purple top of a lighter shade. There were extra underpants and socks in the sack, too. "Put these on and I will go start the waffles."
"I thought you taid John wa going to bring my chooes," said Chelsea, later that morning, as she helped Sherlock form the rounded balls of batter and drop them onto the baking sheet. The first batch of oatmeal biscuits was already cooling on the counter.
"I've tried texting and calling. No response. I'm sure he'll be here, though. Not so big!" He took the ball she had just made and divided into two. "They have to be uniform size or they'll bake unevenly. Can you remember baking biscuits with your Mum?'
Chelsea screwed up her face. "I think I remember. Did you make bitcuit with your Mum?
"Hmm…once or twice and then she wouldn't let me near the kitchen anymore. I always wanted to add…extra ingredients."
"Like what?"
"Oh, you know. Caterpillars…spiders…the usual things."
Chelsea giggled. "Got any?"
"Any what? Insects or arachnids? No, I think we should just stick to the recipe this time. How is your loose tooth today?"
"I think it almote ready to fall out, but I'm kinda tared."
"Well, as soon as we pop this batch in the oven, you can try one of those sitting over there, and maybe, when you bite into that warm, gooey biscuit, your tooth will get stuck it in and you won't even know it's out.
"No!" She laughed. "I don't want to wallow it."
"Of course not. You have to put it under your pillow."
"Why?"
"So the tooth fairy can come and—" As soon as he said the word "fairy" he wished he could call it back. After the story she had told him earlier, her image of fairies was probably not a good one.
"No!" she cried in horror. "No fairy. They'll take me back."
"No. Calm down." Sherlock's hands were covered in dough, so he couldn't touch her. "The tooth fairy is just a story. She's not real. It's just something parents tell their children. When children lose a tooth they put it under their pillow and when they're asleep, the tooth fairy takes the tooth and leaves money. But it's just a story. It's really the parents who leave the money. So don't worry, the fairies aren't going to take you back. OK?"
"OK." Chelsea's mood was subdued as she shaped two more dough balls, but then she asked, "They really leave money?"
"Mine did."
"But what if my tooth come out here? My Dad won't be here to leave any money under my pillow."
"Well, maybe it won't fall out until your Dad returns."
After the biscuits were done and sampled, it was still only mid-morning but Sherlock had run out of ideas to keep a five-year-old entertained, although she seemed to be quite capable of entertaining herself. She was currently sitting on the floor, building some sort of structure with several books that she had pulled off one of the shelves. He, meanwhile, was feeling the pall of ennui beginning to sink over him.
"Why don't we go out for a while?" he asked.
"You taid we couldn't becaude it raining and I don't have any chooes."
"We could go out and get you some. I'm tired of waiting for John. Oh, but you don't have a coat either."
"I could wear one of yours."
"They're all too big. Maybe we could find something downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's flat."
Twenty minutes later, the two of them were riding in a cab on their way to a shoe store, Chelsea wearing one of Mrs. Hudson's jumpers that hung on her like an over-sized coat. When they reached the store, Sherlock carried her inside and sat her down on the carpeted floor. The saleslady looked askance at the girl with no shoes, but politely refrained from questioning Sherlock as to the reason.
Chelsea was immediately drawn to some blue and pink trainers with LED lights in the heel that would light up with each step. Sherlock allowed the saleslady to try them on her and Chelsea practiced stomping with them and trying to see the flashing lights.
"But they wouldn't be very practical when chasing someone down a dark alley," said Sherlock.
"I don't do that," countered Chelsea, quite seriously.
He, of course, bought them for her. The shoe store was one of several shops in a covered area and when they left it, a Star Wars window display in a toy store across the way caught Chelsea's attention. She dragged Sherlock over to it.
"I like Tar Wart, don't you, Lock?"
He did not reply but she continued. "If I had a lighttaber like that one there, I could be a Jedi warrior."
"If we had two such devices like that one," said Sherlock, "I could teach you to fence. They would be less dangerous than real weapons."
Chelsea looked up at Sherlock. "You could teach me to be a Jedi?"
"Sure," said Sherlock. "Let's see how much they cost."
Sherlock and a very happy Chelsea were riding back to Baker Street in a cab when I finally caught up with them by phone. "Sherlock," I said when he answered, "I'm here at your flat. Is Chelsea all right? Where are you?"
"She's fine, John. We're on our way there now. Just been shopping. Where have you been? I expected you hours ago. And why haven't you been answering your phone?"
"Sherlock, you never listen. I told you my phone was destroyed yesterday. It's taken me all morning to get it replaced. The shop near my house didn't have the model in stock that I wanted and I had to go to two other places, the last one miles away. Anyway, don't stop and eat. I've brought soup and sherbets."
"Soup and sherbets. Good old John! How I've missed you. We're about 5 minutes away."
When he hung up, Chelsea asked, "What id oup and bet?"
"When John lived with me, he always liked soup and sherbets on rainy days like this one. You like soup, don't you?"
"Depend on what kind, but I don't know what bet id."
"You've never had sherbet sweets?" asked Sherlock.
"Nope."
"Then you're in for a treat."
I knew when they were home. It sounded like a herd of elephants bounding up the stairs.
"Look, John!" yelled Chelsea as she burst through the doorway. I have new choes!" She stomped a few times so I could see their lights. "But they're not very practical for chating people down dark alleych," she added.
"Oh, you do that a lot, do you?"
"No, but if I do, Lock id going to teach me to be a Jedi warrior so I can fight them." She grabbed one of the lightsabers that Sherlock was holding—the other one was still in its packaging—and swished it through the air."
I cleared my throat and cocked my head at Sherlock. "I didn't know you were a Jedi Master."
"I have many skills you are probably unaware of, John." He took a deep breath. "I smell beef vegetable soup." He tossed the matching Star Wars toy on the couch and took off his coat. "Young lady, you need to visit the loo and wash your hands so we can eat."
I retreated to the kitchen to finish laying lunch on the table. Sherlock followed. "I brought her clothes and shoes from last night." I told him. "You didn't have to buy her new ones.'
"It made her happy."
"I can see that. She doesn't even act as if anything happened last night." We were keeping our voices down since the bathroom was right off the kitchen.
"I tried to get her to talk about it a little this morning." Sherlock said. "I will relate the tale she told me to you later."
I set the tin of oatmeal biscuits on the table. "And I had one of these. They aren't from a shop. Where did you get them?"
"I made them, of course. Well, we made them. It killed about an hour this morning."
"You? You…made oatmeal biscuits? I didn't know you could do anything more in the kitchen than open a can or…butter a slice of bread. And I'm not even sure about that last one."
Chelsea came out of the bathroom and held up her hands for Sherlock to inspect them. He pulled out a chair for her. "Here, sit here."
"Why don't you stack a couple of big books on there so she can reach the table," I suggested.
"Good idea, John. See? That's why I need you around. You…know things like that."
After we had finished the soup and hard rolls that I had brought, we passed around the tin of oatmeal biscuits. I noticed Chelsea eyeing me slyly as I started to bite into mine. "What?" I asked her.
"Careful," she warned. "There might be a caterpillar in it."
"What!" I dropped the biscuit into my empty soup bowl.
Sherlock laughed out loud. "She's kidding, John. Chelsea," he said in a mock stern voice. "Tell John you're sorry. You almost gave him a heart attack."
"Torry, John. No caterpillar." She ducked her head, but watched as I picked up the biscuit and bit into it. "But you might want to check for piders."
"Oh, good one!" Sherlock high-fived her and they both erupted in giggles.
Disgusted, I dropped the biscuit back into the bowl. "Jesus, Sherlock, she's been here just over twenty-four hours and you're already turning her into a miniature you. She even smells like you. Why does she smell like you?"
"Lock let me wear his perfume."
"Cologne," Sherlock corrected her. "She wanted to wear some. John, I'm just trying to avoid another scene like last night. I will do anything to keep that from happening again. I'll buy her a pony if that will make her happy."
Chelsea's face lit up. "I can have a pony?"
"No, I was exaggerating. Why don't you go into the other room and play. I need to talk to John."
"What about the bets?" She had been eyeing the small sack of sweets throughout the meal.
Sherlock reached into the sack. "Here's one and one for Brownie."
I grabbed the sack. "Why don't you just let her eat them all? Fill her up with sugar. She'll be climbing the walls and that'll keep you from getting bored this afternoon."
"Two's enough," said Sherlock. "Go, now. Off with you." He helped her down from the books he had put on her chair and shooed her into the other room. Sitting back down, he announced, "She can't fly, John"
"What?"
"She can't fly and you want to know why?" And then he told me her tale of how her fairy wings had been cut off and she was left as a changeling in place of the real baby that belonged to her parents. He also related to me what she had said about the link between her tears and the flow of blood that we had witnessed in the alley.
"I think Molly was right last night," I told him. "I believe we're looking at a serious case of child abuse and her father has obviously filled her head with this nonsense. But I don't understand the connection with Moriarty. Where does he fit into this? Is he her father?"
"Moriarty's dead, John. Remember? And were he not, I hardly think he would have dropped off his daughter with me."
"Unless she was booby-trapped which was our objective last night with the tests."
"But she doesn't show any signs of typical child abuse," Sherlock said.
"Oh? Bloody nine-inch scars down her back isn't enough sign for you?"
"You know what I mean. Oh, and I managed to get a sample of what we thought was blood coming from those scars last night. I looked at it this morning under a microscope."
What was it?"
"Blood. Her blood. I took another sample from her finger last night while she was asleep and compared them. You're the doctor, John. Have you ever seen anything like what occurred last night?"
"The only thing I can think of is it's like a stigmata. In the Roman Catholic church, there are reported cases of people who claim to be stigmatics. They possess marks similar to those of Christ at his crucifixion—wounds in the palms or wrists or along the hairline, sometimes on the back. And these wounds have been seen by others to bleed sometimes. But, Sherlock, scientifically, medically, wounds do not suddenly and spontaneously appear on people's bodies for no reason. There is always some specific instrument that can be identified as the cause of the trauma—a knife or bullet, or teeth, or scissors or pins or anything. Those are old scars on her back. There was something that caused those wounds to open again last night."
"She didn't do it to herself—she would have had to be a contortionist. And you need to examine them today. There's no sign that those wounds even reopened last night. But we both saw them. We took pictures. I have the blood-soaked hospital gown and my jacket. There's even some blood on my sheets.
I took out of my pocket the flash drive that Molly had given me when I went back to the lab. "I haven't had time today to look at the scans. Let's go see if we can find anything." We left the remains from lunch on the table and adjourned to the desk and Sherlock's laptop. While I was bringing up the results on the screen, he helped Chelsea put batteries in the lightsabers.
"Chelsea," I heard him ask. "Would you let John look at your back for just a minute?"
She turned and looked at me. "Not pode to." Her green eyes narrowed as she stared at me for a moment. "OK," she said finally.
"Come on over here by the window so we have better light." I turned her around so that her back was towards me and knelt and lifted her t-shirt. Sherlock was right. The scars looked the same as we had seen them in the lab. "Give me your magnifying glass, Sherlock."
He handed me one off the desk. There were no new cuts or puncture wounds visible within the scars on elsewhere on her back. I ran a finger down the length of one of the scars. "Can you feel that?"
She nodded.
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it kinda tickle." She squirmed and giggled and then spun around and grabbed my hand that was not holding the magnifying glass. She tightly clasped it in both of hers and her expression grew serious. "I'm not Moriarty," she said. "I don't even know him." I was not sure if she remembered the name from when we talked about him yesterday in front of her or whether she had overheard our conversation in the kitchen just now.
"Why would you say that? I don't think you're Moriarty."
"Yech, you do. You think I'm…evil."
"No, I don't, Chelsea. I would never think that of you. I think you are a beautiful little girl that has some secrets that Sherlock and I are trying to uncover, but I would never think you are evil. Never."
She pulled my hand against her forehead and held it there. I looked up at Sherlock who was looking on curiously. "Sherlock?"
"Just a moment, John. Let her finish."
"Finish what?"
"Ssshh."
Chelsea held my hand in that position for almost a minute before she released it and patted me gently on the head. "Poor John."
"Poor John?" I stood up and looked at Sherlock. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I warned you not to let her touch you."