Lovely story. Well done.

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Rating:
Not Rated
Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
Gen
Fandom:
Sherlock (TV)
Characters:
Sherlock HolmesGreg LestradeAnderson (Sherlock)Sally DonovanJohn Watson
Additional Tags:
Hurt/ComfortMysteryHurt SherlockStory: The Adventure of the Yellow Face
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:2013-11-25Words:4235Chapters:1/1Comments:12Kudos:191Bookmarks:38Hits:2556
Icy Conditions
Dayja

Summary:

A cabbie picks up an unusual passenger one freezing night. He has no coat, a big bruise on his forehead, and seems a bit confused before he rushes off into the darkness. What is a cabbie to do but follow?
Notes:

Warnings: implied police brutality, child endangerment, implied homophobia

Disclaimer: I do not own/make no money from/am not associated with the tv show Sherlock. Nor am I associated with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s story ‘The Adventure of the Yellow Face’.
Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Icy Conditions

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I take you to hospital, Mr. Anderson?” the cab driver asked as he made his way carefully down dark and icy streets. “You look like you could use a doctor.” The dark haired man in the back seat was slumped against the window, pale as a wraith and shivering fitfully. A nasty bruise was forming on the man’s temple and he wasn’t remotely dressed for the weather, wearing nothing more than a thin purple shirt, and dark pants. There was no coat in sight, and if it hadn’t been for the wallet the man had insistently waved at him, showing his ability to pay, the cabbie probably would have mistaken his poor clothing and odd manner as proof that he was some penniless drifter trying to beg a free ride and he never would have stopped. As it was, the cabbie had assumed the man to be drunk and felt just enough conscience over leaving a man in such a state out in the cold that he had pulled over. The hope for an over indulgent tip from the over indulged didn’t hurt either.

The man wasn’t acting quite right though, and it was making the driver nervous. There was the bruise for one thing, and the way he was shivering, even after the driver had lent him a blanket. Not to mention the way the man had tossed his entire wallet at him when he got in. People don’t do that, not even trusting drunks. A handful of too much cash, sure, but their entire wallet?

“No Johns,” the man mumbled back at him, head slumped uncomfortably against the window, “Can’t bother John. Has pneumonia. People die of pneumonia, you know.” He pulled the white blanket closer around himself, shivering hard.

“Right, sir,” the cabbie answered carefully, “No johns.” The man was a prostitute then. That would explain his ridiculous clothes. Probably the bruise as well. His pimp probably told him to stay out of hospital. That didn’t mean that the man shouldn’t go though. He was acting strange, and the cabbie’s conscience was twinging. Perhaps it would be a good idea to drop him off somewhere he could get help, no matter what the man said. Mr. Anderson was obviously confused. Plus, it would save him a rather long drive all the way into London.

Decision made, the cab driver turned right.

The man in the backseat jerked up instantly, his eyes wide.

“Kidnapper!” he exclaimed, “Where are you taking me!” His eyes crossed a bit, as he looked out the window, and then he said, “Oh. I said the park, not St. George! The park, Mr. Hope, the park! The…that one…with the…the…swans. No, no swans, s’too cold. The park with the cold!”

“My name’s Booker,” the cabbie answered carefully, “And you told me you were going to 221b Baker Street.”

“No, the park! That’s where she is! We have to…we have to find her, it’s all icy, and she’s little, and we need to tell Lestrade. But not John. Give me your phone.”

“Of course, sir,” the cabbie agreed, all the while making his slow winding way towards the hospice.

“No!” the man in the backseat howled, nostrils flailing as he gave the cabdriver a quite frankly terrifying look of fury through his mirror, and he hissed out through clenched teeth, “She. Will. Die.”

“And who is that, sir?” the cabbie asked carefully, stepping down slightly harder on the accelerator despite the icy conditions. He wanted this man gone.

“Lucy Munro! She likes swans and her grandmother hates her but she loves her father, so of course she’s in the park! And she will freeze because she’s four, and you are letting her!”

The cabbie hit the brakes and his car reluctantly came to a jolting stop. Before the cabbie could demand more information about the lost girl or decide if there really was a little girl in danger or if his passenger was just mad, said mad passenger had shouted, “Thank you!” and thrown open his door. He leaped out of his seat, stumbled on shaky legs, and then strode off with the cabbies blanket still billowing about his shoulders like a strange white cape, or perhaps a pair of wings.

“Oy!” the cabbie shouted after him, “That’s my blanket!” And then, remembering all the man had said he shouted, “We should call the police! They can find the girl!”

“Call Lestrade,” the man shouted back over his shoulder, “Call…call the number in the wallet!” And then the man had disappeared into the darkness of a side alley in the general direction of the park that was some five long streets away in the freezing cold.

“Mr. Anderson!” the cabbie called after him, but this time there was no reply. The street around him was silent and empty, and the still open door was letting in an icy wind. With a few unsavory words, the cabbie had to hop out of his own warm seat to close it. Then he got back in and considered what to do.

In the end, he called the number on Mr. Anderson’s ID.

The voice that answered with a curt ‘yes’ at the other end did not sound like the raving man the cabbie had picked up. The cabbie was taking a closer look at the ID and began to suspect that his passenger had more reasons to not look exactly like his photo besides having shaved and the general way id photos always look grimmer and shabbier than the person who owns them. He had no idea what was going on now, unless the prostitute had stolen his pimp’s wallet and run off, in which case calling him could be the worst thing he could be doing. But where did a four year old baby girl lost out in the cold come into it?

“Mr. Anderson?” the cabbie asked cautiously, deciding he had to say something, “I think I may have your wallet.”

“What?” said the man at the other man, and then, along with some loud cursing, “The Freak stole my wallet! Again! That’s it, I don’t care what Lestrade has to say about it, I am pressing charges this time. The Freak should be locked up! Should’ve shoved him harder! Saying that about your dad, and now…”

“Look, sir,” the cabbie attempted to intrude, not entirely sure the man at the other end even had the phone to his ear anymore; there was a lot of unpleasant background noise crackling over the sound of cursing, “I believe a young man may be in some danger, as well as a baby girl. Now I know you may have some hard feelings towards your…er…young man, but I was told to contact someone called Lestrade?”

“Of course you were,” the man at the other end barked. The cabbie was already regretting this call. He should have just dialed 999, dropped off the apparently stolen wallet, minus cab fare and the cost of his blanket of course, and been done with it all. Then the raving young man, his pimp, and the possible little girl would be someone else’s problem.

“Listen,” the cabbie said, “I think I should be contacting the police…”

“I am the police!” the man at the other end screamed, sounding even more raving than his passenger. Just what sort of operation had the cabbie stumbled upon? Before the cabbie could demand more information or just hang up, a new voice was suddenly on the other end.

“Sherlock?” the voice said, sounding a bit more worried and rather less mad than the first voice.

“Sorry, what?” the cabbie asked, not sure if ‘sherlock’ was a name, or more nonsense syllables or if he had just misheard. There was a long pause on the other end, then the voice came back, sounding authoritative but calm.

“Sorry,” it said, “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Can you please tell me who you are, how you came by this number, and if you happened to have seen tall skinny man with dark hair and no coat?”

The cabbie was still uncertain about all of this; anyone could call themselves a detective inspector after all. Still, the mad man had said to call Lestrade.

“I’m a cab driver,” the cabbie said at last, reluctant to give a possible master criminal his name, “I picked up a young man of that description and he wanted me to take him into London. He seemed to have been knocked in the head a bit, though, sounded a bit funny so I decided to take him to hospital instead. Only he started demanding he be taken to the park instead; said a little girl was lost in the park, something about liking swans and her granny hating her. Then he jumped out and ran off before I could stop him. He left this wallet and told me to call Lestrade. Are you really a detective inspector? I really should be dialing 999.”

“Oh Christ. Right. Ok. Can you…ok, yes, I am a D.I. from Scotland Yard, and I need…well, if you could go to the park yourself I’ll have someone meet you. Call 999 if it makes you feel better.”

The cabbie still hesitated, not knowing what was going on or who to believe. At least this Lestrade didn’t sound raving mad like the first man he spoke to. What he really wanted to do was just leave and forget this whole crazy night but…

“Is there really a little girl missing?”

“There really is a little girl missing. Her name is Lucy Munro and she’s four years old.” Lestrade sounded very tired and old in that moment, and the cabbie found his doubts melting away.

“Then I’ll be waiting at the park.”

He drove slowly and

This was a wonderful story. You brought in all the different personalities in a great way with the innovative approach of the cabbie's perspective. Very well done.

This was very tense! Loved reading this!

That was...scarily awesome.

What a terrific, well-written story! You have an excellent writing style-clear with good character voices and thoughtful plotting. I found your work through your Cabin Pressure fic and am so glad it led to finding this story too. Looking forward to reading more of your work!

Great story! I loved rereading it.

Aww... that is precious

Wow that was great. I like the mystery and even in a short story, you were able to convey so many character's personalities. Great job.

Great story and great outside pov. Loved it! ! !

I liked this a lot! It was dramatic, there was plenty of conflict to keep the story moving. I thought the outside perspective was really interesting. It lent Sherlock an ethereal, almost mythical quality (not like he doesn't have that already!). A strange young man, injured, cold, dazed, who should be grateful that he's being taken to the hospital, instead is intent on saving a little girl. And does so, wrapped in white robes (blankets). Later, the cabbie received the thank you note with information he desperately wants but that the young man couldn't have possibly known. To the little girl, Sherlock is an angel. But even though the cabbie won't label him as such, the way you presented Sherlock suggested it all along. The bump on his head from a fall from a great height, his white blanket, his strange prescience, his benevolence... From an outside perspective, one could easily say that this young man was an angel. Maybe the fact that the cabbie knew where to white blanket came from disqualified the notion for him at least. It was really interesting.
It reminds me of the movie 'O Brother, Where Art Thou?' I just saw it and I thought it was amazing. Anyway, throughout, these seemingly mystical events kept happening to these three characters, and one was able to see the logical explanation, but the other two saw God at work. Your story kind of reminded me of that:) I really enjoyed it, thanks for posting. Write on!

This is beautiful. Thank you. :)

D'aaawww

I really liked this

Take my favorite! I liked this story a lot!