Before...

Sherlock's shoes crisply padded along the sidewalk of the colder night. He had decided to cut the cab ride short. Wishing to walk the rest of the way to the hospital, aiming to stretch his legs before he would be crowded in a cab with the unconscious girl.

A sharp chill against his temple sent a ripple of instinct through his nervous system. His leg muscles clenched and he whipped out John's stolen Browning, aiming it at the foe who was in a similar position. It was dark, but Sherlock knew a thug when he saw one. The lowest creature of the food web. So easily manipulated, a minion under the perfect blackmail and coaxing.

His balance was even, hand steady as he aimed the danger-end toward his offender. Dull. "I despise your adoration of drama. Could you not have done this before my stroll? You might have had a higher success rate, yet you wait until the sharpest corner. It must have taken a ridiculous amount of planning. I'm thoroughly unimpressed, Moriarty."

The gun never wavered, remaining steadily at against the detectives temple. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock." A voice from inside the alley sang and echoed, bouncing off alley walls. "Long time, no see. How disappointed I am in you. Sherlock Holmes- despising drama?! What an oxymoron!" Cackling continued. "Faking a death sounds quite dramatic to me. So much sentiment. Has your friend seen the artwork along your back yet?"

"What a waste of time. Why antagonize me here? What a dreadfully dull choice of aesthetic." Sherlock glared at the gloomy scenery.

"Ah, ah, ah, Sherloooock." The psychopath chuckled dangerously in the dark. "It's all about the drama. Efficiency is boring. So prepared. So neutral. There nothing raw or deep about it." There was a pause followed by a deep sigh of apathy. "I'm sorry about your pet, Sherlock, but he was being rather fussy. Fiesty pets get muzzled."

A struggle of shuffling feet skittered about the alleyway, and into the light stepped two minions and a compromised John Watson. It couldn't have been comfortable in the slightest. A minion was pulling and combing through his roommate's hair, as if a dog being comforted. He was tied in multiple places, barely allowed any mobility. A disgusting leash was around his neck, likely only for the purpose of looks. It was highly ineffective and scarcely restricting, unlike his bindings. John's eyes were wide in a rare, unguarded fear; disliking his lack of mobility. His mouth was free, but not a word had been uttered.

Sherlock's expression shifted from unamused to intrigued, although likely his concern for his friend was slightly overpowering. "What do you want."

A figure stepped out of the shadows, standing parallel to his only companion. A dark smile was plastered on his face, hinting his insanity. "Well... I used to want you dead. But that would be such a waste now. See, you have a new friend, Sherlock." He pinched John's cheek, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger viciously. A devilish smile crept to his souless eyes. "Not exactly this loyal one, though. Mystery girl, hm? Ring any bells? You see, you've brought a new toy, Sherlock. Keep your pets close. You don't want them put down now, do we? Biting pets are never good ones."

Anticipation crawled at Sherlock's spine, itching to see Moriarty's next actions as he felt the end of the maniac's speech. But they left as soon as they'd snuck up on him. Moriarty strolled off carelessly and a minute later a snap sounded and his hitmen sprung off, shoving tied John toward the shaken up consulting detective.

Sherlock was quick to assess his setting, and once assumed safe, he tore the bindings from John's limp form. Hacking off rope and zip-ties with a picket-knife that he could see. "John!" He lightly tapped at the doctor's cheeks. "Are you alright?" Urgency was clear. The last of his restraints fell loose to the dirty concrete, and Sherlock tossed the metaphorical leash as far away as he could, utterly disgusted and repelled by such a thing.

Coarsely, John groaned lowly in pain, "Ye -uh." He answered, grunting faintly as he stretched his limbs. "Juh... just sore." He fought a cough bubbling in his lungs, but it sputtered out anyway.

That was all Sherlock needed, knees nearly buckling in relief. That could have been much worse. They were so unusually fortunate that it made Sherlock wonder how lucky they were. They might be safe now, but all this did was trade their safety for Ashton's. Sherlock was quick to snap out of his relieved faze and bound up onto his nimble toes.

"Ashton is in danger."

Present...

A look of disbelief crossed Ashton's face upon hearing those two words. Moriarty returned. Her blood had turned icey rain at the thought of the evil mastermind even being alive. She breathed a bit unevenly, "How? How?" Blaring alarms rang within her head.

Sherlock frowned grimly. "We conversed on the way to get you from the hospital." His voice was acidic. Sherlock attempted to conceal his apologetic look, but guilt was evident as it molded over his face. "Motiarty is ready for another round. And unfortunately you're now under our watch and protection." He waved his hand in a dismissing manner.

Ashton was still a bit shocked, "And all you're going to do is wait until he strikes?" Horror filled her chest with a tight grip: she couldn't prevent this.

"That's really all you can do sometimes. Isn't it?" John sighed in sympathy for the younger girl. He stood, ready to ease the tension from talking about the evil mastermind. "Sherlock, how about we grab her things? Show her around? Her room..?" He hinted to the detective.

Sherlock caught the hint swiftly, "Ah, yes. That." He rose sharply, pivoting and strolling deeper into the flat, leaving no time for the teen to pause. Sherlock unlocked the door with a set of keys hiding in his pocket. "Mrs. Hudson is a generous woman. Hm, thin walls. If there's a serial killer around we'll be there in seconds." He affirmed, lazily waved his hands to the clean walls and empty rooms. He turned around to see her reaction.

Very reasuring, Sherlock.

Sherlock's disgust was growing for the boundless energy that might cause the girl to burst. "We had originally grabbed a few boxes for you- essentials. But we figured it'd be easiest to grab it all." He said as he opened the bedroom, revealing dozens of cardboard boxes and a new bed.

"Where's my futon?" She eyed the new bed. It had been made neatly, it's sheets folded and pillows fluffed to perfection. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a real bed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Destroyed. Covered in glass. Unless you enjoy the sharpness cutting of glass shards when you sleep." He curled his lip in boredom. His mind was buzzing with questions and ideas. He wasn't really keen on 'showing her around'. He inspected the walls, which were clean, boring, and dull. No bullet holes. He let a blow of air out of his nose.

"I love livin' in danger." Ashton joked, smiling at how thoughtful the boys had been. They had done all this for her, the girl that caused them the trouble of getting her out of that pile of her belongings, to the hospital, taking her home, and saving her from the deadly futon.

"Good. You'll need to." Sherlock stated humorlessly, leaving the girl to her privacy.

It left her a bit awkward and nervous, perhaps unprepared. It took her a bit of staring at the empty walls to finally get started on unpacking. She stared longingly at the old photos she found in her box, remembering when he grandmother was still alive. Of course, those weren't her only memories.

A random headache decided to churn behind her eyes, rudely breaking her thoughts. It brought her to realization clawing at the back of her mind. These thoughts- these irrational sparks of memory- were only to distract her from the cruelty of real life.

She was in denial. This had always been her wish, but now that it had become true, it was scary, and different, and terrifying. She found herself curling into her blankets and bed, the pressure behind her eyes burning. Tracks of tears ran down her face, and little sobs of disbelief left her. She didn't have a plan. She didn't know what to do. She shook, wrapped tight into a ball and surrounded by photos of her life back home.

"Should I bring tissues?"

She jumped during a choking blubber of breath, turning her tear-stricken face to the detective at the door. She wiped her tears impatiently, embarrassed to find herself in such a vulnerable position with the curly-haired man at her doorway. She hiccuped, trying to find herself again. "H-how-"

"Thin walls." His mouth was drawn into a thin line, wary and awkward around the emotional teen. There it was again- the word teen. He really was only a few years older than her- which was a thought that catapulted into his mind. He was in his twenty-one, she was nineteen. They could technically date, which added more tension into the room.

He glanced behind him, clearing his throat, "There's..." He made a clicking noise behind his teeth and took a pause before continued, "-there's a case." He offered slowly. He had no idea how to comfort crying people, much less crying women. He felt completely out of place. He'd rather solve a dozen stale crimes than pat her shoulder and tell her everything would be okay. He held back a shudder of discomfort.

Ash wiped her face viciously, trying to rid of the unwanted tears. "R-r... right." She hesitated, "Sorry." She sniffled. There were a few seconds of silence. Making an unrecognizable noise, she stood. "Sorry."

Her voice cracked.

God. "No-" Sherlock assured, distracted, observing to perhaps understand what was upsetting her. His eyes where never in the same place twice. "...it's- that's alright." His eyes were locked on the photos- the cause of her distress. "It's really okay." He feigned. To be honest, he couldn't care any less.

She was still disoriented from the accident, as John had told him earlier. He was trying to be careful not to trigger anything. By observing the pictures surrounding her, you could see she was mourning her dead grandmother, pets, and past friends. Memories and sentiment. It didn't even take a detective, much less Sherlock himself, to figure that out. He supposed the recent 'Television Attack', as John had named it in his blog, might have added to this level of pain. She'd been isolating herself in her flat anyway, watching... "Sherlock BBC", for quite some time.

How peculiar. Who would want to watch him?

No matter. "We're heading out." He gestured for her to come along, "It isn't safe for you to be alone." He paused, waiting for snappy or weepy response.

"Suppose that's a good assumption. Evil mastermind back from the dead... understood." It was more bitter than she'd planned it to be, especially toward her favorite fictional person. She sprung up, leaving the old memories on the ground, and in the past. She spoke in a gentler tone, "I should get dressed then."

"You're fine with what you're wearing, it's only a crime scene." He gestured to her outfit. He didn't know what else to say to that. He didn't understand women.

Ash's mouth twitched in confusion and then her eyebrows knitted upward, "Oh! No. I just want to get a raincoat. It's pouring out." She pointed to the window with a shy smile.

"Ah. Well, then.. hurry."

"Will do." She stated as Sherlock exited, still clad in his longcoat. She let out an exhausted breath. It was peculiar, and although Sherlock was a strange man, this exact instance seemed to repeat itself. Sherlock and Ash, in a room, alone. The hospital, the livingroom, and twice in 221C. A continued pattern that was getting awkward and.. unnatural.

But she supposed being in a fictional world was unnatural, too. So she really couldn't discriminate.

Slipping on some rain gear, she dragged herself out the door of her new apartment and trudged back down the stairs to 221B. The doorway was already open, she met the watchful eyes of Sherlock, clearly waiting upon her arrival. His eyes passed over her outfit in indifference and he called to the living room, "John! We're off to the scene! Don't waste our time!"

John's breath puffed as he stumbled out in a thick rain-proof jacket. Straightening the collar, he nodded, signalling for us to leave.

Pattering of rain sounded around us, gurgling in the storm drains and sending a spray of water as cars passed. The taxi wasn't difficult to catch, well, at least not for John and Ashton, who stood in the comfort of their raincoats as Sherlock waved down a taxi dramatically as his hair became matted and scarf soaked with rainwater. John and Ashton shared a small smirk.

Somehow, Ashton ended up in the center of the taxi. She was blushing like a tomato, constantly reminded of the fact that their legs were touching and that his longcoat was flapping onto her shoulder. She awkwardly kept her eyes ahead of her, as she had no window to look out of or phone to keep her busy. She found herself playing with the hem of his longcoat, but he yanked it from her fingers. It didn't help ease the awkward tension.

The silence was deafening.

Tup tup tu-tup. Ashton tapped her fingers to the beat of the faint putter of the rain on the windows.

Tup tup tu-tup.

Sherlock's hand tensed on his knee, fingers curling. His frown deepened.

Tup tup tu-tup.

Tup tup tu-tup. Tup tup tu-tup. Tup tup tu-tup. Tup tup tu-tup...

"Will. You. Quit that?" Sherlock snapped, nearly furious. Impatience flaring as his cold eyes glared at Ashton.

Ashton's hands dropped to her lap, fighting the urge to play with the sleeve of her rainjacket. Both John and Sherlock's bodies were twisted towards the door, Sherlock's head bowed as he typed something on his phone, while John gazed blankly at the rolling scenery. Ashton couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"Where are we going?"

Sherlock didn't turn from the window, but his thumb paused, skipping a beat before continuing to type away.

Ashton had always imagined what it might be if she'd been part of the story, but she'd never pictured this. Ash felt ignored. She was in a taxi with her favorite fictional characters and even then she was still alone. She'd always been alone. Nobody understood her predicament. Not even Sherlock Holmes, who understood everything.

She watched gloomily as the rain knocked on the windshield like a determined girl scout selling cookies, but there were no cookies. Her head suddenly lashed forward as the taxi halted to an immediate stop, to which Sherlock was eager to climb out and race to his newest mystery. Ash... not so much anymore.

~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~