The Losing Side

Chapter One: The Blue and Red Dress

An uncommonly sunny midwinter afternoon, Sherlock Holmes bounded the stairs of 221 Baker Street, involved in a heated argument with himself over a case he had yet to solve. Both sides had excellent points and evidence to back it up.

Mrs. Hudson, his landlady for the last five years, called out from her open door before he could reasonably claim to be 'out-of-earshot', "Would you come here for a moment?"

Sighing, he finished tying his scarf and went through the open door of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Yes? What is it?" The timbre of his voice was low and his tone impatient.

His landlady, wearing her favorite purple dress and well-worn slippers, was sitting at her kitchen table, tea and simple sweets set out. Directly across from her was a woman, somewhere between the age of twenty four and twenty six, wearing a 60's red and blue plaid double-breasted dress. The decidedly military double-breasted construction did nothing to hide her figure despite its high neckline. The toes of her black boots were worn and scuffed, probably the pair she wore most often. Creamy white skin displayed a fair dusting of tiny freckles over her arms and face. She wore no makeup, but her full lips, big brown eyes and long eyelashes didn't need any embellishment. Thick, dark brown waves of hair, having been manipulated by a curling iron earlier that day, hung down her back. Long fringe framed her face and by the way she tried to blow it away from her eyes when she tilted her head up to look at him, she was seriously considering getting them cut.

"Samantha is thinking about renting the cellar flat," said Mrs. Hudson, smiling broadly. The elderly woman had recently fixed up the aforementioned flat with new wallpaper and carpet; she had spent the last few days showing off to a short list of potential renters.

"She can't afford it," Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he took a red current jam drop biscuit off a white chipped plate for himself.

Samantha's brow lifted. "Excuse me?"

"Sherlock—" Mrs. Hudson tried to intercede.

"Your dress," he spoke to Samantha, pausing briefly to savor the sweet and chewy treat, "has been well taken care of, but it's second hand." He observed the rosy blush of embarrassment appearing on her cheeks. He ignored it and continued. "Speaking of hand, you chew your fingernails," Sherlock took hold of the fingers of Samantha's left hand which had been resting on the wooden table in front of her and ran the pad of his thumb along the jagged, short edges, "which means you either have a nervous disposition or perhaps stress in your personal life or in your line of work."

"Highly paid people typically have stress," Samantha pointed out, crossing her legs and folding her arms.

"That's true." He popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, plucked a baby blue tea towel off the table and wiped his hands and mouth. Then he pulled out the unoccupied chair, sat and leaned forward. The way this Samantha leaned away told him she felt her space was being invaded. He took hold of her arm with the same indifference he would show a cadaver. However, her skin wasn't cold; it was warm and as soft and smooth as silk. "But highly paid people generally don't have dried up purple finger paint on their elbow."

Sighing, the young woman eyed the offensive elbow and tried to rub the paint off before giving it up. She removed herself from Sherlock's grasp. "And what does that prove?"

Sherlock smiled. "By itself, nothing." He took a deep breath. "Tempura paint can usually be found in schools, most likely primary." He leaned in and sniffed her, breathing in her different scents and cataloguing them into his brain. She scowled at him. "You're a child-minder and from the smell of it—"

"What smell?" Her eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock! Don't be so rude," Mrs. Hudson scolded and sipped her tea.

"You went from work to home so you could change into fresh clothes for this little interview, but didn't have time for a proper shower so you did a quick blanket bath, missing a spot or two along the way. Underneath the cherry almond fragrance of your soap are the faint hints of baby oil and regurgitated formula. You're a teacher for a daycare; I'd say the one five blocks down—Tell me, are any of the employees there considered 'highly paid'?"

Samantha blinked. "It sounds to me you're making a whole lot of assumptions."

Mrs. Hudson's gaze went from Samantha to Sherlock, waiting for his response.

With his deductions in question, he went in for the kill.

"There's no ring on your finger, so unless you're allergic to metals, you're unmarried. I'd even go as far as to say you don't even have a boyfriend. Judging by the lack of makeup and manicured fingernails, you're not even trying to attract someone. Another possibility is you're a single mum. Your hips do flare out, but not enough to suggest you've ever given birth." Sherlock couldn't help but enjoy the way Samantha's eyes flashed with hints of shock and anger, showing flecks of yellow and amber. "You've been chewing your fingernails because you're new to your job, stilling trying to fit in and please your boss. Doesn't suggest a lot of confidence, does it?" He didn't wait for a reply for the question was rhetorical. "If I were you, I would look in the advertisements for flat mates."

"That's enough from you." Mrs. Hudson got to her feet, awkwardly hindered by her bad hip, and herded him down the hallway, her hand clutching Sherlock's coat sleeve. He went along despite her meager brawn, chuckling. "I'll be fine making up my own mind, thank you very much. Don't make me remind you when you couldn't make rent if it wasn't for your brother footing the bill."

"You're the one that wanted me to say hello," Sherlock justified himself; realizing then he never actually said the word. Shrugging it off, he stepped lightly down 221's stoop, feeling a little satisfied he had discouraged another imminent disaster from happening. He wasn't a good neighbor and it was just as well Samantha Whoevershewas was saved from demonstration.

"Maybe I should put in an advertisement for John's old room," Mrs. Hudson called out from the doorway.

Sherlock turned on his heel, rested his hand on the rod iron railing and peered at his landlady with his head cocked to one side. "Are you threatening me, Mrs. Hudson?"

He actually started to worry when she didn't respond right away.

"Oh, calm down, you git," Mrs. Hudson laughed, a shrill sound. "But, I'm warning you, you'd better start behaving yourself, Mr. Holmes."

Feeling disgruntled, Sherlock turned the collar of his navy coat up, an act of habit more than protection from a cold wind. He took a taxi to Scotland Yard, staring absently outside the window. He observed the out-and-about Londoners. One woman, large in frame and loaded with shopping bags, tripped over her own feet. A man in a well-tailored suit, almost instantly, came to her aid. Sherlock wondered if the woman would see this scene as some sort of meet cute to tell her and this man's imaginary grandchildren.

The cab drove on.

John Watson, Sherlock's short best friend and partner in investigation, was waiting for him in the parking lot, wearing a blue and green jumper of geometrical print he obviously got from his mother.

"You look cheerful," John commented when Sherlock walked past him and headed toward the building's entrance.

"Do I?" Sherlock asked, turning on his heel.

"No." John walked through the front doors of Scotland Yard.

When they reached Gregory Lestrade's office, they found him sitting at his computer holding a cliché jelly-filled donut. He took his feet off the desk upon their arrival.

"Moriarty made another appearance," asked John.

The whole of England had been waiting two weeks now for Mr. James Moriarty to make his move since his 'did you miss me' stunt that monopolized all ways of communication in the country for nearly five hours.

The silver haired man shook his head. "He hasn't made a peep. He just wanted us to know he's back." He paused. "What do you know about Pavel Kashuba," Lastrade asked, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"He's involved in the black market," Sherlock supplied, taking a seat opposite Lastrade. The seat boasted a slight and instantly deflated cushion. "He was running a quite affluent, yet shady, adoption agency. Before he was to be investigated, however, he, his people and the children vanished without a single trace to their whereabouts." He steepled his hands under his chin. "Very impressive, if I do say so myself."

"Missing children, Sherlock," John reminded, pacing.

"Right." Sometimes his admiration of a well thought out crime was mistaken for callous indifference. "Sorry. Go on. Any new leads?"

Lastrade turned his computer screen around to reveal and black and white still of a large, broad-shouldered man entering a café. The person of interest was clean-shaven, dressed casually, had a cleft chin and his long hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

"He's in London," Lastrade said and took a big bite of his donut. Raspberry filling dribbled down the front of his fresh white shirt. He swore and wiped the mess with a torn envelope.

"What's stopping you from making an arrest," asked John.

"He was never convicted." Sherlock sighed. "Why are we here? The only evidence the Russian police were able to find was circumstantial."

"There's been a rash of kidnappings this last six months I can't help but believe he's at the center of it." Lastrade scratched his emerging silver beard, thoughtfully.

"Children are being kidnapped all the time," Sherlock commented, starting to get bored.

"The children's ages range from newborn to two years old." Lastrade turned his screen back around to face him. "Most of the children lawfully put up for adoption are between the ages one to four. Typically, couples want to adopt the babies, but our research tells us there's only a two percent to six percent chance of that happening."

"Babies are notoriously loud; crying and screaming. How is it no one notices they're being taken?" John, the soon-to-be father in the room, leaned against a metal cabinet of drawers and folded his arms.

"I believe you just answered your own question there, John. It's not like there's a distinctive cry that means 'stranger danger'," said Sherlock, looking around Scotland Yard's Head Detective's office. "And even if there was, people are usually too caught up in their own lives to notice. Parents, of course, notice the absence, so the kidnappings would obviously be when they're either being negligent or when their child is being cared for by another." He sniffed the air, a lavender fragrance lingered there. "How's the Mrs.?"

X

"He's right," Samantha admitted, setting down the white teacup upon its white saucer. "I can't afford the rent myself. I just came by because my brother heard you had an opening; I don't know why. He knows as well as anybody I can't—" Sighing, Samantha stood up and grabbed her red wool coat and her old leather, saddlebag-style purse that had been resting on the back of the wooden chair. "It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Stay." The landlady's tone offered no room for argument or disobedience. So Samantha sat. After a long moment, Mrs. Hudson asked, "Do you like violin music?"

Samantha said, "Yes, I do. Do you play?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Heavens, no! Sherlock does—a lot. Helps him think, he says."

"My piano is taking up space at my brother's," said Samantha. "He says that one of us has to go."

Nodding, Mrs. Hudson said, "I always loved the piano, but never had the patience to learn."

After an uncomfortable moment of still silence, Samantha said again, "I can't afford what you're asking for."

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I suppose I could lower it a little."

"Thank you, but I can't let you do that. Besides," Samantha said, smiling, "I don't think living here for free would be worth it if I had to share a roof with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"So you've heard about him?" Mrs. Hudson refilled her and Samantha's teacup.

"Of course." There were times when one couldn't watch the news without hearing his name mentioned at least once.

"Well," The landlady held the white teacup in her frail hands, raising it to her lips, "Once you get to know him, he can show some very nice qualities."

"I'm sure." Samantha sipped her tea, uninterested in what qualities those may be.

"Samantha… Would you mind terribly coming over from time to time and visit me?" There was a look of deep loneliness in the sweet landlady's chocolate brown eyes. "Please don't feel obligated—"

"How about meeting for lunch next Saturday?"

The older woman smiled broadly and clapped her hands happily. "Brilliant!"

A short time later, Samantha donned her long woolen, red, hooded coat and said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. Leaving 221B, she felt the evening's dropped temperature in the breeze that lifted the thick locks off her shoulders. She buttoned her coat and pulled the hood over the top of her head. The smells of bread and freshly brewed coffee wafted around and about her in circles, but feeling quite full still, Samantha could resist Speedy's siren call.

Instead of hailing a taxi, Samantha chose to walk a bit. She loved London, her home for most of her life. Nothing about it had changed drastically, unlike herself.

Her black, laced up boots clipped rhythmically along the sidewalk.

Mrs. Hudson had asked her if she liked violin music. Samantha could have laughed. Several months ago, she made a living performing alongside thirty violinists as the pianist for the Netherlands Symphony Orchestra. When she thought of that life, she could almost feel the heat of the spotlight, the sensations of being in the center of a one-hundred twelve piece orchestra playing in perfect synergy.

She thought of the icy, aquamarine eyes that scrutinized her earlier that day. Sherlock Holmes thought himself very clever, because he was. And oddly beautiful. But, the picture he painted of her with words was as stark and without dimension as a stick figure drawing.

Damn his eyes! Why did she care what that man thought? He didn't know her from Eve, nor was he deserving of any explanations for her choices.

A small group of young men, their voices loud and boisterous, blocked Samantha's path.

One tall, broad-shouldered man whistled crudely while his friends stood there smiling like idiots.

"Excuse me," Samantha stammered, trying to weave past the unmoving men. She clutched the strap of her purse tight, even though she knew it wasn't likely to do her any good if one of these clods actually grabbed it from her.

"Come on, Sexy, give us a smile!"

They all laughed when she ignored them and kept walking, her pace faster than before.

"Don't be scared," she heard another one say right before she felt the hem of her dress lift.

She whipped around and snatched the fabric out of a short and scruffy man's hand. From the odor of him, it could be safely assumed he was quite drunk.

"Leave me alone," Samantha warned him, glad the strength in her voice didn't betray her trembling nerves.

"Why on earth would I want to do something like that?" He grabbed hold of her wrist; he was deceptively strong. When she tried to pull free of his grip, the pain made Samantha gasp as the stranger twisted and bent her hand back. She dropped her purse to the cold concrete. Everything in her purse dropped in value at that moment.

Kicking him in the shin only pissed him off and gave the other four brutes some entertainment. The setting sun cast shadows over their faces.

"Uppity bitch," muttered the man who had whistled at her.

Then, in the time span of a second, Samantha was on the ground, the left side of her face red and stinging from a sudden slap given by the short and scruffy man. She had landed on her injured wrist.

A couple of the men cheered.

One laughed, "Let Rodney have a little fun with you."

Feeling hot breath puff against the back of her neck, Samantha struck out her elbow and slammed into the attacker's eye. While he was still hollering in pain, Samantha turned on her back and kicked the man in the crotch. The look of agony that shook the brute's features was so satisfying Samantha sent the toe of her boot to his groin again. He fell forward and she moved out of the way. Someone strong grabbed her upper arm and pulled her to her feet roughly.

"I like it when they fight back," she heard behind her while she watched the men help their friend up.

"Hey," she heard someone call and turned to see two businessmen run across the street. Her attacker and his band of guilty witnesses took that moment to run away down the street.

People started to gather, having witnessed or heard the commotion.

"Are you alright?"

"Someone call the police!"

"They took her purse!"

Still in a state of fight or flight, Samantha couldn't focus on anyone's face as the good people of London began to close in her damaged personal bubble. She backed away, holding her injured wrist.

"I'm fine," she said, ashamed for the broken sob punctuating her lie. Hot tears, born from relief and pain, spilled down her cheeks and she stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk.

She bowed her head. A single drop of crimson blood fell from her lip when she realized her purse was gone. She couldn't hail a taxi or call for help. Mrs. Hudson's place wasn't too far away, but there was too much of a risk to run into one of the attackers.

"Let me help," said a tall woman in her mid-twenties dressed in jeans and a plain white tee.

Samantha didn't have many options, so she nodded. She sat on the curb of the sidewalk numbly while the kind, well-meaning woman took charge of the situation and called the police. It didn't take long for a police officer Inglenook to show up. He took a few minutes to gather stories from the witnesses before helping Samantha into his car, which smelled like onion rings, to take her in for questioning.

She was dry-eyed now, trying to figure out what was she going to do now. She would need to report her missing items, cancel her credit cards and her phone bill—

The big, blonde policeman took a sideways glance at her. "That wrist looks real bad, Miss. We could stop at the hospital first, if you'd rather."

Actually, her wrist hurt like hell; she could hardly move it at all. But, "Scotland Yard, please. My wrist can wait," she said decidedly.

"You can use my phone to call your family, if you'd like," the officer kindly offered.

Samantha studied the man before wording her reply. His thick blonde hair, brushed straight back, reminded her of a man whom, until not so long ago, she thought the world of. Heinrich Visser, the conductor of the Netherlands Symphony Orchestra, would never choose to be in public wearing such wrinkled clothes, however, he would not have chosen a career in the service of others either.

"Miss?"

"Yes, thank you." Carefully, she took the iPhone in her uninjured hand. It took a couple of seconds to recall the number and several more to listen to a dial tone. A familiar voice reached her ears.

"Hello—"

"Hey, sis, I—"

"—Can't come to the phone right now. Leave your name and number after the beep and I'll get back with you."

Samantha sighed. "This is Sam; I need you to come pick me up at Scotland Yard…" She bit back a pained moan when the car hit a pothole. "I'm okay." She actually was starting to feel, emotional wise, like she could be okay, knowing things could have been a lot worse. She fought back; it was enough for now. Turning to Officer Inglenook, she asked, "Mind if I make a few more calls? I'd like to cancel my credit cards before they drain my account."

"Go ahead," he replied, trusting.

"Thank you."

She was still on the phone, on hold, with the credit card company when the officer held the door of Scotland Yard open for her. When she finally was able to get connected to a live person, the woman on the other end sounded skeptical, but filed her report anyway.

"Can I get you some tea, water or maybe coffee? We have a pop machine." The police officer took off his black jacket and tossed it atop his desk.

Shaking her head, she answered, "No, thank you." Her stomach felt twisted as it was.

There was a pause before Inglenook sat behind his desk. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Now, please, in your own words, tell me about what happened this evening."

She recounted the event the best she could, realizing some of the details were a bit hazy and rushed. Some of the men's faces had been shadowed, but the voices were still sharp and clear in her mind. "There were five of them, a bass, two baritones and two tenors."

"I'd say a bass, two baritones, a tenor and a soprano."

Reluctantly, she turned in her chair to face the man standing straighter-than-an-arrow. "Sherlock Holmes. How long have you been standing there?"

"Only long enough to know I should make my presence known." The corner of his mouth tugged momentarily. "I knew it must be you by that bright blue and red dress of yours," he explained, rocking back on his heels and seemingly so much taller than he was just hours earlier. "You know, there's only a 1.5 to 1,000 chance of being robbed." The look of what could very well be concern crossed his face.

"Lucky me." Her laugh was bitter and came from a scratchy throat. Was this his idea of small talk? She asked him.

The internationally famous and world's only consulting detective blushed.

"Sam!" John appeared suddenly, panting from running across the room, and hunched over her. He gently examined her injured, left wrist. "What happened?"

"She was mugged, obviously." He paused. "You've met Samantha," observed Sherlock.

John didn't take his eyes away from Samantha's injuries. "She's my sister."

Sherlock's mouth gaped with surprise and was silent, but only for a moment before he commented, "You look nothing alike."

It wasn't entirely true. They both had brown eyes, although hers were large and almond-shaped with complimentary colors and his were solid, chocolate brown. Wide grins came from their mother's side. Her brother John towered a good five more inches than her delicate, five foot one frame when they stood back to back. Her sister shared John's hair color and cheeks, or 'jowls', as Harriet would put it.

"I'll take you back to the clinic and fix you right up," said John, decidedly.

Samantha turned to Officer Inglenook, wincing at the added pain sent to her wrist by the movement.

"We can finish this later," he reassured, "and you can give our forensic artist a description of your attacker."

Nodding, Samantha got to her feet, ignoring John's help.

"You should have taken a taxi," her brother scolded on their way to the lift.

Samantha didn't answer for her headache was getting worse.

"You should have told me you had a little sister," Sherlock, in turn, scolded John. With everyone aboard, Sherlock sent the lift down to the lobby. Samantha wished he would just drop the subject.

"Like you told me about Mycroft," John retorted, still holding Samantha's hand like it was a hurt bird. "Can you move it," he then asked Samantha.

"No, not without it hurting." A sudden intake of breath couldn't be helped when Samantha tried to rotate the joint in question.

"Very likely, it's a fracture," John said.

Samantha groaned, hoping he was wrong.

"What's with your family giving the girls boy names, hmm? Harry? Sam?" Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets.

John's phone chose that moment to chime out 'Kiss From A Rose'.

"Asked the man named Sherlock," Samantha shot back, exiting the lift and holding her freed wrist close.

"How is it I've known your brother for years and it's not until now I've ever heard about you?" His stare darkened critically. Samantha didn't have an answer, so Sherlock asked, "Where have you been these last few years? You weren't even at your brother's wedding."

"I...," she searched for the words.

"Mary, Mary," John held his phone to his ear and tried to get a word in between his wife's frantic monologue. "She's with us, darling. Stop worrying. I'll patch her up and bring her home." After an automatic 'I love you, bye', he hung up.

The sun had already set when the three of them walked out to John's car. Streetlights looked at their reflections in the mess of puddles scattering the sidewalk and street; it had rained while she had been questioned. Samantha slid onto the spacious backseat, shivering at the sensation of cold leather at the back of her knees. Sherlock claimed the front passenger seat as John got behind the wheel.

"I'll drop you off at your place on the way," her brother told his friend. "Oh! Samantha, how did the interview with Mrs. Hudson go?"

Sherlock turned his head slightly in her direction, waiting for her answer.

Samantha cleared her throat and took her eyes off the detective's Byronic profile. "It didn't work out."

"What did you say," John asked Sherlock accusingly, his brows noticeably furrowed in the rearview mirror.

"It wasn't him," said Samantha. "I can't afford the rent." She looked down at her bruised, swollen wrist, still feeling shocked… or numb… by her attack.

"So I was right!" There was no way to hide the note of victory in the detective's voice.

"It's too bad," John commented, stopping a few moments at an intersection.

"Why," asked both Sherlock and Samantha.

John shrugged and set the vehicle back into motion. "I thought maybe you two would get along."

If looks could kill, Samantha would have shot lasers into the rearview mirror to be reflected into her brother's face. However, with her luck lately, the beam would have shot back at her. Her reflection showed an angry-red split lip. Looking herself over in the dim light, she saw her knees were badly scraped and being given notice, they began to sting and ache. "Was this some kind of set up?"

When John hesitated, Sherlock prompted, "Well?"

Clearing his throat, her brother said, "No, just thought you two should meet. Think of it as introducing a new fish to the tank." Then, under his breath, he muttered not quiet enough, "Worst thing that'd happen is one of you'd eat the other."