After what felt like hours of walking in silence; always keeping an eye on the tiny round piece of glass; the marble finally began to slow down. John was nearly ready to begin digging right there and then, eager to find the girl; which in his opinion was looking more and more mischievous than clever; and go back to his life. Sherlock on his part was not ready. He raised a hand, easily reading John's intentions, putting a cease to his eagerness. Apparently, they needed to walk a bit more.

In all honesty, they had not walked that much; it was still easy to see the grey scene from the building they had exited, even if it was at a considerable distance. Nonetheless, John was yearning for it to be over, particularly because there really was no warranty that the girl was going to be there. Sure Sherlock said she was, but there had been times where it almost looked like Sherlock was having some trouble following the clues. Mrs. Hudson's flat for example. Sherlock had sounded quite surprised. John was too. Partly because of Sherlock's reaction. It was clear that he, not a high functioning sociopath but a common human being, could have missed very careful movement downstairs while he was having a conversation with his flatmate, but it was a bit disconcerting that Sherlock had done so as well. Or perhaps, he had not missed it. Perhaps he had blocked it on purpose and his surprise was due to the fact that Mrs. Hudson had noticed. Or maybe…

A hand slammed slightly against John's chest. Sherlock had stopped. They were there. The door had to be directly below their feet.

Sherlock quickly scooped up the marble and dropped it back in his coat pocket. Almost in the same movement, he removed his gloves and bent down to examine the ground. A bony finger trusted forward and carefully caressed the damp ground. Just as suddenly, that same finger along with the other members of the same hand were forcefully pushed into the wet earth, leaving Sherlock with mud up to his wrist.

"I supposed we got some digging to do" suggested John, a bit despaired by the prospect and looked around in an attempt to find some sort of branch or anything they could use other than their bare hands. Sherlock simply looked at him while he moved his hand just the slightest bit. Before John was able to ask what he was doing, Sherlock stood up as far as his hand underground would let him, walked around towards John in his half-crouched position, and in one movement pulled the trap door open. Mud immediately fell into the new opening.

Sherlock went to the entrance right foot carefully but quickly found a sort of ladder and made his way down. John followed after. There was not a lot of light on the inside. One old and somewhat broken lamp sat in one corner, brightening just a bit of the surrounding area. The cloudy day outside provided most of the illumination. It was still possible to distinguish the girl.

She was standing at one of the corners. Clothes wet. A headless doll sat at her feet. Her eyes immediately traveled upward. She saw them.

John did not know what to do or say. Was this it? They had found her. The game was over. They had won. But now what? Part of him wanted to rush over to the girl and provide the same comfort she had looked for at the supermarket, and yet, he knew that was not what needed to happen. She was waiting for something.

"The marble," said Sherlock, answering an unasked question as he simultaneously pulled out said item and rolled it across the floor and to the girl. Her eyes shone slightly. She shifted a bit on her spot but she didn't pick it up. The only acknowledgment it got was a quick glance as it approached her.

Sherlock slowly stood up. His hand going back to his coat pocket, pulling out the other three items he had picked up before. He sort of contemplated them as they rested on the palm of his right hand. He looked around the room briefly. A small smile began to spread on his lips.

Using his left hand, he carefully picked up the piece of metal.

"That bed there," said Sherlock, pointing towards a rusted looking cast iron bed frame with a very deflated mattress on top of it. "You took this from there." At this, Sherlock went over to the mentioned item, pushed the mattress to the side, and quickly spotted the empty bit where the brand name used to belong.

"These frames have not been made since 1890." continued as he walked back to where John was standing. "Of course that did not narrow down the neighborhood that much. We needed homes built in the Victorian Era. This, is London. But, we needed a home that remained in the same conditions as years before. No modern updates. The furniture had to be original. Now that narrowed it down a bit."

Closing his right hand over the last item, he used his thumb and forefinger to take up and display the key.

"This cleared everything up quite a bit." he placed the key up in the air as if attempting to see it clearer. "It is a copy not an original. The work at the very top is not ornate like it would have been in the 1800's. In fact, it was almost forgotten. Someone made that key in order to get to an old building. So, we were looking for an abandoned neighborhood. Not a home, but a whole set of homes. Had it been just one the work would not have been as careless. It would be a fully finished working key. No need to attract extra attention. But no. The whole thing was forgotten in time. No one would ever know." After this declaration Sherlock allowed the key to drop to the floor, picking up some water and resonating in the silence that had taken over all of the occupants of the small room. "And so we are here."

No one moved. The echo of the key still lingered in the back of everyone's mind. John continued to wait for the moment in which Sherlock would reveal the importance of the last item, but it never came. Neither did any indication that this was indeed it. Another minute or two went by. All three of them stood there. Sherlock looking at the girl, the girl staring straight back, and John alternating between the two.

"What about the other thing?" asked John when his curiosity could not be reigned in any longer.

"What other thing? There was no other thing" answered Sherlock immediately. He must definitely have been deducing or analyzing the girl.

"Yeah." continued John. "The third item. A stone. Why was that important?"

"It was not." said the detective immediately returning to the mundane conversation. "There is no object in this room whatsoever that proves this stone belonged here. Clearly, it was a distraction, and it obviously did not work."

"A distraction?" asked again John.

"Yes John," responded Sherlock in one of his usual tones for conversations that were not of utmost importance to the detective, "a distraction. Something to attempt to lead us to some other part of London. The only option as to what to do with it would be to analyze its chemical composition so that we could match it with a location. That would lead us to the incorrect mystery spot." At that second Sherlock took out his phone and began typing away. John obviously inquired about it and was told that it was a message for Lestrade so that they may be escorted back to their own flat.

But there was something that was not making complete sense to John. It was the bit where there was supposed to prove how amazingly clever she was. Sure, her whole scavenger hunt had proven to be very successful. Her sneaking, incredible, after having eluded Mrs. Hudson and himself, but most impressive, Sherlock. Her cleverness, comparable to Sherlock's. But then why do it like that. She could have just as easily begun speaking and amazed them all with her intelligence. Why make them look all around London for her? Why give them things they did not need?

There was also the bit from the supermarket. That had been Sherlock's idea to prove a point himself. So he understood a way to communicate in a way with the girl. A very drastic and traumatic way at that, but an effective one. But what did that have to do with everything else?

"No, hold on," said John waving his hand slightly in a sign of slowing down the detective a bit. "That cannot be it." He scratched his head a bit. He needed to think. Turning back towards Sherlock he extended his hand and asked to see the last item.

"I told you John" was the answer, "it is not important. You will not…"

"Just," interrupted John, "just give it to me Sherlock." At which the detective did indeed hand the disputed item to John's expecting hand and immediately turned the other direction clearly indicating that he considered John to be wasting time and energy in attempting to analyze an object he had already deemed useless. John, however, turned towards the girl once again. Tossing it very softly inside his closed fist, he looked around the room. There must be something missing.

And then it hit him.

He looked at the small stone in his hand. There was one thing. The photos in Mrs. Hudson's drawer. She took them, and they were of Mrs. Hudson's parents. Of her family. Yes, Sherlock said that the intent was to signal that she was taking them to her home, but what if it was something else. With the sneaking abilities, she obviously possessed she could have simply taken them and placed them in their path for them to see or something similar to what she had done with the shoe hunt. But no, she dropped them. Perhaps she found them and was looking at them. She saw a home, but most importantly a happy family. Something she did not have. So she dropped them. Her emotions took over. It was sentiment. Sadness, perhaps even pain, at realizing she did not have nor would never have what she saw in those photos.

"Was it your mother's?" asked John, looking up from the stone still resting in his hand. Sherlock immediately turned back around in his spot as if perplexed by what John had just uttered. Surprisingly, his question was not ignored. The girl looked towards her feet, and very sadly shook her head up and down before allowing herself to look deeply into John's eyes. At this, Sherlock got closer. His interest was peaked.

"You must have loved her" John continued, "if you kept it all along." A sniffle came from the girl. "I am sorry." At this, John took a step towards the girl, before quickly halting. The image of her running away from him just as she had done during the past couple of day surged in his mind, so instead, he offered a soft smile as he extended his hand towards her. She looked up at him, and before John had time to swallow some of the lumps in his throat, she rushed towards him. Her arms immediately latched around his torso. He could feel her small figure trembling under the damp clothes. Her hair dripped onto his hands. But he didn't care. She wanted his comfort, and he would give it for as long as she needed it, for in that moment it all made sense. All she wanted was to feel loved. Valued. Cared for. That's why she had made them run around town. Because if they searched for her, then it must mean they cared for her. If they understood who the stone belonged to, they knew part of her story, and they accepted it.

Looking up from the top of the girl's head for just a second, John caught a glimpse of Sherlock, who was standing facing them. A small smile on his lips, Sherlock nodded briefly in acknowledgment of the scene before him. Even if the detective's methods had been drastic, John could not help feeling thankful for the scene Sherlock had caused at their local shopping store, since now, he was able to give the young woman the care and comfort he needed to share with her. So smiling as well, he returned the nod. He was sure of one thing. They were going to be fine.

…

Alright, well, this is the last of it. I hope you all enjoyed the story as much as I did and I hope to read some of your comments soon.