The Doctor's Daughter | Wholock {1}

Chapter 3: Did You Miss Me?

"So you'll help me?" Hope shined in the client's bright blue eyes.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, waving one hand through the air in front of him. "John's out of town for a medical convention and Mary's home alone. Who knows, she might enjoy some company."

"Sherlock, I cannot thank you enough," she said, a smile spreading across her face.

"Don't thank me yet," Sherlock said as he got to his feet. In a few long strides he had crossed the room to where his coat hung on the back of the door. "You can always get cold feet before we reach her flat."

"Trust me; I'm not going to back out of this." Sherlock's client practically jumped to her feet in excitement. He gestured for her to walk out of the flat in front of him.

"Never did catch your name," Sherlock pointed out as they walked down the stairs.

"Kimberly," she replied over her shoulder as she pulled the hood of her jacket back over her head. "You can call me Kimmy if you'd like. Everybody does." Sherlock mentally noted that she didn't give him a last name. She was either hiding something or more afraid than she was showing. Given the fact that Kimmy was trying to avoid attention—the hood and the glasses concealing her face made that much obvious—Sherlock was leaning more towards the former.

Kimmy didn't speak at all during the cab ride to the Watsons' flat. When they reached the flat, she jumped out of the cab before it had even come to a complete stop. Sherlock paid the cabbie and followed her up the steps to the Watsons' front door. "Ready?" he asked.

"Absolutely." Kimmy was shaking with so much excitement that the hood of her jacket was about to fall off of her head. Fighting the urge to smile at the girl's enthusiasm, Sherlock raised one hand and knocked on the door. No reply came. "Is she out?" Kimmy asked, her smile faltering.

"She's not supposed to be," Sherlock replied, knocking again. Still no reply came. "Strange," he mumbled, reaching for the doorknob. It was unlocked and the door swung open with a loud creak. "Mary?" he called out. His voice echoed through the flat.

"Sherlock—" Kimmy's voice was full of worry as the two walked through the entryway.

Sherlock raised one hand to silence her. He couldn't explain it—there were no signs of forced entry or a struggle—but he could somehow feel that something was very wrong. When they rounded a corner and entered the living room, Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed. Behind him, Kimmy cried out when she saw what he did. On the wall over the couch, painted in what looked like blood, was the same message that had appeared on every television screen in Britain months earlier: Did you miss me?

"Moriarty."