Young Writers Society

Takes place throughout the modern BBC version of Sherlock

Loud gunshots echoed across the building of 221b Baker Street in London, causing quite the commotion. The voices of different men yelling were the only things to be heard, and one would even think there was some kind of strange gun fight happening up there, and should probably think to call the police.

But not Mrs. Hudson. She knew exactly who it was, and what was happening, and she paid no attention to it.

“Pay no mind, dearie. The boys are just being boys again,” She reassured the young woman sitting at her dining room table as she bustled around the kitchen making tea.

“Does that happen often?” The woman’s voice rang out, flinching slightly at the sound of the gun.

“Oh all the time. They are usually quite loud, but you learn to get used to it. Now, sugar?” The woman nodded and smiled graciously at her request.

“So, how do you know John?” Mrs. Hudson sat across from her after pouring tea into her cup, and her guest’s.

“I was in Afghanistan with him at the time, working in the medical hospital up there, I‘m an emergency medical nurse. John came in after a bombing, I was the one who fixed up his leg and sent him home, right before being deployed back home myself.”

“How astonishing,” Mrs. Hudson gasped. “And where is home, if I may ask? You aren’t from London, that much is certain,” She chuckled. The woman laughed kindly along with her.

“Sydney, Australia. My parents live up in Cornwall, and my brother and his wife live here in London as well for his job, so I decided to come closer to my family after the war ended. Couldn’t stand being alone,” She muttered the last part as she brought her tea to her lips gently.

“I don’t blame you dear, I don’t blame you one bit. Family is very, very important, especially here, Oh goodness gracious!” Mrs. Hudson was cut off by another gunshot and and a bang that made some dust fall from her ceiling onto the plate of biscuits in the center of the table. The pair of women heard a loud door slamming and footsteps stomping forcefully down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson, who left her door wide open so that the woman behind her could see the commotion, stepped out of her flat in time to see a young man angrily coming down the stairs and running to the front door.

“I never-” he was grumbling to himself. Behind him came another young man, shouting apologies and begging for him to stay.

“Oh, John!” Mrs. Hudson gasped, “What just happened?”

John sighed and rolled his eyes. “He’s in one of his moods, just drove a client away, bloody madman-” he grumbled off. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, do you have company?”

“Oh yes well John, there is someone I wanted you to see, I was going to bring her up after tea,” She whispered. The woman sat with her legs crossed, a smirk gracing her lips as she sipped her tea quietly, anticipating the look on John Watson’s face.

“Oh? Is she a client?”

“No no no, come in here for a moment dear,” Mrs. Hudson opened the door partially and stepped in first, and the woman at the table turned in her chair a bit to face the door more.

“John, I’m sure you remember Anna,” Mrs. Hudson introduced, and Anna stood up to face her old war friend.

“Hello John,” Anna greeted, and a large smile overtook the young man’s face at the sight of her.

****

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Pardon?”

“You, did you serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?”

This was the first and only thing Sherlock Holmes had said to her. After John and Anna had a reunion in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, he took her upstairs to meet Sherlock, praying that he would be done shooting at the walls enough for him to meet his long time friend. He was, but that didn’t mean he was being exceptionally friendly, either.

“Well, you’re Sherlock Holmes, you tell me,” Anna smirked, wanting to test this "great man" and his ability.

Exasperatedly, Sherlock set down his experiment on the table and turned to her dramatically, looking her over in silence before beginning to speak.

“Well, assuming the simple fact that you and John seem to be good friends, and have been for quite some time, I would say Afghanistan, deducing that you met him there. You have steady hands and cracked knuckles, which means you wash your hands a lot, I would say medical,” Anna looked slightly impressed but tried to suppress it, and he continued, “But, you have bags under your eyes. You were diagnosed with insomnia, developed from your amount of nightmares from your PTSD. You’re too afraid to sleep so you’ve trained yourself to stay up every night. You were in Afghanistan, but before that, Iraq, judging by the amount of insomnia and anxiety medications in your bag right now.”

Sherlock Holmes loved to show off like this, and judging by John's somewhat astonished face that he failed to conceal, he did fairly well. Anna, on the other hand, looked more amused than impressed, and the expression on her face made Sherlock slightly uneasy. 

It was silent for a moment, before she nodded slowly. “Very impressive, Mr. Holmes.”

“I know.” And he turned back to his table to continue dissecting whatever it was he was dissecting. Anna turned to John with a small smile, and he returned it, before the two walked back to the living room to chat and make up for lost time.

****

“Who are you?”

“Sherlock, I’ve introduced her at least three times now, this is Anna.”

“Anna who?”

“Bloody hell…”

“Why is she here?”

“I asked her to help us with the case."

The whispering continued, and Anna stood in the middle of the room with her arms crossed, taking in the scene around her as the two grown men whispered/fought back and forth. A woman in a very pink formal skirt suit lay face down on the floor. Anna had dealt with her fair share of dead people during the war, and the sight of the woman had yet to faze her. John turned quickly back to Anna with a large grin. Anna met his eyes and smiled graciously, and watched as John took his elbow and jabbed it into Sherlock’s side. He looked down at John, confused for a moment, before he looked back at Anna with a slight sigh and put a very forced smile on his face that only lasted a mere moment before disappearing again.

“So?” Anna asked eagerly.

“We would love for you to help us,” John chuckled, making sure Sherlock picked up on his emphasis of the word "we". 

“Well, I suppose if you need me,” Anna teased, grinning all the same.

“We don’t,” Sherlock stated, but his comment didn’t faze Anna in the slightest.

“Yes you do,” She returned, still smiling. “Who else is going to stop you two from making stupid decisions all the time?” And this time, Sherlock Holmes was the one who stayed silent.

****

John and Anna rush into the darkened school building, John yelling Sherlock’s name.

“Bloody-” He gasped, out of breath and terrified.

“John, this way,” Anna grabbed his arm, and sprinted in the direction of a light shining. They entered the classroom in a panicked frenzy, expecting to see Sherlock, but the room was empty. Instead, they looked through the window to find none other than Sherlock sitting at a table with a man who had him at gunpoint in the opposite building. 

“No, no no no,” John muttered. “Sherlock!” John reached for his gun, aiming it at the man in front of his friend. His hand shook out of terror and adrenaline, and his usual steady hand was finding it very difficult to aim properly.

Time was slowly diminishing, and John had yet to pull the trigger and save Sherlock's life. 

“John,” a gentle voice rang out to him, and Anna’s hand gripped his gun lightly. “John, give it to me.” He gave the gun to his friend, who immediately took it up and aimed, keeping her hands perfectly steady, clearly showing her 6+ years of military training. In one swift motion, she took a deep breath in, and pulled the trigger, watching as the bullet cut through both walls of glass and hit it’s mark, burying itself into the gunman’s flesh and stopping his heart almost immediately. The lights went out in the building, and when Sherlock turned to face his shooter, he was met with darkness.

The pair met him outside the building, as he yelled at some medical technicians who were trying to check his vitals. Anna and John walked side by side.

“John," she muttered quickly, "if he asks, and I know he will, you were the one who fired the gun, alright?” Anna whispered to him.

“What?”

“Just do it.”

“I’m in shock, look! I have a blanket!” Sherlock yelled in annoyance at the ambulance technician. He came face to face with John and Anna, immediately dashing into his multiple theories for who the shooter could be, before recognition came across his face.

“It was you, wasn’t it,” He said to John. John said nothing, afraid that if he tried, the lie would came straight out. In truth, he did not want this brilliant man to know that he was too afraid to pull the trigger, too haunted by his ghosts to kill another man.

The group separated, and Anna walked across a bridge and leaned against the railing, staring at the lights of London and the water below, taking a deep breath. She too was having difficulty dealing with her demons, who seemed to appear once again as soon as she pulled that trigger.

“That was a noble thing, making John lie to me,” A voice behind her stated with slight sarcasm. Knowing exactly who it was, Anna continued to face the water, taking another deep breath.

“John was going to do it,” She said. "He really tried." She did not want to make it sound like her friend was too scared, because he was far from it, and she knew that.

“I saw the tremble of his hand just now, there was no way he would have been able to hit the mark so well shaking like that,” He muttered, "He would've hit me."

"Ah, and we wouldn't want to lose that brilliant mind of yours," Anna grinned. "Although," she continued, "I could do without the constant insults towards my emotional stability and mental capacity. Maybe we could take that down a notch, yeah?" And Anna chuckled, and she could have swore she saw the corner of Sherlock Holmes' lips twitch upward for just a moment. 

It was silent, both figures watching the city lights glow below them, their labored breaths coming out in puffs of white fog until once again, the silence was broken by Sherlock’s voice, softer this time.

“Thank you,” He muttered. Anna, who, at first, thought she was hearing voices, whipped her head around to look at the man standing beside her, only to find his face completely solemn. 

“Did Sherlock Holmes just thank me for saving his life, or am I just hearing things?” She teased, slightly in awe at the idea of this man having the ability to be kind. This was the first she had seen this side of him, and she felt it might be the last. She relished in the fact that in one night, she saved Sherlock's life, made him smile (even if only a fraction), and got to see a kinder side of him, directed at her. Anna felt accomplished in the events of the evening. 

"I'm sorry," she said again, her grin growing wider. "I don't think I heard what you said, would you mind saying it again?"

“Don’t make me say it again, it was painful,” he spat, his face contorting in slight disgust. Anna laughed, and began to walk away, Sherlock turning to follow her. They both made their way across the bridge back to their John Watson. All three fed off of the energy they got from the rush of events that night, and they wondered when another opportunity like it would arise. They wondered when England would call for help once more, and they made sure to be the ones to answer it when the time came.