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Description
The house was edgy. Sherlock refused to sleep he was paranoid and it hurt (y/n) to see him like it. So paranoid and scared, it hurt her.

“Sherlock.” She whispers walking into the lounge room.

“Yes.”

“Come to bed.” She murmurs pulling his arm. He shrugs her off and looks away. “Please Sherlock.”

“I can’t.” He growled like a cornered dog, “I’m not sure of the extent Mycroft will go.”

“What if he actually leaves? What if you are being a huge drama queen for no reason but to be a pain in the ass?” She throws her hands up. It felt like she was talking to a brick wall. “Why can’t you consider how I’m feeling right now Sherlock?”
He looked up, not changing his brooding look.

“I’m scared. I am. So don’t blame me if I’m being just a tad needy right now. I need you to come to bed, I need you to try and sleep and just be with me because right now I feel like you are my prison guard. That is not what I want to feel like in my home.” (y/n) was angry enough to be on the brink of tears.

“Go to bed.” Sherlock demanded, “I am not coming with you.”

“Why, Sherlock!?” She yelled standing in his view.

“Because I need to think!” He yelled back with terrifying force. His hand violently pointed at his chest and a mix of betrayal and hurt crossed her face. Sherlock realized what he had done. She never asked much of him, she never pushed him for anything but now when she asked him to comfort her he turned away. “…I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I gotcha Sherlock.” She whispered walking into the bedroom and leaving the curly haired sweetheart to his thinking.

***

The light filtered in patches through the cracked window when Mycroft walked in to the cottage. He was reading a note that was left on the kitchen table next to where Sherlock had finally passed out. With a growl he places it down carefully still, not wanting to wake his own brother. He wanted her gone from Sherlock’s life, and she was. But he wanted her dead; her grave should be the one being mourned over by the second Holmes in this cold room.
A plan became to form. He could make her dead, erase her from all knowledge, track her, trace her and make sure she never has any connection to Sherlock again. Mycroft flicked the cigarette in his hand sending ash to coat the floor. His coat waved a little as he drifted out of the room, closing the door behind him and taking his car to the next private flight to London.
At the sound of the engine Sherlock awoke with the fluttering of his eyelids. Cursed with long lashed he struggled as they clung to one another with knots and sleep. He rubbed his head and his mind replayed the previous night’s events. The things he could’ve changed.
But then again he felt like it was the right way to deal with the situation. Now he was feeling that small bubble of defensive behaviour crawl up from the pit in his stomach.
“(Y/ n)? Are you up?” Sherlock yawned, shrugging off the stiffness and wiping the rocks of sleep from his eyes. It took him a while to adjust to the bright sunshine dancing into the cottage. It had to be at least eleven already.
Gathering his wits about him Sherlock became aware of the quietness of the little cottage. There was no sound of a kettle boiling or delicate pita-pata of sock enclosed feet. Apart from Sherlock the cottage would seem abandoned. That was because it was abandoned, or escaped is a better way of putting it. After last night when Sherlock snapped, the girl was frightened of both Holmes brothers.
That previous night a young woman said her goodbye in a handwritten note. She told the man asleep by the door that she loved him very much and that her choice to leave hurt her immensely. Sherlock was about to find at what she meant when he picked up the lined paper beside him and read silently.
His jaw dropped, he clasped his hand over his mouth and huddled further into himself. He looked like he was receiving a death notice, a note to tell him that people were coming to take him away. A single hardened tear drifted precariously down his cheek.

My love,

Sherlock placed it delicately on the table and ran to their bedroom like a madman.
I’ve gone. Not because Mycroft has taken me, but by my own cause.
All her clothing remained, there was not much taken at all. But the black box was open on the bed. All but one photo remained. She had taken the last photo. The photo taken outside yesterday afternoon, with the blood red sunset in their eyes and her with him smiling once again, that was the one missing.

I’m covering my tracks, don’t worry, I won’t return. I love you too much. But with me out of the picture you can restart with your family. I know we both ran here to escape ours but it’d be best. Go back to London Sherlock. Do something good.

Do something exciting.

Do it for you.

Sherlock was running now. There was only one airport near here, he needed to catch her plane.

I want to be remembered for being the girl with the bread. Don’t twist my memory into anything else. It would be my final wish.

Last rattles of a dying girl.

I have died in your life Sherlock, and it is the hardest thing I have ever done.

He exploded into the airport, frantically searching. What plane would she be on? Which one gets her out now?

I love you, I love your quirks, your intelligence, and everything you are. Take the violin, keep thinking. Find someone special. Find a best friend. Get married.
Live your life.

You are young, and you are loved. Nothing can stop you.

Forever yours and just a mystery,

(Y/n)

There was no plane bearing her in the airport. There was no way to reach her.

She was a mystery.

***

“I’m glad you have decided to move back home.” Mycroft smirked watching his younger brother tape up boxes in the now empty cottage.
“It’s only a temporary arrangement.”
“It always is with you.”
“Anything else Mycroft?” Sherlock asked sarcastically. Rage and sadness swirled in his eyes.
“Nothing at all, brother.”
Years later
He would search. Still. Quietly in the night there was the soft drabble of fingertips on keys. Searching and researching for anything relating to the girl who held to the key to the cottage in a small village of Scotland. Hours later he would grow with frustration and push the laptop away before placing the violin on his shoulder and playing. He was thinking.
As he developed different skills and tests in his intelligence he found that he made his own job. The one and only consulting detective.
That’s what he did to pass the time he honestly wasn’t really interested in money or people. It was just the constant gathering of information, the continued search for a girl. Most parents that lost their kid in abduction would have stopped looking after all those years. Sherlock was just a little more obsessive.
John was one of the more fate forced opportunities that helped Sherlock’s quest. To start it was just the thrill of fining another that enjoyed being in the line of fire and laughing at the bullets, but after the small mention of his sister, Harry, he was very, very intrigued.
On one fine Sunday, years before now, Sherlock had heard about a deranged alcoholic relative that called herself Harry from the woman he was searching for. John happened to be such relatives brother. The perfect way to find her.
But this connection took ages, the case of the Lady in Pink came and went. Sherlock conquered his greatest enemy, and committed suicide, of sorts. That’s the time he made connections, loops in his head, a map to her finding. All that time he was dead, all that time John pleaded for his return and all that time a desperate young woman cried over the last entry of Sherlock Holmes companion’s blog, he thought.
Months it took for a pissed war veteran to forgive Sherlock, and months were due to be paid, the bastard put John through a fair amount of shit. Then John got married and his wife turned evil and then Sherlock found it hard to wait any longer.
“John.”
“Yes?”
“Can I use your phone?”
“Are you texting a murderer?”
“No.”
“Planning to blow up London?”
“No.”
“Hacking into the Government?”
“John, I just want to make a call.” Sherlock eyed him over his hands, clasped in a tight gathering. His companion sighed and reached into his jeans pocket to reveal his phone. Looking at it once more fondly he tossed it to the other man and returned to typing.
The phone rang twice before the other line picked up.
“Hullo?”
“Harry, I presume. My name is Sherlock I’m your big brother’s work associate. I was wondering if you could give me the number of a relative of yours.” He spoke quickly and precisely as if it was a formal exchange. The other line scoffed a little before letting out a sigh that sounded exactly like John’s. John was watching curiously, if Sherlock needed a number he could have just asked.
“Who’s you want?”
“(y/n)”
“(y/n)? Why, I haven’t heard from her in years. I’ll get my address book.” The phone was left on a counter. Sherlock waited.
Patiently to start with, he waited.
Approximately five seconds later he grew impatient.
“John, tell me when she has it.” He tossed the phone at his friend and left the room. He walked to his; there was something he wanted to look at. Something he wanted to share with his best friend. Under his bed, by the small stack of old books, there sat a dusty old box. Just larger than a normal shoebox, cracked at the edges and generally black in colour the box had sat under his bed. It was waiting to be opened.
He dragged it out by his fingertips, ever so carefully as if it would crumble if he breathed too hard. The box remained intact however, all the way until he sat it on the kitchen table and took a seat.
“Here.” John said placing a slip of paper on the black box. He only then realised the fond smile Sherlock held for this bent box.
“John, can I show you something?” He asked looking away from the number he had quickly memorised.
“Of course.” He nodded taking a seat opposite him, “What is it?”
“Memories of mine.” Sherlock lifted the lid, “My favourite memories.”
John looked over the huge amount of Polaroid photographs inside the box. Carefully he removed one slowly as Sherlock was taking a great deal of care with these. He flipped it over and looked at the picture. There was a warm house, a fire behind a grate, and two people featuring. One was a very familiar girl. She had (colour) hair and shining eyes, she was smiling enormously as she sat on the lap of a younger version of the man watching his reaction.
Sherlock had his arms wrapped around her waist and his lips on her cheek. He grinned, there were crinkles by his eyes, and the intimacy of the whole photo made John smile fondly.
“Who was she?” He questioned softly. Sherlock met John’s ever changing eyes.
“The girl with the bread, my first mystery.” He explained before picking up the phone John placed by the box and the number.

“Did you solve it?”

“What?”

“Her mystery.”

“No.”

Description
The house was edgy. Sherlock refused to sleep he was paranoid and it hurt (y/n) to see him like it. So paranoid and scared, it hurt her.

“Sherlock.” She whispers walking into the lounge room.

“Yes.”

“Come to bed.” She murmurs pulling his arm. He shrugs her off and looks away. “Please Sherlock.”

“I can’t.” He growled like a cornered dog, “I’m not sure of the extent Mycroft will go.”

“What if he actually leaves? What if you are being a huge drama queen for no reason but to be a pain in the ass?” She throws her hands up. It felt like she was talking to a brick wall. “Why can’t you consider how I’m feeling right now Sherlock?”
He looked up, not changing his brooding look.

“I’m scared. I am. So don’t blame me if I’m being just a tad needy right now. I need you to come to bed, I need you to try and sleep and just be with me because right now I feel like you are my prison guard. That is not what I want to feel like in my home.” (y/n) was angry enough to be on the brink of tears.

“Go to bed.” Sherlock demanded, “I am not coming with you.”

“Why, Sherlock!?” She yelled standing in his view.

“Because I need to think!” He yelled back with terrifying force. His hand violently pointed at his chest and a mix of betrayal and hurt crossed her face. Sherlock realized what he had done. She never asked much of him, she never pushed him for anything but now when she asked him to comfort her he turned away. “…I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I gotcha Sherlock.” She whispered walking into the bedroom and leaving the curly haired sweetheart to his thinking.

***

The light filtered in patches through the cracked window when Mycroft walked in to the cottage. He was reading a note that was left on the kitchen table next to where Sherlock had finally passed out. With a growl he places it down carefully still, not wanting to wake his own brother. He wanted her gone from Sherlock’s life, and she was. But he wanted her dead; her grave should be the one being mourned over by the second Holmes in this cold room.
A plan became to form. He could make her dead, erase her from all knowledge, track her, trace her and make sure she never has any connection to Sherlock again. Mycroft flicked the cigarette in his hand sending ash to coat the floor. His coat waved a little as he drifted out of the room, closing the door behind him and taking his car to the next private flight to London.
At the sound of the engine Sherlock awoke with the fluttering of his eyelids. Cursed with long lashed he struggled as they clung to one another with knots and sleep. He rubbed his head and his mind replayed the previous night’s events. The things he could’ve changed.
But then again he felt like it was the right way to deal with the situation. Now he was feeling that small bubble of defensive behaviour crawl up from the pit in his stomach.
“(Y/ n)? Are you up?” Sherlock yawned, shrugging off the stiffness and wiping the rocks of sleep from his eyes. It took him a while to adjust to the bright sunshine dancing into the cottage. It had to be at least eleven already.
Gathering his wits about him Sherlock became aware of the quietness of the little cottage. There was no sound of a kettle boiling or delicate pita-pata of sock enclosed feet. Apart from Sherlock the cottage would seem abandoned. That was because it was abandoned, or escaped is a better way of putting it. After last night when Sherlock snapped, the girl was frightened of both Holmes brothers.
That previous night a young woman said her goodbye in a handwritten note. She told the man asleep by the door that she loved him very much and that her choice to leave hurt her immensely. Sherlock was about to find at what she meant when he picked up the lined paper beside him and read silently.
His jaw dropped, he clasped his hand over his mouth and huddled further into himself. He looked like he was receiving a death notice, a note to tell him that people were coming to take him away. A single hardened tear drifted precariously down his cheek.

My love,

Sherlock placed it delicately on the table and ran to their bedroom like a madman.
I’ve gone. Not because Mycroft has taken me, but by my own cause.
All her clothing remained, there was not much taken at all. But the black box was open on the bed. All but one photo remained. She had taken the last photo. The photo taken outside yesterday afternoon, with the blood red sunset in their eyes and her with him smiling once again, that was the one missing.

I’m covering my tracks, don’t worry, I won’t return. I love you too much. But with me out of the picture you can restart with your family. I know we both ran here to escape ours but it’d be best. Go back to London Sherlock. Do something good.

Do something exciting.

Do it for you.

Sherlock was running now. There was only one airport near here, he needed to catch her plane.

I want to be remembered for being the girl with the bread. Don’t twist my memory into anything else. It would be my final wish.

Last rattles of a dying girl.

I have died in your life Sherlock, and it is the hardest thing I have ever done.

He exploded into the airport, frantically searching. What plane would she be on? Which one gets her out now?

I love you, I love your quirks, your intelligence, and everything you are. Take the violin, keep thinking. Find someone special. Find a best friend. Get married.
Live your life.

You are young, and you are loved. Nothing can stop you.

Forever yours and just a mystery,

(Y/n)

There was no plane bearing her in the airport. There was no way to reach her.

She was a mystery.

***

“I’m glad you have decided to move back home.” Mycroft smirked watching his younger brother tape up boxes in the now empty cottage.
“It’s only a temporary arrangement.”
“It always is with you.”
“Anything else Mycroft?” Sherlock asked sarcastically. Rage and sadness swirled in his eyes.
“Nothing at all, brother.”
Years later
He would search. Still. Quietly in the night there was the soft drabble of fingertips on keys. Searching and researching for anything relating to the girl who held to the key to the cottage in a small village of Scotland. Hours later he would grow with frustration and push the laptop away before placing the violin on his shoulder and playing. He was thinking.
As he developed different skills and tests in his intelligence he found that he made his own job. The one and only consulting detective.
That’s what he did to pass the time he honestly wasn’t really interested in money or people. It was just the constant gathering of information, the continued search for a girl. Most parents that lost their kid in abduction would have stopped looking after all those years. Sherlock was just a little more obsessive.
John was one of the more fate forced opportunities that helped Sherlock’s quest. To start it was just the thrill of fining another that enjoyed being in the line of fire and laughing at the bullets, but after the small mention of his sister, Harry, he was very, very intrigued.
On one fine Sunday, years before now, Sherlock had heard about a deranged alcoholic relative that called herself Harry from the woman he was searching for. John happened to be such relatives brother. The perfect way to find her.
But this connection took ages, the case of the Lady in Pink came and went. Sherlock conquered his greatest enemy, and committed suicide, of sorts. That’s the time he made connections, loops in his head, a map to her finding. All that time he was dead, all that time John pleaded for his return and all that time a desperate young woman cried over the last entry of Sherlock Holmes companion’s blog, he thought.
Months it took for a pissed war veteran to forgive Sherlock, and months were due to be paid, the bastard put John through a fair amount of shit. Then John got married and his wife turned evil and then Sherlock found it hard to wait any longer.
“John.”
“Yes?”
“Can I use your phone?”
“Are you texting a murderer?”
“No.”
“Planning to blow up London?”
“No.”
“Hacking into the Government?”
“John, I just want to make a call.” Sherlock eyed him over his hands, clasped in a tight gathering. His companion sighed and reached into his jeans pocket to reveal his phone. Looking at it once more fondly he tossed it to the other man and returned to typing.
The phone rang twice before the other line picked up.
“Hullo?”
“Harry, I presume. My name is Sherlock I’m your big brother’s work associate. I was wondering if you could give me the number of a relative of yours.” He spoke quickly and precisely as if it was a formal exchange. The other line scoffed a little before letting out a sigh that sounded exactly like John’s. John was watching curiously, if Sherlock needed a number he could have just asked.
“Who’s you want?”
“(y/n)”
“(y/n)? Why, I haven’t heard from her in years. I’ll get my address book.” The phone was left on a counter. Sherlock waited.
Patiently to start with, he waited.
Approximately five seconds later he grew impatient.
“John, tell me when she has it.” He tossed the phone at his friend and left the room. He walked to his; there was something he wanted to look at. Something he wanted to share with his best friend. Under his bed, by the small stack of old books, there sat a dusty old box. Just larger than a normal shoebox, cracked at the edges and generally black in colour the box had sat under his bed. It was waiting to be opened.
He dragged it out by his fingertips, ever so carefully as if it would crumble if he breathed too hard. The box remained intact however, all the way until he sat it on the kitchen table and took a seat.
“Here.” John said placing a slip of paper on the black box. He only then realised the fond smile Sherlock held for this bent box.
“John, can I show you something?” He asked looking away from the number he had quickly memorised.
“Of course.” He nodded taking a seat opposite him, “What is it?”
“Memories of mine.” Sherlock lifted the lid, “My favourite memories.”
John looked over the huge amount of Polaroid photographs inside the box. Carefully he removed one slowly as Sherlock was taking a great deal of care with these. He flipped it over and looked at the picture. There was a warm house, a fire behind a grate, and two people featuring. One was a very familiar girl. She had (colour) hair and shining eyes, she was smiling enormously as she sat on the lap of a younger version of the man watching his reaction.
Sherlock had his arms wrapped around her waist and his lips on her cheek. He grinned, there were crinkles by his eyes, and the intimacy of the whole photo made John smile fondly.
“Who was she?” He questioned softly. Sherlock met John’s ever changing eyes.
“The girl with the bread, my first mystery.” He explained before picking up the phone John placed by the box and the number.

“Did you solve it?”

“What?”

“Her mystery.”

“No.”