Darkness Follows...(BBC Sherlock Fanfiction).

Prologue.

Darcy strolled through Trafalgar Square, her black trench coat billowed out behind her and her combat boots clomped every time her feet took a step forward.

She observed everything that was happening around her. People watching. Not letting anything pass her by.

Many people would think she was just your average, moody sixteen year old. Who walked through London with a distinctive obnoxious swagger.

But nobody knew what went on in her mind.

The care workers at the orphanage said she was different, the other kids called her 'freak' and potential parents were intimidated by her intellect. They made sure to steer clear of her, every time a new set came looking to adopt.

St Bartholomew's Home for Delightful Children. Yeah, the name would be accurate if the children that resided there were delightful in any sense. It was so called because of its close proximity to St Bart's Hospital and the supposed adorable children waiting to be taken into a lovely home.

Darcy reached up and adjusted the goggles, that sat on top of her head, to a more comfortable position. Her brown eyes fell on a group of teenagers, hanging around the bottom of Nelson's Column, she knew some of them lived in the home with her and some of the others left when they reached sixteen. Imbeciles, she thought and strutted past not even giving them a second glance.

With her hands tucked into the pockets of her black jeans, her coat was pinned behind her and showed the ashen grey shirt beneath. The darker clothes allowing her to blend where she didn't want to found.

Take now for instance, Darcy was attempting to run away from the orphanage so she didn't have to go to the halfway house with all the children who teased, bullied, beat her up on a daily basis.

She heard running footsteps behind her, no doubt those same kids looking to pick on her even more. So she picked up her pace through the London streets, swiftly avoiding the many business professionals and tourists bustling around her.

Turning the corner onto Lauriston Gardens, Darcy finally slowed down slightly and looked behind her to see the teens were stood there in a supposedly threatening group.

"Look who it is. The freak. Going to tell me everything I already know about myself?" The ring leader, Phil, said taking a step forward to appear threatening.

His height certainly wasn't threatening, he was only just taller than Darcy, despite being a year older than the sixteen year old, and he looked like he hadn't even brushed his hair that morning.

Just one glance at him told Darcy everything she needed to know and she rattled off the list of facts she'd read, an Irish lilt to her voice as she spoke, "Your mother left you at the age of five. I know, I remember from your file when I read it. And it's not cheating, I remember things. You left the home early this morning, probably to get an early drug fix. Judging by the fact you didn't brush your hair, you always style your hair it's your routine, and your bloodshot eyes. Equivalent to those of someone who's just taken cannabis of some kind. Well, am I right?"

She didn't get an answer, Phil clenched his fists and took to chasing her down instead. Violent behaviour, a sign of his drug abuse.

Making good use of the slight gap between them, Darcy sprinted off down the street.

The street lights flooded the empty street and highlighted the path for her. She stopped and decided to look for a place to hide instead, looking around frantically she noticed what appeared to be an abandoned house on the opposite side of the road.

"Oi! Get back here, freak!" She heard Phil shout after her. Drug use, doesn't really help with stamina. Chuckling to herself she crossed the road and just missed getting mowed down by a black cab before reaching the other side, she ran to the front door of the empty looking house.

Darcy turned back to see them halfway across the road and gaining on her, she weighed up the pros and cons of fighting back. The cons outweighed the pros, one thing: she was outnumbered and another thing: they could have been armed.

Sighing, she pushed the door and was surprised that it swung open. Smiling to herself, Darcy ran up the old fashioned stairs and tried the doors on the first floor. Locked. The door slammed downstairs, "Freak! Where are ya!?" He shouted and began ascending the stairs. Paranoia, another sign.

She sprinted up the second set of stairs and pulled herself along using the railings. "I'm going to find you! And when I do, I'll kill ya!" Agitated.

Suddenly, her face met the step at the top of the last set and it gave the gang a chance to catch up to her. Darcy willed herself to forget the pain from her forehead and clambered up from the top step, making her way to the closest door.

Open.

She turned the handle and opened the door, barging into the room. What she saw made her freeze on the spot, the only thing that made her move was a shove she received from behind, "Scared, freak?" He commented and then stood, stunned into silence.

A woman. Laid on the floor. Dead, it seemed. Dressed in an alarming shade of pink. Media. Obvious, judging by that colour.

Darcy was pulled from the room by strong hands. Phil. "Get off of me! You idiot!" She shouted and he tightened his grip around her waist.

"No way! We are not getting caught at the scene of the crime by the police." He dragged her down the stairs and dropped her when they reached the bottom.

Her brow furrowed, "Police? Who called the police?" She asked the gang convened at the entryway to the house.

"Tubby did." Phil replied and a chubbier boy at the back waved his phone at her.

She sighed and turned to leave, "How long before they-" She began but was interrupted by the loud wailing of police sirens and blue flashing lights that illuminated through the dusted windows.

The gang rushed past her to get away and left her stood in the door.

Too late to run. Time to face the music.

~~~~

Disclaimer- I don't own any of the characters, except Darcy or any of my own characters I create. All rights to those characters belong to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.