Sherlock's Daughter: Fallen

Carry On

The Juice - Hero

Send Them Off! - Bastille

---

"Here we are." Bren gestures to the worn down building that's about a 40 minute walk from 221B.

"Damn, there's a drug house this close to 221B and my dad doesn't know about it?" I raise an eyebrow. Then it hits me, "Oh never mind. " He knows about it. "Hey Bren, I have a question."

"Shoot." Bren asks as he slowly approaches the door.

"Do you ever have people that come here to do drugs?" I try to piece together my theory.

"Yeah, the second floor. We get a bunch a people who just want a place to get high. We sell, they use." Brendon shrugs as he opens the squeaky door. "Hello?" His rich voice carries through the floor. "I don't think anyone is here for now."

I quickly grab the gun out of my bag and take it off safety.

"Fuck, Holmes, what's that about!?" Brendon almost jumps at the sight of the gun.

"You never know." I reply. We go exploring for a bit, just to see if anyone is on the floor.

"Okay, his office is at the back of the building." Brendon guides me down the dirt filled corridors. In each of the rooms there are pounds of cocaine, weed, I even catch a glimpse at several bags of crack and some bottles of heroin and morphine.

"Brendon, how much of this stuff is here?" I ask in amazement.

"I don't know. Probably two million worth." Brendon nonchalantly replies.

I almost drop the gun, "Fuck, Bren, that's a lot."

"No shit Sherlock." Brendon smirks at me and I gently hit him in the shin.

"Shut up!" I stifle a laugh.

"Here it is." The door is oddly cleaner than any other door. Brendon knocks gently. No answer. "Back up." Brendon shuffles me back from the door as he run and kicks it.

I roll my eyes, "Was that really needed Brendon. Come on. Someone is going to know we were in here."

"Dude, they won't know it's us. He doesn't keep cameras in here because he doesn't want the police being able to have video evidence of him in this building if he is ever caught selling." Brendon explains.

I shrug, "Sounds fake, but okay."

I go through the drawers until I find a black notebook. I open it to see delivery and ship dates. Also, it has who is delivering them and how much they got paid. "Wow, he's pretty organized."

"How do you think he got to be so famous? You can't sell internationally without being good at what you do." Brendon sits on his desk.

I snap pictures of the pages and slip the notebook back where it was.

"Okay, let's go." I shut the drawer and we begin to walk out. "This was way too easy. I've been in conversations that were harder to get out of."

"Well, you got what you wanted, so let's go." Brendon pushes me through the door.

As we walk back I begin to look at the pictures. "Dude, Brendon, Ryan sells to Russia."

"And...?" Brendon seems confused on why that's a big deal.

"RUSSIA. BRENDON. RUSSIA. Do you think Putin smokes weed?" I joke as we try to walk together through the crowd.

"Where do you get these ideas?" Brendon laughs.

"Great question." I shrug.

"Oh my god." I stop instantly, causing Brendon to walk on without me before realizing it and running back.

"What?" Brendon grabs the phone from my paralyzed hands. "No fucking way."

"Jensen went to Paris." I stand there dumbfounded. "Is he alive there? Was he beat up before he went?"

"Well, lemme see..." Brendon looks closer, "The order was never marked as delivered. Jensen never got paid either. So my guess is that he didn't make it to Paris. If he did, he ended up not making the deal. Or he was killed after he made the deal so the gang didn't have to pay."

I look up at Brendon, "Do you honestly think telling me my best friend was killed in a drug deal was the best thing to say to me right now?" I slap him on the back of the head, "I am living in a world full of idiots." I grumble before walking off.

---

"We aren't going to Paris anytime soon are we?" I ask John as I sit down with a cup of hot tea.

John raises an eyebrow and looks up from his paper, "Why would we be looking into going to Paris?"

I shrug, "Fashion?" It sounds more like a question than an answer, but I hope John buys it.

"Soph, you have never expressed any interest in fashion." John chuckles "What's the real reason you want to go to Paris?"

I sigh, leading John and Sherlock to believe I am confessing, "I want to go because one of my friends keeps going on and on about how perfect it was, and I want to see it for myself. All the history." I keep up my facade, hoping it works.

"I don't think we can do it, Soph, not right now." John gives me a sympathetic look. I try to look understanding.

"Okay!" I smile before sipping some tea and making my way up to my room.

Once I get up to my dimly lit room, I pull out of sticker covered MacBook and begin searching EuroStar tickets. One ticket, there and back is 104 pounds. There's a hotel, Est Hotel, for 56 pounds a night. I'm assuming I would be there for 3-4 days. 224 pounds. Dammit, there's no way I can make that much that quickly. I scroll through my mind to figure out the perfect way. Unless.... I pick up my phone and swiftly dial Brendon.

"Hello?" His voice rather awake, normally at this point he's high.

"Hey Bren, you sober?" I almost laugh.

"Yeah, my sister is coming home from Uni today so I figured I should stay sober for her." Brendon explains, even though he doesn't seem to excited about it. I decide not to pry anymore.

"So...how do you feel about Paris?" I bite my lip, waiting for Brendon's answer.

"Sop-No. No,no,no,no,no,no, and no. You can't go after him! You might as well forget about him. If he was killed, we'll never find any evidence, if he ran away - well, he certainly won't leave any tracks." Brendon protests.

"Bren, come on! It'll be fun. It's only about 400 pounds between the two of us. You pay 200, I pay 200." I say the last part quickly, knowing Brendon will object even more once he finds out the price.

"200 POUNDS?!" Brendon nearly screams, "Soph, I need the money I have for the future."

"Yes, says the drug dealer," I sigh, "Bren, you make like 20 pounds off of one deal!"

"Soph, I'm not going. That's the end of the story." Brendon's voice sounds irritated and tired.

"Okay, please just think about it!? I'm going alone if you don't go." I warn him.

There is silence on the other line for a minute, "Sophie, I'll think about it, but while I'm thinking about it please don't do anything rash."

"Won't make any promise! Bye, Bren!" I say goodbye

"Bye, Soph." Brendon hangs up.

Still doesn't change the fact that I don't have any money.

But who the fuck cares, I'm going to Paris.