You Can't Choose Your Friends

Don't

John was calling again. I press ignore. Sherlock knocks on my door. I don't say come in. Everyone cares, but the only person that mattered couldn't. It was almost painful to speak. I couldn't cry. My time was wasted by staring at the ceiling and making up scenarios in my head. They all involve Drew coming back.

Apparently John and Sherlock were done with my silence because my door swung open, two paper clips in the lock. John looks at me and sighs, instantly picking over how I haven't eaten in three weeks. I haven't consumed much other than coffee. Sherlock looks disgusted at how bare my room is, other than the growing pile of dirty clothed on the floor.

"The social worker came back today. He didn't appreciate that you ran away last week." John scolds, "Molly dropped by with some food yesterday."

"The only time I've seen her is when she takes a shower John." Sherlock whispers, "I'm worried."

"You should be." John doesn't even bother whispering. "Alison, you have to find a family."

"No." I shake my head, "I would rather die. In fact, I've tried."

"What?" John shouts.

"Lestrade bolted the windows." Sherlock points out.

"Jesus, Alley." John sits next to me, "It's only been a week."

"Don't care." I lift myself off the bed and grab my phone, texting Drew again. I text mom. I text dad. No one responds. My finger hovers over my last contact. Maybe I should call Mrs. Turner. I decide against it. What's the point anyways? She's probably happy. She doesn't need to know about Drew yet.

"I've decided to let the social worker in from now on." Sherlock says suddenly, "You're dying in here and you need to find someone who-"

"Cares?" I finish his sentence.

"I was going to say take care of you."

"Well, that's going to be almost as hard as finding someone who cares." I look out the window, imagining my body broken on the ground, blood spooling out of my head and my arm broken. What a morbid thing to think about on a Saturday.

"God, Sherlock, just tell her." John rolls his eyes.

"I've decided... just maybe... I could take care of you?" Sherlock presses his lips together in a thin line.

"If you want." I look away from him, "But I wouldn't get too-" a knock at the door interrupts me. The three of us (I'm curious) walk out. It's a man standing with my social worker.

"Hello." John greets, "You were here earlier."

"I found someone that wants the little- I mean Alley." He tries not to insult me with a potential buyer around.

"I'm afraid he can't have her." Sherlock looks at the man with disdain, "I would like to adopt Alley."

"But he's signed the papers and all the legal work is done." Brian smirks, "She's his."

"I'm not coming with that guy." I take a few panicked steps back and fall into Sherlock, who pushes me behind him, sensing my uneasiness. The guys looks oddly familiar. Until I realize it. "Moran." I whisper, "Get him the hell away from me." Moriartys sniper sighs deeply before gently pushing his gun into Johns back. Sherlock reaches for a gun in his coat pocket and aims it at Moran.

"Leave. Now." He order Brian, "And call the police." Brian's on it already.

"Hello?" He says, exiting the flat. I stand in front of Sherlock and walk over to Moran, hoping to god he won't hurt John. He was my guard when I was being tortured by James. James.