It Started With Stealing | Sherlock Holmes

93 - Trial Of The Century

"What sister?"

"Great question. Who?"

"Jim - "

"I'm thinking of another number..."

"Jim, are you lying? What do you mean 'sister'?"

"So many numbers to choose."

Rattled, she took a breath, "Fifteen?"

"Nope. Try again. Lower this time."

"Thirteen?"

"So close."

"Twelve?"

"Ding ding ding! I took you to New York. You loved it."

"I remember. You took me to Carnegie Hall."

"You had fun."

"I'm not having fun now."

Jim pouted, "This is life, Lizzie. Adulthood is often disappointing."

"Jim, please," She wanted to ask about this supposed sister but she knew that Jim was probably just messing with her, "Why the crown jewels? Why the prison and the bank?"

"Could ask you the same about the ban - "

"Jim. Answer my questions!" She snapped, slamming her hand on the table, eyes shining.

"Ooo there's the feisty girl I know," He growled playfully, "Rawr."

She inhaled. Once. Twice. Three times and looked away from him for a moment, "Why the bank, why the prison, why the crown jewels?"

"Why not?"

"Jesus..." She ran her hands over her face, unable to look at him.

"Lizzie, I'm King." He smiled, "They can't touch me, they can't get me."

Elizabeth laughed, looking around the room, "Really? Because it looks like they got you."

"Want to guess another number?"

"Oh, fuck off." Elizabeth pushed herself away from the table, chair legs screeching as she stood and walked over to the door again and knocked.

Jim chuckled as the door opened, "For the record it was eight!"

She walked out. The door shut.

"Eight months." He whispered to himself, "Eight months, Lizzie. I hope you're ready."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The thief was glad to be back at Baker Street and practically raced up the stairs. Sherlock and John were sat in their respective chairs, both reading newspapers with Moriarty on the headline.

"Any luck?" John asked as Elizabeth as he heard her enter the flat.

"No." She answered, throwing her bag down by the coat stand and rushing into the kitchen to make a passive-aggressive cup of tea, "He was being a prick as usual."

"What did he say?" Sherlock enquired.

"He wanted to play a guessing game. So he had me guess pointless numbers which still led me to no useful information."

No useful information, but certainly an unconfirmed rumour that continued to play on her mind. Did she really have family? Actual blood-related family? And if yes, how could she forget?

"What were the numbers?"

"Seven, twelve, eight. Nothing significant."

Sherlock nodded. He believed her.