Brilliant {A BBC Sherlock Fanfic}

Coincidences Don't Exist

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX: COINCIDENCES DON'T EXIST

Thirteen days, seven hours, and fifty two minutes. That was how long Amelia had been missing, and how long Sherlock had been searching for her. They’d almost given up all hope. If there was one thing Moriarty was good at, it was making people disappear. Especially when he had an attachment to the person he was hiding.

Sherlock sipped his bitter coffee, the two sugars only taking the edge off. Every drink reminded him of Amelia, as he recalled she liked her coffee the same way. The memory pained him, and he set his coffee to the side.

“Morning,” said John as he walked into the kitchen. The two of them had eliminated the “good” from their usual greeting; every morning now a bad one since Amelia had disappeared. John grunted as Sherlock remained silent, walking to his seat across from the detective and sitting down. “Sherlock,” John started, “you have to realize that Amelia—”

“Stop it.” Sherlock growled in fury, jumping to his feet, his coffee long forgotten.

Until Amelia had gotten kidnapped, John hadn’t realised how fond Sherlock was of his younger sister. Sherlock was the only one out of John, Mycroft, Lestrade, and all of MI6 who still had hope that Amelia was still safe and alive.

“Did you two ever…um…” John made a provocative gesture using three fingers.

Sherlock stared at him, appalled. “That is none of your business.” He said firmly, standing abruptly and storming to the bathroom. He reached for his comb which typically sat on the counter, frowning when he realised it wasn’t there.

Now where could the bloody thing have run off to? Sherlock asked silently, surprised at how much he was starting to sound like Amelia. He dismissed the thought with quick shake of his head, his unruly locks covering one eye—something that Amelia often teased him about.

He bit his lip as pain shot through his heart, unused to feeling emotions such as this. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d define his and Amelia’s relationship as both of them had never been in such a situation. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet, continuing his search for his comb. He was sure that if he asked politely, John would let Sherlock use his, but Sherlock would much rather look for the comb than be polite and ask.

Sherlock sighed as the medicine cabinet turned up empty, turning to search under the sink. He pushed various lotions and shampoos out of the way, stiffening when he came across Amelia’s vanilla scented shampoo, the smell wafting up his nose.

He took it out gingerly, uncapping it and inhaling the spicy-sweet scent. He blinked twice as he noticed a small pill bottle cleverly hidden in between several other bottles, only visible now that Sherlock had removed Amelia’s shampoo. He reached into the space under the sink, pulling out the bottle.

AMELIA L. WATSON

221B BAKER STREET WESTMINSTER W1U 6XE

VORTIOXETINE 0.5MG TABLETS

TAKE 1 TABLET BY MOUTH

UP TO THREE TIMES DAILY

EXPIRATION DATE 17/01/11

January 17th, 2011. That was last year. Sherlock observed, turning over the half-empty pill bottle in his hand.

“John,” Sherlock called out for the doctor, not recognising the name of the medication, “what’s this?”

“Sherlock, you’re thirty three for God’s sake and a genius. Figure it out yourself!” John shouted back but reluctantly got up and walked to the bathroom, snapping a loud, “What?!”