Hi, everyone. I just wanted to post this here to let you know that I am still working on How to Save a Life, but the chapter I'm working on is being difficult. I do want to let all of you who are following it know that I haven't forgotten about it or abandoned it. I'm posting today something I wrote up really quick several months ago, which I have vague plans of making part of series. I know it's not the next chapter for HtSaL, but I'm hoping you enjoy it anyway.

Thanks again for all the support, and I will try to do better about updating and posting regularly.

-GhostWriter030791

She rolled her eyes at the man. "Dude. You've picked the wrong girl to use as leverage."

He frowned at her, thrown off by her lack of concern about the situation she was in. "You don't think your family will pay to have you returned safely?"

She laughed, flinging blonde hair behind one shoulder. "Not a chance."

She looked the man in the eye, staring at him from behind the bars of the cell he was keeping her in. "My godmother's late husband used to run a drug cartel in America."

"Surely she's got money set aside to ransom her precious goddaughter."

Blue eyes crinkled in amusement. "I'm sure she does. Do you know what she also has?"

The man leaned forward in his chair, entertained and amused by the fearless young woman. "What?"

"She has connections." White teeth reflected in the dim light as she smiled. "While her husband was out selling drugs, buying women, and committing a number of unimaginative crimes, she was at home. Typing. Occasionally exotic dancing. And feeding all the lackeys, dealers, accountants, dirty cops, and drug lords who happened to show up."

"Your point?"

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "That my harmless, elderly godmother who mothers the hell out of everyone she comes in contact with has a rolodex of dangerous men and women who will do anything she asks them to because she was kind to them. Men and women who will move heaven and earth for her just because she fed them and fussed over them anytime they came to her home instead of treating them like expendable cogs in a machine."

"My godsister is pretty scary when she wants to be," she said nonchalantly as she scraped dirt and grime from underneath her fingernails.

The man looked up from the computer he was looking at and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

She didn't even deign to look up at him. "She's really my other godmother but since she's closer to my age, she's always been more of an older sister. So, I call her my godsister."

"Let me guess, she runs a mafia in Germany somewhere?"

The girl just looked up at him with an expression that made it clear how smart she thought he was. "Of course not. She's a medical examiner for the city of London."

He hitched a shoulder. "And that should scare me?"

The girl mimicked his movements. "Just saying, identification measures are only as good as the records you keep and the people you know."

He frowned at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She looked at him head on then, and it was then he noticed a light dusting of freckles across her nose, just under the black eye he'd given her when he'd taken her.

"It was just an observation. For instance, if you are the person who keeps the records and you know the people who are supposed to keep someone alive after, say, you find that someone has kidnapped and beaten a close, personal friend of yours, what are the odds that person stays alive?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "That would be murder. I think even our corrupt government would find it in their power to convict a medical examiner who is involved in the murder of a hypothetical kidnapping suspect."

She smiled sweetly. "In a court of law, it only matters what you can prove. If you are the medical examiner, the one who fills out the paperwork, and you are good at your job…how hard would it be to convince people this hypothetical kidnapper's death was an accident? After all, accidents happen all the time."

After completing another phone call to the police, demanding payment in return for the young woman he had in the cell across from him, he looked up at her. "The police only have twelve more hours to meet my demands before I am forced to kill you."

She leaned against the bars, stretching her feet out as far as they could go. She reminded him of a cat he'd had as a kid.

"You should just call my uncle. He's the chief inspector of Scotland Yard."

The man blinked at her. "Really?"

She pulled a loose string off her sweater and flicked it away casually, with no concern for the predicament she was in. "Well, mostly. He's not my uncle in the strictest sense, but he's been there my whole life. He fills in the hole where a typical uncle would totally go in a young girl's life. Totally by the book, straight as an arrow kind of guy," she flicked her eyes over to him. "'Course, he's had his moments."

"Let me guess, he's highly protective of you as well as is going to call down a hailstorm of special forces and military personnel to deal with me?"

She tilted her head. "He is and he might. However, that's not really his style."

"And what is his style, if I might ask?"

"He's more subtle. He started off on the drugs squad. Later moved into robbery, then homicide, then moved his way up the ranks. He was detective inspector, and then held a number of positions before being promoted to chief. He's kind, generous, and popular with people on both sides of the law."

"He'll have to find me first."

She shook her head. "You don't get it. My uncle knows people, who know people, who owe favors, who know more people, who know how to get things done. He knows the people on the drugs squad, special victims, homicide, as well as the usual amount of lowlifes, drug addicts, drunks, bartenders, beat cops, and anyone else who may or may not know something. He's even got a handful of clichéd informers who'll basically bend over backwards to stay on his good side."

"You're saying the chief inspector of Scotland yard will manipulate the foundations of this great city to find me? Unlikely."

She looked at him firmly. "I just think you should be asking yourself: were you as careful with your planning of this magnificent crime as you should have been? Are you one hundred percent sure no one else has any information that can lead the police to your spectacular little hideout here? Are you completely above suspicion, or have you made mistakes?"

He tapped his foot, waiting for the phone to ring with the police response to his demands. The girl had been quiet for a while, arms wrapped around her knees. His boss had come and gone, and was not happy with the circumstances.

When he glanced over, she was staring at his face.

"What?" he snapped.

She grinned. "Just thinking about how that guy does not like it when things don't go according to plan."

He narrowed his eyes at her and stood up, pacing. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but I do. I have an uncle. Again, sort of. He's my godfather's older brother. He's totally introverted and anti-social. He has no attachment to anyone. Except maybe me and his brother. It's not really attachment though. More like…vague fondness and loyalty to his parents who made him promise not to kill his brother."

"Sounds like a swell guy," the man said sarcastically.

"He is, when he's in the mood. He's very meticulous. He holds a minor, but important position in the British government. Actually," she tilted her head. "I'm not entirely sure what he does for the government. Something with a lot of planning."

He sneered at her. "Hate to break it to you, doll face, but the government doesn't do anything but plan. They don't actually put any of those plans in motion."

"Oh, but you see, my uncle does. That's a part of his job I am fully aware of. His job is to make sure that plans actually happen. And he has a lot of resources. Once, my dog escaped the yard, and I called my uncle to see if he could help. He used the CCTV cameras in my area to find him."

"Nice to know the tax payer's money is being spent well, finding dogs for the nieces of government officials."

"I doubt it cost them all that much. It was only about three minutes."

The man stalked over to her cage. "There were still steps he had to take. Unless he literally works with the CCTV cameras, he had to talk to people, get approval, or at the very least find a hacker. That takes time. He might have found the dog within about three minutes, but I'm sure it took him longer to get into the system."

"You misunderstood me. It wasn't three minutes in the system, it was three minutes from my initial call."

The man gaped at her. "You're saying your uncle made one phone call and the folks who run the surveillance systems of the whole country dropped everything to find a dog?"

She quirked an eyebrow and ran her hands over her jeans. "I'm pretty sure he texted. As I recall, he was in a meeting that day." When the man said nothing, she just gave him a knowing look. "If it took him only about three minutes to find a lost dog with a text message, how long do you think it'll take him to find someone important when he really puts his mind to it?"

The man turned to stalk out of the room, before he shut the door, he heard her call out.

"By the way, he doesn't work in the surveillance department at all."

At the four hour mark, the man started to get nervous. His boss had sent him back in to stay close to the girl. It had become apparent that at least some of what she'd been telling him was true. The woman had a truly frightening family backstory that was just starting to unravel. It wasn't the first time he'd questioned whether his employer knew what he was doing, but it was the first time he'd begun to wonder if maybe they were in over their head.

"Do you know who the most dangerous person I know is?" she asked.

The man glanced at her, and continued his pacing of the small room. Short of going in and duct taping her mouth shut, he couldn't stop her from talking. He'd been forbidden to touch her since he'd been forced to hit her to subdue her the previous evening. His employer had not been impressed. He'd wanted her without so much as a scratch.

"It's my dad," she supplied to him when he didn't answer her.

"Really?" he responded, against his better judgment. "How so?"

"He's ex-military. Formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Army," the man muttered to himself. "Awesome."

"He's an army doctor, too. That makes him even more dangerous."

He turned to look at her. "Doctors are taught to heal, not to harm."

She snickered at him. "My dad has a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes, is a combat veteran, and I am the only family he has left. My mother died when I was a little under a year old, his parents died a few years ago, and last year his sister was killed in a car accident. You literally just kidnapped and held as hostage the one person who forces him out of bed in the morning. Are you starting to figure out just how screwed you are yet?"

The man began pacing again. "Daughters usually have unrealistic expectations on the abilities of their fathers. What makes you think he's as dangerous as you say."

Her converse tapped gently against the bars of the cell she was in, a rhythm only she could understand. "Like you pointed out, doctors are trained to heal, not harm. But in order to heal, you have to understand the pain. And being an army doctor in the Royal Medical Corps? That just means he's got nerves of steel and is acclimatized to violence. It means he'll be able to keep you alive while he breaks every bone in your body as he categorically names them."

The man had left the cell again when an alarm began going off somewhere in the distance. When he came back, she was standing up against the bars of the cell with her hands dangling casually between the bars. He stared at her as he slammed the door shut and picked up his pistol off the table.

In the twenty-four hours he'd had her, she hadn't been given water, food, or allowed to sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. She hadn't been let out of the cell either, the small built in toilet her only option. She should have started breaking down by then. Instead, she smiled at him, as if she wasn't the one locked in a cell.

Gunshots sounded in the distance, and her smile grew bigger. "Did I tell you about my godfather yet?"

The man glared at her. "I just spoke to your godfather about an hour ago. He's a total psychopath."

She shook her head. "High-functioning sociopath, but it's a common mistake."

He undid the safety on the gun and stalked towards her. "What the hell difference does it make?"

"Well," she began, looking thoughtful. "A psychopath is characterized by violent social behavior. A sociopath is characterized more by extreme antisocial behaviors and a lock of a conscience. That means he really won't lose any sleep about what he's going to do to you."

"Did you swallow the Oxford Dictionary when you were a kid?" the man asked, looking nervously at the door as another round of erratic gunfire sounded outside the door, closer than before.

She shrugged. "My godfather has an extensive vocabulary. I spend a lot of time with him, seeing as he's my dad's best friend. I've picked up a lot of his words and I know how to use them."

"If he's antisocial, how did he get a best friend? "he asked absently putting his back to the wall so he could watch the door and the cell at the same time.

"It's a long story, the end result being that the few friends he does have are extremely important to him. He's very protective. He couldn't care less about ordinary people. They don't even really register as a blip on his radar. In fact, I don't think he even notices them unless they are forcefully in his face. Like you."

More gunfire and shouting, and the man adjusted his grip nervously. "Right."

"Remember I told you my mom died when I was a baby?"

The man nodded, gaze firmly fixed on the wall. He honestly didn't know why he was even still listening to her.

"She died saving his life."

The man whipped towards her as her voice came from just behind his shoulder. He jerked in surprise and fired his pistol at her.

The only sound was the gun clicking uselessly. She smiled sweetly, and then faster than he would have thought possible for a young girl under mental and physical stress, reached up and slammed her hands against his ears.

Using his weight, she flipped him over and slammed him into the ground. Stunned and with his ears ringing, he could still hear the sound a magazine being inserted into the pistol. When the stars faded from his vision, and he could focus again, he saw himself looking down the barrel of his own gun, hard blue eyes staring at him.

"My mother died to save him, and in doing so she conferred a value on his life. He decided to spend that currency by protecting me. That started with teaching me to protect myself. I've been able to pick locks and get out of small spaces since I was five. I've had hand to hand combat since I was seven. And as for weapons training?" she shook the gun pointedly at him. "My dad is army. My uncle is a cop. My godmother was in a drug cartel. I've been handling weapons since I was old enough to lift one."

He coughed at her, and she put a foot down on his chest. The sweet smile she'd had the whole time she'd been his prisoner was gone, replaced by a small grin that made him think she knew exactly how to use the pistol in her hand, and had no problems doing so.

"I can't wait until my godfather gets a hold of you. He loves kidnappers."

"Let me guess. He's going to kill me."

She shook her head. "Don't be ridiculous. You've threatened the one person he's devoted his life to protecting in order to repay her mother. You've threated the daughter of his first and best friend. You've come to his town and caused mayhem, havoc, and disorder. He's not going to kill you. He's going to make your life miserable. And he's got the ability to hold a grudge, the patience, and the resources to do so."

He was sitting alone in a prison cell separated from the other inmates when she walked in. She'd changed her clothes, having replaced her dirty jeans, tee shirt, and converse with a dark pencil skirt, burgundy blouse, and black heels. Her blonde hair was pinned up in a professional bun on top of her head, her makeup and jewelry were tastefully and expensively done, and her blue eyes looked back at him from dark rimmed glasses.

She looked good. Last he'd seen her she was tired and dirty; now she looked like the daughter of a wealthy individual he'd been told she was.

Now, she looked dangerous.

She smiled, pulled out a chair and sat down gracefully, crossing one leg over the other. "Well, this is familiar, isn't it?"

He could see the irony in their positions, and he kept his mouth shut, looking pointedly at the wall across from him.

She sighed, as if she were dealing with a difficult child. "Really? The silent treatment? That's a bit beneath you, isn't it?"

He glanced towards her and then back to the wall. "Is it?"

"For a former member of the Los Angeles Police Department? Yeah, I should think so."

That got his attention, and he turned to look at her fully then. "How did you find that out?"

She frowned at him. "Were you really not listening to anything I had to say? I have resources and ways of finding things out with a minimal amount of effort. Honestly, I saw your test scores from school and the police academy. I thought I was dealing with someone smarter than this."

He pinched his lips and turned away from her again. She sighed.

"Mr. Andrews," she said gently. "I know what they did to you."

He flinched at the name he hadn't heard in almost ten years. Apparently, it still belonged to him. "You don't know anything," he muttered.

Her face was calm, sympathetic, and gentle. Still, there was no sign of pity. "I know that they killed your wife. I know that they kidnapped your daughter. I know that you changed your name, your lifestyle, and your whole world in order to infiltrate their organization. I know about the cargo that you've sabotaged, the bosses and dealers who have ended up in police custody under suspicious circumstances. I know about the children who have found their way back to their parents, and the truly awful people who have ended up at the bottom of a river or with a bullet in their brain." She paused for a moment. "I know about the sister who is still waiting for you to come home."

He whipped his head around to look at her. "You don't…"

"I know her name is Marigold," she said just loud enough to cut him off. "You used to call her MJ, because her middle name is Jean, and even though she hates that nickname, she only allows you to call her that. I know she used to call you Jaimie, and that you practically raised her when your parents died. I know she begged you not to go when you did, but instead of letting other families go through the pain and suffering you did, you left what was left of your world behind and chose to channel your pain into destroying to organization that took your wife and daughter from you from the inside out."

"How do you know all that?" he whispered. "No one knows."

"Mycroft Holmes knows."

James blinked at her. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She rolled her eyes at him. "You do. He promised to look out for your sister while you were dismantling this organization and doing other small jobs for him. I know you worked with him years ago, when he was dealing with the CIA. I know he was the first person you went to when your family was taken from you. Several years ago, Mycroft sent his little brother to your little sister to recover after a job went bad. His little brother became attached, and she became one of the few people he cares about."

"And Mycroft just gave you all this information?" James asked sardonically. "Who are you that he would trust my entire life's story with?"

"His niece. Sort of. " James blinked at her, and she smiled. "Remember the uncle I told you about that occupies a minor position in the British government? It's Mycroft Holmes. His younger brother, my godfather, is Sherlock Holmes."

"Your family is part of the Holmes family?" he asked weakly.

She smiled, back to friendly. "Yeah. My mother saved Sherlock's life. My father is Sherlock's best friend."

"And Mycroft would do anything for Sherlock."

"Like you would do anything for Marigold."

He nodded, then looked at her again. "No wonder you were able to surprise me. Not many people can sneak up on me like you did."

She smiled proudly. "I saw your file afterwards. I'm shocked I was able to surprise you at all."

James stood up from where he was seated and approached the cell door. "Why are you here?"

She stood up as well, taking a step towards him. "Mycroft says it's time to come in."

James shook his head. "He knows I can't…"

"He said that's exactly what you would say. He said to tell you that with the information you have, the things you know, they can finish taking down the organization. You can step back and take an advisory position now, rather than an active one."

"I still need to find…"

"Ansom. Mycroft knows. But other people can go in now. Your fight is done. It's time to go home, Mr. Andrews. It's time to let someone else take up this fight."

James sighed at her emphasis on the word "home". "I knew I couldn't go back after the things I committed to. I've hurt people. Innocent people in order to show loyalty to the organization. He should just send me back."

"So you can get yourself killed?" she asked, laying a hand on the bars of the cell. "Mr. Andrews, what about Marigold?"

"She already thinks I'm dead. Let it stay that way. Better than to know the things I've done."

The room was silent for a moment, before she said quietly. "You aren't a bad person, Mr. Andrews."

He glanced at her, unconvinced. "You don't know the things I've done."

"I saw your file. I know what you were ordered to do to me if the ransom wasn't paid. I know that you could have hurt me during our time together. All you did was give me a light bruise in the initial kidnapping."

"Exactly." James protested. "I kidnapped you."

"But you didn't hurt me," she insisted. "I know what you could have done. Realistically I know what you should have done. And Mycroft knows those things too. You might have had to do a lot of things to survive, to fight against those who would hurt others like they hurt you, but you aren't a bad person. Damaged, yes. But not evil."

James looked up at the young woman, and could see in her eyes she believed everything she was saying. "Mycroft can get me out?" he whispered, the feeling of hope in his chest starting to kindle after being crushed for so many years.

"For looking out for me, as best you could? Mycroft is sending you home."

James was silent for a moment, before he nodded quickly. "Tell him I'll tell him anything he wants to know."

Her smile was blinding, and she quickly turned to head towards the door. She was almost gone when he called out to her.

"I don't even know your name. What if I needed to contact you or Mycroft again."

She brushed a strand of hair out of her face and smiled, leaning on the door frame. "My name is Rosamund Mary Watson. And if you ever need help, there is always a place for you."

He frowned at her. "Where's that?"

She smirked at him. "221B Baker Street, of course. Ask for Sherlock. Tell him Rosie sent you."