A/N:
It's here!
Hello if you've come over from ISWS 1 and if you have jumped onto the ride before ISWS 1 HALT!
Highly recommend you go back and read the first book first for the sake of continuity (is that the right word? I cba to Google it right now but we move).

Um, I've been away for a lil while and my notifs have been off which is why I haven't always replied straight away to any messages (apologies). I've just needed some times away from social media and whatnot.

This book, like all the othersss, will have slow updates. Just the way it is. I may not always have the time (or the writery motivation) I need to write so there won't be a specific schedule either.

Now that we have established that...how are you guys? You all doing well and taking care of yourselves? I hope everything is going good for you all and if it isn't, then I hope things get better for you soon ❤

Without further ado, welcome to:
It Started With Stealing Again

Dedicated to
Our Mrs Hudson
Una Stubbs
R.I.P
❤
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Date: August 13th, 2012

8 months & 23 days since 'The Fall'

Location: Yahnaba, Nava Siasa

Nava Siasa [Nah-vah See-ah-sah] is a small, land-locked desert country situated in the middle of and bordering the countries of Saudi Arabia, Yemen and Oman.

Yahnaba is the capital city.

Siasans speak Arabic as their first language.

The country is plagued with a civil war stemming from the assassination of the country's previous leader. Many people and places struggle with famine and outbreaks of disease, especially due to insurgent forces forcefully claiming farmland and orchestrating terror attacks in the hopes of asserting authority over the country themselves.

The heat hummed as the sun rose into the clear sky that morning. A gecko scurried across the scalding, shabby sandstone walls in search of shade, it's little setae pitter-pattering as it went.

It paused under a window ledge, pressing, squeezing itself into the slim dark line, pausing, enjoying the slightly cooler spot.

The shrieky, sharp opening of the window's curtains sent it rushing away again.

Sherlock squinted as the sunlight caught his eyes, the heat of the sun determined to draw more sweat from his already clammy skin. Few people lingered in the alley far below him. One covered in a dark headscarf sat against the wall, pressing herself into the shade, desperate not to feel the crawling heat for as long as possible for she knew the sun would inevitably chase away the sharp blade of coolness she was sat in.

He turned away from the window, moving back into the apartment, away from the light and back into the shadows. Approaching his single, low, wooden bed, he picked up his white thobe and threw it over his body before affixing his litham veil to his head. It was best if those in public here didn't know who he was. It made his operation easier and kept it covert. While the heat was unbearable, he knew blending in with the population meant life or death.

Hurriedly doing up the buttons of the thobe, he crossed the room to the tatty table that made up his 'kitchen' (which was just the table, some utensils, a tiny cupboard and a dish of water - the water of which he had to fetch from the local well everyday). A note lay there and his eyes scanned the Arabic, quickly deciphering the message: a terror attack would take place later in the week thanks to the late Moriarty's supply of weapons to a cell that operated within his network.

All he had to do was find the cell and then stop it by informing the local government of where they were.

Easier said than done but he was Sherlock Holmes after all.

Having completed this process in various countries since the death of Moriarty and Elizabeth, and the faux death of himself, he was confident in his methods. So far, he knew there would be an 'info drop' by the market today.

He snatched the note up off the surface, crumpling it carelessly, ready to throw in his nonexistent bin. Sighing, he stuffed it in his pocket, approached the door of his flat and paused to throw a look back at her as he grabbed his worn satchel bag off the makeshift hook beside the door.

Stood in the corner, unaffected by the shadow, there his Elizabeth stood, clear as day and still dressed in a black catsuit. Her head tilted to the side which gave her that familiar cat-like curiosity, her wispy brown hair flowed over her shoulder and a soft, loving smile sat upon her face. This image of her, the echo of her that existed in his Mind Palace was the one constant that kept him going through these tumultuous, unpredictable months.

Just another day in the little ol' country of Nava Siasa then?

"Yes." Sherlock nodded once, "Just another scorching day in the city of Yahnaba."

* * * * * *

The detective made his way down the carefully constructed stone staircase, the architecture never failing to amaze his late, imaginary follower whose face he envisaged would light up in that way it had always done: her eyebrows raising so much so that her brow had soft creases in it, her gem-like eyes widened with a sparkle of awe, lips parted only just, releasing a whisper of admiration. Almost nine months later and he was still searching for his knowingly deceased partner, longing for her presence and persisting in keeping her alive and active in his thoughts. Perhaps it wasn't healthy but it wasn't hurting anyone (he didn't count himself).

"Mr Ashby?" Enquired a voice from outside, "Are you ready to leave?"

Sherlock stared at her as she remained on the staircase, looking down at him expectantly. Sometimes he just couldn't take his eyed off her, afraid his imagination would only hold onto her image for so long. Behind him, a head peered into the doorway in search of the detective.

"Mr Ashby? Are you alright?"

He blinked her away and nodded, turning to face the man, "Salim, we'll be heading to the market today."

"Yes, Mr Ashby." The young soldier nodded as he waited for Sherlock to join him by his side. Once he was out of the building, Salim offered the detective an ear piece, "They are old, but should still work well"

Sherlock nodded, taking it and promptly slipping it under his litham, affixing it to his ear.

"Nice place, the market." Salim said as they walked towards the army vehicle he had arrived in, "One place where people have silently agreed not to cause trouble."

"I wonder how long they'll continue that for." Sherlock responded bluntly.

He squinted as the sunlight caught his eyes again as they headed out into the street where others were just starting to appear from their homes, quiet and prepared for an attack at any moment. Living life under a constant fear of death or gruesome injury was never good for anyone, mentally or physically. His heart ached with helplessness.

"Do you always speak so negatively, Mr Ashby?"

"I'm not being negative, Salim. I'm being realistic. A silent agreement is unlikely to last long for there will always be someone more desperate or angrier or more frustrated than the rest."

"Well...it hasn't happened yet." The young soldier argued.

"No. But perhaps soon it will."

* * * * * *

Little stalls made from recycled wood; rotting crates filled just barely half way with what food one could spare to sell; makeshift, ragged roofs made by rags sparsely stitched together to smack the hot hands of the sun away from the food and to provide some relief from the heat for customers; desperate people covered head to toe in clothing to ward away sun burn, pleading and bartering with stall owners to get items for cheaper than they were priced.

Sherlock still struggled to process the hardships some faced, especially when the hardships could easily be solved by richer countries just sparing that little bit more - at least when you didn't factor in the dangerous people whose beliefs had been skewed, who were always on the lookout for targets for their next attacks. Sometimes helping would result in a consequence.

As always, there were many people in the market and often more people than food that was being sold. In a country this hot, this poor, this war-torn, food was difficult to grow and to come by, especially when insurgents were securing farms and fields for themselves and using them as a method to persuade more people to join their twisted cause. The aid from other countries helped greatly but the innocent civilians had to make do independently a majority of the time.

Sherlock lingered in one alley way, leaning against the beige stone of the one building, keeping his eyes on the stalls in the street where the info drop was supposed to be. Salim lingered elsewhere with his fellow soldiers, ready to nab the man who left the information and potentially the man who would pick it up.

Hey, I was wondering...

"Not now..." He muttered, keeping his eyes on the crowd but feeling her presence beside him.

Isn't this - like your clothes and face covering - cultural appropriation? Or religious appropriation?

The detective didn't reply to his imaginary partner's comments regarding his appearance, instead glared at the non-existent figure beside him. Pay attention, he thought, must she always be so distracting?

Like...I'm just saying -

"It would look more suspicious for me to be sauntering around in a suit in one of the most dangerous and hottest countries in the world than in a thobe and veil."

Clamping his mouth shut, he gazed out across the market. She smirked at his irritated outburst and simply stared at him as he persisted at not looking at her. Even silent, what she was thinking screamed in his brain.

You do remember you're arguing with yourself, right?

Yes. Yes, he knew.

Just then, a figure dressed in a rich purple thobe and veil caught his eye - he wasn't browsing like the many others but was very intently heading over to the fruit stall. It was a man judging by the flat chest and erect posture. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched this man power through the hustle and bustle, only to pause by the stall, pretending to browse. When the stall owner had been distracted by another customer, the man fished an apple out from under his garments and placed it in the rickety crate of fresh apples before swiftly moving away again.

"Salim?" Sherlock spoke softly, hoping the soldier would hear him through the ear piece, "Salim, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Mr Ashby?" Came a crackly response but it was a response at least.

"There's a man in purple headed in your direction. He's just dropped an item off at a stall. Hold him until I can find out what he deposited."

"Understood, Mr Ashby."

As he approached the measly-looking fruit stall, he weaved his way past people, muttering apologies in Arabic as he slunk past the group of people waiting by the fruit stall to reach the apple crate. A lot of the apples were small and only just turning red whereas one seemed to have ripened the most and looked slightly squished at the bottom. Perhaps they had put the message inside the apple? It was entirely possible.

As Sherlock reached for the apple, another hand brushed his, going for the same one. Looking upwards, his gaze met with the suspicious and guilty eyes of another man dressed in the same white as he. The detective snatched the questionable fruit before the other, only to his own dismay.

"Alssariq!" The man in white yelled instantly and pointed at Sherlock, "'Awqafuh! Alssariq!"

All the crowd's attention was focused on Sherlock now and his gaze darted around. It was too many people to reason with and too many desperate people which made matters worse. He could try and protest. He could try to explain but given the rising cacophony of abuse and shame being yelled at him, he doubted anyone would listen. Glaring at the man who had caused this mess, he watched him wave and melt back into the crowd.

Well, this is quite the situation you've put yourself in...

Oh, not now, he sighed.

Slipping the apple into the satchel bag he carried with him, he began to back away from the growing mob. They were understandably miffed with him, he would be quite dangerous to anyone who took what little food there was without the respect to pay for it too. Stealing was never the answer in a country like this, unless you wanted to sign your own death certificate.

My suggestion? Run!

Running. Now that was a good idea.

He pivoted, darting off through the crowded market, chased by angry shouts and attacked with rotten food. He ducked into an alley but still heard the impending footfall of others hot on his heels but he kept sprinting, kept sprinting until a weight-like force had gripped his middle and he found himself struggling on the floor. The force of the contact had also sent his bag flying.

"'Abaq hadiana!" A young, female voice shouted from above him, not the person he was struggling with.

Wildly, his eyes scanned around him for his bag that he had felt leave the safety of his body. His frantic look fell upon the satchel with a now broken strap, a couple of feet away from him. Wriggling, he tried to turn so he could crawl and reach the bag only to see to feet move beside it and pick it up.

"Argh!" Came his throaty, frustrated shout as he flailed beneath his incapacitator.

"'Iihday - calm down!" The younger voice said again.

Was it a child he was hearing?

Ignoring the speaker, he turned so he could see who was on top of him, making his life difficult, and swung out his arm, catching whoever they were on the corner of their eye socket. She yelped, grasping at her veiled face - and much to his surprise was it a she.

"Stop struggling!" She hissed and did so in a voice he recognised all too well, even after so long, "We just want what you stole!"

But without really listening, he still struggled with her. It couldn't be, could it? No, no, she was dead - even Molly had said - it wasn't possible. The shock had meant his grip on the woman's hands had weakened, opening him up to a swing of her own that caught him right on the jaw. He grunted as the pain flooded through his mandible. No, it wasn't her. Enraged, more so by his mind for tricking him, he roared, throwing the woman off him so he could get away. Scrambling up, he heard his attacker yell:

"Hanna!"

And in an instant he was shoved to the ground again, accompanied by a winding kick to the stomach. He felt the rough material veil slip off his nose and mouth as he held his stomach, panting painfully. Peering upwards at his apprehenders, he narrowed his eyes as golden light blinded him. All he saw were two dark, ambiguous figures that he gathered from their voices were a woman and a young girl.

"Did I do good?" He heard them speak above him.

With a groan, the woman replied, "You did great, Hanna. Have you still got the bag?"

"Yes."

"Right, let's get him back to..."

"Eliza? What's wrong?"

The woman stared down at the man and the man stared up at the woman whose veil had also fallen, presumably when he had thrown her off him.

Perhaps this was a dream, perhaps he was dehydrated or had hit his head on the floor a bit too hard when he fell? Because, this couldn't be real. She was dead. The nurse and the doctor and Molly had said she had died, Molly had even offered him a look at his Elizabeth before he left and he had refused. But why would Molly lie? How was she alive?

He couldn't even believe the name that left his mouth as he looked up at her in perplexed awe:

"Elizabeth?"

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A/N - Nava Siasa (if you haven't already guessed) is a fictional place, taking influence from the countries surrounding and near to it for the fashion, geography, climate and languages 😊

The photo is of Yazd, Iran, which is what I imagine Yahnaba to look similar to only Yahnaba would have slightly taller buildings.

As always, there are probably typos - feel free to point them out!

Hope you enjoyed ❤