“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His irritation only manages to further her own amusement. There’s a beat before she finally turns to set the crop aside on a near by table. She lingers for a moment, before she glances at him once more. Amusement flashing her eyes before she faces him again.
“Do you?”
The ghost of a smile passed, the curl of his lip dropped, maintaining civil decorum. She posed a fair question. He casts a sharp glare her way, eyes narrowed, in an attempt to read her, ultimately mystified as ever. With a heavy sigh, he softened his gaze, and in a monotone he spoke swiftly. “Need I remind you, I’m not the one who needs to keep their head down.”
{🌼} As usual she was a little flustered by his ability to understand everything with a single glance, and nodded, the minute gesture seeming to be only for herself. There was no use acknowledging something he had declared to be a fact. “Just in. 56, he was found in his flat after neighbours complained about the smell. Horrible way to go.”
“Fascinating.” The word slipped out of his lips before he had a chance to revise their weight ( by no means was death interesting ) but the cause and effect was captivating. He bit his lip, half hesitant, ready to revoke the statement but proceeded as normal. “Not a John Doe and yet no next of kin to claim the body?” Times like this he drifted inward, but he included her in his insight.
“Either no one expected his death or simply didn’t care. Let’s have a look at the body then.”
❛ —————— right. not exactly comforting to know that. of bloody course i’m attached to her, she’s my daughter! —— you know what? say what you want about her name. you’re one to talk, William. ❜
❝ Shut up. It’s Sherlock. I’d blame your ridiculously boring name on your parents ——— but it’s you who’s squandered the chance to go by Hamish instead. Pity. It’s tenfold more intriguing than John. Although it may be a bit more difficult for a child to pronounce. ❞
❛ ——— she’s not even ten months old! she doesn’t play games, she can barely sit still!and you don’t even know her bloody name. for christ’s sake, Sherlock. —— please, remind me to never leave her alone with you.❜
❝ you can’t mean that. certainly you know i’d never put your daughter in danger. as for the name, you can’t very well blameme when you haven’t even mentioned it to me —— or perhaps you did and i wasn’t listening. nevertheless. tell it to me now. oh wait. i know. it’s something generic isn’t it? John and Mary … how boring. did you go with Elizabeth? Liz? Sarah’s a good one. ❞
Irene eyes him warily, her own fingers rolling the crop between them. House call. It implies more than it answers and she can draw her own conclusions about his actual intentions. “How ominous, dear.”
“Don’t.” He said simply, exasperation leaking into his already irritated tone. “Don’t start.”
Warning eyes flickered her way, a sharp glance over the shoulder, and he stood fast. His posture, straight and deliberate, gave way to that of import.
“Right, okay…” Greg nodded. Now that it had been explained it seemed fairly obvious. “Alright, makes sense.”
“Did you deduce anything about the partner that might help?”
“Of course it makes sense,” he muttered in an annoyed tone and sort of juvenile fashion. He sighed, eyes shut for a second before flickering up at the inspector.
“If I did ‘deduce’ anything about the partner, he’d be behind bars with the baker. I’ll keep in touch.”
“Because if you’re working this then you share what you know.”
“Fine. The baker frequently dons a short-sleeved shirt, appropriate for the nature of his work, and an apron. But today he sported an ill-fitted trench coat, obviously to conceal a weapon, loitering around the cafe shop. But he didn’t rob the cafe, no, he was the distraction. I expect his poor financial situation may be a motive to play pawn in the true culprit’s plot. Keep your eyes out inspector, his partner is still on the loose. Is that all?”
Panic threatened to break through an aura of calm, mind consistently reminding that she’d been through worse, sometimes these things happened when upset. Either way these hollow reassurances did nothing ease the incoming tide of gathering emotions. Though hazel eyes appeared cool and collected, a weight continued to smash against her chest, forceful and demanding. The only good thing the young woman had going for her was the fact that the city she landed in also happened to be sunny and warm, just like her home across the world.
Figures that London would end up her destination. A frown twitched on pink lips, fingers curling into fists as her form tensed, aggravated from the current situation. But above all? She was exhausted ( traveling so far takes a lot of strength, will-power ). Mumbling pooled from her lips, talking to now one in particular, simply cursing her own actions, her own downfall. ❝ Dumbest mistake I’ve made all week. ❞
The man’s voice startled her, heels spinning around to face the stranger. Confusion clouded hazel eyes, for the man appeared to be far too intrigued for his own good. And even more surprising? The truth that tumbled from his mouth. An eyebrow skyrocketed, suspicion replacing the incoming panic.
❝ And you know how, exactly? ❞
❝ Simple. Your hands are covered in a thin layer of hand sanitizer residue and your clipped nails entail basic hospital decorum. Lunch time passed an hour ago, so you clearly don’t work in a surrounding hospital. Not to mention your attire is all wrong. It’s fit for the sun, surely, but uncommon in the city. No, it’s too Western. It would explain your tan. ❞
The words spew out of his mouth without pause. His countenance exudes confidence as he voices his analysis. He noted her exhaustion, another factor out of place; his eyes told him she hadn’t been running ( inappropriate shoes, loose hair ) and yet her current state matched that of a jogger. One question lingered in his mind and rather than make an assumption ( no matter how careful ) he relied on facts and data. He neverguessed. So he pressed the persisting question onto the strange woman instead.
“Shame. Suppose you could take his place and stand over my shoulder, remarking my incredible intelligence every now and then as I work a case. It’s what he does.”
“What? So, you’re not going to help because I want my shoe back?!”
Greg caught the shoe, but not before doing a sort of comical ‘Am I gonna catch it will it fall’ juggle with it mid-air.
“I just don’t see why you have to use my shoe.”
“Really inspector, I can’t very well solve a case if I have to explain in detail each step I take - waste of time and energy.” Sherlock mused, and remained planted in his chair, eyes still shut, and rested his chin on his thumb, elbow propped on the arm of the chair.
“Perhaps I may find the patience to tell you once the case is complete, that is assuming I re-take the case.”
Sherlock often graced the streets of London by foot, and not without purpose. Only a case worthy of his attention motivated him off the couch, and drew him to Scotland Yard. Long strides got him far until he happened upon a particular passerby to whom he glanced over. Something wasn’t right. The backwards visual cues, and questionable signs jumped out so obvious and clear but he couldn’t pin it. This woman wasn’t normal and Sherlock paused in his stride to figure out why—the encounter piqued his interest far enough to distract him from the summons to Scotland Yard.
The detective focused on the given data, piecing together an odd story based on what he can observe. Bright clothes, slightly tanned skin ( exposure to sun; American; West Coast ) and young complexion ( late 20s? ) and clipped nails ( basic hospital decorum ) but those signs barely scratched the surface. He couldn’t quite place his finger on the strange readings.
“ —New body.” Words brief and to the point. Otherwise, routine greeting. The number of odd deaths in town lined up with Sherlock’s frequent visits to the morgue. “How fresh?”
