James: The Hunt

I decided to spend my morning in the main street café. If I'm going to be bored I might as well do it while drinking tea. It's been almost three years since I faked my death in London. I have to admit, I impressed myself with that one. But now that I'm dead, I'm left with an odd problem: I have nothing to do. Sure, there are customers still flocking to me for their less than legal requests. Boring, boring, boring. It's all boring. The only thing I have to pass the time is the people. The stupid people, easily manipulated down to the last word. I thought France would be better, but who was I kidding? They're all the same. I miss the games.

I look out the window, searching in vain for something to catch my attention. Nothing- wait. I could swear I've never seen her around before. I can't have missed her. Could I? About 21, professional, works with people, honest, and, going by what I can tell from here, mildly oblivious. She doesn't seem that interesting. So why did she catch my attention so quickly? Only one way to find out. Besides, I was already eager to leave the café.

She's walking at a relaxed pace so it won't be hard to catch on to her, blending in with all the other idiots as usual -the most infuriating part of being dead. The closer I get, the more curiosity I feel building up. For once, I think this one might be quite an interesting toy.

She still hasn't noticed me. I've been following her for a full ten minutes. I've eavesdropped on her casual conversations with passing strangers. I've stood next to her in line for coffee. Not once has she noticed me. Why do I find myself interested in this girl? Whatever the reason may be, I'm compelled to trail her.

I see her look at a paper. Wait- an invitation. Oh, I remember, there's a showing at the museum. There's a new painting being unveiled - for which I provided the forgery. Boring little thing. But it has been a long time since I've gone to a party. I'll have to dust off my Westwood.

CAMERON: The Museum

The art museum is a crowded place. Lot's of people. The ads for this painting of a bridge were seen everywhere outside for the unveiling. The orchestral music has set the tone for this grand place. And seeing the way everyone present is dressed, I am not sorry for wearing my slightly uncomfortable formal gown. It's a simple favourite of mine, a floor length black satin dress which I've adorned with my only single strand of pearls and delicate earrings. I made sure to put my hair up nicely to show my earrings.

I wish there weren't so many people. It's hard to get a proper view of the painting with them in the way. So, to bide my time, I make my way to the snack and drink bar.

"Not interested in the exhibit?" a man's voice besides me asks.

"It's not worth being crowded for," I answer. "I mean, if everyone jumped off that bridge in the painting, would you?"

"I'd have been the one who told them to jump."

I look at him almost seriously because there is no way he is serious about that. "Are your friends lemmings?"

That earns a slight laugh from him. "No. I don't have friends"

"Too smart for them?" I ask, leaning a little against the table to nibble more comfortably on a carrot.

The man looks at me with a little smirk. "Friends are boring," he says.

I don't look at him. I can already see certain signs forming in this man to make a picture of who he is. "Especially when all they do is talk about the weather." At least we can have a little common ground. "They might as well speak of nothing at all." I wait impatiently for the crowd to dissipate.

"So you're too smart for friends too?" he asks.

I can't help but smirk. I never said I was. "Almost," I say, glancing at him. "I have my exception."

"Really?" he asks, drawing out the word in an unusual way.

"Yeah, well," unfortunately, I'm antsy and need to get out of this place. "It was a nice chat." I give him a single nod and leave to get some outside air.

James: I need a drink

Hm. Interesting how casual she was. But she is mildly curious, I can tell. I decide to wait until she returns, and I know she will.

In the meantime, I take another sip of my drink. It would take about five more of these to make this event tolerable. I watch each member of the crowd one by one. Each of them living dull, superficial lives. Some of them are even looking for souvenirs. I hate souvenirs.

Soon enough, Cameron returns and stands by the painting. I can't see her opinion from here, so I walk over to where she is standing. She sees value in it, that much I can tell. Art never was my thing. Why would you waste time looking at an imitation of the real thing?

"It's a fake, you know," I say when I reach her.

"Doesn't change the value of the image conveyed." She said it. I told you so. "Just how much people will pay."

I raise an eyebrow. "Unusual viewpoint." Which is true. Most people would be focused on the fact that it is fake. But I knew she wouldn't see it that way. And it just makes her all the more interesting.

"Not everyone is as predictable as psychologists want us to believe."

Right. That's why I just mapped you out to the letter. But I nod and look interested just the same.

"Most are," I say casually.

She grins. "Thankfully. Or is it tragically? I can never tell."

I can tell this is supposed to be a joke. So I manage a smirk amidst the desire to leave behind this entire setting. Why am I putting up with this just to see her? I hate being here. Oh right, I should reply.

"Most definitely tragic. Trust me." To which, she chuckles. "My name's Jim by the way."

"Cameron," she answers with a smile. One that makes it obvious to me that I've caught her interest. Good. If she found me boring I would jump out the window in humiliation.

"A pleasure." I think for a moment. "You know, you could be predictable and give me your number. Or you could be unpredictable and ask me for mine." I just look her steadily in the eye. I'm actually curious this time. But considering we've only just discussed predictability, she better pick a third option.

"I don't really have a choice now do I?," she says with a smirk.

Then she writes a note and hands it to me. It's her email address. Well done, Cameron. Well done. I take one more glance at the painting before bidding her goodnight.

"Until next time," I say genuinely before leaving her and the miserable party behind.

CAMERON: Back home

Jim is hard to read. He seems...I don't exactly know what it is about him. He seems to be smart, which may be why he chooses to not have friends. He's... Unique. And I like his humor. I glance at the painting one more time. It might take a bit of getting to know him to be able to actually read him; I think he may be too guarded.

As I walk home, give Raven a call.

"Yeah?" she picks up.

"Got room for a potential case?" I ask.

"Whatcha got?"

"The show casing. The painting is not original."

"...Really?" she says with a small amount of surprise.

"Well I'm sure you can verify it, but that's my understanding."

"Sure, I'll have a look. I take it the exhibit didn't go as planned then?"

"Actually, only one other person seemed to notice." Which is true. Jim noticed. I normally would have looked at a painting for maybe a minute tops. But I was sure something was off, so I studied it. And I'm pretty sure it's the canvas that is off.

"Alright," Ray says. "Sounds good. I'll keep you posted."

"Thanks. I'm on my way back. Do u need me to pick anything up?" She is my room-mate, after all.

"Nah, that's okay," she says. "No wait, actually, could you pick up some dinner plates?"

I blink. I cautiously ask, "What happened to the old ones?"

"Um, don't ask. Thanks, bye," she said in a rushed way before promptly hanging up.

I just shake my head at her in disbelief. I never know what will happen next with Ray.

With my hands occupied with the new boxes of dinner plates, I buzz Ray with my elbow. After about a minute, she finally opens the door. "Thanks," I say, heaving the plates onto the counter. "How was your day?"

"Alright,"she says, going back to her computer. "Money for the plates is on the table." She starts typing.

I wasn't expecting her to pay me back, but okay. I pocket the money and wash the brand new dishes. I've learned it isn't always best to ask Raven questions.

"What exactly made you think it was a fake?" Raven asks.

"I think someone copied it onto the wrong canvas," I say, rinsing a dish. "That, and someone had briefly mentioned it was a fake."

"Someone did, who?" She asks, clearly thinking this was a lead.

I remember how he, Jim, seemed to like my opinion of the painting, despite it's being fake. "I think he said his name was Jim." As Raven returns her attention to the computer again, probably for more research, I get lost in my thoughts and dish washing.

Thoughts like why is Jim guarded? What exactly makes him so unique? And how Jim wanted my contact information, that he said until next time, as though insinuating he will indeed contact me. He has a very pleasant smile. And his eyes, how I love his eyes. They hold so much hidden meaning and reveal how calculated and undoubtedly intelligent he is. So he is clearly a deep thinker. ...I like all of that. A lot. Will he ever actually contact me again? How soon?

"So this Jim," Ray asks, thoroughly interrupting my thoughts. "Is he some kind of expert?"

"I don't really know," I answer truthfully.

JAMES: Bored to Tears

When I finally make it to my apartment, I shut the door and throw my jacket on the floor. Another dull evening. I haven't stopped searching for something -anything- to catch my interest. Though I have to admit, my last stunt was pretty impressive. Of course Sherlock is alive. I knew he wouldn't actually kill himself. We are too much alike. Except Sherlock is gullible. He really thinks I'm dead. Poor fool. But unfortunately he is the only one clever enough to pose a challenge.

I pull Cameron's note out of my pocket. She's a respectable girl, probably lives with a friend. Interested in psychology, most likely her profession. She's left handed, doesn't drink, bah blah blah. Even someone I thought could distract me from drowning in my own unhappiness will turn out to be boring. I take the note and toss it in the trash. There's no point. But. Okay, I reach into the bin and pull it out again. I can't seem to let this one go.

The phone rings.

"What is it?"

"You are coming right?" oh another dreaded client.

"Of course I'm coming, what do you take me for?"

"I was just checking. I want to make sure you're not planning on dying again."

"Very funny. Now SHUT UP AND DO YOUR JOB!" I love doing that, it's so much fun.

Unfortunately that's about as fun as it gets. It feels like I've been here forever. And other than Sherlock, I have nothing to look forward to. I just pass the time pulling off little jobs here and there. My mind is never satisfied. I just sigh and bang my head against the wall repeatedly.

AUTHORS' NOTES:

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