Broken Souls

"Okay, there's one more person that's going to come and see if she likes the flat, okay? Be nice Sherlock. Don't be rude okay?" Mrs. Hudson had tried to get Sherlock to approve of someone to rent 221C, the basement flat. So far… No one has wanted to rent it out, because of him.

"It's not my fault, it's theirs." Sherlock said, quite annoyed.

"Anyway, who's the last person?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock's comment.

"Her name is Isabel Marshall. She moved here from Canada a few years ago, but she just graduated from Uni a few months ago. She's working for Lestrade as his secretary, and is living with a friend for now until she can get a flat. She's quite nice and knows London a bit well. She's a lovely lady." Mrs. Hudson walked downstairs to her flat, knowing Isabel should've been coming within a few minutes.

Within 5 minutes, a woman was standing in the doorway to the flat, standing there awkwardly. John gestured for her to sit on the couch, which she did with gratitude.

"Hello. I am Doctor John Watson, and this is my colleague and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. How are you?" John asked the girl, a smile on his face. Sherlock looked her up and down, studying her, as if she were a textbook and he was about to take a test.

"I'm good, thank you. My name is Isabel Marshall, I moved to Manchester from Toronto in Canada about… I'd say 4 years ago, when I was 22. I applied for Unit there, and stayed in a dorm. I majored in English, and have a bachelor's degree in both psychology and sociology. A few months ago I graduated, and started working at Scotland Yard as a secretary for Lestrade. I stayed with a friend until I had the money for a flat in London, and so, here I am." She smiled, and looked over at Sherlock, and her expression turned confused. "Is something wrong?"

"The ring on your finger, left hand, is vintage, and may be worth a lot, so it's either an engagement or wedding ring. You dyed your hair auburn though you're a natural blonde, perhaps to make yourself feel confident. The way you're holding your stomach suggests that you've had a miscarriage, or an abortion recently, possibly causing your relationship with our husband or fiancée to strengthen. Your accent suggests you lived in Québec, as it sounds American but with a French lilt. You moved from Québec to Toronto around 20 years of age." Sherlock looked at her, waiting for her response when John scolded him.

"Sherlock that's not polite! You should—"

"No, no, Doctor Watson, it's quite alright. The thing is, Mr. Holmes, is that you are quite wrong. I never lived in Québec. I have visited there, yes, but never lived there. My dad was in the American Armed Forces and was stationed in Toronto. My mum was from Québec but moved to Toronto, where she met my father. That is why my accent is American with a slight French lilt. I've lived in Toronto my whole life. The ring on my left hand is also a promise ring given to me by my father. It was his grandmother's, which is why it's vintage—it's from 1910. He gave it to me when he left for Iraq, so I would know he'd come home to me eventually. I've never had a real relationship like that. I've never had an abortion or miscarriage, I'm simply having cramps from my period. And I was trying out a new color for my hair—it's also temporary. But I'm naturally dirty blonde, so good for you." Isabel smiled at Sherlock, who looked at her with shock and anger. John looked at him, then back to her, knowing she was smug, and Sherlock was irritated. Sherlock looked away from her, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"Which Branch of the armed forces was your father in?" John asked curiously.

"Military. He left for Iraq when I was 15, and he never came home. I just keep the ring on in memory of him. He was a hostage for a while, and his kidnappers eventually tortured him to a point where he died." Isabel looked at John with a small smile, knowing a tear would soon roll down her cheek. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, but did you serve in the Army?" John looked at her with utter belief, and Sherlock looked at her with a look of confusion.

"How—how did you know I served in the Army?"

"Mrs. Hudson told me. So, Doctor Watson, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Isabel asked, noticing Sherlock's reaction to her explanation of how she knew he was in the army, which was annoyance

"Afghanistan. And, please, call me John." He looked over at Sherlock, who was irritated yet again.

"Isabel, since Mrs. Hudson told you what John did, did she tell you my profession?" Sherlock asked, positive she wouldn't get anything right.

"No, Mr. Holmes, she hadn't. Gathering from what Lestrade's told me about you, you are quite anti-social, and—dare I say—a sociopath. Also, you are the only consulting detective in the world, which Lestrade has told me." Isabel smirked.

"Please, don't call me Mr. Holmes, my name is Sherlock." He tried not to seem angry, as she knew more about him than he knew about her. Mrs. Hudson had made a slight coughing sound, and it was clear she'd been there for quite a while.

"Would you like to see the flat, now? Or will you not bother?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Isabel nodded, and the two went down into the basement. There wasn't much furniture, but it was all Isabel would need for the time being.

There was a sofa against the cream coloured wall, facing the fireplace in the living room, with a coffee table sitting in front of it. The curtains against the windows were a dark blue, as if it were midnight. In the bedroom was a full size bed, with a tall bookshelf and a set of drawers. A small desk sat in the corner, perfect for studying and setting up a laptop, with a chair pushed into it. In the kitchen was a wall clock, with all of the numbers in Roman numerals. A small dining table with a few chairs sat in the middle of the room, making it seem a bit bigger than it was. The walls in the bedroom and kitchen were a beige, like a latté.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, it's beautiful. I love it."

"If you're going to rent it, I want you to know that John and Sherlock are a bit loud at times. Don't let anything Sherlock says get to you, love, alright?"

"I work for Lestrade. He tells me about Sherlock all the time, so don't worry. I've got it all down." Isabel smiled, and Mrs. Hudson gave a small smile. "So, uh, when should I move in? Do you have a preference for a certain day? Or…?"

"You can this week if you like." Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"Sherlock, why are you so mad? What did she do?" John asked, exasperated.

"I was wrong! How is that possible?" Sherlock threw his hands into the air, full of confusion and annoyance and anger. "And she knew what my job was!"

"Sherlock…" John covered his mouth with his hand, attempting to hold in a laugh and hide his grin. "Relax. She seems nice, and she is pretty smart. And I mean, for god's sake, she works for Lestrade. She knew about what you do before she came, obviously. You need to relax."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," John said, as if nothing had happened just moments before. In walked Isabel, her cheeks a light pink, her lips in a smile that showed her white teeth, showing her deep dimples.

"I just wanted to let you know that I've rented the flat. I'm moving in on Friday, of… That's okay. I won't be bringing in much, just a few suitcases and… Something—something special, for you and Sherlock both. I'm sure you'll enjoy it." She looked at Sherlock as if asking if she could come into the flat, hoping for a proper introduction. "May I, uh, come in, Mr. Holmes? I was wondering if I may ask you a few questions."

"You just did a few moments ago." Sherlock said, looking at her, annoyed. "But, come in, I suppose I have the time."

She walked in, and sat down on the sofa. "I also had a few for you, Doctor Watson. If you don't monde, of course." She looked at John with an innocently curious expression on her face.

"I don't see why not." John said, with a small smile.

"Alright. Sherlock, as you know, I work for Lestrade. As I am a secretary, I type and print out the reports of the crimes and the deductions that were made. While typing the report, I noticed a few mistakes he made, and was wondering if you could please look them over and fix them, as I do not go to the crime scenes, but you do. Would you, please?" She asked, taking out a small binder and handing it to him. "These are the reports for the most recent incident, and the one before. Take as much time as you need, but I need to be able to finish typing them by next Saturday, if that's doable."

"Of course. I'll most likely be done before next Saturday though." Sherlock took the binder from her hand, flipping through the papers. "Where are the mistakes?"

"Oh, I highlighted the mistakes, just so you wouldn't have to read it over completely, as that shouldn't be needed." She smiled at him, and he stared at her emotionlessly. Isabel looked over at John, and gasped.

"Oh, I forgot! John, I believe at one point you may have worked with my father. He was stationed in Afghanistan for a few years, and when he sent a letter to my mum, he said he met a very kind doctor, by the name of John. His name was Jared Marshall, he may have been about 36. Does the name sound familiar?" She looked at him hopefully, as if she this was the only way to hear about her father.

"Sargent Jared Marshall. He was a brave man, your father. I remember the day I met him, he was in so much pain. He'd been shot in the chest, but on the right side, and it was just below his shoulder. He kept saying how much he wanted to go home to his family. He said he had a beautiful daughter, age 15, and a gorgeous wife, from whom you got your looks from. Her hair and eyes, and his complexion and bone structure you have. He wanted to see you graduate, to see your first boyfriend, and walk you down the aisle at your wedding. Wanted to be a grandfather." John looked at the floor, an expression of sympathy on his face. "How much did he get to see of all that?" He asked quietly, almost a whisper.

"None of it." Isabel murmured. "When I was 18, my mum got a call, and found out that my father had been killed in a hostage situation in Iraq." She looked at Sherlock, who now stared at her. In his eyes, she thought she may have seen a flash of empathy or sympathy, but she couldn't be sure. John looked at her again, with a gaze she knew all too well. The veteran who knew what she had gone through, what her father had gone through. His face was a mix of sadness and sympathy, with a hint of stress—she understood the stress, considering he served in Afghanistan. "I've never been married, nor had a really boyfriend, to be honest. I've never had children… I was hoping to, one day, but ultimately decided against it when he died. I told myself I didn't want to marry, if he wouldn't be there to walk me down the aisle. I never went to prom… I never kissed anyone. I've never had my first kiss either." She laughed, and though it wasn't of humor, it was of disbelief. "I thought that by now, I, a 28 year old woman, living in London with a good paying job, four degrees, and a few friends would have been kissed at one point. Wouldn't you?" She looked at Sherlock, who was staring at her, intently, as if he were trying to paint her.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not. How many friends did you say you had?" He asked, as if she said she had none.

"Only a few. I'm shy, and I don't normally talk that much. For some reason, though, I keep saying every detail of my life. Anyway, I only have 5 or 6 friends. They're close to me, and I've known them since I moved here to England." She blushed, embarrassed, and looked away from Sherlock, her straight auburn hair falling to her shoulders. She looked at the watch on her wrist, and looked back at the two men seated in front of her, "I, um, I have to go. I'll be back Thursday." She bid her farewells with the two men, who were now more interested in her than they thought they'd be.