My heels clicked ferociously on the polished tile floor as I hurried into the hospital. My heart leapt in my chest as corner after corner I turned, hallway after hallway, door after door passed me. My eyes darting left and right, I examined every wall even as I sped by. Then I reached the blue double doors I've been looking for. Stopping, I took a deep, cleansing breath, straightened my dress, lifted my head, and briskly pushed into the room.
The doors swung on their hinges quietly. I quickly looked around, taking everything in. Five rows of tables, five rows of bodies on top of them, covered in starched cloth. Despite the dead filling the room, it had quite a clean, fresh smell. It also smelled slightly of cologne. My head snapped around and spotted two men and a woman standing around an especially long table in the back of the room. They looked up. The girl, I recognized as Molly. She smiled grimly at me, which I returned with a grin. When I turned my eyes to the two men (both good looking, I note), the taller one with the curly black hair squinted his eyes at me. I stopped, my breath momentarily catching in my throat, an unusual feeling coming over me. He gave me a strange look, and I snapped my focus back, smiling at the man beside him. He said nothing but his eyes were filled with warmth. "This is Alice Garrot," Molly said nervously, her eyes flitting between me and the dark haired male. I summed that he made her uncomfortable. Perhaps she fancied him. By the way he held himself, I took he wasn't particularly interested in that fact. I squinted my eyes right back at him.
"She's a friend of mine and had agreed to take a look at the body, until…I guess you had heard about it so…" she motioned to the body on the table. "She's very talented at what she does." I smiled. "Pleased to meet you," the shorter man said, holding out his hand for me to shake. "I'm John. John Watson." "Pleased to meet you as well, John Watson." His hand was warm. I felt almost disappointed when he pulled away.
"Now, let's have a look, shall we?" I grabbed the stiff fabric in my gloved hands and slowly pulled it away. It was the body of a young girl, no more than fifteen. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly parted, her skin a pale green and cold to the touch. "Yes, she is quite dead," I stated. "What seems to be the problem here?"
"Well, obviously, she seems to have died of unnatural causes, that's the problem," replied John's friend. His deep voice resonated throughout the room, sending unnecessary shivers down my spine. "Though not much of a problem, if you ask me. Molly, please do call me before getting yourself into unneeded situations." Molly stammered. "I didn't want to bother you," she said quietly. He shot her a blinding grin. "Not at all. We were bored. Weren't we, John?"
"I am sorry. I don't think I caught your name?" I cut in. His cold blue eyes stared into mine. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, his gaze holding mine captive, "Consulting detective. What did you say your profession was, again?" He cocked his head, eyes moving quickly over my body, so fast it would usually go unnoticed, but I could tell he wasn't checking me out—he was examining me.
Watson put a hand on his shoulder. "Let's not be vindictive, Sherlock. We're trying to solve a murder here."
"Hardly," Sherlock Murmured.
"No, that's alright, he has a right to know," I put a tight look on my face to match the sudden tightness in my chest. Why am I getting so emotional? It's just a silly question.
"I don't have an official job, Mr. Holmes. I help out a few detectives here, diagnose a few patients there. I'm like a butterfly, one thing is just too boring for me," I joked coldly. "Now, let's see," I turned back to the body. "It doesn't seem she was murdered, I think she must have—"
"Killed herself," Sherlock finished. I stared, not just because of his quick conclusion, but also because of the fact that he seemed indifferent, almost as if he was enjoying this. "If you'll notice, the way her eyes are dilated, must be a result of sleeping pills. Too many, obviously. There are faint bruises on her neck, a specific pattern, probably tried to hang herself earlier, first attempt at suicide. Her hand is slightly curled—she was clutching that bottle of pills before she died. Still a trace of tears on her cheeks, she was crying, and I hacked her email account before coming over. She was getting bullied." He examines his fingernails. "Well," I scoffed. "How did you—"
"Don't ask," John replies. "He does that a lot."
"Well then, if that was so easy, why on Earth was I asked here?" I ran my fingers through my hair. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I couldn't imagine why." He started towards the door. "Come along John, we've got better things to do." John looked at me apologetically. "It was nice meeting you," he whispered, and ran after Sherlock. The door slammed behind them. I took a deep breath. "Well," I said, a little baffled, turning to Molly. "That was an interesting experience. Who IS he?" Molly sighed. "Best not to get involved with the lot of them," She rubbed her temples. "I've learned that the hard way." A sad smile crossed her face. "Say, if you've got time, I think I am off duty. Coffee?" I smiled at her. "I'd love that. Meet you at the bakery in twenty five, yeah?" And with that, I started towards home, my mind spinning faster than a top.