Catch Me If You Can
His face fell as his eyes took in the state of me, it was obvious what had happened. I turned away, my back to him so I wouldn't have to face that look of disappointment and sadness. The silence was, in some absurd way, deafening to me. I wanted him to scream, yell, throw things. Instead his hollow voice drifted over my shoulder "Why do you drink so much?" sorrow seeped from the very words he spoke and my heart ached, an almost physical pain. I'd let him down, my own shame hurt more than any beating I'd ever received. I turned to face him, my vision blurred as tears filled my eyes "Because hangovers hurt less than heartache. At least with a hangover I can sleep the pain away"
Head thumping, throat dry like the Sahara. The taste of whiskey hangs in the back of my throat. I sit up carefully, the room spins and the smell of cigarettes and beer lingers on my shirt. It's enough to make me gag, sends me running to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later I emerge after regurgitating everything that put me in this state. Beer tastes foul making a reappearance. Painkillers. I stumble to the kitchen and find tablets in the sugar jar, two for the headache, one for the sore stomach. Probably not a smart move but it's all I can do for now. The old lady from across the hall is humming as she hovers in the lobby of our building. I grab my phone, keys and a pack of cigarettes – the time reads just after noon. It's now or never.
It had taken three weeks and now was the time to talk to my upstairs neighbors, a pair of blokes who could solve cases and crimes. They were supposedly the best and had even been called upon by celebrities. There was a rumor one of them had shown up to Buckingham Palace in a bedsheet, the thought of that entertained me but like most things on the internet it probably wasn't true. The door of 221c swung shut behind me, making my ears ring, I turned my key in the lock and sluggishly made my way upstairs. The door was open, I knocked gently on the door but somewhere in the back of my mind hoped nobody was home and I could retreat back to my messy, unorganized flat downstairs. A voice floated from inside the flat "Come in" and cautiously I stepped into Wonderland. A head sat on the mantel, A jar of eyeballs on the floor by the couch and a rifle against the far wall. This was a terrible idea. A short haired man with dirty blonde hair stepped out of the kitchen with a smile "Hello. Can I help you?" I nodded and the world spun for a moment. Deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth. "I heard you take on cases" The man before me motioned for me to take a seat and as I sat down on the seat he seated himself opposite me, just as another man entered the living room, his hair a mess and wearing pajamas and an open robe. "Another case" The man before me piped up. The newcomer nodded and sat down beside him. "I'm John" Said the man who had first greeted me "And this is Sherlock" I stared at them both for a second "I'm Ana. I heard that you take on cases" Sherlock eyed me while John smiled "Yeah, we do. What can we help you with?"
Sherlock
Ana sat across from John and I, back straight and a tight, forced smile on her lips. She was hungover – Anyone looking at her would be able to tell in an instant. Her grey eyes had black rings around them like she hadn't had a good night's sleep in months, her black hair hung limply past her shoulders and gathered in knots just below her collarbone. Her skin was pale as though she'd never seen sunlight and her clothes bore evidence of the night before. Clearly a smoker from the carton shaped object in her pocket and the smell coming off her. Made a decent wage judging by the phone which peeked out from her other pocket, obviously not important to her or she would have held it in her hand. Sweat on her brow indicated it wasn't a mild hangover either. She looked fearful, tired and nervous.
Ana
Eyes like a hawke. That's probably the best way to describe Sherlock. His gaze I found unsettling but the fact he hadn't said a word was more odd. I turned my attention to John "I'm being stalked. I don't know who by but I see curtains close across the street. The same flat and it happens every time I look outside. A black sedan seems to be following me everywhere I go, but the windows are tinted and I can't see who's inside" Sherlock snorted "Do you have any actual evidence you're being stalked?" I frowned "Figured you would say that and yes, as a matter of fact I do" my phone barely fit in the pocket of my jeans, it slid out of it's denim prison with ease. I navigated through my phone and tossed it to him carelessly. "Got these photos the other night. I went to a cafe, snuck out through the back door and circled back around in time to see the car drive off. I flagged down a taxi and turned the tables. For once my follower was the one being followed. The car stopped outside of some run down building on the other side of town. It was one hell of a taxi fare I had to pay in the end but I got the pics. I figured they would help to figure this all out"
His face froze as he flicked through the photos. I glanced at John in confusion as Sherlock said one word.
"Mycroft"
AN: Hey guys, This is my first Sherlock fic so if I screw up then I'm sorry. I've been seeing pictures on Tumblr and of course it got the ideas going in my head. Some of my other fics are works-in-progress so feel free to check them out and review with ideas, Tips are greatly appreciated!
Between assignments I unfortunately have to do and working on my other fics (Since I'm getting back into my writing – long story short my laptop decided to died on me and I had to save for ages for a new one) The next chapter will be up within the week so please bear with me as I may post more than one chapter on here in the next couple of days.