"Come on, please Natalia, I can't handle him on my own." Lestrade begged me as I sat in his office. This was the fourteenth time in the past month that Lestrade had done this. I had yet to give in. For God's sake, he hadn't even described the man/case I was to be working with/on. I restrained myself from rolling my eyes and remained impassive. He sighed and ran a hand through his greying metallic hair. "Natalia… Please. This is the worst suicide yet and Sherlock isn't making it any better." Finally, something about the case. Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Oh, this was going to be interesting. I wondered how Mycroft would react.
"I was wondering when you would finally describe the case. Rather than mindlessly begging me to assist you, perhaps you should define this 'Sherlock' and the case I am to be working on." I said monotonously, allowing a tinge of sarcasm. Sarcasm was one of my best friends. 'Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit' Whoever said that is, no offense, a moron. Lestrade looked up hopefully and he actually broke into a grin.
"Thank you so much, Natalia." He said gratefully and I cocked an eyebrow.
"Who says I'm taking the case?" I questioned, concealing my indignation that he now knew that I would take said case. Worst suicide yet… Sounds like it's either a very grisly suicide designed to look like murder or a subtle murder designed to look like suicide. Lestrade shrugged sheepishly. "I know you pretty well by now, Nat." He explained and I grimaced at the awful nick name. Nat… Really?
"And I'm to just waltz right in and demand to see a Mr Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, almost incredously. Yes, I'm a sociopath but I don't just barge in and demand someone to speak to. Lestrade looked at me with an imploring look. "Since when did you disagree with that?" It was my turn to shrug.
"Since I got shot for it." Lestrade automatically sobered and nodded. He then cleared his throat and gestured to the door to the morgue that we were stood in front of. I waited for him to speak. "Well, are you going in or not?" I sighed and nodded wearily. Lestrade made this man out to be a bit of a git. Let's see my reaction.
I nodded to Lestrade, telling him to leave and he did. I opened the door silently and peered inside, my hat pulled down low. Oh, I haven't described myself, have I? Well, how about I leave you on a little cliffhanger so that I can do so.
I am rather tall. Tall for a British citizen. Tall for a female British citizen. I've got a slim figure but it's muscled, thanks to fighting with criminals and going to the gym to keep fit. Chasing criminals and suspects is one of my favourite things to do. Especially when I take to the roof. The looks on their faces when I catch them afterwards is simply priceless. But back to my features.
I have very dark brown hair that is just average. No curls really but it's not poker straight. It's just… hair. It goes down to the middle of my bicep. My eyes are green with a band of brown around the pupil but I see nothing incredible about them. There is nothing really very remarkable about my appearance. It's my intelligence and lack of emotions that people notice. It's actually rather amusing when they see how rude and unfeeling I am. And my intelligence startles people. As I said, it's rather amusing.
I tend to wear shirts, trousers, suits, stuff like that. Formal clothing is my style. The hat I mentioned earlier is a black trilby, black being the colour I tend to wear most. I suppose you could say that the trilby is my signature look. Well, a trilby and a suit. Images of me online mostly portray me with a smirk on my face and a chain or a whip in my hand. No one has managed to get a picture of me with eyes in view. Oh, and let's not forget the white gloves that I always wear. Never go anywhere without them. Despite my wearing a suit, I wear Converse and that is that. No other shoe will satisfy me like Converse. Or All Star, which ever suits you best.
Now, where was I? Ah yes, I opened the door, didn't I? Well, here goes.
The first sound I heard was the crack of a whip. No, a riding crop judging by the pitch of the sound. I inched the door open a bit more and stepped in. A woman was standing at a viewing window and looking down upon something very interesting. Every now and then, she would jump and flinch. Even from where I was standing, however, I could see a little naughty smile on her face. She's having dark thoughts… I thought with a little smug smirk. Whoever was using the riding crop had to be pretty damn good-looking. I walked over silently and stood beside her, watching her. It took a few seconds for her to notice me, but when she did, she jumped roughly six centimetres in the air.
"Hello, I'm Natalia Heather, you are?" I asked, waiting for her to get over the initial shock of my entrance. She thrust her hand out, blushing profusely. She then cleared her throat and stood as tall as she could. It was no use; I was still about a head taller than her. "I am Molly Hooper, one of the directors of the morgue." She said with pride, her nose somehow losing gravity's hold and rising in the air. I immediately didn't like it.
"Well, isn't that nice." I stated more than questioned. Her expression dampened and she frowned angrily at me. "Oh, don't take it personally, I do that to a lot of people; scare them, humiliate them, insult them and then request their help. Which is what I'm about to do now, actually. Have you seen a Mr Sherlock Holmes?" Molly gaped like a goldfish for three point two seconds and then nodded, pointing down through the window.
"He's currently testing a body…" I was already halfway to the door before she even finished her sentence.
Now, I may have been gifted with intelligence and size, but I was not gifted with emotions and a sense of direction. It took me forever to find the room where Mr Holmes had apparently been and even when I finally got there, he was no longer in there. I huffed resignedly and exited, exploring the mortuary instead.
I finally came to one door that I had yet to try. I opened the door, not even bothering to knock first. "Right, I've been looking all over the bloody mortuary for Sherlock Holmes and I've yet to find him, so he better be in here or so help me, I'll murder someone and frame it on said man to teach him a lesson from his damn disappearing acts." Yes, I opened my mouth before I even looked at the people in the room. When I did notice who was in there, I did not feel embarrassed or get at all red-faced. No emotions, remember?
Standing to the side and leaning on a table was a plump man with glasses and brown suit on. He was wearing an awful tie of the colours of Gryffindor and he appeared happy, smug even. Judging by his posture and intelligent glint in his eye, I would wager he was once a University teacher. The suit gave it away a little too. A man to my right was wearing a dark jacket with a checked shirt. His hair was blonde and short, military sort, and his eyes too held intelligence. More so than the man I had previously noted. Judging by his posture and his skin tone, he was a soldier, a medic to be precise and the stitching on his jacket told me so. He had a crutch and I could only guess that he had been shot whilst out in the battlefield of either Afghanistan or Iraq. His hands were shaking and I figured he had a therapist.
The final man was standing beside the soldier with a phone in hand. His hair was dark and curly and flopped over his face a little. His suit was well-kept and seemed expensive and I'm not ashamed to say that he wore it well. His piercing blue eyes I could even see from where I was and his pale skin and defined cheekbones glinted slightly in the artificial lighting. I had no doubt in my mind that he was Sherlock Holmes, the esteemed super intelligent, observant, cocky, stubborn consulting detective.
"Am I correct in saying that you are Mr Holmes?" I said, pointing at the dark haired man. He watched me for a few moments longer, no doubt observing myself and gaining facts about me. After what felt like days, he spoke. His voice was very deep and, dare I say it, irresistible. Perhaps he's older than I had initially thought. "Yes, you are correct. You are?" I didn't bother crossing over or pulling out a stupid badge that I didn't even own. I exhaled with a nod.
"I'm Natalia Heather. Apparently I'm your assistant for this case."
"You're not very remarkable, are you?" He spoke suddenly. I cocked my head slightly. That was a little unkind. This man had at least that in common with me. "I suppose not. But some would say that compared to your brother, you're not very remarkable either." His body went rigid and he stared me down. Or at least tried to. I happen to be very proficient in the art of staring. Apparently so was he. Only when the man to my right, the soldier, spoke did we stop.
"And… who exactly are you?" I looked at him and watched him intensely.
"As I said before, I'm Natalia Heather and I'm to be Sherlock-do you mind if I call you Sherlock?" I quickly asked the detective. He gave no answer but I figured I would. "Okay, I'll take that as an 'I don't care'. I'm to be Sherlock's assistant. I need not ask who you are, however." He seemed a little taken aback and I waited.
"What do you mean?" I heard from behind me and I turned to find the plump man looking at me quizzically. My mouth twitched and I held down a smirk. They were so easy to read. "I mean that I can tell most of your life stories to all of you right now. I'm sure it won't come as a shock to you since you already know Sherlock here." By now, Sherlock was watching me openly.
"What can you tell about me?" Mr Plump asked. I shook my head, appearing to be weary.
"It's always the same question." I muttered to myself. I sighed and snapped my head back up to him. "You're an ex-teacher from the Oxford University and you have terrible taste in ties. You've been divorced once but keep the ring, showing that you are still in love with the woman or that it simply holds sentimental value, something I don't understand. You know Sherlock from his early days and are used to his intellectual prowess but seem surprised when someone perhaps shares at least half of his genius. You're thirty eight and you enjoy coffee sitting in a park. Can I stop talking now; it's making me light headed."
Huzzah for silence. He seemed gobsmacked, to say the least. "And what about me?" I looked at the soldier behind me. I smiled ever so slightly.
"You're a little more interesting. You're a soldier, a medic to be precise, but you've left the war now. The war has left you with nightmares, evident from the bags under your eyes, a tremble in your left hand and an injured leg from a bullet, resulting in use of a crutch. Your hair is short, meaning that you have the decency to cut it before it gets outrageously long and you are most certainly intelligent." He gulped but was not entirely speechless.
"How did you know I was a medic?" He asked quietly. He had a very soft tone, as though tired of the noise of war. But I knew better.
"The stitching on your jacket tells me so. It's a unique stitch that only a medic/surgeon would know. Now, I have one question for you." And then Sherlock speaks with me.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
We looked at each other in interest and then the door opened from behind me. The woman from before, Molly Hooper, walked in with a coffee. "Ah, Molly, coffee." Sherlock said loudly, cutting over the medic's speech. I was faintly surprised at how well he had been taking it. He seemed tired but still shocked. He definitely took it better than Mr Plump.
"Thank you." Sherlock handed the phone back to the medic and then turned to Molly. He had a small smile on his face and then it disappeared suddenly. "What happened to the lipstick?" He questioned her as she gave him his coffee. I noticed that she intentionally brushed her fingers against his but he took no notice. She seemed to struggle for an answer for a moment. "It wasn't working for me." She said with a little nervous smile. I had reason to believe that she didn't see me on the way in. She focussed on Sherlock and Sherlock alone.
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement." Her smile fell abruptly as I registered Molly's emotions as disappointed. "Your mouth is too small now." Sherlock continued with a little gesture with his hand and then he sipped his coffee. A timid 'Okay' was all I heard from Molly.
He placed the coffee down on the table and shook himself a little, no doubt ridding himself of the awful taste. Molly walked past me and she heatedly glared at me. "May I ask what I've done wrong, Miss Hooper? It is Miss, right?" I shouldn't have added the last scathing remark but this woman seemed to have marked me on her burn list. She just scoffed femininely and flounced out of the room, her ponytail swishing around her back as she left. I merely ignored it and turned back to the men.
"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked apparently out of the blue. I cocked my head. Was this a musical interests gathering? No, too irrelevant. Something different. Moving in? Perhaps. "Sorry, what?" The medic spoke softly.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Either of you?" It took me a moment to assess who he was speaking to.
"You're involving me?" I asked emotionlessly. Sherlock looked up at me.
"Yes, it's evident from your lack of sleep, slightly dishevelled appearance and tattered clothes that you have no money and no place to stay." Two can play at this game.
"My lack of sleep is from my nightmares, Sherlock. My slightly dishevelled appearance is from chasing you around the abnormally large mortuary all afternoon and my tattered clothes are merely tattered because they are my favourite garments to wear." How's that?
"But where's the adventure in that, Miss Heather?" I blinked and then blinked again. Damn.
"There is none, I am sorry to say. Touché, Sherlock. In any case, that small bit of banter was rather fun. We'll have to do it again sometime. But, back to the main subject at hand, yes, I do not have a home, but why are you involving me in this apparent flat-mate conversation?"
"The more people who stay means less rent to pay." He said in a slightly sing-song voice, his tones varying with the words. I allowed myself to have a half-hearted chuckle.
"Indeed it does." I replied, "And no, it doesn't bother me." He nodded and then looked at the medic.
"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He said with a big smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Yes, he was older than I had anticipated. The soldier looked at Mr Plump, who was observing blood in a plastic test tube. "You told him about me?" Mr Plump shook his head.
"Not a word."
"Who said anything about flatmates?" He asked, getting a little anxious.
Sherlock was, by now, getting his coat and preparing to leave. No doubt I would have to follow. "I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." He then turned and began putting a nice scarf. I admired his coat; it was dark in colour and was a trench coat so it was rather long, making him look even taller. Sadly, I could tell he was taller than me. Only by about a head though.
"Wasn't a difficult leap." He continued.
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" Soldier man said. Sherlock ignored him and picked up his phone from the side.
"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it." He came to a stop in front of the soldier and I, "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary. That means you're coming too, Miss Heather." I rolled my eyes softly. Thought so.
"Is that it?" The soldier turned and looked at Sherlock imploringly. Sherlock walked away from the door and stood beside me. He put his hands in his pockets as he walked. "Is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?" Sherlock was looking at me for some bizarre reason that I did not care to understand and then returned his gaze to the man in question. "Problem?" He asked, as though there was nothing wrong. Personally, I saw nothing wrong with it. That's how flatmates work.
"We don't know a thing about each other." Soldier boy responded irritably, "I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." Incorrect. I addressed him as Sherlock earlier. I did not mention it. Sherlock did.
"Miss Heather here addressed me by my full name earlier, you should have been listening." There was a moment of silence. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on, don't you think?" Wow, what a bastard. A cool bastard though. How did he deduce about his brother though? I had a feeling that it may have been something close to the soldier, since he had been standing beside him earlier. Perhaps his phone?
The soldier was standing, looking absolutely dismal and Mr Plump, or Mike as I now knew him, stood still with a smirk on his face. Sherlock opened the door and stood to the side, allowing me to go through first. I walked through and I heard "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He made a little click and I could only assume he winked, "Afternoon." In my peripheral vision, Mike raised a hand in acknowledgment and the door closed, us leaving quickly to recover Sherlock's riding crop.
Well… You hate me. Don't you? You hate me. I am still writing Immortality. I am. I promise. I have the plot and everything. I'm using this as a little story to write if I get a little bored on the way. Immortality is still being worked on. Promise. Cheers folks. Adios.
Luna