Why? It was a simple question really, but there was no simple answer. Not for Chelsea Griffiths, twenty-three year old Uni student. She didn't understand it. It didn't scare her, she wasn't paranoid, it just frankly perplexed her. Every week since February 14th 2013 she had recieved flowers. The same flowers, in the same style bouquet, manner, and scent. The only thing that wasn't the same was the notes that arrived. It didn't really bother her. It was just annoying. Chelsea wasn't a simpleton, she wasn't stupid. She could handle herself. If you asked any of her friends what she was like, they'd call her a "Freak", an adrenaline junkie, intelligent, perplexing, ordinary, out-of-the-ordinary Uni student. She was incredibley British, loved her tea and jammy dodgers, and watched Doctor Who every night it was on, like it was a religion she must follow. Apart from her "ridiculous obsession with adrenaline" as her best friends endearingly called it, she was painfully normal. Almost. Afterall not every Uni student goes street dancing, and earns a huge crowd of London fans.
Chealsea was only five foot six. She had long brown hair that reached her waist, and eyes that were dominantly green in most lights, a strange shade of blue in some, and steel gray in another. She was stubborn, beyond most belief. If Chealsea gave someone her promise, she'd stick to it like a limpet. She was worst than a Scot on beer. And then there was her absolute calm. She was like a giant rock sticking out amongst stormy waters. She had nothing to push her away, and if there was one thing she hated it was people who panicked. She hadn't even panicked when a black widow spider, one of the worlds deadliest,had crawled up her arm. She had been positively fascinated by the creature, before she had flicked it into the solution of industrial strength cleaning detergent. So it would have been no surprise to any who knew her when she woke up in her bed, surrounded by what appeared to be a shrine to her, and blinked tiredly. It was only when she read the note that she realised something was really off. The giant note was posted on her wall, and she read it carefully, studying the calligraphy intently, a half-interested expression on her face, before she pushed off and went to get breakfast. It's time, she thought, to deal with this once and for all.
Sherlock was bored. Bored. Bored! BORED! There was absolutely nothing to occupy his mind, and now John was barely around anymore it was even more boring. There was no laptop to hack into, no flatmate to accidentaly on purpose annoy, and worse yet the results of his experiment lay on the floor in pieces. So when Mrs Hudson knocked on the door, he welcomes the interuption heartily, although he would have never said so. The elderly woman looked in and sighed.
"Sherlock? Oh dear, this flat is a bit of a mess isn't it?" The consulting detective groaned, and sat up.
"It's always like this, Mrs Hudson." Mrs Hudson looked at him in a motherly way.
"It seems empty without John, doesn't it?" Sherlock paused, and then looked out of the window. A cab had just pulled up. A woman stepped out of the cab, and talked to the driver for a bit, before handing over the fare, and turning to the door. He heard the doorbell, and no sooner had it done so than Mrs Hudson hurried out, her face morphing into a welcoming one. Sherlock returned to his seat and waited. Footsteps came up, one fairly light, the other almost indiscernable. Two voices came up, one that of his elderly landlady, the other light, and lilting, with a Scottish/Australian/New Zealand hint to it, but the accent was mainly English. It was gentle, but held hints of excitement, and Sherlock sensed a force behind it. He sensed that if that woman wanted to yell, she would have no trouble drowning out any sounds with her own voice. The door opened, and Mrs Hudson entered.
"Sherlock, there's a client for you." The young woman entered and immediately Sherlock's mind went into deductions. University student, calm, collected, breakfast was cereal, touch of insomnia, recently patted a dog not her own, no boyfriend, not experiencing any family problem, very fit, small tan, very self-confident. ?
It wasn't often that Sherlock was unable to deduce people, but there was something about her. His mind immediately went back to calm and collected. She was standing there blinking at him, a hint of puzzlement on her face. Finally she spoke.
"Mr Holmes, I presume." He nodded." I'm Chelsea Griffiths, I'm studying at Uni, and I've got a bit of a perplexing matter which occured recently if you wouldn't mind having a listen." Sherlock's eyes flickered all over her form before he gestured to the chair opposite.
"Please. Sit down, and tell me what you have." His baritone voice washed over her, and she nearly blinked to refocus herself. She seated herself in a lady-like manner, giving Sherlock one more thing about her to add to his bits of information on her. She watched Sherlock calmly for a bit, before pulling her phone out of her handbag, and clearing her throat. He was quite a handsome man, she thought. His face was angular, but gorgeous, with cheekbones to die for, his eyes were quite frankly amazing, his curls were raven black, and her fingers almost twitched in the desire to run them through her fingers, he was quite obviously tall even from his slouched position in the chair, and and fairly lean. He played the violin, and was either messy by nature, or quite eccentric. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she cleared her throat again.
"I suppose I should start at the beginning Mr Holmes. I'm a Uni student, you see, and I'm pretty ordinary. I know no boys have been showing interest in me, and that's why I am so perplexed. You see, on Valentines Day this year, I received flowers from an annonymous person with a note. Lovely calligraphy, and the flowers were pretty too, but they looked familiar, and then I realised they were almost identical to the ones my dad gives my mum every weekend, but in white instead of pink. I've received them ever since with all these notes. For the first few weeks I chucked them out since, I thought it was a boy having a crush on me, so I chucked them to dissuade them. But they continued, and no one knows anything.
If I'm being quite honest Mr Holmes, I'm a bit of an Internet sensation. You see, I'm an adrenaline junkie. I love the thrill I get from doing freerunning, parkour and a list of martial arts. I became an Internet sensation when I got bored one day, and decided to climb a twelve story building and jump it. Someone bloody filmed it, and put it on Facebook, Google, and bloody Youtube, and now I'm popular. I also do street dancing, and I have my own little corner in Hyde Park where I go, and dance whenever I can, and I attract a bit of a crowd. They give me a decent sum of money, and they're quite nice, and I somehow doubt that anyone of them would do that. I memorise their faces, you see, and make sure that if I see any strangers, I look and see them again. I've seen nothing suspicious though." Taking a deep breath after that little speech, she turned on her phone, and typed in a password.
"I'm used to receiving the flowers every morning, and so it didn't surprise me when I saw them, but it was the state of the rest of the room. I left it undisturbed, and took several pictures." She handed Sherlock the phone, and he studied it intently. It was set up like a shrine to the Uni student. He focused on the note and read it. Looking up at Chelsea he studied her again.
"You don't seem to be terrified by the fact you're being stalked." Chelsea shrugged.
"I thought it was a harmless prank when it went on for a bit longer, but I don't go paranoid or get angry easy, so I wondered if you could help. It's quite frankly a bother having to dispose of them, and I was wondering if you could help me." Sherlock looked at the phone, and considered. If it had been anyone else, but Chelsea Griffiths, he might have solved it in under five minutes, but with Chelsea it was impossible. It could be anyone. There weren't that many girls like Chelsea, who would be completely unfazed by the fact they were being stalked. Chelsea on the otherhand was sitting there as cool as a cucumber, with an eyebrow raised. He looked up at her, and nodded.
"I'll take the case." She smiled at him.
"Thanks a million, Mr Holmes, it's been getting out of hand." Sherlock looked up at her, and studied her again. His eyes raked every inch of her from head to toe, before they met hers, and probed almost accusingly into them, trying to stare into her soul. He thought that just looking her up and down would have made any person slightly uncomfortable, but she looked bored, and she met his gaze equally. She was intrigueing. Not in a manner like the woman, but intrigueing in her own little way. She became an Internet sensation, had a stalker, let said stalker stalk her for six months, and then finally decided to go to a sociopathic detective, who listened to her, took her case, and then started staring at her in a very ungentlemanly manner, and was completely unfazed. His brain registered that her pupils dilated while she stared at him, and he folded that away too. Testing her unfazed manner he leaned backwards.
"You're attracted to me." He stated, and waited for her reaction. Again, it was calm and collected. Chelsea shrugged, and leaned back too.
"You're a handsome man, someone would have to hate you to not be physically attracted to you. And I have a weakness for tall, dark-haired guys. My bad." Sherlock studied her again. Her cheeks had tinged just the slightest bit pink, but otherwise nothing changed. She was still very calm and collected, not the slightest bit embarrassed. Her gaze was frank as though there was nothing that could embarrass her. They studied each other a while longer, before Chelsea's phone let out a text alert. Rolling her eyes, she pulled out the phone, and typed in a very long password, before she read her text and sighed. In response to Sherlock's questioning gaze, she replied.
"Best friends wondering where I am. Bit annoying as well. But they do get so sentimental. Motherly, you might say. I had thought I'd left that behind." She moved to get up, and Sherlock furrowed his brows thinking. Like a whiplash his hand flew out, and he held his palm open. Chelsea blinked once, and he sighed.
"Phone, please. I'm giving you my number so you can text me the location. I will be over to investigate." Chelsea handed over her phone, and watched him type his number into her contacts, his fingers flying over the keyboard, before her handed her phone back. She turned away to leave.
"Goodbye Miss Griffiths." He called, and she turned at the door.
"People call me Chelsea. Mr Holmes." She smiled, and turned again.
"People call me Sherlock. Chelsea." She turned back again, and smiled.
"See you later, Sherlock."
"The same to you, Chelsea." He watched her as she left, and descended the stairs, her footsteps still quiet against the silence that had filled Baker Street.