John Watson burst into the flat on Baker Street and ran to Sherlock's room. Sherlock stood, facing out the window playing his violin- thinking. John stumbled into the room, gasping for breath, "She... Sherlock..." he was struggling for breath,
"Must you cause such a racket when you come in, John?" murmured Sherlock and he set his violin aside, "Now, what is so urgent you had to dash in and interrupt me?" He stared at John, digging for information with his piercing grey eyes. John took another deep breath and then sat across from where Sherlock stood,
"Multi murder in East London. Seems the couple had a slight obsession with The West Murder's in Gloucester, during the 1970's." John blurted in a frenzy,
"Obsession?" Sherlock questioned. He looked puzzled, his mind began to wonder.
"Yes. Near enough the exact same torture and murder pattern, but with one major difference. The-"
"And why would this interest me?" Sherlock interrupted.
"Ah, well, if you'll let me continue..." John raised an eyebrow as he looked at the detective. Sherlock gestured his hands for John to continue, "Right, well, there was a survivor. She was living with the Conor's either just before or during, what we think was one of the latest murders." John stared at Sherlock, searching for some hint of interest. "I believe it's best if we go to her-"
"Before the police do. You believe she's more likely to talk to us?" Sherlock interrupted again,
"Yes. A twenty-two year old philosophy student she may be, but she's had several run in with the police in the past. But if we seem unconnected she'll be more likely to talk," John sighed as the words left his mouth,
"You really believe this will work?" Sherlock questioned. John nodded, beginning to doubt himself due to the detective's question. "Right. Well, let's give it a bash shall we?" he said grabbing his scarf and coat and heading for the door. John sat, confused for a moment before rushing after him.
The pair soon rolled up outside a block of student apartments, not hugely far from the University Of London. Sherlock glanced out at the old building, "Which apartment?" He asked curiously. John fuffled about, searching for his wallet. Upon finding it in the back pocket of his faded blue jeans, he revealed a small card with what was obviously the apartment number written on the back of it. Sherlock took it from him and continued to look up at the building, "12B," He said simply. Sherlock then began to clamber out of the car. John quickly threw a hand onto his shoulder,
"Where are you going?" He asked, gripping Sherlock's shoulder tighter.
"To question this girl. Keep the engine running. I can assure you, I won't be long." Sherlock said with the slightest hint of a smirk. He was in a cruel mood, and only wanted to amuse himself by entertaining John's idea's and fabricating an interest in this whole "case". Sherlock's smile stayed on his pale, perfectly carved face until he reached apartment 12B. He gave a series of three sharp knocks on the door,
"Come in, it's open!" the voice of a posh young female called. She was, as John said, in her early twenties, rather short and busy, as she was clearly rushing about her flat due to the fade in her voice. Never less, Sherlock did as was offered and walked in. He looked around. This certainly didn't look like the flat of a twenty-two year old student. The place was totally pristine with just washed pine floors, magnolia walls , flower arrangements in all the right places and just in general, the place was perfect. Perfect for thinking. Perfect for relaxing. Perfect for talking. Simply perfect. Sherlock took several steps forward into the living area where he found his victim of questioning. She was bent over her coffee table, organising something or other wearing nothing back little black silk undies and a black tank top. Sherlock made a note of her perfect heart shaped bottom as he stared, "Sorry I'm so behind! I didn't think you were coming till la-" she stopped as her deep brown eyes came into contact with the grey stare of Sherlock Holmes. In her arms, she had several magazines and a mug, containing a drink of some kind, all of which ended up on her freshly washed floor, "Who the hell are you? What are you doing on my home?" the woman shouted picking up a small table lamp and holding it threateningly above her head. Sherlock took a second to answer, as he couldn't help but take in the gorgeous, yet amusing sight before him. There was a girl, with long black wavy hair, a perfect hour glass figure and the face of a porcelain doll standing in her underwear attempting to look menacing. It made him chuckle ever so slightly,
"I'm terribly sorry for the interruption and the confusion," He began charmingly, "I am Sherlock Holmes, and I'm currently helping Scotland Yard with a case I believe you can help us with." Sherlock took several steps forward, his hands in front of him to show he was no threat to her. The girl looked sceptical. Keeping her eyes locked on to him, she bent down ever so quickly and grabbed the copy of The Times from her floor. She held the paper in front of her, comparing the picture on the front page to the stranger in her flat. Once satisfied, the girl placed her lamp back in it's place,
"Mr. Holmes, I'm awfully sorry. One for the threat and second for not being decent at this hour!" she chuckled. She invited Sherlock to have a seat on her blue leather sofa,
"I can assure you, that second apology is utterly unnecessary, considering I am not exactly complaining about your choice in clothing."
"Detective! How inappropriate!" the girl laughed, "Now, what can I help you with?" she asked wrapping a black silk dressing gown, which was lying on the opposite sofa, around herself. After cleaning up the mess on her floor, she took a seat beside him.
"You are one, Delilah St. Clare, is that correct?" asked Sherlock, his eyes barely able to leave those deep, drawing brown pools. The girl nodded and gave a slight smile as she awaited further questioning. Sherlock cleared his throat before continuing, "And you were temporarily staying with Mr and Mrs Robert Conor a couple of months ago?" The girl sighed as the nature of the detective's visit clicked into place,
"Look I can't help you." Delilah said bluntly. "I never seen or heard a thing." Her face then turned to stone. Unreadable. The perfect poker face, as even Sherlock could not decipher what she was thinking or whether she was lying.
"And you just left? Untouched?" Sherlock asked sceptically. The poker face stayed,
"The worst that ever happened to me? Mr Conor made a pass at me. The only 'threat' towards me being that Merriam (Mrs Conor) would be distressed at my sudden disappearance." She said with a cool monotone.
"And do you believe she would have been?"
"Hard to say. I left that night."
"Why? Why didn't you just pack your things and leave there and then?" Sherlock began to dig, finding more and more questions to ask this fine young woman, "Unless you thought there was some threat to your safety?"
"No. I didn't feel threatened at all. I only wished to avoid any awkward questions from Merriam. It's not exactly the nicest thing; hearing that your husband tried to get into a younger girls pants." A smile flashed into her ruby lips, "Besides, Mr Conor," she gave a slight giggle, "he couldn't handle a girl like me," Delilah face regained an expression, one of seduction. She leaned in towards Sherlock and whispered in his ear, "What about you Mr Holmes? Could you handle a girl like me?" The words tingled down Sherlock's spine, creeping all over his body, to his most private regions. It made him uncomfortable. He shot to his feet. Delilah's perfect smile grew as he backed away,
"That's quite inappropriate, Miss St. Clare," Sherlock said, a blush beginning to creep over his face,
"It's not everyday I get a smart, young detective at my door is it, Mr Holmes? Especially one as handsome as yourself. What's a girl supposed to so?" The sexy smirk deepened. She was clearly relishing the fact that she was making him uncomfortable.
"Should I come back at a time when you're less... preoccupied with other things?" He asked, a hint of nervousness lurking in his voice.
"If you wish, Mr Holmes. I'll be here every evening this week and all day Friday. Shall I give you my number? So you can check ahead to make sure I'm here?" The seductive look stayed in those eyes. Those haunting, captivating amazing eyes.
"Certainly." Sherlock handed her his phone. Her eyes stayed on him as she popped in her number,
"Now don't be a stranger," she said handing the phone back, "I'm always a text away, Mr Holmes," she winked and the smile continued.
"Of course. I shall return tomorrow evening," He then turned to leave,
"I'll be sure to have the kettle on," The seductive eyes followed him across the room to the door. Sherlock took a last glance into their perfection and left.
When Sherlock returned to the car, John had his face buried into a news paper, "Successful questioning?" he asked folding the paper in half and tossing it in the back seat.
"Quite." Sherlock replied as he pulled his seatbelt over himself, "I have to return tomorrow evening to continue,"
"Was she distressed?" John asked, confused.
"Yes. Quite. Off we go then." John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's words and put the car into gear and drove off. Sherlock kept his eyes on the building, specifically Miss St. Clare's home. What kind of spell had this woman put over him? Whatever it was, it didn't sit right with him, and this feeling stayed with him until they reached their flat, 221B Baker Street, where he stayed up playing his violin into the early hours of morning, thinking.
Disclaimer: I do not own "Sherlock"
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AJM xxx