Hello! This is my first fanfiction and I hope you like it.
I've often thought about the mind of a detective and how it differs greatly from the mind of a writer so I wrote a fanfiction based on that idea.
I do not own Sherlock. Only Alex Price.
Enjoy!
Alex Price was a Kentish girl brought up by a single mother and had never needed, or wanted, to live in London. But at the age of twenty-three, when her dream of becoming a published author became true and she was able to rent a place near to her agent and publisher due to her £60,000 advance, she couldn't say no. The landlady was a friend of her mother and had agreed to let Alex have the flat rent-free for six months, provided she renovated the flat and most importantly of all, got rid of the black mould. The place was virtually uninhabitable at that point in time and with the money she had been given, she could easily stay in a hotel until it was ready. Alex thought that renovating a flat would be the best way to take a breather from her recent book tour.
There was a decent hotel five streets away from Baker Street which she decided would suit her until she could move into the flat. She had agreed to meet her mother's friend, Martha Hudson, at her flat that very afternoon that she checked into the hotel. It was the thirty-first of May and the beginning of summer. The cold wind hit Alex hard and stung her eyes as she emerged from St. Pancras. She bent her head as she dragged her trolley away from the building and down the small flight of stairs. She had never flagged a taxi before and didn't quite know how.
Oh, god, this is so embarrassing, she thought. In her small town in Kent she would have to call for a taxi. Not here; not in the big, bad city.
There was a taxi just pulling in and after the gentleman in the taxi got out, she gathered herself together and went up to it before anyone else could. Ignoring the interjections of " That was mine" and "I've been waiting longer than you," she stumbled straight in and told the taxi driver where she wanted to go.
"221b Baker Street, please."
"You're not from round here, are you?" the cabbie asked.
"No, I'm from Kent. I'm just moving to London today."
That was it; the end of the conversation. She was used to having taxi drivers who would either indulge in a long and in-depth discussion with her. Either that, or they'd say nothing at all. Never in between; it was one or the other.
It didn't take long to reach Baker Street and the place was easy to spot as Speedy's café took up some of the ground floor space. It was actually 221c she was renting, but the door marked '221B' would be the place she would need to visit. There were three doorbells - which one was Mrs Hudson's? Of course. Alex would be renting the basement flat, Mrs Hudson said something about two men sharing the upstairs flat, so Mrs Hudson would be on the ground floor. Alex pressed the middle button tentatively, in case their positions somehow didn't correspond with the locations of the actual flats. However, she was relieved when the little sweet lady she had not seen for three years, and had only spoken to on the phone in the last few days, answered the door.
"Alex, my darling!" Mrs Hudson cried, giving Alex a tight hug. "Oh, look at you, you're all grown up!"
"Mrs H, I was 'grown up' the last time you saw me," Alex exclaimed, stepping through the door and idly pulling the stubborn wheels of her trolley behind her. "Remember, when you visited my Mum on her 40th a couple of years ago?"
Mrs Hudson had to step a fair bit in, as the contents of the trolley were on the bulky side and took up the whole width of the door.
"Erm… oh, yes, I remember. Well, you look so grown up and you've had a novel published! You've done so well."
Alex thanked Mrs Hudson as she entered the lobby of the building. It was rather dark with dark green fabric wallpaper, an armchair in the corner against the staircase that led to the flat above and an old fashioned fireplace opposite. It hardly looked accommodating or big enough to be a sitting room. Alex spotted the doorway to the basement flat and the door of Mrs Hudson's flat wide open next to it. It would be a tight squeeze to get a three-piece-suite down to the basement, but Mrs Hudson had told her how it had been achieved with exceptionally large furniture before, so it was doable.
"Sorry, darling, but wouldn't it have been better to check into your hotel and then come to see me? It's quite a way to bring your luggage."
"It's ten o' clock in the morning, Mrs H; the room won't be ready until about two. It was either wait around at the station, wait around in the hotel lobby, or come and see you," Alex said with an affectionate smile, indicating that it was the third of the options she would have preferred to any other.
The kettle was on and a large piece of cake made its way out of the fridge before Alex could have a moment to breathe after her long journey. She could feel a migraine coming on and her hair must have been in a huge mess. In Mrs Hudson's bathroom, Alex got a good look at herself. Yep, her hair had seen much better days, not just that it was messy, but it had faded to a mousy blonde rather than its normal golden shade and although she always had dark circles under her eyes even when she was a child, they looked even worse. Alex had brought her contact lenses with her, but had chosen to wear spectacles today.
Ugh, she thought, my eyes look like they're disappearing! Grabbing her bag and bringing it back to the bathroom, she frantically drew out all the items she needed to make herself look half-decent. In went the contact lenses and on went the lightest touch of make-up. Alex's hair was having none of it as she dragged her paddle brush through her tresses. So, to compensate, she pinned it into a low ponytail, leaving just the layered pieces at the front to frame her rosy face.
"Ooh, you look nice!" Mrs Hudson cooed as Alex finally emerged from the bathroom.
"Thanks. Not gone to too much effort, it's just that I don't want to meet my two new neighbours looking like I've been sleeping the whole weekend!" She giggled slightly before sitting down to her tea, which had cooled significantly, and to the lemon drizzle cake Mrs Hudson had made especially for the arrival.
"You really didn't have to go to all this trouble, Mrs Hudson."
"It's nothing, really. I enjoy baking, and Lord knows, I make those two dinner all the time, so it's no bother. I'm always trying to get Sherlock to eat more; the man could use a bit more meat on his bones. Although, John eats Sherlock's leftovers, so the food doesn't go to waste."
Alex thought for a second. "They're the guys who live above? John and… who?"
"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."
Alex thought again – the name sounded familiar.
"He's a detective. Sees through everything. Able to tell anything from tiny details. I will tell you now, when he meets you he will list everything he sees about you. He calls it The Science of Deduction, which is the name of his website thing. He can be very rude when he's listing all the things he knows about you. It drives me up the wall sometimes!"
"Okay, okay, Mrs Hudson." Alex placed her hand on top of her new landlady's across the table, running her thumb over the fingers to assure her. "I get it."
A few more mouthfuls of tea and cake later, the imaginary manifestation of Sherlock Holmes would not let go and she had to ask more.
"A detective? I take it he's a private detective?"
Mrs Hudson nodded, her mouth full of cake.
"He can tell things about you? Like, what kind of person you are? Does he read body language, or what?" Alex asked.
"Yes, but he can also tell if you're a smoker, a drinker, what you had for breakfast, your career and often your love life."
Alex was intrigued, but she also wanted to learn more about her other neighbour. "What about John?"
"He's a medical doctor, but he mostly helps Sherlock with his cases."
"Can he, you know, 'deduce?'" Alex queried, bringing her index and forefingers up and down in quotation.
"No. Well, not as good as Sherlock. He's got a heart of gold, John; such a good boy!"
"Are they a couple?" Alex pressed, feeling a tiny bit shy.
"No. They're just good friends. Sherlock is more likely to become Prime Minister than have a relationship!"
Tea and cakes were soon over and the two women stood up pretty much as soon as they heard the faint sound of the front door opening and closing. There were sounds of two raised voices and loud stomping up the stairs.
"I think the boys are back! We'll let them settle down and I'll introduce you, but try not to take anything Sherlock says to heart."
Alex was ready for anything. Years of bullying had made her strong and the wall she had so carefully built would be about the serve its purpose. But surely, the man couldn't be that bad? Mrs Hudson liked him; he had a best friend with a heart of gold and solved crimes. He sounded like a decent person. Alex swallowed the two Ibuprofen Mrs Hudson had found for her and hoped the headache would go away soon.
Mrs Hudson had taken herself into the lobby and was calling up the stairs with a surprisingly loud bark that seemed like she was giving orders to soldiers.
"BOYS! Alex is here, I'd like you to meet her!" From the top of the stairs, the sound of a man's voice answered.
"Oh, sure, she can come up if she likes! Sherlock's busy so he won't come down."
As the rest of the house fell into silence, Alex positioned herself at the bottom of the stairs ready to ascend. She understood at once what John had meant by 'busy'. The sound of a violin being played solemnly, yet beautifully, flowed through the air, putting Alex into a trance. Her imagination found its feet again. Each step of the staircase seemed to take forever as stories and images ran through her mind. It was as if millions of files were being downloaded at once and she needed to sort them into some sort of order to make a story. The man could really play. She didn't know what the piece was but she didn't care. It was beautiful.
Then, at the top of the stairs, she saw a short, blonde, slightly tanned thirty-five year old-ish- man in a faded cream jumper smiling at her with his hand outstretched. It was a firm handshake, but warm and friendly. Alex instantly liked him and felt that whatever Sherlock had to throw at her, at least there was a genuinely nice bloke to have a chat with.
"John Watson, nice to meet you."
"Alex Price, nice to meet you, too. Thanks for inviting me up."
"No problem, you're welcome any time at all. Congratulations on your book and everything."
"Oh, thank you!" Alex exclaimed, concluding that Mrs Hudson had told John about her.
They were still stood at the top of the stairs and she had not yet set her eyes on Sherlock, but did notice the partial movement of an arm moving in time to a melody. Then, the owner spoke.
"Don't be absurd, John, not at 'any time at all,' as you put it." The voice was deep and almost menacing, like a warning. Time to put the wall up, Alex thought.
John's kind demeanour immediately changed to annoyed and defensive as he slapped his arm to his side, turned toward the speaker and elevated his voice by several decibels.
"Sherlock, she is welcome, it's my flat too! I'm fed up with you dictating who comes here and who doesn't."
"John," Sherlock replied shortly. Alex was in the living room and saw that a tall, dark, curly-haired man who was setting down his violin by the far window was turning to his flatmate, but not before flicking his eyes toward the young woman in the hallway. It was only a second, but given the information that Alex had had disclosed to her earlier that day, she knew that a glance had a lot more going on beneath the surface. "It is inconceivable that she should be able to enter this flat anytime at all. What if we're on a case, I'm conducting an experiment or you are sleeping?"
"Sherlock, you're taking what I'm saying too literally."
"Too literally?" Sherlock repeated, his voice ever-so-slightly increasing in pitch. "You said 'anytime' and by 'anytime' you meant 'anytime.'" There was blatant sarcasm in his blunt tone
Alex thought it would be best to intercept before a full blown argument broke out. She would hate to have been the cause of it.
"Sorry, I won't come up here at all unless you both are happy with it." It worked. Both men stopped and stared at her. John smiled, showing the same pleasant disposition he infallibly displayed only a minute before, but Sherlock's expression remained as it did when he first glanced at her. Emotionless, yet inquisitive and calculating. She could almost see the cogs turning in his head.
"Okay, Sherlock, you be nice to her please, I'll put the kettle on. Take a seat Alex!" John called as he turned to the left. Alex moved a little closer, seeing that their kitchen was just off the living room, separated only by two stained-glass folding doors that had been drawn back as far as they would go to give the room an open feeling. There were science equipment pieces strewn all over the centre table and the most striking piece was a large, white microscope. She had seen microscopes before at school, but only basic ones. The one in the kitchen had to be top of the range.
Alex had forgotten that Sherlock was staring at her as she gawped at the apparatus on the table. She flicked her head to the right and noticed that Sherlock had taken a step closer to her. He was just as Mrs Hudson had said; thin. Very thin. He was certainly tall and his smart, black, cashmere suit made him look even taller. Unlike John, Sherlock didn't hold out his hand. Alex didn't hold out hers either.
"You're nervous," Sherlock said eventually.
"Sorry?" Alex said, taking her hands out of the pockets of her grey hoody.
"Your posture is tense and uncertain and you greeted John in a friendly manner, but not me, which says you've already been told about my methodsand the lack of forwardness in your approach says you have put up an emotional partition between us so whatever I may say will not affect you, shall I go on?"
He spoke so quickly that Alex had to think for a while in order to register his question, which she assumed was probably rhetorical. John Watson had stopped making the tea and had feebly been repeating Sherlock's name at him to get him to stop, but he really shouldn't have bothered. It had no effect on the tenacity of the man standing before Alex, summing her up.
"You are obviously a writer; you have ink stains on your middle and index fingers on your right hand: you have been writing on the train journey, probably poetry or a diary of how you are feeling. Considering the indentations in your fingers, which suggest you have been holding the pen tightly, you meant every word you wrote and were writing rather quickly, meaning you had a lot to say. Your make-up is sparse, and was applied only an hour ago –since you arrived in Baker Street, no doubt – and you got up so early this morning that you didn't have time to wash or style your hair It would seem strange that you would put make-up on without doing your hair and the ponytail clearly tells me that you found it futile to try to make it look neat given the strength of the wind in London, so you settled for putting it back, so the untidiness isn't so obvious. You had a cake and some tea with Mrs Hudson, one she made herself."
Sherlock made his way to a dumbstruck Alex and touched the lapel of her hoody, before he retracted his hand, rubbing his index finger and thumb together.
"The lemon drizzle cake was made early enough today that it had time to cool down in the fridge before it was served. You had quite a lot, so you didn't eat on the train. Suggests you wanted to get here as soon as possible and had no time to say goodbye to friends or family." Alex had had enough. Clearly the man didn't like her and he had finally done what nobody had done since school – penetrate the wall – and it hurt. She let her gaze drop from Sherlock's to John, who was behind Sherlock left shoulder.
"It's okay, John, I'll pass on the tea, I don't think your friend likes me, so I'm going to go. I'm sorry." Alex turned and hurried down the stairs, feeling her face flush and her strength dented. Behind her, she faintly heard cries of "No, Alex, don't go!", but it was no use. She was back in Mrs Hudson's flat in seconds.
"Oh, God, you weren't kidding about him, were you?" Alex cried. It wasn't just what Sherlock had said, it was how. His cold exterior and acid in his voice as well as his intimidating height (Alex was all of five foot four inches) shook her. She didn't feel tears coming on, but another push from him would send her over the edge.
"No, love." Mrs Hudson stood staring at her with her arms folded, not going over to her surrogate niece to comfort her. "I did warn you. But seriously, you need to toughen up if you're going to to live here. He's always like that, which is what makes him a bloody good detective. He just says what he sees, darling, he's not judging you personally; it's not to be taken to heart. It doesn't mean that he dislikes you, it's just his way. He does the same to me every day, more or less! I know it cuts to the heart and it's easier said than done, but really, take it with a pinch of salt and expect it. That way, you will be able to handle it."
Alex made her way to her hotel at three in the afternoon and unpacked swiftly, trying and failing to get Sherlock's words out of her head. But Mrs Hudson's speech about Sherlock not meaning anything personally also circled her mind endlessly and John's sweet and kind manner also gave her some comfort. Toughen up, she kept telling herself, you're supposed to be a strong woman, not a silly little girl!
By four o' clock, the unpacking was done and she was so tired that she didn't know whether to have a kip or go somewhere to have dinner. More of her belongings would be arriving in transit from her mother's home in Kent in a couple of weeks when the flat was ready.
Maybe she had been a tad too sensitive earlier. Oh, what would John think of her? And would she ever be able to talk to Sherlock? She would have to face him sometime, for she would be living at 221C for the foreseeable future.
Five o' clock came around and Alex was still sitting on the edge of the hotel bed with thoughts and theories moving around her head. Could she put any of it down on paper? No, it wasn't imagination trying to evolve a story. It was reality. As well as the new people she had met today, the prospect of being in a busy, congested city, not knowing where anything was and having to make new friends would be both an exciting, yet daunting task. Both the plumber and the electrician that Mrs Hudson had recommended were coming to inspect the flat tomorrow and hopefully they would be able to arrange to have the place rewired and plumbed-in as soon as possible. Next, it would be a case of re-plastering the holes in the walls, installing new skirting boards, door frames and doors, removing all the mould, tackling the root cause of the damp, fitting new floors, painting the woodwork, wallpapering, painting and finally – the icing on the cake – the decor of the flat. Alex had already decided on black, white and chrome for the kitchen, with swirls on the cutlery and the tiles, the living room being in shades of white, off-white, pink and gold and the bedroom displaying a renaissance feel. Bathroom? Blue. Had to be blue. Dolphins would be cliché but attractive and contemporary.
Little had she had time to visualise the rooms as she imagined walking through the flat, when her phone bleeped.
Would you like some dinner? Sherlock has left the flat for the night to go to Bart's. I'm on my own tonight, fancy a takeaway? This is John Watson by the way.
He must have got the number from Mrs H, Alex thought. Sherlock's where? Bart's? Oh, yes, the hospital. She didn't take too long to decide her answer to John's question.
Yes, I'd love a takeaway, thanks. Be there in ten minutes. Why has Sherlock gone to Bart's?
There's a lab there and a morgue. He does lots of experiments and sometimes the equipment in the flat isn't enough. He examines bodies too. I often go with him, but I declined today.
Alex didn't take long to get to Baker Street, even though the evening was drawing in and the streets were busy at rush hour. She had to weave her way down the street as if she were in a speedboat in the Straits of Dover to avoid the oncoming pedestrian traffic.
John had Chinese, Indian and Italian takeaway menus in his hand as Alex entered the flat. She couldn't help but look around; just to double-check that Sherlock wasn't there. Of course he wasn't, but it was as if his very essence was still lingering.
"What do you prefer?" John asked, holding up the menus, like a magician asking her to pick a card, any card.
"Err, this one," Alex said, taking the Indian Menu. "I'm starving. Tikka Masala sounds great. And naan bread. Definitely naan bread!"
John laughed and took the menu from her, opting for a Jalfrezi, also with naan bread.
"I'll go and get it; it's not too far away. It gets here quicker if you collect rather than order in, I won't be long."
Alex handed John a ten pound note and found herself, surprisingly, in Sherlock and John's flat, without either flatmate; a situation that Sherlock would not have appreciated.
It was a cosy place; dimly lit, chock-a-block with books, papers, boxes and had display cabinets with samples in them. She sat in the chair opposite the telly, not wanting to turn it on. She wanted to wait for a sign of movement in case Sherlock came back.
Then, there was a noise. The sound of the door opening and closing. Must be John, Alex thought. Alex rose from the chair, keeping her eyes on the door, just in case. Just in case. As the figure came into view, it was as she had dreaded. Sherlock Holmes, clad in a long, expensive-looking coat, a dark blue scarf around his neck and a grave look on his face the second he appeared through the door. Alex assumed that Sherlock had deduced her presence and John's absence as soon as he came up the stairs. Maybe he had when he came through the front door, or as he was approaching the building. Sherlock had indeed made Alex nervous before, but the second confrontation was unbearable. She was trembling slightly.
"Sherlock, sorry, um, John invited me in and went to get a takeaway. He said it was okay for me to be here…"
Sherlock's grave expression didn't change as he took off his coat and scarf, not letting his gaze leave Alex's face. After he had removed his outer garments, he stood and stared, much as he had done earlier. But surprisingly, his expression softened a bit. Not much, but a bit.
"John doesn't know, does he?"
"Know what?" Alex asked, surprised at the question.
"He doesn't know you're gay, does he?"
Oh, yes. He sees through everything, so of course he would have worked this one out.
"Err, no he doesn't, I don't think," Alex replied, seemingly at ease.
"Better tell him. Sooner, rather than later." Sherlock's voice, still deep, wasn't as condescending as before. In fact, he really appeared to show concern, if only an ounce, for his friend.
Alex tried her hand at a conversation. Sherlock had taken himself into the kitchen and looked around as if trying hard to find something.
"I'll tell him soon, but just have to find the right moment. I wasn't going to say it today when we first met; it isn't really the type of thing you say when you meet someone!"
"John, like everyone, sees but does not observe, but if he had done, he'd have read the signs himself and come to the correct conclusion."
Sherlock continued his search in the kitchen cupboards for whatever it was he was looking for, while Alex wondered how Sherlock knew. Was it her body language, her wardrobe, her gait, what? Did she dare ask? No, no more deductions. There would be plenty more, no doubt, but no need to induce one. Then, as if reading her thoughts, Sherlock interrupted them.
"You're wondering how I knew."
"Err –" Alex mumbled, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to say yes either.
"When I say 'knew', I mean it, I knew the second I looked at you."
It was Alex's turn to interrupt. "Then why didn't you say so when you were listing everything you saw about me earlier?"
"Well, it's like how you said – it isn't something you say when you first meet someone."
For the first time, Sherlock smiled at her. It wasn't a warm or friendly smile, but a rather charming and a tad patronising one. Still, it was sugar-coated compared to the acid tongue she had experienced that day.
A few seconds later, Alex became rather doubtful of Sherlock's sincerity. Did he really mean to be tactful and diplomatic? Considering Mrs Hudson's warnings earlier and how rude and arrogant he was, would he show uncharacteristic empathy? Alex felt a surge of courage boiling up inside her. Maybe she could go toe-to-toe with the detective.
"Really? Is it not because you thought you would let John work it out for himself and watch him try his luck with me and fail? No doubt you have concern for your friend, but given your rudeness earlier, I'd say I'm right."
Sherlock's smile changed to a sincere look of intrigue. His eyes did not leave Alex's, did not flick up and down nor squeeze with questioning. His mouth formed a rather subtle, yet pleased smile. Turning his head, Sherlock moved toward the back of the kitchen and opened the fridge, fumbling inside.
That was it, the ice breaker. She was no longer afraid of the man. Alex knew that the deductions would come in thick and fast, but she would be more prepared for them.
John arrived back at the flat later than he had anticipated, instantly apologising and blaming punters who were ordering stupid amounts of food. He was both surprised and pleased to see his friend and gave Alex a look that asked her if everything was all right. All Alex had to do was smile in a satisfied way and give an affirmative nod to confirm it. Sherlock in turn shrugged his shoulders at Alex, with his body language sending her a message to tell John. Alex's reply was a raise of her eyebrows, putting Sherlock and his queries right in his place.
John and Alex ate their takeaway chatting over Alex's recently-published book and after Sherlock had found what he was looking for (anti-freeze), he was putting diluted drops of it into individual petri dishes. Eventually, he set to work with his microscope.
It still wasn't right to blurt out to John that Alex was gay and although John flirted with her with a fair bit of effort, she kept the conversation platonic, gently letting him know she liked him, but not in the way that he wanted. He appeared to get the message not long after they had discarded the plastic trays the food came in and had sat down to watch a James Bond film. John didn't seem to mind, he just relaxed and bantered with Alex the way he would with a mate at a pub. Alex thought Sherlock would get annoyed with their talking, but he seemed to be so focused on his work that nothing else mattered.
As the title song played and John stopped chattering, Alex's gaze travelled from the television to the tall man sat on the kitchen stool. Working, working, working. Definitely a workaholic, but not just that. The bloke had such tenacity it was unbelievable; such drive and determination for the art and science of detection it was unrivalled. He was fascinating. Certainly Sherlock Holmes was ridiculously intelligent, probably with an IQ of 200 or something; so observant and quick that he could solve a murder in seconds and could possibly bring a mob or criminal gang to its knees in minutes, but it wasn't these attributes she found the most captivating about the detective. It was his passion, which was hidden behind a cold mask. Yes, it was a mask; or more like a suit of armour with chainmail and a shield with all the gadgets going, but there was a heart beneath it all. A heart that had love and enthusiasm for his work and unparalleled zest which Alex admired most of all.
Mrs Hudson was right about 221C being damp and caked in mould. Alex spent a minimal amount of time there, only doing what was necessary and when she found out that the plumber and electrician would need four days to get all they needed, she was left with four days of absolutely nothing to do.
The afternoon of the day of the inspections was particularly dull. Mrs Hudson had gone out, John was at work and she had no idea where Sherlock was. Alone in 221C, pacing the underlay in the front room, she circled about, trying to picture her furniture, the paint, the border and tried her hardest to visualise where her beloved bureau would go. A writer needed a bureau, most definitely. The lack of writing had given her imagination a chance to calm down and she knew it would take effort to bring it back to life. She knew first-hand that writer's block existed and staring at the wall while sitting at a desk was inexplicably and almost physically painful.
Crouching down by the entrance to the kitchen, she closed her hands in front of her face and let the room fill with colours just like she had designed: off-white wallpaper with pink on the wall being the fireplace with a marbled black mantelpiece; black furniture and off-white curly ornaments, gold picture frames, and –
The door to the basement flat received a rata-a-tat-tat. Maintaining her hunched posture, Alex called out
"It's open!"
She hoped it would be John asking if she wanted a cup of tea or something, but it wasn't. The footsteps were steady and precise, obviously belonging to a statuesque being. The black leather shoes, the perfect iron-creased trousers and the flaps of a long coat appeared first, followed by the full length of the coat, a pale face and a mass of dark hair.
Alex glanced at Sherlock, but didn't move. The room was still being painted and formed, she couldn't snap out of it for a while. Her gaze moved to the floor, striving to imagine what would be the best texture for her feet.
"Alex," Sherlock said, still with his hands in his pockets, as if it was cold. "What are you doing on the floor?"
"I'm debating whether to have laminate or carpet."
Sherlock pursed his lips, ran his eyes over the ground and then looked at Alex. "Laminate," he said like it was the only option.
"Really?" Alex asked, coming out of her trance and standing up to walk towards him, still eying the floor.
"Really," Sherlock answered. "Less hoovering, easy to keep clean, doesn't absorb the toxins from the air like carpet does, doesn't lose its colour and goes with virtually anything." It was like he was trying to sell it in a shop.
Alex wasn't buying it. She, too, pursed her lips and considered the room for a moment. Clapping her hands together she announced her decision. "Carpet it is! Right, Sherlock, what can I do for you?"
Initially looking puzzled by her decision, Sherlock finally took his hands out of his pockets. "Have you got some free time? John is working late and Scotland Yard have contacted me to confirm that they have found a body. I'm needed at the crime scene, and I need an assistant."
Alex was more than surprised. Shocked, even; so much so that she had to hold her hand to her mouth to stifle her laugh.
"Funny?" Sherlock looked almost offended.
"You need me," Alex pointed to herself, "to be your assistant? To go and see a body? Oh my God!"
"Yes, that it what I am asking."
"I've never seen a dead body –" Alex said, realising that it wasn't a story, it was real.
"It'll be fine. So, are you busy?" The prospect of adventure was overwhelming.
"Not anymore!" Alex told him.
Sherlock hailed a cab effortlessly and they travelled all the way to Chiswick without exchanging a word. Alex was drinking in all the sights of London; the urban landscape and ever-changing canvas. Extremely aware of the tall man beside her, she deliberately didn't look at him. She wouldn't know what to say to him. Her BlackBerry poised on the notebook section, she prepared to take down whatever was needed.
Sherlock came to her side very quickly after he had disembarked the taxi and immediately clamped his hand over her phone, pushing Alex's hand down.
"You won't need this. Just stick by me; help me make a point," he hissed, keeping his lips together as if ventriloquizing.
It was a nice suburban road. A cul-de-sac. The police had sectioned off a portion of the road. There was a large magnolia-coloured house near the turning circle at the end of the road which was swarming with officers in paper suits. Sherlock walked, or rather swaggered, briskly toward it, as if he owned the road. Within seconds, a thin, curly haired woman with a screwed-up expression blocked his path.
"Did Lestrade phone you, Freak?"
"Ah, Sally, always so polite and courteous. Lestrade phoned me, yes, and asked me to come here. Is there a problem?" Sherlock's response dripped with venom and contempt. Alex didn't notice it as much as the animosity that the woman had greeted him with. And what had she called him?
"Fine. Lestrade, Freak's here, he's coming in," she muttered into her walkie-talkie.
She had, she had called him a Freak! Why, what was the issue there? Alex hated any form of bullying or discrimination. A Freak? Absolutely not. Sensing a strong urge to stick up for her housemate, she glared at the woman right in the eye as she turned around after announcing Sherlock's presence.
"So, where's your boyfriend? Had a tiff? And who's this?" Sally pointed rudely to Alex. Big mistake. Sherlock went to interject, but it was not going to happen.
"This," Alex pointed at herself, "has been invited here by Sherlock and I'm not leaving until I am told to."
Sally's furrowed eyebrows intensified. She clearly had issues with Sherlock and definitely had an attitude problem.
"Lestrade!" Sally called out, tilting her head to her left without letting her eyes leave Alex's.
"Freak's brought this along."
A grey-haired man approached and turned instantly to Sherlock.
"John not here? Who is she?"
"Alex Price; she is my stand in for today, John is working."
The senior officer, Lestrade, nodded his head in contemplation, keeping his hands on his hips as he looked Alex up and down. She could sense Sally's smirk building, expecting her superior to tell Alex to leave the scene.
"Okay, if you trust her, I trust her. Greg Lestrade," the officer said as he shook Alex's hand.
Taking one last glance at Sally's less-than-satisfied face showing the tell-tale signs of a lost battle, she let the smugness show a little. It was equally shared by Sherlock, who gave Alex a nod and a smile as he turned to walk through the front door of the building. A smile of approval; of liking. She could sense the trust he had in her and, knowing that, Alex had complete faith in Sherlock.
"Is she always like that?" Alex asked quietly as they climbed the stairs in the house to where, she was just realising, a body lay waiting for them.
"Whenever she sees me."
"Well, she was bloody rude to me and she didn't know me," Alex said.
"You're with me and, if anyone is with me, they get the same treatment from the lovely Sally Donovan."
Alex had to smile at that. The man had a wicked sense of humour underneath it all.
The blood was what was most noticeable as they approached a wide, rather grand landing that had two corridors and four rooms off it, as the door to the nearest bedroom was gaping wide open and a splatter of blood covered the wall. Alex felt a little nervous as she approached.
Sherlock nonchalantly entered the room as if he were walking into a board room that he was the chairman off, slipping off his leather gloves to don surgical ones. There was only one splatter of blood on the wall, but there was a lot on the floor around the corpse of a young woman who was face down, her brown leather handbag still clasped at her waist. The back of her head looked con-caved, as if dented with something.
Sherlock was walking around the woman with a very small magnifying glass that he held with both hands, twisting and turning it, bringing it closer and further away; moving so quick that Alex was sure he had not given himself enough time to collate all the data. All she could do was stare – stare at the poor dead woman, who was certainly no older than Alex was, who had the life knocked out of her by some bastard. What made it more unbearable was Sherlock's detached manner. But maybe that was it. If Sherlock were to be affected by such a scene, would he be able to be the fantastic detective that he obviously was?
Gathering her senses and trying to push away her uncertainty, Alex stepped forward bravely, only to be stopped by a greasy-looking man in a plastic suit.
"No interfering with the body without these." The man handed a pair of gloves to her. She wondered why the police had not made her or Sherlock wear a plastic suit, but took the gloves without question. The man folded his arms and turned contemptuously towards Sherlock. Alex could sense the same loathing oozing from the pores of this man as she did from Sally's eyes and voice. They both hated him.
"One more minute, Freak," said the man, which fell on deaf ears to whom it was intended.
Less than ten seconds later, Sherlock stood up very swiftly, peeling off his gloves as if he couldn't get them off quick enough and smiling at the body as if to appear to thank her for the information he had received.
"Got what you need?" the man asked Sherlock. Alex was almost surprised when the F word was not mentioned, half-expecting a more derogatory expletive.
"Oh, just the usual, Anderson. Probably would have known more than you from just a photograph of her handbag, but one would expect a man with an IQ lower than a bowl of cereal to see what's in front of his nose."
Alex winced. She was certainly on Sherlock's side, but the insult was a tad over the top.
Sherlock then took out his BlackBerry and began to take numerous photos of the woman, the blood, the room, the dresser under the French window, the open wardrobe and the gaping wound at the back of the woman's head. Alex had not touched a thing and did not wish to, but did not even attempt to remove her gloves.
"Right, time's up, Freak, please leave." Anderson moved to his right to allow Sherlock to pass but, of course, the brilliant detective could not be owned.
"Lestrade will give me as long as I need, now if you don't mind…" Sherlock abruptly slammed the door in Anderson's face, provoking a cry from behind it. Alex knew that it had hit him right in the nose, but for using the F word again, it was rightly deserved. However, she felt too unnerved to smile. The poor, young woman with blood-soaked blonde hair had her full attention. Who could have committed such a grotesque crime?
"Alex, what do you see?"
She didn't respond.
"Alex?" Sherlock asked again, elevating his voice slightly. "What do you see?"
"Err…" Alex could only say the very obvious. "A, er, dead woman on the floor, blood all around her, but some splattered up the wall…"
"Good, what else?" Sherlock pressed. Alex knew that he was trying to pluck any skills of deduction out of her, but she knew that he wouldn't succeed. Pitting his intellect against the less intelligent would be just another way of putting himself on a higher pedestal. Alex decided not to bite.
"Err, that's it." She felt tears welling in her eyes. Her mind couldn't help it. Images and even voices rushed through it. The writer in her couldn't resist using the stimulus in front of her to create a story. She fought it, as if it was the Minotaur, but she was no match for her beast of an imagination.
"That's it?" It was only then that Sherlock knew that it was affecting Alex. He knew that she was not up to remembering facts or keeping up with his deductions. Sherlock actually looked thoughtful for a moment and pressed his lips together, obviously deducing the mood of the woman whom he had invited to become his 'colleague'.
"Okay, that's all. I've got everything I need. I need to talk to Lestrade; you go on outside and I'll catch you up."
Alex was rather confused. She expected Sherlock to probe her further for opinions before proving her completely wrong and astound her with his stunning skills of detection. But she was happy to comply with his request and spare the humiliation. Plus, the sight of the dead woman covered in blood had unnerved her and getting out of the ridiculously oversized and overdressed house was a welcome proposition.
It was getting a little dark outside and the lampposts in the street were sporting golden orbs; the headlights of the traffic travelling from left to right at the end of the road giving the place a twilight effect. Clouds had completely covered the sky and it only made it seem closer to winter than it had done the previous day when it was bright as a summer's day.
"All finished here, then. Pretty obvious. Gave Lestrade the details he needs to catch the killer, case closed," Sherlock said as he crept up behind her, totally ignoring the fact that he made Alex jump out of her skin and that she had her hand clasped to her chest to steady her breathing.
Sherlock was already strutting down the street, hailing the first cab he saw. As if he had waved a wand, it stopped and they both entered hastily.
"How did you solve it? How did you know who it was when you didn't question anybody?"
"All will be revealed in good time. Once we are back in Baker Street, you will find out."
Sherlock was so cryptic and frustrating. Alex saw little point in arguing or enquiring further, but it didn't half burn a hole in her curious mind. Of course, many scenarios were floating around. She longed to rub the writing off the blackboard of her mind and leave it like that, but no – the mind of a writer never slept. Neither did the mind of the detective, evidently.