Chapter 1: The Still Stranger

He was dressed in a suit that fit his figure snugly, a clean white shirt over pressed black trousers with a matching jacket. The outfit appeared incredibly stylish, just as the man wearing it seemed to be. He was tall and trim with a mess of dark curls on the top of his head. His skin was a creamy white color, not so much pale but almost statuesque, as if it were made of the same marble as many of the sculptures featured all over the city. He could have been a statue for all she knew; he had barely moved in the past half hour, the only sign of life the slightest twitch of a finger on his espresso cup or the faintest hint of a breath taken. He didn't even seem to blink, though she did catch a few slow ones now and then.

He sat alone which, in this little Paris restaurant at 4:00 in the afternoon, was not uncommon, but he was somehow different from all the rest. As she continued to watch him it became apparent that he was one of the very few present not apparently glued to one electronic device or another. Everyone else in the small, dimly lit room (and she did include herself in this group since, if not for the man, she would've been no exception) was looking at the artificial light of a smartphone or a laptop computer, minding their own business and ignoring everything around them. Not this man, though. He stared out into the crowd, appearing to observe the opposite side of the room very intently. It was only when she had chosen to look closer, intrigued by the still stranger, that she realized that he was not observing at all but simply staring, his eyes unfocused, gazing deep into his own mind.

Kellie bent over her notebook, attempting to get the image just right. She had always enjoyed sketching, ever since her early school years. It calmed her, mostly, allowed her thoughts to slow and order themselves neatly when she hit a roadblock at work or was feeling particularly stressed. It was a comforting hobby more than a skill, but her frequent business trips to foreign countries and the excess free time it allotted her had provided the perfect opportunities to challenge herself.

Challenges, for her, came in the form of people, and this mysterious man had posed so perfectly for her.

She finished the full Cupid's bow mouth, slightly downturned, and added a bit more shadow on his face to make those impressive cheekbones more pronounced. So far it was coming along nicely, but she had saved the hardest part for last: his eyes. From where she sat, it was hard to tell exactly what color they were, but she guessed they were the kind of eyes that changed frequently depending on the lighting. At the present moment, she thought, they looked like a dark blue. What really struck her, however, was not the color but the sadness that radiated from behind them. It rippled within their depths and spilled out onto his otherwise beautiful face, carving lines into his marbled skin in every direction. It made him look older than she suspected he actually was, hunched his shoulders a bit and cast his eyes slightly downward so that, to the world around him, he looked not sad but adrift, lonely…

Broken.

It nearly broke her heart to see a man so distraught. As she filled in those eyes, unfocussed and sad as they were, she wondered what, or even who, he may have been thinking of.

"Quel beau dessin!"

Kellie jumped and looked up, surprised out of her concentration by the voice. She had been so absorbed, apparently, that she had not seen the still stranger move from his post in the corner, had not noticed him move toward the exit. She was seated very near the door, and it was impossible for him not to see her and her sketch. He stood before her now, his eyes boring into her.

"P-pardon?" Kellie spluttered, realizing that she had been staring a little.

"Est-il a vendre? Puis-je vous l'acheter?" He spoke rapidly, gesturing to her and then her notebook excitedly. She had a limited French vocabulary. She had been forced to study Latin in school, but that was so long ago now. She remembered only a small amount, and that did little in the way of help with translation, especially at the rate he was speaking.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand," Kellie said, apologetically. "I don't speak French."

The man seemed to register her words. "You're American," he said, not a question but a statement. She nodded to confirm. He pulled the seat out opposite her at the tiny table and sat down, as if, just by that simple nod, she had invited him to do so. "Hello, I'm Thomas."

"Uh, hi," she said, uncertainly, sitting back a bit. "I'm Kellie."

He was gorgeous up close, tousled chocolate curls falling artfully to frame his face. The sadness was gone from his face, replaced with a smile that showed his very excellent teeth. His eyes, she noted, were bright blue, lighter than she had first guessed, but with flecks of gold and green that would make them ever-changing in different lighting, as she had expected. She thought not many people could pull off that hairstyle, those cheekbones, and that suit, but this was clearly a confident man; confident or perhaps simply indifferent to what others thought. He certainly didn't seem to think he was doing anything wrong when he looked at her like that, his eyes roving over her, sharp and calculating and intelligent. She could almost see the cogs turning inside his head. What was he seeing?

"You're very talented," he said at last. She found it hard to understand him. His English was very good but heavily accented. As if he knew what she was thinking, he indicated her notebook where her sketch of him stared sadly back at them. "Are you an art student?"

"Oh, no," she said, feeling flattered in spite of her apprehension. "No, I'm just visiting."

"Really?" He seemed truly surprised. "You could've fooled me!" He chuckled softly, but his eyes remained sharp and calculating, watching her closely.

He was putting on an act, she thought. He wanted something, laying the flattery on thick, but she wasn't sure, exactly, what he could want from her.

Again, as if reading her mind, he seemed to know that she wasn't convinced and pressed on. "Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to buy that drawing from you," he said, catching her completely off guard. "Is it for sale?"

"Oh!" said Kellie, surprise getting the better of her. "O-of course, sir! You can take it. Here." She began pulling the sheet of paper carefully out of her notebook so it wouldn't tear.

"C'est magnifique!" said Thomas, sounding excited. "Thank you my dear. It is truly a wonderful picture.

Kellie finished pulling the page out of her notebook and passed it across the small table to him. "It's no problem," she said, smiling.

The man took the drawing and studied it. "You have a good eye for detail," he said as he stood. "I'm afraid I must be going. It was lovely to-"

His hand had extended towards her in what she assumed was meant to be a handshake, but his sudden silence pulled her attention back to his face. That same look, the one he had been wearing while she drew him, once again hung upon his features, only now it was accompanied by shock, the kind that stopped someone dead in their tracks or made their blood run cold. The transition was so sudden that Kellie wondered whether she had imagined Thomas.

"Are you alright?" she asked with concern. His eyes were fixed on the small table between them and she followed his gaze. What could possibly have arrested his attention so suddenly and completely?

Author's Note:

Just to make things a bit clearer in case you're confused, this story is meant to take place about a year after The Reichenbach Fall while Sherlock is travelling through Europe.

I apologize for the French used in this chapter. I used Google Translate for help, and I know that it's not always accurate. Forgive the potentially butchered phrases! Thomas (Sherlock) was supposed to be saying "What a beautiful drawing! Is it for sale? May I buy it from you?"

Thank you for reading.