January 15th, 2015, 8:30am

punctuality

pʌŋ(k)tʃʊˈalɪti/

noun

Punctuality. A word almost foreign to Ivy Annesley, a 23-year-old with a frankly kind of boring life. Every day, without fail, there'd be at least one thing she'd be late to. Whether it was because she had no motivation to arrive anywhere on time or simply because she forgot many things, she didn't know. One thing her friends would constantly state was that she'd be 'late to her own funeral', and to be honest, she wholly agreed. Perhaps it was her fault. Perhaps it was merely a case of bad luck. But whatever it was, she was used to it, and it didn't bother her as much as it used to. After all, what was the point in getting herself worked up over something she couldn't help?

However, after being the one and only eye witness to certain points of a sudden turn of events, there was one single person for whom Ivy had made a silent vow to never be late.

Being ridiculously late for work, in addition to being caught up in the midst of another typical crime in the bustling streets of London, tends to result in either a fairly serious road accident or, even worse, being fired. Either one of these scenarios were bound to happen to Ivy, and although she was immensely clumsy 90% of the time, it was most likely to be the latter in this case. Despite the fact that she hardly even had enough spare time to calculate anything particularly excessive, she figured that she'd been late around 15 days in a row. Give or take a few. Plus, her boss was... well, harsh was one word for it, she supposed. At worst, he was simply diabolical. At best... eh, there was very little difference.

Since the only job she had the requirements for was working in a damn café, Ivy had been forced to settle with being a waitress in a busy yet cosy place located 10 minutes away from her apartment. The customers were frequently rude and she'd return home with tea stains and cake crumbs all over her clothes, but she'd grown used to it there, and had eventually learned to look past the terrible side of things and focus on the good times, no matter how rarely they came. However, on particularly hectic days such as this one, it'd often take her a good few extra minutes to arrive there.

Fortunately, she had a Plan B. There was a passage beside St Bartholomew's Hospital that was probably a shortcut (again, she never had any time to compare the distance of that route to her usual one) and she could easily head in that direction. Hopefully, she'd be able to escape the street in time to circumvent being caught trespassing in a crime scene. How hard could it possibly be to narrowly avoid the clusters of people scattered around the streets, and rows of ambulances parked outside?

Unluckily for her, the event that was causing such pandemonium took place in that precise spot. Reporters hadn't yet reached the exact scene of the crime, but they were nearing it rapidly, closing in on a rather small huddle of people with cameras and microphones. Standing a good 30 feet away from the commotion was a lone man, the expression on his face something along the lines of disbelief, disappointment, pure horror and total heartbreak. Ivy felt a great pang in her chest, and averted her gaze once more, directing her attention at the group of people surrounding a figure on the floor.

Before then, she'd always felt that the use of the phrase 'everything happened in a blur' was extremely overrated in books and other forms of writing, but if she were entirely truthful, those few words were all she could think of that were an adequate description of those 10-20 seconds. Inching closer to the crowd, her curiosity was quickly replaced by utter confusion when a curly-haired, tall man rose swiftly from the pavement and sped round the corner, returning within seconds to help several doctors carry an exact replica of his own body over to the floor.

"What the..." whispered Ivy, watching in perplexity at the scene before her. From the angle at which she was standing, and probably many others, the figure sprawled on the floor appeared dead. Stone cold. Blood pooling around his head.

She shuddered. The heartbroken man she'd spotted before was pushing his way towards the group, clearly distressed, muttering a string of indistinct sentences. Many hospital staff were making desperate attempts to calm him down, but the nearer he inched towards the body, the more inconsolable he seemed to become.

"That's my friend." Was the only distinguishable phrase that escaped his lips, and one that he seemed to repeat over and over again. Trickling down his face were either beads of sweat or tears - Ivy couldn't be certain. Either way, though, her heart began to beat a little faster, as it dawned on her that the thing on the floor was most definitely not that man's friend.

Raising her eyes to glance at the corner around which the curly-haired man had darted after laying down the other body, she was damn near appalled to see him looming there, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat, gazing blankly at the scene before him as it were something as common and boring as any other street in London. It was only when he turned on his heel and had disappeared in 3 quick strides, though, that her blood truly began to boil.

Screw her job. Nobody should do such a terrible thing and get away with it.

Ignoring the cries of objection from several doctors and nurses, she sprinted round the back of the building, thick strands of wavy brown hair that'd usually be cascading down her back now flowing behind her in the strong breeze. Despite the speed at which she was running, her footsteps were quite light on the concrete path, very nearly inaudible. Staring straight ahead, she groaned as her gaze fell on a series of passages leading in all sorts of different directions, and she realised that she hadn't a clue which direction he'd gone.

Fearing she'd lost sight of the tall man, Ivy's pace began to slow, and her heavy breathing due to sudden exercise was calming. Still running but nowhere near as quickly, she rounded the corner, but her path was almost instantly blocked by someone who, upon impact, was taken by surprise just as she was. With a loud oof and a deep gasp from the other person, the pair tumbled to the ground in a tangled mass of limbs, and Ivy found herself staring down into the eyes of the curly-haired man.

She recognised him from the papers - that one realisation alone was enough to tell her that this was no ordinary bloke. When she did read newspapers, she rarely payed attention to the photos on the inside, just the writing, so he must've been on the front page quite often or else she wouldn't have recognised him. His eyebrows were furrowed in bewilderment, his lips parted slightly in shock, and his hair appeared wilder without the deerstalker hat to contain his dark locks, but it was most definitely him. And Ivy never would've thought that she'd be so darn disappointed to meet a potential celebrity.

"You." She hissed, making no effort to crawl off the chest of the man pinned to the floor beneath her. A bemused expression crossed his face the moment that one word escaped her lips, and this only annoyed her more.

"You." He acknowledged airily, making little to no effort to get off the ground. "I have to say, this isn't the first time I've been pursued by a hormonal news reporter, so your actions are becoming a little boring."

"I- what? I'm not a news reporter." Ivy scoffed, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face, "and I'm most definitely not hormonal, Sherlock Holmes. I just happen to be a concerned eye-witness, and I thought you'd might like to have a little chat."

"Well, that all depends."

"On what?"

"On how quickly you can get off my chest. I don't mean to alarm you, but at this particular moment, I'm struggling to breathe." He stated calmly, earning a small gasp of surprise from Ivy and a mumbled apology, before she pushed herself off his chest and stood up, offering him a hand.

Instead of taking it, Sherlock merely looked at her as if she had two heads, and she scoffed. "Oh come on, Mr Holmes. You may be an utter douche, but some of us are decent human beings. Either take it or don't."

Reluctantly, he reached up to grab her hand and hauled himself up, brushing dirt from his hair. "Thank you." He growled, now towering over her. "Now, are you going to tell me what the hell you want? As you can see, I'm in a rush."

"What? Scared John's already figured out your little plan?" Ivy snapped in response, thankful that she'd managed to remember the name of his assistant just moments before she spoke. "I know what you did. It's cruel."

The blood visible drained from Sherlock's face, and although he attempted to maintain composure, Ivy knew for a fact that he was beginning to panic. "What's wrong? Thought you'd get away with it, did you? Well, you're wrong. And if you don't tell him the truth, or come up with a plausible explanation in approximately 30 seconds, I will scream so fucking loud that he's guaranteed to hear and come running. And if he doesn't, I'll go ahead and tell him anyway. I promise you." She hissed, and she could feel her face heating up a little in anger. To be truthful, she didn't know why what Sherlock had done had enraged her so much, but this still didn't help her put out the fire that was suddenly raging inside of her.

"Oh dear, didn't your parents ever tell you not to go charging into situations you don't understand?" he drawled, watching in confusion as Ivy visibly tensed up. He seemed to have struck a nerve.

"You're an asshole, Holmes. And, in fact, I understand perfectly, thank you very much." She retorted, balling her hands into fists.

"Clearly not, but alright then. If you're so desperate for a story, I'll give you one. Give me your mobile phone." He demanded calmly, as if forcibly taking somebody's personal item was as common as talking, or breathing. Still skeptical, Ivy handed Sherlock her phone in slow motion, jumping in shock as he grew impatient and snatched it out of her hands.

"This.. is... my... number." He muttered slowly, his thumbs tapping rapidly on her screen. "Send me a message once you've finished work, and I'll send you an address. We'll talk there. It's a rather long story, and one that really mustn't be shared with the whole of England, so do try to keep it to yourself for just one day, alright?" He reminded her, his face empty of any specific expression as he threw her phone back at her. Ivy managed to grab it in time, glaring at him.

"How am I supposed to know you'll be true to your word, Mr Holmes?"

"You don't." He stated simply, before striding away in the opposite direction. "Goodbye, Ivy."