Her eyes glared straight into his. She was breathing through her nose. There was an icy cold fire burning in her eyes as she furrowed her brow. Her hands balled into incredibly tight fists. Her chest heaved and fell rapidly. Sherlock Holmes was quick to deduce that she was angry. She was livid. It was an age old score she wanted to settle with whoever it was. An ex-boyfriend? She seemed capable of murder as she stood there in front of him. His newest case. Or maybe not. Matters of the heart was not really what interested the consulting detective.
"You…" she grunted. It almost sounded like a dog growling and showing its teeth as a warning. Sherlock stood where he was. Observing her. Preoccupied with his deductions about everything from her shoes being half a size too big for her meaning she had gotten them on a sale and therefore could not have that much money to spend; to her breakfast being non-existent. Balance of probability was that she had left her flat in a hurry this morning.
"You!" She screamed at him and he shook his head. She was pointing at him. Shivering with rage. Holmes blinked. She seemed to be angry with him. What had he done? He was sure he had never met her before! He scattered through his mind palace to find her. Nothing. Naught. Nil.
In the seconds it took him to process the pictures of women he had met she had charged forward with inhuman speed and had pinned him to the floor. She sat on him and her hands were furiously slapping his face. She was out of control. Sherlock could easily have kicked her off but he was too baffled. He knew all sorts of sacred fighting techniques but he was usually prepared. He had them all figured out. This woman's hostile attack was not what he saw coming. Tears and the need for a handkerchief (dear lord!) had been more likely.
He took the punches; she cried out in frustration. But he froze completely when she stopped. She took a deep breath. She was sitting on his chest. She rolled up her sleeve and showed him an arm disfigured by incredibly deep scars. She lifted the skirt of her dress and pointed to her thighs that were littered with scars as well.
"Look!" She screamed at him. "Look at what you did!" She was spitting. He was dazed. He didn't understand. He simply didn't understand. "You did this to me!" she grabbed his face with her right hand. An iron grip. "How could you?" her eyes turned even darker. Her lower lip was quivering. She bit into it drawing blood. She was that livid.
"Wait… I… Who are you?" He regretted his words before they eyed left his lips. She was close to breaking his jaw. Her own jaw clenching. She released her grip in him only to give him another slap.
"Don't you dare!" the hand that was not slapping his face was balling into a fist and Sherlock was bracing himself for a blow that would most likely knock him out. "You know exactly who I am!" she held his face again. "I will never forget you; Sherlock, bloody Holmes!" she locked eyes with him.
Oh god. He must have deleted her.
"Do you know what it feels like?" her fist loosened and she was now caressing a scar close to her panties. "To cut into your own skin because it just hurts too much to remember what some stupid boy did to you? Do you? Do you know what it feels like to know you can never cut deep enough to heal what he did?" She grabbed his hair harshly instead of his jaw and his mouth was open.
"What…" He was desperately searching the furthest reaches of his mind palace to remember her. What had he done to her to make her this furious?
"I'll show you" she was dragging at the small hairs on the back of his head. This hurt like hell and a tear formed in his eye. She dug into the pocket on the front of the dress and produced a rusty razor blade. "See if you will laugh at this too!" She put the sharpest edge of the blade to his prominent cheekbone.
Oh god! She was serious this one! The blade pierced his skin and he felt the sting.
"I should write exactly what you are… I won't. I'm not like you" She let the blade slip through the skin of his cheek. Drawing blood. She cut through it once more. "How does that feel?" she grabbed his hair even harder. He winched. He let her do this.
"How does it feel?" she spit him right in the face. She let go of his hair and slapped the bloody cheek. Smearing his blood on her hand. She dried it off on his crisp white shirt. "Some stains just stay there forever" she grabbed the collar of the shirt almost strangling him. He was merely observing her. "I'm going to make you wish I had jumped off that rooftop that night… you bastard!" the back of his head was hitting the floorboards as she was shaking him.
It clicked. It fit. Oh… god.
"Jennie…" he spoke hoarsely as the shirt collar was closing around his throat in her strong grip. He never thought she would ever show such strength… Her mouth opened and her hands left him. She took a deep breath. A tear forming in the corner of her eye. It travelled down her red and flustered cheek. It landed on his blood stained shirt.
"Don't talk to me" She crawled off of him. She sat on the floor and broke down. Broke into a shivering mess of tears and regrets.
"Jennie" he repeated her name sitting himself up, adjusting his clothes. She was unresponsive. "Why now?" was all he could ask. "That was… college was it?" He looked at her.
"Do… do you think I'd just forget?" her voice was tiny and merely a squeak. "Like you…" she lifted her head. "You stole away the only thing I had" she couldn't stop the tears making her cheeks moist. Sherlock rubbed his. Smearing more of his own blood on his skin.
"What did I steal?" he asked bewildered moving closer to her.
She crawled on her feet; stumbling slightly. Almost falling out of her heels.
"How can you ask that?" she wiped her tears away. Painting herself red with his blood.
"Jennie…" he looked at her as she stood there. He had never taken anything from her. He was an excellent pickpocket but Jennie was not one of those he had stolen from.
"My innocence" she answered him and turned her face away from him. "And it didn't even matter to you; you acted like nothing ever happened" her voice was shaking. "I would gladly have given it to you… I would…" she dried her eyes again; burrowing her face in her hands. She could smell the sweet metallic scent of his blood mixing with the salt of her tears. "But you stole it from me… it was mine… it was mine to give… and you took it" She walked towards the door. She couldn't stand a second longer.
"Jennie…" he spoke. His thumb grazing the cut she had left him with on his bruised cheek.
"I'm sorry, I truly am" she faced him once more. He was just standing there. Bleeding. Bruised. His hair a mess. And he didn't seem to mind. If only she could be like him. If only…
"Take care of yourself Jennie" he nodded at her and picked up the box of tissues from the table and threw it to her. She closed her eyes and turned away from him as she dried her eyes.
She walked away. She got what she wanted. Yet it didn't seem all that sweet.