It's cold. That's what I keep thinking as I walk down the London sidewalk, a piping hot hot chocolate cradled between my hands for some warmth. My stomach twists itself in knots as I think about what I'm on my way to do. I easily locate the flat, 221B Baker Street, and prepare myself. I did a lot of research to find out what Sherlock Holmes is like, and I've gathered that he's a rude genius.
I take a few breaths as I remember how I wanted to put this. My parents just died 3 months ago in a gas leak at our house, but something felt off. Something made me feel like it wasn't an accident. My aunt, who currently has legal custody of me, doesn't have a clue about this. She's away on another business trip (code for getting drunk in a different city and abandoning both her government job and me) and thought it wise to leave a twelve year old girl who wanted closure about her parents' deaths alone.
I reach for the knocker, close my eyes, and take a breath. Will he even take the case? Probably not. Before I can even knock, someone slams into me and I fall back, tumbling down the three steps. Someone walked right out the door and I didn't see them because I'd still had my eyes closed and didn't hear them over the sound of my own pulse. I am such an idiot.
A pale hand comes in front of my face, offering to help me up. I take the hand, surprisingly warm and soft, and stand up. Too quickly, because I feel unsteady again.
"Careful," the man whispers in a quiet, soft voice. I look up, and I have to admit, he is hot. His face is pale and his dark black hair is coated in gel and he's smiling at me and his eyes are crinkling in the corners. He is definitely way older than me, I'd say early thirties, but hot. Especially in his perfectly ironed black suit with a crisp white shirt and a plain black tie that looks pretty expensive and is, to my horror, covered in hot chocolate.
"I am so sorry, I didn't see you, I should've moved, I got my hot chocolate all over you suit, I am so, so sorry. I'll pay for the cleaning, I am so sorry," I stammer out, my eyes twice their usual size. To my surprise, the man casually waves a hand.
"It's alright, you had your eyes closed. It's my fault, I wasn't paying attention. I think I owe you another drink, though," he says with a smirk. I am suddenly super aware that my hand is still in his and I try to move it away, but he just grips it tighter. I calm myself down and stop assuming the worst.
"You don't have to do that, but thank you for offering. Besides, I need to talk to Mr. Holmes in there," I mutter. He pretends not to hear me and begins to walk toward a fancy car with tinted windows, dragging me along.
"Come on, I know a great café," he says. His accent is definitely not from London. It sounds faintly Irish and it's smooth and innocent and makes me want to trust him, despite the fact he won't let go of my hand and I have no choice in whether I go or not. I decide he won't hurt me and climb into the backseat when he motions for me to do so. He slides in next to me. Oh. He must have a chauffer. I fold my hands in my lap and try not to touch or break anything.
After a moment, he breaks the awkward silence. "Jim Moriarty," he says, extending a hand. I smile timidly. "Adalia Shonley," I reply, shaking his hand. He smiles back, but his lingers for one second too long. "I'm only twelve, you know," I whisper, not wanting him to get any ideas about me. "Yes, I know," he replies cryptically. I turn to face the window when the car stops. Someone climbs out of the passenger's seat. He even has people to get him his coffee so he can stay in his car? He must be seriously rich.
He hands me a new hot chocolate, and I take it, thanking him. I gulp the warm liquid. My arms and legs start to tingle and my eyelids droop.
"You," I murmur as the car starts to move again. I point an accusing finger at Jim Moriarty. "You put something in my drink, you sick asshole."
The last things I'm aware of before I pass out are Jim slapping me across the cheek very hard and him saying, "Don't curse, Adalia, it's not ladylike."
