It was a grubby little flat, dust everywhere, cluttered with things. It had character though. The man who lived here was obviously a particular man, scientifically minded, and he was a prime example of the type disorganization that denoted a brilliant mind. His antisocial tendencies were also written all over the flat. Gwyneth sat quietly in the black leather chair nearest to the fireplace. She hadn't simply sat wherever it seemed comfortable, she had made a conscious decision to sit in this specific chair. Judging by the placement of items about the room this was the chair where her mark most often sat. Her two bodyguards stood just out of view of the main door in the kitchen. They were a pair of burly blokes who looked the bit. A quick peek at her watch informed her that it was nearly two in the morning and the man in question still had not entered his flat. The landlady peaked into the flat with a jolly little greeting, even for so late at night.
"I'm not sure he's coming home tonight, dear." said with a concerned look. The two men in suits obviously made her nervous. She'd apparently been up waiting for them to leave and had grown concerned. Perfectly natural response for a good landlady, which she was,even if she had been running a cartel in her younger years. "Perhaps you should come back in the morning?" Gwyneth gave her a sweet smile and crossed her legs. Gwyneth's phone beeped, alerting her to the fact that the mark was on the move.
"He'll be home any minute now actually, I'll just wait here if you don't mind." A short look to her phone dismissed Mrs. Hudson who left with a few mumbled remarks about "bloody clients" . Gwyneth didn't take it to heart. The poor woman was obviously very tired, and Gwyneth was behaving disgustingly like her father, so she anticipated negative responses. Only a moment later the front door opened and shut and a man's footsteps came thumping up the stairs. A tall dark haired man entered a fish and chips box in his hands. He was smartly dressed, a very flattering trench coat and blue scarf that matched his eyes made him a picture. Perhaps this wouldn't be such a horrible proposition after all. He certainly was easy on the eyes. She hadn't anticipated that.
Sherlock Holmes sized her up in a matter of milliseconds and and stood perfectly straight just inside the doorway.
"That's my chair." He said without bothering to free hand went behind his back and he eyed the two body guards who stood at attention.
"I know, it's extremely comfortable, I see why you like it." Blue eyes flicked about, taking in information like a machine.
"I'm not currently taking clients." Sherlock said in a deep, peeved voice.
"I'm not a client." Gwyneth stated easily. This was met with a truly diva like roll of the eyes and a huff of exasperation.
"Of course you are. Why else would you have gone to the trouble to fly here from the united states with your lackeys?"
"I actually came here looking for the man who killed my father."
"And you want me to find him. Which makes you a client." He was becoming rather irate.
"It must be exhausting always thinking you know everything." Gwyneth said with a sarcastic smirk and a grin. "No, Ive already found him. It wasn't that difficult, he's a terrible showoff really. Did it in broad daylight in front of loads of witnesses." She looked up from under her lashes at the man, a devious smile on her lips. "I need you to give him a message for me."
"I don't deliver death threats." He was becoming more displeased, but she could see the faintest twinge of curiosity in his eyes. It was Gwyneth's turn to roll her eyes.
"Mr. Holmes this conversation would go much faster if you started basing your assumptions on what falls outside of the balance of probabilities." She snapped her fingers and the taller of her two bodyguards held out a cigarette for her, which she took in her lips and perched between two finely manicured fingers, as he lit it for her with a gold liter.
"Is that so?" He raised an eyebrow and took a chip from the box still perched in his hand and popped it into his mouth. "Either way I am not a messenger boy." She saw the way he'd watched her take her first puff. He was obviously dying for a cigarette but he stubbornly refused to ask for one.
"You're the only man for the job I'm afraid." She took a nice long drag and made no effort to shield him from the smoke as she exhaled, actually she blew it right at him. "You see my father was a rather eccentric man to say the least. He firmly believed in the exchange of power, and that the only man who would ever deserve to touch a cent of his enormous wealth would be the man who killed him. Of course only his killer would be acceptable as a replacement, the only man who could outsmart my father in his not so humble opinion was the man who inevitably would end him. He wasn't delusional, he knew there was no way he would make it to a natural death playing the games that he played." Gwyneth tapped the ash of her cigarette onto the hearth as she spoke. "Of course by extension his killer would also be the only man worthy of marrying his only child." She took another long drag and exhaled. "And to make sure his little scheme was carried out he ensured that I wouldn't see a penny until I was lawfully married to the bloke." She paused and waited for any questions.
"And if he'd been murdered by a woman?" Sherlock smirked at his question.
"I was raised to be flexible." Gwyneth said with no less than her best flirtatious wink. "So you see, Mr. Holmes, I'll need you to deliver my proposal."
"And what would you have me do if he refuses?" The tone in 's voice told her that he was finally caught on to where this conversations was headed.
"I don't see why any sane man would. I'm a rather attractive woman, perfectly capable of keeping my own company and never seeing the man again so long as I receive my portion of the wealth. I am of course also willing to be a proper wife, however, in this case I doubt that would be his desire, which suits me just fine."
"And why should I help you?" Here concealed no venom. The answer to his question would decide whether this trip had been a complete waste of her time.
"Because my father was a horrible man." His eyebrows raised at that. "He used people, and destroyed their lives on a whim when they stopped being useful… There are men currently handling his wealth who intend to keep operating as though he had never died… they intend to keep ruining lives. I have the power to stop that from happening… but only if I am married to the man who executed my father… I should think you know more than a few people who my father had leverage over… I know everything he knew, and more, but I have absolutely no desire to become what he wanted me to become. I want to use his wealth to right his many wrongs, even if I become a pauper in the process." Sherlock Holmes looked utterly skeptical. "I'm the only other person who knows about Mrs. Watson's dark past, and unless you want another murder on your record the most peaceable way to keep a watch over that information, as I am more than aware that you don't trust me with it, is to concede to my request and have your finger on the kill switch so to speak." She had watched his eyes turn to steel at the mere mention of Mrs. Watson.
"And if I chose murder?" The danger in his voice was nothing short of sensual. Gwyneth had been threatened more times than she could count and the fear of death had left her ages ago, the danger of it did nothing but stimulate her now. She stood from his chair and pulled a 9 mil out of the back of her waistband and held it out to him handle first.
"Be my guest." She didn't flinch when he grabbed the gun from her and pointed it at the center of her forehead. She simply folded her hands behind her back and closed her eyes with a smile as she heard him cock the hammer. Every inch of her skin was alive with the sensation of death's closeness.
A shot rang out in 221B Baker Street.