A/N: Set in Moffat's modern London, because I like Benedict Cumberbatch's face. Written and edited in maybe ten minutes. Constructive criticism is awesome.
the hanged man
She is a mess of curls and lipstick in Belgrave Square, a blue leather book sitting squarely in her lap. She is in the shadow of Prince Henry the Navigator, and she looks back at him the way he looks at people.
And he is instantly thrown off his guard, off-kilter, and she has the nerve to smile at him and say, with the clouds throwing shadows over her face, It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes, as if she is nobody at all.
She is not Molly, nor Sarah, nor any other woman he only ever noticed out of the corner of his eye. And when she wraps wool over his eyes and presses those red lips against his and leaves him gasping for air under the sheets—and then just leaves him hanging, upside down—he is left just as stunned as before.
Next time, he thinks, next time I will see her coming.
But of course he doesn't.