Easier With Eyes Closed
A/N: This is my first Sherlock story (I have vast amounts of material in other fandoms that will probably never be published), so go easy. Just going to go ahead and warn you that this is in first person and is going to be as realistic as possible. Sherlock will not be madly in love by chapter 5 or even chapter 15, and you won't be finding any Mary Sues. Rest assured. I want to do this right and it's going to take time. There will be sexual content in much later chapters, some graphic violence, drug use, and lots of bad language so please proceed with caution. And leave a review! A writer can't improve without outside opinions. Thanks, and enjoy the story!
Chapter 1: Reflection
So this is pretty hard for me to write. Scratch that; it's the hardest thing I've done in my whole fucking life. I haven't actively thought about what happened in a year, so it's all a bit rusty. I've gotten very good at not remembering the bad stuff and I would be perfectly content to stay that way. But my therapist insists that I'm "emotionally repressed" and writing about my experience will help. Really, honestly writing and I'm not supposed to worry about perfecting my prose or sounding sophisticated and shit. But I have to, because I'm a writer. Or I was a writer, before an unbearable prat with a designer wardrobe and endless limbs came along and uprooted my entire fucking life. But I'll get into that later. This little preface is just to say that anyone reading this shouldn't expect too much. I'm tired, I'm sick of trying too damn hard, and I'm really fucking sick of life at the moment so if you want to offer some criticism of my admittedly out of practice writing skills, try to be nice about it. Or just fuck off. Whichever you prefer.
…Sorry. Don't fuck off. Stay and read if you want. I can't promise that it will be a particularly rewarding experience, because I'm certainly not Hemmingway or Ginsberg. But I think my story is pretty interesting, so you might want to consider. How many people can say they fell into an insane, inane, all-consuming love with a sociopathic dickhead entirely incapable of returning the emotion? Sort of entirely incapable. I'm getting to it. But anyway, life is terrible and messy and has a nasty habit of driving you to the person you need exactly when you need them and taking them away again before you can blink twice. And if the person you need happens to be an asshole in a long coat with a penchant for breaking people, well, what the hell are you gonna do? I'm going to stop rambling now and start my story. But it doesn't have a happy ending; so if you aren't interested in anything except sunshine and rainbows and unicorns shitting butterflies, turn back now.
Two years ago, I got into a bit of a bad space. Okay, more than a bit. In my senior year of high school, my tech-savvy, artistic and absolutely lovely boyfriend found a way to purchase hallucinogens including an imaginative variety of outdated psychedelics without the hassle of finding a good dealer. At the time, I had no idea the deep web even existed, let alone hidden services that could be perused entirely anonymously without any traffic monitoring. My boyfriend's drugs arrived neatly tucked away in perfectly ordinary boxes but I quickly cottoned on that something wasn't entirely right. His delirious talk of breathing walls and sparkling surfaces didn't frighten me. I was intrigued, and when he added 300 micrograms of acid to the sugar in my coffee I didn't protest.
Long story short, I was quickly addicted. Not physically addicted, but mentally. My writing career took off. Even the occasional bad trip supplied me with a plethora of nightmarish, dazzling ideas that soon materialized in a collection of publishable short stories. Before long, I was entirely dependent on the trips for writing material. I thought I was incapable of thinking up anything really brilliant on my own. My boyfriend's death crushed my high spirits but certainly not my dependency. My drug use escalated beyond hallucinogens and on to opiates. I lost a shit load of weight, I couldn't concentrate on my schoolwork, and I made no effort to move out of my parents' home. I barely managed to graduate from high school and spent the next two years of my life doing absolutely nothing. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat. I could barely even write. My parents realized what was going on pretty quickly and promptly gave me an incentive to get clean. My mother's exact words were:
"Sweetie, we love you, but you look about thirty and not a very pretty thirty at that."
"And you won't even make it to thirty if you carry on like this," my father added, fixing me with an icily judgmental stare I had, unfortunately, inherited.
"You were making plans to go to London before all this," my mother said sadly, unable to bring herself to say "addiction". "You can still go, you know. A change of scenery would do you well. You can write in a new environment, explore the art scene a bit. Just get clean, and we'll fund everything for you."
That was the selling point for me. It was true that I had wanted to visit London. I would've been happy to go anywhere to escape Tucson, but money was an issue and I didn't want to ask my parents for financial aid. They wouldn't have helped me anyway, what with the shitty life choices I was making at the moment. But here mother was, extending the offer of freedom without any stress over expense. I couldn't refuse that. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life surrounded by elderly right-wing nutters, and here was my chance. If I had to pull my shit together in order to make that happen, so be it.
Rehab was terrible, withdrawal was a living nightmare, and for a while I seriously thought even dying would be a better option. But I made it, and I found myself on a flight to London with a hefty sum of money in my bank account. I could pay for a plush, posh pad suited for fancy parties and the like, but I hated parties with a passion and no London socialite would want to associate with a struggling Midwestern writer anyway. I found a cheap room in a hotel that most certainly had rats in the walls and a shady manager rather lacking in teeth until I could find a nice apartment for rent. I spent a bit of time wandering the outskirts of London, scanning every paper I got my hands on for prospective housing. After a week of searching, I stumbled upon the promising ad I'd been looking for:
Small, well-furnished basement flat for rent. Interested persons must have a tolerance for the damp, cooler temperatures, and loud noises at all hours. Well-priced, so don't miss out! Please contact Martha Hudson at 020-7833-402.
I dialed Martha Hudson that afternoon and was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of a kindly older woman over the phone.
"Hello, Martha Hudson speaking."
"Hi," I said, making a conscious effort not to stutter. "I'm calling about the basement flat for rent. Is it still available?"
"Oh, yes! It most certainly is!" I had the distinct impression Martha Hudson hadn't gotten too many offers on her flat which probably meant it would sell pretty cheap. Definitely good news for me. "What's your name, dear? I can put you down for an appointment, if you'd like to take a look."
That was clearly an attempt to curb her previous enthusiasm. Made it seem like there were lots of prospects dying for a tour.
"That would be lovely," I said sweetly. "And my name is Julia Fields."
"Julia Fields? I'm sure I've heard that name before…" She searched for the memory and came up empty. "Oh dear, I can't place it. No matter though. Would you like to come by tomorrow afternoon? Anytime is fine for me, I'm not busy."
She gave me the address (221c Baker Street) and wished me a good afternoon. I was elated. The flat was already furnished, so if there were no other offers (and I expected there weren't) I would be able to move straight in. Not another day sleeping in a dingy hotel room marked with every bodily fluid imaginable (I had seen those black-light hotel search programs and there was a suspicious white crust stain on the duvet). The next afternoon, I headed to Baker Street, breathing in the London drizzle and feeling the wind on my cheeks. It was a welcome change from the dusty heat of Arizona. My new flat turned out to be in a lovely little complex snuggled in cozily with a cute café. I was immediately hooked and rang the doorbell eagerly.
Martha Hudson opened the door with a smile. She seemed nice enough and had none of the horrid old-lady mothball smell that permeated from the conservative snowbirds that infiltrated Tucson every winter. I caught a whiff of a fresh, flowery perfume as she showed me down the dimly lit hall, chattering away happily.
"I figured out where I heard your name," she said, unlocking the door to 221c, "You write those horror stories. I've read a few. Beautiful writing but a bit disturbing, if you don't mind my saying. Then again, you need an appreciation of the disturbing to live here, I think. The boys upstairs can be a bit difficult. Unnatural noises and smells at ungodly hours of the night. It's enough to scare anyone away."
"Noise is fine," I said honestly. Tucson was quiet and very dark. I always thought the silence felt like the whole city holding its breath. It was an uneasy feeling. Having spent several nights in London already proved that wasn't the case here. There were always car noises, people noises, and city noises. I never felt alone.
"I'm glad you think so dear," said Martha Hudson, holding the door open for me. "It gets a bit chilly down here so you may need to bundle up if you take the flat."
"Chilly is fine." The flat looked like something out of a book, with its rain-stained walls and musty secretive smell. The furniture was worn and threadbare and there was a suspicious stain marring the base of the fireplace. It reminded me of the prison room in "The Yellow Wallpaper", except no one was forcing me to stay here. I wanted to confine myself in this eerie, smelly room and write stories about the shapes moving in the patterns on the wall all of my own free will. The very thought gave me shivers. "It's beautiful."
Martha Hudson looked at me oddly. "Do you really think so? All the other ones seemed to think it was ugly, and I must say I agree with them. We had a bit of leak during a bad storm a few months back and the walls haven't been the same since."
"It has a story to tell." The statement sounded like complete bullshit the second it left my mouth, but there was a mystery about the room that was luring me. I wanted to move in as soon as possible and told Martha Hudson as much.
"Oh, wonderful dear! I was afraid I'd never sell this musty old flat. Would you like tea and biscuits before you leave? You look a bit peaky. Mind, I'm not your housekeeper but one time wouldn't hurt…"
The tea was pleasantly spicy and the biscuits melted on my tongue. Mrs. Hudson (as she told me I was to address her) went on about how lovely it would be to have another lady in the flat because even though she loved the boys upstairs she did grow lonely without anyone to talk to about the delicate things in life. I left euphoric and moved in the next day. It didn't take me long to sort out the few possessions I had brought with me from Arizona (clothes too expensive to leave behind, books I couldn't live without, and essential toiletries and dishes). I bought everything else, feeling every new purchase added a little more security to my fresh start.
I spent my first two weeks in my new flat writing furiously, concocting a story for every peel in the paint and stain on the rug in my new home. I didn't sleep much; the tenants upstairs were unfailingly noisy and incredibly interesting. All sorts of fascinating noises wafted down to my flat and kept me up at all hours. There was shouting, banging, the strains of a violin, and once I thought I heard gunshots. I liked writing different scenarios for each sound I heard. Sometimes, one of the tenants was a serial killer who shot his victims and sliced through their flesh with his violin bow before dissolving the limbs in a hydrochloric acid bath. The stain on the fireplace came from his murder of the previous tenant, and it was only so long before he came after me. Other times, one was a famous virtuoso living with a partner who couldn't bear the sound of music, hence the shouting and banging at all hours of the night.
During the second week, my self-imposed isolation led to a severe boredom that tricked my brain into triggering hallucinations. I knew better than to think they were flashbacks but I did my best to fuel them, consuming gratuitous amounts of caffeine and spending hours staring blankly at the walls until they started breathing. The patterns became insects crawling madly in search of some hidden sweet thing and the colors warped and mutated sluggishly, pulsing in and out of focus in time with my heartbeat. Eventually, if I stared long enough, the fiber carpet would sparkle. The visions were nothing like my dazzled, acid-soaked daydreams, but they were good enough and when I finally pulled myself through the words flew from my fingers.
Mrs. Hudson walked in on me in one such state, folded on the floor with my dark blonde hair swinging around me in a shield. I think the blankness in my eyes startled her a bit and she nearly dropped the lunch tray she was carrying. She shook me out of my trance and asked me if I was on something, to which I replied honestly that I wasn't.
"You remind me of Sherlock," she said with a little shake of her head. "He's an odd one too. Spends hours just staring into space in that mind palace of his. You'd get along well with him, I think. And John. But everyone gets along well with John. Lovely man, and very sweet. I'll introduce you."
"That's alright, Mrs. Hudson," I said with a strained smile, carefully rising from my position on the floor to accept the lunch she had brought me. For all her insistence that she wasn't my housekeeper, she seemed to genuinely enjoy bringing me little treats and mothering me a bit. I didn't mind. It was nice having someone look after me. "I don't do well in social situations." I had a tendency to ignore what people said unless it was pertinent to me or I wanted to discuss it myself. Otherwise I just went off into my own little world and ignored them.
"Yes, neither does Sherlock. He's very smart and very stubborn. And has absolutely no sense of social boundaries, bless him."
Now that I had names for my mystery tenants upstairs, I could decide who was who in my little scenarios. Smart, stubborn Sherlock was always the nefarious serial killer or the violin virtuoso and John was the sweeter than honey and yet gently disapproving partner. Soon, I had a voice to assign to one of them when I overheard Mrs. Hudson quietly talking with a man I decided had to be John Watson. His was an average smooth tenor, and I had decided that anyone with a name like Sherlock had to have an exotic voice to match.
"Really?" the man who had to be John asked politely, "I had no idea anyone had moved in. They're very quiet, aren't they?"
"Yes, she is," said Mrs. Hudson, "She doesn't go out much, says she doesn't do well with other people. I asked if she wanted to be introduced to you two but she said no. Not that I can blame her. Sherlock can be a bit intimidating, can't he?"
"He can," John agreed, and I felt a brief surge of triumph at correctly deducing the owner of the voice. "What's her name?"
"Julia. Julia Fields. She writes those short stories. Have you read any? They're very good. A bit eerie, but excellent writing."
"No, I can't say I have. I'll look her up," John said in a way that indicated he definitely wouldn't be looking me up.
"She's a funny one," Mrs. Hudson mused, "Sometimes I go down to bring her tea—She loves my biscuits—And she'll just be sitting there on the floor staring at something I can't see. It's strange. But she's a sweet girl."
I stopped listening after that, wondering if Mrs. Hudson thought I was crazy and found I didn't care either way. She was sweet herself but people would think what they pleased and there was nothing I could do about it. At least Sherlock upstairs sounded just as odd, if not more. Who fires a gun at three in the morning anyway? I retreated back into my lair, wondering if I would ever meet the two funny men upstairs.
As it happened, I would be blessed with the opportunity not three days later after deciding to acquire a job and not live off my parents' generosity forever. The task proved more difficult than I originally anticipated, not because I wasn't qualified to serve drinks or wait tables, but simply because I was a small town girl in a big city and had no idea how to fend for myself. I had never taken the subway in my life, my map skills were nil, and I possessed the street smarts of a bichon frise. I was a spoiled, impractical girl with wealthy parents and I had never been completely on my own before. Still, I needed money that wasn't gifted as a reward for not accidentally killing myself. When I finally left my flat for something other than grocery shopping, I did make more of an effort. I threw on my nicest sweater, braided my hair and even put on a bit of make up. It didn't make much of a difference aesthetically but at least I felt better armed to face the big bad world.
Standing outside 221b, I found myself faced with a fresh conundrum. I had absolutely no fucking idea where I could go. I knew no one except Mrs. Hudson and two bodiless voices upstairs; my eyes were exceptionally sensitive from days of staring at the wall or computer screen and even the grey London sky was too bright for my poor head to handle. As I attempted to gather my scrambled vision, fate intervened, shoving my two mystery men out the door and straight into my path. The shorter of the two, armed with the blandest sweater I had ever seen and a stance that commanded authority, did a double take when he saw me.
"Hullo," he greeted, giving me a smile that required immediate reciprocation. "You must be the girl living downstairs. Julia, isn't it?"
At my nod he extended a hand. I took it gladly, noting that his grip was even firmer than his bearing. Military, perhaps? His hair was cropped neatly and he had the build for it. Might as well ask. Just another fact to add to my private story world.
"Were you in the military?"
John smiled in earnest surprise. He glanced at his tall, dark partner, whose face was still hidden by the upturned collar of his coat.
"Yes actually, but you aren't the first to guess."
I shrugged, settling into the familiar awkwardness that always came with new people. I never understood how some girls could go up to anyone and strike up a meaningful conversation. I didn't know anything about these strangers (well, nothing real) so what was I supposed to say? I had no idea if John expected anything more than a perfunctory greeting. Thankfully, the need to speak further was absolved when Sherlock (so I assumed) interrupted.
"How long have you been clean?"
Ohh. I was right. This man had a voice perfectly suited to recording racy audiobooks or operating a phone sex hotline. Not that I was interested in either of the two. Ahem. His dark-chocolate voice took me so off guard; it was a second before I registered his question. My mouth fell open, and before I could think better of it, I answered.
"Three months. You?"
He finally turned his narrowed his eyes to me, and my breath caught in my throat. This man was, to put it simply, stunning. He had dark curls, a cupid's bow I immediately envied, ridiculously chiseled cheekbones and eyes the exact color of the sky after a rainstorm. I was so taken aback it took me a second to realize what I had just asked. Where the hell had that come from? I had absolutely no way of knowing whether or not this man was a fellow former addict, but the question had fallen out of my mouth anyways. Feeling extremely foolish, I resolved to keep my big mouth shut.
"Cocaine, correct?" he asked, seemingly unbothered and ignoring John's pointed elbow in his ribs. His eyes scanned me, taking in my messy braid, slightly askew sweater, and wrinkled skirt. There was nothing sexual in the least about his gaze but I folded my arms protectively over my chest anyway, keeping my eyes on my faded blue converse.
"No, actually," I said brightly, wondering how the hell I was managing to answer without choking. Who did this man think he was? "Not that it's any of your business."
"Are you settling in easily then?" John said quickly, launching into damage control mode. "Mrs. Hudson mentioned you were from America. That's a pretty big change."
"Yes, it was," I answered easily. Somehow, serial killer, virtuoso, socially awkward Sherlock had broken the ice with his nosiness. I actually relaxed. "I'm currently taking advantage of my parents' generosity. Hopefully not for much longer. I'm trying to find a job. Supporting a writing career is pretty difficult without outside help."
I didn't mention the fact that I could barely find my way to the nearest supermarket, let alone secure a well-paying job. It was one of the many disadvantages of being spoiled my entire life. But no one liked a clueless rich girl and I dutifully kept my mouth shut until Sherlock smiled and drew a worn postcard from one cashmere wool blend pocket.
"You could try this. If my information is correct, one of their maintenance staff just retired. It's not particularly stimulating but—"
"Why are you giving me this?" I interrupted, examining the postcard warily. National Antiquities Museum. Hmm. It was a generous offer, but this man had absolutely no reason to extend a helping hand. And I wasn't dull enough to miss the purposeful softening of his rumbling baritone and kinder eyes.
"It's the neighborly thing to do, isn't it?" he said with a lightness that didn't suit him. "You do live downstairs."
"Why are you giving me this?" I repeated, determined not to let this man push me around. "I really don't like being manipulated."
Sherlock's whole demeanor changed in an instant, and I couldn't help but feel a bit woozy at the sudden drop in temperature that accompanied it. His pale, peculiar eyes went from inviting to icy and he stopped bothering to smile.
"I need access to the museum for reasons I won't disclose to you. It will be much easier if I have an ally working there. If you're willing, I'll pay you a reasonable sum for your assistance."
"That won't be necessary," I said, trying to sound cheerful. I had no idea why this man wanted access to a bunch of antiques, but my mind instantly went to work crafting images of him slinking around glass cases like a shadow, a magnifying glass in hand. "I'll do it for free."
"That's very…generous of you," John said hesitantly, clearly not expecting my immediate cooperation. I couldn't say I blamed him. Three years ago I might have turned away and found a new flat, but now I was desperately craving some sort of distraction. In any case, examining antiques was more productive than staring at walls. Maybe I would actually learn something useful.
"Yes, it is," I agreed. John nodded, but Sherlock seemed to have entirely lost interest in my existence. They were in a cab before I could blink, speeding off without so much as a thank you. I stood numbly, the shock of a complete stranger guessing my drug habits, offering me a job, and eluding to a secret operation finally setting in. I wondered if I had finally gone off the deep end and decided quickly that the wondering was futile. If I had, it was doubtful I would realize it now. I gave up on finding my way to the tube, hailing a cab of my own instead. Fuck it, I sort of had a job now. After the morning I'd had, I deserved an easy trip.
I got the job. Unfortunately, it turned out to consist mostly of scrubbing, dusting, and filing from 4:00 to 6:00 each day. The retired girl, Soo Lin Yao, had been a Chinese pottery expert in addition to maintenance. I possessed none of her qualifications and wasn't trusted to handle centuries-old teapots so I went on scrubbing, dusting, and filing. On the bright side, the dusting included display cases with all sorts of fascinating objects, and I had plenty to be curious about. Just contemplating how many pairs of hands had handled each piece of Edwardian silverware or Byzantine vase was enough to keep me occupied. And of course the marble-coated museum itself was stunning. I went about my business as peacefully as possible, but there was always a niggling doubt in the back of my mind that Sherlock was looking for something here, and I was a tool he was going to use to find it.
I looked him up the night after I acquired the job and found both his website, The Science of Deduction, and John Watson's blog. I read about Sherlock Holmes' extraordinary career with no small amount of incredulity, wondering how it was possible for someone to be so damn intelligent. John was a good writer. Not great, but definitely good enough to hook me, and I found myself rereading A Study in Pink at least five times.
I didn't make many friends among the museum staff. Most seemed content to ignore me while I went about my lesser duties of scrubbing, dusting and filing, and I couldn't help but be relieved when another one of the maintenance workers, an awkwardly friendly bloke with too little chin, approached me after work on my third day.
"Fields! You're the one replacing Soo Lin, right?"
I looked up, scanning his nametag with interest. Andy Galbraith.
"Sort of. I take care of organization and other necessary evils. No Chinese pottery for me," I said brightly. "And just Julia's fine."
"Er, sure," said Andy, shifting awkwardly. I got the impression he liked talking to girls but never knew how. "You're wanted in the security locker. Soo Lin left some of her things and they need to be cleared out and taken to the lost and found. We were gonna wait a few days, see if she came back, right? But no one's heard from her."
"Do you know what happened to her?" I asked, frowning. Maybe Soo Lin had something to do with the puzzle Sherlock had hinted at. Retrieving her things might reveal something important. Not that I cared about impressing Sherlock Holmes. "It's a bit odd, isn't it? Leaving her things behind."
"That's what I said!" exclaimed Andy. "But no one will listen to me. I can come with you, if you want, that is. All the lockers look the same."
"Great," I said distractedly, allowing him to lead me in the direction of the lockers. "So what did she do the day she left? Did she show any indication of wanting to leave or do anything odd?"
"No, not at all," Andy said. He thought for a moment and his expression turned sheepish. "Well, I asked her out and she refused. But that wasn't unusual," he muttered.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
"It's fine," he said with a genuine smile. "She did her tea ceremony as usual. Then she came in here—" He shoved open the doors, revealing rows of lockers. The light flickered on, illuminating something odd at the end of the hall. I approached warily, nearly tuning out Andy. "And packed up for the day. That's it. Hers is right…holy shit."
I couldn't have agreed more. A lone statue, standing proud in a sea of sheet-covered relics, looked down sadly upon us. The yellow paint mark staining the marble was unrecognizable to me, but that didn't change the fact that it definitely wasn't supposed to be there. I knew, in an instant, that it had something to do with whatever Sherlock was looking for and acted thusly. Andy didn't even protest when I withdrew my phone and snapped a photo, and by the time he came out of shock I was already opening the door.
"Hey, you can't do that!" I turned back to him with a withering glare.
"You might want to make sure no one else sees that. It wouldn't do your salary any favors if the public knew someone was defacing priceless artifacts after hours."
Andy Galbraith just gaped, and I took that as my cue to get the hell out of there. I had one purpose: Get back to 221b, show the picture to Sherlock, let him do his work. Mrs. Hudson was taking out the trash when I burst into the hallway. She looked earnestly surprised, as if me leaving my den and venturing out into the world was an anomaly in itself.
"Hello dear! It is nice to see you getting out and about. John mentioned Sherlock had found you a job, bless him. How is that coming along?"
"Fine," I said absently, phone clutched in one sweaty fist. "Are John and Sherlock in?"
"Yes, just upstairs. On a case, in fact. They've been rushing in and out all day. I'm glad you're getting along well with them. Sherlock seems so lonely sometimes—John's done him wonders of course, but it's nice to see him making an effort with a lady."
I almost laughed at that. I suppose finding me a job could be considered making an effort—If he didn't have ulterior motives and wasn't only using me as a puzzle piece in his case. I rushed up the stairs and barged straight into 221b without bothering to knock, mildly surprised that the door was unlocked. It took me a moment to register John's presence on the couch—I was too busy taking in the rest of the flat. There was steer skull lamp mounted on the wall, a human skull on the mantelpiece above a lovely old fashioned fireplace, and plenty of intellectual clutter that only added to the charm. It was a good deal nicer than my own flat. I turned towards John, remembering my original purpose.
"John, where's Sherlock?" I asked. John's eyebrows inched towards his hairline.
"Just in the kitchen. Did you need something?"
I ignored the question and crossed to the kitchen, where Sherlock was perched at the table staring intently at his laptop. The table was cluttered with a variety of test tubes and petri dishes as well as photographs of graffiti that looked awfully similar to the mark on the statue. Sherlock didn't register my presence but I blundered on ahead, holding my phone up triumphantly.
"I know you can't tell me why you need an ally at the National Antiquities Museum, but I found something interesting you might want to see." That got his attention. He scanned the picture for a moment and leapt out of the chair like a silk-wrapped rocket.
"Come along, John, we've found our cipher. Soo Lin Yao is definitely the marked woman this time," he called, slinging on his coat and scarf. "She'll be dead before the night is through if we don't hurry."
"Wait, where are we going?" John asked just as I said, "Soo Lin Yao? She's the one that just retired. Was the graffiti a threat then?"
"Yes, yes, exactly!" Sherlock said impatiently. "No time to waste. You need to come too," he added, throwing a long finger in my direction. "Show us exactly where you found the message."
I stood numbly, not quite sure which was more surprising: That this strange, offensive man was requesting my presence or that I had stumbled upon something that marked poor Soo Lin Yao as a dead woman walking. Sherlock Holmes had no patience for my surprise. He circled a hand around my wrist and yanked me along after him, leaving John to tag behind. We were in a cab within a minute; me squeezed awkwardly in between the two men. I sat in contemplative silence, wondering what the hell was going on. Sherlock ignored me, but John made an attempt at conversation.
"Do you like the job then?"
"Mmm? Oh, yes, I adore it. Filing is one of my favorite activities." I winced the second I said it. John didn't deserve my bitterness. "Sorry, that was bitchy. I'm really grateful I have it. It's nice being able to support myself."
"And you're a writer," John prompted, looking at me expectantly. I grimaced, not wanting to explain the massive writer's block that had prevented me from publishing anything in four months, nor did I feel the need to allude to my dependence on LSD for material.
"Er, yeah. But it's not really a career so much as a hobby."
"What do you write?" asked John, "Mrs. Hudson said some of your stuff was pretty creepy."
I smirked at that. "I write short stories. Magic realism with a good touch of horror, usually."
"Ah," said John in way that indicated magic realism wasn't his cup of tea. I was unsurprised. He didn't seem like the type to live in a fantasy world. Sherlock let out a huff of frustration.
"If you wouldn't mind focusing on the case, John."
"You can't tell me anything?" I asked, letting my curiosity get the better of me. I desperately wanted to know what the mark meant, but Sherlock seemed disinclined to tell me.
"No," he said shortly just as we arrived at the museum. "We're here. Show us where you found the message and don't ask questions."
"You're welcome," I muttered, shivering a bit at the onslaught of London night chill. I really needed to invest in a good coat. John and Sherlock followed me silently through the deserted museum, taking little heed to the eerie shadows cast by the rows of glass cases and moonlight streaming through the yawning windows. I was less unaffected and couldn't help thinking that the whole thing could be a scene straight from a horror film.
"Just through here," I whispered, shoving open the double doors leading to the security lockers. The statue in question was barely visible at the end of the hallway, but Sherlock had clearly already seen the graffiti. He strode forward with enviable confidence to examine the yellow marks.
"It's the same paint," he told John, completely ignoring me. "But we have a more pressing matter to consider. We aren't alone."
I think my heart actually stopped beating for a second when he said those words. I stood still as the painted statue, hardly daring to breathe, and sure enough my ears caught the slight chink of ceramic and a rustling of fabric. Sherlock glided forward silent as a shadow and dear god what was it about this man that turned my brain to poetic mush? I slunk after him, telling myself firmly that I had bigger things to worry about than a pretty man in a nice coat. Sherlock seemed to know where to go, cracking open a door I didn't recognize. John followed suite, leaving me to squeeze in after him, craning my neck desperately to see what was going on.
Silence. Then a gasp and soft thud.
"Centuries old. Don't want to drop that." A light flickered on, illuminating a head of lustrous black hair and freshly glistening teapot. The girl seated at the fine mahogany table was very pretty indeed, with lovely dark slanting eyes and Angelina Jolie lips. Sherlock handed her back her teapot with an uncharacteristic smile.
"Hello," he said. The mystery girl didn't respond. I let out an involuntary gasp, realizing that this must be the enigmatic Soo Lin Yao. But what the hell was she doing sneaking around here late at night anyway? John looked similarly puzzled and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said, extending a hand. Soon Lin Yao took it gingerly, eyes wide. "This is Doctor John Watson and…?"
"Julia Fields," I interjected, mildly offended that he had forgotten my name already. Not that I had done anything brilliant enough to make an impression. "I took over your maintenance work after you retired. They don't trust me with the tea ceremony, and probably for good reason," I added, ignoring Sherlock's annoyed glance. Soo Lin Yao cracked a smile, but it disappeared the second Sherlock reopened his mouth.
"We need to have a little chat."
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