When one desires silence or solitude, central London is not necessarily the first place to come to mind. The cafe was as noisy and crowded as she had predicted, the chime over the door jingling almost incessantly. But her nimble fingers still danced across a thin laptop keyboard, each keystroke inaudible beneath the din. Anthea's eyes drifted up from the computer screen to the window across from her table and past it, her fingers continuing their furious ballet as her gaze slid along the side panel of a shiny, new Porsche 911 parked on the far curb. She lingered there for only a moment before returning to her screen, using one hand to lift a mug of coffee to her lips while the other continued to type. Silly thing, she thought, rolling her eyes. The door jingled again.

His appearance was so abrupt, Anthea could have thought he had simply dropped out of the air and into the seat across from her. She would have thought that if the entire table hadn't shifted a full inch toward her with a noisy thud, nearly upsetting her coffee and sloshing some of the tan liquid over the rim to form a sticky ring on the wooden surface. A pair of knees made contact with hers. Annoyed, she quickly checked that her laptop was still dry before looking up at her sudden visitor. A pair of startlingly blue eyes stared back at her.

"Hello,"

Anthea blinked, her mouth closing slightly as her eyes dipped down to the navy blue scarf doubled about his neck and up again to his face. She politely forewent a cross word for the intrusion on her already limited privacy and went back to typing. It was several seconds before she finally forced herself to reply with a quiet "Hello."

Silence descended upon the table while Anthea typed away, fully aware that the man was still sitting across from her, staring, his forearms rested lightly on the surface beyond the screen of her computer. Gradually, warmth began to spread upward from the neck of her black t-shirt and into her face as her fingers slowed. The man did not move nor speak, but she could feel his presence like a heavy blanket. Finally, she dropped her hands to the edge of the keyboard and looked up in exasperation. "Can I help you?" she asked a bit more waspishly than she had intended.

Any harshness to her tone seemed to go unnoticed as the man's eyebrows bounced once and he turned his head slightly to glance out at the rest of the cafe. "That remains to be seen," he replied, his voice carrying a note of deep baritone that made it possible for him to speak quietly and still be heard. Anthea nearly jumped as his attention suddenly returned to her in full force, those blue eyes staring so directly into hers, he might as well have been attempting to see straight through her. The right corner of his lips twitched in what she may have mistaken as a grin. "May I see your hands?" he asked, leaning forward slightly in an effort to peek over the top of her computer screen.

Anthea leaned back in her chair, her eyebrows furrowed in blossoming annoyance and confusion. Her answer was immediate. "No," She knew he was too far from her to see her hands without leaving his chair, no matter how far he leaned, so she kept them in place. She shifted uncomfortably, painfully aware of the pair of bony knees digging into hers.

A heavy, somewhat irritated sounding sigh arose from the man across from her, his eyes rolling. One black gloved finger reached out and abruptly, but gently, pushed her laptop shut atop her hands, trapping them between the screen and keyboard. Anthea gasped quietly, glancing to her left at the rest of the cafe, hoping someone was seeing this and would interfere. An older man rustled his copy of The Daily Mail but did not look over. The finger remained in place atop the computer as he spoke, applying pressure but not enough to hurt.

"Fine," the man sighed. "I was going for 'polite', but if you insist-" He paused to take a deep breath in through tightly pursed lips, his eyes drifting upward before falling back to hers and locking into place. Then words exploded. "You've been driving aggressively for no less than ten years. You type at a near inhuman speed, possibly approaching one-hundred and twenty, maybe thirty, miles per hour and you've been at that a while too, judging by your ability to type and eye-rape the black Porsche across the street simultaneously. You dislike the car and are currently writing a column you hope will drop sales or even put a halt to production all together. Should I go on?"

He said this all very rapidly and without pausing for breath. Anthea's mouth moved but no sound came out; this appeared to be the response the man had been hoping for as his eyes shone with a more intense fervor. "Oh, good," he said brightly. And he did indeed continue. "You live alone and your hair is brown but not naturally. It was dyed three, no...four weeks ago, and done so by yourself judging by the small, faded streak underneath you seem to have missed. You shampoo it sparingly with quality product in order to keep the blistering redhead out of sight for as long as possible. And your nails-" The man's eyes narrowed as his finger applied just a bit more pressure to the screen. Anthea winced and wiggled her pinky though it still did not hurt. "Tell me," his voice dropped. "What color are they painted?"

Finally, Anthea's voice returned and did so quickly as she replied, "They're not," through gritted teeth, using her wrists to force the lid of her computer back open, thus freeing her fingers. The man seemed ready for this however, as he reached around the screen with both hands and took hers within his own, his eyes scanning her ten fingernails so rapidly it nearly made her dizzy to watch.

"Good," he growled in praise, smirking as he turned her hands over within his, flicking his gaze across her palms. He added in an undertone, "You'd be amazed how many women can't remember the color of their own nails,"

Heat returned to Anthea's cheeks as she wrenched her hands from his grip and stuffed them into her lap, glowering at him. "Your point?" she asked rather viciously.

The man grinned, clearly enjoying this exchange. "Your nails aren't manicured and haven't been for some time, but they're short and kept that way, though not by you..." His voice trailed off as his eyes actually narrowed, his eyelids squinting until only a sliver of crystalline blue was visible. "Beneath the edges, there's a considerable amount of what I would guess to be a rather disgusting mix of dirt and motor oil or...engine grease, whatever it's called. Judging by that and the fact that you wear no rings nor jewelry near your hands, you obviously work with them frequently and, just a shot in the dark here, I'm guessing you were last elbow-deep in that Porsche you're ripping apart in your article."

Anthea slapped her computer shut with such force, her coffee mug rattled against the wood and several nearby patrons glanced over in polite alarm. The man across from her did not so much as flinch. He simply grinned as she glared daggers at him. "What in the hell is your point?" she asked again, her voice lowered, teeth clenched.

His grin suddenly disappeared as though it had never been there, and he leaned forward, his voice lowering to an octave almost inaudible to the human ear. "You...are a racing driver."

Anthea blinked, her annoyance flooding out of her while confusion and surprise came rushing in. It was several long moments before she spoke. "How could you possibly know that?" she finally asked, her voice lowered to almost a whisper as her eyes flickered back and forth between his, trying to see in him what he could so easily see in her.

This lasted only a second or two before the man was swiftly on his feet again, buttoning his long black coat across his narrow waist, blue eyes slithering across the cafe as he sighed in an almost bored fashion. "Come by for an interview with my colleague and I, and perhaps I'll...elaborate or something," he replied airily, turning to leave.

Before she could stop herself, Anthea spoke after him. "Wait, interview for what?!" she demanded. "And that's a pathetic trick. You obviously know me from my reviews, and if you don't, you'll certainly look me up the moment you leave."

The man turned back to the table, his eyebrows furrowed in what appeared to be confusion, though Anthea felt she knew better than to believe that. "Interview for a position, of course. Isn't that what they call it? Interviewing?" He paused, glancing down to pull the edge of his black leather glove up into the sleeve of his coat. "And why would I spoil it by researching you?" The blue eyes glittered. "You've already given me plenty to be getting on with, don't you think?"

Anthea opened her mouth, but thought better of it and closed it again, apparently to the man's satisfaction, as that somehow sinister yet deceptively charming grin appeared on his face again.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," he said. There was a pause before he continued, smirking over his shoulder. "I'd give you directions, but you don't really need them, do you?" His coat gave a faint flapping sound as he turned to the door. It jingled as he pushed it open. "Don't be late."

…...

A/N: WELCOME! This is my new account, this is my new story and I would LOVE to know what you think! I have sooooo very much planned for this little adventure but I'd like to see what sort of response this prologue receives before I dive headfirst into posting regularly. My name is Lucinia Turner (not my real name obviously but nevertheless, call me Lucy) This is the first Sherlock fic I have written, though I have been writing fan fiction and posting it for a VERY long time (since 2008). As mentioned in my pathetic little profile, I have another account that has a great deal of stories featuring other characters not related to Sherlock. I wanted to post this under a completely different name to prevent any spillage or bleeding from my other stories. I was immediately drawn to Sherlock as a character because of, well…I don't need to tell any of you. We're all fans here. But smart is indeed the new sexy.

Also- any blatantly obvious mistake is not a mistake. I tend to leave Easter eggs so keep your eyes peeled (get it?). All will be resolved in time! So I hope you enjoyed this. Reviews, like tips, are always appreciated, but never expected. Thanks! -LT

P.S.- The name 'Anthea', is in NO way related to the alias Mycroft's assistant gave John in S1:E1. I really just like the name so I chose it for my OC. So don't read too far into that. It honestly is just a pretty name. Cheers!