Hands were everywhere. They were all she was aware of as she led this strange man up two flights of stairs by his t-shirt. They were on her sides, her ass, her boobs, all at once. She unlocked her flat, keeping her lips connected to his the whole time. She kicked the door closed with her high heel as he picked her up. He dropped her on the couch and took off his shirt as she shrugged out of her dress easily. He pulled off her shoes while she rid herself of her hair pins. She hadn't bothered with a bra before going out. She undid his belt and he slid off her lace panties. They hadn't bothered with names at the pub, but she saw the engraved name on the inside of his belt. Brian. She froze, memories of blood, lots of blood, filled her. Brian continued toying with her breasts. He lifted her and tried to carry her to what he assumed was the bedroom before, in his drunken state, he dropped her. He heard footsteps pounding up the stairs and hurriedly buttoned his pants, the woman on the ground seeming dazed from hitting her head on the wooden flooring. The door burst open as Brian was grabbing his shirt and belt from the couch and he dashed past the man standing outside the door.
Sherlock Holmes was poking around at a jar full of eyeballs when he heard the door to 221 open. He thought nothing of it as Mrs. Hudson had told him a couple days ago that there was someone moving in upstairs. There had been movers over the next two days and he had heard furniture being moved around. The new tenant must have been arriving now. He heard two sets of clumsy feet going up the stairs. Flat mates coming home from a pub maybe. Sherlock ignored it until he heard the door slam and scuffling, the scuffling subsided for a moment before a huge thump came from just above his head. Murder? Attempted murder? A new case all his own? Sherlock ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He swung the unlocked door open as a man ran under his arm and down the stairs. Sherlock was torn between catching the guy and poking around the flat for evidence. He was scanning the flat when he happened upon a pair of women's shoes and what seemed to be a hastily discarded dress. He continued his initial scan and found a woman beginning to sit up on the floor, looking dazed. Their eyes met.
"Well, I'm assuming you're my new neighbor. Sorry we're meeting like this, it's a bit embarrassing," the woman said with a slight Scottish undertone. It was only when she had finished speaking that he noticed she was completely naked.
John was just coming home from a night at the pub with little success at finding a date when a man pulling his shirt on ran by him and out the front door. Someone must have gotten lucky tonight. He groaned as he trudged up the first flight of steps before pausing at the door when he heard a voice from upstairs. The new tenant must have moved in. The man running out the door suddenly made even more sense to him. He must have been up there. He chuckled at himself, dropping his keys in a bowl.
"Sherlock, when did the new tenant get here?" He called.
No answer.
"Sherlock?"
Again, no voice from the flat. He heard floorboards creak on the next landing as if someone was shifting their weight. John went to investigate and saw his flat mate standing in the doorway of the upstairs unit. As John was ascending the stairs, Sherlock walked in the and the door shut. This might not turn out well, and John knew that very well, but after a night of rejection, he was tired. He could pick up the pieces in the morning with a bit if help from Mrs. Hudson.
"Well, come on in. I'll just be a moment," the woman said, standing up and walking towards the bck of the room to what Sherlock assumed was the bedroom.
He examined the room. All of the furniture was new. The hardwood floor was covered with a couple of rugs, a striped one directly in front of the door and an orange one in what seemed to be a seating area. The couch was green and the armchairs, separated by an end table, were a white, sitting on the orange rug with an round coffee table in the middle. Bookcases lined the wall next to the little alcove that housed the door to the assumed bedroom. On the wall adjacent to the door, there was a desk with a new desktop computer with a green desk chair. Sherlock entered the flat, his examination taking him only seconds, and sat on on of the armchairs, across from the couch with a view of the bedroom door. There were a few posters of famous women. Sherlock's eyes fell upon a poster of British actress and humanitarian, Audrey Hepburn.
"Ah, I see you've met Ms. Hepburn. Pretty great, isn't she?" the woman asked, coming in in a pair of what Sherlock understood as yoga pants and a tank top, a common leisure outfit among women, but also used for exercise.
"Yes, and I understand why you have a poster of her, considering your line of work. Actress. I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," he said, standing and holding out his hand. She accepted and shook it.
"Eiric Reilly, and as you said, I'm an actress. Although, at this point, I have taken a break from film, and now I'm working with the Yard. How did you know I'm an actress? Seen any of my work?"she asked, smiling hopefully. Sherlock inspected her, looking at her hands, which were now folded together, her elbows resting on her crossed legs, feet under her.
"No, I expect you're small time, TV movies or mini series. Just getting started, maybe two years into your career. But if you are so new, why would you not be searching for more work on screen, why go to the Yard to work, I'm assuming undercover? And why would they hire an actress instead of an agent who had police experience? Do you even know how to shoot a gun?" Sherlock asked. The woman's hands had fading calluses. Most likely from working on a farm. There was also a scar on the skin between her thumb and forefinger, a month old, the injury had healed recently and required stitches. Four days ago, that was when they were removed.
"Yeah, a smal role in an American show about the playboy club, only took a month and a half, the show got cancelled soon after. Went on to play a stewardess, again, American television, didn't play well with the other girls. Biggest role I ever had was as a secondary character in Doctor Who one episode. I haven't been looking for screen work because I would rather be helping people than strutting around in front of a camera. They hired me because I'm damn good at improv and I'm one hell of a shot. Growing up on a farm with a drunk daddy and sheep that need protecting make you learn how to shoot at a young age."
"What happened to your hand? How did you cut it?" Sherlock saw her shift back only to spring up from her seat.
"Damned hair pins. I broke a vase. Do you mind dogs? My parents are bringing over Oliver, my Shepard in a couple days."
"How did you break the vase?"
"Dropped it. How do you feel about dogs?"
"You're lying. You babbled on about your career, which isn't really all that impressive, but when I asked for a possibly interesting story behind a vase, you obviously don't want to talk about how that vase was broken or why? You moved and you moved hurriedly. Running from a situation, probably with a boyfriend. Tell me, how was that vase broken? Was he a cheater? Liar? What was it?"
"Murderer."