Winter, 2013
"So if it isn't any trouble at all, just pop down on that chair there, marked with the tape?"
A camera was set up on a tripod was about five feet away, the stand firmly gripped against the wooden floor. While the 'all-seeing' eye that is the red recording light was turned off for the moment, it didn't succeed in making any of the following four who would sit there any less weary. The only other person in the room stood tall besides the camera, copper hair slicked back in a style that didn't altogether match the rest of its body. A blue polo was buttoned up to the neck, his bottoms a dreadfully clashing brown cargo short. The pockets were stuffed with an assortment of recording devices and camera lenses, the only pocket not bursting or stained with the grease of the machine located on his right upper chest. A single notepad along with capped pen could be seen.
His voice betrayed this man's goal of confidence, for his speech was slightly rushed and far too jittery. The words echoed across the room, vacant with high ceilings that opened up to the studio roof above.
"This won't take more than fifteen minutes of your time. I promise! Don't worry we- I'm! I'm not going to hardball or anything like that!" A pale hand grabbed the back of a redhead, his eyes a now slight squint of nerves. "I'm sure you're aware of that though… wouldn't be here if you weren't, yeah?" The hand retreated back to the former position, camera still in position right across from a currently sitting Greg Lestrade.
"What is all this about then?" Lestrade was the first body to plant themselves upon the eerily cheerful floral-patterned armchair. With a grunt he settled down onto the cushion, his expression pained with a small, nervous smile. Always trying to bring ease to any situation he was.
With a click and a whir the camera sprung to life, the red eye now pulsing across from Lestrade's apprehensive face.
"I would appreciate i-if you could state your full name, occupation and uh, current age? For a start!"
The middle-aged man gave a slight cock of the head, brow furrowed at the request.
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"I'm not in any trouble am I?"
John Watson's torso leaned just a bit more forward upon hearing the previous request, hands now softly clenching the faded yellow armrests. "I was under the assumption this was going to just be a brief snippet for some telly ad. About the clinic?"
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"M-Mrs. Hudson dearie. Amelia Hudson." The woman gave a small twitter. "No one ever asks for my first. Currently a landlady…" she shook her head softly, eyes downcast as her greying blonde hair rustled from the movement. The present situation was remembered. Her plum-colored blouse crinkled in movement as the aging woman fussed over the hemline. "…w-with vacancies." She turned her chin up just as abruptly at the camera, a small yet coy grin now plastered on her face. "You don't expect any woman to let on her age do you?"
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Lips were puffed out as her eyes rolled, a small sigh exhaled. These first questions held no promise for an interesting conversation to follow. "I'm twenty-two. Twenty-three in March."
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"Now hold on there. I was told to be present for a job interview. At this very site!" Lestrade's instincts started to kick in, a niggle at the back of his neck alerting the man all wasn't how it should be. He was clad in his most expensive a charcoal suit, black tie held back with a metal clip. Impressions were extremely important for the unemployed. The material around his arms wrinkled as Lestrade gripped the arm rests quite sharply.
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"Really though. I haven't done anything remotely illegal, "John's hands went up in surrender, eyebrows raised for he still had no idea what was going on here. "I mean of course my girlfriend may have told me showing up in front of a camera in this sweater should be public indecency…" John gave out a short chuckle, nerves on end. He tugged on the collar of the offending knit sweater, trying to bring brevity to the situation.
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"Nothing to be alarmed of. We'll be moving right on schedule. Y-You just need to answer these few questions!" The redhead behind the camera tried to placate three out of the four who each took a turn in the chair that reacted negatively to the start. His hand rose up to the back of his head once again, determined to conceal his own apprehension on the situation. "Really nothing to be worried about. Honest!"
Although none of the four were present in the room at the same time, they all chose to react the same, leaning back into the cheerful, yellow armchair upon hearing the man's declaration.
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"Greg Lestrade. Currently… unemployed." His face took on a solemn turn as Lestrade chose to stare forlornly at the floorboards. He appeared to not yet be over the circumstances regarding termination at his most previous line of work. "I'm forty-eight."
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"John Watson. Uh, Doctor John Watson. Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. My current age is uh, thirty-two." His gaze went vacant across the room, left hand now fiddling with the loose strands of the arm rest he had previously been gripping. "I haven't brought up my rank in ages…"
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"Oh I'm self-employed." The woman tilted her head at the camera, choosing not to focus her attention on the ginger that was so obviously trying to lock eyes upon hers. He had been brutally unsubtle the moment she walked into the room really. A mouth continuously opened and shut, hands were fidgeting. Trying to draw attention to the only feature that made him stand out, that silly red hair of his. She grinned right into the camera, acting as if she had no idea of the impression being left on the poor cameraman. Her legs and arms both crossed she allowed her lips to curl at the corners, aware the tan form-fitting jeans and black sweater present on her body now had an aesthetic advantage.
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The man at the camera nodded for each answer received, hand fumbling quickly to his upper right pocket for the notepad. As soon as he flicked it out he brushed through the spiral pages quickly, aware these recordings might soon take a turn for the unexpected as he settled on the next segment. At least on his interviewees' ends. Looking up within seconds he cleared his throat, trying to remain impassive for the next question.
"H-How long…
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"Well now there's something I haven't thought of in a while." Lestrade let out a short breath after the lie, now resting both his hands on the back of his skull. Thumbs were fiddling against his grey head as his expression gazed off into space. "I guess it would have been eight years if we were counting this one."
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"Two." John gave out an uncharacteristically curt response, his now hardened-eyes still focused on the far wall of the room. His mouth, characteristically, also didn't know when to stop for that statement was quickly amended. "At the end it felt like no less than ten. No matter what the dates might say." Aware his mouth had run off John quickly settled back into the chair, mouth drawn into a thin, firm line as if to dare his true thoughts to betray and rise from the surface again.
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"O-oh my. If I can remember. It had to have been..." Mrs. Hudson scrunched her face in concentration, unaware it now cast her in quite the unflattering sight. "Four, five years? I think it was since the summer of 2008." The woman let her expression relax as she gave the camera a soft and thoughtful gaze. Memories were brought to the surface that she truly, fondly remembered. She gave her shoulders a little shake as she settled into the cushion. "He helped me with my husband you know..."
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"… Have I known Sherlock Holmes? My whole life."
The woman brought her small game with the cameraman to an end upon hearing the question, her face and voice now nothing less than serious. Her arms lowered but remained crossed, legs settling out in a more natural splayed position. She gave a fixed glare first to the man and then the camera, hesitance non-existent and confidence exuding. The corner of her mouth quirked up.
"The whole of my life that's worth remembering anyhow. I was fourteen."
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"And w-what was your relationship with him?"
Lestrade softly exhaled once again. Between everything that had happened throughout the years there really should have been a different answer than the one he gave. A career was ruined, unnecessary stress ran rampant, and even his marriage failed in part to the man in question. But the man in the suit couldn't say anything other than the truth, no matter how much time went by or what his therapist would say.
"A friend."
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"I was his landlady on paper. More of a housekeeper in truth when I look back and remember." Mrs. Hudson chuckled at that admission before allowing her gaze to return fondly at the ground. Her fingers were now twisted in the purple fabric at the base of her long skirt. "H-He was a good boy that one. Such a silly little head. You know he saved me once?" Mrs. Hudson let out a small sigh as she stretched her hands free, leaning back into the chair with her eyes up at the camera. "I always liked to think we were friends."
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"He was my best friend." The words came out in a clipped rush, well-rehearsed. John now chose to cross his arms tightly at his chest, slowly losing patience in the point of this all.
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"Ohhhh, I see how it is."
The once placid and coquettish appearance of the woman had all but vanished, her shoulders taut and stare now straight as if daring the man, or even camera to say otherwise. It was never anything new, and always the exact same questions asked. So infuriating!
"If this is heading where it seems to be let me stop you short right now," she broke the cross of her arms to raise a right hand, "I've heard it all before and know exactly what you're up to. You all try to come off unaware and wanting to understand. False sympathy and concern are common, yet your true motives are always there, glaring right into my face. Sometimes you trick us. Oftentimes you stalk us. Never do you truly leave us all alone. I'll admit it's been less bothersome since a year ago, but I can't possibly fathom what else you want. We all read the same story, are aware of the lies, know exactly what has happened because of it." The woman hissed the end of her sentence out, eyes stony at the now quivering redhead. "Maybe you lob a few softballs or dive right into the meat of what you want. You keep badgering us all, different times and places. All for the same goal. Whatever gets you and those idiotic readers," she waved her hand quickly at the offending lens. "Or viewers, off. And that is why my good sir I am done with all of this, for good."
Disappointed the woman rose as briskly as she first sat down, the heels of her knee-high boots clapping against the solid floorboards as she made her early exit. It was surprising really, how even now she still allowed herself to get dragged into this never-ending circle of questions which always, always, would give way to twisted replies regardless of the truth she would say. If the world truly cared they would let this sleeping dog lie, and stop prying into all their lives.
Yet just as predictably, her agitated but short temper soon ebbed down by the time she had made her way across the empty room. Since it was a studio of sorts there was a metal door left slightly ajar, the outside light of the hall dimly flittering into the dark warehouse of a room. Her hand on the doorknob the woman let out a breath of defeat, eyes rising up as her head turned back to the man not twenty feet away. She never really did appreciate her outbursts. Justifiable as they were it still was unsettling for all parties involved. She was just so tired of everything. All of this.
Gathering her shoulders up the woman let her mouth curl up once again, voice raised to account for the distance. Seeing the red light still pulsating across the way she gave the man a curt nod. She would answer the question, the same way she always did in the end. The truth would never change.
"My name's Aliza..."
With that Aliza swiftly pulled open the door and walked out, letting it come to a rest on its own from the forward momentum. But not before popping her head back in, hand on the doorknob as she stood out in the hall addressing the redhead and the camera inside one last time.
"…And I loved Sherlock Holmes."
With a wink she let the door shut, the camera's red light now focusing on nothing but an empty, yellow floral armchair.
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