"I don't mind if you forget me. Having learned my lesson, I never left an impression on anyone."
Eva has never been a fan of Sherlock Holmes. She doesn't think his god damn cheekbones or his popped coat collar make his callous disposition any less vile. She doesn't think he's impossibly brilliant. No, she thinks he's arrogant and narcissistic, and that his blatant disregard for other people is unjustifiable. She has such contempt for him, and why all of the people on the news and around her would regard him with such reverence and such high esteem is beyond her.
She has good reason to think this way.
The first time they met, Eva had been sent to run some files up to the man in the pathology lab. When she asked why she had to be the one to do it – why their usual girl couldn't come get the files – her boss said, "the pathologist that usually does this sort of thing has fallen ill," he massaged his brow and sighed, "and furthermore, I'm terrified of the man, or I'd do it myself."
Skipping to the part where they actually meet (for the sake of sanity), she made her way up to the lab, and peering in through the window, she could make out a man – the man from the news – with a distinctive tall, thin, angled figure, sharp clothing, and an unkempt mess of curls sitting atop his head. He sat on a stool, completely still, eyes focused into a microscope. She knocked on the door to the lab, not wanting to barge in, in fear of being impolite. He didn't respond, so she knocked again harder. No response. She let herself in, treading slowly so as to not completely disturb the man. "Mr. Holmes?"
"Oh, for God's sake." His eye roll was almost audible.
She delivered the files, and he wasn't very kind to her in response. She didn't even have to say anything for him to tell her to "shut up," and he didn't thank her. He looked at the files on the desk and nodded, returning immediately to his work with the microscope. Without acknowledging her, he said, "coffee, 2 sugars," pointing across the room to a coffee pot on the counter. She obeyed, of course – and again, he didn't thank her. She turned to leave, and without taking his eyes off of the slide in front of him, he asked, "Slavic?"
"I beg your pardon?"
He pointed to the ID badge pinned to her chest. "Eva Blažević." No one has ever pronounced her name correctly on the first try (EVE-uh BLAH-szeh-vich). She couldn't even pronounce it correctly herself until she was at least five years old. "That's Slavic, correct?"
"Croatian."
He smirked. "American accent."
"Also half French, on my mom's side." He nodded, but didn't respond. "Can I be of any further assistance to you, Mr. Holmes?"
"Oh, hardly. No, no – you're dismissed." He shooed her away and returned to his work.
What a twat.
Much to her displeasure, Sherlock is everywhere: she sees him on the news, reads about him online, and she often hears her co-workers gossiping about the "mysterious detective on the telly."
How can they not see what a fucking egomaniacal tool this guy is?
A/N: The preliminary quote is from the song titled "I Don't Mind If You Forget Me" by Morrissey.