"I'm grateful that you took my case, Mr Holmes, but why do we have to rush to my flat right away?" He could feel Ms Leary study his profile in the darkness of the cab. He kept his eyes on the city flashing behind the window.
"Because I need to search it, before they know you've contacted me. At this stage they are certain they've been very discreet." She made a surprised noise, and he turned to her. She was pressed into the opposite door. Clearly avoiding any physical contact. "You said you estimated they've been visiting you for the past two and a half weeks. They come, search, try not to leave any traces, and they always come back. So, they haven't found what they are looking for yet. And they don't know you've noticed. What is it you are treated for? OCD?" She gulped. It was audible.
"Yes, but I'm highly functional. It's more of a personality trait, than a disorder. But still, I did notice." She fidgeted, and straightened out the strap of the backpack on her lap parallel to the hem of her light coat. Coat too warm for the weather. Slight tremble in fingers, not present during the interview in his flat. Low blood sugar, clearly dropping lower. Hypoglycemia? Probably, an eating disorder. Healthy complexion, though, so also under control.
"Tell me of the man."
Her nose twitched, in a nervous habit. Not a side twitch, not like John's… Irrelevant. No, relevant. More of a momentarily flaring of nostrils. It wasn't just a tick, it's a minuscule expression of disdain.
"I was in a pub, with a friend… She left early, with a man. She always does. And I was finishing my chips, when he came up to me. I'm never approached, and I felt suspicious. But I always know, Mr Holmes." She gave him a determined look from under frowned brow. "I know you dismiss the idea of empathy, but I almost always know when people lie to me. And he didn't." She chewed at her bottom lip. "He said he found me… interesting. That was his word. Not fit, or attractive, or… Whatever rubbish they tell women to chat them up. Because I wouldn't have believed that. I mean, look at me!" He did, and wasn't sure what she was referring to.
Oh, right, a ginger. Very small, no curves. No desire to be liked either. Grey trousers, dark blue jumper. No heels. Everything neat, impeccable, dull…
"And you went to his place, I presume."
"I brought him to mine." The tone was defiant. He studied her face.
"You have never done that before," he drew out slowly, and she shook her head. "Fascinating. Why did you this time? What was different?"
"I don't know..." she whispered. "He seemed… Goodness, I don't know how to explain it." She inhaled, and looked at him directly. "Perfect. That's the only way I can put it. He was attractive, smart, understanding… We chatted, and it was… magical."
Sherlock cringed. "Ms Leary, in the course of this evening I fell under a false impression you were a reasonable woman. Could you please refrain from such remarks?" His tone was sarcastic, but he was surprised to notice he wasn't feeling irritated.
She laughed suddenly, and relaxed, consequently taking a bit more room on the seat, closer to him. The laugh was reserved, but sincere.
"I have no other way to describe it to you. They say there's a sexual compatibility encoded in people's DNA. Do you prefer this explanation to the idea of two people 'just clicking?'" Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"It's slightly less preposterous, I suppose." She chuckled some more.
"I invited him myself. He hadn't been hinting on it, we were chatting, and I just blurted it out."
"You do that quite often, don't you?"
"I call it Leary-Tourette," she joked, and his lips twitched in amusement. He could appreciate labelling oneself with invented psychological disorders like no other.
"And what happened then?"
"We came to my place. I have no alcohol in the flat, I'm intolerant." Sherlock catalogued this detail for later use. She continued, her face distant, "Then we were in the bedroom… And it was going well..." She was stuttering now, and probably blushing. It was hard to tell in the dimness of the cab. Her fingers were fluttering on the backpack wildly now. "And then his phone rang… He jumped off the bed, picked it up, from the floor, from the trousers pocket… and then… left. That was it."
"Did you hear anything from his conversation?"
"Not much. Just 'yes,' and 'no,' and 'what?' He seemed very surprised. And stressed out. As if something terrible had happened." Sherlock dismissed the remark. That was all emotions. "Mr Holmes, you are making that face again."
"What face?" he asked haughtily. There was nothing wrong with his face.
"'Bloody people and their bloody emotions' face." She smiled to him. "I understand how it looks. A bloke chats up a girl, comes to her place, it's disappointing, he leaves with an invented excuse. And believe me, even though it didn't feel like it… I would have never even mentioned it. But what are the chances for the two most remarkable events in my boring life to happen within the same week?"
"Universe is rarely that lazy."
Sherlock watched her sigh and look through the window. The corners of her mouth were lowered mournfully.
Low self-esteem. Avoidance of physical proximity to males. She had seemed comfortable giving a hug to Mrs Hudson when saying goodbye. Dark clothes, baggy, hiding the shape. History of sexual violence? Then why invite a man to her place?
"So, you do not have frequent intercourse, rarely communicate with men outside your work. You're clearly mistrustful of males. And yet you invited him over." She looked at him, obviously not understanding where he was going with this deduction. "If they wanted to get into your flat, and he was a bait, then whatever they are looking for must be very valuable."
"Why?" She sounded raspy.
"They have invented the perfect man for you. It requires a certain amount of research and planning."
She was staring at him with widened eyes.
"We talked about my favorite books..." she whispered, and her hands fisted on her lap spasmodically. "And he loved them too. Music as well… We laughed about Adele being in every radio. And then we discussed weather, and even that wasn't boring! I hate small talk… hate it. I always want people to be open, to share what matters to them… And then he suddenly told me of his childhood memories, of his dog, and how it ran away, and they searched for it for days… It was the most perfect conversation I've ever had with a man… Goodness, I'm going to be sick..."
"Well..." Sherlock tightened up his scarf. "How fortunate it is that we are near your flat already. You can empty your stomach in the comfort of your own bathroom."
She paid and jumped out of the cab. After taking a few gulps of air, with an open mouth, she turned away from him. The shoulders were shaking, he saw her fists clench and unclench.
"Give me a moment, Mr Holmes..." She took three measured breaths in.
"While you're gathering your bearings, I'd like you to think back at the man and try to describe him the best way you can."
She suddenly barked a sharp laugh and turned to him.
"You don't understand it at all, do you?" she mumbled.
"Understand what?" He was studying her building. Nothing remarkable. Appropriate to her salary. Chosen carefully, clean, easy access. Even an idiot would guess the code on the door, the buttons were worn out in the most obvious of ways.
"Human nature." Mary had said the same, the first evening they met. Sherlock ignored Ms Leary's remark, calculating the approaches to the building. "I can't think hard about the reason for my anxiety while trying to control the said anxiety."
Something in her tone made him look at her. She was calmer than he expected. Some sort of rebellious mischief danced in her eyes. He noticed the slanted shape, and long lashes.
"But I drew about twenty portraits of him, so I really don't have to."
He suddenly found himself smiling to her, and she returned the expression.
"Shall we then?" she asked, and he nodded.
She unlocked the door, and he walked into the flat behind her. The first thing he noticed was a faint smell of men's deodorant in the air, and then she gasped.
The man inside - dressed in all black, mask covering the face - jumped at her, and she winced away. Sherlock wrapped his arm around her, jerking her away from the handle of the gun going down onto her head. He clasped the other hand around the man's wrist, and twisted. The assailant freed himself out of his grasp in a deft efficient move, and then the second one grabbed Ms Leary's upper arm. She made a high pitched noise, and thrashed in the grasp.
Sherlock by then had the first man's gun. Their professionalism showed in how quickly they evaluated the situation. The small body of his client was pushed into him, and he had to shift, taking her with him, avoiding the punch of the first man. They were clearing their way out though, not attacking, and in a second they both were gone, leaving him with a gun and a shaking woman in his arms.
She was pressed into him head to toe, her hands clenched around fistfuls of his jacket.
"Are you alright, Ms Leary?" He was already calculating in his head when they should call the police so that there would be enough time for him to look around.
She nodded, her face pressed into him.
"You smell nice..." she whispered into his chest, and he looked down at her in astonishment. "It's funny… You don't frighten me… I've just been attacked, by two men, no less… Just like that time..." So, indeed the history of sexual violence. During teen years, considering how processed the trauma was. Also explained all the therapy. "And still I'm not scared… You feel nice..."
She was clearly in shock. Sherlock felt irritation rising. He utterly disliked comforting people.
"You don't have to do anything," she suddenly reassured him. "I know you hate it. Just give me a moment like this..." She turned her head and pressed her cheek to him.
It was surprisingly not that... bothersome.
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{Romance webserial: Dr. T Series
Summary: Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.}
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CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER
{my first novel
inspired by the story initially written here}
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Summary:
Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom.
John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm.
Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more.
Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?