Okidokie, kiddies, here's the next chapter. Oh! Happy New Year's and for those who are from the UK, you lucky duckies, hope you enjoyed the first episode of Sherlock Season 2-I will find a way to watch it 'cuz I REFUSE to wait until May. Anyway, here's the next chapter. Thank you to those who favored and subscribed and a special thanks to Bookwormie, TadPole11, and aandm20 for reviewing. Please enjoy. Thankies. :))
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes, they are owned by their rightful owners. I just own Larissa Elise, other OCs, and some plot points.
Warning: Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, mild sexual content, gore, violence, and alcohol and drug references.
Entry 1: Part 1
Steam hung about the women's locker room, along with the scent of sweat, soap, and perfume. Noises of animated chatter, locker doors opening and closing, running showers, and moving about footsteps echoed throughout that section of Energie Fitness Club in Hackney, Central London.
With a towel wrapped snuggly around my tall frame and another gathered upon my head around my hair, I leisurely stepped away from the showers towards my locker. By my side, speaking energetically, was a lanky girl like myself.
"You did such an amazing job today, Miss. Cooper!" the other female said happily, drying her messy hair with her hands while clumsily trying to keep her towel on. As she spoke, the redhead's big hazel eyes twinkled and a big, bright grin was on her freckled, youthful face.
"Fiona, I told you, call me Elise." I replied casually. We reached our lockers and I placed the combination into the lock swiftly to unlock my locker. I brought out my gym clothes from within it. "You make me feel old when you call me that. I'm not that much older than you."
Immediately, the adolescent's cheeks became flushed as she gasped. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she apologized, clasping her tiny hands over her petite mouth.
I tried not to roll my eyes; I was steadily getting used to the girl's quickly apologetic and sheepish ways. I gave her a small one-sided smile. "Relax, sweetie. There's no need to apologize. I'm just saying that you should call me Elise. We are friends, are we not?"
My words caused Fiona to instantly brighten as if Christmas had come early.
She grinned widely, nodding eagerly. "Y-Yes! Of course, Miss—I-I mean, Elise!"
I couldn't help but smile a little myself. I had to admit she looked a lot prettier when she smiled and it made me feel a bit better when she did.
Just nodding in approval, I started to slip on my undergarments. "And you know you did quite well today as well." I pointed out.
Again, the redhead blushed. She looked down, putting on her T-shirt, and shook her head. "N-Not really. I'm nowhere near the level you are. I'm surprised Storm let me model for them at all." she muttered softly.
If anyone else had said that, I would've ignored him or her or I would've told them off for sounding so pathetic. However, since it was Fiona who had said it, I refrained from either action. It was sad actually. Fiona was a decent model, she had a bright future, but not many people took notice or appreciated her work or just her in general. It was obvious that that affected the girl's self-esteem, which wasn't very high when she first started at Storm a few months ago to begin with.
"Fiona, you just started. You have to work your way up; you'll get there. Don't fret. You're doing very well. Keep doing what you're doing and someone will finally notice how good you are." I claimed, tugging on my yoga pants.
Slowly, she peered to me, blinking up at me. "You…you really think so, Elise?"
"Of course." I replied coolly.
Fiona smiled softly, graciously. "You're a very kind person."
I stared at her for a moment with furrowed brows. Not many people associated me with that word. Hell, I didn't even think I was particularly kind. Thus, I wasn't entirely sure what to say.
All I could think of saying, while shrugging a shoulder, was, "Not really, but thank you."
The ginger giggled at me, causing me to arch an eyebrow and pause in placing my swimsuit and toiletries in my sports bag. "You should learn how to take compliments better."
I blinked then, continued packing. I was going to say nothing to that and when Fiona realized that, still smiling, she finished doing the same. Once we were done, we exited the locker room and made our way through busy fitness center towards the double glass automatic doors. It was nighttime and fairly cool out, so we wrapped our jackets tighter around us while we tried hailing a cab.
Yet, just a black taxi pulled up in front of us and the two of us were about to pile in, a voice called out my companion's name.
We turned our heads to see that parked on the street's corner was a young man perched on a motorbike. He was a blonde man with fine features and had a James Dean demeanor to him. He was waving at us with a crooked grin.
Fiona beamed. "Paul!"
I arched an eyebrow curiously. Paul?
It took me a moment to remember him. Paul was the bloke that Fiona had been dating for about a fortnight now; she was constantly talking about how wonderful and handsome he was—well, he certainly was handsome, but the whole "bad boy" look didn't exactly appeal to me.
Fiona turned to me. "Do you mind if-?" She gestured towards Paul. Her face was apologetic, but I could tell she wasn't entirely sorry as she was nearly bouncing on her heels with excitement.
I waved my hand dismissively. "Go. Have fun. Use protection."
Laughing, she playfully smacked my arm. That was before hugging me tightly. "Thanks, Elise! I'll see you tomorrow! Have a good night!" she exclaimed, jogging off, her bag and hair bouncing with her peppy movement.
"You too." I idly waved.
I watched the couple kiss briefly before Paul gave her a helmet, which she put on as she hopped onto the back of the bike. Soon, the engine roared and they were off down the street. I watched for a moment longer as they disappeared then, filed into the cab.
Flipping on the lights of my flat with the switch on the wall beside the front door, I kicked off my trainers, placed my jacket on the coatrack, and dumbed my back beside before stepping further inside. I tugged my golden locks loose from its high ponytail and strolled to my kitchen while turning on the telly, so BBC News came on.
I placed the kettle on the stove to brew up some tea and pulled out some leftover chips from the fridge to put them in the microwave. As I was busy with that, a report on the news caused my ears to perk.
"Last night, the body of international model, Anne Kingston, 28, of FM Agency, was discovered in the agency's bathroom." I turned around at that to see that an emotionless African American male with a big mustache was speaking. On the screen above his head was a picture of a beautiful brunette with small, blue eyes. "A make-up artist found Miss. Kingston earlier this morning. Police are saying that Miss. Kingston has drowned and they are suspecting foul play. No suspects have been found at this moment in time. Miss. Kingston is the fifth model found dead in the past two months. Is there a possible connection? If so, what?"
Frowning deeply, I crossed my arms over my chest as I leaned against the kitchen counter. The news was on another article, but I was paying attention. My thoughts were dwelling on the previous one.
Is there a possible connection?
I scoffed.
Of course there was a bloody connection. How could there not be, especially at this point? Five models at top agencies had been killed in the past two months. That was not a coincidence. The police were just being thick. All of those victims had been killed at their agencies—mind you, in different ways—and were newcomers to the business. You'd have to be blind to not see the connections. It was blatantly obvious. The only problem was there were absolutely no suspects. There had been a few, but they had all fallen through. Thus, the police were left with nothing, which meant more girls were just going to keep getting killed.
Sighing deeply, raking a hand through my thick hair, I shook my head and checked on my tea.
Why were those amateur models being targeted? If they were top models, I suppose I'd understand with jealousy, money, and etc. being the motives. Amateur models weren't at that level just yet to have such things against them; they weren't well known or particularly rich. Either way, who was targeting these models? What was the motive? What were they getting out of this? Was it one person or was it a group that were killing the models?
Pausing in pouring my hot beverage, I mentally scolded myself.
It wasn't my problem. People died everyday. Murder happened everyday. I wasn't a detective, I was a simple model; I didn't solve mysteries. I was just a model. Just a boring, simple model. End of story. Thank you. Good night.
After that, I changed the channel to something ridiculous like Funny Talking Animals-Walk On the Wild Side to watch for a small bit, quickly drank my tea and ate my food before changing out of my gym clothes, getting into my jammies and going to bed.
I was always one of the first people to arrive at agency when I had a photoshoot, I'd even be there before some of the staff, as I usually like to go to the wardrobe and try on everything—even the men's clothing. They tell you not to as their afraid that something might get destroyed, but I didn't care—still don't. It was childish, but it was entertaining, at least to me, and it made me feel slightly rebellious. Besides, I was careful and made sure that everything was put away exactly as I had found it.
However, unfortunately, the next day when I arrived at the Storm agency and made my way straight to the wardrobe area, after absentmindedly waving to the few early risers like myself, I regretted my little defiant habit.
Lying down on her back with a shocked, tearstained face was Fiona. Blood had streamed down a large gash at her temple, which had bruising around it, blending in with her fiery hair. Her eyes were wide open and lifeless.
I don't know how long I stood there, staring at her. I was frozen. Not a single thought crossed my mind; it was completely blank.
That was until someone, a make-up girl, I think, came into the room calling for me. They instantly froze like me before they released a horrified shriek.
Afterwards, everything happened so quickly that it was, truthfully, one, big blur.
At the person's scream, more people came to see the dreadful sight. The police was called, so soon the agency was filled with murmuring people, frightened models and staff, briskly working police and EMTs, and so on. I had spectated, watching intently and critically, far away from the crowds beside my make-up artist, Dino Nomades, who had his arm around my shoulders; I think he was crying.
I only broke out of my pensive state when my name was called by an unfamiliar, but pleasantly deep male's voice.
I blinked a couple of times and lifted my head to see two men, whom I have never seen in my life, standing before us with grave expressions on their faces.
One of the men, looking like the youngest of the two, was quite tall; a few inches taller than myself. He had delicate features with high cheekbones, dark curly hair, and very light blue-hued eyes. The other was shorter, shorter than myself, even if I hadn't been wearing the heels I had been wearing at the time, and held himself very well; very much like a soldier. His very short hair was dirty blonde and his eyes were a soft brown. They were almost like each other's exact opposites.
"Are you Elise Cooper? Are you the one who had discovered Miss. Fiona Holt's body?" asked the taller male of the two. His voice was firm and cool.
I glanced between them, eyeing them once again before steadily and softly replying, "I am." My voice must've cracked or faltered because the Hispanic man holding me gave me a solemn expression and tightened his arm around me.
"Mind if we ask you some questions, Miss. Cooper?"
"Who are you? You're not police."
Police didn't hold themselves the way they did. Besides, officers had already spoken to me when they had arrived; there was no point in speaking to me twice in the past hour.
"I am Sherlock Holmes," the dark-haired man announced, sounding quite proud. Then, almost as if it was a second thought, Sherlock motioned to the other man beside him. "And this is my colleague Dr. John Watson. And no, we are not police officers." Dr. Watson gave me a nod in greeting.
I narrowed my eyes.
If they were not police then, who were they? Reporters, perhaps? Maybe, but they didn't hold themselves like journalists either. Nonetheless, if they weren't police officers, I did not have to answer them.
"Then, yes, I mind if you ask me some question, Mr. Holmes." I retorted dully. "If you are not police then there is no reason for us to speak." I could hear Dino scolding me softly in my ear, but I ignored him and pulled away from him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, as you can tell, it's been a trying day. I shall be going home."
I stalked off, feeling a great weight in my chest. I waited to cry until I got home.
And that was the first time I met Sherlock Holmes. Very brief and nothing special.
Our second meeting was quite the opposite.
It was nearly two days later when Sherlock and I met again.
Dino and I had the day off, so he decided to take me out for lunch at one of our favorite café's in East London. My friend was ordering and retrieving our meal while I sat at our small table at the way in the back of the establishment, staring out the window, absentmindedly fiddling with the silver necklace around my neck, people watching—one of my favorite pastimes, by the way.
I was watching an overly-sized woman, wearing clothes that certainly did not suit her, wrestle with her umbrella to protect herself from the light midafternoon shower—the umbrella was winning—when Sherlock and his partner, John appeared.
"May I sit here?" Sherlock inquired, but the question was meaningless as he was already sitting across from me. John made a disapproving face and remained standing.
I deadpanned, staring at him. Why did you ask if you were just going to fucking do it anyway? "What do you want?"
"To ask you questions, of course," he claimed promptly. "You had left so suddenly, we didn't have time to properly chat."
He was making fun of me, I was sure of it. He was saying it straight-faced, but he was being cheeky, that bastard.
"Look, I told you, since you two are not police, I have no reason to speak with you." I said firmly, doing my best to sound calm. "A girl was murdered, so I don't know what you two are playing at, but I'm not amused, all right? So just piss off."
Sherlock just gave a meager arch of his eyebrow while John frowned deeply. He was the one who spoke, speaking delicately and kindly, "We're not playing at anything, Miss. Cooper and yes, it's true, we are not police, but we are assisting the Scotland Yard."
I eyed them skeptically. "You two? Helping Scotland Yard?" I gave an indignant snort. "You two are just civilians. Just amateurs."
John sighed deeply in frustration at my stubbornness. "Miss. Copper," he tried again, but was cut off by Sherlock, "Fiona Holt was eighteen-years-old and was of Irish descent. Both her parents, Kimberlyn and Nicolas were born in Ireland, but immigrated to England two years before Fiona was born. Fiona went to an all-girl's Catholic School in Cardiff and graded with average marks. She became a model shortly after graduating. She has been a model for Storm a little under four months and has been featured in only one magazine," he stated as if he was reading it from book.
I gave a mocking clap. "Congrats, but that doesn't prove anything. Anyone can read that off from the internet."
Sherlock gave a sniff before leaning forward on the table, which caused me to instinctively lean back. He laced his long-fingered hands in front of him. "Fiona had been bludgeoned to death with the stiletto heel she had been wearing, having been hit a maximum of seven times before the shoe was placed back on her foot. The shoe being her left one to be exact. She didn't fight back as her assailant had been someone she trusted, someone very close to her thus, the pure shock upon her face and the crying. Then, Fiona was too sweet of a girl to fight back, mousy, she'd never hurt a fly no matter the circumstances. Her shyness is also probably why she hasn't gotten further in her career despite her talent. She had just come from the gym, the Energie Fitness Club to be exact according the membership badge on her key ring, from the workout clothes in her bag—she had changed some time after leaving the gym in the room where she had been murdered. She had just been swimming (you could smell the chlorine on her even though she had showered), but not very well considering she had terrible arthritis of the right knee from a childhood accident where she had broken it weakening it. Her assailant knew her leg's weakness, and used it against her to bring her down." he said nonchalantly.
When he was finished, I knew that my jaw was slack and my eyes were wide.
How the Hell did he know all that? If he was a normal civilian there was no way the police nor the forensics team would enclose that to either him or his partner. However, they weren't part of the forensics team either so how did he know all that? Who the Hell was this guy?
I was just about to ask when Dino appeared, his arms full with our food. Worriedly and quizzically, the—fake—blue-eyed male looked at the three of us. "Elise, is…everything okay?" he asked hesitantly.
I couldn't respond as I just looked at Sherlock gobsmacked. Sherlock looked back, but only for a moment as he rose shortly, placing a piece of paper from his heavy coat pocket on the table. "When you feel like speaking with us, that is our address. I'd suggest you'd hurry and become compliant soon, though. Preferably, this evening." he claimed. "Lets go, John."
With that and the swishing of his overcoat, he walked out of the café. John gave us a small, polite nod and then, quickly filed after Sherlock. I stared them off until Dino waved a hand in front of my face to snap me out of it. I blinked up at him.
"Wha' in the name of the Queen was that?" the olive-toned male asked dumbfounded.
"I-I d-don't…" I drifted, shaking my head, unable to think coherently. I glanced down at the piece of paper that Sherlock was placed before me.
221b Baker Street.
Like I said, the second time I met Sherlock Holmes was the exact opposite of our first meeting.
Thanks for reading~! Please, review! :))
