"Mr. Holmes," Marlene stuck her hand out, her pale wrist poking out from under her black shirt sleeve, the hand expectant yet somehow hesitant-sort of similar to the woman's posture. The man gave her the most analytical of glances, which she courageously returned, but made no gesture to offer his hand. Hers retreated back into the front pocket of her jeans as Holmes pursed his lips with some distaste. "Marlene Tate." She said quietly. The small speckles of debris on the pavement suddenly became fascinating. His exterior was cold, and the greeting followed suit.
"Dreadfully sorry that we had to meet this way for the first time," In more ways than one, inconsiderate ass. She thought, smiling kindly at him. A grown man, acting like a child who'd been served a helping of vegetables. "But I'm having an awful time moving my furniture." This didn't change Holmes' expression. She looked hopefully to Watson. He was easier to talk to, less imposing.
"We'll be happy to help," John said quickly, perhaps eagerly. So they aren't gay then? Marlene wondered, smirking as she turned to the looming furniture in the back of the rent-a-truck.
Sherlock simply folded his arms and said nothing for a while, but as she climbed up the ramp and began to move the settee, he opened his mouth.
"Marlene Tate. A writer." He said, with a certain self-glorifying narcissism that nearly made her vomit on the sidewalk. She trained her focus on him, regulating her breaths, lifting one side of the settee, John covering the other one.
"Ah, yes. Then you've heard of me. Good. Well, what genre?" Marlene asked, a corner of her mouth involuntarily pulling upward. She fought to push it back down.
"Mystery. Your mother is from Norway; you put highlights in your hair, you're in some financial trouble by the looks of it, and you have a nervous condition." Sherlock answered. Marlene went agape for a moment, a little smirk settled on Sherlock's mouth, and an apologetic John sat down his end of the sofa.
"I am so sorry, Miss Tate, he does this to everyone-" John began, but she just waved her hand limply at the two of them, the quintessential whatever gesture. "I mean, it does tend to upset people-"
"Really? I thought it was quite brilliant." Marlene said, putting her edge of the sofa on the ramp and a hand on her hip. Was that little smirk on Holmes' face before? No. Now there's a man who likes his ego stroked. She stifled a small laugh. "Although, you messed up a bit. My grandmother is the one from Norway." Triumph corrected the tentative posture and her nostrils flared delicately. The little smirk dropped from his face and was transferred to hers.
"There's always something," Sherlock murmured, taking the end of the couch that Marlene had abandoned in favour of a dining room chair.
Furniture was placed haphazardly in the living room, like an awkward mix of animals put out to graze. You had your giraffes, the dining chairs, your elephants, the settees, and your gazelles, the end tables. That makes me one hell of a zookeeper, Marlene thought madly.
The three figures of Sherlock, John, and Marlene were silhouetted in the doorway.
"Well, thanks, you two. Mrs. Hudson talked about tea, but…I still have a lot of work to do." The obvious female shadow moved off to the side, quickly trailed by the shorter male, who was, in fact, about two inches shorter than she.
"Sherlock and I could manage." John offered. "It's a great idea-at least to talk to each other, to be on a neighborly basis."
Marlene flexed her jaw, glanced pointedly at the taller, dark-haired male. Out of everything in this new environment, he was the most confusing.
"I think you certainly know enough about me." She remarked cynically, with fragile venom. However fragile, it still stung and John winced. "Now, sorry, not much of a hostess." Within the space of about three seconds, the men found themselves in the small foyer.
Marlene slammed the door so hard that the address numbers rattled in protest. Nothing much else was heard except for a blaring horn and a dog barking in the distance. The two exchanged knowing looks and went into their flat.
"Marlene Tate. So familiar," John pooched out his lower lip, pouting a bit. Sherlock turned, giving him the omnipresent, choleric, semi-disgusted look that he wore whenever John made a "stupid" comment.
"It should be. A bestselling author of mystery novels-"
"That's ironic. Moves in next to the world's only consulting detective," John mused under his breath, snorting, silenced by a chilling glare from his flatmate. The "don't-interrupt-me-John-I'm-Thinking" glare.
"-whose work has been translated into several different languages. Best known for grisly crime scene depictions. A borderline disturbed mind, some psychiatrists have said." The detective finished, removing his suit jacket with a flourish and taking a seat in front of his laptop.
"You're one to talk on that," John retorted, picking up a newspaper and thumbing through it. Sherlock had been intimidating when he'd first met the detective, but this Marlene Tate was downright rude. Slamming the door in their faces. The nerve. John stared for a moment at the fleur-de-lis on the wallpaper, opened his mouth as if to speak, then promptly closed it again.
"John, you know how terribly bothersome it is when you think," Sherlock murmured. Watson snapped his head over to the laptop; Sherlock was already researching the woman. Researching. That, or his friend could be a real creep sometimes. Watson preferred to think the former. Wikipedia, facebook, twitter, any possible accounts. A few fan pages, featuring her glamour shot and a brief biography.
Marlene Tate was born in London on October 29th, 1985. From childhood, she harbored a love of writing and a sense of adventure.
"Dull." Sherlock frowned. "She had to have been hiding something, to dismiss us like that." He concluded. John simply shook his head in disdain.
"Sherlock. I know it was rude for her to do that, but perhaps the woman just wants a little peace? And we all know you don't get rude, ever." John commented sarcastically, to which Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. The doctor just flipped a page of the newspaper, the crisp newsprint crackling under his fingertips. "Give her a small break."
Sherlock's frown became more deep-set. What would it be next, that John suggested he give Mycroft a break? He got out his gun, preparing to shoot the wall, per usual, when a small, sliding noise caught his attention. A little swipe. A swoosh.
Strange. The room felt a little different too. Not terrible, like he'd been broken into, but oddly different. Like someone who didn't belong, a mismatching puzzle piece, was there, was watching.
A small piece of paper made a bright white rectangle on the wood floor near the gap between the door and the floor, neatly labeled: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock carefully unfolded it.
Mr. Holmes,
The walls are not as thick as you assume them to be. Either that, or your voice is not as low as you think it is. I would suggest that you refrain from accusing me of things when we've only first met, or at least do it outdoors where I can't hear you. On a brighter note, I've got most of my dishes unpacked, so by all means, come over for tea, although there won't be much to talk about.
Sincerely,
Marlene Tate
"John, we're having tea." Sherlock stated, holding the note between his forefinger and thumb like a dead, diseased rat.
Tell me what you think! The R&R button is right there. You know you want toooooooo.