Chapter 3 - The Prostitute

The next week, the woman knocked once at the door at precisely five minutes before one, just as she had the Tuesday before. The weather was a bit more dismal, it was drizzling, so this time, she had worn a coat and had an umbrella.

As she was ascending the stairs, Sherlock noticed she wore heels. Particularly, stilettos. This went against his antecedent impression of her.

Mrs. Hudson had sent her up without an escort this time, so the young woman entered the flat alone.

As she stepped into the sitting room, Sherlock frowned. Everything, it seemed, had changed over the course of one week. She came in smelling of cheap perfume and hairspray. Her nails were coloured red, chipped at a few places, and there were a few random rings accenting her fingers.

Her hair was, thankfully, the same colour as before, but her skin looked darker, and there was no beauty mark to speak of. A light dusting of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose, loosely covered up by makeup. Her eyes were outlined in heavy black pencil, with light blue and gray eyeshadow on her eyelids.

Lips painted red, cheeks covered in rouge, eyebrows darkened two or three shades, she had done a flip-flop from herself the previous session. Her hair was poufy and curled to perfection, held in place with the hairspray, teased to an extreme.

Flashy faux diamond earrings dangled from her ears casually, tangling with her bouffant hair. Hidden behind her hair, there was a bruise from the night previous, no doubt from a lover, which she wasn't too proud of, which is why she had tried, and failed, to conceal it with both hair and makeup.

She wore a tube top, hot pink, vegan leather, underneath a silver faux fur jacket. A few necklaces lined her neck, mostly bold and gaudy, and the same could be said for her wrists.

Black net tights beneath a leather skirt, hot pink, with a pretend gold belt tied loosely around her hips. Pink stilettos with gold detailing and a matching round purse with a gold chain for it's strap. Contained within the handbag were the following; mobile phone (of a different shape, size, age, and brand as last week), same cheap lipstick that she wore, different set of house keys, plastic ID card for work on a pink bracelet, loose change mingling about, large wads of notes held together by hairpins, small vials of vodka and whiskey, off-brand mascara, and a container of morning after pills.

Overall conclusion; prostitute with sticky fingers.

"So, back again, are we?" Sherlock remarked absentmindedly from his place at the desk. He had been researching the effects of Black Nightshade and Jimsonweed on the human body, when combined in an elixir made up of lavender seed oil and coffee, obviously.

The young woman merely smiled fakely at his words, easily sitting down on the sofa to the right of the door. There was a moment when she glanced at Sherlock's lips, quite obviously, and then Sherlock knew he wasn't working with an amateur.

This girl was good. Wicked good. And she was all his to figure out.

Sherlock decided that perhaps their little sessions wouldn't be so bad after all. Here she was, fitting perfectly into the role of a seductress, and there he was, ready to play the long game. He smiled.

She cocked an eyebrow, wondering what he was so happy about, but he simply returned to his computer.

"How were the streets last night? Must have got your money's worth. I see you had at least five, maybe six, clients." Sherlock deduced, eyeing her amused expression.

"Still refusing to talk, then?" He continued, almost disappointed she was so stubborn. Not that he minded; as long as she kept this up, she would provide a reliable distraction for him on a weekly basis. At least he wouldn't be bored out of his Mind for an hour each Tuesday.

The young woman nodded with a smile on her painted lips, pleased with herself for doing her job so well. Sherlock sighed, glancing over her body once more. She did the same for him, even more amused than before when she noticed the topic of his research.

Slightly aggravated that he was such a thing of humour for his patient, Sherlock cast her a strong glare and returned to his work.

After a long silence of three minutes and 13.4 seconds, Sherlock broke the ice once more. He was still curious about this girl, after all, and he was still being paid and 'blackmailed' by Mycroft to be this young woman's 'therapist'.

"What's your name, then? I failed to catch it when Mycroft was over." Sherlock paused, and she simply rolled her eyes.

"Ah, right, not talking. Well, would you like some tea?" Sherlock rose from his chair and met the girl's gaze, which was brown that day. She shook her head no, and he was proud he had gotten a reaction, no matter how small, out of his taciturn patient.

Shrugging his shoulders at her denial, he entered the small kitchen that opened off the sitting room. Bustling about as he uncharacteristically made himself a cuppa, he heard her soft footsteps, they were softer today, as she joined him in the cramped and cluttered space.

"Do you like science? I've recently been conducting an experiment, well, several experiments, but anyways… The one I'm speaking of involves a human pancreas, a microwave, and bath salts…" Sherlock went on to explain his experiment in great depth, ignoring her vacant expression as he used her as he often used his skull. John never listened, but when one wouldn't talk, it was easy to spew knowledge uninterrupted.

He thought he caught her looking interested twice, but then when he examined her more closely, the sharp curiosity was gone. He concluded he was just seeing things by the time the clock struck two.

At this point, the young woman stretched in her seat at the kitchen table and yawned silently. She wiggled her fingers at Sherlock in a flirtatious goodbye before exiting off the kitchen and stepping down the stairs. She slowly pulled her raincoat over her faux fur jacket, zipping it up at an aggravating tortoise's pace. Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson's farewell as the mysterious young woman grabbed her umbrella and opened the front door, no doubt waving to the old woman in an opposite manner than she had to Sherlock.

Once she was gone, Sherlock was left to wonder how she did it. How she managed to fool him. She had made the most convincing prostitute. Most convincing, indeed.