They walked into the small house as Posy dropped her bags in the corner of the living room. The house smelled like clean linen and vanilla and reminded John of Sarah's flat. He began to wonder why their apartment never smelled this nice. Probably the absence of a female outside of Mrs. Hudson was the reason. Or perhaps a lack of human body parts in the refrigerator.
"This is nice of you Posy, to let us come over like this."
"No problem, John." She threw her coat over a nearby chair and turned around. Her home was tiny but comfortable. Soft, mix-matched couches took up the perimeter of the room with a small fireplace in the center. Books littered shelves as well as trinkets finished in bright glossy finishes or shiny metallics. The colors were a mix of both warm and cool. It looked like new things got mixed in with the old and everything found a home throughout the space. John could see through to the kitchen outside the living room, the colors and patterns floating through into a few more doorways off this space.
Posy immediately spotted Sherlock at her mantle, looking over her photographs and things, reaching out to touch the objects she had laid about. She arched an eyebrow at his demeanor. "Make yourself comfortable."
"I hope he's not intruding," John said quickly.
"Not at all. Tea? Or something stronger? I'm going for something stronger."
"Nothing for me please, thank you." John looked over at the figure fiddling with Posy's books. "Sherlock?" Sherlock looked up as if he were being interrupted and waved his hand.
"Really strong," Posy muttered as she disappeared through the doorway into the kitchen.
"Hm." Sherlock muttered. "Books on art, design, spiritual myths. Then Ayn Rand. Instruction manuals for kitchen appliances."
"Just things, Sherlock. Maybe you should stop padding through other people's possessions. Or do you think she's the murderer. Can't stand to have any other women within a five mile radius that resemble her."
"They don't look like her."
"Well, you have to admit they're all very similar—"
"No." Sherlock looked up and met John's eyes. John looked back, confused.
"Alright."
"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding up a pair of glasses. "Roommates. Or, no, boyfriend?" Sherlock picked up an Xbox controller that was on top of a Harlequin Romance novel. He then moved a man's shirt that was under a throw and held it up, inspecting it. "Perhaps husband?"
"Oh, you do laundry, too?" Posy came back into the room with a tumbler half filled with an amber liquid. Sherlock put down the shirt and glared at her glass.
"A little early for," he sniffed the air, "Amaretto?"
"Oh, very good!" she said excitedly, "What else can you tell me, mystery man?"
"Well," Sherlock smirked at the invitation. "You're an artist of sorts, painter maybe, but also digital art, probably graphic design," she nodded and he continued, "likely unmarried. Or in a frustrated relationship due to your attention to romance novels and makeup. Which is interesting since you went out today without wearing any makeup so you probably weren't planning on running into anyone. Although, maybe that's because you knew he wouldn't be around. Men's shirt. Boyfriend. Could be a friend, but your perfume is on his shirt so I'm thinking definitely boyfriend. Brought along his Xbox, his war games, his capitalist literature."
Posy stared at him for a beat and then let out a barking laugh. She steadied herself on the small table beside her and put the glass down. She double over, shaking her hands, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "No, please, no," she gasped, "continue."
"I'm not right?"
"Seems not. Posy, could I use your bathroom please?" John asked, delighted at seeing Sherlock experience the equivalent of falling on his ass.
"Down past the kitchen to the left. Please, Sherlock, I'm intrigued, more please."
"Alright." Sherlock said indignantly as John left the room. "You like to pretend you're a free spirit with all the colors and your outfits, but it's a lie. You suffer anxiety issues. You crave stability and are a creature of routine."
"Right," she smiled, "because of my amaretto."
"No," he smiled back, "because of your cuticles. They're torn to shreds. There's the circles under your eyes, meaning you don't get that much sleep and when you do it's fretted. So maybe you try relaxation techniques—the sound machine you use to help block out unpleasant thoughts. Looks like the ocean is your favorite, the button is worn clean. And then there's the abundance of candles. Trying to create an oasis, trying to calm you down. Your anxiety isn't just about big problems, it's everything. You try to mask it by creating relationships with people, but it's a lot of work, isn't it Posy? Or should I say, Persephone. That's your name, isn't it?"
The smile faded from her face and she picked the glass back up again. "Well, two out of three!" She took a long sip and placed the glass back down on the table, walking towards Sherlock. "But you were wrong about my boyfriend. Try again." Her eyes were steely and she stared into his, unblinking. She stopped until she was inches away from his face.
"Husband, then. That was my second guess, you don't wear a ring, but whoever he is, he's familiar. You've left a bag of makeup and tampons sitting on that end table there. Looks to be a man's wallet hidden underneath it."
"Oh," Posy frowned. "Sorry. Wrong again." Sherlock tilted his head while Posy whispered, "No boyfriend, Sherlock. Or husband. Just me."
"Right. Not like any of this matters anyway." He walked to the other side of the room, sitting on the couch. John walked in a moment later and joined his friend.
"So? Did he get it right?"
"Kind of," Posy motioned to Sherlock and brought her glass back with her to sit across from the two men. "I know we're here to talk about Deb, but just so Sherlock here doesn't lose sleep later, maybe we'll straighten me out before we continue."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"My name is Persephone Taylor. Point Sherlock. Posy is my nickname. I'm a creative, which is the new-agey term we use around here to refer to artists who pick up other traits so that they can pay the bills. I draw and paint, but often find myself designing or doing video work for a living. This neighborhood has a lot of people like me. Musicians, sculptors, writers, photographers. The cost of living is cheap, but the people are good.
"I do suffer from anxiety, how nice for you to point that out. It's not debilitating but it can be if I don't force myself to deal with it. One thing about anxiety is that I find it's best if I keep busy. So as much as I love art, I don't love being a one-trick pony. I like to dabble. I'm a capitalist, I like to shoot up aliens on the Xbox, I've been trying to learn to like beer, and when I'm home by myself for the day I sometimes like to hang out in that shirt," she pointed to the man's shirt Sherlock left on the other side of the room.
"That means there's no boyfriend. Just me, pathetically wearing a man's shirt as if I did have one because it makes me feel better and they are damn comfortable." She took a sip of her drink and then rolled the ice around. "The wallet. The wallet I found in my backyard. I don't know who it belongs to but I figure they'll show up again and this way I can hand it back to them while kindly reminding them to stay off my property."
She smiled and finished her drink. Sherlock yawned and John kept looking between him and Posy.
"So sorry to put you to sleep, Sherlock. So, what happened to Deb?"