Chapter 10: The Shoot
As Scarlett entered the studio that morning, with Sherlock following behind her, his eyes scanning every person they met.
"Who's that man?" Sherlock whispered hurriedly into Scarlett's ear.
Scarlett looked over to who Sherlock had been speaking about "Umm that the director" she said Sherlock had been questioning her on every person they had walked past.
"Do you really think the killer would be here" She asked him in full seriousness.
"Maybe" he said simply.
"Scarlett! To make-up please and if your boyfriend wants to wait he'll have to wait here" called the director when he saw Scarlett before rushing off towards make-up.
"I think he meant you, just sit there I'll be back in a bit" Scarlett said leaving the detective in front of the set. He took a seat and waited.
Scarlett tried not to look at him as she arrived on set hair and make-up done and clad only in a robe. On the set was a box covered in a black sheet. Kneeling down behind the box Scarlett pulled her robe off and leant her arms on the box resting her head on her hand, she crossed he arms across her chest.
Scarlett looked up at the camera, the shoot began and she dared a look at Sherlock who was staring intently at the photographer. Scarlett sighed and looked back to the camera, by 3 the shoot was over and Scarlett was heading home with Sherlock.
In the taxi he turned to her. "Who was the photographer" he asked
"Dunno his name seen him around though" Scarlett answered playing with her now curled hair.
"A lot" he asked
"No more than any other photographer" she replied. He didn't speak again simply staring out the window.
When they got back John was still out.
"Why do you do a job you hate" Sherlock asked as Scarlett sat down in his flat.
"Oh I dunno, I didn't hate it when I was young and stupid, I thought it was fun. I like being seen as something beautiful, I believed my hype and it made me a monster, I was proud and mean. I would control men with empty flirts to get what I wanted. I hate it because it made me that monster and it does it to others too, then we all get tarred with the 'stupid slut' brush and you lose your identity to your looks, to an image" Scarlett said after a long pause, finally staring up at him.
"If you want to be seen as something else why don't you quit" he said
"Because I need the money and plus I have no idea what else I could do." Scarlett answered truthfully.
"Really how can you be so uninspiring" he said bluntly
"I would of thought a death threat would have brought this to light, to change, do what you want" he said and he stared up at the photos again. There was a moment of silence before Scarlett spoke.
"You know what your right" Scarlett jumped to her feet "Thank you" She grabbed him by the shoulders and turn him to her, standing on tip toes she slammed her lips to his, at first he didn't move then grabbing Scarlett by her arms he pushed her away holding her tightly at arm's length.
"What are you doing?" he said his eyes wide with shock.
"I'm doing what I want, and I want you! I'm not gonna lie anymore Sherlock, your amazing I thought you were the moment I meet you, you're stupidly good looking and you're so ridiculous sometimes you make me so mad, I just wanna strangle you, but then you do something and you make me melt or you make me hot, like really hot" his hold loosened and Scarlett stepped closer.
"I think you're the most unique person I've ever met" she said with a sighed that was brilliant she hadn't realised how much she had wanted that off your chest and if she was gonna die at least she got one last kiss from Sherlock first. Scarlett removed his hands from her person and left the room leaving Sherlock in a state of shock.
Later that day another letter from J-T-R was received, he had killed again dressing the corpse up in clothes similar to ones Scarlett had worn for her shoots. The stress was getting to Scarlett and she was becoming more and more irritable.
Neither John nor Sherlock seemed to mind her foul mood and disastrous mood swings of seemly uncaring to a crying wreck. The latter of the pair had been acting very strange lately, well stranger than normal.
He hardly spoke to Scarlett at all but she would catch him staring at her over dinner and such, he seemed frustrated by his own thoughts at times often shouting at himself to shut up.
That night Scarlett help Sherlock as much as she could, sometimes Scarlett wished this guy would just hurry up and kill her, she had been here nearing a week now and she wasn't sure how much longer she could take it. By 1 am she retired to bed for another fitful night, leaving the detective passing.