[AN: I'd love to hear some feedback on this as I had an extremely hard time getting Sherlock's deductions down and worded correctly! Thanks for sticking with me so far, and thank you all who have followed my story! It's probably going to be a bit until I can get to the next chapter, lots of stuff going on; final exams, work excitement, moving, etc. that's why this one is a bit longer ;) but I promise to get something up within the 2 week mark.]
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"I'm not entirely sure what you are wanting from me." Clara said as she reluctantly handed them their requested cups of tea. The whole situation bothered her. "Or really how I could help you; you know so little about me, what makes you think that I could—or even want—to help you?"
John glanced sideways at Sherlock as he took a sip of the tea. He was smirking. Oh dear.
"Don't flatter yourself. I know quite a bit about you. No doubt you've heard about me from your aunt?" His eyes flashed with a fiery zeal, like they always did before a major deduction. Despite what he said, John knew that he reveled in the anticipation and performance. His body language was casual, or as casual as it ever was. His tea sat undisturbed and untouched on the armrest of the couch.
Clara nodded her head, warily. She knew quite a bit about him now. Though she had little input from her aunt, most of her current knowledge of Sherlock Holmes was from her search online after the fake wound incident. It seemed everyone in London was clamoring on top of each other to get his attention, and he was smack dab in the middle of her flat and there was nothing she wouldn't give to get him out.
"Let's start slow and from the beginning so that you can easily grasp it, which won't be a change for me: I often work with simpletons." He began. John shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Clara narrowed her eyes dangerously. Her hospitality was wearing precariously thinner by the second. Surely it would technically still be breaking and entering even if she served them tea, wasn't it?
"Don't take it personally," John intervened, "he thinks everyone is an idiot."
"That's because everyone is, John." Sherlock clarified.
"As I said when I first met you, you just planted a blackberry patch." He continued. "That day your shoes had a slight bit of mud on them, as did under your fingernails, clearly working with dirt. You planted the day before you arrived: enough dirt to leave a trace, but not enough for it to just have happened. It's too late in the season to start planting from seeds; you bought them grown, tied to a trellis in a pot by a green ribbon you then reused to tie your hair back. The ribbon, imprinted with the name 'Whitlock's Garden Centre,' clearly gave you away as they specialize in their vining fruit plants. As for it being a blackberry plant, well, that was a long shot, but Mrs Hudson quite likes to brag about a certain family recipe for blackberry jam, a belief that is very inaccurate. "
John was quite familiar with Sherlock's pattern of speaking during his deductions, but it never lost its remarkability. He could hear the faint undertones of a musical score in his sentences; quite like when he played the violin late at night. John could hear the tempo of his words: the pianissimo of the reasonings, the crescendo of the truths, and the sforzando of the ever perpetuating facts. Sherlock was an unparalleled maestro as he unraveled his concierto talentedly with his words.
"As for your current circumstances, I already know. You moved in a hurry: once again, the dirt under your nails gives you away as you had little time to clean them. Another indicator was that it only took 4 trips for each of you to bring in your stuff from the lorry and even less time for you to unpack; floors in this old house are even thinner than the walls, no doubt you've already figured that out. Even on the standards of Spartan living, you break the mold. So even though your moving was planned, you had no idea of when or how much time you would have to pack; obviously you were rushed.
"Whether you wish it or not, your actions speak louder than words. You would not have planted something and then move the next day. Why?' Sherlock paused briefly and pressed his two forefingers against his lips contemplatively. This short intermission was less about thinking of the cause, as he already knew, but more of an observation of her reaction to the silence. Her shoulders betrayed her nervousness. He continued with the analysis.
"You had to be cautious and had to appear to be acting normal. You were and are still being watched. This is clear by your ever present bodily ticks and facial patterns. You are used to being monitored now for a while. Your heavily manicured fingernails and your disgusting habit of biting them shows in leaps and bounds that you are not normally a very nervous person but due to the circumstances lately you have reclaimed some bad habits.
"You however know your stalker, as you knew when to leave, probably of a schedule you had worked out they had. But it isn't someone close, perhaps an acquaintance, perhaps an ex, but more probably a distant friend of the family, your late mother's.
"The fact that you are now insisting that you cannot leave is paramount in the reasoning that you have been found once again by this person, most likely a man, and that you are afraid of his next move as it might involve you."
Sherlock straightened his spine slightly and started the crescendo fin of his masterpiece. "You are too frivolous with your money, you have a weak left elbow, you have an unknown allergy to cats, you are a disheartened artist, you hate the color red, and you are obsessed with natural remedies of which your extreme case of halitosis is brought about by the fish oil supplements. Need I go on?" He folded his hands in his lap decidedly.
Clara was horrified. She had only seen this man for 15 minutes in her entire life and yet he knew so much about her situation and several things that she really didn't think were that obvious. She self consciously breathed into her cupped hand and sniffed.
"No, no, no. You're doing it wrong. The best way to check your breath is to lick the back of your hand and then smell it a few seconds later. Though nothing you do will help unless you stop taking those supplements."
"Ugh!" She frustratedly stomped on the ground. "What do you want from me so that I can get you out of my flat?"
"Like I said earlier; I need your help."
She sighed heavily. "Look, I'm in enough shit already; I don't need to get involved in your little game or whatever it is you do. If I tell you what you want, will you leave me alone?"
John gave Sherlock a warning nudge before the consulting detective could counteract her very inaccurate statement. He begrudgingly let it pass, this time.
"You have certain connections that I need your advice and expertise on, nothing more, nothing less. I need everything that you know about the art magazine called Locus, specifically about the local spotlight, but anything that you can give me will be helpful."
"Hm, well you're lucky that I've written for Locus in the past. You've probably noticed that there aren't any credits for any of the articles or editorials in it. They pride themselves in their anonymity to an aggravating extent. You could try talking to Edwin Davies; he's the head of the selection committee for the local art spotlight feature. He might know more about it if you could get him to talk to you. He's a bit... eccentric, but a nice guy all round." She wrote his contact information down on a pad of paper for them. "Tell him that I sent you and he should talk to you, but I won't promise anything. He's a bit paranoid, like most of them; they've gotten too many threats not to be. That's one of the reasons why I stopped writing for them."
"Thank you," John said graciously as he accepted the paper from her. "Why do they get threatened? Is that how your situation started?" he asked carefully.
"No. That's a matter completely different from this, and one I'm not willing to talk about yet." She said abruptly. "The Locus is not entirely kosher with many people, as I'm sure you're aware of. From what you're hinting at with the specific topic of local artists, I can only assume that there is some sort of artwork tied in with some illegal act, which is not uncommon for them to publish. They're notorious for printing very... interesting and scathing articles as well, and there are rumors that they're funded by an underground gang movement, but it's all unfounded... I think. It was all too secretive for my taste, so I moved on. Though I do miss the thrill of pissing off the hoity-toity art critics. Is there anything else you want to know?"
"If I could procure a painting, would you be able to tell me more about the artist?" Sherlock inquired. "I have no doubt that I could sufficiently get the correct information from it, but it would be of great interest if it could be backed up."
"I suppose so, I've never really tried that, but I think I could."
"Thank you Miss Denton, you have proved invaluable, I will remind John to add you into his blog." Sherlock stood up quickly and made for the door in which he opened and ushered John through it first.
"If you wish to have help with your stalker, you know where to find me." He said as he exited her flat.
Clara stood in her empty room at last. His booming voice was quickly fading from her ears. She gnawed on her left thumbnail, thinking quickly. She made the decision.
"Wait!" she called out to him as she dashed out her front door. He had one hand on the handle of the door to the outside, a knowing smile on his lips.
"Damien Lockwood is not a man to be trifled with, but if you think you could help, I'd appreciate it." She said. "All I ask is that you try to be as discreet as you can, as I really don't want to be on his bad side again. I've done enough harm trying to escape, but... I'm desperate."
"I will see what I can do." He turned the handle on the door and left with John in his wake.
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"Camden High and Delancey." John heard Sherlock say as he shuffled into the cab. He grimaced. Tourists. Great. Exactly what I wanted: fighting through mobs of 'misunderstood bohemians.'
The cab ride was unspectacular and quiet. John whiled the time away thinking about what had just occurred. Sherlock was off in his thinking daze, his eyes closed. John looked at him. He could really get a job as one of those human statue actors. Perhaps that could be an alternative for raising money when funds get low. He chuckled at the thought of seeing Sherlock in gaudy silver paint and a ridiculous pose at Trafalgar Square. Sherlock muttered a disapproving growl at the distracting noise. John choked down a snort and stared out the window, switching his thoughts to Clara's plea for help. Whoever this Damien guy is definitely has her on edge and freaked out. He was struck by a lightning bolt thought.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?" A guttural noise escaped from the man statue.
"Clara mentioned a name... Damien Lockwood. His initials: DL. Do you think it's just a coincidence?"
Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction of an inch and smiled.
"No, John. I don't believe in coincidences."