Sorry for the late update, everyone, I've been really busy with my first week of my last semester at my community college. Anyway, here's the tenth chapter and I hope you all enjoy. Thank you everyone who has reviewed, subscribed, favored, and so on for this story so far. 51 reviews? That's amazing. Thank you all sooooooooo much and thank you for being so patient. Hope you all enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Sherlock (BBC), it is rightfully own by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. All I own is Larissa, other OCs, and some plot points.
Warnings: Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, mild sexual content, gore, violence, and drug and alcohol references.
Entry 2: Part 4
"I said 'could you pass me a pen?'" Sherlock suddenly said distractedly as his flatmate entered.
That immediately caused my muddled emotions to evaporate to be replaced with confusion. John must've shared it with me because he glanced to me with puzzled brows as he came up beside my chair from through the kitchen. I gave him a coy shrug, indicating that I had no idea what in the world the consulting detective was talking about.
"Wha—When?" John asked.
"About an hour ago." murmured Sherlock. Again, John and I exchanged bemused looks. Clearly, John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about and I hadn't heard, since I arrived, Sherlock asking for a pen.
The doctor gave a huge frustrated sigh, shaking his light-haired head. "Guess you didn't notice I had got out then," he mumbled, reaching for a pen on the table beside me. Without looking, John tossed it Sherlock and in the same fashion, the dark-haired male caught it.
That was something that had been quite amazing to witness, by the way.
"Where you were then?" I inquired, crossing my legs and brushing my yellow bangs from my face.
"I went to see about a job at that surgery I told you about," explained John, glancing over the evidence and information that had been collected so far concerning the current case over the mantle.
"How was it?" Sherlock said.
"Great," John responded, enthusiasm welling in his voice. "She's great."
That time, it was Sherlock and I who exchanged quizzical looks with each other. We peered back to the short male. "Who?" said Sherlock.
John peered back at us, a soft blush of embarrassment at his slip of the tongue blossoming on his cheeks. "…The job." he said quickly.
"She?"
"It."
Once more, Sherlock and I looked to one another but didn't pry further. Instead, Sherlock nudged his curly head in the direction of his open laptop. "Here, take a look," he instructed. Arching a brow, John shuffled over to the desk and read the article that I had displayed upon the screen. He read it out loud. "It happened last night." Sherlock informed him. "Chap shot down in his flat. Doors locked, windows shut from the inside. Just the same as Van Coon."
"God…" breathed John. He looked to his partner. "You think-?"
"He's killed another," confirmed Sherlock. I just nodded, indicating that I knew of that as well thus, why I was there.
"So what do we do?"
"Inform Scotland Yard and convince Dimmock that these deaths are connected and that Van Coon's demise was not a suicide."
Just nodding, John went to grab his jacket. Sherlock rose from his crouched position. I watched the men shuffle around before hesitantly as if I was some sort of sheepish child afraid of being rejected (I mentally kicked myself instantly), "Is it alright if I tag along?"
Both men ceased in their movements. John glanced to Sherlock, who was staring at me. I stared right back trying my best to not look hopeful. Why did I suddenly need permission? I hadn't cared before so why did I care now?
"Do as you wish," Sherlock suddenly said monotonously, knotting his scarf.
And I tried not to smile, ignoring the surprised look on John's face. I just gave a nod, keeping my face composed and shrugged on my coat. I couldn't help the building excitement as I followed the two men out of the flat and out onto the curb where Sherlock hailed a cab.
Dimmock, clearly, was foolishly stubborn. Foolishly and annoyingly stubborn.
Despite what we had pointed out the officer and the ballistics report that he claimed to have received, he still didn't seem to believe us. He still believed that Van Coon's death was a suicide and that Brian Lukis' death were not connected.
Thus, I reiterate: Detective Inspector Dimmock was foolishly stubborn.
Now, I could understand the urge to prove Sherlock wrong, it is very tempting, but when the facts were right in front of you proving that you were wrong, you're just being ridiculous. Suck up your damn pride and admit that you are wrong; it makes things easier on everyone. It also doesn't waste time.
But I digress…
Even though the Detective Inspector didn't believe us, he did permit us to search Lukis' apartment.
And that's where we ended up after our—incredibly frustrating—conversation with Dimmock.
Lukis' flat was very ordinary. Clearly a man with not a lot of money, but could live with a fair amount of comfortableness. He was also quite messy as numerous amounts of his possessions were strewn about. Books were stacked in different corners, papers littered the floors, clothes were lying on pieces of furniture, and so on so forth.
The four of us entered and Sherlock, John, and I—though, I wasn't sure what I was looking for—began looking about the cluttered home while Dimmock watched us in apparent exasperation. John rummaged through Lukis' books, I inspected the black piece of paper on the floor that looked like origami, and Sherlock was looking out the window.
I noticed a small smirk tug at the corner of Sherlock's pale mouth, a certain twinkle in his pale eyes. My brows furrowed, faintly recognizing that look: he had found something. Then, I heard him mutter, "Four floors up." His raised his voice, addressing the rest of us. "That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door, bolted shut, think they're impregnable. They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."
"I don't understand," confessed Dimmock, bewilderment evident on his youthful face.
"Dealing with a killer that can climb," Sherlock announced, brushing passed Dimmock and to another section of the flat. We filed after him. He scrambled up to look through a new window in the hallway. We watched him, Dimmock with furrowed bros and John and I with interest—yes, he had definitely found something.
"What on Earth are you doing?" Dimmock asked flabbergasted.
"The killer can scale walls like an insect," the consulting detective stated, prying open the window. "That's how he got in."
"…What?"
"Climbed up the side of the wall, ran along the roof, and dropped in through this skylight."
"You're not serious. Like Spiderman?"
"He scaled six floors." Sherlock turned to the other male looked a bit offended by Dimmock's comment of the building to Van Coon's flat and that's also how he reached the top floor of the bank onto the terrace." He sighed and hand a gloved hand through his thick curls. "I have to figure out what connects these two men."
Sherlock peered quickly around until his eyes landed on a pile of books piled on the staircase below. He descended the carpeted steps and picked up one book to look inside. Closing it swiftly, Sherlock rushed out of the flat. I jumped and shouted over the railing, "Hey! Wait! Where the Hell are you going?"
"West Kensington Library!"
Huffing with a roll of my dark blue hues, I grabbed the back of John's jacket, ran passed Dimmock, and after Sherlock before we lost him.
Did that man ever stop moving?
I will say this now: I love libraries. As often as I could, especially growing up, I'd go to the library and read anything I could until it was closing time—I guess you could say it was my own personal sanctuary. It is such a pleasantly quiet place where no one can disturb me and the smell of old pages, leather bindings, and etc. is marvelous. I love libraries.
However, of course, considering the situation, I had no time to enjoy what West Kensington Library could offer me. We were there for more important reasons.
John and I trailed after Sherlock as he went to the front desk. He asked the sweet, little old lady if she could scan the book for us and tell us where it had come from. In her high, creaky voice, she happily obliged and pointed us in the right direction. Graciously, we all thanked her and made our way through the vast bookcases for what we were searching for.
We found the right aisle and marched down it.
"Date in the book," Sherlock whispered to us—we were in a library, after all. "Is the same day that Lukis died."
The three of us rummaged through the books surrounding us in search of the right shelf.
I pulled a couple books out to look through them, but I froze seeing what lied behind them. There was something bright and yellow painted on the back of the shelf. John saw it as well as his reaction matched mine and he cleared away more books to reveal exactly what I figured would be behind them.
An intricate design that looked very similar to the one at the bank. It wasn't the same, but it was similar.
"Sherlock," John called to his partner, immediately catching the man's attention.
Sherlock made a noise of confirmation once seeing the graffiti.
"The cipher was here, too." I uttered softly.
"Yes," Sherlock nodded from my other side. "It's another warning."
He wasted no time in taking pictures on his phone and once that was done we hurried back to 221B Baker Street to add our new evidence to the rest. It was obvious that Van Coon and Lukis were connected. They had both received warnings from the cipher and when they did not heed them, they were killed by someone, who could climb great heights and with little difficulty. Unfortunately, that was all we had. As to why they died, we had no idea. Only the cipher the tell us.
That being, we went out to find out what we could about the cipher. Except, only John and I didn't know how we were going to go about it.
Thankfully, John asked the question that on both our minds as we tried to match Sherlock's long strides through the open London area, "I'm sorry, but where are we going?"
"I need to ask some advice."
I blinked.
Had I heard that correctly? Had Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes just admitted that he needed help? No…No way, but I had heard it and from John's pleasantly surprised expression he had heard it too.
And you bet we were going to enjoy this rare moment to its fullest.
"I'm sorry," I began, a teasing smirk on my face. "We didn't quite hear that. What did you say?" John looked like he wanted to laugh.
Scowling, Sherlock glanced between us—he was blushing, I could see it no matter how slight. He snorted and looked away as we continued ascending the stony steps towards the building he was leading us to. "…You heard me perfectly well. I will not say it again."
"You need advice?" John mused, a smirk obvious on his face.
"On painting, yes," Sherlock said with slight aggravation. "I need to talk to an expert."
And apparently, Sherlock's expert was a street kid. He had to be in his late teens, very early twenties, who was dwelling in a back alley with very short brown hair and surrounded by a bag full of spray paint cans. He was by an iron door that was already painted upon with a fairly accurate look police officer.
We marched right up to him.
"Its part of my new expedition," the boy announced once he spotted us approaching.
"Interesting," Sherlock said with little to no interest after barely glancing at the graffiti.
The boy smirked smugly, even chuckling, "I call it 'Urban Bloodlust Frenzy'."
"Catchy," said John, looking at the painting with a hint of disdain.
Dryly, I added, "Kinda long."
That caught the boy's attention and looked like he was about to snap, but stopped, looking me up and down with a particular look in his eyes. I arched an idle brow. "Hey," he greeted huskily. "Are ya model or somethin'? Ya look awfully familiar."
Before I could open my mouth, Sherlock jumped in, his tone brisk, "No. She's no one."
I glared at him, suddenly mad. That was the second time he had done that in two days. What in the world was his problem? Why did he keep doing that?
Nevertheless, before I could say another on the matter (AKA snap at Sherlock), the boy shrugged, glanced at me once more, and returned to his work, "Well, I got two minutes before a community service officer comes 'round that corner. Can we do this while I'm workin'?"
Sherlock, taking out his Blackberry and pulling up his pictures, he shoved it towards the boy—what the Hell was he so annoyed about? The young man, after tossing an unsuspecting John his spray paint can, took it and skimmed through the photographs.
"Know the author?" asked Sherlock.
"Recognize the paint," the boy admitted after a moment. He started listing off what he knew about the paint—apparently, there was a lot more to spray paint that I had first figured, who knew?
"What about the symbols? Do you recognize them?"
"…Not sure it's a proper language."
"Two men have been killed, Raz. Deciphering these is the key to figuring out who killed them."
Raz scoffed in pure disbelief. "And this is what you've got to go on? Its hardly much now, is it?"
"Are you going to help us or not?" Sherlock grounded out firmly.
Raz sighed in defeat. "Ill ask around."
"Somebody must know about it."
"Oi!"
Jumping, all of us turned to see two police officers jogging towards us.
Sherlock grabbed his phone from Raz and my hand and we ran off. Raz dropped whatever else was in his hand and went the opposite way. However, John wasn't as quick. We had left him behind. I would've gone back, but I was a bit too distracted by the sudden physical contact from Sherlock and the instinct to not get caught by the coppers-I also temporarily forgotten that I had been angry with the man holding my hand.
I had only yanked my hand back, blushing and furious, when we reached an open street. "What the Hell do you think you're doing?" I snapped, holding my hand close to my chest as if Sherlock had burned me.
He looked back at me strangely like I had grown two heads. "What are you talking about, Larissa? I just saved you from getting arrested." he pointed out coolly.
"First of all," I said angrily through my teeth. "For the umpteenth time, my name is Elise, not Larissa. I have never given you permission to call me that nor to touch me. Second of all, why the fuck do you keep telling people that I'm no one, that I am not who they think I am?"
"Because it's a distraction," he said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "If others figure out that you're the international model Elise Cooper then they will get distracted and lose interest in the matter at hand. I cannot have that, too much of a hassle."
My eyes narrowed upon feeling a sharp pain in my chest. "Are you saying I am a hindrance?"
"In a sense, yes."
My jaw dropped as I stared at him in disbelief, the pain in my chest increasing.
I blew up, "Well, excuse me, asshole! I'm sorry that I'm such a terrible inconvenience to you!" I turned on my booted heel and started to storm away.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock called after me.
"Anywhere you're not, so I don't have to burden you anymore!" I shouted over my shoulder and I stopped down the sidewalk.
I tried my best to swallow back my angry tears and the pain in my chest as I walked away.
Why did I ever bother with that man?
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