Hide and Seek
Author's Note: This is my first publication for the Sherlock category, not attempt mind you - I've tried multiple times to write a story for Sherlock, but it has never worked out. I hope it's different for this publication because I adore this story line that I've created over weeks and weeks. Please! Enjoy.
2. Stacy Gourd
"Wait, wait, wait," John yelled impatiently, his brows lowering and facial features twisting into an upset, confused look, "so we road all the way out to Suffolk, and you can't remember where you remember the red poppies being?" His hands went above his head in a dramatic pose before huffing at Sherlock's blatant ignorance of his rambling. Instead, Sherlock and John stood in the midst of a dirt road that led away from the main town; Sherlock had his fingers pressed against his lips and his hands pushed together. Mind palace, right. The sun had already begun to set, the pinks and oranges mixing with the cerulean blue. For spring, it was surprisingly warm outside still.
Rolling up his jacket sleeve, John checked the time and looked back at Sherlock, back at his watch, and then at his flatmate once more. A total of ten minutes they stood there before Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he started walking down the right fork in the road, "coming John?"
Laurel took down the now dry sheets and folded them carefully, making sure that they didn't touch the ground. The cool night breeze had started to roll in, the temperature already dropping a few degrees, and the nip in the air was stinging at her skin. She spent most of her afternoon under the large oak tree in her front yard reading Crime and Punishment, and cleaning the house. Her brother arrived home with groceries a few minutes before Laurel had started to take down the laundry; the smell of Chinese food wafted through the air, even now.
Balancing the full laundry basket on her hip, she trotted inside and welcomed the warmth.
"Did they dry completely?"
"Yes Mum, completely dry."
Colum shrugged, smirking to himself. He used the wooden chopsticks to pick up some of the noodles before looking up at his sister, the noodles hanging half way out of his mouth, "it's a wonder why you're still single big brother, you're just so charming." The venom was clear in her tone, but he chose to ignore it. He just smiled before sucking the noodles in loudly. She rolled her eyes before heaving the basket up her hip once again, "I'm going to make my bed, I'll be down in a few minutes - an hour at most." Colum shrugged and Laurel made her way upstairs with her loaded basket. It was more than ten minutes before Laurel made her way back downstairs, and by then Colum was already done with his food.
"You gonna eat?" He muffled a burp behind his hand, his eyes still looking up at his sister. She shook her head and shook a pack of cigarettes in her hand, "I'm going to go smoke a fag real quick, I'll be back in a jiffy." She tapped her pointer finger on top of the carton before heading to the back door and heading outside. Colum shrugged, still used to her bad habit, and leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach contentedly. As Column relaxed his eyes, he heard the doorbell ring and an impatient knock not a few moments afterwards. The clock hanging on the wall told Colum it was barely a quarter past eight, and he wondered who would be here so late. There were faint voices behind the door, and as Colum pushed his chair back (it squealed as it drew over the hardwood floor,) they stopped.
He scratched the back of his head, yawning as he opened the front door, "Hello?" His eyes fluttered open and he gawked at who was standing in front of him.
"S-Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" Colum stared in amazement then his eyes narrowed in confusion and distrust, "what are you doing here?"
"Your sister, she's here I presume?" His voice was still as sharp as he remembered, his eyes no less calculating, but his demeanor had changed from self-important to just important; a good change? Colum couldn't decide, "the curled, long brown hair on your jacket's shoulder would suggest so," Sherlock stepped closer, sniffing lowly before stepping back, "as does the floral perfume radiating from you."
"Maybe it's my fiancée's." Colum defended, his eyes narrowing at his old colleague.
"You haven't shaved in weeks, the clothes you're wearing are worn and old, not clean by any standard of measure. Your socks have holes in them, you smell as if you haven't bathed in several days; you hygiene would suggest you not caring about how you are perceived at this time. Your left ring finger does bare a ring on it, but it isn't yours - grandfathers perhaps? No, it's your class ring; Cambridge's symbol is engraved on the front and the years printed on the side. Your house has been cleaned recently, but not by your doing as your hands are soft, hardly calloused, and the dried drool on your lower lip would suggest you've been sleeping recently; a maid? No, you have a teacher's salary, paying for your parent's estate upkeep so you wouldn't have the money to pay for one. A neighbor? Of course not, all your neighbors are recently retired and elderly, no one would volunteer to clean up after you. Fresh flowers in the vase down the hall, red poppies picked from your field out back - you hardly go back there because of your mother's gr-"
"I see you still do that deducing thing," Colum said tiredly, his body was rigid and stiff.
"I'm sorry about him," John cut in, holding out his hand towards Colum, "John Watson, friend and flatmate of Sherlock Holmes. You went to college together?" Colum nodded, taking a hold of John's hand and shaking it firmly before opening the door wider.
"At least one of you is civilized, it is pleasure to meet you John Watson, I'm Colum Strickland. How do you put up with him?"
"Pleasure's mine, and patience, a lot of it apparently."
Both Sherlock and John stepped inside, the warmth welcoming from the frigid cold breeze outside. Immediately, John unbuttoned and hung his jacket on the coat rack standing at attention just beside the door; Sherlock, however, just unbuttoned his coat and left it on, as well as his scarf. He looked around the house, inspecting the paintings hanging in the foyer before Colum coughed.
"I'll take you to the sitting room before I go make some strong cuppa, sound alright?"
John nodded his head, "That'd be lovely." John bumped his shoulder into Sherlock's, spurring him into action to move along.
"I see nothing has changed from the last time I visited except the decor," Sherlock's eyes dithered towards the large painting of what looked to be Starry Night, "your doing I assume?" Colum said nothing to the consulting detective, just led both him and John into the sitting room before leaving to the kitchen to set the water to boil in the kettle.
"So what have you been up to Sherlock?" Colum inquired from the kitchen, his eyes darting to the back door, "nothing too boring I hope."
Sherlock sat on the sofa gently, taking in his surroundings as he placed his hands against his lips. John simultaneously sat (it was more of a flop really,) on the opposite end of the sofa, his legs crossed over each other.
It became alarmingly clear that Sherlock wasn't going to answer his question, so John spoke up: "He's a consulting detective."
Colum looked around the corner of the sitting room, the hot kettle in hand before looking inquiringly at John, "and what on God's green earth is a consulting detective?"
John opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by Sherlock, "to put it fairly simple, just simple enough for your boring little mind, I am who the police come to when they're stuck. Who people come to when they need questions answered." Sherlock's fingers tapped together in a harmonizing sequence before he stood up, just as Colum was coming out with the tea.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"The smell of tobacco is wafting in through your back door, I assume that it isn't your fiancée's," John arched his brow at the almost joke that came out of his friend's mouth, "and I can safely say it is your sister, the reason I came here." John looked over at Colum and noticed the man's chubby face tint red with anger, and the tray that held the expensive looking tea set was shaking.
"Yes of course, go see her then Sherlock." Colum breathed out as he made his way over to John and set down the tea-tray, "how do you take your tea John?" Sherlock stood still for a millisecond before sticking his hands into his pockets and making his way to the back door. As his hand touched the doorknob, he released his breath, pushed the door open, stepped outside, and promptly closed it behind him.
She could hear him outside the house before he even rang the doorbell, she dug the butt of her cigarette into the concrete slab she was sitting on before resting her elbows against her knees, listening closely.
"Why was it imperative that we come here this instant? It's bloody freezing out here." She knitted her eyebrows at the unrecognizable voice, must be a friend? But Sherlock doesn't have friends. She thought venomously before narrowing her eyes as she heard the deep baritone.
"She's never given such an obvious clue before, something's changed. In the picture she looks happy, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes; she absolutely detests people that take pictures while holding up the peace sign, let alone two, so why would she do something she hates? Usually the pictures are from the neck up, with something in the background. This time she had someone else take the picture, a local more likely since she was acting like a tourist that day; she hates when people touch her camera." She listened as he cleared his throat before ringing the doorbell and knocking on it as well. She rolled her eyes before mumbling, "impatient twat." She heard her brother answer the door, Sherlock's spot on deduction, and lastly the door closing as they entered the house.
Taking another cigarette out of the package, she stuck it in between her lips and lit it up with a match. The breeze easily blew out the match before she needed to shake it out so she dropped it on the opposite side of the concrete slab, breathing in the tobacco and easing her nerves. Goosebumps rose on her skin as the breeze turned almost icy. Another inhale of smoke and exhaling it through her nose. She heard the door behind her open, even the light that peered through the opening, but chose to ignore it; she wanted him to speak first.
She could almost feel his warmth radiating from him he was so close. Another inhale, and another exhale.
Just keep breathing Laurel. Another inhale, and another exhale, this time through her mouth.
"Done playing our little game Duckie?"
She almost choked on the smoke that was in her throat but played it off as a light cough, "still calling me Duckie? I'm not a child anymore Sherlock."
"I can see that." Laurel looked up at Sherlock, confused at his words. He still looked the same as she remembered, maybe a little paler and maybe a tad more wiser; however, he still had his playful, black curls, and his defined features. She could hardly see with the dark of the night surrounding them, but those things were outlined from the light in the kitchen. Flicking off her ashes, she inhaled more from her cigarette and let it settle in her chest.
"Still smoking I see."
"Good observation Sherlock," she teased, smiling before exhaling, "I see you're not."
"Occasionally." She made an affirming noise in the back of her throat before finishing off her cigarette, standing up to brush off the legs and butt of her pants.
"Lets go inside, I want to meet your friend."
"Associate."
"Uh huh," she rebutted before opening the door and stepping inside, Sherlock following close behind.
"Oh, made tea did you brother? Smells awfully good, especially the Jasmine one." She smiled lightly, her eyes locking on the blonde haired fellow sitting on her sofa. He looked older, older than Sherlock, Colum, and herself. He sat-up straight, his legs uncrossed now, and a smile on his lips, "and you must be Sherlock's friend." She saw him go to get up, but quickly made a fuss. Telling him to sit down and rest, to warm up with the tea, and lastly just to tell her his name.
"John Watson, it's a pleasure to meet an old acquaintance of Sherlock's."
"Didn't know he had old acquaintances did you?" She laughed quietly before sitting down on the lounge, a tea cup nestled in her hands, "he probably never even mentioned me, or my brother, did he? So predictable." She turned her gaze on Sherlock, who had sat down again; her eyes locked on to his neck, and a soft smile presented itself.
"You sentimental twit, I would've thought you've thrown it away by now." John looked over at Sherlock, obviously confused. Sherlock made no noise and no words left his mouth to affirm what she just said. Instead, he lifted his tea to his mouth and quietly drank it.
"I'm sorry?" John asked, looking back at Laurel with a confused face. His eyes widened a quarter of an inch when he looked into her eyes; one eye was a vibrant green, the color he saw in the picture, and the other was an almost chocolate-brown.
"Oh nothing, I don't want poor Sherlock to get embarrassed." John shook off his amazement.
"Embarrassment is a-"
"It's human." Laurel cut Sherlock off, sipping her tea as well. John felt an awkward push against his shoulders, almost like he was intruding on something more... intimate.
"I believe you called me a 'machine' the last time we spoke, so embarrassment wouldn't effect me." Laurel blew the hot tea, smiling, but as Sherlock noted outside - it didn't reach her eyes. John shivered at the cold smile and sipped on his tea.
"Oh," she startled John effectively by the outburst, "I never introduced myself, I'm Laurel Strickland and it is a pleasure to meet a friend of Sherlock's."
"Daphne Kristina Strickland, born on the thirteenth of May, 1983. Meet John H. Watson, born on the-"
"You should make a biography of me Sherlock, since you think I'm incapable of introducing myself. I could just shove said biography in everyone's face and I'd never have to talk to anyone."
"Well!" John started, "it really is a pleasure to meet Sherlock's old college mates. What was he like in college?"
"Insufferable." Both Laurel and Colum said at the same time, laughing afterwards with a glaring Sherlock.
"I was insufferable? Says the woman who constantly flung herself at me, taking time out of her schedule to annoy me, and follow me around like a little duckling."
"Ah, that's where the nickname came from I assume?" John asked, thoroughly enjoying what he was learning about Sherlock.
"People used it to make fun of me, but it stuck. Two years later he started calling me that, and that's that."
It was quiet soon after that, the only sound being the frequent sipping of tea.
"I can't stand it," Sherlock finally broke the silence, "why?" He slammed the tea-cup down on the table, startling everyone in the room, "why stop now? You went dark for two years, and even before that I couldn't find you a single time!" He wasn't yelling, he wasn't calm; he was somewhere in the middle. Gently, she set the cup down on the table, never looking up at him.
"I don't know Sherlock, times change I suppose I-"
"Not you," he said almost quietly, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, "you hate change. Why did you shave your head two years ago?" Her eyes locked on with his before she hissed out: "what did you say?"
"Your hair used to be longer, but with your hair progression if you had only cut it short it'd still be longer than your shoulder blades. All signs of the blonde dye has been washed out of your hair, meaning only one thing: you shaved your head. But why?"
"I wanted chang-"
"No you didn't," Sherlock cut her off again, "you hate change, absolutely loathe it even. In fact, you've developed insomnia as well. The dark circles underneath your eyes aren't the only sign of that Daphne, the way your carry yourself does as well; you're slouching, not because that's the posture you usually have, but because you can hardly keep your head up, let alone your eyes. You haven't been able to concentrate on a single thing since you walked in through those doors. You're irritable, that's the most pressing sign. You've been up for, I'd say about, three days going on four."
"I've had insomnia since I've gotten out of college, long nights and long days make for it."
"No you haven't, your insomnia was sparked within the year, or so. You're not used to it, if it had been so chronic since college you'd be able to hide it well, or even treat it."
"It sparked up recently, what do you want me to do, apologize?"
"No, I want you to stop lying."
The air was thick in the room.
Colum stood up and smiled awkwardly, "it's nearly nine and I have papers to grade - do you need a place to stay for the night?"
"Yes." "No." John and Sherlock answered, John looked at Sherlock with a purposeful glance, "we're not getting a cab or train this late at night Sherlock, we should just stay the night and go in the morning."
"It's the sensible thing to do," Laurel remarked, "I can freshen the linens, get something cooking if you're hungry -" John's stomach rumbled almost quietly, but Laurel heard it and smiled, "does a stew sound good?"
Laurel tied the plain, white apron around her waist as the pre-cooked roast marinated in dark gravy. The last time Sherlock saw her cook she had almost set her own hair on fire, but this time she moved around the kitchen efficiently, almost elegantly. John was seated on one of the two bar stools on the opposite side of the stationary breakfast bar, "are you sure you don't need any help? I feel horrid making you serve us food so late at night." She tied her hair up in a loose ponytail as she answered John: "I don't mind, it's quite relaxing really. Haven't cooked since India really and all that was, was some brown rice and curry." She laughed to herself as she pulled out some carrots and onions from the refrigerator, and a blade from the knife block.
"Can I ask how you met Sherlock? He isn't exactly the most sociable." She pulled the nearest carrot towards her, cutting off the very top, before proceeding to cut it into thin slices.
"A mutual friend introduced us. Sherlock was looking for a flatmate, and we sort of just..." John didn't finish his sentence, not sure what to say.
"Did he deduce you?"
"Excuse me?" At first John was taken back by what she had said, but brushed it off before nodding his head. "She can't see you nodding your head John." Sherlock remarked, earning the look from John before he responded to her, "yes he did."
"I'm guessing he said something about you being a soldier." At the time, John was looking at Sherlock (who was standing against the doorway to the sitting room,) and did a double take.
"He told you?"
Laurel guffawed at John, looking back at him slightly as she cut the last of the carrots and pushing the cuttings into the pot, "Sherlock never tells me anything. We've hardly talked over the last seven years, how would I know?"
"It's simple John," Sherlock drawled, "she probably observed how you stood, hands behind your back and standing straight; soldier posture. Even when you sit you're at attention: your back straight, hands on your lap -"
"It was mostly the posture that screamed 'soldier', but you weren't on the front lines. You have a natural warmth, a caring attitude - so I'm guessing a doctor. Or at least that's what I would presume."
John looked back at Sherlock, "did you teach her that?" Sherlock scoffed, sitting down on the other bar stool in a flutter of coat and scarf (which he had taken off since it was becoming a tad too warm in the house,) and responded: "Daphne was, and probably still is, thick-headed as well as thick-skinned; most professors had a hard enough time trying to teach her, her normal courses. Why would I waste my time and breath?"
Laurel turned around, hands on her hips (knife still in hand), "you kind of pick it up after hanging around Sherlock too long. You sort of start seeing the world like he does, it's rather annoying; it doesn't go away either. But I always had a knack for looking at people and just... kind of knowing what they did, or what they are doing," she turned around again after a brief smile directed at John and continued cutting the onions, "I continued my knack by getting my degree in psychological and behavioral studies."
"How did you meet Sherlock?" John asked quietly, watching as she pushed the onions into the pot, covered it, and set it to simmer.
"I had to do a rather tedious and boring project with her brother, whom you met earlier, and back then Daphne was rather attached to. She was a constant annoyance until she actually showed she had some higher intellect."
John raised one eyebrow at his flatmate, "so you two bonded?"
"I wouldn't say that," Laurel started, "we simply found ourselves rather annoyed at everyone else than at each other." Sherlock finished. John would've thought it absolutely adorable that they had finished and started each other's sentences if it weren't for the nasty glare she threw at Sherlock.
"So you found common ground."
"Stacy Gourd." They said at the same time, another nasty glare from Laurel and Sherlock looked disinterestedly towards John, "any other boring questions?"
"Sorry you think the memories we share are boring Sherlock." Laurel commented.
"Who's Stacy Gourd?" John interrupted, noticing Sherlock readying a rebuttal, "and why was she common ground?"
Laurel snorted, rolled her eyes, and turned back to the pot to stir it, "an annoying twenty-something year old who was held back too many times and thought herself to be the virginity taker; something she prided herself on. That annoying twat." She grumbled.
It had been a long day already. She had professors riding her back on the examinations coming up, begging her to study or else be faced with the probability of getting kicked out. Laurel loved learning, education in a whole, but was absolutely terrible at exams. She heaved her backpack up on her shoulders, opening her eyes to see her favorite dark-haired, blue-eyed companion. Even though it was completely one-sided, she found Sherlock to be her only friend.
"Sherlock!" She exclaimed, jumping on his back (which was a party trick of hers,) and smacked a kiss against his sharp cheekbone, "how has studying been?" He didn't even look at her, splutter out an outrageous cry (like he had done the first time,) but gave a noise of disgust in the back of his throat.
"Can you not throw yourself at me for one day? It's an annoyance, especially when one is trying to concentrate on something."
She dropped down from his back, her arms unhooking from around his neck, and walked next to him, "and what would that be?"
"I seem to be the target of die hure*."
She bristled, knowing who he was talking about, "Stacy Gourd?"
"Stacy Gourd."
She scoffed, blowing air out from her mouth as she sped up her pace to get in front of him and turned, walking backwards and maintaining eye contact with him, "black mail her." His eyes opened and looked at her with an almost questioning gaze, "with what?"
"You know Professor Abbey?"
"Not personally no," he drawled, looking at her if she was stupid, "I don't take literature 101."
"Stacy does. Do you really think she could get good grades without a little... something extra?" Sherlock raised a brow at her, an almost smirk on his lips, "and how would you know this was happening?"
"Easily," she noted, not missing a beat or blinking an eye, "she stays behind late for that particular course, and when she leaves she's always in an awful mood. Her hair is slightly messier than it was when she went in, mascara is smeared, lips irritated and red, and most of all she has the top grade even though she is failing almost every other course. Clothes are disorderly even though she takes the most time in the communal bathrooms to get ready. She'd never be seen like that unless she knew no one was going to see her; or hope no one did. She obviously is doing some sort of extracurricular activity."
Sherlock hummed deeply before smirking, "you're not as useless as you seem."
"And those were the words that sealed the deal." Laurel quietly said as she served them both stew.
"So Sherlock black mailed her into not trying anything?" John asked, taking a sip of the stew; it was delicious and he took spoonful after spoonful.
"Of course, it was either that or scaring her off by deducing it - which I had never met the woman in my life and personally never wanted to." Sherlock didn't touch the food, just stared at the bowl of steaming stew.
"So you didn't notice it first?" Another spoonful of the stew, chewing on the soft meat and carrots.
"Like I said, I never met her, but I did deduce the amount of men she had slept with was over thirty. I knew things about her family: her parent's divorce, her brother's homosexuality, etc. I knew she was sleeping with a professor, yet it was interesting to see someone else make the same deduction." John choked on the stew, "oh." Was all he said as he continued on eating.
"I knew Daphne would be useful after that, and she proved to be several times over."
"Oh stop you," Laurel playfully teased, "all these compliments." She turned the stove off and hung the apron back up, "I have to go make up the beds, I'll collect you two in a moment."
In the morning, John woke up to an unfamiliar smell hanging in the air. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes before rolling over and looking out open window. He sat up in bed, stretching his arms above his head as he read the clock. 8:15 He shuffled off the bed, making it afterwards and slipped the clothes he was wearing yesterday back on (folding the pajamas he borrowed and put it on the bed as well) and made his way downstairs. He wasn't surprised to see Sherlock already up as well, wasn't even surprised to see the scent he smelt was breakfast, but was surprised to see Sherlock eating it and sipping on a piping hot cup of coffee.
"Good morning John, I hope you slept well?" John looked over to see Laurel standing behind the breakfast bar once again, a plate of steaming eggs and bacon in her hand, and in the other a cup of tea, "I wasn't sure if you liked coffee so I didn't make you a cup, but I can get one if you prefer." John shook his head, walking over, "this is great, thank you Laurel."
"It wasn't a big deal-" John's fingers slid over hers when he went to take the plate away and he watched as she jerked her hand back, quickly handed him the cup of tea as well, "uh, please enjoy." She took the pack of cigarettes off the counter and promptly went outside.
"What do you think that was?" John asked Sherlock, who stopped drinking his coffee, "I didn't mean to touch her, does she have mysophobia*?" John took a piece of bacon and bit off a piece.
"No. She doesn't." Sherlock eyed the backdoor wearily before standing up and going outside himself.
Once outside, Sherlock saw that Laurel wasn't in the spot she was in last night. He stepped off the slab, sticking his hands into his pant pockets, and looked around the yard. His eyes directed him to the field of red poppies, which were in early bloom. He could faintly see her figure at the edge of them and walked over.
"I didn't mean to." She said quickly once he reached her. His eyes locked on her shaking hand, the hand that was holding the cigarette in between two long fingers. He stood quietly next to her, the only thing speaking was the wind as it blew. The poppies swayed in the breeze.
"This is where she's buried isn't it?"
"Per her request." Laurel replied sadly, putting the cigarette to her lips and taking a large drag. She felt him tug on her shirt sleeve and looked down at his hand, which was pointing to the package in her hand. She handed them to him, watched as he took one out fluidly (like he had done it a million times before,) and placed it between his lips. She exhaled again, put it back between her lips before offering him the lighter. Instead, he stepped in front of her and lowered his head down to her level; the ends of their cigarettes pushed together, and in turn lit his cigarette. He shivered as the nicotine swept over him, sweet, sweet release.
"Occasionally." She repeated his words from last night as she released the smoke through her nose, "special occasions." He corrected. They stood there, without saying a word until they both were finished smoking and went back inside.
"Leaving so soon," Laurel joked as she handed John his coat, "you've only just arrived." She grabbed Sherlock's coat as well, handing it to the consulting detective. His hands grabbed the navy scarf before her fingers could brush over the material.
"Our game is over, I thought I'd come. Finally find you." He tied his scarf around his neck, not looking up at her. She felt her heart swell with disappointment, but knew it was for the best; she couldn't keep it up forever. John smiled warmly and went to stick his hand out, but after earlier's incident decided against it, and instead nodded his head towards her.
"It was lovely meeting you Laurel, I hope we can see you in the future." She nodded back, softly smiling. If John didn't know better he'd say it was sad. Sherlock patted his hands over his coat, looked confused, and pulled out an unfamiliar phone, "oh?" Laurel exclaimed, "that's mine! How did it..."
"Just take it." Sherlock shoved it towards her, and she took it gracefully, "thanks." She muttered under her breath, looking up at him, but he never looked at her. John unlocked the door and opened it, letting in a large gust of wind.
"Well we should get going, right Sherlock?"
"Of course, Lestrade is probably floundering right now." John was the first the exit the house, but not without one more large smile and another goodbye. Sherlock stood there for a moment before nodding at her, going to the barrier of the door, and stopped once again.
"Sherlock?" John called out seeing as he was already down the steps of the porch and waiting eagerly for his flatmate. Laurel watched as Sherlock looked over his shoulder, a hard gaze sent to her.
"You should move to London," he said casually, "it'd make it less boring." With that, Sherlock closed the door and joined John. Laurel clutched her phone to her chest, confused and standing in amazement.
Sherlock was enigmatic, always had been.
Her phone buzzed almost knowingly, and she almost dropped it like a wet bar of soap. She looked at the screen.
Unknown
It had been a text message, and she opened it curiously.
I took the liberty of adding mine and John's number. -SH
She smiled, laughed to herself before saying under her breath: "twat."
* Die Hure: the whore / German
* mysophobia: the pathological fear of contamination and germs.
Thank you for the kind reviews, alerts, and favorites! I swear the story will be picking up, as well as getting into the actual plot line of BBC's Sherlock. I'll be starting in 1x02 most likely however, it is subject to change. You'll steadily learn more about Laurel (and in turn, Colum,) in later chapters as well so don't worry if you're confused about what happened in this chapter! All will be explained haha
Anyway! Please review and I'll update ASAP.