CHAPTER 2:
My phone rings harshly in my ear the next morning and outside the busy inhabitants of London are beginning to wake. The city hums like a hive; all of the little worker bees are stirring. I fumble tiredly around my beside table, not entirely devoted to taking the call. The thought that it might be Lestrade dramatically increases the stakes and my search quickens. Picking up the device I look at the caller ID.
Mycroft.
I groan excessively and throw the mobile into the armchair positioned in the far corner of my room. It hits the upholstery with a thud and its broken tune is muffled by the Union Jack pillow I stole from John when he wouldn't allow me to take a blood sample. I told him quite clearly I needed a sample from and inferior specimen, but that didn't seem to please him. I don't know why. He stormed off before I could ask him what I said to offend him and besides, I thought I was according him a special honour. I certainly wouldn't ask Anderson to participate. He's far too inferior anyway.
I roll over, trying to convince myself to climb out of the warm cocoon, tempting my mind with thoughts of new case details and such things, but it was no use. I begin to tell myself I'm far overdue for a shower when John throws himself into the room, armed with a pillow and clad only in a crumpled white singlet and dull brown pyjama bottoms. I mentally save the image for later, taking in the comic look on his face. It's contorted with rage and challenge, but his eyes are filled with terror. My smile fades. "John?" I ask tentatively. He sees me and, there is no other way to put it, unwinds. Every muscle (of which he has many I now realise) relaxes and his knees buckle. Quicker than I ever thought possible, I catch him, my forearms under his shoulders. He hides his face in my dressing gown (I slept in this one) and sighs, his breaths shuddering and quaking. "I. Thought. You." he puffs, "Gone. Moriarty." I sit him on the bed next to me and look him in the eye. "What do you mean?" John's face is filled with horrific relief; the kind that comes after waking from a nightmare. Slowly he looks up at me. A new emotion, powerful and intense radiates from his eyes and body language. His breath slows to a shallow pant.
"I heard you moan. And then something was thrown; I heard it. And, lately you've become quite withdrawn." He smiles fleetingly. "Well, more withdrawn than usual," I don't smile, but am wondering, could John notice when the Numbness takes me after all? He continues shakily, "I thought, maybe…Moriarty had been on your mind a bit lately?" His voice is shaky, unsure. "I suppose I'm just being stupid, worrying myself sick over such a bloody trivial thing." He laughs, small tears gathering. I feel obliged to say something 'nice' about his intelligence. But the intense look is still there and all I can manage is, "Can I take a blood sample?" The look is gone and replaced by something I correctly identify as anger. "Damn it, Sherlock!" he shouts, his rage filling up the once quiet space between us. "Can't you let that go? I'm sick and tired of you putting me down all the time!" I go to correct him, to say I simply want to test his chemical balance (or imbalance as it was with me), but before I can, he storms out, almost tearing the door off its hinges behind him.
I walk into the offices of New Scotland Yard, my coat swishing behind me dramatically. John thinks I do it on purpose but it is really just the make of the coat. Although I'm not complaining. Lestrade greets me at his office door, a questioning look etched on his face. "John did not wish to accompany me today." I tell Lestrade brusquely. He gives me a knowing nod and leads me into his office. I sneer. How could he possibly know? He's an ignorant little child. "Do you have anything for me, Lestrade?" The ignorant little child sighs and shakes his head.
"The girl won't talk. We've bought her in several times, including today, and every time she sits there in silence, just cryin'." He shrugs, hands in pockets.
"Just cryin'?" I smirk. The Inspector shoots me a look.
"Yes. Crying." I sweep out of his office, turning on my heel to face him.
"Well, Inspector," I jeer, "A young lady crying? We can't have that, can we?"
Lestrade leads me into a bleak looking room; all white walls, white carpet, white desk. A mousy looking woman sits at the white desk in a grey chair. Her hair is bobbed and dark, her eyes slightly over-sized and darkened by lack of sleep and constant crying. Her pale skin clings to her bones like a child with fundamental attachment issues and her clothes hang off her as loose as a child with anything but. She doesn't look up as we come into the room, nor does she look up when Lestrade speaks. To be honest neither would I. "Miss Hazelwood, this is Sherlock Holmes." She restrains herself but I can tell she wants to look at me, which I consider strange. Why won't she? I don't have much time to contemplate that question before she does; a dangerous suspicion lurks in her eyes mixed with spite and aggression. Well, it is before her entire face changes into that of a weeping cherub. "P-please, Mr Holmes? Can you work it out? Who would do such a thing to Luce?" I'm not listening. I'm still thinking of her grimace; that was the face of a person who could kill. Words struggle past my lips, forming the only answer I would ever give to a suspect: "I don't know, but it seems to me the police believe you could." My thoughts are back on track and I turn to face her. She stares at me blankly, and for a moment I believe other people could indeed suffer from the Numbness, but her stare turns cold and calculating and we begin.
I storm through the door of our apartment fuming. The facts all fit together but don't. It's infuriating. I thud my way to the sofa after throwing off my coat and scarf haphazardly, not taking any notice of where they land. Nancy Hazelwood. The name tumbles around my head, clashing with any other thoughts that might show their heads. Somewhere through the haze I notice the time and deduce that John will be home in an hour and longs for him to be in the kitchen humming, but then, BAM. Nancy Hazelwood. Everything she says fits with the cold hard facts: spurned lover, bitter after separation, she even confessed to stalking her for a month! But nothing, absolutely nothing else to say she ever killed the blonde. Rock solid alibis surrounded her every move and she claimed to be "over that little phase", though, of course, she still wept. Oh and how she wept. The tears never stopped flowing the entire time we interviewed us. Eventually I was so fed up I asked her why she looked so aggravated when she first saw me. She said I had indirectly put a close cousin into prison with the, as John put it, 'Scandal in Belgravia' incident: he'd been one of the photographers to The Woman. And none of the basic facts fit. The door (she knew Luce, although it's possible Luce did not particularly her company), the strangle marks, the strength with which she was murdered and the boots. Oh GOD, the boots. I cannot fathom it. She cannot be the killer… unless she hired or knew someone who could do it. This is highly improbable however as she lived quite a sheltered life. Parents: caring and loving, "accepted her as she was" and mildly religious. Private school and college, which is where she met Luce…! I cover my face in my hands. My stomach rolls and I suddenly have the desire to vomit. I'm still leaning over the porcelain bowl when John returns, my head lying sideways and my face blank. Numbness enveloped me long ago.