I'm here.
SH
Sherlock pressed the send button and felt a strong wave of anticipation wash over him. Was this how normal people reacted when they have feelings for each other? He had no idea and found it completely and pleasantly irrational. Worse still, now he had to wait for her reply.
Why am I expecting her to reply so quickly, he thought as his fingers rapped on the small table next to the chair he sprawled over. After all, he took two days to reply to hers, didn't he? God did he hate waiting and there was no chance in anyone's Hell that he would do it in this extraordinarily dull hotel room.
Hopping to his feet, he grabbed his overcoat in a mindless force of habit that will probably surprise him when he thinks about this later, and swiftly headed out the door.
Once outside, he realized he didn't need his coat. The day was bright, sunny, and dreadfully hot. He unfastened the top couple of buttons on his shirt and opened his jacket that he refused to remove. He was already carrying his coat over his arm because he simply refused to go back to the room and he wasn't about to add the jacket to the mix.
Sherlock wandered down random street after random street fully realizing that he had no clue where to even begin looking for the Woman. He was truly at her mercy, and he discovered a part of him that liked that just a little too much.
After having a spot of tea, snarling at two women who made the mistake of asking him out on a date, and reading the local newspaper, he finally came across something interesting and worthy of his time; a police barricade at the entrance of an alley.
He made his way through the gathered crowd and ducked under the barrier tape without hesitation. That was a common practice of his, acting like he belonged there, and it wasn't surprising how often it worked. Instantly, he spotted the corpse of a woman sitting on the ground leaning against the wall.
Oh something fun, he thought gleefully as he made his way over to the body.
Suddenly, an annoying woman with long brown hair wearing a bad suit marched up in front of him, blocking his way and yelling at him to leave.
Sherlock's patience already grew thin as he stared down at the woman with an insulted frown. "Excuse me," he said with a snarl. "I am not a reporter. I'm a consulting detective and I'll identify the murderer by tomorrow afternoon."
"A what the fuck?" she asked.
He rolled his eyes as he reached in his pocket and handed her a business card.
The cards were John's idea and it was an idea Sherlock had thought rather absurd. Why did he need something as trivial as a business card? Still, John insisted and showed up to the flat with them just the other day.
Of course, Sherlock didn't take them choosing to snub his nose at them. John had to sneak them into his coat pocket and now the detective silent thanked his persistent friend. Now he was glad to have the cards as they did prove to inflate his ego rather nicely.
"Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. 221B Baker Street. London, England." The woman took her tedious time reading the card.
The detective's patience wore even thinner. There was a body over there and this person was in his way. He was about to shove the annoyance aside and continue on his way when another better dressed, but older woman approached him.
"Is there a problem here, Detective Morgan?" she asked Morgan while eyeing Sherlock with a scrutinizing gaze.
"I got this, LaGuerta," Morgan said as she held up her hand. She then turned back to Sherlock. "Uh yeah, Mr…Holmes. This isn't London. It's fucking America and you can't just barge your way into a god damned crime scene. So get the fuck out of here." She hooked her hand around his elbow and started to lead him away.
Sherlock yanked his arm from her grip and stared coldly into her eyes using his height to loom over her. "You need me," he said evenly. "You have no clue who the murderer is."
"Oh?" Morgan rested a fist on her hip as she stared up at Sherlock to prove he didn't intimidate her. "And you think you can just have a quick look around and know?"
"You've just been promoted to inspector judging by the way you're constantly shifting and straightening out your clothing meaning you're not used to them and maybe even feel foolish in them." Sherlock spoke with utmost confidence and smugness as he held eye contact with Morgan. "No make-up, no jewelry, no animal hair tells me you live alone and without pets probably because you're afraid of commitment. All you do is your job spending a phenomenal amount of time holding pens, knocking on doors, and so on all right handed of course. Finally, the way you act around these people, it's clear you are pathetically desperate for them to notice you. Shall. I. Continue?"
Sherlock always enjoyed seeing the expressions of those usually unwillingly exposed to his scrutinizing deductions. Thus he didn't bother to hide the smug smirk playing in his features as both women stood silent with their mouths hung open in disbelief.
He did love a good audience.
.
.
I too stared in disbelief. Not because this Sherlock was absolutely right, but because he actually made my sister speechless. A tough feat in of itself, believe me.
Oh and LaGuerta's lack of talking was an added bonus too.
Still, the consulting detective knew that about Deb and they had just met. Or had they? It is possible that Sherlock did some prior research to pull off that trick, but did he? Is he really able to learn that much in a single glance? What will he make of me?
The Dark Passenger writhed in anticipation and hissed its impatience. It wanted to be closer to this man. There was something familiar about him, though it couldn't quite understand what that was just yet.
The Dark Passenger was clearly curious.
I was intrigued.
.
.
"How did you do that?" Morgan asked with a bit of flustered fascination.
"Simple deduction," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
"Uhh, right. You're not some of weird stalker freak, are you?" she asked.
"I assure you, no," he said with a frown and snatched up her hand. "Look at your knuckles. Red, callused. Either you get into a lot of fights, or more likely you knock on doors, which is what I expect of an inspector investigating crimes."
Morgan seemed to accept the explanation and pulled her hand away.
"So, Mr. Holmes is it?" asked LaGuerta.
"Yes," he said and turned to her impatiently.
"I'm Lieutenant LaGuerta." She offered her hand in greeting. "You've certainly impressed me. We normally don't hire outside detectives, but I'll make an exception."
"Two minutes." He briefly shook LaGuerta's hand. "That's all I need."
"Alright. This way."
.
.
Masuka and I shared a surprised glance and stood up as Deb and LaGuerta escorted Sherlock over to us, and the corpse.
The Dark Passenger was thrilled and hissed in excitement. It felt something familiar in Sherlock, almost like, family.
"This is Dexter Morgan and Vince Masuka," LaGuerta said. "They're our forensics team."
I used the practiced impression of a casual smile and offered a hand shake.
He didn't shake either Masuka's or my hands as he brushed by us, but while he barely acknowledged Masuka, I noticed his gaze lingering on me for the few seconds it took him to walk past me. I suddenly felt as if he could see right through me. After what he said about Deb, could he?
"I want all of you to shut up," Sherlock said as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves Masuka handed him. "Don't touch anything more then you already have before you ruin all the data."
I watched in fascination as he crouched over the corpse. He lifted the body's feet, checked under her collar, and examined her ear under a magnifying glass he kept in his jacket pocket. It was the strangest method of forensics I had ever seen.
"Who the hell is this?" Sergeant Doakes asked LaGuerta as he walked up next to her.
"Sherlock Holmes," she said. "A consulting detective from London."
Doakes crossed his arms with his typical hard frown and watched Sherlock work. "Great," he said after a few minutes. "That's all I need, another fucking freak."
.
.
To be continued.