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"Where were you on the night of the fourteenth?" Holmes asked, he himself alone with the woman who called herself an illusionist, a magician, a bender of belief, Daria, if that was her real name at all. She sat with her legs crossed in a wooden chair like a child as he had sat himself in front of her, still observing her.
"I was doing a show for the Queen, and her lovely family." He heard a hint of mild sarcasm as she threw in the un-needed adjective, but he didn't question it.
"Had you spoken with any of the royal family, whether that night or any other time before or after?"
"I hadn't until that night," Daria still spoke with such a calming voice, Holmes felt himself growing comfortable in her gaze but yet, something about that gaze put him on edge and held him there, "For the last act of my performance that night I asked for a volunteer, and Elaine Alexander volunteered."
"And what type of trick was it?" He asked, curiosity forming.
"It was only a simple illusion. I brought out a mirror and did a few mis-reflections, nothing really spectacular. But I never met Eden, nor did I collude in the murder of the girl. I don't know why Elaine thinks I did."
"How—"
"Word gets around...I have good ears." She answered, cutting him off completely, a small smirk on her lips.
"This trick you did, would it have had any negative affect on Miss Elaine, enough for her to act out against you?" Not even a flicker of the eyes, no nervous movements, she was as calm as a Hindu cow.
"I'm sure any normal person would be a bit startled if their reflection was anything other than themselves, but she didn't seemed too phased." Holmes nodded. If she was telling the complete truth, and no lies (which was most likely the case) then Daria was not the murderer, and it had to be either the two other leads he'd been given.
He glanced up at her through his thought riddled mind and noticed she looked as though she were about to say something, but stopped herself before she spoke. She started again, "I have noticed if you look carefully at people's eyes the first five seconds they look at you, the truth of their feelings will shine through for just an instant before it flickers away." She lifted her hand in the air and flicked it up, like a leaf blowing in the wind. "You do something similar, do you not?"
Holmes nodded slightly, "In a fashion, yes. I detect various characteristics of a person by the physical appearance one may have." A smirk rose upon Daria's lips as she uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in intrigue.
"As I'm sure you may get this often, but may I ask what you detected from my physical appearance?" Holmes narrowed his eyes in suspicion, knowing that he can never let his guard down around her for one moment, or she'll find some way to confuse his messy thoughts in a visual illusion. But, he leaned back in his chair and eyed her once more.
"You haven't had a decent night's sleep in several weeks." She nods, "You're accent is very hidden but I can tell you were raised in Bulgaria. I once met a Bulgarian man, his accent was strikingly similar to the dialect of yours...You were working with a hammer earlier this morning, fixing that table of yours."
Daria smiled, a row of glowing white teeth. It was a nice compliment to not so unattractive appearance, yet very uncommon for Holmes' eyes. "How did you know?"
"At the door when you gestured I noticed a bump on the inside of your thumb, a splinter from where you gripped the wooden hammer. When we walked past your workshop, it seemed so strikingly obvious that a leg had broken on your table and you replaced it with a lighter, granted a similar shade but lighter ply of wood and finished just before you opened the door." She nodded, but she was unimpressed, Holmes could tell. He could see she was waiting for the big secret to come out, but he was still trying to figure that out himself. He stood and began to walk around the room they were in, her eyes didn't follow him, "You are a very gifted performer, no doubt grew up around performers, but..." and at this, her eyes shot up, "they were not your mother or father." Daria looked down, but nothing more, just looked down. And that gave Holmes the satisfaction that his subconscious assumption was right, she grew up without a mother and father; she had a very independent air about her, and with taking a shot in the dark could be described as a life without those figures.
"I've never spoken to anyone about that." Daria stood, walking over to Holmes slowly, her eyes on his as her bare feet made not a sound, "Not a soul." She was surprisingly only a few inches shy the top of his head, but she still had to look up at an angle as she approached Holmes, "I'd like to keep it that way." Holmes nodded, a small voice in the back of his mind telling him that such close proximity with this female cannot end well, and he backed away before her breath could be felt on his neck any longer. And she smiles at this, and picks up a cup of tea that she'd poured earlier, "Tea?" She hands Holmes the cup, and he looks into the liquid, smells it, before taking a drink of it. But when he expected the rich taste of tea to meet his lips, he felt a solid bump into them. The tea had frozen. He quickly sets the cup down and eyes Daria as she looks out the window. She opens it up and plucks a flower from a tree vine that fell in through the light of the sun.
"Well, I seem to have gotten everything I need..."
"Before you send yourself off, I want to give you something," Daria walks back over to him, holding the flower between her fingers, "to remember me by."
She crumbles the purple in her hand and then cups the bits of it in her palms. Bringing her hands up to her mouth, she blows and releases her hold on the shards of the flower, yet nothing falls to the ground. But she reaches into Sherlock's coat, and suddenly pulls the small purple flower from the inside pocket.
"Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Holmes." She smiles and places the flower in the palm of his hand. Holmes smiles politely and nods.
"Have a good afternoon, Miss Daria." And Holmes leaves the theater with the small flower, his thoughts racing in wonder. He thought briefly on the case on his walk back to Baker Street, he realized that the murderer was obviously someone in the family, but he'd still had to dig a little deeper to be sure. Then his thoughts strayed to Daria, and the frozen tea, and the purple flower. How had she managed to freeze the tea within the milliseconds he'd inspected it, to the moment he put the cup to his lips? Had she used a clever slight of hand to convey the magic that he had the flower in his coat pocket? And most of all, why did Holmes have the strongest inkling to see her again?
That night, Daria woke with such a sudden start, her partner stirred in the sheets next to her, but never stirred awake. She breathed heavily, holding the pale sheets to her breast as she remembered her dream. Her dream, she dreamt of a man, he held her. It had been such a long time since a man had actually held her lovingly, and not...lustingly. Daria strained through her thoughts to try and recall the man's face, but she could not remember. She couldn't even remember the colour of his hair, much less his actual face, but she knew one thing; that she felt safe in the incubus' arms. And as she laid her head back down on the pillow, her eyes drifted shut, in hopes of reliving the beautiful moment.
Dark brown eyes, dark orbs. Seven freckles on her left cheek, eight on her right. She stood five-foot-six with hair as dark as her eyes but skin as pale as the milk he drank. Delicate hands, articulate motions, constant. And Holmes could not find the moment to rest his thoughts enough to close his eyes and dream. Daria was all the detective could think of.
Dark eyes.
Dark hair, so thick yet shorter than an english woman's.
He remembered her breath on his neck, imagined it right this moment. But he soon realized what he was thinking was completely preposterous. Completely.
The following morning was nothing unlike the night before, as he'd barely gotten any sleep at all due to his adolescent thoughts. As he sipped on his tea in the morning light, his roommate sitting across from him, reading the daily paper Holmes could not help but let his mind drift back to the Illusionist, back to that dark haired little devil. She was a devil, he was most certain. A devil, plaguing his mind like a slimy serpent. Before long she'd be seducing him, manipulating him. The devil.
"Holmes, dare I ask, what is it that has taken ahold of your mind as of late?" Watson asked, "Surely not the case."
He looked up momentarily only to look back down again, "Nothing to worry over, my friend, just pondering a few thoughts."
"How did the interview with Daria go?" Holmes' eyes shot up, and he stopped himself before he stuttered.
"Oh, perfectly...fine. She's not our man-er, woman." The doctor nodded and went back to the paper. His eyes on the words yet his mouth seemed to have other plans as he spoke out.
"It had to be the sister, am I right?" Holmes nodded.
"Yes, there's no one else but her." He said, distraction evidently clear in his voice. But a sudden knocking on the door brought both the men's attention to Ms. Hudson leading Constable Clark from Scotland Yard into the room. His torso clad in uniform black though Sherlock spotted a bit of a stain on his shoulder. "Good morning Clarky, how's the baby doing today?"
"He's got a bit of a cold, Mr. Holmes, but nothing to worry over. Moreover, I come asking the both of you to the Yard." Clark spoke in an awkward stance, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a complete distraction it was to figuring out why he was really there.
"Why must you ask the two of us to Scotland Yard?" Holmes asked bluntly, leaning back in his chair and taking light of any possible response.
"Daria the Illusionist has been taken into custody early this morning."
