Ellanor sat in the sofa reading a book that Holmes had given to her. She had annoyed him with multiple questions about his work and what this and that did. He finally went to the shelf and got her a book called The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. It really belonged to Watson, but he did not really want to give her any of his, he might need one of them. It did not occur to him that she might not enjoy how you can see which ash came from what tobacco, or how to find poison in your back garden.
Watson sat in a lounge chair and red the newspaper, looking for an interesting case. It had been very dry with cases lately and Holmes was more cruel and hot headed than ever. Watson noticed that the neat morocco case still lay untouched on the mantelpiece, the bottle containing a clear liquid resting beside it. Even though he more than three times this last month had complained that Holmes used too much narcotics and wanted him to quit or at least use less, he found it very peculiar that he hadn't used any in almost a weeks' time. His eyes soon fell upon his companion sitting by his desk looking through a microscope. It soon became clear that something was fogging the detectives mind; he saw but did not observe which made Holmes very frustrated.
During a split second he saw Sherlock's blue eyes rest upon the lady in the sofa and then back looking through the microscope again. Every time he did this, he gave a sigh with irritation when his eyes once again rested on the magnifier.
Holmes keen eyes were trained picking up the small pieces of information during a split second. So why was it so hard picking up information about the woman sitting on the opposite side of the room? It had become clear to him that she was not telling them the truth, or at least not all of it. She made him very frustrated, mostly because he was not used to not being able to tell a person's life story by just looking at them, but there was something else that he could not quite put his finger on.
Ellanor, on the other hand, was oblivious to the struggle of frustration and fascination that was taking place in Sherlock's mind at that time. She quite enjoyed herself. The night before she had laid awake long into the early hours of the night thinking about her family and friends, wondering if she ever would see them again. She shed a tear or two thinking that she might never get back to the place that she calls home. Then a thought occurred to her; she was in the late 19's century, with the most famous detective in the world. Even though it might put her at risk, she was exactly where she wanted to be; right in the middle of a bestselling novel (with a cute main character). Therefor the following morning she decided that she would make the most of it, have so much fun and learn from the deduction master while she could. She had put on her blue dress; with a ruffled shirt and a decorative, flowery jacket, which hinted the cleavage underneath and it all was topped with a bow above the buttons.
"There is something that she is not telling me… that book is new, and she speaks about it as if it has been printed for years and that almost everyone has red it…" Sherlock thought as his eyes wandered towards the woman. His light eyes were soon fixed upon her hands. He looked at them for quite some time. The slender fingers' sensitive touch as she shifts page. Her eyes wandering from one line to another. The way she chew her lower lip when something thrilling happens. Her pupils dilate, iris shaking ever so slightly. His eyes fell lower down as he consumed her with his gaze, the warm glow from her skin. The hinted expression of her breasts, soft, voluptuous.
Sherlock stood hastily, almost knocking the chair over. Both Watson and Ellanor looked surprising at him.
"For Christ sake Woman! I cannot think when you are in the room!" he exclaimed, took his coat and with a loud bang from the door – he was gone.