CHAPTER 2: A NUMBERED KISS
If John was surprised then, it was absolutely nothing to how he felt now.
"Your-your what!?" He spluttered.
"My daughter." Sherlock explained calmly, still holding Violet. The little girl was looking around the flat excitedly, practically shoving herself out of Sherlock's arms as she craned to see what was inside the kitchen. Her eyes widened at the sight of the usual mess of test tubes and Erlenmeyer flasks that littered the table.
"Daddy, whats that?" she asked, pointing.
"An expirement."
"Ooohhh! I see?"
"Violet, I believe you're missing a word somewhere in there…" Sherlock said calmly. The little girl flushed and screwed up her face before brightening in remembrance.
"Can I see?"
"Yes you can, but don't touch anything."
Sherlock set her down and Violet ran into the kitchen.
"Sherlock." John said. His friend looked at him with a 'yes?' expression.
"Sit down, right now, and explain to me what the bloody hell just happened."
Sherlock sighed and settled into his chair, his hands coming up into his classic Sherlock position. He stared at the wall for a moment before beginning to speak.
"It was seven years ago. Mycroft had set me a case that took me to America for a few weeks…"
It was a club in New York City. Music blasted from speakers on the wall, it was dark except for disco lights, and scantily dressed young people were dancing packed together. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and excitement was thick in the air. People were screeching along with the song and every now and then everyone would scream hysterically as the excitement reached higher and higher, making the air in the club positively electric.
Sherlock hated it.
He had to be here. The man he was following was here, but lost in the crowd for the moment, and Sherlock would have to wait for him to emerge, confident that Sherlock Holmes would never set foot in a place like this. This left Sherlock with a problem.
He was relieved he wouldn't have to join the crowd on the dance floor, he saw other people sitting at tables drinking. Unfortunately, none were alone, and it would be pretty obvious if he were to sit alone and stare at the crowd. So, that left him with one option. Find a partner.
He scanned the tables and spotted a young woman sitting alone at a table, sipping a margarita through a straw and staring absently out at the crowd. Perfect. He made his way over to the table.
"My condolences on breaking up with your boyfriend." He said by way of greeting.
The woman glanced up at him and raised her eyebrows. "Creeper alert."
"It's quite obvious, really." Sherlock said. He hadn't had anyone to show off to for days. "Your eyes are red, partly from crying as is evidenced by your slightly smeared mascara, and partly from the alcohol you are consuming, all while staring daggers at a spot on the dance floor where I assume your ex is either dancing or merely because you have zoned out. So again, my condolences."
"Thanks, Random Smart British Guy. Very nice of you. Now do you mind telling me why exactly you are over here?"
Sherlock shrugged, slightly impressed by the woman's manner. "I was wondering if I could sit."
"Just because I broke up with my boyfriend does not mean I'm leaving with you, no matter how awesome your accent happens to be." the woman replied, taking another sip of her drink.
"I wasn't asking because of that. Someone I am chasing is in that crowd and I need a quiet place to sit and watch for when he leaves. It would be easier to stay unnoticed if I'm at least sitting with someone."
The woman eyed him, then shrugged. "So you're a cop, huh? Eh, why not. Sit down and order yourself a beer if you want one. And since you're going to be sitting here, would you mind doing me a favor?"
Sherlock shrugged as he sat.
"I'll take that as a yes. My ex is out there and I know he's going to want to find me and show off whatever girl he cheated on me with, because that's the kind of jerk he is. So if I end up suddenly flirting with you, just go along with it, okay?"She suddenly gave him a sweet smile, stirring her drink with her straw in a flirty way. "Like right now, for instance." She tossed her head, sending long straight hair flying gracefully back over her shoulder. "Throw your head back and laugh at something I just said."
Sherlock complied, then leaned closer, intrigued by this woman's manner. "What's your name?"
"Kristen Webb. My friends call me Kristy." She held out her hand. "What's your name?"
"Sherlock Holmes." He shook her hand, then studied her.
She would, he estimated, reach his shoulder when standing. Her hair was long, straight and strawberry blonde, falling to mid-back. She was wearing a sleeveless silver dress, fitted and reaching to about mid-thigh, with tall black boots, and some sort of sweet perfume hovered around her. Her eyes were brown and lined in silver eyeliner. She was very pretty, but he wasn't thinking of that at the moment, of course.
"So." She said. "Tell me about this case."
"I can't. It's classified."
"Then tell me something else. Something unclassified."
As he complied, telling her about another case he had worked on, he found himself growing more and more interested in the things she would say. So, to distract himself from the way her hair caught the color of the light and the way her eyes were sparkling, he did what he did best.
He deduced that she was about his age, worked in a library, and that the club wasn't her kind of scene. She was a college student who had just finished a huge test. She was witty and entertaining. He would have deduced more, but just then he spotted his target detach himself from the crowded dance floor and head for the door.
"I need to go." He said. She smiled.
"No prob. Here's how to make a good exit from a club, Mr. Holmes. Check your watch, look at me regretfully, and stand up."
Sherlock did so. She rose with him and handed him a slip of paper she scribbled something on.
"It'll look weird if you leave without taking my number." She said in response to his questioning look.
Then she stepped forward and did a very strange thing: she placed a hand on his shoulder, rose slightly on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek.
"Thank you for a very interesting conversation, Mr. Holmes." She whispered, her breath warm on his cheek, before she stepped away, smiled at him, and slipped past, heading for the door. She shot him one last smile before leaving.
Sherlock left the club and caught a cab (a taxi, they were called in America) and told the cabbie to take him to his targets hotel (deduced, of course, from the direction the man was walking from when Sherlock had begun following him that morning). As the cabbie drove off, Sherlock looked down and unfolded the slip of paper.
Call me. (575) 344-3399. –Kristy.
An involuntary smile quirked the corner of his mouth.