Anatomically Correct Heart

Fresh Blood

Eleanor gathered her stuff and walked out to the living room, setting her stuff on the cleaner side of the desk. She takes a seat and looks over at Sherlock.

He lies on the olive green couch with his hands in the prayer position, starring up at the ceiling.

She takes out her notebook and writes down some observations about the man. Not about his personality, just what he does or how he acts.

Just as she's about to turn the page and start a fresh one, a hand snatches up her notebook.

"Oi!" She yips, standing up and reaching for her notebook. "You can't go lookin' in my notebook!"

"Has a tendency to blink rapidly as if in a daze?" He asks, reading off of one of the lines. "I do not!"

She crosses her arms defensively and gives him a menacing look. "Give. Back. My. Notebook."

"Why were you watching me?" He asks. "Why were you recording my actions?"

"Give me my notebook!" She exclaims.

"Stubborn, are we?" He asks. "Well now, if you were going to observe me, you should at least be looking in the right place. For example, when I look at you, I observe you subconsciously touch your neck. Not a very normal habit for just anyone. No, touching your neck could mean anything. Your nervous, your scared. But doing it without knowing you do it- that's different. A lot of soldiers do it."

"Do what?" She asks.

"Ah, you didn't admit you don't do it. Soldiers who serve in wars that get injured normally have an knack for reflecting on their wounds. PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. You start to do something- say touching your neck or rubbing your hands together- and you don't stop.

"But don't start, I'm not finished. You've got scars on your arms- don't bother hiding them, I've already seen them. Normally I would say something like you've got a veracious dog- but I already know you have a small tabby cat- but cuts on your arm don't just appear. Still, reflecting on you being a soldier, I do believe the army stopped using knives as primary weapons a long time ago. So maybe soldier isn't the first thing," he rambles on. He starts to circle Eleanor, holding the notebook behind him in his hands.

"Now then, why do you have cuts on your arm? I don't think your one for suicidal thoughts so let's toss that out. Circling back, maybe soldier isn't the right term. Maybe we're thinking about this the wrong way. Soldiers fight in wars. Wars over feuds and money and- AHAH! I've figured you all out."

"Have you now?" She asks, crossing her arms across her chest. "Go ahead then."

"Spy. You were a spy in a war- Afghanistan, since it's in your lifetime. You worked for NATO and were shipped out into the heart of the war. You stole information from the afghans and gave it to the government. Eventually someone caught on and you were kidnapped and tortured you for information."

"Not many people know that," she says, "I'm surprised you deducted that." She looks up at him with her emerald green eyes. "But I suppose that's only half of what you know."

"Yes, you are right," he says. "However, as much as I'd love to expose your entire life, I can see that your getting anxious by the shake of your hand. I'd rather not have a mental break down right now."

She looks down at her hands and stops them from shaking, then looks up. "May I please have my notebook?" She asks with a shaky breath.

He tosses her back her notebook, then goes back to his position on the couch.

She slowly makes her way back to her spot at the desk then takes the paper she wrote on and ripped it out of the book, crumpling it up and throwing it into a waste bin nearby.

The room is silent for a few minutes with only the sound of Eleanor writing to keep the two at ease.

Finally, Eleanor sets down her pen, breaking the silence. "What do you know about James?" She asks in a hushed tone.

"James? James who?" Sherlock asks.

"James Moriarty."

Sherlock sits up. "Why do you ask?"

"If I'm going to be working with you, I need to know what you already know about him," She says.

"I know he's a consulting criminal. He has a hitman named Sebastian Moran that does his dirty work for him. I know he's Irish and he wears suits." Sherlock says. "I know he likes killing people because he gets bored."

"So basically you know nothing."

"I know the important information. He has connections in high places," He says, "What else would I have to know?"

"James..." She sighs and brushes her hand over right eye, then folds her hands in front of her on the desk. "James was mum's favourite. She always liked him best."

"Dad worked as an accountant at a bank. He got cut off one day. The next week he started drinking. Started yellin'. Started throwing fists in all directions."

"James never liked our father. He was always working, and when he was home he barely talked. Once he started drinking, he started to target my mum. James didn't like that. One day he started shoutin' back. He grabbed a knife of the counter and-" Eleanor rubs her hands across her face as if to brush away a bad memory. "Cut."

"His first murder," Sherlock mumbles to himself.

She nods. "Mum, she didn't do anything. She hugged James close and said everything was going to be fine. They didn't bat and eye." She rubs her neck, then folds her hands in front of her again. "I tried to help him. He was dying. Kept saying it wasn't his fault. He stopped breathing."

Silence fills the room.

"There was so much blood... I- I was covered in it. My mum, she told me to go clean up. I couldn't get up. Couldn't move." She says with a shaky breath. "James had to carry me up to the bathroom and scrub the red off me. But my hands.... My hands were always stained."

After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock asks, "Were there more?"

"Truck loads," she mutters.

"How many exactly?" He asks.

"Twenty-four," she says, "Just when I was living with him. He started getting intolerant. People got on his nerve and he murdered them. They... they covered all the bodies with a story. A fire. A accident. A drowning."

"Carl Powers."

She nods. "He was unstoppable."

~