Scarlett Harper was the hint of blue that lingered in the vast dancers, draped in shades of orange and yellow. She was able to burn in the darkest of the night, warm a village in the coldest winter.
She was a fire.
And Sherlock Holmes didn't know ho...
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The kettle's shriek bounced off the walls of 221B. Everything in the consulting detective's flat was in place, but also out of place. Whether it would be human limbs residing in his refrigerator, or scattered papers on the dining table, the man never bothered to move the objects to their typical, ordinary places.
Since when was Sherlock Holmes ordinary?
As the kettle's persistent screams left him defeated, he let out a disgruntled groan before making his way to shut off the stove. The body parts may not be there to supply for nutrients, but tea was. It was his only companion.
The thought has crossed his mind, to have a companion. In fact, what thought hasn't? But Sherlock often dismissed the idea. To the world, or his "world" of people that knew of him, thought Sherlock to be calloused, calculating, and ruthless. Three traits that any flat mate would hate.
Being what some people would describe him as a "hotshot, fraud, arrogant bastard", was often hard for Sherlock to get around in central London. The only people he would talk to would be Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, who occasionally informs him of the other tenants that complained of hearing his violin at night. The other times consists of her constantly reminding the man that she wasn't his housekeeper, yet didn't give up on delivering biscuits and tea every now and then when he was in his mind palace.
Anyways, sentiment didn't get anyone far. Perhaps as far as their grave.
With the company of his warm tea, he only registered the sound of his occasional slurp, and his even heartbeats. Nobody had problems big enough to make them knock on the doors of 221B. It was one of those days, where it seems that peace has been restored in humanity. Sherlock would never allow that to happen, especially when a war was going on in his mind.
It wasn't until he heard his phone go off that his heartbeat slightly increased. The adrenaline orchestrated that. Nobody else texted him, not that he cared no one didn't, but one man certain man needed him every so often.
They weren't say what one would label as friends. Not to Sherlock anyways. Sherlock often forgot the man's name. He would explain to you that mind palaces would only store "useful" things. It was pure business. Detective Inspector Lestrade is desperate for answers, while Sherlock is desperate to solve them.
After all, a drug addict is rarely friends with their supplier.
The screen lit up, letters and numbers forming an address and demanding Sherlock to come at once for an opinion on the case. In Sherlock's mind, it means to solve the case for them. As it always turned out to be.
As Sherlock's eyes parted from the screen with his phone still attached to his eyes, he made his way towards the coat rack. He felt the pockets in hopes to find any lose change.
He would walk, but every construction site said otherwise. Not to mention the pounding rain practically yelled otherwise. Luck was not in his favor today. Letting out a exasperated sigh, he responded back to the text:
Try to find your least annoying copper and have them escort me to the crime scene. - S.H
Sherlock figured that Lestrade would question the request, but not at him. At least, if he was desperate. Which the Detective Inspector always was.
Assuming that Lestrade was persuading every member of his team to pick up the very friendly man, he placed his phone on the small table, closing his eyes as he resumed to his thoughts.
Contrary to popular belief, he did try. He tried to like what people like, hate what people hated. People like to gossip. People like to express their feelings. But people hate to be talked about, people hate to be judged.
They were just hypocrites.
And as much as he denied that he was like them, he was just as human as they were. Whether it be his birth certificate or his functioning organs, they confirmed that Sherlock Holmes was indeed human.
After 2520 ticks have passed by, he heard a fast pace of heels becoming louder as it approached the front of his door. He made his way towards the door, taking his time, for the other person seemed like they did not have any. Only moments after them knocking, he could hear the impatient tapping, vibrating throughout the floors of his flat.
He turns the knob of his door, preoccupied by putting his jacket on that he does not see a woman in front of his presence. His mother would be disappointed in him. It's not like she cared either, because she was looking at her watch.
"Sorry, Mr. Holmes. The rain led to loads of traffic, and I presume that you know the detective inspector sent me for you."
Before she could utter another word, he begins.
"Your hands. Nails are painted, but nothing flamboyant. Job isn't exactly hands on, but doesn't require aesthetic qualities. Your left side much neater strokes than the right, making you right handed. As we speak of hands, yours are very excited. They cannot stop fondling your necklace or the hems of your shirt. Nervous. No residue of latex powder, so you're not one of the forensic team currently on Lestrade's team. Plus, they all hate me enough, thanks to Anderson. There are pencil smudges on the edge of your right pinky finger. A badge hangs around your neck, most likely to enter the building. Office worker? Possibly. Could you be a journalist? No. Journalists and the police don't mix, especially if the case wasn't published. We should add to the fact that you don't talk much, for you rarely blink. Either that, or you stare at the computer for a living. Couldn't be a witness, they'd want you to stay with them, for the sake of "protocol". You don't even know what the case is yourself. You're the victim."
Seconds passed by cautiously, until the unfamiliar woman spoke, "The inspector warned me about this." As she lent out her hands, her dry lips cracked a smile, "I'm Dr. Scarlett Harper."
His calloused hands were wrapped around hers.
Even in brief moments, it's said that sparks fly when two people that are interested in each other even touch.
