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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Every part of the woman's posterior brushed against the ivory walls of the morgue. The only light that escaped in the midst of the stockpile of cadavers was a small window that defined a disparity between the living and the dead.
The dead simply could not escape where they nurtured the dead. And the living could not abandon life. Such a dilemma.
Her slender fingers reached down into the pockets of her trench coat that pooled right before her knees. After her perfectly manicured hands roamed around the restricted area, she found what she needed. Wanted.
As the deep red of the Marbolo logo reflected upon her emerald hue pupils, she took her the cancer stick and reached the left side of her pocket only to find her lighter. The upper part of her body turned slightly to the side as she began to light the end of her cigarette that dangled between the parting of her crimson-red tainted lips. She lowly chuckled to herself, thinking how simple it was to intoxicate the whole body as you slowly kill it.
As she inhaled the toxins, she exhaled the clouds that dissipated into the atmosphere.
She heard small steps, steps so small that she assumed the owner of those steps didn't want to be heard. But she was always one step ahead.
"Did you think about the no smoking sign or do you always manage to break the rules?" The man's voice echoed through the empty halls, as he, rather hypocritically took out a cigarette from his own box. And saving him the trouble, she brought up the lighter to his cigarette. The light allowed the woman to match the voice to a face. A face she had known to well, a face she missed.
She took another inhale, and chuckled lightly as she looked back at him, "Since when did you care what I think?"
The owner of the curls and long trench coat smiled, rather sadly, "Since I started caring about you, Scarlett Harper."
Deep down, she was quite torn at what he had said, and it did affect her. You didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that. But today, today, he didn't want any disputes. He wanted peace. She would give him that. Scarlett quickly diverted the man's remark, slow enough so he could see that she moving on, but not avoiding, "And do you care about the dead?"
He smirked, "Course not. Believe me, I know what it feels like."
"Not being cared for?"
"No." He threw one of his infamous looks where no else was catching on to what he was saying except him, "being dead."
As she was side by side to him before, her body was detached from the wall as she looked at him, trying to pierce through those eyes that could read anyone else's but eyes that nobody else could read.
"Then, Sherlock Holmes, be glad that I still care about you."
