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 car chirped after it was parked in its place in a vacant lot. Both the detective and doctor crossed over yellow tape that had been plastered over the crime scene, concealing the public from the cold blooded truth. The pair looked out of place. With the clouds frowning upon them, they soon realized that the police at the crime scene were doing so too.
What kind of person would smile at a crime scene?
While Sherlock was smiling at his satisfaction for the thrill, Scarlett's smile was due to the amusement of the situation. She's worked with the Scotland Yard before on just a couple of cases, but not with the rising consulting detective, and certainly not as a victim. She managed to let out a chuckle at the irony. She's used to helping victims, and now she became one of them.
They waited just barely behind the tape, taking in the chaos that wasn't actually well concealed. Whether it was the police trying to block the thirsty journalists, or people just rambling about, crime always proved to be a mess. Moments later, a woman with a tired expression glued to her face and curly hair pulled up the tape, allowing the pair to come in.
"Dr. Harper, a pleasure. Sergeant Sally Donovan." the woman spoke as she shook Scarlett's hand. The sergeant's eyes scanned over to Sherlock, immediately shooting him with a grimace. Sherlock put on his brightest beam in return. In her own way, she acknowledged the man with a simple, "Freak."
Scarlett looked at him, containing her disgust for the adjective. She had a range of clients from children to the elder that hated this word, and she hated it too.
"I suppose you do realize that I'm a shrink?" Scarlett looked at the cracks of the cement and looked up to the woman and cracked a smile.
"I-I do." The sergeant stuttered, out of confusion. How cute.
The woman only shook her head as she let out a small laugh, "Then I suppose you know that I'm surrounded by 'freaks' enough to know that this man isn't one." Donovan scoffed in response, her words were caught, and Sherlock did everything in his power to not smile at her defeat.
Scarlett was walking away from the sergeant, hoping that Lestrade would offer a better explanation of the crime scene. She called over Sherlock who had his feet glued to the floor due to the shock from the situation, "Come on Mr. Holmes, we have actual work to do." With her remark, Sally Donovan turned over, showing the same grimace she made towards Sherlock.
Once the man caught up to her, he made sure of himself to correct her, "Sherlock's fine." Scarlett only nodded in return, accepting his acknowledgment.
Lestrade's voice became mixed into the world's noise, "Hello, Dr. Harper, I'm so sorry I forced you to drive this man to your office," he took a glance at Sherlock, "Hope he wasn't a pain in the arse."
Sherlock only forced a grin, "Oh, you knew I would be."
Lestrade and Scarlett were only offered a handful of chuckles, for the atmosphere would disapprove such happiness, "Dr. Harper, I'm warning you, the site you're about to see won't be pleasant," the detective inspector warned.
Once he opened the door, the world became filtered in red. Crimson. No. Scarlett.
The doctor nearly let out a shriek when she saw nothing but red seep into the walls, her walls. Everything had been drenched in what seemed to be blood.
The detective passed by the woman who was in a state of hysteria, earning a stern look from Lestrade. The detective had exclaimed at a young man, possibly an intern, "Christ! What haven't you already contaminated?"
As the boy was about to burst out either tears or vomit, he stumbled out of the room. Barely seconds had past when a scrawny man stumbled in, baffled as he looked at Scarlett, who was in a dazed state, "Hey! No trespassers!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, wondering what better way there was to waste time than to exchange a banter with Phillip Anderson, "She is not a trespasser but a doctor, Anderson," He spat.
The man named Anderson, now crossing his arms refuted, "Even if she's a doctor she could be preventing cases. Rules are rules."
As Sherlock was trying to inspect any traces of fingerprints on various frames he scoffed a laugh, "If you have time to make up said rules, why not make some time actually solving your cases?"
If words could kill, Anderson had been slaughtered.
Lestrade, trying to make it to everyone's best interest, looked at Anderson, only signally him to go out. Anderson reluctantly followed the higher man's orders.
Her world was in red, and his was black and white. He only needed the facts.
The blood. Had been extracted somewhere else, gladly. No signs of a body being dragged to extract the blood. Body of victim must have been frozen enough to extract this much blood. Approximately five people. Carpet had been drenched in blood, consistency notes that crime must have been taken place approximately 9 hours ago. It would've been night, office hours would've been long past. The lock. No signs of forced entry, windows have been clamped shut. Most likely a worker in the building. It would isolate to only one person likely to have the set of keys to each office.
Thanks to the fine barrier of the latex, Sherlock's hand hovered over picture frames placed on her desks. Most of the pictures often depicted a time of happiness and tranquil, something those people in the captured memory would not have felt, had they seen the sight of the doctor's office.
He took a step back from the desk, inspecting every curvature and error, but there wasn't any. It was almost too perfect. Everything had been infected with God knows who's blood, except for her table. Papers were stacked neatly, frames were aligned straight. But the pictures faced toward Sherlock, rather than towards the chair, like they were supposed to be. Whoever orchestrated this, wanted to show these happy people.
Frame by frame, he inspected every curvature and ridge of a frame, until coming across one with the doctor herself and another woman. He felt a subtle bump on the back of the frame, only to dismantle it, and find a letter inside that read:
I LOVE YOU, CAN'T YOU SEE? YOU MADE ME INTO SOMEONE I DIDN'T WANT TO BE.
Looking back, he found the sight of the detective inspector comforting the doctor. Showing no signs of sympathy, Sherlock Holmes only lifted up the frame and in front of her face, "Who is she?"
Scarlett fell into a trance, her words become lighter by the second, "Julie Roman. So young but courageous . . . doesn't fit into the stereotype of your average janitor . . ."
"Ironic isn't it?" Sherlock had his head up, and even if he hadn't said anything, the audience would've known he'd figure it out.
Lestrade knew by now that Sherlock like a touch of drama, so he confided to it, "What is?"
"That we expect them to clean messes, but they just end up making one."
