Oh, what a night.

Sweet Surrender

Fiji Islands, May 2016.

It's cold. It's always fucking cold these nights. Marie doesn't understand this. It's FIJI that we're talking about (incase you've naught enough data; Fiji is a tropical country in Melanesia in the South Pacific). Why? She's just finished (let's say survived) another blasted day of work. She's tired. It's raining. Why is it raining? It wasn't raining an hour ago.

Her friends have asked her to go to the pub (it's a club, but pub sounds more classy let's pretend) tonight and she was so sure that she'd say no. But then she thought, 'Why not?' then her conscious unselfishly reminded her it was indeed just mid week and her birthday was on Saturday. But she didn't care. She needed a temporary sanity- craved it. So here she was, hearing gravel beneath her, grumbling to herself.

'Rain,' she stated. As she watched loose gravel fly wayward towards the road, a car came speeding by nearly covering her in dirty water. 'Just great,' she mumbled again.

Her friends said they'd meet her outside, and Marie glances at the time on her phone screen to see that for once she's managed to get there early. She pulls a cigarette out of her packet and lets it dangle loosely between her lips as she fiddles for her lighter.

And that's when she hears it, and it occurs to her the familiarity of the music resembles a 90s tune she'd heard and loved in an episode of one of her favorite tv shows. She glances up, cigarette in her lips forgotten when sees who's walking towards her.

Are you fucking kidding me. Her mind uselessly provides.

His coat swirls around him lavishly, collar upturned, curly hair fighting with the cold wind.

Sherlock Holmes. (BBC)

Behind him is what looks like a hall, and twinkling lights can be seen from where she stands, she notes absently that that is where the music is playing. He's almost to pass her before she manages to stutter out his name (or gibberish who knows). Let's be fair and logical here, 100% realness. Marie loves this guy.

The man barely stutters in his step, the light illuminating him in all the right ways as he stares at Marie deploringly, a tilt to his lips. "What?" He intones.

Sherlock Holmes guys.

"Wh-what?" Breathe. "w- what?" She stutters. He raises his eyebrows, his eyes scanning her frame.

"You'll have to use words, I'm afraid." he eventually says.

Initial shock leaves her system abruptly and she quickly fumbles for her lighter and inhales greedily. If she's having a hallucination or that 1/4 life crisis breakdown is here- she's completely living for it. No questions. His eyes brighten considerably and he leans in closer. "May I have one?" he says, eyes wide and imploring. She notes that his persona seems to shift to accommodate his request and Marie warily studies him.

"Why are you dressed like that?' she accuses. "Sherlock Holmes?"

He misreads her question and delicately plucks the cigarette pack from her hands and answers while swiftly lighting his own, inhaling like a man taking a fresh breath of air.

"It is my friends wedding." He says, after a moment. "-my best friend."

Marie nods an affirmative, "Right. But that's wrong. It wasn't in Fiji."