Guns, Games, and Mutual Appreciation ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book I}

Chapter 2- Senses

Millie's POV

-------------------

I breathe in the air of the abandoned apartment, taking in the unusual smells. The smell of recently disturbed dust. Pine? No, not pine. Cedar. Something... something sweet and definitely chemically produced. I walk around slowly, as not to disturb the silence of the room. It was empty, with the exception of a table and a wooden coat-stand, and a few screwed up receipts littering the lino floor. I slip my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket, not touching, not moving, just looking. I notice the door is slightly ajar, with scuff marks lining the bottom. Can't have been caused by an animal; they're too blunt, too engraved. Had to be a boot. Someone's roughed this place up. Fight? Drunken brawl? I mentally scroll through the pictures stored in my head of various crime scenes, then stop, satisfied: this is the result of a struggle. A lost struggle.

I pull out the thin piece of paper from my pocket with the case details printed on them. 

Apartment 7A, Coventry. Reports of nightly disturbance, group meetings. Evidence to suggest links to gang crime and potential terrorist activities. Investigate immediately.

I push open the door, and feel my face wrinkle with distaste at the sight in front of me. It's certainly impressive, whoever did this... plenty of gore, just the right balance of blood splatters and abandoned weapons. It's a shame that-

The door behind me slams open, and I hear voices, two male voices. I whip around, feeling horribly exposed, no weapon, no nearby object to defend myself with- and come face to face with a very recognisable man and his partner. Sherlock Holmes; his face is a catalyst for tabloid activity, and I have read countless articles detailing his success as a detective. On closer inspection, I recognise the smaller man, too. It must be John Watson- I've heard about his popularity as an online blogger. I wasn't aware that they were solving cases together again, though. It was only four months ago: Holmes' "resurrection". The nation believed he was dead, and I can't possibly begin to imagine the hell that his friend must have gone through afterwards. But here they are, apparently having reconciled their differences, and, by the look on Holmes' face, he doesn't appreciate my presence.

The silence is deafening. Watson coughs slightly, shuffling his feet nearer together. I am very aware of the Holmes, scanning me up and down, frowning, making quick calculations.

Two can play at his game.

I look at his features, noting his oddly angular face, his untidy mop of dark curls, obviously not brushed recently- a result of a sleepless or particularly energetic night perhaps? His turned up collar, his cheekbones, his scowl, the crease between his eyebrows, his hands, thrust deep inside his coat pockets.

Something is wrong.

He's different. I am noting the ordinary things; physical features, clothing- I can't get my mind to see past them. I pride myself on analysing emotions and thought patterns, as opposed to crimes, although I opted for detective work over psychology: that being said, I can't fathom the reasoning behind his attributes, his history, or his purpose here. 

I don't like it.

Silence.

We regard eachother coolly, neither of us saying anything, both adequately ignoring the pitiful excuse for a crime scene behind me.

"Er... this is..." begins Watson, rubbing the back of his neck. Definitely nervous habit. I note it down mentally.

"Why are you here?" asks Holmes, shortly.

I don't say anything for a while, just watch him, then-

"Same as you. Investigating, evidently." I keep my tone flat, and unemotive.

He studies me for some time. 

He pushes past me, walking into the room. This irritates me; it is audacious, and inflammatory. I'm not sure what I have done, as a stranger, to generate such hostility. However, I'm not going to be intimidated by him or his unpleasant behaviour. I came here to investigate a case, and that is what I'm going to do. I watch as he crouches down, examining the red liquid on the floor, pulling out a small pipette and sampling the fluid, holding it up to the light. It's not what I would have done, but it's interesting to observe someone else examining the obvious. Watson is frowning, looking at the liquid and it's oddly gelatinous quality, swiping his finger against it and pulling away, testing the tackiness. Holmes stands up, satisfied, and approaches Watson, presumably to express his analysis.

But then he stops.

I hear it too.

He opens his mouth, about to form a warning-

That's when the bomb explodes.

-------------------