scenteddelusion5 - Tumblr blog

scenteddelusion5 · 11 days ago

Text

The Embroiling Case of the Paranormal Girl - ARC 1 - The Beginning - Part 1

Sherlock Holmes (BBC) x you

Master list Chapter list

Ao3 link

Summary:

Sherlock did not think anything of her when he first met her. She did not have the same incredible intellect as him, nor the skills of a retired veteran and doctor, but she did have something else; a secret Sherlock felt the need to uncover. Could he grapple the world-changing truth of this woman's nature? Or would he deny it even when it was staring him in the eye?

The story of Sherlock, the Paranormal girl and their blossoming love story.

Chapter summary:

Sherlock hadn't expected much of her; she didn't have the deducting capabilities he had, and it was obvious. He would solve the murder and win the chance to mock agent Donovan even more so, but things did not go as expected.

It had been a normal day for Dr. John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had dragged his roommate out of the house in the early hours. The sun had not even fully risen, before John was looking down at the cold, dead corpse of a young woman in Blackfen, Bexley. It should have been at least a level seven case. Sherlock was, however, only met with disappointment upon arriving.

“Allison Thomas, nineteen years old, found dead by Janet Wallace, her landlady, at three in the morning. Miss Wallace came by after the alarm in the apartment went off.” Lestrade listed off all the evidence the police had already gathered before their arrival. “There are no signs of forced entry. We haven’t figured out the cause of dead. No external wounds or bruising.”

Sherlock was leaning over the young woman, his eyes roaming over every detail. “Previous medical records?”

“She just moved from–”

“America as an exchange student, I know,” Sherlock rudely cut him off. “Medical records?”

“They haven’t been transferred yet.”

The consulting detective stood up, stretching his legs slightly. His eyes landed on John, standing off to the side by the kitchen counter. “Come here.”

“No, I’m not doing this again.” Watson shook his head. “No, no, no. I am not good at deducting, that’s your thing. Don’t drag me into it.”

Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, squeezing them while pushing him along. “Come on John, fresh perspective, remember? And this one is easy, quite a disappointment actually.”

“Then why do you need me to try, when you’ve already figured it out?!”

“Practice,” he answered. “I need to keep your mind sharp.”

John sat down on his knees, looking over the young woman. “Well, she hasn’t been here very long… No external wounds so the cause of death had to be internal. Poison?”

“Unimaginative.”

“I am not you. Not everyone can deduce someone’s life story from a strand of hair on their shirt.” When he realised Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything, he continued, “internal wound, spontaneous combustion of the brain?”

“You are not taking this serious,” he noted, not at all in the sarcastic manner he often did, but more so genuine shock. “Fine, I’ll spoil it for you. There are no signs of a struggle, at least that’s what you would think. The windowsill has small scratches, almost unnoticeable, but there are no scratches on the outside. This indicated that someone tried to break out not in. In fact, the culprit is still in this room.”

“What?” Lestrade would have jumped up if he had been sitting down.

“Do not worry, it can’t hurt us.”

“Sorry, it?” John’s brow furrowed.

“Yes, it. There are no external wounds but if you had looked in her mouth you would have seen her throat is swollen. Under her nails are traces of white paint, the same white paint from the windowsill. In her last moments of life, miss Thomas desperately clawed at the window trying to open it while her throat was swelling up from an allergic reaction. From what? The peanut crumbs the previous owner left behind in between the chair cushions. That, combined with the lost EpiPen under the kitchen counter, should have clued you in to this utterly boring truth.”

“Show off,” John coughed under his breath.

Sherlock ignored him. Instead, he made his way out of the apartment. “Come on, John. I need either breakfast or a cigarette.”

“Definitely not a cigarette.”

Not even three hour later, Sherlock had been called again by Lestrade. He had wondered if John had asked the agent to in the hopes to prevent him from shooting more holes in the roof. They had gotten bad leaks the last time he was bored, and the scolding from Mrs. Hudson had probably encouraged John even more.

He had taken the cap to Brixton, alone. John had another date with the dentist girl or was it the bloody teacher? He didn’t remember. Police tape had already marked off the area. Lestrange was waiting by one of the police cars blocking off civilians.

“I swear if this case is as boring as the last,” Sherlock complained. “I won’t show up next time. You promised an eight.”

“It is an eight,” he insisted.

“I’ll decide if it’s an eight.”

Sergeant Donovan made her way over. Her eyes glaring at Sherlock. He did not glare back just studied her. “Are you really going to let that freak onto every one of your crime scenes? You might as well just ask every civilian walking by if they want a look, they might be a super genius as well!”

“I see you’re back from your family vacation. Couldn’t relax because your sister pushed her kid onto you, and you had to babysit. The fact that you only got two hours of sleep last night must have not helped with your mood, but I must sa–” He felt a thud against his back. Sherlock turned around with one quick motion; his back kept perfectly straight. His eyes immediately looked over every detail of the woman who just bumped into him.

“Sorry, I didn’t watch where I was going.” The way she spoke was simple. Her hair was dirty and half-shoved into an old beany with frayed edges. She wasn’t anything special, not a threat and, concluding from he way she awkwardly held her hands, not someone who would mess with evidence.

“You have impeccable timing, miss. This nice police-officer over here has decided we should let civilians give a try at solving a murder.” He threw his arm around her shoulder, pushing her forward under the tape, into the crime scene.

“Sherlock, she didn’t mean it.” Lestrade tried, but it was no use: Sherlock just kept walking.

“Let’s make it a game, see which one can get the culprit first. Yes? Great.”

A middle-aged man laid dead on the London city pavement. Blood had flooded out of his chest, creating a small pool. Sherlock immediately got the work, taking out his magnifying glass, looking over every little detail. Quickly, he concluded the man was stabbed in the back with a kitchen knife, approximately 17 cm long and around 3 millimetres thick, but something was odd very odd. His head was also damaged, most likely from the fall, but the damage was not nearly severe enough. His head was only dropped from around fifty centimetres above the pavement. Something else was wrong.

What else… What else…

The blood. It was almost unnoticeable, but parts of the man’s blouse were soaked with blood where the blood pool did not reach. This was not the real crime scene; the man had been moved and planted on the street right in the middle of daylight without anyone noticing. How interesting. A smile crept on his face.

“Seems you’ve finally found me something interesting, Lestrade.” He stood up again, his eyes noticing the girl looking into the opposite direction. “Oh right, I forgot about you for a second. What do you think? Have you gotten any clues from the bushes on who the culprit is.”

The girl looked up at him. Her eyes were guarded. She didn’t know why he had dragged her to a murder scene, but she was obviously not happy about it. “Can I leave if I tell you who killed him?”

“Sure, tell me. Who do you guess?” Sherlock wasn’t looking at the girl, no, his eyes were locked on a very annoyed Donovan.

“I don’t have to guess,” she said. “I know it was his son; Henry Payne, twenty years old. He cornered his father in their kitchen and stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife. They just had an argument. Their family had money problems, a lot of money problems. The son had killed him so he could claim the insurance and pay off the debt they had build up. He had put his dad’s body in the back of his van and drove by with the doors open. The body fell out after hitting a bump and ended up on the street. Can I go now?”

Sherlock’s attention was on her after that. “How do you know for sure? What’s your evidence?” He walked up to her, towering over her.

“I don’t need to tell you how. The deal was: tell you who the culprit is, and I may take my leave.” She glared up at him.

“But how can I possibly know you are telling me the truth if you’ve not told me how you came to that conclusion?” Sherlock’s voice had become louder, and he had started talking faster. “So, tell me.”

“You’re a detective, aren’t you?” She pointed her finger at him, poking him in the chest at every syllable. “Figure it out.” She stormed off.

Sherlock was about to chase after the girl, but he halted in his steps as he heard a snort. “Anything you wish to say Donovan?”

“We should have random civilians on the crime scene more often.”

Sherlock stood frozen. The girl had completely disappeared in the mere seconds he had looked away from her. He tried thinking back on her. On everything he had noticed about her, but nothing was out of the ordinary. Dishevelled clothes, but that's because she slept on the streets last night. Homeless? Probably. He would have to ask around.

How could a normal girl with seemingly no brilliant mind solve a crime quicker than Sherlock Holmes himself?

It was a mystery, one he desperately wanted to solve. He didn't care about the man dead on the street; that wasn't interesting anymore, but she was, and Sherlock hadn't even asked for her name.

He tried stepping away from the crime scene, before being stopped by Lestrade. “Where are you going? You've not helped with the case yet!”

“You heard the woman. It was his son; Henry Payne.”

“But we don't know if that's true.”

Sherlock groaned. “He has damage on the back of his head from a fall of approximately fifty centimetres. He did fall from a car or van, and he was indeed stabbed with a generic kitchen knife. I have no doubt she told the truth. I'm sure if you searched through the son's van and kitchen quick enough, you'll find blood. He didn't have the time to clean both. Now if you'll excuse me.”

You pulled you beanie lower; it was best to hide yourself as much as you could. You had just been making your way through London with no actual idea of a location. You just wanted somewhere to sleep where the rain didn't reach at night.

There was a crime scene up ahead. For a split second, you wondered what happened, but as soon as your eyes landed on the man standing on the side, you knew. He was wearing a simple blouse and dirty pants, but they were soaked with blood, his blood. He looked at you. Eye contact. You held eye contact. Every time you had eye contact with one of these, it felt like your body was ice cold, but you had gotten used to it by now. Your face suddenly made contact with a dark, felt coat.

The owner quickly turned around. You looked up, and you couldn't lie to yourself; he was handsome. Dark curly hair and blue eyes. “Sorry,” you quickly apologised when you realised you were staring, “I didn't watch where I was going.” Had you still your normal life, your previous life maybe you would have asked him out, but you didn't, so you couldn't. It wouldn't be fair to him.

You were about to walk off, to never see him again, when he grabbed you by the shoulders. Your eyes widened slightly, fearing he would do something, and it would happen again, but it didn’t. “You have impeccable timing, miss. This nice police-officer over here has decided we should let civilians give a try at solving a murder.” Before you knew it, you were swept onto the crime scene. “Let’s make it a game, see which one can get the culprit first. Yes? Great.”

Your eye caught the corpse only for a split second, you felt bile rising in your throat. Handling with the death was nothing new to you, but seeing their dead bodies was something entirely different. You quickly turned away, focusing on his ghost, standing by the bushes.

“Y-you can see me.” His words came out with a slight tremble. His voice was high, and raspy, as if he had just been crying. Most ghost sounded like that, especially if they died not too long ago. You nodded your head in response. “You have to tell them what happened to me! My son, he, he…” He started to hyperventilate.

“Calm,” you whispered in the hopes no one would here her. He did. He slowed down his breath, until it was even again. “Name?” you whispered again.

“I’m Ollie Payne,” he answered.

“Ollie,” you kept your voice low and steady. “What happened?”

“I was just in the kitchen, drinking coffee. I-I was about to leave for work, when my son came in. He-Henry, Henry Payne… He… We started talking about money. His mother and I had raked up debt and he, he had to take out loans too. Before I knew it, he had grabbed the kitchen knife and… And… Well, that.” He gestured over to his dead body laying on the ground about two metres away. “Ever since, I have been this. I followed him, watched him put my body in his van and drive by here. My body dropped out after hitting that bump.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“Will I stay like this forever?”

“No.” You didn’t know if your answer was reassuring to him or not, but you did not have to change to ask.

“Oh right, I forgot about you for a second. What do you think? Have you gotten any clues from the bushes on who the culprit is?” The detective had turned to you. He spoke with a certain arrogance, as if he knew he was going to win no matter what. As if you were intellectually beneath him. You had only known him for a few minutes, but it was already irritating you.

“Can I leave if I tell you who killed him?” You wanted to get away from him as fast as possible.

“Sure, tell me. Who do you guess?” The detective was barely acknowledging you, instead his eyes were focused on one of his colleagues, with a cocky smirk. He was using you to embarrass her, but you weren’t going to let him.

You proceeded to relay everything Ollie had told you about his dead, and watched the detective’s smirk vanish from his face. The sight felt so rewarding. When you finished, he marched his way over to you. You hadn’t thought of him as dangerous, but his tall stature practically loomed over you, making you jump back.

“How do you know for sure? What’s your evidence?” He spoke with a fast paste almost running out of breath.

“I don’t need to tell you how. The deal was: tell you who the culprit is, and I may take my leave,” you felt great satisfaction seeing him becoming more and more dishevelled.

“But how can I possibly know you are telling me the truth if you’ve not told me how you came to that conclusion?” Irritation laid his voice. “So, tell me.”

You dared to copy his cocky smirk as you spoke. “You’re a detective, aren’t you?” Having become slightly more daring, you pointed your finger at him. It was a bit too far, but satisfying, nonetheless. “Figure it out.”

You walked away, head high, straight posture and a victory smirk on your face. You hadn’t had fun with your abilities since a long time. You had been running for so long, you’ve only had to use them to keep you hidden… You missed it. You missed it so much.

You looked back. They were all distracted; they wouldn’t notice. You disappeared.

It had been two days since the, as John called it, Son’s Desperation, the death of Ollie Payne. The apartment was in a dreadful state, more so than normally. It wasn’t strange for dust to be covering every corner, for books to be stacked upon each other and lithered all around the apartment, and for the kitchen to be filled with the consulting detective’s, strange experiments. However, walls being covered from head to toe in maps of London and research on one single woman was new, as well as the projector showing the repeating CCTV footage of a woman bumping into Sherlock. Her face wasn’t visible, because of course it wasn’t.

“Can you stand still for just two seconds?!” Dr. Watson yelled after putting down his news paper. Sherlock had been pacing around the apartment, rambling on and on about the colour of her shirt and the way she spoke and her hair and her eyes and he–

“No, I can not.” Sherlock just kept on pacing. “I need to know who she is, where she is, right now. I need to know how she figured out the murderer so fast. You should have seen her John; an ordinary woman, nothing special, so casually solving a murder with a single glance at the body.”

John sighed, finally deciding to indulge him. “Why are you sure she’s so ‘ordinary’?”

“I deducted it. There was nothing special about this woman. She frequently sleeps out on the street and doesn’t often have access to a washing machine. Moderately athletic, no Olympic athlete, but she is on her feet a lot. Her emotions are an open book, her face showing exactly what she’s feeling, whether it is confusion or smugness. She used to have the bad habit of biting her nails, mostly due to nervousness, but has recently stopped. When it comes to intelligence, she is about on your level, still smart but not even close to my level, and yet, she beat me.”

“The great Sherlock Holmes admitted he has been defeated,” he laughed. “Never though I’d see the day.”

“I have not been defeated. Beaten in round one, yes, but not defeated.” Sherlock stepped onto his couch and started re-arranging all his evidence. “I’ll win out in the end. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re very obsessed with her.”

“I’m obsessed with all my cases, the good ones at least.”

“Yes, but it’s worse this time, much worse,” John pointed out. “Do you have a crush?”

“A crush?” Sherlock repeated with disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.” He was still moving around evidence, only now he had started tearing certain papers, in half or sometimes just the corners and pinned them back on the board.

“Right…” John picked up his news paper again, ignoring the detective hands moving all around the wall. “What if she is a genius and just tricked you? Like the gay Jim Moriarty?”

He rolled his eyes. “She wouldn’t take on a whole new personality. It’s not her style.”

“You’re talking about her as if you know her already.”

“I do know her.”

“And yet, you can’t even tell me her name.”

Before Sherlock could answer, a loud ping echoed through the room. He fished his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. A smirk danced on his face. “Found her. Come on John.” He stepped away from the wall and picked up his coat before putting it on. “We are going to see her.”

With a sigh, John put his paper down again. He was about to grab his jacket, but something stopped him in his tracks. The wall, the papers, magazines and maps had been rearranged. He was staring at a mosaic displaying the face of a woman. Her brows were slightly furrowed, and her face held an irritated pout.

“Definitely a crush,” he whispered under his breath.

“Are you coming, Watson?!” Sherlock yelled from downstairs.

Sherlock Holmes practically jumped out the cab which had just driving them all the way to the other end of London. John dug through his jacket’s, inner pocket, and pulled out his wallet. It was always up to him to pay. His friend would already be out when it came to it. Did Sherlock even pay for his cabs if John Watson wasn’t there?

“Hurry up, John.” Sherlock was practically bouncing in his steps.

“Coming!” He groaned.

They had arrived at an abandoned building. The windows were bashed in and the stone walls tagged with graffiti. It used to be an office for a, now bankrupt, staple production company. A group of people were standing around a barrel holding a fire right in front of the entrance, lighting up the night.

“Sherlock.” John grabbed his arm. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“It will be fine.” He pulled his arm loose. “I have a widespread homeless network, remember? They work for me.”

A girl with short blond hair and a worn-out bodywarmer stepped away from the group and towards the duo.

Sherlock handed her a fifty. “Where is she?”

She stared at the banknote. “Follow me. She’s inside.” She held open the black door and held it open for them.

The inside was cold and dark. The electricity had been cut off from the building. Homeless people slept in almost every corner. Some had brought an old mattress in, others used a sleeping bag, but no one dared to sleep without their coats on. They walked through the halls, up a set of stairs and through even more halls, when the woman stopped in front of a door.

“She’s in this room.” She stepped away from them. “She’s alone; no one else wants to room with her.”

“Why?” John asked.

“She’s… weird.”

The duo watched the woman walk away and turn the corner before facing the door again. “I thought you said she was ordinary.”

“She is.”

“I am no super genius, but ordinary and weird are the exact opposite,” he muttered.

Sherlock observed the door. The handle was perfectly straight, no strange hidden cords, and it was recently used. Nothing odd. He looked through the little gap between the door and the frame and concluded it was unlocked. The detective took a deep breath in and out, with his eyes closed.

“How do I look?” He turned to John.

“You look fine.”

“Just fine?”

“No, handsome. Perfectly handsome. Can we go in now?”

Sherlock pushed the handle down with a clamping hand and opened the door. The inside looked the same as every other space in the building, only this one held the girl he was looking for. She was asleep on the ground in a sleeping back. Around her, was a ring of some white powder.

He leaned down to examen it; “salt.” Superstitious? Sherlock thought back to the last time; she was avoiding stepping on a crack in the pavement. “Definitely superstitious,” he muttered.

Her eyes shot open. Faster than Sherlock could comprehend, she grabbed something out of the bag, she had been laying her head on, and pointed a gun at him.

You had tried not to think about the detective again after that day. You would never see him again, but it was difficult. The victory still tasted sweet on your tongue and his almost emotionless voice secretly made you feel things you never wanted to think about. You would forget about him soon enough; you would have to leave England in a few days. Being constantly on the run wasn’t a fun life. Very rarely you got to sleep on a real mattress, and if you did, it was only for one night. You never slept in the same place twice. More often than not you would sleep in abandoned buildings, like this one.

You weren’t a deep sleeper, which is why you heard the door to your room open, but you didn’t think much of it; it was probably the wind. The windows were busted. Then, you heard soft footsteps, talking, and someone hunching over you. Without thinking, you snatched your gun out of your bag and pointed it straight at them. As the blur in your eyes dissipated, you saw is face; it was him, the cocky detective. “How did you find me?”

“Homeless network,” he answered as if you weren’t holding a deadly weapon to his head. “There is no need for your hostility, miss. I just want you to answer some questions.”

“And why would I do that?” You made a point of moving the gun even closer to his head.

“A deal then.” Sherlock offered. “I will get you an apartment for free with windows that can close, a real bed with a mattress and a private bathroom. I can’t imagine this is a comfortable place to stay. In exchange, you answer my questions.”

It was a persuasive offer. Your back and neck had been hurting for a while now, and even one night on a mattress would feel like heaven. You could really use a bath too. Just imagining the warm water on your skin made you want to whine. “How do I know you won’t do anything to me?”

“I have no intention of harming you.” He leaned in closer, purposely leaning against the gun.

You slid the gun over his face, from his forehead, down to is neck, where you pushed it against his throat. “You could be lying.”

“I could be.”

John coughed. “Can you just make the choice already.”

You looked up, suddenly feeling embarrassed after realising someone else was in the room. “You get five questions, and I will only stay one night.”

“Ten questions and five nights,” Sherlock offered.

You rolled your eyes. “Two questions and one night.”

“Five questions and two nights.”

“Deal, but if I don’t like the question you have to choose a different one.”

“Deal.” He leaned over to grab your bag and pulled you up with his other hand. “We need to leave fast. Mrs. Hudson has the key, and she will be in bed early.”

You hadn’t known where you were going when you sat in the cab next to the detective’s… Friend? Colleague? Whatever. But a normal flat in a normal street in London. The detective opened the door, and walked in. You awkwardly walked behind him. He made his way down the stairs to the basement. 221A was written on the door.

“Wait here.” The detective went upstairs, leaving his friend with you. “Mrs. Hudson!”

The friend held out his hand. “Dr. John Watson.” You shook it out of politeness. “What is your name?”

“Is that one of your five questions?”

“No.” An awkward silence fell on you, but you didn’t feel like talking. His friend, John, was a doctor. Did he know? No, he couldn’t know.

Two sets of footsteps made it down the stairs. You looked up; a woman walked behind the detective. “Oh, dearie, I have the keys right here.” She dangled a set of keys. “Let me open it for you.” She fiddled with the keys and the lock, before opening the door. “I can’t believe Sherlock found a new tenant. Especially for this space, no one wants to stay here. Probably because it is the basement. Oh, I hope you don’t mind.”

“I am not picky, Mrs?” You walked around the apartment. It was quite nice, especially compared to the spaces you were used to.

“Oh, it’s Hudson.” She handed you the keys. “Let me show you around.”

“Mrs. Hudson, why don’t you make her some tea.” The detective you now knew as Sherlock, at down on a chair; one of the few pieces of furniture that came with the apartment.

“I am your landlady, not your housekeeper, Sherlock.” Despite her protests, she walked out, probably to go set tea.

“I have only five questions, which means I have to be as efficient as possible to find out as much as I can,” Sherlock started muttering under his breath. “There are questions I know she won’t answer…”

You sat down in the only other chair in the room, leaving John standing by the door, scribbling in some sort of notebook. “Are you going to interrogate me or can I go to sleep.”

“First question; how did you solve the murder of Ollie Payne?” He decided to try, even though he knew you probably weren’t going to answer.

“Do you want the truth?”

He studied your reaction, but you let nothing of substance show. “Yes.”

“Then you should choose a different question.”

“I knew you wouldn’t answer.” His mind was racing, trying to think of all the different ways you could have figured it out. “Would you be able to solve a murder with your intellectual abilities?” He already knew the answer, but he had to be sure.

“No, I am not some upper genius if that’s what you’re asking.” You didn’t show any tells; you weren’t lying. Good.

“Question two: how many regular acquaintances, including family and friends, do you have?” You fell quiet at Sherlock’s question. You weren’t sure why you wanted to answer that, but why? His eyes studied your mannerisms. You were fiddling with you fingers again, you were fighting yourself not to bite your nails; You’re nervous. You were avoiding eye-contact; you didn’t want to be read. Were you protecting someone? Or did you live a solitary life?

“Two,” you answered.

Protection, he concluded. Sherlock stood up from his chair. “We will resume this interrogation tomorrow. Have a good night.”

Upstairs, Sherlock immediately started writing on his research wall. John walked in behind him, finishing his scribbles in the notebook. “Why didn’t you ask for her name?” The doctor wondered.

“She either would count it as one of my questions, which would be a waste. If she tells me her name as one of the five questions, she would tell me her name if I asked later, or she would refuse to answer and I would have wasted my energy.” Sherlock started moving around more papers and sticky notes, without disrupting the mosaic.

“Right, of course.” Watson rolled his eyes. “I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up the whole night.”

To be continued

3 notes · View notes