There was a note in my cereal yesterday that told me not to go fill out that report against Lestrade, so I didn't. I assumed it was from Moriarty; but why? Hopefully it will be explained tonight. I also got a phone, which is good in case Moriarty decides to keep me in a cell or something.
Most of my day is filled with the sound of my melodic blue violin and lists. Sometimes I'll stop in the middle of a piece and scribble down what I think could happen tonight. This is both because: 1. I like to be prepared and 2. It's a little fun. So far I have scenarios involving everything from an abandoned warehouse to a dinner party for two. There's honestly no telling, and that's mainly because I have failed to do my research on the Teacup Man.
Sherlock has not talked to me all day, and I'm getting lonely. He's the only one in 221B right now because John is almost fully settled into his house, and Mrs. Hudson is getting party decorations. I tip toe upstairs to Sherlock's flat and knock on the door lightly.
"Come in," his deep voice says boredly. The man glances over at me, and I see that he stands at the window with sheet music.
"What's that?" I inquire, staring at the papers as I walk closer to him.
"None of your concern. What do you want?" he says simply, setting the sheet music on a pile of books on the desk.
I shrug. "It was getting lonely, so I decided to come up here." He eyes me for a moment.
"You have plans tonight. With whom, may I ask?"
My mouth opens to utter an unrehearsed lie, but he continues to talk. "Although, whether I may ask or not is out of the question; I'd ask anyway. But do go on." Sherlock stuffs his hands into his pockets and stares down at me expectantly.
"Uh, well," I start, looking out the window. There's an awkward silence, and I sigh. "Lestrade invited me out."
"No he didn't," Sherlock says immediately. "Who are you meeting with?"
"Lestrade," I tell him again with a frown. "What makes you so confident that I'm lying?" I cross my arms over my chest stubbornly.
"Because if it was Lestrade, you wouldn't look so tense or scared. You'd probably be excited and a little curious or something almost as absurd... Are you scared of the person?"
"No," I say, even thought he knows the answer. But I'm not letting him win. "Nothing about Lestrade scares me."
"It's not Lestrade," he insists. "You don't even know where it is you're meeting. I mean, I assume you have an address, but is it a house; a store? That's what scares you, right?"
"Nothing scares me," I say with a scowl. "And I know exactly where we're going. He asked me to meet him at that café around the corner."
"What time?" Sherlock asks with a small smile. He must be trying to throw me off by playing along.
I throw a smile back at him and say confidently, "10."
"That café isn't even open at 10!" He takes a step towards me and leans in close to my face. "Let me ask you again: who are you meeting tonight?" The words echo off of the walls of my brain as I glare into his eyes.
We stand like that for a little while.
"You think you're tough," I say quietly. He frowns. "You think you're a big bad wolf, don't ya? But that's not true," I shake my head and take a step back. "You won't do anything - you can't do anything - to get the answer from me. It doesn't even matter who it is; you just like to know stuff."
"It does matter who it is," he says stiffly, standing up straight and glaring at me. "I just don't want you to get hurt or found on the side of the street. You're acting like I'm holding a gun to your head when I ask who it is. Who is it?" he asks again, loudly and sternly.
I smirk because now he's irritated; he can't stand not knowing. "I'll be perfectly fine... don't worry about me, Sherlock." I turn on my heel and walk back to my own flat space.
Mrs. Hudson comes in the door once I reach the bottom of the stairs, and I go to help her with her bags.
+
10pm comes around fast, and I think Sherlock is still suspicious. I'm not sure how to shake him off, but it doesn't matter. There's only an hour left, and I use that time to get ready and formulate plans in my head. Mrs. Hudson just went to sleep, so I don't have to worry about her. Knowing Sherlock, he's probably waiting in some shadow to follow me to my destination. Maybe I should just leave right at 10. I mean, who would leave at the time they should be at their destination? Me.
I nibble on some crackers to pass the time and in case I have to run somewhere. Then, as the digital clock on my nightstand flickers to 10:00, I stand up from my bed and wipe the crumbs off of my pants. Getting out of my flat is easy, and I check the top of the stairs in case Sherlock is waiting there. I see no one and prance quickly and quietly out onto Baker Street, phone and keys tucked away in the pocket of my leather jacket.
About a block away from 221B, I hail a cab which takes me the opposite way I went. The car drives along for maybe 5 minutes before stopping. I shove a crumpled wad of money into the cabbie's hand and get out.
In front of me is a place that looks like a lounge; I haven't exactly been to one, so I don't know for sure, but it has the feel that I imagine a lounge would have. A neon sign hangs beside the door that reads "The Velvet Poodle". When I open the door, I expect to see women dancing on poles. Instead, I see a pub filled with people in business suits and a strange aroma.
At the bar, a man sits holding a teacup near his lips and glances over at the door. His hair is slicked back, and his smile sends shivers up my spine.
YOU ARE READING
Orphan on Baker Street
FanfictionMickey is an orphan who plays her violin on the street to earn money. When she hears gunshots, she chases an odd pair towards the sound. She later finds out that this was the perfect way to escape the orphanage - and enter a life of crime solving.
