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Sherlocked
Hopeless
Rose
It had been a week now since I moved into 221B Baker Street, and there was never a dull moment. After three days, Sherlock broke his fast on all things food and I had to cook enough for three people just to feed the two of us…and I didn’t eat much. He didn’t say thank you, but that fact that he was satisfied was reward enough for me. That, and I figured it would be pointless to give a man like Sherlock a lecture on manners. That’s what I did. I took care of people. It was really all I knew. And Sherlock was no exception. Whether he was grateful or not, and whether he wanted people to think he needed help or not, he did. Someone as absent as Sherlock when it came to a surprising number of things needed someone to make sure he actually ate.
Then there was the time that he burst through the door of the flat, reeking of garbage and covered in bits of what looked like expired Chinese food. When I asked about it he announced that he had gone through all the bins in the area surrounding a crime scene looking for something the killer had certainly discarded in a hasty attempt to relieve himself of evidence.
Worse still, was the next day when he had taken one of my larger canvases and watered down my best red paint to do an experiment on blood splatters.
“Is that my canvas? Is that my paint?” I had asked him in the most even tone I could muster. Like my mother, I always reached a point when I was horrifically angry where I would become scary calm. Deadpan, voice flat with barely contained fury, I said to him, “I am going to work in a few minutes. I get off at eight o’ clock, and by that time you had better have replaced what you took. I mean it, Sherlock.”
“Of course, Rose,” he said quickly. He may have even looked nervous at my reaction. He said nothing else to me before I left for work, just continued on spattering paint across the canvas like Pollock.
Since Sherlock rarely ate and when he did he ate me out of house and home, I knew it would soon be time for another trip to the grocery store, which worked out rather in my favor since I had recently acquired a job at the supermarket around the corner. It wasn’t exactly my dream job, but it paid, and painting wasn’t well known for steady salaries.
The job itself was pretty boring; mostly just restocking things and bagging up groceries for people. When the shift was over, I said goodnight to my boss, gathered up my purse, and began the walk back to the flat.
The streets were bustling, cabs driving back and forth, people going their different ways on the way to dinner or in and out of pubs. A couple of men on either side of me in clean cut business attire walked with blue tooth devices in their ears.
My cell phone buzzed, and I quickly retrieved it from my bag, wondering who could possibly be calling me. At first I was worried it was Aaron, my ex-boyfriend, although why he would be stupid enough to call was beyond me. The number was blocked, and since I had programmed both Aaron’s, my father’s, and Sherlock’s number into my phone, I had no idea who could be calling. I answered the phone, raising it to my ear as I walked.
“Hello?” I asked as I adjusted my scarf around my neck, slowing my pace.
“Stop right where you are,” an even voice said. The tone was haughty, almost arrogant, and I stopped in my tracks, adrenaline shooting through my veins. I scanned the street and the sidewalk. The two suited men had stopped, and I scanned their deadpanned faces. A black, nondescript sedan stopped at the side of the busy street, and the voice spoke again.
“I think you may be intelligent enough to have realized by now how hopeless your situation is. Get in the car and don’t make a scene. My men are prepared to use force should you choose to make things difficult."
Just then, the door opened to the sedan, no interior lighting to reveal what waited for me in the back seat. I climbed inside, fear rising up in my gut and my throat. The door closed sharply behind me, the door locks engaging. Inside the warm, dark interior of the car, I was completely cut off from the hustle and bustle of London. And as someone took my cell phone from my hand, I was completely cut-off from any hope of rescue.
It had been a week now since I moved into 221B Baker Street, and there was never a dull moment. After three days, Sherlock broke his fast on all things food and I had to cook enough for three people just to feed the two of us…and I didn’t eat much. He didn’t say thank you, but that fact that he was satisfied was reward enough for me. That, and I figured it would be pointless to give a man like Sherlock a lecture on manners. That’s what I did. I took care of people. It was really all I knew. And Sherlock was no exception. Whether he was grateful or not, and whether he wanted people to think he needed help or not, he did. Someone as absent as Sherlock when it came to a surprising number of things needed someone to make sure he actually ate.
Then there was the time that he burst through the door of the flat, reeking of garbage and covered in bits of what looked like expired Chinese food. When I asked about it he announced that he had gone through all the bins in the area surrounding a crime scene looking for something the killer had certainly discarded in a hasty attempt to relieve himself of evidence.
Worse still, was the next day when he had taken one of my larger canvases and watered down my best red paint to do an experiment on blood splatters.
“Is that my canvas? Is that my paint?” I had asked him in the most even tone I could muster. Like my mother, I always reached a point when I was horrifically angry where I would become scary calm. Deadpan, voice flat with barely contained fury, I said to him, “I am going to work in a few minutes. I get off at eight o’ clock, and by that time you had better have replaced what you took. I mean it, Sherlock.”
“Of course, Rose,” he said quickly. He may have even looked nervous at my reaction. He said nothing else to me before I left for work, just continued on spattering paint across the canvas like Pollock.
Since Sherlock rarely ate and when he did he ate me out of house and home, I knew it would soon be time for another trip to the grocery store, which worked out rather in my favor since I had recently acquired a job at the supermarket around the corner. It wasn’t exactly my dream job, but it paid, and painting wasn’t well known for steady salaries.
The job itself was pretty boring; mostly just restocking things and bagging up groceries for people. When the shift was over, I said goodnight to my boss, gathered up my purse, and began the walk back to the flat.
The streets were bustling, cabs driving back and forth, people going their different ways on the way to dinner or in and out of pubs. A couple of men on either side of me in clean cut business attire walked with blue tooth devices in their ears.
My cell phone buzzed, and I quickly retrieved it from my bag, wondering who could possibly be calling me. At first I was worried it was Aaron, my ex-boyfriend, although why he would be stupid enough to call was beyond me. The number was blocked, and since I had programmed both Aaron’s, my father’s, and Sherlock’s number into my phone, I had no idea who could be calling. I answered the phone, raising it to my ear as I walked.
“Hello?” I asked as I adjusted my scarf around my neck, slowing my pace.
“Stop right where you are,” an even voice said. The tone was haughty, almost arrogant, and I stopped in my tracks, adrenaline shooting through my veins. I scanned the street and the sidewalk. The two suited men had stopped, and I scanned their deadpanned faces. A black, nondescript sedan stopped at the side of the busy street, and the voice spoke again.
“I think you may be intelligent enough to have realized by now how hopeless your situation is. Get in the car and don’t make a scene. My men are prepared to use force should you choose to make things difficult."
Just then, the door opened to the sedan, no interior lighting to reveal what waited for me in the back seat. I climbed inside, fear rising up in my gut and my throat. The door closed sharply behind me, the door locks engaging. Inside the warm, dark interior of the car, I was completely cut off from the hustle and bustle of London. And as someone took my cell phone from my hand, I was completely cut-off from any hope of rescue.
♠ ♠ ♠
A big thank you is in order to everyone who has commented on my story so far. Of course, comments are welcome and encouraged, but I won't beg. But pretty, pretty please?