#mystrey

It was raining outside in Westminster city as it does most of the time in this part of the month. John just walked in after stepping out of his raincoat that he got along with his army uniform. Before he could sit down for the warm comfort near the fireplace after a tiring day of piles, blisters, and vaginal warts, a piece of fabric hit him square across his face. Before it could glide off, John gathered the small thing in his fists and held it at a distant to examine it first.

“That you are finally getting laid like a normal human being“ Watson shook the fabric in the air and suddenly the true form of the fabric unraveled in front of his eyes. “My God, it’s true isn’t it?“ John looked at Holmes with an affirmative look. Upon his finger dangled a black silk chemise by its spaghetti strap. Even in the dark lighting of the room, it gleamed with its dark pearlescent sheen. 

“Never form a theory before judging the facts, Watson. One must form a theory to suit the facts, not the other way around--“ Sherlock sprung upon his feet, his blue dressing gown swaying behind him “now Doctor, let’s see how much of a deduction power you have acquired to this date.“ His blue eyes twinkled upon John.

“C’mon Sherlock, this is childish.“ John Watson tossed the chemise at his friend, “you saw me out a few days, you’re bored without a case and you found someone to sleep with you and now you are being a diva about it--grow up“ John slumped oh his chair angrily. Sherlock on the other hand silently smirked towards him, a smirk specially reserved for someone who is entirely wrong and adamantly establishes the wrong facts as truth.

“Wrong dear Doctor, not once but on three accounts. First, if I slept with a woman I found attractive but difficult to court, I would fling her knickers up in the air, like a trophy if you will. If I found the woman attractive and was attached to her, her brassieres or top would be in my possessions, and I would lock it up safely in my bedroom, hidden, like a treasure if you will. And last but not least, I found this in my bedroom, on my bed, after I woke up. The doors and windows were closed as usual and I was fully clothed in my nightwear and didn’t move an inch from my designated sleeping position--so tell me now doctor, what can you deduce from this?”

John looked at Sherlock with a surprised eye. It took him some moments to adjust to the facts he was given by the faster than a common speech by Sherlock. Sherlock smirked again and tossed the chemise towards John. He was more careful and delicate this time as he slipped his finger at the underlining of the think silk chemise, fondling it between his fingers.

“It’s good silk...“ he commented, without tearing his eyes from the cloth, “well maintained and-- clean.“ He briefly sniffed it, “by the style and the size, it seems to be of a young woman's... “ Watson lifted his face and shrugged casually, “nothing in particular...“ and suddenly, as if realising he was doing something improper, he dropped the chemise in his lap, “look, I am really out of my depths here--and besides, why am I deducing the owner of this, like a bloody pervert--“

“because you have more experience with women, isn’t that obvious?“ Sherlock remarked with an annoyed expression and then he stooped to pick up the piece of clothing, “as you refuse to do it, let me demonstrate--“ he shook the chemise like a piece of a napkin before tucking it into the neck and swiped it in front of his nose, to sample its odour. “Hmm... a young woman with simple but impeccable taste, no less than 28, tall with a short torso and long legs, very attached to the few clothes she wears, insecure about her endowments, single, introverted and has red hair, “ Sherlock said with a self-satisfied smile.

“I hate when you flex on me Sherlock, you cannot possibly tell that much from a piece of undergarment-- it’s just impossible,” John said exasperatedly as he cocked his legs on Sherlock’s table, an act he seldom does.

“Ah, Doctor... how many times shall I tell you to observe...” Sherlock turned a little on his heels in an exasperated motion. His gritted teeth bared in frustration as if something is at the tip of John’s nose and he can’t see it, “reverse the top, it says La Perle, it is not a commonly worn brand of lingerie--”

“and I am sure you have plenty of experience with that--” John added sarcastically.

“Alas, I don’t get enough credit for my range of knowledge...anyhow, a brand that expensive and design this simple as a cut-piece of black satin it means the woman is of Impeccable taste. And look near the hem Watson, it is slightly distressed at the sides, why? because it is regularly tucked inside the bottom other than that the chemise may show under the hem of the top she is wearing, hence short torso. The gap--“ Sherlock held out the chemise by its thin straps and examined it very carefully “is impeccably wide... this indicates large shoulders, hence she is tall--“

“--Or she is an athlete, like a swimmer or a weightlifter--“ Watson suggested obliquely.

“Don’t be absurd, a bodybuilder or a swimmer won’t spend their money on something that will be destroyed with sweat and abrasion--this is a cloth of a delicate fashion-conscious woman. The overall structure of the fabric is relatively well kept, but the label suggests it is at least three years old, so I am guessing someone who is at their late twenties--that’s the time when you skip the frill and ribbons“ Sherlock indicated with a wave of the hand, and then stepped into the light holding the chemise against it, “and therefore my conclusion is that someone who wears a capsule wardrobe--treasuring a few but quality items of clothes....a classic sign of an introvert.“

“Not all introvert wears muted colours--“ Watson interjected.

“Oh don’t be daft, all introverts wear neutral colours, they don’t want unintentional attention amongst the stranger--and that brings us to the next objective, her current relationship status. As an introvert, she wants to make a connection but never goes as too bold, not in action and definitely not in her lingerie. She recently had a breakup and therefore she is trying to form another connection and she trying to feel sexy again. What is the best way?“ Sherlock paused for a dramatic effect but his friend decided to veer to a very different side.

“And what about her...“

“her what...?“

“You know...“ Watson made a curved hand gesture in front of him, refolding his cocked legs from the table to underneath him, as he straightened up.

“What?“

“Her endowments?“ John spat the words and instantly reddened around the ears.

“Ah..” Sherlock exclaimed like nothing has happened, but suddenly his blue eyes twinkled with mischief, “you are getting curious where you need to--”

“Sherlock, I swear to god--” John exasperated.

“Anyhow... you see how wide the shoulders are John?” He almost flailed the clothing on John’s face, and threw it in his lap for him to examine “with shoulder this tall and torso that short, the inclination at the bosom has barely any stretch, so it definitely means--”

“You just read the size label didn’t you, you sod?” John reversed the chemise and held it up for Sherlock to see. “That’s it, I am going to sleep--enjoy your perverted fantasies...“ he threw the chemise at his face and walked away.

The last thing Sherlock heard from John that night was the slam of the door of his room.

...

For the next few mornings, Sherlock spent an ungodly amount of time near the window of his flat. His natural deductive mind told him that the unknown owner of the Chemise will loiter around here--somewhere, at the corner of his mind told him that it was left intentionally because the Chemise was clean--

too much clean.

But fate was with him as it seemed. For, two-three days he could see a woman loitering around Baker Street, awfully close to his flat. He couldn’t see her face very clearly to make out her features, but from the distance, she fitted the description he made about the owner of the Chemise. 

Tall, red hair, dark clothes, long legs.

she indeed has some broad shoulder. Sherlock could see that from upstairs, the top of her head, from where at the very fleshy dot, the red hair cascaded at the sides upon her shoulders, and even then, Sherlock could see her sliding top, which was adjusted to cover her flesh-colored bra strap. However, her ways seemed peculiar, strange almost--the way she walked or moved in general--a strange anxiousness stuck like fly in the ointment in Sherlock’s mind.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one who was keeping an eye on her.

A blond bespeckled woman rushed towards her after gaining an opportunity by saying “excuse me” to her. After a little, rather stiff and uncomfortable conversation, the red-haired woman darted her head upwards. She was directly looking at Sherlock.

The eyes looked pickle-green and glowed with a feline grace--Scottish?

As if within a blink of an eye, that woman vanished out of Sherlock’s side. His keen eyes veered throughout the length of the street but no girl or woman that looked like that could be seen. Sherlock swiftly thumped downstairs and had a run throughout the block but in vain.

...

That night Sherlock could not sleep well. He tossed and turned about his bed, the air hung above him like a thick canopy, asphyxiating him with an invisible hand. He laid on his back, eyes fixated on the ceiling, bored and tired. He felt as tedious as one feels in a long winding line... like that case in Pope’s Court... what was the name Watson wrote in his blog? Ah yes, the ‘Red Headed League’... romantic that man! what metaphor: “as if the entire Pope’s Court was filled with orange--”

His sudden train of thought was interrupted with the creaking sound of his door. Strange, how could a closed-door creak? It would have been the first thought of his deducive mind, but alas. Today his mind was asleep with himself. Sherlock had to step out from his tousled bed to shut down the creaky door.

slam

The creaky door, whose handle was almost near Sherlock’s grip, slammed itself shut with an ear-shattering slam--on its own.

Sherlock hadn’t yet been nervous. His steel-like nerves were too well trained for something a little startling as this one. Instead, he tried the doorknob, and when it failed, he tried to slam it down, but apparently, no force in the world could open the rusty door that was creaking miserably a few moments ago. When he finally gave out of exhaustion and perspiration, he sunk in his floor. the leather belt of his wristwatch felt against his temple. 

Time was exactly 3 in the morning. Not a second more, not a second less.

Another strange matter crossed in his mind, How come John or Mrs. Hudosn did not come slamming towards his room after all the banging and thundering he had done. And why everything was so awfully quiet... It’s  London for God’s sake, no matter what’s the time, there’s always traffic, and at this hour--slurs of drunkards, hustles of all-nighter food-stalls, late-night cabbies... what happened to the creatures of the night--

The train of his thought halted stop abruptly because there was something else that occupied his mind. the window that was closed securely up until now, slammed open with a gust of wind that roared and stormed in like a cold easterly. Even in a hot night like this, the wind froze the atmosphere around Sherlock to a point that he had to reach for his dressing gown. 

No, Sherlock knew he wasn’t under the influence, he was completely sober and normal. However, he wished that he were, because if he were high then he would have consolation for not be able to understand why the other window beside this ones were completely still and closed like nothing has ever happened to it.

His revolver was under the dresser of the nightstand. He cautiously reached for it to pull it out. Gently and very cautiously he walked towards the window--nothing was making sense anymore, because if it were then it would have been the last thing he would have done. The faint streetlight shined dimly with a strange yellow hue, almost as if they were gaslights. A buzzing sound rung in his ears as he wondered at the strange atmosphere of the night. The air was stuffy, very still--but it felt like it was the end of November. There was not a single living creature that walked the street anymore.

Except her.

No, it wasn’t a mistake--a tall red-headed woman was standing still on the other side of the road, looking at Sherlock with piercing feline eyes. There was no spasm in her silhouette, nor did she blink. In the entire wide Baker Street, there were only two creatures--him and the woman. The darkness at her back seemed denser and colder to Sherlock’s eyes, he tried very hard to speak up, but in vain. He felt his voice has been sucked out of his body by some invisible hand. 

His prized mind was paralysed, and the only thing he could do was to climb down his bedroom window--he felt he couldn’t lose her sight--the only thing his mind was registering in the fragility of the moment. Not a blink shall be spared, not even a breath. He looked at her as if she would vanish into the thin air.

The moment he descended into the street, his senses started to come back. He cautiously approached towards her. As the distance shortened he could see her face more clearly. She looked sallow and her feline eyes dug deep into the purplish shadow; she looked like she hadn’t seen Sun in days and hadn’t slept for weeks.

“Who are you...?“ Sherlock asked, with his hand extended towards the woman, but instead of answering, she looked at her right.

“What is there in--”

At first, Sherlock couldn’t understand what was going on, because how can a person of flesh and blood disappear within a few seconds. But it soon vanished from his head, because he clearly remembers she looked left--what was in the left side of the street.

Like a fly towards the flame, Sherlock’s mind led him towards the hauntedly empty Baker street, with a bubbling agitation in his heart that he felt seldomly. A sense of danger and melancholy plagued him like a nightmare. 

The crossroad where Baker street and Park road meets, Sherlock saw her standing under a streetlight. The bustling Park road stool still and empty like a wasteland, as if there were no single living soul in the city of London. The streetlight on top of her head accentuated the high points of her face in a gaunt manner, she looked almost bloodless, and the shadow on her neck looked like a thin choker-like reddish line.

“Who are you...?“ Sherlock asked, this time a little more compassionately, “what do you want from me?“

There was no answer from her. The thin lips quivered under the streetlight as if she wanted to say something but no answer came. Empathy was not the strongest suit of Sherlock, but there was something about this mute woman that evoked pity in his heart--he approached slowly and cautiously this time, trying not to aggravate her, “look, if you don’t tell me what do you want from me, I cannot help you....”

She stood still, like a lifeless statue, as if she couldn’t help but do so. He approached her quietly, almost uncharacteristically he placed his palm on the girl’s cold cheeks.

“Tell me, why are you following me...“ Sherlock said softly, “If you can’t speak, sign me, I can read--if you are in danger, I will sort it out.“

Again, she did nothing. She turned her head slowly towards her back.

“Did something happen there?“ Sherlock asked her gently, he was quiet surprised himself, if it were any other client, he would have ditched it--but somehow he couldn’t ditch this girl. He had ‘oh-I-am-so-helpless’ cases and client, but this case somewhat was pulling his heartstring for some reason, his mind resonated with an old suppressed feeling which he censored as stupid.

“Did something happen there?” he asked again. She nodded softly.

“Where? Upon this road?” Sherlock’s eyes veered towards the road, and suddenly his hand felt like it was grabbing air, and suddenly he remembered that afternoon five years ago.

“Please help me... someone’s going to kill me.” A frantic woman grabbed Holmes’ lapel and shook it helplessly. Holmes was irritated as he would have been if someone breached his personal space. He let go off her rather rudely, and stood on the side of the window.

“Boring... boring!” he mused, “you are a ex-schizofrenic with zero sense of personal space, go see a doctor and stop boring me.”

“No... no..” she shook her red hair violently, “I am not hallucinating, I swear—it follows me day and night, and sometimes I have troubled sleeping because I feel someone is always in my room--”

Now Holmes already had lost it, “this proves that you are in dire need of psychiatric help” he almost pushed the woman towards the door, “good day--”

Suddenly the woman’s expression changed from the previous helplessness to a distinctly threatening calmness. She looked straight into Holmes’s eyes, and as she stood at the dark background of the old landing, her paleness stood out gauntly and the purple shadow on her eyes looked grotesque as she threatened Holmes with a cold voice

“If I die Mr. Holmes, it would be on you.”

Sherlock would have forgotten about his nearly nutter client if Lestrade didn’t storm in with another murder case next day. And out of all the blessedly sacrifical people in London, Lestrade found Sherlock the body of a dead woman found floating in her chemise and knickers near Regent’s Park. He even followed him to St. Bart’s where she was under Molly Hooper’s examination... yes, it was her no doubt. That same red hair, the round face, the wide eye socket casketing two brilliant feline eyes.

“– her lungs were full of water and the CCTV footage told that she had jumped from the bridge near the Atrium Apartment on Park Road–“ Molly concluded, “apparantly a suicide but there was no note.”

“So I suggest leave the case alone, I am sure Scotland yard is more than capable of handling it”

He had shut that memory for good. Deep down in his mind he blamed himself for the girl’s death. She was so desperate and he turned her down. He could never be like Mycroft, stone cold and guilt free.

But why it was happening now

A strange chill paralyzed him like a naked man in a cold night.

So does that mean, his client is seeking revenge even after her death?

“If I die Mr. Holmes, it would be on you.”

Was she trying to... harm him?

 Suddenly he knew, he shouldn’t be in here. He knew that if he ever deared him life, he shouldn’t be here. Because his subconscious told him he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, he saw something that a living being should not be able to see. Whatever motor reflexes were left in his body, he concentrated on them and started to run, run like hell, into the ever bustling Baker Street that didn’t exist moment ago. The last thing Sherlock remembered a flash of white headlights and a rib shattering pain as he crashed off a cab onto the street.

It would have been fatal if Speedy didn’t see him.

Sherlock knows that no one will ever believe what truly happened that night. Watson and Molly believed he fell off  his bedroom window, and he will let them believe. He kept his mouth shut as the Orthopaedics and psychiatrists came to evaluated him.

Sometimes, when the night is too quite, Sherlock lies awake in his bed, wondering about the woman in the silk chemise. Sometimes in a crowded street he sees a flicker of that distinct red hair or a pair of twinkling feline eyes with dark circle. Of course he will never tell that to anyone, and not even admit it himself. Not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of herself at least once. If the street is deserted and the lights are dim, he would wonder off to the canal near the Atrium building to scream his heart out—

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”

No one ever answers.

--

La Femme en Chemise Soie: The Girl in the Silk Chemise

I often saw in Writing Prompts, ‘bring your character out of their depth’, although Sherlock is not ‘my’ characters, but I thought I would introduce him with a bit of paranormal stuff.