#yoursocialconstruct

alspotter

malfoyking

devileyedetective

yoursocialconstruct

One year and eight months, that's how long it had been; one year and eight months since she had last seen (or heard, really, as he had been swathed in black) Sherlock Holmes. Irene Adler hated the fact that she couldn't forget his face or the man himself – she was in the business of using and forgetting people (men, in particular) and Sherlock Holmes should have been no exception.

But he was.

Sherlock Holmes had bested her and had earned a place in Irene's memory forever, though she wouldn't admit such things – not even to herself, not willingly. She owed her life to him and that fact weighed heavily on her shoulders – ironically not unlike a death sentence – though she tried not to think of it often; she had never been in the business of accepting charity, admitting a need for help, or... begging.

And she had done all three of those things in only a matter of moments, simply because Sherlock Holmes had told her to and because she valued her life; with the utterance of one single syllable, one single request – a single /please/ – he had won.

That seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet it was only a few months. Strange how time worked.

Speaking of time, the sleepy little town Irene currently occupied seemed completely independent of the need to trifle with deadlines and time. The inhabitants came and went as they pleased and Irene found herself almost envious of their carefree nature, though she was scarcely envious of their evident content to live their lives wallowing in the deadly clutch of habit.

Even as she ambled about the snow-covered streets, she attempted to figure out why anyone would choose to settle down in such a town permanently. There were no prospects and there was little in the way of entertainment, and yet... they seemed so content. More often than not, she would find herself witnessing a happy reunion and wondering just what propelled people to make such attachments and to look so forward to seeing one another. Emotional entanglements were dangerous, but they seemed happier for it. Such strange creatures, people.

... Mr. Holmes.

yoursocialconstruct started following you

Going for an afternoon coffee and a slice of pie without getting yourself in trouble wasn't too much to ask, was it? Except, of course, if your last name was Winchester. Dean Winchester, especially, had a certain inclination for getting himself in trouble. This time around, however, he had done remarkably little. He was just sitting there, sipping his coffee and enjoying the freshly baked pecan pie the waitress had just put down in front of him, when the distinct feeling that someone was watching him crept over him.

His eyes scanned the small diner, slightly narrowed at the notion of being watched, but he didn't see anything. That is, until he turned to find out the man behind him had fixed his eyes on the back of his head. So---what was he? Health inspection coming to see if his short hair had caught any lice? Hardly. He hitched up an eyebrow, turning to face the man; who knew perhaps someone had sent him to the Winchesters for help. And if not...well, this was very likely to end in a fight.