Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

Market Talents

I decided after leaving the café to take a detour home. Sometimes living in London got tedious. I didn't travel a lot; in fact I think I'd only ever left London twice in my whole life. But since Mum had died, me and Dad hadn't gone anywhere. Mostly it was because we couldn't afford to go on holiday but we didn't have a car either meaning we couldn't go on daytrips. So sometimes it was nice to get away from the standstill traffic and crowded streets and noise by taking a back road or a walk through a park.

I could see Belgrave Square from there and then a little bit of Hyde Park beyond that but didn't fancy walking straight towards it so went down a back street.

It took me down one of the 'no traffic' roads where there was a little street market was set up.

A lot of people complained about the more low key markets because of the road closures they caused. However I liked markets; mostly because the stalls intrigued me. The the sparkling jewellery and just general clutter that people bought never to look at again was something that captivated me for hours.

The market wasn't that busy anyway, just a few people loitered around, wasting time, waiting for a cab or whatever people did with their lives.

Usually it was a good place for a bit of pickpocketing but I wasn't in the mood and I had a gut feeling that I'd probably get caught.

So instead, pushing all thoughts of murders and hacking and Mycroft, to the back of my mind - I began absorbing all the little bits and bobs that the stalls were displaying proudly.

One man had set up a collection of wood work that he'd lovingly carved. There were little wooden chairs for children and chests for toys and storage. I couldn't help but pick up a little box with small carvings of flowers on the lid.

"It's meant for hair bobbles and jewellery." I jumped out of my skin when the stall holder began talking to me. He was a man maybe in his forties.

"It's very pretty." I said, managing to find my words after my shock, "You're very talented."

"Thank you," He smiled, "I make them all myself, on my lathe or with a chisel and hammer." He explained proudly.

I tipped the box in my hand and saw that 'Mum' was carved into the side in delicate letters all entwined with each other with more spindly flowers framing it. A lump caught in my throat and I had to cough slightly to make sure I didn't suddenly choke.

"There's another one here with 'Dad' on it," The guy said picking up another box, not noticing my reaction and picking up another box. It had small cars engraved on it accompanied by 'Dad' carved in bold letters. I bit my lip wanting, more than ever, to just walk away.

"I'm actually doing a buy three get one free on these boxes." The man added, placing the box back on the table before heaving out a plastic container with more boxes inside. He looked at them the way an owner might look at a litter of puppies that he could't find a good home for.

"They are hard to sell because people don't know what to do with them. But I'd hate to have to burn them down as fire wood so I'm trying to sell them on special offer."

I looked at them all feeling like he'd caught me in a little salesman trap that, if I refused, I'd feel awful for.

Then one caught my eye. It was mostly plain, the lid engraved with just tiny marks and in the top right-hand corner and bottom left-hand corner were little skulls. The rest of the box was just sanded down and finished with a smooth polish.

With the last of the money in my purse I bought the Mum, Dad and skull boxes and got a free one with Eve on the side. The only other box with a personalised name on it close to my real name was Evelyn. I sometimes wondered what made my mum choose Everly. It wasn't exactly the most popular name in the world.

I was so caught up in trying to pack the boxes away into my backpack that I didn't see the easel in front of me until I'd walked into it and stumbled.

Everyone looked at me as I blushed what felt like a brilliant shade of red.

"Watch it, Love." A man laughed, coming over and helping to pick up the fallen easel.

"I'm really sorry." I spluttered, feeling even more foolish as I tried to help but just managed to get in the way even more.

The man offered me a lopsided smile, "I'd have been more bothered if there had been a painting on it." This comment made me tense up slightly, wide eyed.

"I was joking." He reassured me. I relaxed enough to look at the stall he was manning. A sign saying 'L.Novak's fine art' was hung above a tablet round which were a few crates full of canvases.

I smiled back at the man who gestured to the stall, seeing my interest, "Take a look if you'd like."

I did, flicking though watercolour drawings of animals and acrylic pieces and landscapes. I even found a few charcoal pieces that intrigued me.

"You like art?" He asked me, going back to his chair behind the table.

"Yeah, it's something that I think people put a lot of emotion into." I answered. "Although I'm shocking at it myself. I can't draw for toffee and my attempts at working in any form of medium fail utterly. It is something I really wish I was good at though." I continued to babble while moving canvases.

"That is, unless you're murdering someone." I blurted lightheartedly then realised what I'd said and stopped.

"Sorry, I read too many newspapers."

He smiled, "Newspapers are good for collages."

I nodded in agreement then held up a painting of a red London bus, "I like this one."

He tipped his head to one side, "I can't even remember painting that."

I laughed, "Maybe you should get a bigger business. You could really quite successful with paintings as good as these."

He laughed at me again, "I would, but money is a bit short for starting up a business at the moment. I did have an interior decorating job though, but fine art was always more my passion."

I put the canvas down, not really listening as I studied the painting still in my hand. "I'd pay for it if I had the money." I said gesturing to it.

He stood up and looked down at the piece, "Oh well. Maybe next time."

"Yeah, maybe." I said before walking away back towards the main street and towards Belgrave Square and then followed the signs to Knightsbride underground station.

I hopped on the Piccadilly line to South Kensington before changing trains onto the circle line.

I fought my way out of Paddington station and bitterly trudged home cursing that I lived in one of the worst parts of London to get to on the underground.

Dad was back home, asleep on the kitchen table, his head resting on an open book. I frowned suspiciously; he never read. He wrote all the time but never had I seen him read a book.

I carefully eased it out from under his head, pausing as he mumbled and snorted before looking at the title: Doctor Mensons' Guide to giving up alcohol.

I froze then looked down at Dad, asleep on the table, coffee cup next to his writing papers.

Was he really trying to give up?

I decided not to wake him and just settled the book back and trudged up the stairs to bed. Sleep didn't come so easily.