Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

Art

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"Do you want to know something? I think it's a cover up."

I looked up from my blank sheet of paper and into the expression of Charlie's sharp face. She studied me for a second then rolled her eyes.

"You haven't being listening to a word I've said, have you?" She levelled her paintbrush at me in a threatening manner. I was grateful for the table between us, since I didn't doubt for one second that she'd paint my face the colour of the rainbow if she could reach.

"I have!" I lied, only able to focus on the end of the brush, which probably told her that my lack of eye contact just reinforced the accusation of my lying.

I admitted I'd been a little wrapped up in my own thoughts to listen properly to my best friend's babble, especially when, on average, only six per-cent of what she said was relevant.

Mostly my thoughts had circulated around my dad being sat at the table that morning with the morning paper, a large mug of coffee and a plate of toast. I'd only been able to chat to him quickly before I dashed out the house to get to school on time.

I felt guilty that we hardly spoke on morning and I missed being able to sit down with him and have a good chat, even if it was about something dull and boring, such as the weather.

Charlie looked at me again and tossed a few loose curls of ginger hair out of her face, puffing out her cheeks in exasperation.

"Don't lie to me." She said patiently then added, "I was talking about the murders." - as if trying to jog my memory about the conversation that she might as well have been having with herself.

I moved my sheet of paper absentmindedly and hummed my response. I wasn't in the mood for art today. I wasn't very good at it anyway; i couldn't draw for toffee and my work made a five year olds' look like a masterpiece.

I had my brush was poised ready to paint but it was as if my mind didn't even recognise what it was for.

"I mean, what psycho kills people and throws paint on them?" Charlie continued to talk, ignoring my lack of interest and attention.

She did this all the time; talked as if I were listening. Maybe she'd just got used to my lack of response, so talked for the sake of it.

"An artistic one?" I smirked, tapping the paintbrush around the jar of water listening to the ringing sound it made upon hitting the glass. It was actually quite a comforting noise . . . irritating but oddly comforting. Then it just began sound melancholy.

"Miss Sapphire!"

I jumped out of my skin when Miss Dannah spoke briskly, coming to stand by my desk. The paintbrush jammed against the side of the jar as I flinched, threatening to tip the whole thing over. I caught it before it toppled, only splashing a little water onto the table and over my hand.

"What lovely artwork do we have today?" the teacher asked sarcastically.

I looked down at the blank page again and shrugged, "A Polar Bear in a snowstorm."

She looked a little less than impressed at my smart-arse remark.

She grunted impatiently.

Charlie sniggered lowly from across the desk, her head bent over her own work.

"Wonderful." Miss Dannah mused, "Maybe you should find some inspiration from somewhere, hum? You could use the internet?" She gestured to the computers.

I sat up abruptly.

"No!" I nearly yelled then slouched back down in my seat embarrassedly when the class glanced around to give me strange looks.

"I can't. I already have a good idea." I lied for the second time today, trying to make up for my obviously strange behaviour. I didn't want to explain to Miss Dannah my reason for not even going near s computer all year . . . Never mind switching one on . . .

"Hum," She looked at me, unconvinced by my atrocious lying abilities. I was just having a bad day, that was all - I tried to explain to her.

Then I tried to convince her by building on the lie: "I'm taking inspiration from . . . well, - erm," I screwed up my face in thought, pushing back my dark hair from my face and wishing I'd never opened my mouth.

Desks, chairs, people, plants, the weather . . . what was inspiring? I thought, panicking all of a sudden and blushing a deep scarlet.

"The recent murders!" Charlie blurted, jabbing her paintbrush in my direction again.

"Yeah!" I agreed proudly, having not realised what Charlie had said. I gave her a look; one with eyebrows raised that said, 'Seriously?'

The class stopped working, having become engrossed in listening to our conversation.

"Paint throwing." Charlie said slowly, nodding her head from side to side as if thinking carefully about what she said next, realising the class was watching her also.

"Paint throwing?" I hissed at her and she shrugged. I sighed heavily realising there was nothing I could do to get out of the hole I'd dug myself into. "Yeah, paint throwing."

Miss Dannah definitely wasn't amused by that.

"Out of my class." She growled, pointing towards the door with a slender finger.

"I didn't-" I began to argue but gave up, angry and hot headed that I'd gotten myself into such a mess.

I scraped my chair backwards noisily and defiantly strode towards the door.

"Stay out there until I come and talk to you!" She shouted at me as I slammed the door closed, as if to make a point. I stood in the cold corridor, leaning against the bricks, mindful of the display based on Picasso on the wall behind me.

After a while - calmed down and feeling less hot headed from adrenalin - I walked off. No way I was standing there waiting for her to come talk to me about . . . what exactly? - I thought to myself - my inappropriate talk about the recent deaths?

Technically it had been Charlie who had started that.

I pulled off my navy jumper and tied it around my waist, rolling up my shirt sleeves before making my way down to the head teacher's office. My blue and gold tie trailed on the floor behind me.

I despised this hellish place.