You Are My Mystery {Sherlock Holmes}

Chapter 33

"Neither," I butt in.

"Really?" She nervously blinks.

"No. You're not a fan at all," Sherlock states. I look at the indentations in her skin just below her right wrist.

"Those marks on your forearm: edge of a desk. You've been typing in a hurry, probably. Pressure on; facing a deadline," I state.

"That all?" She asks looking away.

"And there's a smudge of ink on your wrist; and a bulge in your left jacket pocket," Sherlock concludes. He and and the girl look down to her pocket from which is protruding the edge of a dictaphone, which has a red light shining on it showing that it's recording.

"Bit of a giveaway," the woman says.

"The smudge is deliberate, to see if I'm as good as they say I am," Sherlock says. I lift her hand and sniff the ink on her wrist.

"Hmm. Oil-based, used in newspaper print, but drawn on with an index finger; your finger," I discover.

"Hmm!"

"Journalist," Sherlock and I say in unison.

"Unlikely you'd get your hands dirty at the press. You put that there to test us."

"Wow, I'm liking you two!" The woman beams.

"You mean I'd make a great feature: 'Sherlock Holmes – the man beneath the hat'."

"Kitty Riley. Pleased to meet you," The woman who is now known as Kitty introduce herself as she offers her hand for him to shake.

"No. I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you an interview; no, I don't want the money," Sherlock abruptly states. Pushing past her, he heads for the door. She chases after him.

"You and Rachelle Baines- just platonic? Can I put you down for a "no" there, as well?"She stops him from opening the door and gets in his way, stepping well into his personal space. He breathes loudly and angrily. "There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later you're gonna need someone on your side..."

Reaching into her pocket, she holds up her business card and then tucks it into his breast pocket, "...someone to set the record straight.

"And you think you're the girl for that job, do you?" Sherlock questions.

"I'm smart, and you can trust me, totally," Kitty mumbles.

"Smart, okay: investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see," Sherlock demands. She stares at him blankly, perhaps a little overwhelmed by the way he is swaying gently in front of her. "If you're that skilful, you don't need an interview. You can just read what you need." She looks awkward and can't continue to meet his eyes. "No? Okay, my turn. I look at you and I see someone who's still waiting for their first big scoop so that their editor will notice them. You're wearing an expensive skirt but it's been re-hemmed twice; only posh skirt you've got. And your nails: you can't afford to do them that often. I see someone who's hungry. I don't see smart, and I definitely don't see trustworthy, but I'll give you a quote if you like – three little words... You ... repel ... me." Sherlock says the last few words slowly.

Before running after him I whisper something to Kitty.

"Platonic? For now," I smirk before running off to Sherlock.

***

OLD BAILEY, COURT TEN.

Sherlock has been called to give his evidence and is standing in the witness box. Jim is in the dock opposite him, nonchalantly chewing on his gum. I am waiting for my turn in the witness box.

"A 'Consulting Criminal'." The prosecuting barrister says.

"Yes," Sherlock confirms.

"Your words. Can you expand on that answer?" The prosecuting barrister questions.

"James Moriarty is for hire."

"A tradesman?" The prosecuting barrister asks.

"Yes."

"But not the sort who'd fix your heating," the prosecuting barrister states almost as a question.

"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler," Sherlock says making me laugh.
Th prosecuting barrister tries to hide her smile.

"Would you describe him as..." The prosecuting barrister trails off, waiting for  an answer.

"Leading."

"What?"

"Can't do that. You're leading the witness. He'll object and the judge will uphold," Sherlock admits. The judge looks exasperated – apparently this isn't the first time Sherlock has done this during his evidence.

"Mr Holmes," the judge warns.

"Ask me how. How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"

"Mr Holmes, we're fine without your help," the judge warns. Kitty comes into the public gallery. I look round at her as she finds a seat.

"How would you describe this man – his character?"

"First mistake. James Moriarty isn't a man at all – he's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances," Sherlock spits out. Jim almost imperceptibly nods his head as if approving of the description. The prosecuting barrister clears her throat awkwardly.

"And how long..."

"No, no, don't-don't do that. That's really not a good question," Sherlock demands.

"Mr Holmes," the judge warns angrily.

"How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up," Sherlock starts, "I felt we had a special something," he ends sarcastically?

"Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?" The judge wonders aloud.

"Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample."

"Mr Holmes, that's a matter for the jury," the judge states.

"Oh, really?" His eyes turn towards the jury box. I raise my hand to my head in an all-too-recognizable gesture. Sherlock turns the full force of his gaze onto the twelve people sitting in the jury box and has deduced all of them within a couple of seconds.

"One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the City. The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand," Sherlock deduces.

"Mr Holmes!"

"Seven are married and two are having an affair – with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits. Would you like to know who ate the wafer?" Sherlock asks, quite delighted.