After Kairi finished her Pho, she became agitated and couldn't focus on the show she usually loved to watch or the book that she tried to pick up. All she could focus on was the leather folder sitting neatly on her coffee table, surrounded by remnants of a demolished Pho Tai.
She stood carefully and made her way into her bedroom, with a tired Appa at her heels. She tried to be distracted by tidying up her place, but in all honesty, there wasn't much to tidy up. She rid her face of makeup, leaving her pale skin without any cover and her hair tied up in yet another messy bun. She changed into her most comfortable t-shirt, long woolly socks and grabbed her laptop and cell phone and made her way out into her front room again.
Sitting carefully in her overstuffed chair and making sideways glances at the leather folder, she put on her glasses and began to absent-mindedly type on her keyboard. She did mild research on her newest acquaintances. She stumbled across plenty of internet articles speculative on the sexuality of Mr. Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Though some of them made her blush, she distinctly remembered how John's eyes had raked over her body and face when they were being introduced. She had a hard time believing someone with that intense of a stare could be interested in anything less than the opposite sex. But then again, there was Sherlock Holmes. The enigma. The pompous enigma. The pompous utterly frustrating enigma. She stopped herself before she went on a tirade. The man inspected literally every visible centimeter of her body and yet it seemed as if the Vulcan hardly cared more for her than a scrap of trash on the street. The trash probably had more mystery to it in his mind. She didn't think she was that hideous. Maybe a little rounder in some areas than most lanky British women, but she always thought her face was cute and simple. Her eyes were a very clear blue, very cyan in nature with almost white speckles surrounding the pupil. Her hair was a platinum blonde, mostly from dyeing it, but it was originally blonde at one time, long ago before she fell in with her rockabilly ways. She realized she let herself become distracted by her own personal deduction and started to violently jab the keys. As if it would make the insecurity go away.
After the more saucily written articles, she found Sherlock Holmes' personal blog. She tried to read through some of his more recent studies but found herself wanting to fall asleep - and this coming from someone who reads, writes, and edits computer code for a living. She would remember that fact come any restless nights in the future.
It wasn't that his experiments weren't interesting, but his explanation of research was frightfully dull. In a few posts she could see the excitement in his writing, but for the most part, it seemed like it was written by a Robot - and not the fun kind with hookers and blackjack.
She went back to her Google search and realized she had missed the link right above his own personal blog. It was the blog of John Watson. She clicked on it, took a look around the basic page and decided it would be fun to inspect its elements. She glanced through the laughable code - what you could expect from a basic blogging website intended for the everyday housewife - and was sorely tempted on figuring out a way to hack into its web server and change all the O's to little hearts. Maybe just the ones in Sherlock Holmes' name.
She quickly quashed the temptation and clicked on the most recent blog post and read through the lengthy description of their most recent case. Where Holmes' blog was detail oriented, rather blase in its ability to depict its importance to the reader, and dreadfully boring, Watson's blog was rather enticing. His words weren't fancy, though she knew he was educated, but each and every sentence was filled with an emotion. It was amazing as much as it was captivating. Kairi sat there for what felt like hours, knees cuddled up to her chest and laptop balancing precariously on the arm of her favorite chair, reading John's words and eventually feeling the tiniest inkling of obsession. Now she knew why they were famous. It obviously was not the charm or the elegant brilliance of the young detective, but his charismatic mate who seemed to be the only person in the world truly capable of bringing out an excellence and a sort of humanity in Sherlock Holmes no one had ever experienced before.
Before she could control it, she had read through numerous of John's retellings, equally thrilled and devastated by each and every one. She chastised herself for not researching this before - since that really WAS her job. Now she only held more and more intense interest for the consulting detective, the doctor, and now, the brother.
Thinking of the brother she took a moment to click open another tab and Google Mycroft Holmes. She shouldn't have been surprised when absolutely nothing came up on him. Did you mean Sherlock Holmes? Google asked almost triumphantly. Not even a Facebook or a Livejournal from his more troubled youth. She was slightly disappointed and was tempted to dig a little deeper when she realized the man had been in her apartment by himself with her most prized laptop for who knows how long. She had built and customized the damn thing within an inch of its life, with help from a very talented young man back in the states. She stared at it a moment, lifted it in her hands to feel the weight of it and didn't notice any added heft, but she figured that she was probably under some covert surveillance now. Her face blanched when she thought about the fact that she had walked around in almost her underwear only a few hours before. She gulped back her ultimate horror and sighed, realizing that life could never be any semblance of normalcy ever again. She had punched the infuriating the detective and by that simple action she had created a ripple affect that would forever distort her future.
She was justifiably furious for a good moment and let her anger get the best of her. She pulled up the secure sign in location - that was only supposed to be available on terminal computers within Scotland Yard - and decided to retrieve the information she sought in a rather unethical way. However, in her first few weeks at Scotland Yard she was tasked with beefing up web security and the darned information just never seemed to leak out of her head. So within a few minutes, a few hacked databases, she was angrily punching numbers into her phone and sending a text.
I've met a friend of yours. Rather imposing.
A few minutes ticked by where Kairi was sure the detective was staring stupidly (or what she thought was stupidly) at his phone trying to uncover the mystery of this random text.
The normal chime sounded on Sherlock's phone as he laid haphazardly on his sofa glaring at the ceiling while trying to piece together some evidence from his most recent case.
After the Fall he had gone into hiding and was partially unsuccessful in trying to reach the furthest most tendrils of Moriarty's web of crime. He had worked with Mycroft from the very beginning, using Mycroft's intelligence contacts and his own brilliant mind to try to decipher the hazy connections of Moriarty's world. He had not come up with much, aside from a few names, some random IP addresses and an unknown form of communication. Sherlock assumed it would be something intricate and beautiful, but was not as adept with technology as he would have preferred. The concept of a computer terminal was frightfully boring to him. The complexity of a computer's parts were interesting enough, especially when exposed to acid, but once they started transmitting information it became frightfully dull. He was worried that becoming too engrossed with the machine would eventually drag him down into stupidity, as it did much of the common folk. So obsessed with Facebook, Twittering, and blogs. He allowed himself a dramatic eye roll, glancing in his current blogger's direction. Though he knew most of John's spare time with said machine was NOT spent blogging. Once Sherlock had discovered how to view internet history, most of John's secrets were gone.
He slipped his phone into his grasp and brought it close to his face, staring at the screen, his eyes fluttering electrically across the small expanse. He sat up quickly, not recognizing the number. It was local, at least local to London. John stared at him for a moment but went back to whatever tedious past time he was indulging in now. Probably fancy cat photos. Sherlock sneered in disgust for a moment while letting the numbers run through his mind. Nothing he could recall. Nothing stood out. It was infuriating. He stared at it for a few moments and inspected the text.
I've met a friend of yours. Rather imposing.
He glared at it. The author used friend instead of mate, so not someone who used common words like mate. The phrasing was for effect, he assumed it was most likely a female. Most males did not prefer to use interesting syntax while texting a friend. He paused a moment, would this person be close to him? Most likely not, otherwise he would have had their number programmed into his phone. Or at least John's.
"John, your phone." Sherlock muttered still staring at the screen and reaching up an open and expecting palm. As he stared at the number some more, he heard John's reluctant sigh and his soft footsteps towards the sofa. The comfortable weight of John's mobile popped into his hand.
"I've put in a new pass-," John started, but barely looking, Sherlock typed in the new pass code with a deft fingers, "-code. Course. Couldn't be bother with respecting my privacy now, could you?" He resigned and retreated to his computer.
As Sherlock typed in the phone number, hoping for the technology to pick up a familiarity, he replied boredly, "You're skin's oils deposited the approximate formation of numbers John and with that I was able to - well, you know. You're grandmother's birthday? How trite."
He could practically hear John roll his eyes and then, his sigh. Sherlock's face turned down into a frown as the phone pulled up no known information on John's phone. With a growl, he tossed the phone across the room. John's eyes following it, a little desperately, where it landed on a pile of crumpled up newspaper from a previous experiment.
"You're lucky there," John said exasperated, "You'd owe me a new phone. I just got that one."
"Quiet!" Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes a moment, "I'm thinking."
John mumbled quite bitterly, "Could've bloody fooled me." He sat at his laptop and resumed his work.
Sherlock's only response was to swat away John's words as if they were poisonous. He let his mind tick away for a few moments before coming up with nothing very important. So he sat back dejectedly on his sofa with a huff and began to type.
A low, whooshing, vworping noise brought Kairi's attention back from Reddit and she grabbed her phone, opening the most recent text.
Did you now? -SH
She glanced at her watch, only six minutes seemed to have passed. What an eternity it must have been in his mind.
Yes, otherwise I would not have texted you. She replied coyly.
Probably with frustration, he responded, Pray tell. Who is this exactly? -SH
She couldn't help but smile. The smug bastard couldn't exactly deduce her measurements from her phone number could he!? It must burn you inside out that you couldn't figure out who this is.
Burn me? For a moment his heart seemed to skip a beat. He had dealt with the fear that Moriarty had somehow managed to fake his own death like Sherlock had faked his. However, he was intimately familiar with Moriarty's suicide, so much so that it was ingrained in his soul. On some nights, he wouldn't dare admit, he still dreamed of it. He shook away the thoughts, the intimate knowledge of the death was utmost evidence of how it could not possibly be him.
Enough of the foolish chatter. Who is this? -SH
Kairi rolled her eyes. The jerk could dish it, but couldn't take it, it seemed. She responded easily with a smirk on her lips.
Ms. Aria. Kairi. I've just had the most intriguing meeting with your brother, of all people.
A few beats of silence and then the whooshing sounded again.
Ah, Ms. Aria. And how did you come to get my phone number? - SH
She began to type a sarcastic reply when another message popped up.
My brother? - SH
She smiled. Obviously he was more intrigued by the second half of her statement.
Yes, your brother. He's offered me a job, it seems.
Silence.
Well it seems your talent is much more extensive than I originally thought. That or malevolent judging by my brother's interest. -SH
She scoffed, He hardly seemed all that malevolent. Except for threatening my dog with his umbrella. That situation was avoided by a well placed threat and a fantastic grip on my bat. She smiled and pressed send.
Yes that does seem like my brother. - SH
A bat? I thought you wanted to be the peaceful Yank of Scotland Yard. - SH
Kairi couldn't help but laugh a bit. The strange, morose man did seem to come alive via text rather than in person. He probably frequented chat rooms, hoping for pictures of scantily clad and lonely women. She shook her head again, laughing at the picture of Holmes' in his boxers, sitting in a dark room in front of a computer with a Mountain Dew in his hand. Sherlock Holmes' seemed to think frivolity was a pointless distraction. What an absolute bore, he was.
Yes, a bat. I am peaceful, but break into my home and threaten my dog? You may as well have just told me I look pregnant. Oh wait, you did. She typed back with a little more vehemence than she originally intended.
She didn't realize that texting could be this awkward. It was almost like talking to real people... Horrible.
I did not say you looked pregnant. I was inferring that you looked at least six months postpartum. - SH
"Oh my god." Kairi said out loud and Appa looked up at her, sleepily curious, obviously more concerned by the length of time it was taking his master to decide to go to bed in the pile of heaven. "I'm conversing with an absolute idiot."
You are horrible Mr. Holmes. Was all she could manage to reply without possibly destroying her phone with vulgar language.
You misunderstood my previous text. That was not my final deduction if you recall, that was merely my first impression. After a rather infuriating and mind numbing conversation with an imbecile. -SH
Though his reply was swift, Kairi couldn't help but feel like she would have punched him again if she had the chance. She sighed, now understanding that not only did Sherlock Holmes' have absolutely no filter, but also a volatile tempter.
Have you ever been diagnosed with Aspberger's? You would be the perfect poster child to horrify parents into early intervention.
She almost felt bad for texting that, but he replied quickly again.
I have been diagnosed with many things Ms. Aria. Being horrible is not the worst. -SH
"Cry me a river you prat!" She growled at the phone.
I'll be retiring to my bed chambers soon. Your family should have its own television show. It was horrible and lovely to meet you and your brother. It assuaged my concerns of being socially inept. I am a rock star compared to you two.
Goodnight Ms. Aria, I don't yet dread working with you. -SH
She glared at her phone and was about to turn it off when she decided otherwise.
Goodnight Mr. Holmes. But I think you should know you are not the first consulting detective I've ever met. She grinned maniacally as she typed.
The reply was lighting fast. And who is the other? -SH
Ever heard of a gentleman called Adrian Monk? Just about as brilliant and dysfunctional as you.
She smiled, knowing it was silly to goad him, but she didn't really care. She turned off her phone for the rest of the night, letting Sherlock Holmes believe for a few brief moments that he was not as brilliant as he deemed himself to be. The next time she would see him, she decided she would prove it.