Chapter 2: Scotland Yard
The headquarters of Scotland Yard weren't all that interesting. Bulletproof glass and steel girders made up the outside, and plain, polished granite floor made the inside.
Every cubicle was the same. Desk, plain plywood, not even real wood. Cheap spinning chair, very little padding, no armrests, all the same shade of office grey. The computers were new, but all the same, their silver screens, and green flashing lights blinking in unison with their silver mice.
She walked past, listening to her own feet tap on the polished floor. She wondered how long it took some one to polish the floor. That would be 5, and then carry the 8 and – oh, rubbish. Someone broke her concentration.
Her head snapped up and she stopped day dreaming. She was never good at mental math anyway.
"Ah! Dr. Mortan!" The man who had snapped her out o her day-dream smiled. He was a pleasant looking fellow, with grey brown hair, and a straight nose. His eyes were small, but not cold or harsh. In fact, he looked tired, dark circles hung under his eyes.
"Hello, Lestrade." She told him, accepting his outstretched hand. She glanced past him, eyes darting back and forth.
"Hello." She heard, and she turned to the side, jumping a little bit. She never said she wasn't jumpy. Two men were standing; one leaning on the wall of someone's cubicle – a Mr. Robert Grange, if the label on the wall was correct, and the other man was standing stiffly off to the side. The stiff one was the one that spoke.
"Hello." She said quietly, taking in the mans appearance. She was always very observant, and a more than a little critical. He was short in stature, with short, curly brown hair atop of his head. His eyes were a murky brown or green, it was hard to tell in this light, and from they way he was standing she could tell military, she could also tell that he favored one of his legs.
Had Lestrade gone and gotten the military to get her? Her heart started to flutter in panic. She took deep breaths, letting out through her nose. She couldn't think of any big laws that she had broken lately.
"I'm Dr. John Watson." The military man told her, stepping forward. Ah, a doctor. She relaxed a little bit. Doctor's weren't as bad. Even if they were military.
"Dr. Alia Morton." She told him, shaking his hand. She glanced at the man beside him who made no move to introduce himself to her. Alia turned to look at him. He was tall, and staring down at his feet, lips pursed.
Watson sighed. "This here is Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective." She turned and looked at him, her green eyes flashing as they took in his appearance.
The other man, Sherlock, was taller, and very thin, with a mess of black hair atop his head. He had high cheekbones, and a face made of all angles. It seemed that anyway you looked something sharp was staring back at you.
His eyes were bright, a light blue perhaps, and they moved around at a rapid pace, taking in every little detail of the room. His mouth was an angry line, like he kept it that way just to look annoyed. His voice was very British, and when he spoke he spoke harshly, trailing off at the ends, or in the middle of a sentence. She could tell that he was a man with some sort of brilliance, and he had difficulty communicating it with other people.
Suddenly his sharp eyes snapped on her, and Alia felt like she was under a microscope. His eyes scanned all over her, head to toes, and then back up to her face. He didn't seem to view her as a person, but as a bit of food, that someone looked over for blemishes before they bought it.
"Are you through now?" She asked, annoyed, angry that he was so – well, the word had slipped away from her. Weird would have to suffice.
He nodded, yawning loudly. "Quite." He changed his shift on the wall, leaning on his other leg now. Even though he wasn't moving, Alia would have bet money that he walked with a swagger.
Lestrade sighed, and began to talk. "I want Dr. Morton to help you on your next case, Sherlock." He said aloud, his face grimacing at the word, 'Sherlock'.
No love loss there. Interesting. Alia thought to herself, glancing back and forth between them. Sherlock didn't seem to like him either.
Sherlock sighed and shook his head, a lock of his dark hair flapping. "I'm afraid that I'm not some sort of co-op, Lestrade. I don't take in random people and train them." He moved rapidly, like he didn't like to stay still.
Alia bristled, she did not have to be treated like this, and she gritted her molars together. "I don't have to be trained, and certainly not by you. What are you even talking about Lestrade?" She snapped.
Sherlock turned to her, one eyebrow raised. "Feisty." He said finally. Watson just looked awkward, shifting from foot to foot, looking like Sherlock did this a lot, and that he wished he was somewhere else.
Alia ignored him and turned back to Lestrade. "Well?" She asked expectantly, tapping one heel on the floor. It was the only sound in the room. Tap. Tap. Tap. Her heel broke the silence with what seemed like deafening cracks.
Lestrade spoke. "You're the best in your field, and I've found that you haven't seemed focused on your work lately, you've seemed bored. Think of this as a paid vacation."
The clock on the wall ticked ominously in the silence, its large minute hand, forever moving forward. Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-
Alia stared at him, her eyes shifting to examine every crack in his face. "But you're not angry at me."
He shook his head, "No I'm-"
"It wasn't a question." She told him, spinning on her heel to Sherlock. She looked at him up and down, much the same way he had done to her.
"It's unnerving when you do that." He said, glancing at his fingernails. She ignored him.
"You want me to work with him?" She finally asked, turning back to Lestrade. "What am I supposed to do?" She was completely perplexed at what a criminologist/forensic psychologist/police officer would be able to do with a private detective.
Lestrade shrugged. "Test your mind. Maybe learn a few things. Try and keep Sherlock in line."
She bristled again. "If you want a baby-sitter I'm sure there's some down a Happy Families Day-Care Center."
Watson muffled a snort, and tried to change it into a cough. This time Sherlock looked annoyed. "I don't need a babysitter." He muttered.
Lestrade glanced back at forth at them both. "It'll be a good fit." He finally said. "Now, off you go, I have work to do-"and with that he walked off, exceptionally pleased with himself, and quite in the mood to play golf later in the sun, after work. He had the perfect club already in mind.
Sherlock turned to Alia. "I want to make it quite clear that I don't need your services." One of his eyebrows was sliding up his face, and his stance was defensive. One of his hands was jammed into the pocket of his long black coat, the other one tapping a rhythm into his hip bone.
"Nor I yours." She retorted, running angry fingers through her long hair as she let it out of the bun that she had on her head. The hair tumbled down on her back, finally swinging to a stop at the bottom of her back. They both stared at each other, silently figuring each other out.
Watson stepped forward, holding up his hands to each of them. "One case. You both only have to do one case together. Find something easy, and then, it'll be done." He grinned and shrugged, "It'll be easy."
Sherlock buttoned up his coat, fingers adeptly sliding the buttons into their corresponding holes without looking. "Fine. Come along then – Dr." He said to Alia. She sighed, and buttoned up the double-breasted blue pea coat she had been wearing.
"I'll show you our apartment." Sherlock explained, striding ahead of them, calling over his shoulder, "It's where we do most of our work. Lestrade expects you to work with us, so it would be convenient if you lived nearby."
"Where's nearby?" She asked, annoyed. How was she supposed to know where he lived? She wasn't a psychic.
"Baker St." Watson jumped into the conversation. He smiled at Alia, walking beside her, arms swinging by his sides.
"Thank you," She told him quietly.
She was good at being loud and angry, but not so good at being friendly. She had never liked chit-chat.
"Enough chit-chat." Sherlock told them, strutting ahead, long coat swinging around his knees. A gust of wind blew around Alia's head, and her eyes watered from the cold temperature.
"Taxi!" Sherlock waved his hand, stepping in front of a young woman carrying a shopping bag. "You-ohh." She muttered storming away.
Alia could tell that the young woman wanted to complain, but Sherlock was one of the least conversationally striking people she had ever seen.
The taxi pulled the side, its bright yellow doors a happy difference to the colour monotony of everything else on the street. Grey, brown, and blue. It was if someone had come along and sucked all the colour's away, but missed the taxi.
Sherlock stepped into the taxi first, ducking down his head, and swinging across the seat. "Ladies first." Watson told Bristol politely, holding the door for her, tipping his head.
"Thank you." She told him truthfully, stepping off the sidewalk and into the taxicab, sliding across the worn leather seat to just beside where Sherlock was sitting.
She glanced at the floor. The cab was fairly clean, but she could tell that someone had been in it that had been swimming; the strong chlorine smell lingered in the air.
Watson climbed into the cab, closing the door behind him with a hard thud. "Where to?" The cab driver asked, accent thick. He was a balding man, with a piggish nose, and small little eyes.
"Baker St." Sherlock said loudly, playing with one of the fingers on his leather glove. Bristol only just became aware after a moment of daydreaming that she was completely squished.
Sherlock's arm and leg were pressed into her left side and Watson's on her right. She couldn't lean away, there just wasn't room. Her heart pounded in her chest. She hated physical contact, it made her feel ill and even worse she hated the feeling of claustrophobia.
Deep breaths. She told herself. In the nose, out the nose. Soon she started to feel calmer, and she could breathe normally again.
"So." Sherlock said. "What exactly are your credentials?" One of his eyebrows was sneaking up his face, and his lips were pursed – he stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact.
"Seven years of University to get a PhD in criminology, forensic psychology, and a policing course." She sighed, "I ran out of money before I could complete my military psychology course, but I'm going to finish it - I had two years left." There were other courses that she had completed, but she didn't want to brag.
Watson nodded, "Impressive credentials. Three doctorates, and working on a fourth?"
She had more, but she didn't deny it.
"What are your credentials?" She asked Sherlock. She hadn't really gotten what he did.
He shrugged. "I don't see how that's relevant to the conversation."
She stared at him. "You asked mine?"
Outside the cab traffic zipped by, happy people going to happy lives, and unhappy people going to unhappy lives. A bicycle peddled past, weaving through the stilted traffic.
He glanced at her, lips still pursed. "This isn't an eye for an eye. Just because I asked you something does not automatically mean that I tell you the same thing."
She bobbed her head, focusing her eyes at the pattern on the back of the driver's seat. "Fascinating isn't it." Sherlock said, his voice mumbled.
"What?" She asked, still staring at the twists and turns of the pattern. Light grey on dark grey, wrapping around the seat like an unraveled ball of wool.
"The way it just continues, like infinity." He said eyes vacant and staring.
Alia snapped out of it. "Yes, very." She said, annoyed that he had crept in on her daydream. He looked self important for a moment, smiling to himself.
The cab came to a lurching halt, brakes squeaking. "Baker St." The driver finally replied, nasal voice high. Sherlock opened the door to the cab, stepping out. Bristol had been propped up on his shoulder, and nearly fell over; she caught herself with one hand on the seat.
"John, get the bill would you?" Sherlock asked it as a question, but his tone of voice was stating, 'Watson pay the bill.' He turned on heel and was heading towards a building before Watson had time to explain anyway.
Alia climbed out of the cab, her high heeled leather boots touching the road, and for a brief second wondered whether to follow Sherlock or wait for Watson. She decided to follow Sherlock. She glanced briefly across the street, and quickly hurried to the other side, glad that she had decided to wear heels to work that morning.