Sherlock And The Pretty Girl in the Posh Pea Coat

The fog thickened in the faint light of an all white rising sun, and settled into London's Trafalgar Square, as if the clouds themselves had descended from the glowing grey heavens above, blanketing all in mist and mistique. The normally bustling beloved locale was nearly vacant due to the earliness of the hour, and the strangeness of the weather. There was however, one lovely young woman seated on a bench in the square, not repelled by the fog like so many, but attracted to it like one chasing a dream. This was heaven, her heaven, when modern day London was transformed by all the alluring secrets, and mysterious beauty of the past into the setting of stories she so loved, the very air alive with romance, danger, and intrigue. A feeling that was left in another time, that beckoned to her, reaching for her even now. She smiled softly to herself, breathing it all in, letting it overwhelm her senses. She pulled her posh lavender pea coat a bit tighter, smiling to herself, watching the white swirling haze turn the ordinary morning into something magic. This was when she most liked to write, when she could hear the flutter of forgotten sails in a fine morning gale, when phantom ships reawakened from lost depths, rising from stormy tide. It was times like these, rare as they were, when the natural world became something belonging to fiction, colliding with reality in clandestine fashion, creating a pathway to the fantastical.

She had just reached for her pen and tablet, her wand in the way of words, and her tablet, her canvas so craving of scrawled creation, giving life to her curled etchings. It was then she saw it. An incredibly tall, almost looming silhouette, seemingly emblazoned with smoke as it emerged from the mist, commanding attention. She could see whisps of wildly curly hair, crowning the shadow's head, sticking up quite boyishly in the back. However, from his formidible stature, iron strong chest, rigid back, and slightly muscular arms, it became quite evident this was no boy, but a man. An exceedingly handsome man. She squinted to better see him, slowly leaning forward, for there was something familiar about his stride, his purposeful, almost rolling gait. He wore a long dark coat, nearly to his shins that fluttered with his movement, a cerulean scarf wrapped cozily around his neck, and she found it strange he'd turned up his collar for there was no wind to combat, a gesture that shrouded him all the more in the tantalizing mystery he was. He was drawing nearer now, emerging from the thick of the fog, the hanging mist melting away from his face and shoulders, an attractive outline becoming a fully realized figure.

She gasped, her fingers flitting to her mouth, for though his was a face she'd never before seen, it was one she knew well. They'd described him so often, and so befittingly, such definitive features, their words may well have been mirrors. Such eyes, glimmering in their captivation, sea green gems set into rings of sapphire, keen, inquisitive, always working, always searching. The way they took her now, so fierce, yet somehow gentle in their underlying softness, it was as if he could see through to her very soul, so deep, unwavering in their gaze. He had a princely chin, a distinct nose, full somber lips, but it was his cheekbones that gave him away. The glorious cheekbones of Sherlock Holmes.

She should've looked away. She tried in fact to look away, but found she was not at all able. His eyes entranced hers as they searched them, attempting already to decode their secrets. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective the world had ever known. She felt a sigh escaping her lips, one of both admiration and great worry. For if he knew who she was, what she was, sure enough he'd turn smartly on the heels of those fine dress shoes of his, and offer a cold shoulder, perhaps even coupled with one of his infamous withering insults. He wasn't from this world, or anything like it, and she was reminded again of that pathway to the fantastical, certain he must have crossed it, brought here by the fog. The thought of so ingeniously brilliant, not to mention strikingly beautiful a man loathing her was enough to break the enchantment, and she suddenly found her fur trimmed white gloves to be exceedingly interesting.


Although he'd lost the attention of her deep emerald eyes, Sherlock continued to take cool, purposeful, steps twoard the pretty girl in the posh pea coat, acting as if they'd planned  to meet here all along. She felt her pale cheeks redden, and a few stray curls tumbled into her eyes, as she brought her leather messenger bag up beside her, paying it great attention, doing anything to distract herself from those piercing eyes, seeming so to glow from within......

He now stood beside where she sat on the bench, those eyes no longer fixated on her, but instead surveying the square, flitting this way and that quite leisurely, his profile so utterly dashing, the whisps of boyish curls so beckoning, especially the bits that curled over his forehead, and just under his ears, that she dropped the pen she'd only just retrieved from her bag. She looked up at him most suddenly, deciding whether or not to reach down for it, when his eyes settled on it most curiously. To her great surprise, Sherlock chuckled to himself, fiddling with the felled pen using the toe of his shoe, before leaning down a bit from his lofty height, until he met her shy eyes. "Good Morning, isn't it?" He said in his deep, velvety voice with a slightly coyish half smile. The girl went to reply but found no sound accompanied the movement of her lips. He could have easily stood with the other marble creations in the square. So rare and statuesque was his figure.

"I love fog. Always have since I was a little boy, playing with my brother Mycroft in the field outside our country home. My GOD what a dreadful pirate he made." Sherlock spoke, not at all realizing the girl on the bench had yet to make a sound. He spoke to her, a veritable stranger with all the ease and comfort of a very good friend, and though she thought it most peculiar, she had to admit there was something very relaxing about his presence, his voice, his smile, all of it, and she felt her nerves quieting, though her heart seemed to race ever faster.

"Most people don't like fog, they fear the mystery, fear the unknown, but I think there's NOTHING more exciting than NOT knowing what lies around the next bend. That's the greatest fallacy in people today, they crave what they know, the normal, the everyday, the mundane. Mundane drives me INSANE. Knowing, it's who I am, what I do, obviously, but knowing can be so BORING!" Sherlock smiled pleasantly at the girl, and her slightly agape mouth, noticing something interesting about her lips.

"I agree! Most passionately, Sir. You are refreshingly right in such thinking!" She chimed in quickly with a sweet smile of her own, finding at last her voice and her nerve. She was certain she could listen to his fast-paced opinions for as long as he was willing to offer them. What a privilege to be in the presence of such a mind. She musn't say too much however....... if he was anything like the reputation that preceeded him, he was bound to figure out what she was before too long.

"Yes, I am, and of course you do." He said gently with a soft smile. She was just thinking things were going splendidly when far too soon, he followed with the words she most feared. "How's the story coming then?" Her smile faded as quickly as it had come, and she felt sick inside. He was good. Too good. Her expression was one of surprise and equal parts dread, as she could only stare at him. "Wh-what st-?"

"You're a writer, obviously," he cut in sharply, waving away any pretense or any inclination she had toward lying. Her eyebrows arched in surprise, and without warning he seized her hand, his touch soft, his long pale fingers running over, examining hers. A gasp caught in her chest, and with him so close she could feel his warm, even breathing atop her curly head, his breath appearing like smoke in the frigid air. He smelled wonderful....... What was happening?

"There's a small bump on the middle finger of your right hand near the fingertip, where pens, pencils, writing implements of all kinds have rested while you've written over a number of years, practically your whole life. Every writer has one. You're a serious writer, not just a hobby, no, its your craft, your very breath it seems. You came here to get inspiration for your writing, today especially because of the fog. I saw you walk right to this particular bench, no hesitation, no deciding where to sit, suggesting you always sit at this bench. You also smiled at the statue near it, revealing a fondness, a familiarity. This statue means something to you, to your writing. Captain James Cook, Naturalist Expedition, 1768, HMS Endeavor. You could be writing about him, english exploration, naval histories, but you're not. No, such things fascinate you, inspire you, but it's not at your heart, not the fountainhead for dangers and thrilling adventures, something you crave more than your will to live. So what then? What about sailing ships and fervent captains could so capture such an imaginitive young woman's attention?" He grinned slowly, increasing the spinning of her already dizzy mind, saying the word with all the reverence that he knew she felt it deserved. "Pirates."

"Now you're wondering how the DEVIL I, a complete stranger, could possibly know that. Well your darling face lit up when I mentioned the favourite pastime of me and my brother playing pirates in the fog. There was a softness in your eyes, as if mentioning an old friend. You adore the romance and adventure of piracy, else you wouldn't keep your precious scribblings in this!" The dashing detective reached down into her bag and confidently snatched up her tablet, grinning all the more as what he suspected was confirmed. "Hello, Captain Jack," he spoke to its cover before letting it fall back into the bag.

"But now the real question is, what is your profession? He said much more seriously as he cocked his curly head to better study her face, noticing a new flush of colour to her cheeks. "You're not exactly J.K. Rowling, not yet at least...... You don't live entirely by your pen, or......" His eyes suddenly lit up with excited understanding. "Or do you?" He reached into her bag again, much slower this time, unearthing handfuls of various pieces of paper, different shapes and sizes, letting them sift through his fingers before they fluttered back into the bag. "Bus tickets, cab receipts, napkins, scraps of stationary, all of them covered in writing, in your writing. Your craft, your compulsion, your obsession. You can't have a piece of paper in front of you without the overwhelming temptation to scribble down your stories, scenes, dialogue. Your mind always narrating, never stopping. You're wishing right now you could write down every single word I'm saying, judging by the excited tremors in your fingers and the marvel astonishment in your face. You're scrambling to remember it all even now." He promptly reached down and plucked up the felled pen, pointing it cleverly at her. "You LIVE by this." He then rolled it between his thumb and index finger, studying it carefully. "Bite marks on the cap," he said softly, uncapping the pen and reaffixing its cap to the bottom of it, imagining her scribbling furiously, then stopping to take a rest, subconsciously biting the tip of the cap. He then rested the cap against his own lip. "Such marks indicate pressure while writing, pressure on you, the pressure to get it right. Deadlines, late nights, at a magazine perhaps?" He carefully lowered the pen from his lip, studying her anew. "No, not a magazine, you're much too smart for that, you'd die talking only about hemlines and hot new nail polishes. Three hundred words an article would trap you like a prison, you love to write, and you feel fenced in as it is because you write too much and they care too little. So definitely not a magazine." He pulled away just slightly, narrowing his eyes, concentrating, and the girl felt very much like she was under a microscope. No secret was safe from Sherlock Holmes.

"You're stylish, you care about your looks, but they aren't everything to you. You're wearing quite the posh jacket, yet its still very professional. Your hair is glossy and curly, but loose and natural, and you don't care a wit about your fingernails, which is, may I say, most refreshing. Slight bit of makeup, but again natural and not overdone. You've had that same eyeshadow since you were fifteen. You're a woman of substance, a writer, a would-be novelist who supports her passion by toting her talent elsewhere, a job with pressure, deadlines, and- Oooh now you're looking nervous because I'm about to figure out something you don't want me to know......." He startled her by resting the pen against her flushed cheek, slowly dragging it downwards. "Yes, there is fear there, but why? Something you're ashamed of? No..... no, it's something specific to me, you've known EXACTLY who I am this entire time. He grazed the pen down the length of her neck, and hooked its cap under a thin black nylon lanyard she was wearing. "Are you a fan perhaps....... or maybe the opposite........." With great flourish he flicked the pen forward, pulling up a photo badge of sorts that had been previously hidden underneath her jacket. "Opposite it is then," he said with a wary smile eying the badge. "A pleasure, Miss Allyssa Brighton, reporter for the London Times."

Allyssa, more well known as "Ally," at the paper, stood up very slowly with a cute raise of her chin, and Sherlock's wary smile widened. She had him. "Bravo, Mr. Holmes, bravo. You are every bit as good as they say, in fact even better. Her smile was not wary, but wry, and Sherlock found himself taking a tentative step back. "What you're wondering now is whether or not you've just walked into a trap. Every reporter in this city hunting you, and yet I have you. The one who wasn't even looking." She smiled at him flirtatiously, to which he responded with a quick curling smirk.

"Could be dangerous......" She said shyly, tucking a curl behind her ear.

"Ohhhh yes," he grinned with an intrigued nod. "Here I have sworn off reporters, HATE them something close to boredom, and now I've ferreted one out. But I'm not afraid of you, Miss Brighton, no, you're the kind of reporter I like, the most dangerous kind."

"Fascinating. And what kind is that, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock smirked at Ally, his eyes focusing on her intently. "The Honest Kind."

His comely company giggled and nodded, looking most impressed. "Quite right, Mr. Holmes, quite right, on all accounts. I am a reporter, and you needn't fear me. I'm on your side."

He leaned in closer to her, selecting a single spiraling curl, running this thumb and forefinger down the length of its silkiness, whispering, "D'you have ANY idea how many reporters have said that to me?"

Ally laughed again, much softer this time, marveling at how comfortable she felt with him, how unappologetic he was about invading her personal space. She liked that about him very much, and secretly hoped he would continue to do so.

"A fair few, I can imagine. Everybody wants you, London's biggest story in decades. They want to gain your trust, only to throw you to the dogs. But I'm different, Mr Hol-"

"Sherlock." He interjected quickly. "Call me Sherlock."

She nodded shyly, smiling to herself at the invitation. "I'm different, Sherlock. You had it right the first time. I'm a fan. A real one."

Sherlock Holmes slowly lowered his arm, craning his neck, never taking his eyes from her. He found she was different from all the others. This time, it wasn't a lie. "Yes..... yes you are, I can tell. You're not going to try and ruin me like the rest of them. You don't want to stop me, you want the world to love me, hoist me up onto their shoulders like some kind of hero. I feel compelled to warn you of the dangers of this, Miss Brighton. Heroes while once loved, have an inevitable way of toppling. Don't get your hopes up.

"I believe in you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Ally said seriously, her voice tender with its awe. "In that respect, I am your biggest fan." Sherlock smirked again, straightening his scarf. "Hmm, my biggest fan AND single....... I really can trust you, can't I?" He said cheekily with a rather charming wink.

Aghast, Ally looked down, searching herself for any incriminating evidence that would betray that fact. Of course she found none. Her eyes slowly found his again, looking at him incredulously. "How could you possibly-"

"Lipstick." He answered quickly with a clever smile. "Cover Girl, Pinot Shade, newly applied and not at all smudged." Ally stared at him blankly, her hand traveling to rest just under her lip. "I don't under-"

"Quite obvious, isn't it?" He grinned tilting his head. "Ahhh it's fascinating really, a woman's makeup can be so delightfully telling. I have several pages devoted to it on my website. Concealer? Hardly." Sherlock said with a look of haughty derision. "The point being, of course, that had you a boyfriend, fiance, or some such, that you're exactly the kind of doe-eyed, swelling heart, hopeless romantic that would have kissed him goodbye before you left this morning, thus smudging your lipstick. No smudge. No kiss. Single. Simple."

"Interesting, but what gives you the impression that he's not just away on business?" Ally said with a confident half smile of her own."

Sherlock grinned again, very much enjoying this, crossing his arms smugly. "Good. Very good. However, not good enough. He's not away on business, because you are talking to ME, and looking quite delighted doing so." Sherlock said almost teasingly, with a knowing raise of an eyebrow. "Honest reporter, honest lover. You write passionate, heart stirring romances, you believe in love the way some people believe in religion. You'd never do anything to sabotage your own love story, naturally, you'd want it to outshine, even your most whirlwind of creations." He leaned forward prompty. "Just as suspected. Not even a glimmer of guilt in those eyes. Which are dialated to suggest attraction, by the way. I'm flattered I really am."

Ally coughed, her cheeks burning, obviously abashed. "Tell me, does anything ever surprise you anymore, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock's eyes softened, his voice slipping into something far more serious, as he tucked another out of place curl behind her ear. "As a matter of fact, yes."

"What fun is the story when you always know the ending?" She asked, her voice softening too.

Sherlock smiled cleverly, and leaned closer to whisper in her ear. "Finding out how you arrived there, with all the twists and turns inbetween."

She smiled almost whimsically, marveling how he could have an answer for everything, and did not break his gaze, as she reached for, and shouldered her messenger bag. "You're right." She said over her shoulder, and then began to walk away from him. She only managed a few steps however, before he called out to her.

"Yes, obviously I am, but to which part are you referring?"

Ally stopped and smiled, knowing full well he would ask, and then turned around, marched right back up to him, closer than she had dared herself before, letting her lips brush his ear as she whispered. "I would have kissed him goodbye." With that, Sherlock breathed deep as he felt her warm lips press lightly into the soft, pale skin of his neck, leaving a perfect trace of the kiss behind. "A little something to remember me by. Goodbye Sherlock."

Sherlock watched her disappear into the fog, her long brunette curls blowing in the wind. He didn't need something to remind him. He'd never forgotten anything, and he certainly wouldn't forget this. "Goodbye to my biggest fan," he said rather amused, still feeling the warmth of the kiss on his neck. "The Pretty Girl in The Posh Pea Coat."

"There you are, wandering off again! Did you get to talk to that girl, the one you said you fancied, or more likely, did you scare her away?" Dr. John Watson now emerged from the fog, and chuckled knowing that with Sherlock it was most likely the latter. The man was a genius, a brilliant mind, but rubbish when it came to women. Or human relations as a whole for that matter. Sherlock furrowed his brow, in annoyance. "John, once again you weren't listening. I didn't say, exactly, that I fancied her, only that she looked interesting."

John nodded giving Sherlock a knowing smile. "Yes, and coming from you, there is NO higher compliment." John let out another little laugh, as he headed out of the square.

Sherlock frowned resentfully at John, chasing after him. "What? Women can't be interesting??? What a thing for YOU to say, John!"

"Not to you, they're not, no." John said trying not to laugh

"Well...... this one is...... interesting."

"Exactly my point."

Sherlock huffed. John was being infuriating as per usual. "Oh would you stop laughing. At least I have the nerve to approach women, you just sit and stare at them and giggle whenever they pass by you. You giggle like a school boy."

John shook his head, grinning. "Figure out her whole life story, did you?"

"Oh shut up, will you!"

"Wow. You must really truly fancy this one, else you wouldn't be getting so defensive. Is that uhh lipstick on your neck?"

"This conversation is over."

"No, not at all, this conversation's  far too much fun. Sherlock's got a crush, on a girl. What was it that you said when we first met, about girlfriends "not being your area?" John grinned as Sherlock practically growled in frustration. They walked together in silence for a long while, and when they reached at last 221 B. Baker Street, Sherlock finally spoke, his voice much gentler than before.

"She's a reporter, John. A journalist who might actually write things worth reading. Perhaps our only friend in the press. She lived up splendidly to my first perception of her."

John smiled softly, taken aback by the softness Sherlock's voice had donned. "What d'you mean, by being pretty?"

"By being interesting. There may be room for her in our story, yet. Yes, we might being seeing much more of our reporter friend, Ally, and her posh pea coat." Sherlock smiled secretly to himself, raising up the pen that he'd been holding all this time. Her pen. A souvenier of a most intriguing encounter. She'd left it for him on purpose.

"What's that?"

Sherlock tucked it away in his shirt pocket. "A promise, John. As well as an invitation."

"Sorry, invitation?"

"Her pen. Clever girl. It has her office number and address on it. A way to get a hold of my biggest fan."

Sherlock looked around at the way the fog had blanketed Baker Street. Yes, it was great fun not knowing what was going to happen next. Not knowing who you'd meet in a swirl of white mist. What a pretty face could really be, Or what surprises could be hidden....... in a single kiss.