I Don't Bite...Much // Sherlock

Eyes slowly fluttering open, Hannah stared at her pillow groggily. Slipping in and out of sleep for the next few minutes, she finally picked her watch up off the bedside table and peered at it. Just past noon. Just a bit more of a lie-in and she'd get up.

Her work phone hadn't gone off a single time that morning. Strange, that. She didn't have any clients booked until the evening, but usually her phone would have rung at least once by this point in the morning, asking for a booking.

She groped around for her phone on her bedside table. It wasn't there. She felt again. Nothing. Bolting upright, the blonde began her search again, looking on the floor, under the bed, anywhere that her phone could have fallen during the night. The phone was gone.

Shit. Shiiiiit.

If speed-getting-ready were an Olympic sport, today Hannah would have won the gold. That phone was her lifeline and there was no way in hell that she'd just lost it. It went everywhere with her and losing it was as impossible as her forgetting protection with a client. Which only meant one thing - the gadget had been stolen.

Throwing herself through a quick shower, she pulled out her legal secretary outfit and threw it on. Brushing her hair into submission and tying it into a ponytail, she tossed her personal phone, diary and wallet into her bag, along with some make up. She absolutely hated doing her make up in a rush, but she had no time to spare. Who knew what was being done with her contact list already?

As usual, a black cab was waiting outside and Hannah slid into the back. Too unsettled to even make decent small talk with the cabbie, her replies were monosyllabic as she applied her make up and finally the driver just gave up.

Finally, the cab pulled into Baker Street. Paying the driver, she stepped out and approached the door to 221B. Trying the door, she found it open and taking a deep breath to calm herself, she entered the building. Don't panic, he'll fix this, she told herself. If Sherlock Holmes was as good as her Scotland Yard clients said (or rather complained) he was, she'd have her phone back in no time.

Acting as if this was just another out-call, she went up the stairs, confident, calm, and collected. Knocking on the open door to the flat, she waited for all of one second before entering. Spotting him, she gave a slight smile. "Mr Holmes, I am in need of your services." Felt strange to be the one saying it after hearing it said to her so many times.  "I have heard much about your exploits and I think you're the only one that could help me..."

Finding that he had overslept this morning, Sherlock had quickly awoken and got up to shower and get ready for the rest of the day. He had several clients who were planning on meeting with him today and he was determined to find an interesting case to take part in. After putting on a white, button up shirt with a pair of black slacks with a matching jacket, he adjusted the collar so that it was slightly open, revealing his neckline.

Heading down the stairs and sitting in his chair as he began jotting away several notes into his journal, Mrs. Hudson had let in one of the clients who was wailing about an ex husband. Immediately, Sherlock was turned off, telling them to leave. The next few clients had interesting enough cases, but they were far too easy and he was able to tell what the solution was just by hearing it. He rolled his eyes, wondering if he'd ever find a case.

Finally though, another man had walked in, pleading him to help him with a case in which his wife was missing. As the story was told, Sherlock found himself most enthralled by it, because he himself found that there were missing pieces to the puzzle, and he always thought that to be brilliant... until he suddenly noticed a flaw in his plan and immediately knew that it was a false missing person. Sighing and shaking his head, he leaned back into his chair. "She is having an affair and I suggest you call a lawyer immediately."

Well, that was it for the cases, now wasn't it? Not an eventful day at all. Shaking his head in annoyance, he pulled out the newspaper and immediately began reading it, when the door had swung open once more as Mrs. Hudson greeted another person. Who was this? They had not called ahead of time, so this was quite strange. Turning his head to see a fair woman stride in, he raised his eyebrow. "No appointment?" he asked. Still, he had nothing better to do and hadn't heard any interesting news all day. Sighing as he put his paper down, he watched her, ready to listen. "Go on, then."

Walking over to the chair in the middle of the room that was obviously only there for clients, Belle sat down, crossing one leg over the other. She took a moment to study the man before her, much like she did with her clients. His suit was an expensive one; she doubted highly that private detective work was amazingly well paid (although, who knew?), which pointed to a secondary source of income. Her money was on family, since by the state of the flat it looked like Sherlock did this job full-time. Wealthy family at that, if he managed to keep a flat in central London and have such well-tailored jackets. His words were well-articulated and held no regional accent which made her think that he'd gone to a private school (none of this public school nonsense for the wealthy, oh no), and given the amount of experiments that lay scattered on the kitchen table she was sure there was a Bachelor of Science degree floating around somewhere in the mess.

Well-groomed, intelligent and handsome. Just her type. If she wasn't here on business.

Brushing her fringe from her eyes, Belle thought about exactly what to say. She desperately needed him to take this case, otherwise she was lost. There was no way she could ask the local police for help - discretion was never a strong point with them and somehow details would always find their way into the press. Besides, despite her job being perfectly legal, she simply didn't fancy the idea of cops rooting around in both her work life and her personal life simply because it was "protocol". 

"I'm Belle Sinclair. Last night I had an extremely valuable item stolen from me. I'm sure this probably is way below your level of expertise, but being a private detective I feel you would be more discreet than the police about the matter. And more than anything I need the upmost discretion with this," she began, watching him calmly as she did so.  

"I work with a lot of high-class, privileged clients who highly value their anonymity. A lot of their information is stored on my work phone and it is that which has been stolen. Which'll cause scandals and disasters like you wouldn't believe, if the information got into the wrong hands. Government officials, Scotland Yard detectives, a few politicians. Frankly, it'd be close to a national disaster. Possibly international, too," she added, frowning slightly as she thought about the few influential international clients she had. "Long story short - I really need your help in getting the phone back. Will you help me, please?" Though she'd retained an air of complete calmness, her voice wobbled on the last word. She was utterly lost without her work phone. And god knew what might happen if it got into the hands of some journalist - she could almost see the headlines: "MP X caught soliciting with prostitutes!". Charming.

Giving a soft cough to cover up that slight show of panic, she pushed all thoughts of any and all scandals that might happen to the back of her mind and waited for the detective's answer. No point in counting your chickens before they hatched, as her mother used to tell her as a child.

~*~
Outfit: Skirt with white shirt, open slightly at the cleavage, and black purse.