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Chapter 4- Sherlock

'Nothing. Nothing!' I snarled, shaking my hands in anger.

'Seriously? How can someone leave nothing?' John asked, hurrying to keep up with me.

'Well, not nothing.' I said. 'Technically you can't leave nothing. You'd have to leave something.'

'And he-'

'-Or she-'

'-Or she left...' He trailed off, waiting for me to finish his sentence.

'That smell. Taraxacum officinale.'

'What? What the hell is... Tala-tara-casium-'

'Mr. Holmes, is it?' A quiet voice behind me asked. I spun around, staring at the woman... no, girl... who had spoken my name. She had an accent. An Australian accent, nearly hidden by years of living in London.

She was probably very pretty, or at least I heard a small noise of approval from John's mouth and had seen the jealous way that Sargent Donovan had looked at her. She looked very young, maybe as young as 13. She was small, only 5 feet 2 inches high, and very slight, though he figure was hard to see under her giant coat, which reeked of alcohol. She was a drinker, then, because you couldn't smell that much like alcohol if you simply were around someone who did drink. She had big eyes, which were very light and a sort of blue-green. Her skin was almost olive, from the sun, though, not from culture, which meant she hadn't come from here. There was dirt under her fingernails and on her shabby coat; she was clearly homeless, you didn't have to be a detective to work that out. I noticed scars on her neck, made, I guessed, by glass bottles; someone else, her dad probably, was or had been a drinker and had thrown bottles at her, more than once. She leaned slightly back on her heels, away from us, but away from me, more than John, probably because I was taller, with darker hair, certainly more threatening that John.

'Yes, call me Sherlock.' I said, extending my hand. I didn't expect her to be overly keen on shaking hands with me, but she glanced down at it for a second, and then back to my face, giving a small, almost apologetic smile. 'This is my,' Always the hesitation! 'Colleague. John Watson.' John said, smiling, though he didn't extend his hand.

'My name is Cora.' She said. 'I was just... wondering, Mr. Holmes-'

'Call me Sherlock.' I repeated, curious to see if she would.

'Sherlock.' She said, with a wry smile. 'You have a brother-'

'Yes, so what?' I asked, instantly disliking where this was going. I went to turn away again.

'I wonder if I may be able to talk to him.'

'I hate people who nose around in other people's business.' I told John, striding away from her.

'Isn't that what you do all the time?' She called. 'Seriously? I thought you were supposed to be a detective!'

I stopped and turned slowly. 'I am a detective.' I said coldly. 'What are you, if not just a homeless girl?'

It was her turn to sound cold. 'I thought you were on good terms with the homeless. I am... somewhat of a detective, but I can find another way to meet Mycroft.' She turned.

She was bluffing, but I had to stop her; my curiosity was burning. 'A detective?'

'Yes, that is what I said.'

'You are homeless.' I said this confidently.

'Yes.'

'But then how are you a detective?'