Parisian Nightmares

The Lucky Cat

I scattered the receipts all over the table. 

The three of us leaned over the papers, reading and rereading where he spent his money. 

Hilton, Eaton, Winchester... Countless expensive restaurants and hotels. 

"Five suits in a month," I picked up a receipt. "Must have had an awfully large closet." Letting the receipt go, I bent down to tie my shoelaces.

Amanda pushed the receipts to Sherlock. His eyes flitted from number to number, making sense of the dead man's lifestyle. Or should I say, deadstyle. 

(A/N: h a .)

"What sort of boss was he? Appreciative, generous, caring..." Sherlock waved his gloved hand around, rifling through endless receipts and tickets...

Amanda cocked her head and offered a smile. "No, not really. The only things he appreciated had a big price tag."

Sherlock's gaze shifted over to a fairly tall bottle of hand cream, sitting in the corner of her desk. 

"He gave you that hand cream, didn't he?" 

Amanda tucked her hair behind her ear, not sure what to make of that question. "Yes. Yes, he did."

The detective rearranged the receipts again, scanning them for more information. His eyes were focused, like those of a hawk, theories and possibilities racing through his mind. He stabbed the receipt he was looking at with his finger and announced, "He took a cab from home the day he died. Eighteen pounds... fifty."

"He was going to the office," Amanda replied.

"It wasn't rush hour. Mid-morning... Eighteen pounds... That would get him to the West End."

Sherlock rummaged through the receipts and took out a train ticket. "Underground, Piccadilly. The ticket was printed at one."

"That was his ride back to the office," I said, avoiding the table narrowly as I stood up.

Sherlock rolled his hand, waiting for us to say something.

"Why'd he take a cab into town and then a tube back?" Amanda mused.

"He was delivering something heavy," Sherlock slammed the ticket onto the table, "and didn't want to carry a package up the escalators. To somewhere near Piccadilly station. He dropped the package off and went back to the station."

"HE ALSO WENT TO A SANDWICH SHOP," I snatched a receipt from the pile. "Oh, so you people do get hungry."

- time skip brought to you by poopoo and Old Wrinkly's favourite eyebag -

"Ya there yet?" I emerged from an alley, whispering to my phone. 

"Nearly," John's voice answered. He was running, footsteps thudding on the pavement. 

"Okay, I see you over there," I hung up and tucked my phone into my jacket pocket, walking into the street. 

The doctor was on the opposite side of the street, weaving through pedestrians and whatnot.

"Come on, you old toad," I yelled back to Sherlock. He was so busy thinking he didn't even hear the toad bit, which was just as well.

"John, Van Coon brought a package here the day he died. I've managed to piece together his movements using receipts and tickets-"

"Sherlock..."

"Flew back to China and came back..."

"Sherlock!"

"Somewhere in the street. Somewhere close, really close..."

"Over there," I pointed to the shop across the road. 

"What?"

John opened the journal of Van Coon that he'd picked up at the police station. In the first column, the words 'The Lucky Cat' were written neatly on the page.

"Oh," said Sherlock, crestfallen.

"GO, GO, GO!" I yelled, shooing everyone on. 

"Please stop yelling," John pleaded.

As we approached the glass window of the shop, a 招財貓 caught my eye. 

It was grinning its welcoming smile at us, beckoning us with its front paw. Sherlock pushed open the glass door, ringing the rusty bell hanging over the doorway. 

We stepped inside, treading on the dusty floor. Sherlock's head scraped the orangey-red paper lanterns suspended from the ceiling as we observed the grungy interior. 

I ran a finger over the nearest table. A thick layer of grey dust. I blew it off my finger and kept browsing.

Behind the counter sat a little old woman with slightly crooked glasses perched on her nose, listening attentively with her ear cocked to a radio station.

She was leaning against the wall with cracks and paint peeling, silver hair illuminated in the dim light. Squinting, she inspected the newspaper on her lap.

Sherlock was also lifting ceramic statuettes off their stands, inspecting them closely.

The old lady fixed her gaze on John and leaned over the counter, handing him a ceramic cat.

"You want a Lucky Cat? I think your wife will like it..."

"Er, no thanks," John said, trying to push the cat away. 

"Thanks, I'll take it," I plucked the cat from her grasp and put some cash on the counter.

Suddenly, something caught John's eye. "Sherlock..."

"I see it too," the detective's gaze bored into the price tag across the room.

It was the symbol that we'd found in the library.

- back at Paris -

"She's taking her time, isn't she," Luna announced. 

Suddenly, the roof caved in and a dark figure leaped into the tunnel. 

"GET DOWN-" Penthesilea shouted, pushing Luna and Ama's heads down. She shut her eyes and cocked her ear, listening for any movement.

"Sup, dudes. I'm here," grinned someone. 

It was Chloe. 

- back with the Baker Street peeps - 

"If we found the symbols here, there're probably others around here. There, there, there..." I pointed around the dingy shop. 

"You might be right," Sherlock raced for the door.

A deafening buzz started resonating through the room. It started as a low hum, then progressed onto loud demonic howling.

"What is that noise‽" I shouted, shutting my earflaps.

"Someone please tell the shopkeeper to turn off her buzzing radio-" John yelled.

Sherlock tried to say something, but he couldn't scream over the din.

The ceiling began to crack, dust and debris leaking through the openings.

Then out of nowhere, a swirling, gaping hole of darkness faded into existence.

It got bigger and darker and more screeching noises came out of it until three screaming girls tumbled out of it, along with a very angry young woman.

"ALYSSA! THERE YOU ARE," Luna grabbed my shoulders.

As soon as we came into contact, my disguise began to crumble, blown away like dust in the wind, and all that was left was a disgruntled, blue haired girl, in clothes much too large for her and with an indignant expression on her face.

"OK," I turned around to face the two shocked men. "I have some explaining to do."

(Finally, an update. How long has it been? As you can see, my writing has improved significantly.

Violunaviking HAPPY? CHLOE'S HERE)