Crazy Little Thing Called Death

[2] Scotland Yard

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.