A Study In Stalking (a Sherlock fanfiction)

Murder

"Blake Vilaitte."

The woman at the counter raises an eyebrow suspiciously. She recognizes me. Lisa, her name is. I remember her name. She remembers mine.

Damn.

"You came here last week, didn't you?" Lisa asks, having returned to writing my name on a receipt.

"I did," I say, my normally soft, low voice sounding gravelly.

Lisa hands me the slip. "More pictures from your blog?"

I nod shortly, wishing that she hadn't recognized me.

"How's your blog going, by the way?" she asks unknowingly.

I remind myself that she doesn't know anything about me, including the fact that the pictures aren't actually for my nonexistent blog.

"Excellently."

Lisa nods again and gives me a tiny smile, a polite smile. "They'll be ready in an hour. Enjoy the city, Miss Vilaitte."

"Thank you."

I crush the receipt in my fist as I walk away, stuffing my thin, porcelain hands in my coat pockets.

I must never return here.

There is always the small chance that my secret pleasure will be discovered. Every few months, I research someone online or bump into someone on the way to Jo's Café, and devote specifically set aside time to learn about them, watch them, study them.

Some would call it an obsession.

I call it a pastime.

Because, despite our longing for personal privacy, nothing is sacred. Anything we own is also owned involuntarily by someone else. For me, that means anything I see is something I can make my own.

I call it a pastime.

Gripping the strap of my camera case protectively, I leave the printer shop and step out into the rather depressing London air, the sky gray as normal, the clouds promising rain. Jo's Café is just down the road, so I can take shelter there if it starts to rain.

Turning to my left, I walk down the sidewalk at a slow pace, taking in the familiar sights.

I've no friends. I'm a very lonely person.

Contrary to popular belief, this doesn't bother me. My 'work' comforts me. Today, I'm printing some of the pictures I've taken of my current subject. Charlize Granger.

She's a girl in her late teens, seeking a job in interior decoration, addicted to cigarettes, and a major cat-lover. I've not learned much about her, but I've only been watching her for a month. I ran into her at Jo's Café. She has no idea how closely I'm watching her.

I guess I do what I do for the thrill of it, the chance of being caught, the idea of having to get away. With the things I'm doing, the information I'm stealing, the pictures I'm getting... I could be arrested. What I do? Encroachment. Do I care? Not a bit.

Jo's Café is open for another three hours, so I should be safe from rain for most of the time I'm here. All I want is to go home and begin Charlize's wall. Begin a file. Write a document. Take more pictures. Check social media.

Yes, I know I'm crazy. No, I don't mind.

¤ ¤ ¤

"What a boring woman you are, Miss Charlize," I moan, setting my laptop aside, "No one actually cares about what you bloody ate for lunch."

I've been checking social media accounts. Instagram is by far my least favorite, because it's disheartening. At least the selfies are interesting, if not a little risqué. Charlize doesn't post very many of those, though. Just food.

"Damn Americans," I mumble, stalking over to my kitchenette and putting a pot of coffee on.

Once I've made myself a cup of strong, black coffee, I turn to look at the wall. Charlize is a very attractive woman, and her style is certainly filed under sexy, but she's a cook at a family restaurant, which explains the food pictures on her Instagram account. As far as I can tell, she's actually very self-conscious of her body.

I don't see why, seeing as she's got an hourglass figure, and vaguely resembles a Barbie in her facial features. I'm guessing it's an act to attract more followers, which disgusts me. Insecurity is a flaw.

My body doesn't look half as nice as this woman's. Turning my attention away from the Wall, I look myself over in the full-length mirror on the wall parallel to the formerly mentioned, on my left. My hips are wide, but my limbs are bony, and my long, gray sweater hangs limp on my shoulders. My chest is small, too, and it's only my hips that don't fit the rest of me. My dark, chestnut brown hair is very long and desperately in need of a trim. I've put it up in a thick, simple plait and I'm without makeup. The circles under my hazel eyes are dark, and my pale lips are dry and cracked.

I am not beautiful. I am a mess. I have certainly seen better days physically.

"Blake, you awake?" a little voice asks from the front door, "What am I saying, of course you are. Are you hungry? Do you need anything?"

"No, Abigail," I say, turning away from the mirror and facing the small, short woman at the door, "I'm fine."

"Who's that on the wall?" Abigail asks, setting her purse down on the counter, "Another cousin? Are you writing another biography?"

An annoyed sigh escapes my lips. "Yes."

"Amazing," Abigail praises under her breath, "What's her name?"

"Jane Grey," I lie, "You're home early."

"I know I'm interrupting you. I just came home to pack a bag. I'm staying at Stan's flat tonight-" she's in the middle of explaining when she notices the name - the real name - of my subject as she pulls out a duffle bag from out of the closet.

"Hey, that's- that's Charlize! What're you doing with these pictures-" Abigail has no time to finish her endless inquiries, because she pauses with her mouth open when I point a gun at her forehead.

"I really didn't want it to come to this," I say, "Who's going to pay the rent now?"

Abigail starts to reply, but I send a bullet through her head, and she crumples to the ground.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused?" I ask her dead body.

With one longing look at the Wall, I pull the duffle from Abigail's hands and start stuffing things inside. There's no way no one heard that, and there's too much to hide here. They'll find her body, the pictures, and my tools - except for my laptop and camera, there's no way I'm leaving those behind - and start a search. By the time they figure out it was me, I'll have changed my identity or whatever I have to do to cover this.

Nothing can stop me from my 'work'. Not even a murder.