The Girl Without a Mark

Breathing is boring and so is telling the truth

I will admit, I'm getting a little bit impatient with the fact that the first episode of the show has to be so damned long, even in the transcript version. So if you can tell by the way I write the next few chapters that I am impatient to wrap up the first episode, then I am sorry lol. I just want to finally get past it so that we can move on th the main point of the whole story: The soulmate shit. I'll definitely be focusing more on that after this stupid episode is over. I mean it's not stupid, its actually quite fascinating but yea, I'm getting a little bit impatient. I hope you enjoy this. As always, don't forget to comment to point out any errors and to tell me what you like/don't like, what you thought, etc.

"I can't believe you took the money," John grumbled at me. "Do you have no morality?"

"I have plenty, Doctor Watson," I retorted. "I never explicitly said I would tell him the truth so when he wonders why my updates make no sense it will be on him for not specifying."

"You mean to say it'll be a sort of 'I didn't tell you because you didn't ask' sort of situation?"

"Exactly," I replied, pleased. "We may not be as smart as either of Sherlock or that shady guy we just met, but neither are we stupid."

John shook his head at me as we got out of the black car, and I watched as it drove away before turning back to face the spot we had been dropped off at.

221 B Baker Street.

We stepped up towards the door and John knocked.

I went ahead of John and upstairs in the living room of the flat to see Sherlock lying stretched out on the sofa with his head towards the window, resting on a cushion. His jacket was off, shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up his arms, eyes closed as he pressed the palm of his right hand firmly onto the underside of his left arm just below the elbow. After a while, his eyes snapped open wide and he stared fixedly up towards the ceiling before releasing a noisy breath and relaxing. I walked over to the window to look outside for any more black cars, eyes narrowed. Growling when I saw none, I turned back to see John come through the door, then stop and stare as Sherlock repeatedly clenched and clench his left fist. I noticed that he, as well as John, also had black splotches on his hand, except the black extended to his fingers.

I felt angry, then. Everywhere I went, I would always be reminded that everyone was birth marked and I was not.

Perhaps I should just go live in a fucking jungle, I thought bitterly. I wouldn't be reminded, then.

"What are you doing?" John asked Sherlock, bringing my attention back to the present.

"Nicotine patch. Helps me think," the intelligent man replied.

He lifted his right hand to show that three round nicotine patches stuck to his arm, thus showing the reason why he was pressing his hand against his skin; it was to release the substances more quickly through his bloodstream.

"Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days," he commented. "Bad news for brain work."

"So nicotine is your stimulant, then?" I asked nonchalantly in an effort to let go of the sudden anger that had flooded through me. Sherlock simply looked over at me to raise an eyebrow in affirmation.

"It's good news for breathing," John said.

"Oh, breathing," Sherlock was dismissive. "Breathing's boring."

"Is that three patches?" John frowned as he looked down at Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock pressed his hands together in a prayer position under his chin.