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Her dark hair flowed gracefully down her back and shoulders as she walked through the streets of London. Her pale cheeks were flushed with excitement (although she would say it was from the cold). The thick dark gray clouds obscured the sunlight, bathing the city in a dreary cold.
Oh how she missed London. The chill in the air outside that contrasted the hot-blooded excitement that went on behind the rich and powerful’s locked doors. The amount they would pay her just so they would get a glimpse of her lace, or feel the powerful crack of her crop on their skin. She smiled to herself. She could have anything, anyone she wanted. Except for one.
Sherlock Holmes.
The mere thought of him drove her mad with need. He was just beautiful, more beautiful that any man or woman she ever saw. And his mind, oh, his mind! He wasn’t dull like the regular fodder that craved her. That was it, she thought. She craved the detective more than she ever did anyone before. He was her prize. Only he can be her match.
She went up the short set of stairs that led to the door of an ordinary London flat. She glanced up and licked her lips as she pressed the doorbell.
221 B.
I’m back.