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Now to fic! (Good grief, I didn't think I had that many warnings. What happened?)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: Teen
Trigger Warning: Attempted Assault
DISCLAIMER: Here I will reference the 'marry 'im, bury 'im' speech from Arthur Conan Doyle. Don't think Moffat's that generous, but one can hope. (It's fanfic anyway; he shouldn't get too worried over it.)
Summary: Amnesiac woman knows how to take care of herself.
She woke up, panting, and looked at the window to find it was early morning. The dream was really more of a nightmare, but few elements remained, so it wasn't useful. The only thing that remained was mocking eyes and standing on a building.
An overcoat. That's what she was missing, and oh how she truly missed it. That struck her, as she carefully maneuvered herself into the hallway.
She paused upon noticing the flash of something shiny. The first thing that came to mind was sword, but the object was far too large for that. The second was mirror.
Well, at least my mind isn't boring, she mused to herself, as she stepped up to it.
Odd. Some reluctance to view self. Afraid won't like what I see? Afraid it will bring back memories? ... Unsure of reason.
Her lips parted upon seeing the reflection. For some reason, it was not what she had been expecting, and for a moment, the ghostly image of a man who vaguely resembled her floated in the air before disappearing. With a burst of panic, she tried to grasp onto that image, tried to catch it before it dissolved completely. It was important, she understood that. But it was gone all too quickly, and she was left, feeling a little emptier, staring at herself.
Do not let disappointment distract. Possible brother. Now, learn what you look like. Observe. Deduce from those facts you currently possess.
She wasn't ugly, which was somewhat of a relief, and she added Large Ego to the Arrogant on her list. In fact, she might be considered beautiful, in an unusual way, she mused. People at one point of time would probably have called her fae. Not that that didn't suit her, and that added the words 'Doesn't care about others' opinions of self'. Odd, with the care she felt she'd have liked to take about her appearance, but perhaps it was for herself and not for others. She felt a slight satisfaction at that. That was, in fact, a good reason to take care in one's appearance.
The hair was long and curly, but it was now messy and tangled. Oil, dirt, and other unidentifiable substances (and that was certainly a bit of a shock) had ruined its appearance. Yet she could imagine its previous state, gloriously long, flying out behind her as she ran.
With that and the smell, it was clear she hadn't taken a bath in a while.
Her eyes were an odd, piercing grey. High cheekbones, an aristocratic nose (that was ridiculous, why would anyone term it that), and an uncompromising sort of face confirmed the arrogance, but...
She was beautiful.
She was surprised to find herself reaching out to her reflection, a tear dripping down one cheek. She quickly turned away, then forced herself to turn back. Memorizing her appearance might turn out useful. She wiped away the tear with the other hand. Interesting emotional reaction. Cannot explain source. Annoying.
When she was certain she was done there, she continued out of the building. It was time to try to find some better answers from London at large.
There were large gaps in her knowledge of London, she realized with a frustrated and somewhat terrified snarl. Occasionally she had but to keep walking and her feet would take her exactly where she wanted, avoiding pedestrians or possible dangers. At other times she stopped completely, not knowing where she was even subconsciously.
Ordinarily, she realized, she would have called a cab, or perhaps taken the Underground. Lack of any sort of money rendered either impossible. No, not impossible, but she was trying to avoid drawing attention. Although, really, was that the best course of action? Even if the police were not necessarily the brightest bunch, they would possibly be of use in discovering her identity. Was she avoiding them for some specific reason? Did she just hate dealing with them because they were morons, or was this another piece of evidence for the 'thief/criminal' suggestion on her list of professions?
It was then that she realized she'd been followed for the last few street crossings. Stupid, idiot, thick, dull.
She turned, but not quickly enough. A weight plowed into her, trapping her against the wall of the building. Male, upwards of twelve stone. Aware of weight and has fought before, probably street or pub fighting. Most likely, predator.
The theory gained more credence when the man chuckled obscenely and pinned her arm in an intimate manner. She soon gained another realization. Theories, even getting them right, were less satisfactory when one was in personal danger.
The other arm grabbed at her lower thigh. Both would most certainly bruise.
"Where's a pretty thing like you going on a night like this?"
"Away from you." She couldn't help it. Apparently she could add impertinent to her list.
She couldn't pull away, so she did the next best thing-push toward him. A move he wasn't expecting. A smile of triumph crossed his face before she was ramming her shoulder into his nose. Except it hurt. But then, he stumbled back a bit, his hold on her slipping then gone as he clutched at a bleeding and most likely broken nose.
Now, there was satisfaction.
"You crazy b***. I'm going to have my fun with you, and I'm going to make you scream."
"Good luck with that," she advised, ramming a foot into his kneecap. He went down with a howl.
She turned, a grin of satisfaction crossing her face, and was about to leave when one of his hands brought her crashing to the pavement, which was certainly not fun.
She wriggled, kicking at the offending hand with all she was worth. Bare feet were not the best for such things, she realized. Then she screamed, as he bit down-hard-on her bare foot.
At least it wasn't a toe.
She kicked out at his nose, again, and with a howl he let go. She pulled herself out of reach, then pulled herself to her feet.
Surprise, surprise. Her wounded foot screamed at her. Somehow, though, she was able to work through the pain, limping determinedly to the café that was not yet open, though the owner was moving around getting the place ready. It took some obnoxious rapping on the window to get the owner to open the door even slightly, staring at her suspiciously.
"Phone the police," she stated breathlessly. With no hesitation, the woman (Asian, first generation, making a living but little more than that) complied.
