I Don't Wanna Be a Stupid Girl [tag: Sherlock]

[KRISTINE "LOTTE" DAY]

They travel in packs of two or three
With their itsy bitsy doggies and their teeny-weeny tees
Where, oh where, have the smart people gone?
Oh where, oh where could they be?

"Hi, what can I get for you?"

Kristine's least favorite sentence, and probably the one she said the most often. Such an odd, dangerous place to be working, really--The Cat Scratch. But at least she wasn't on stage. That would be the first time she'd ever think that, surely! She'd rather be down here serving drinks than up there shaking her booty any day. Not like she had any booty to shake--her curves were unimpressive.

She trudged back to the bar and dropped the order at the bartender, giving him a look that was unmistakable.

"Tired, huh?"

"Yeah. I don't know if I can take anymore, I wanna go home!"

"Oskar's probably bored without you."

Kristine smiled and nodded a little. It was times like this when she remembered why she worked here instead of somewhere else--the people were nice to her. She could tolerate being miserable, but at least she didn't have to be miserable alone.

Her head turned to the door as a man walked in--he looked different from the other people here. Long overcoat, serious face, tightly packed into a scarf. And when he sat down--in a corner--he didn't remove any of it.

"That's mine," she said to the bartender, sighed, and went to him. "Evening, Sir." She flipped over a cocktail napkin and wrote her name on it, like she'd been taught--wrote it upside down. "Can I get you anything?"

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[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Typically, Sherlock had only just sat down in a booth of the 'Cat Scratch Club' when he was interrupted by a waitress. He wasn't overly fond of people on an ordinary day, but when they got in the way of his progress with a case, he found them even more irritating.
"Evening, Sir."
Had he not been so intently focussed on 'the mark' (a man currently sat part way across the room, his attention completely on the girls on the stage) Holmes would likely have groaned in annoyance and snapped out: 'Can you not see that I am trying to concentrate, you imbecile.'
As it was, Sherlock was actually so deeply absorbed into the case that he was practically comatose to anything not involved with it. Meaning that, though the woman was able to annoy him, she likely wouldn't distract completely. Nor would he be likely to respond civilly.
As though that was any different from how he behaved normally.

"Can I get you anything?"
The consulting detective scowled, and his eyes narrowed where he refused to tear away his gaze from the mark - whom he had been following for the better part of the day under the belief that a vital component of his current case was hidden in the man's jacket lining - and muttered a low and sharp response.
"No, you can't."

He paused for a moment, before allowing the waitress a brief glance.
"Unless you're willing to assist me in borrowing that man's jacket?" Sherlock tilted his head toward the mark, ignoring the fact that he knew straying from his ultimate purpose in acquiring an assistant of all things wasn't the wisest of choices.
But then, even Sherlock Holmes was capable of ignoring his own knowledge in favour of a sudden desire for improvisation.
"I promise you that it will be more interesting than serving drinks and waiting for closing time."

[KRISTINE "LOTTE" DAY]

They travel in packs of two or three
With their itsy bitsy doggies and their teeny-weeny tees
Where, oh where, have the smart people gone?
Oh where, oh where could they be?

Well, that wasn't an answer she got often. I mean, not too often--even when there were girls out on the stage, the men usually wanted a drink. Her eyes followed his, her darkly painted lips pursed, to the man across the room. Then it dawned on her--he was following someone.

"I promise you that it will be more interesting than serving drinks and waiting for closing time."

Well, that was true. Kristine said nothing and narrowed her eyes at him. "Holmes, right?" she asked, recognizing him from online. Slowly, she nodded and cast her eyes down to her notepad. She had to think for a mere half a second--was this ethical? She was clever, sure, but taking things from customers...

"Coming right up, Sir," she said out of the corner of her mouth. He was a policeman--she had to do what he said. With a straight face, she walked down the velvet-carpeted stairs and approached the man, her thick heels clicking.

"Evening," she said with a little smile, flipping the page on her notepad. "Sorry, but has someone taken your order yet?" She stood with her legs a little wider, her hips swinging out. The man looked over, and then looked over again, and smiled.

"Yeah, darlin', I'm all set."

Well, shit. But she thought fast. "Right... mmm." She smiled and wrote something on her notepad, then passed it to him with a sultry little smirk. He unfolded the piece of paper in his hand.

Wait for me in the coat room--I have a key.

She waltzed off to the bar and filled a fake order for Sherlock--a mojito, hold the mint leaves. Really, it was for her, but no one had to know that. The corner was secluded enough that she wouldn't be spotted anyway. As she walked back toward Sherlock's table, she glanced over at the other gentleman--he was gone.

"It's all yours," she said, sitting at the table next to Sherlock's and giving a nod.

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[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock was faintly surprised when the woman walked away, and watched her as she approached the mark. Whatever she said seemed to make the man eager to leave, anyway, as quite soon he had scarpered off in some direction. Whatever it was, it hardly mattered, because finally he had an opening.

"It's all yours,"
He spared a moment to give her a lopsided smirk, head cocked to one side in obvious interest before shooting from the seat and striding, with purpose yet somehow still inconspicuously to the front of the club, where the man had been sitting.

The people there were all far too absorbed in what they saw on the stage, something that made him scowl in disgust when one man even had the gall to push him out of the way for 'blocking his view'. People were repulsive. People in the Cat Scratch were apparently even more so.
Holmes made grabbing the jacket and returning to the booth in the corner a casual manoeuvre - not that it really mattered with all the attention that lot of mindless buffoons paid him.

Once he was seated again, Sherlock pulled a folding knife from his pocket and quickly cut through the lining on the jacket. Sure enough, laid within was a rather small, flat, zip-seal bag. It's contents he was actually rather unsure of, the brown powdery substance something he was certain was easily identifiable in the right lab.
He pocketed it, and turned his attention to the girl.

"You know my name," he pointed out, prompting without asking for an explanation.