You emailed the Army Doctor your dad had in his contacts book, before settling in to sleep on the plane. It was a long flight, but you slept through most of it. When you woke up, you immediately checked your email to see that the army doctor had, in fact, offered you to stay with him. It wasn't ideal, but it'd give you time to settle in. You messaged back saying that sounded great, and thank you. You thought about how freaked Dean would undoubtedly be. You get almost bad for leaving Sam aline with your eldest brother. You just couldn't stand it anymore. How he reprimanded you just like dad used to. And for what? Being intelligent? Being extraordinary, for being the best of the three children? Well, you didn't have to listen to Dad, nor Dean anymore. You had another hour left, and you spent that time doing what Dean hated the most- deducing random people. You looked to the man next to you, and took notes. Smoker, two kids, one deceased child (cause of broken marriage), from London, business man, about 42, drinks whiskey. You continued this pattern on about seventeen other people, until the plane finally landed. You had enjoyed the freeing feeling of no longer caring what Dean thought. You were your own person, finally! This would be great. You turned your phone from airplane mode, and immediately got a call from Sam. You decided to answer. Nothing they could do now.
"Hiya, Sammy." You greeted casually, lugging your duffle through the crowded terminal.
"Where the hell are you?!" Dean shouted, causing you to momentarily flinch.
"London." You quipped. You could hear the string of curses as he dropped the phone in anger and shock. It was picked up again, and you heard your brothers fight for it. Dean yelling at Sam how 'it was his responsibility to protect you two', causing you to scoff.
"Hey, sis. Um, you're kidding, right? You're not really across the ocean?" Sam's authoritative tone begged. It was an interesting combination, but bored you either way.
"No, I'm not. I'm in London. I'm done, Sammy. I'm done trying to be just anybody. I've outdone you in school, outdone Dean in combat, and all I get for it is insulted. I'm done, bye, Sammy." You hung up the phone, and finally found the exit, but not before running into a sharply dressed man. Your bag clattered to the floor, you going down with it.
"Oh, sorry." You spat sarcastically, swiftly grabbing your duffle, before its contents spilled and you got arrested for carrying so many weapons that you could kill every person in the room. You stood up, dusting yourself off, expecting the man to have gone by now, but he hadn't. You looked at him as he analyzed you, so you did the same. Westwood; money. You looked to both sides, seeing to men who were clearly his lap dogs on either side, pretending to not even know him. No ring nor tan line; never been married, smells faintly of gunpowder. Criminal? Rich criminal; he's a boss. Not mob or mafia, he'd have tattoos and probably some kind of 'family crest' ring, so has his own crime web. Interesting.
"I suggest you move, I don't feel like getting shot." You spat. His guys met yours, eyes narrowing.
"What ever do you mean?" His high pitched voice asked, the Irish draw all too evident. The sound of it caused your heart to speed up, and you internally scolded yourself. You barely knew anything other than he was hot, Irish, and a criminal, and you're already developing a crush on him? You turned your focus to deducing him, to distract yourself for how you could melt into those chocolate vaults that seemed to own secrecy, no matter how sexy you found that voice, you refused to like the attractive criminal. You noticed long-healed scars on his wrists as he straightened out his suit's cuffs. That means abusive home, mother likely would neglect if father was abusive. By the looks of them, they were from trying to slip your hand through a metal gate. Neglectful mother, abusive father. Sympathy for the devil. Great.
"Nothing. I just don't like getting shot. Happens too often." You said as if it was nothing, but his goons had been growing wary of you. The man stepped lightly to the side, and you nodded at him.
"Thank you. For moving, and for not having your goons shoot me." You strolled on by quickly, but took enough time to see the corner of his mouth twist up in a pleased smirk.
"Boss, shouldn't we-" One of the men asked, concerned with how much she knew. You opened the door, allowing the cool London breeze to wisp your hair into dancing swirls.
"No. Let her go." He watched you walk off, going through his own analysis, finding less than what he was accustomed to. Hunter (he was frankly annoyed that he couldn't tell what kind), two brothers, currently carrying a weapons stash, neglected as a child, but what worried him in his analysis wasn't the things he didn't know, but the things his mind had added without his own consent. From your swirling
h/c hair that seemed to wave behind her, to those breath taking e/c eyes that found so much out about him with momentary glances, all the way to how you held yourself. He lifted his hand, and motioned for his men to follow him, only after he'd noticed you'd entered a cab. He exited the terminal, and snapped, a sleek black car pulling up to exactly where he stood. The man on his left opened the door, and Moriarty paused before getting in.
"Figure out who she is. Note; she has two brothers, a deceased mother from when she was a child, and a more recently deceased father. Go." He instructed. The right man nodded, and stalked off to find information. He looked the way her cab had gone, and smirked to himself, once again. He gave a slightly amused hum.
"I'll be seeing you soon, my dear." He said to no one in particular, but it was clear to his men it was meant for you. He slid into the car, the door shutting behind him. He leaned into the soft, black leather seats, his smirk twisting upward ever so slightly.
"Very soon indeed."