The sound of a single doorbell ring broke the silence of 221 B Baker Street.
"Mind if I get that?" John Watson asked his flat mate. But it was like talking to air. John huffed. Sherlock was in his "mind palace" again. John limped down the stairs and welcomed a young girl into the flat. He gestured for her to precede him up the stairs.
When the girl with dark hair that curled over her shoulders entered the flat, Sherlock noted that her pale brown arms were muscular and the legs that extended from under her denim shorts were lean. She wore sneakers too, but they were designer. Sherlock had never met anyone he couldn't deduce. Men were more difficult than women, and he could catch deductions about their jobs more easily than women. On the other hand, the character of a wealthy woman was easy to deduce because of the clothes she wore. This girl was not difficult to deduce, but somehow his deductions were coming too fast. American, very patriotic; played track and field at her school, probably private; about seventeen; shy in nature; had flawless skin.
"Please, take a seat." John said, motioning to his chair.
"Thank you."
"Sherlock?" John asked.
"Age seventeen, unusual secondary education, excellent actress, classy dresser, native Londoner." Sherlock replied to the air. His primary deductions had been a mixture of truth and lies. Why was this girl pretending to be someone she wasn't?
"You're better than I thought." The girl murmured.
Sherlock blinked. No girl who was truly shy would saw something that bold to a stranger, especially an adult stranger.
"Bex Baxter." She held out her hand, bending to the influence of five years of Culture and Assimilation classes.
Sherlock looked down at her hand. "I don't bother with manners; boring."
"I agree. I'll get to the point." She took a deep breath. "My best friend ran away and has been missing for four weeks."
"That's only a month."
"I'm worried about her."
"Feelings." John stage whispered.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his only friend.
"My friend is in danger."