Most of the script is taken word for word. Feel free to use the transcription. I do not own Sherlock. If I did, I would not be typing up a disclaimer. Script starts next chapter.
It was just one of those days. One of those bloody days. The ones that made you go "Why? God, Why?"
He was frustrated. Sitting alone. In a café. In a secluded corner. And his head kept running around the same idea. The same bloody idea.
No one knew what went on in his head. A few wondered here and there. A few tried and failed miserably.
No. That was not relevant.
He kept his mind on the task at hand. The same idea popped up. He crushed it underfoot and tossed it out with the burnable trash. He would set it alight later.
Somehow, it regained its previous sticky consistency and attached itself to him again. This idea was enough to drive him insane. The same idea. Could it be?
As the door opened, he pulled the muffler closer to his face. Teenage girls. Judging by the uniform, they were from the local girl's only school. He shrunk himself down and scrunched away from them. They were the scariest.
He had gone online and saw what they wrote, day dreamed, and fought over. They were scary. What if one recognized him? It would start a media frenzy. Posts all over Facebook and Twitter. It would be horrible. But it all hinged on if they would recognize him.
"Him" being the great Sherlock Holmes, the most popular actor on the telly. He regretted joining the acting industry. He couldn't go anywhere without the media swarming him. His house in Devon was always covered on paparazzi. He found them plastered to his big country mansion 24/7. No literally. They were plastered to his house.
He was twenty-seven, the perfect age for marriage. But it didn't suit him. Didn't suit him at all. Then, he wondered absent mindedly, if there was any way to fend off the fan girls permanently. No. Not without scandal.
Sherlock paid for his coffee and stalked out of the shop irked. He just wanted some peace. Sherlock Holmes wanted peace. It was funny.
Sherlock slipped into his sports car, lingering only a second to inhale the crisp new car smell. He put the car in drive and started weaving through the London traffic. Was that apointment supposed to be today? Oh, his mental bulletin board reminded him that his last scathing comment had put all interviews on hold. He was mostly free today. That wa sif the lazy writers would finish the script. Unlikely as the were all so bloody useless at their jobs. He felt something tug at him again.
The idea. It buzzed and buzzed. It was infuriating. Sherlock's grip tightened on the wheel. What could he do? HE was an actor. Not a writer. He interpreted character. He brought them alive. He made ink into living breathing flesh. He didn't create them. But that little buzzing idea wouldn't stop beelining for his conciousness.
Who? Could he trust? Only one option satisfied him. Who else could he turn to? There was only one person who would keep it secret. It was a risk. Since when had he cared about risks? Sherlock found himself pulling into the farthest left lane. He was on his way to see an old professor.