I've been dying to write a Sherlock Holmes fanfic, so here's what my mind came up with! I know the general idea's already been introduced, but I just wanted to have a little fun with it; maybe see if I can finally finish a story without getting sidetracked :P. Anyways, I hope you like it! Read and review please!

The only remotely fun part of my day was English class, mostly because I was into all of the classics and loved to write stories and poems. Ironically, that was the class with my lowest grade; it was still an A, but I wanted to boost it up so I could show the world that I understood the world of literature and language, and had the grade to prove it. So, I figured that now would be as good a time as any to really wow my senior English teacher with my imaginative writing style.

We were assigned an essay, perhaps the simplest prompt that could have been given to me in my senior year. It asked for a literary analysis of one of our favorite characters in a novel, and I couldn't help but squeal when I read it. I had been waiting all year to do something like this! The only problem was…who was I going to choose to write about?

I had narrowed it down to three main choices: Elizabeth Bennett, Jane Eyre, or Sherlock Holmes. The differences between the first two characters and the last were so striking and obvious. I was normally an advocate for the romantic 19th century novel, and one with the strong-willed heroine who always found love in the end despite the obstacles. But Sherlock Holmes was put into my group of favorites for a different reason.

Obviously, he was the only male of the three, and by far the most intelligent. I had to admit that I had a slight crush on the calculating detective, and wished that I could just live a day in Baker Street, and watch him as he would deduce something that would seem entirely ridiculous, but all the same be so simple. He could solve any mystery, with exception to "A Scandal in Bohemia", and had such a keen perception of the world around him. Every night I would go to bed and dream that I would somehow enter his world, and be living in every part of it. I would go on cases with him, I would be the one to break down the immovable cold mask he hid behind, and he would realize that emotion did not, in any way, obscure logic indefinitely.

The day the paper was assigned, I couldn't think through the rest of the day without straying to Sherlock Holmes. What could I say about him that could be summed up into a five-page essay? There was really too much that had to be said, and not enough room to say it! My mind, the entire day, was exploding with references to his personality, his logic, his beliefs, that I was frequently called out by my other teachers for daydreaming and not paying attention. The rest of my classmates could only turn in their seats with the most surprised looks on their faces; I was not the lazy burnout-student, but the honor student who was going to Georgetown University next year with a scholarship! I don't think my spacey behavior planted any doubt in my teachers' minds that I was coming down with a case of summer fever, however.

I couldn't be happier when the final bell rang to let me out of the oppressing environment. I raced to my car in the rather large parking lot and was one of the first in line to exit. Traffic was a bit heavier than usual, but it didn't bother me as much as it would've normally. I eased up to the traffic light and prepared to make the left turn that would lead me down the road to my house, where I could pour out my thoughts onto paper.

I completely missed the black SUV coming at me from my right-hand side. All of a sudden, the right side of my compact Honda was crashing closer and closer to me, and I could feel my vehicle start to flip over. Glass was smashing, and the horn let out a short yelp as I leaned into it. No TV show or movie with the climatic crash scenes could have prepared me for this.

Everything was moving in slow motion, and time was totally irrelative to what was occurring outside my car. After the first roll, I could feel my arm being crushed into my side door, and I could feel a painful snap at the crease of my elbow. The third roll was when my head smashed into the radio; I hadn't really screamed up until I saw the streaks of blood all over my body and the dashboard. All I could do was pray to God that it would stop soon, but it seemed to take hours for the car to finally roll to a stop. Luckily, I was upright. My body was protesting with every amount of strength it had as I tried to push off the now-deformed door and get out; it smelled like pain and death in the car, and I couldn't deal with the thought of dying from this. Not now, when I hadn't even gotten to write my paper! Not when I hadn't been able to reveal the innermost workings of the most brilliant detective's mind in the world! There was still too much to do, so much to write, that I think I completely pushed the pain out of my memory.

But, as much as I tried, I couldn't command my body to do the same. After about a minute I could finally ascertain the damage. My head was slashed open and bleeding, my left arm was broken, I couldn't breathe without clutching my stomach (I guessed I'd broken a few ribs), and my right hand was numb. Not only that, but darkness was quickly closing in on me. I didn't know what I could do to stop it.

My eyes closed, against my will, and I slumped over the flattened steering wheel and fainted.