I've never been superstitious, religious, or anything other than an observer of the natural world around me. I never really believed in the saying "Everything happens for a reason." That is, until this past year.
It was three days before my seventeenth birthday that my house had caught fire, taking nearly all my belongings, my cat Marley, and both parents down with it. We'd set out all the decorations for my party, consisting of cheap plastic tablecloths and streamers. The kind of quality product you could only get from Nowheresville, Indiana. But I'd take shitty birthday decorations over a dead family any day. Any sane person would.
It was soon after this accident that I discovered the truly insane actually exist.
A couple days later, maybe three(it's quite difficult to remember, having been dragged from place to place constantly), it was finally determined that I was to be shipped off to London, England, to live with my grandmother. She was the closest relative I had, and I hadn't seen her in at least three years.
So I did the only thing left I could do; I scrimmaged through the last semi-salvageable items in my house to take with me what I could. Air fares and luggage were expensive enough, so I had to limit the items I took with me to one large suitcase. Then, I said my goodbyes to all my friends who were supposed to have attended my birthday party that day, and to my boyfriend, Vincent, who'd agreed to dating long-distance. As if I hadn't lost enough already, I felt like I was losing the boy I loved.
When I arrived, Gran was at the airport, ready to greet me with a giant embrace. She looked the same from what I remembered; a pleasant face(though struck with grief now from the loss of her son and daughter-in-law) and a gentle tone of voice. I tried my best to smile and act as if I was glad to see her, but under the circumstances, how could I?
I'd never been out of the country, so the mere drive from the airport to her place was quite a culture shock. Everything just seemed so... British, like it was only like this in the movies. And she kept talking about her "flat," which took me half the drive to realize was her apartment. She also spoke about two men who rented a flat above us from her, which I found odd. She didn't say too much about them, just that I should prepare myself. Whatever that means.
"Your room is just past the kitchen, on the left. It was the guest bedroom, so there's already a bed and clean sheets. I expect you're tired from the plane ride, so you just rest. I'll make you a nice hot cuppa," Gran said.
What the hell is a cuppa? I thought, silently exiting the room.
It turns out that a cuppa means a cup of tea, I learned when Gran brought it in for me. I thanked her politely and took a sip, not actually sure what it tasted like. Let me warn you: it's repulsive. I blamed my scrunched up face on it being hot, but I didn't know how long I would be able to hide my distaste of the stuff.
It was after gran had tried to make me eat dinner that I first heard them. The door outside of Gran's flat opened and closed with a hasty thud, followed by the voices of two men shouting at each other. I immediately hoped I wouldn't be stuck with the neighbors who weren't always fighting and yelling at each other.
Gran finally left me alone that night after I told her I had a lot of unpacking to do. I didn't really get much done, though. Instead, I laid down under the scratchy sheets and checked my messages online, then quickly got off after seeing they were all the same
"I'm so sorry for your loss" sympathy messages. I just couldn't deal with that at the moment.
The sun went down, along with the noise on the street, which brought another strange set of noises into my room. I thought at first the clanking was just the air conditioning, as it seemed to be coming from the vent above my bed, but faint voices soon followed.
"You can't just tell the head of Scotland Yard to sod off, Sherlock. Do you realize your actions could have gotten us both arrested?" said one of the men.
A much deeper voice followed, in a clearly unconcerned tone. "Stop being so paranoid about getting arrested, John. It only happened once."
"Yes," replied the man I assumed to be John. "It was yesterday. Because of you."
After hearing this undeniably insane conversation, I couldn't help but investigate more. I quietly rolled out of my bed and snuck out of my bedroom, making sure Gran was asleep before I went out. I slid through the dark rooms to the door leading out of the flat, which was louder than I'd have liked it to be. There was no stirring from Gran. I went up the stairs to the door leading to the other flat in the building.
"John, take a look at this body. How long would you say she's been dead?" said Sherlock.
What? Who's body was in there?
"According to the picture, I'd say six hours at least."
Oh thank God.
"She couldn't have been killed by the clerk then, because she'd left an hour before. Then who did it?" Sherlock again. "John..."
A suspicious silence came from the flat and I realized too late that I'd been discovered. The door swung open before I had a chance to move.
A tall, thin man who looked to be in his early thirties stood above me, his piercing eyes that matched the color of the British sky staring at me with a matching smile of slight irritation. "Can I help you?" he asked. I studied the man, who had high, protruding cheek bones and dark, curled hair.
A man stood a few yards behind him, holding a pistol. He was considerably shorter than the man who stood before me and appeared a few years older than him. He had short, blonde hair and a cute nose that sloped outward. Despite having a pistol in his hand, he seemed to have a very calm disposition.
Though the two were at least a decade older than me, there was no denying their attractiveness.
"The clerk didn't kill her," I said quickly. "She was trying to kill him."
The two shared a glance at each other. I knew this because of the information I'd heard, combined with the photos scattered about the room. From the photos, I saw that there was a contraption constructed to trap and kill its victim with multiple ropes and a machine gun. However, the girl made a mistake when setting it up, which caused her foot to get caught in the rope instead of her victim. It was obvious.
I explained all of this to him.
"Brilliant," said the short one. From him voice, I assumed he was John.
Sherlock said nothing, though. He just studied the photographs more carefully. "I'll inform Lestrade. John, put a kettle on. I would like to converse with Miss Hudson."
"Miss Hudson?" John asked, glancing at me.
"My name is Elia," I said. "Elia Hudson."
And this is the story of how I came to live under a high-functioning sociopath and his doctor.