Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.

I solve cases. I use my brain.

I am a detective.

I live in London, 221b Baker Street to be precise.

I get up at 7:32 every morning, giving me 10 minutes and 45 seconds before I get into my taxi (registration plate RH09 BH2O), which always arrives 15 seconds

late, to arrive at work at 8:03.

Outside the gates, I eat a green apple, preferably Granny Smiths, as it is more beneficial to waking up than any dose of caffeine.

Then I have two gulps of coffee, ignoring the fact above due to the undeniable fact coffee improves my thoughts, and dispose the rest into the third-from-the-

right-in-the-row-of-bins' dustbin; I walk through the doors at exactly 8:05.

Usually this gives me 55 minutes, well 64 if he forgot to shave and returned home to do so, before my colleague Watson graces me with his presence.

But not this time.

At 8:36, when I am simultaneously checking the newspaper for mistakes and inspecting my desk for dust, Molly walks in.

I have worked with Molly for 9 years. Within the first six months we were 'together', or what she referred to as 'dating'.

That was a mistake.

She stopped work shortly after and returned after 18 months.

I could never quite work out why, it still infuriates me.

I hate not knowing.

Anyhow, my thoughts developed.

Molly walked in, disturbing my dust and newspaper inspection.

She was not alone.

She had a boy, judging by the bobble on his cardigan, the sloppy (definitely did it himself) knot in his scarf and the Lego batman in in his hand, he was no older

than 8 and 6 months.

He had deep brown curls and piercing green eyes, not too unlike mine, and was surveying the room, where his eyes finally met mine.

He was inquisitive, his posture perfect, eyebrows slightly raised.

Then I finally realised.

He was my son.