221B Baker Street

"Sherlock, luqueteretission isn't a word."

"Says who?"

"Says the English language! You can't just make up a word."

"Why not? If it has letters, it's a word."

"Okay, then what does it mean?"

"The state of being in which one feels superior in intelligence to the rest of the general population..."

"Shut up. Here, look. Not in the dictionary."

"Screw the dictionary."

"Fine. If you're not going to follow the rules, then we won't play." John slid the tiles off the Scrabble board, putting them back into the box.

"You can't do that! We haven't finished!" Sherlock protested, as John placed the box back on the shelf.

"Well then, you'll just have to play fair next time."

"Fair is boring," Sherlock sighed, stretching his legs out on the couch. "Obviously, I would have won."

"Well, now we'll never know," John said, seating himself in the chair across from him, opening his laptop.

"I would have won," Sherlock insisted.

"Can you prove it?" John smiled.

"Quiet, I'm thinking," Sherlock said, examining the ceiling,

"You just can't face the fact that you'll never know..."

"Checking your email, I see."

"What?" John said, looking up from the computer screen.

"Checking your email. Obviously expecting a message. Not business."

"I'm just..."

"Ah, so it's personal. Defending yourself, very personal."

"I thought you were thinking."

"I am." Sherlock said, turning to John. "The way you're sitting. You're acquainted with the person, but don't know them well." He paused, watching him. "Read the message before, still trying to think of an appropriate reply."

"That's not..."

"Self-conscious about how you sound through your words, left leg crossed over right...are you seeing someone, John?"

"What? No, of course not," John sputtered, shutting his laptop.

"Come on, John. Even someone with you're I.Q could tell you were lying."

"That's not funny. And no, I am not seeing someone." He said, placing the laptop on the coffee table.

"You're wasting your breath. In a few seconds, I'll have her first name and hair color."

"Fine. What's her name?"

"Ellen. Blond hair, brown eyes. A centimeter taller than you."

"She is not taller than me. We're the same height."

"That's what you like to think," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Which proves my theory correct."

"What?"

"That you were lying." Sherlock said, sitting up. He reached for his phone as it vibrated on the coffee table. "See, I won."

"We're not seeing each other. We just met yesterday, at the…"

"Coffee shop, I know," he said, typing something onto his phone.

"How did you…"

"You wrote her number on one of their napkins," he said, pocketing the phone.

"I see." John paused, examining an imaginary hangnail. "Who was it?"

"No one important. You're going out to dinner tonight?"

"Well, Ellen and I...

"That's alright," Sherlock interrupted, standing up. "Was planning on going to Beeton's later on. Grab a bite to eat, maybe some tea..."

"That's where Ellen and I were going to go."

"What a coincidence! Had no idea," Sherlock said, a hint of mischief in his voice. "Almost as if I read your mind." He grabbed his coat and scarf off the rack. "Looks like I'll be seeing you two there."

Beeton's Pub, 12 Northumberland Street

"Sorry I'm late! Lots of traffic this hour," Ellen Roeder said, smoothing he navy blue pencil skirt as she seated herself across from John.

"No no, don't worry! Traffic's always terrible around here," John assured her. "Nice to see you again."

"You too. Glad we could meet tonight." She smiled. "I thought I'd be nice to get to know each other a little better."

"Definitely," he said, as they reached for the menus.

"So, do you live nearby?"

"Yeah, I live up on Baker Street," he said, glancing through the menu. "221B."

"I grew up on that side of town. Funny, the address sounds familiar."

"Really? Wonder why," he said quickly, glancing over his shoulder. "Must be a…common address." The man seated behind him shifted in his seat, flipping over his newspaper.

"I suppose so," she laughed, setting down her menu. "By the way, thanks for helping me find my keys yesterday."

"Oh, uh…you're welcome."

"No, really. I don't know how you managed to find them. They could have been anywhere."

"It was nothing. Someone once told me that, if you eliminate all other factors, the one that remains must be…"

"Oh for Pete's sake," Sherlock said, throwing down the newspaper. He turned around in his seat to face John. "You're quoting me, yet you refuse to acknowledge my presence?"

"I wasn't refusing to acknowledge your presence," John said, turning to Ellen. "Sherlock, this is Ellen…"

"Roeder," Sherlock interrupted. "I'm aware."

"Ellen, this is Sherlock." John said, glaring at Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes."

"The Sherlock Holmes? The detective?" Ellen said, with a look of disbelief.

"Consulting detective, Miss Roeder." Sherlock said, pulling up a chair to their table.

"He's a friend of mine," John said, still glaring at Sherlock.

"You don't say," Ellen said, smiling. She reached out her hand to Sherlock. "I'm Ellen Roeder. Columnist for the…"

"Metro," Sherlock finished, shaking her hand.

"My, Mr. Holmes. I must say, your skills are impressive," she said, looking at John. "Does he always finish your sentences for you?"

"Pretty much. You get used to it after awhile," John said, glancing at Sherlock.

"Well, I know it's spur of the moment…" Ellen said, pulling a small notepad out of her purse. "…but how about a quick interview?"

"An…an interview? With me?" Sherlock said suddenly, pointing to himself with a surprised smile.

"No, with John. Of coursewith you! I could get you on the front page, easy. Do you have any idea how many of my colleagues would kill for this oppritunity?"

"Sherlock isn't a fan of…" John interrupted.

"Quiet, James," she said, glancing at John. "I mean John. Sorry." She turned back to face Sherlock. "Image the publicity you'll get!"

"You hate reporters!" John sputtered at Sherlock.

"On the front page? Really?" Sherlock said shyly, ignoring John.

"Sherlock, you are a public sensation!" Ellen said, eyes twinkling. "You're what the people want! You're…"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, standing up and pushing his chair in. "And I don't do interviews with five-figure liars who couldn't write their way out of an elementary school." With that, he adjusted his scarf and walked out of the pub.