Hey all, I decided to write a Sherlock fic because I can't stand to wait any longer. I haven't seen the second or third episodes of the third season, so sorry if I've missed any important details. No hate if you don't like my portrayal Sherlock.
Chapter One:
How. That was the one, pervading question that he could never figure out. How. Not When, or What, or even Why, but just How. Of course, that's what made them a perfect team, Doctor John Watson and the great Sherlock Holmes. Now, there was a man who could figure out the How of a problem. He could look at a dead woman's dog and figure out how she had walked home the night before. John preferred to stick to the facts that a good Internet search could find, but there was a certain intriguing quality to the way that his friend worked. While his perceptive ability seemed almost superhuman, when he was looking over a crime scene, John could see a very human quality in Sherlock's sharp eyes. That day, however, as he walked home in a cold rain, John was very easily able to forget the humanness of his flat mate. After all who would send any other person, much less a friend, out to deliver a message on a day like this? John jumped up the steps of 221B, Baker Street, and hurried inside. As he walked up the steps, his landlady stepped out of the lower room where she stayed.
"You might not want to go up there, dear. He has someone in at the moment. Ooh, I was hoping that you wouldn't find out like this, it's always so much better if you get told privately…"
John sighed, "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Is it somebody who has a case for us?"
"Oh, maybe, maybe. It's so kind of you to keep an open relationship…"
"Sherlock and I are not together, Mrs. Hudson!" John stomped moodily up the flight of stairs, and pushed open the door. As he walked over the threshold, he threw a glance at the man sitting on the couch. He looked average enough, being reasonably fit and having short brown hair.
"Ah, John. Did you deliver my message?"
"Yes, but I don't know why you couldn't have done it yourself. Or used the post, for that matter!"
Sherlock steepled his hands and looked at the doctor over his long fingers. "It was of the utmost importance that the message was delivered by hand. I take it you didn't look at the package? Are you nervous, sir?"
The man on the couch, to whom the last question was directed, started. "Um, I, uh…" he stuttered.
"Please, form your sentences before you start to talk, it gives you the appearance of some small intelligence. I deduced that you were nervous from the way you tilted your head through my colleague's conversation with myself."
The man immediately straightened his head, and Sherlock chuckled. He asked, "Why have you come, Mr. Artsen? While my associate enjoys my verbal sallies and deductions, most people find it tiresome. I can't imagine why. In any case, do you have a case or not?"
Mr. Artsen looked shocked. "How could you possibly know my name?" John looked a little embarrassed as he sat down in his chair, but he answered for Sherlock, "You… well, you're still wearing a nametag."
"Oh. I came to ask your help on a case, but there are certain things that you should know. First, none of what I am about to tell you can ever be repeated. Not to the police, not to anybody. Second, once you hear my story, it will be impossible to walk away without helping."
Sherlock leaned forward with a slight frown on his face. "Why exactly is that? I hope it's not a threat, they bore me."
The man was sweating now, and was nervously bouncing his knee up and down. "No, not a threat, just a warning. If I tell you my case, you can't forget it, and you won't be able to rest until you solved it. Men have died."
Sherlock looked closely at him. "Don't worry. Just tell us the story."
John started. "Do I get a say in any of this?"
His friend shook his head, and John sighed. The man wiped his damp hands on his pants, looked around for a little bit, than began his story.
Well, here is the first chapter! Please review, and tell me if you like it.