Here's Chapter One! Please, input! :) (I don't own any characters, but the idea is mine completely!)
Our lodgings at 221B had been relatively quiet as of late. Sherlock had been entertaining himself by desperate measures again, and I wanted a case to turn up to distract his attentions once more. One morning, after a particularly rowdy evening during which I confiscated his recreational habits, a moody and headached Sherlock came down for breakfast late.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty." I turned a newspaper page. After hearing a groan in reply, I continued, "Found something you might like to—"
"No, John. The cases you choose are dull and uninteresting. If you wish to occupy my time positively, scare up a good murder." He grabbed the fresh mug of tea originally for my drinking purposes and sullenly flopped onto the couch.
"Sherlock, I can't just—" I sighed, realizing the futility of my situation. "You have to be patient."
"No!" came the loud reply. "I'm so bored!" His fist smacked the wall, which sent our seemingly ever-present landlady skittering up the stairs.
"What are you two bloody boys up to—" Mrs. Hudson exploded shrilly, and upon a single wave of Sherlock's hand, she angrily turned on her heel and stalked away.
The minutes passed. "Come on, John," Sherlock called from above. I started and glanced at the clock. A whole half-hour had passed beneath my nose, and he stood in front of me, ready to go out.
"Where are we going?" I asked, standing up and staggering to the coat hooks.
"For a walk. Since you have hidden my entertainment, I shall have to find another source of diversion." He smirked blandly, turning up his collar, which seemed to augment his cheekbones.
I blew out slowly from my mouth. "Let's go." I tugged on my jumper and joined him in jogging down the stairs. The door to 221B closed gently behind us.
"Do you know what you have to do?"
The Woman nodded affirmative.
"Get me Sherlock Holmes."
_
As we walked, I observed many familiar sights and sounds, but Sherlock seemed unfettered by such distractions. We passed by a board filled with pasted advertisements, which he insisted we stop at. "Hm." His eye was attracted to a bright yellow advert with the large red letters of:
FORTUNES
BY MADAME LACEY
Underneath was an address.
"Don't, Sherlock, that's tacky," I objected to no avail. The advert was stored in his lengthy coat, and disappeared quickly. As we walked away, I criticized, "You don't seriously believe—"
"John. I don't believe. But in all my experiences, I have found it is useful to keep an open mind. I am currently bored to the extent of going to a fortune teller, because my unintelligent flatmate decided to deprive me of proper diversions!" Sherlock snapped.
"Ah. So you think she'll tell you where I've put them?"
His voice lowered considerably. "Also, a client has come to me in complete confidence. She believes that a certain fortune teller"—here he pulled the glaring advert out and waved it in my confused face—"has been laundering money and is connected to the recent bank robberies."
"Oh." He replaced the advert in his deep pocket and continued walking. I sheepishly trailed behind.