"BORED!"
John Watson rubbed his temple with a little more force than necessary. He swore to himself that it wouldn't be one of the many life-threatening adventures that killed him; it would be stress brought on by his criminally anti-social flatmate.
"There's one more here," he said quietly, not sure if Sherlock would welcome the end of the line or be disappointed in yet another day without a real challenge.
Before Sherlock could respond, the newcomer spoke. "Sherlock Holmes, have I got an adventure for you."
"Go away," Sherlock said without a glance at the newcomer, his mind already trying to salvage what was left of the day.
The newcomer's smile only grew. "Oh, come now, Sherlock; why would you say something like that?"
Sherlock still wouldn't look. "The tone of your voice says I'm supposed to be impressed by you. The words you chose-'have I got an adventure for you'-indicates that you are so utterly PLEASED with yourself for having something so AMAZING that I will simply HAVE to drop everything I'm doing and give you my attention; never mind that anything that could be that impressive to you is going to be painfully obvious to me and it won't be worth the five minutes of my life to investigate it much less the time it will take for me to put up with your overblown opinion of yourself. THAT is why I said, 'go away.'"
By this point John was certainly impressed. Most people would have left by now, or at least been in tears after Sherlock's (rather rude) takedown, but the stranger just stood there, his boyish grin not fading in the least.
"You really are a genius, aren't you," he said to himself. Louder, he said, "Look at me."
"No."
"Look at me."
"No!"
The stranger flung his arms wide open and yelled, "Look at me!" His smile never faltered.
Sherlock spun, livid. "And why would I..."
He looked over the stranger once. And then looked again. Finally, he stared the stranger in the eyes and said, his voice barely above a whisper, "Who are you?"
The stranger swaggered a bit, his hair flopping in response. "Who do you think?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, the edge returning to his voice.
"Take a guess."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and began. "You take care of your appearance, that's obvious. Hair's been shampooed recently-that's different from 'product,' Watson, pay attention. Slacks are well-pressed along with the shirt, and there's no indication that this is the bottom of the wardrobe which indicates that for whatever awful reason you choose to wear that ridiculous jacket and bow tie. You are at best eccentric but more likely in this day and age you're just stupid and pretending to be something more than you are because you certainly don't have the look of an academic no matter how hard you try. There's too much confidence and bravado for you to have picked those clothes out by accident.
"Except there's the fact that you've moved away from the entrance with your back against the wall. You've already scoped the room out for exits and picked the position most likely to assist with an escape. That suggests military background; someone just concerned with self-preservation would have picked the spot three steps to your right which would almost guarantee a clean escape but not you; you've decided to concern yourself with everyone else in the room so: military or hero complex, and given the hair, I'd have to say hero.
"In short, sir, you have the marking of a performer attempting to be someone he is not, but your manner speaks of someone who has been there. Someone who has seen hard things and has determined to end them. Instead of standing still and going mad, you run. And you keep running, if the state of your shoes is any indication.
"So I will ask again, sir: who are you?"
The stranger beamed. "I'm The Doctor, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I have an adventure for you."