In a tiny flat, away from everyone's gaze, lived a solitary man. He had no friends, his family disowned him, and his neighbors were less than friendly than he expected. There were no visitors, unless Sheila came by for the rent. Parcels were scarce; he had not much money to spend on luxuries. He barely afforded to eat properly these last years. His job was crummy, to say politely, it was the only job he could take in the city.

He was the accountant of a small bakery shop. His supervisor, Bruno, always yelled at his sons' for whatever reason, enough for him to hear from his "office" which happened to be the utility closet. Whenever Bruno bothered to talk, it was mostly business.

Whenever his sons' talked, however, they always complained about their father. The man, being the meek man he was, tried to keep neutral.

Eight hours a day with barely any day offs, the man barely had enough money for Sheila each month, often causing him to cut into funds for food.

Having little money overall, the man barely found reason to go out and about, as if he had any reason for other than work. He tried to date, women and men, but it became too apparent that he was more afraid of them then they are of him, and so he continued his solitary lifestyle.

He had no pets, Sheila would not let him, and even then, it was not as if he could afford two mouths to feed. Therefore, in compromise, he had a pet porcelain turtle, lovingly called Frank. Frank is his only friend, the turtle could never judge him, and not that it mattered. It could not speak. Then as days grown long, he started humanizing the turtle.

He would converse with Frank, giving it an upper class accent with posh thrown in, and discuss rugby and the things that bothered him that Frank would listen and advise him. Frank was his own personal therapist, in a sense that he trusted a porcelain turtle to keep his secrets than someone with a hidden god complex.

The man, now known as Owen van Burton, feared the world.

He often glanced out of the small window in his bedroom, looking down on the street as people walked past the flat. He scanned every face he saw, wrote mental notes at every chance, making scores if he seen the same face twice. He dreaded when he sees anyone standing near his flat for more than a minute, sulking under the windowsill, afraid someone spotted him.

Reasons Owen never found, these days of his has been strange as of late. His migraines persisted at the worst time; his doctor switched him to stronger medication that left him drowsy. He started seeing people following him, almost intently when he was active. His flat was broken into multiple times, almost to the point where his security cameras wasted space and became a running joke between him and Frank. The worst came when he gone to the police, multiple times, but found they would not help him.

It gotten to the point where Owen outright quit his job with Bruno, reasons he gave were purposely vague. As for what Owen did for money, he took up various jobs on the Internet. It appeared that even websites needed an accountant and Owen gladly offered his services.

The Internet gave Owen the idea to turn to an unconventional way to put an end to this nightmare.

Bored out of his mind, Owen went through various message boards to come across one that detailed a particular case solved by a detective.

The irony, despite living in the same city as him, Owen never heard of him.

Following through a string of links on the message board, Owen found the website led by the purported Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes.

He took cases posted to his website, if it interested him, and Owen did not think this was interesting enough for him to bother.

Yet, Owen posted his unusual story to the website, anyway.

Eventually after hours spent on doing forms for a boutique website, Owen fell asleep in front of his computer while wearing his headphones, listening to a playlist he made months ago.

Resting his head against the pine wood desk, Owen snored until a blaring notification woke him up. He gotten an email, nothing unusual, groggily he checked it to find it by someone he'd never thought to see an email from.

It appeared his story intrigued the detective. Sherlock, almost insistently, wanted to meet with Owen. Owen had to grab coffee and wake up more before he re-read the email to affirm the detective's message. Elated that someone finally took interest in his story, Owen began discussing an appointment with Sherlock. It surprised Owen that Sherlock refused the idea outright. He instead asked Owen to come right now. Alternatively, when he was available and had the time to come out to his flat.

Owen affirmed he was indeed available now and the detective gave him his address, 221B Baker Street.

Far from his flat, Owen mentioned he would come in a cab and might be late arriving.

"Frank, you might want to check outside and see if Hell froze over," Owen struggled to take off his headphones. Once the headphones sat neatly on his desk, Owen got up and ran around the flat, getting ready to visit Sherlock.

"You won't believe it, Frank; someone finally wants to listen to me!" Owen furiously dried his hair with a towel as he hopped on one leg to the couch with his shoe hanging off the big toe. "I'll be late back; this bloke lives close to the downtown area!"

After putting on his good shoes, Owen got up with the wet towel in his hand. As he tossed the wet towel into the laundry basket, he heard Frank's response.

"Yes, he lives in the city, too. No, I never heard of him, never even met him," he answered the turtle's inquiry.

Combing his wet hair with his fingers, Owen looked around for a razor. Coming to the residence of the only person in the entire city willing to take up his case, Owen wanted to look mildly presentable. Having a scruffy five o' clock shadow put a dent in that and Owen wanted to rectify it quickly without the cuts.

Rummaging around his bathroom, Owen found no razor. He shouted at Frank, "Frank, where's my damn razor?"

As he checked the drug cabinet, he heard Frank's response. "What do you mean mine broke and I had to throw it away, where's my replacement?" Owen poked his head out of the bathroom to look at the porcelain turtle sitting comfortably on the TV stand with a National Geographic magazine opened to the article about Tennessee box turtles.

"Right, right, I forgot to buy it while I was out. I cannot look like a lunatic, Frank. I have to be professional. There's no way I can walk out here without a good shave," Owen gestured with his hands as he stepped out of the bathroom to argue with his turtle. He cringed at the turtle's response and Owen raised his hands in defeat.

"He'll never accept my case if I look like a madman," Owen muttered to himself. The turtle then mentioned something about Sherlock. Owen chortled in response while pointing at the turtle. "Frank, I'm sure this Sherlock Holmes is a professional man, I mean, he'd have to be. He's a detective, yeah?" Owen gestured.

He quickly realized Frank the Turtle's wit was dryer than whey left out in the summer and given up discussing Sherlock.

Unable to run down to the market to grab a replacement razor, Owen decided to wet down his five o' clock shadow and threw on a quick dab of musk.

Frank loved every minute of it, teasing Owen that he was readying for a date rather than a meeting.

Owen growled at the porcelain turtle. He decided against insulting Frank, Frank would just come up with more things to say; instead Owen kept on until he stared at his reflection.

"My name is Owen van Burton," began Owen as he tried to keep calm, nervous. "I need your help, Mr. Holmes."

He practiced several times before he realized the time and as he ran down the stairs of his flat to head outside, there a cab waited for him.

Talking with the cabby, Sherlock arranged it. Owen accepted it face value and stepped into the taxi. As it pulled away from the curb, Owen glanced around, just the same faces he always seen, before he settled in his seat.

It took two hours, with traffic and accidents here and there, but Owen eventually arrived at 221B Baker Street. There to greet him was a blue door with cracks in the wood from water damage and age.

Nervous, Owen took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He waited until the door slowly opened to see an older woman standing there.

"Hi, I'm here for-looking for Sherlock Holmes," Owen forced himself to say. The woman looked him over before she nodded. She smiled as she led him inside, "Oh yes, he mentioned you were coming."

"Oh, that's good-oh, he did?" Owen's hazel eyes followed her as she stepped near the steps to the upstairs flat, her orange magnolia dress flapping in the silent breeze.

"Sherlock, your guest is here!" Mrs. Hudson shouted up the stairs. "I'm not telling you again, I'm not your maid!"

She turned around to face Owen who stood there with a bemused look. She sighed as she shook her head. "I'm not his maid, I'm his landlady," she explained to him. She then introduced herself, "I'm Mrs. Hudson."

"Um, I'm Owen. Owen van Burton, nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson," Owen coughed as he tried to speak with her. She tilted her head, "Are you alright, Mr. Van Burton, you look a little thin."

Owen was 6'5" and thin, probably too thin for his height if he bothered to check his weight every now and then.

"Um, I'm alright, Mr.-Mrs. Hudson," Owen smiled at her. It was the first time in a long time someone took notice of his health.

Mrs. Hudson raised her finger at him, "I know what'll cheer you up. Head up to his flat, when you come down, I'll have something for you."

Owen barely got a word out before she disappeared down the hall near the stairs, leaving him to walk up the stairs, alone.

Every step he took, he felt his heart bump against his rib cage. On the final step, it felt like his heart sore from the constant bumping and it hurt.

Taking deep breaths, Owen calmly knocked on the door and waited. Faintly, he heard a violin, what music it was playing, Owen was not talented in that department, so he assumed the usual suspects.

The violin continued and Owen remained patiently still, he turned his head and looked down the stairs. No one at the bottom of the stairs, not even Mrs. Hudson, it was empty. Turning back to the door, Owen chewed on his lip.

Hesitant to knock again, Owen closed his eyes and waited. As he waited, he heard shuffling noises going on inside the flat. They were faint, but it sound like something opened and closed. The shuffling noises continued until they stopped short of the door.

Opening one of his eyes, Owen narrowed his eye as he heard a sneeze, right in front of the door.

A scene straight out of a comedy show, the door suddenly swung open and the sudden appearance of Sherlock almost sent Owen down the stairs backwards had Sherlock not grabbed his black tie, preventing him from falling to his perpetuating death.

Struggling to right himself, Owen felt the tie tightening around his neck as Sherlock held it tightly, using his upper body strength to force Owen straight into his flat and squarely on the floor.

Owen's heart almost left out of his mouth as he laid on the ground, nose down. He kept his eyes firmly closed as he heard Sherlock close the door behind him. He then heard him.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock said, not even acknowledging his sudden appearance frightened Owen enough to almost fall backwards down the stairs.

Opening his eyes and looking around, Owen cringed as he slowly pushed himself up from the ground to see a pair of legs in front of him. "I had better days," Owen aspirated as he sees a hand lower to him.

"Don't dawdle," Sherlock firmly said.

Nodding, Owen reached for his hand and almost yelped when being forced on his feet, allowing him a proper view of the famed detective.

His skin had color compared to Owen, then again with the title as Great Detective, Sherlock presumably been everywhere his cases led. In addition, Owen was a shut-in at that point, he barely seen the sun since this all started.

Unlike his hair that was naturally smooth and darker shade of color, Sherlock's curly bed of hair was a slight lighter.

Sherlock had piercing light blue eyes, compared to Owen's hazel eyes; they could have been weapons essentially.

Owen noticed he was slightly taller, probably an inch. Unlike Owen, though, Sherlock looked lean, not healthy thin; he presumed being a detective gave him liberty in the kitchen.

He certainly dressed better than Owen did. Compared to Owen's white cotton shirt, black tie, and dress pants he found in a secondhand store, he was more professional in his coordinate black suit.

Overall, appearance wise, Sherlock was a better looker than Owen was. Though a part in Owen's brain joked that the only trump card Owen had to his name, was that he did not have a beak for a nose. Of course, Owen refrained from bringing it up in conversation.

"Um," Owen's mind tried desperately to hold decorum. "My name's O-Owen, we met online."

It failed, miserably. Yet it looked like Sherlock showed some sort of interest. It was not what Owen expected.

"Of course, I know who you are, idiot," Sherlock scorned him, like a child. He then refrained, before he quickly said, "I'm terribly sorry, but I've had a busy morning."

"Don't we all," muttered Owen as Sherlock turned around with his hands clasped together.

Sherlock strolled toward a sole chair in the middle of the flat and quickly swirled around to face Owen. Owen stood there, slowly looking around, like a deer caught in headlights.

"Take a seat," Sherlock ordered in a polite matter, pointing to the chair.

Owen nodded and walked slowly over to the chair. When he sat down, Sherlock spun around to face him. "Your story," he began as he looked sternly into Owen's eyes. "Where does it start?"

"Y-you read it, I thought," Owen sheepishly mustered. Sherlock shook his head in disagreement, his curly hair bouncing up and down.

"No," he pointed. "I've only read it online. Now that you're here, I want to hear from the top."

"But, I don't understand, what purpose does it serve?" Owen sulked in the chair as Sherlock overlooked him.

Sherlock explained it to him, at least what Owen assumed. "Anyone can write a story and say it's the truth, Mr. Van Burton. That is why you're here, to clarify, to add legibility where there is none," he gestured with his free hand as he grabbed for a plump chair and sat in it, one leg over the other.

Owen coughed as he felt Sherlock's eyes on him. He skirted in his seat a little before he sheepishly told Sherlock, "Well, I know it sounds silly, but I started feeling like I was being watched, followed even, six months ago."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes further on Owen. "No, Mr. Van Burton, from the beginning," he insisted. Yet, Owen looked at him with confusion.

"What you mean, from the beginning, I'm telling you right now," Owen gestured with his hands. Sherlock continued to stare him down.

"Start with the migraines, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock snapped at him.

Owen never brought it up in his post. He omitted it because he thought it did not add to the story and that it was silly to ascertain migraines being the harbinger of the corresponding events.

It did not matter, Sherlock wanted to hear it and he was not going to let Owen skip over it. Therefore, Owen entertained Sherlock with his woes.

"Alright, fine, it started six months ago," Owen mustered as he began from the top, the actual top, starting with his migraines. "At first, it started off as normal headaches, two ibuprofen and they were gone. It started to get worse, God, it was like bombs going off in my head, I almost couldn't make it to work."

Sherlock looked pleased with himself. A snake, even, with the way his lips curled back, hiding back a smile of content. Owen waited for him to coil up in the plump chair. He did not.

"So, migraines, how utterly trivial," Sherlock did not hold back when he talked, he even rolled his eyes at the notion. Owen, tempted to talk back, refrained and continued with his woes.

"Bloody hell, they hurt so bad I had to go to the clinic near my flat. The doctor said it was from the stress, nothing to worry. Gave me a prescription and the usual shit, "take two and call me in the morning" routine," Owen rubbed the side of his head.

Sherlock slowly nodded. "Was it the stress from working for shit pay at the bakery, Mr. Van Burton?" Owen nearly jumped out of his chair when Sherlock said it. He certainly did not say much about his work in the post, either. He did not want to give too many details in the event his meeting with Sherlock did not pan out.

"It-it wasn't shit pay," Owen aspirated again as he stared at Sherlock. He coughed and took a deep breath before he continued. "Um, it just wasn't enough, I'll admit. I got by, though, just had to adjust my-my budget."

"You barely ate during your job," Sherlock slapped him with that fact, not one trace of fake sympathy. He was genuine and Owen, for once, liked it.

"A-Anyway, as I was saying, I went to get my prescription afterward, but as I was walking down to the nearest pharmacy, I guess it might've been my nerves but it felt like I was being watched," Owen managed to say just before Sherlock stood up from his chair to walk around the flat.

Sherlock stopped at the fireplace and asked, "Have you felt it before?"

"No, that's the damnedest thing; I didn't start feeling it until my migraines started. That's why I've thought they were my nerves, uh, Mr. Holmes," Owen replied just as Sherlock walked back to the plump chair and lightly moved it slowly toward the fireplace.

"Have you felt it at all, today?" Sherlock continued as he barely paid attention to Owen.

Owen pondered before shaking his head. "Mr. Holmes, God as my only witness I've been feeling it since it all began," he said in earnest. It caught Sherlock's attention, just not enough for him to look over.

"Have you done anything as of recent that could've led up to this?" Sherlock left ambiguity as he finished his sentence. Owen felt like he was expecting something, what though, Owen was not sure.

"No, I've been just working, that's all," Owen shook his head as he scoffed. "I barely afford to pay rent, where was I going, the bloody opera house?"

"No, Mr. Van Burton, I refer to your drug uses," Sherlock's eyes pierced his. Owen cringed at the sight, worse he never told anyone about his drug uses.

It was 1999, a different time; Owen once had a nasty vice regarding cocaine. Spent much of his earnings on the vice alone, so much that his family gave him an ultimatum come time when everyone knew he was using. Either he gave up his vice or they will not accept him with open arms.

Owen made the attempt the best to his advantage at the time. He signed up for classes, checked himself into rehab, everything one needed to break a vice.

It worked, for a little while.

It was fourteen months before Owen lapsed. Not that Owen lost self-control, a tragic event occurred and having nothing to fall back on; Owen went to the Devil he knew.

He had a little sister, only four years younger than him. Her name was Jodie and she would be 34 in August. Tragically, her life cut short from a car accident caused by a tired driver.

It happened at night when Jodie and her girlfriends were returning home from their pub-crawl. Jodie, designated as the driver, had the right of way, when a lorry driver rammed them from the front.

An overworked lorry driver, attempting to reach his next stop, used caffeine pills and illegal drugs to keep him going well into the night. Unfortunately, he suddenly dozed off and swerved the lorry into the wrong lane, colliding into the sedan, killing Jodie instantly.

Her friends were fortunate; they only had minor injuries resulting from the crash, but none the same now they saw Jodie's lifeless body pulled from the wreckage.

Unable to cope from the loss, Owen lapsed and went back to the drug he tried so desperately to kick. Thus, it inadvertently caused his family to disown home, as they still held the threat over his head.

Eventually, Owen went back into the programs and came out sober once again. This time, he stayed sober and used coping skills he learned.

Sherlock noticed his discomfort and let up, allowing Owen to breath. Owen was thankful for it, more when Sherlock offered Kleenix. Taking a few sheets to dab his eyes, Owen went back to the story.

"No, I've been sober for years now. I've made amends with my dealers, paid my dues, there's no reason for them to turn up," Owen cleared his throat. "I don't even know what they're up to these days."

Sherlock listened and waited patiently until Owen finished his sentence. Once he did, Sherlock spoke again.

"If not drugs, then what about spurred lovers, have they threatened you?" Sherlock continued as he sat back in his plump chair.

Owen shook his head once more. He dated only four people, three women and one man. Yet it all fell apart. All of them ended even before it gotten to the point where "physical contact" would have come into play.

"No, I doubt they cared that much to come back," Owen rubbed the back of his head, his hair dried and bounced when he lightly touched it. "It was all a lost cause, anyway."

"Do you live with someone?" Sherlock settled in his plump chair.

Owen stifled his laughter and bit his tongue hard. It hurt, but it kept him from making a fool of himself in front of Sherlock. Owen replied with, "Only if you count a porcelain turtle as a "someone", Mr. Holmes. I doubt he invites the ladies home when I'm not around."

For once, Sherlock's expression changed. It went from mildly amused to downright confusion and curiosity. Apparently, this was the first time Sherlock heard of the notion of a porcelain turtle being a flat mate.

"Your flat mate is a porcelain turtle?" Sherlock had the look of bemusement stuck on his face as he trailed. This was definitely something he never encountered for in his entire career.

Owen nodded. He explained to Sherlock. "Sheila won't let me have pets and I'm not keen on flat mates. Frank was my compromise. I don't know, it's kind of therapeutic to talk to a turtle."

Sherlock's expression lightened further, to the point where Owen tried desperately hard not to outright laugh. It showed that the Great Detective has finally heard it all.

Sherlock finally admitted it too. "I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Van Burton, this is the first time I've heard of this," he blinked several times.

Owen nodded. "I'll admit, it was odd talking to a porcelain turtle, but he's been the only reason I've stayed sane," he affirmed this for Sherlock.