Chapter 1: London

London.

The bleak and grey sky, the wind nipping at my cheeks, the streets full of taxis and people running to get from here to there, the noise of car horns and people shouting.

It can be so boring sometimes.

Folding my arms atop the cold metal railing of the balcony, I lean forward, to watch the midday world bustling below me. There's a couple reading a map on the corner, arguing and pointing in different directions: first vacation together, perhaps? A businessman is running down the block, attempting to flag down a taxi with one hand and pressing a cell phone to his ear with the other: Someone's late to work. Adjusting the collar of my coat so that it protects my cheeks from the cold wind, I head back inside my apartment, dissatisfied with the boring people outside.

I don't belong in a place like this; I don't belong anywhere really. I'm a wanderer, a traveler, and an adventurer. A girl whose only true joy in life is when her adrenaline is pumped up and she's in the middle of what seems to be utter chaos. One would think that a busy city like London would fit that description, but alas no; London does not hold as many adventures as one may think.

I close the balcony door, plop down on my couch and stare intently up at the ceiling. I am bored beyond all reason. I've been in London for about a year and a half, settled into this apartment that my family has kindly paid for, got a decent job Monday-Friday at the history museum doing what I went to school for and yet, I can not seem to find anything of real interest to do.

Is it I being too stubborn? Am I setting my standards of "fun" too high? Maybe this city could offer me some sort of an adventure, but I'm closing my mind to it.

Finished with the ceiling, I head to my small kitchenette and make myself a cup of tea-because what else do you do when there's nothing to do in England-and check my phone: 3 new voicemails. As I wait for the water to heat up, I set my phone on the counter and hit the speaker button and let the messages play:

"Hello Fee, it's your mother. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Call me when you get the chance; we have a lot to talk about. I'll be in the office until about 8, which most likely is at some ungodly hour for you so you won't call. Any matter, please call when you get the chance. Love you! Ta!"

Delete.

My mother: the successful, American business woman whose only daughter decided to pack up and move to England instead of inheriting the family business of real-estate. I highly doubt that she was calling just for a mother/daughter chat. She probably wants to try and convince me to come home and work for her. Nope. Not happening. I'm not that bored. Next message:

"Elfie, it's Hattie! I just wanted to call and let you know that the dress appointment is at 2:30 on Sunday and that you'll have to bring whatever shoes you're going to wear with you. Don't bring those god-forsaken boots with the zipper up the side. They are not proper bridesmaid shoes. Black leather does not go well with pink chiffon! Hahaha, you know I'm just giving you a hard time…but seriously, hon', don't wear the boots. When I get home, we can go through your shoes. You must own a pair that's not black. Okay, bye!"

Oh, Hattie, you always have such a way with words.

My best friend in the entire world, and my flat mate, is the daughter of a big US oil distributor. We met in college back home in California: she's a journalism major and I'm an ancient world history major. We decided to move to England together right after we graduated because we wanted to live adventurous lives of our own. Yeah, that didn't really happen like we thought, but luckily, for her, Hattie found a man. Her fiancé is Mr. Robert St. Simon of…You know, I'm not quite sure what he does. I think he's just the son of a rich family, old money perhaps, and doesn't really have to work. They met at some media thing. Hattie's happy so I'm happy for her, but also little sad because she'll be leaving me alone in this apartment. Yes it's already paid for and I don't have to worry about money, but I'll be alone. Is that selfish of me? Yeah, it is a bit, but if I'm on my own, then why stay in London. Gah, I don't want to think about that now. Last message:

"Elfie, it's John Watson-Yes, I'm on the phone with her-I wanted to let you know-Stop interrupting Sherlock-we are on the way to-Yeah, I'm leaving a message. Wait give me back the ph…Elfie, John was being slow. We will be at your flat in a few minutes. Be ready to leave when we arrive."

"What the hell?" I mutter, staring down at my phone in confusion. As if on cue, there is a loud, hurried knock at the door. I instantly perk my head up.

Knock-knock-knock

Excitement kick starts in my body.

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock

My heart starts to pound in anticipation. Finally something to do!

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

Forgetting all about my tea, I rush to the door and swing it open. Without so much as a 'hello' or a 'good afternoon', a tall, pale blur of a dark coat storms into my apartment.

"About time," he bellows in his baritone voice, "I was about to knock the door in."

"Nice to see you too," I say, a little annoyed but still happy to see him.

Yes, him.

Sherlock Holmes: London's (and apparently the world's) only consulting detective.

We met almost a year ago. Sherlock had come to the museum in search of someone who could identify a jade hairpin from China that he and his companion, Doctor John Watson, had come across. I forget the minor details of the case, but I know it had something to do with graffiti in a bank and on one of our prized statues at the museum, a Chinese gang and the death of that poor girl who use to run the tea ceremony exhibit-She was nice, it was a tragedy.

Anyway, my boss had directed Sherlock to me and I was happy to oblige. When I had introduced myself to him and John, Sherlock immediately put me to work, demanding every fact I had ever learned about the Chinese and their ancient monarchies; He spoke so quickly that it was hard to catch every word. As I told him and John what I knew, Sherlock just stared and listened. His eyes were constantly reading every inch of my face as if to try and find out my life story. It made me blush and almost loose my concentration; those eyes were mesmerizing, unlike any I had seen before.

After what felt like hours of me giving facts and Sherlock just listening intently, he finally spoke: "Well done, Ms. Stegerson. You've just helped stopped a Chinese smuggling gang from brutally murdering Dr. Watson and myself." I was speechless and a bit confused as he walked out my doors in a rush, without so much of a goodbye.

After that case had wrapped, I thought I would never see him again. This mysterious man had burst into my life with an interesting puzzle and then just left in a flash. It made me sad, but I knew I was just over reacting. He doesn't even know me, so why should I care about him? It was a stupid crush. However, Sherlock kept coming by my office to ask me to help him with minor details in his cases: things like 'When was this painting finished?' or 'Can you tell me how this statue was found?' I later learned that Sherlock had deemed me a "useful ally", which John explained to me meant that he enjoyed my company as well as my knowledge. I guess that was a complement.

We became close, well as close as anyone could be to Sherlock, as each case went by. We stopped calling each other "Mr. Holmes" and "Ms. Stegerson" after our 3rd case, and started talking about our different interests after the 6th one. Soon, I was spending almost all my free time with Sherlock: sometimes on a case, sometimes not.

"I just got your message." I say, closing the door behind him, "Where's John?"

"In the taxi," Sherlock replies, turning off the hissing kettle, "we need to get a move on so I opted to come up here alone. Why are you not dressed? I told you to be ready!"

"I didn't expect you to be so soon. Let me change." I say gazing down at my outfit: jeans and a grey sweater apparently aren't a suitable outfit for Sherlock Holmes.

"No time." He snaps, dashing about the flat; his large coat whisking behind him like a cape as he passes by me, "Where's your bag?"

"Um, in my…"

"Found it!" he shouts from my bedroom.

"Hey! Wait a minute! Get out of there." I shout, running down the small hall to my bedroom. Sherlock is standing in the middle of my extremely messy bedroom with my grey trench coat strewn over his shoulder and my green satchel in his hands. "You can't just burst into a woman's room and start picking up her stuff." I grumble, snatching my items from him.

"Well if you'd hurry up, I wouldn't have to have gone in your room." He replies, adjusting his signature blue scarf, "You should've had all of your things and been ready to go. Perhaps, you could've closed your bedroom door if you didn't want your company to go in here."

"I didn't know I'd be having company." I say in my defense, sitting on my bed and putting on my shoes, "and, anyway, you haven't even told me where we are going."

"The lab, I need to look over some samples I found near a body at the train station. It's a long process, lot of samples, will probably take all night. Prepare yourself for the long haul."

I pause mid zipper of my boot and look up at him: "Wait, why am I even coming? You don't need my help with lab work."

"Yes I do. Hurry up." Sherlock quickly states, heading for the door. "Hope you've got a pen on you. I may need you to take down some notes."

"What? Wait, Sherlock!" I call out, but he is already down the hall and out the front door. Good Lord, he's fast.

Quickly pulling on my grey coat and leaving a quick note for Hattie that I won't be home until later tonight, I dash out of the apartment to catch up with the consulting detective. As if he were waiting for me, Sherlock is standing in front of the lift door, tapping his fingers impatiently against the buttons.

"Did you grab a pen?" he asks, finally pressing the down button. Catching my breath, I glare at him and shake my head.

"Sherlock, why are you really taking me along?" I ask

He turns his head to face me and gives me that half mouth smirk of his: "Because you're bored."

I look at him, confused as to how he could possibly know that, but then roll my eyes. Of course he knew I was bored, he knows everything. He can probably see it in the follicles of my hair or in the chipped off bits of my nail polish or something outlandish like that. It's annoying but at the same time, strangely attractive.

"You are unbelievable sometimes, you know that?" I say with a smile.

"Yes, people constantly remind me that I carry that trait." He replies. We give each other another quick glance and begin to chuckle. My heart is pounding again and I bite my lower lip. My nerves are going haywire the longer I stare at him. Luckily, The lift opens up and we step inside. Sherlock presses the lobby button and the silver doors glide shut.

"So," I say, leaning against the back wall, "do you want to fill me in on why you're in such a rush?"

"I told you," he says, "I need to look at some samples in the lab. They won't stay fresh for long. It's obvious."

"Oh, of course." I reply, rolling my eyes, "Sorry, I should have known."

He gives me a questioning look: "Sarcasm?"

I nod: "You're getting better at identifying that."

Sherlock nods and looks me over intently; "You haven't showered yet today." He states, in a matter of fact manner.

"You didn't give me time." I reply, tucking my dark hair into my brown cap, "and I didn't plan on going anywhere today."

"Yes, I was hoping that would be the case when I told John to call you." He says, gazing up at the ceiling.

"So, wait," I say, " you thought, 'I have samples to test. I'll get John to call Elfie so she can take notes for me all night' and assumed that I'd just come along?"

"Yes." He replies, steepening his hands under his chin, "Does that bother you? You can gladly go back to your flat and drink your tea if you think that to be a more suitable way to spend your evening."

"No, no, no, I'm…I'm grateful you thought of me." I stammer, looking down at my hands, "But, um, why can't John just take notes for you?"

"You have faster and cleaner handwriting than he does." He states, now deep in concentration on the mirrored ceiling.

"Oh." I mumble, shuffling my feet. "No other reason then?"

"No." he replies, dryly.

"Okay." I look up at him to see if there is an answer in his face, but he is completely lost in the world of the ceiling. "Well," I say, admitting defeat, "That's-that's great then."

"You have excellent penmanship," he says, furrowing his brow "isn't that a compliment?"

"Yes but…"
"But?"

"Forget it. It's fine. Thank you for the…compliment." I look down at my feet and sigh; it was worth a shot, Elfie.

Silence.

This is the longest lift ride of my life and its only 5 floors to the lobby from my flat.

Finally, Sherlock turns his head to look at me. "Also," he goes on, "he's apparently going out on a date tonight and can't stay."

"Oh?" I say, raising an eyebrow and looking at him intently. His eyes meet my gaze and he starts to panic.

"Yes, he…uh…he said that he already told me about it, but I don't recall having that conversation." The now nervous consulting detective spits out rather quickly, returning to looking at the ceiling. "And besides, I don't really care. I enjoy having the flat to myself for the evening. Not that I will be alone tonight since you are joining me. I do plan on bringing some of my work back to Baker Street after the lab, by the way, and I was hoping…no…I was wondering…I-Well, it's no matter." His regularly pale cheeks have a pink tint to them now and a small bead of sweat is trickling down his forehead.

Ah, now I understand what he really means by bringing me along.

"Sherlock Holmes," I say, moving a bit closer to him, "are you asking me to join you at the lab because you knew I had nothing else to do today or is this your way of getting me to stay at your flat tonight?"

"Bit of both." He replies in a soft whisper and closing his eyes. I feel my cheeks go red and I smile. He's like a child when he shows emotion: so naïve and so sweet. It's a side of him no one ever sees. Well no one, but me.

Very gently, I stand on my tiptoes and place a soft kiss on his cheek. "Well, then, I accept the invite." I whisper in his ear.

"Thank you, Ms. Stegerson," Sherlock sighs as he places his forehead against mine.

"You are very welcome, Mr. Holmes." I reply with a giggle.

Just as the lift comes to a stop, Sherlock gently places a soft kiss on my lips. I gladly return the gesture.

Ding!

The silver doors glide open as his lips part with mine.

"Right, come along then. There is work to be done." Sherlock says, whisking me out of the lift and out into the chilly London air.

"Whoa, hold on! You're going to knock me over." I say with a laugh, holding on to my hat, "I'm not as fast as you."

"Learn to be." He says, pulling me in close and passionately kissing me. Lost in the moment, I wrap my arms around his neck and relax my body into his hold.

London; loud busy, boring London.

I stay here for many reasons: work, a place to live. But my main reason is here, holding me close.

I stay for my Sherlock Holmes.