Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. The original characters were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the TV series is owned by BBC and created by Stephan Moffat. (This Disclaimer will only appear in Chapter 1.)
Chapter One: The Search
London, England
221B Baker Street
10:30 am
Brilliant detective and internet phenomenon, Sherlock Holmes and army doctor, John Watson, were squaring off in another of their infamous staring contests. After several minutes, John finally conceded and looked away. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh as he rose to his feet and began pacing the room. A little over an hour later, the young detective was playing his violin. He was attempting to compose new piece but his mind refused to focus.
Three hours later, Sherlock had given up on the violin and settled for looking out the window. John, who had set his newspaper to the side, was waiting for the inevitable moment when his best mate would succumb to his boredom. He didn't have long to wait.
"Look at it, John. Peaceful, quiet, and incredibly dull." Sherlock commented his expression of extreme boredom.
John smiled slightly. Sherlock became bored so easily. It was a challenge keeping him entertained when there wasn't a case to solve.
"They said that the show would return as early as Christmas, Sherlock, so be patient." The doctor replied picking up his newspaper again.
Sherlock spun away from the window to look at the former soldier.
"Christmas is ages away and in the mean time there is absolutely nothing to do. No deliciously clever murders to unravel, no brilliantly crafted thefts to dissect, or any complex and bizarre cases to revel in." He countered beginning to pace the room once more.
John set his paper down again.
"I would say create some, but that would be a very bad idea. Besides we would need a writer for that." John commented watching his friend pace.
The detective came to a halt suddenly as his face lit up in excitement.
"Brilliant!" He exclaimed.
John rose from his chair quickly. He was slightly worried that Sherlock was about to take a walk down the path of darkness and destruction and become a consulting criminal like his counterpart, Jim Moriarty.
"What's brilliant?" John asked cautiously.
Sherlock smiled widely at his friend.
"For someone with slightly above average intelligence, you certainly do have a way of sparking genius in others." The detective answered running a hand through his hair.
"What are you going on about, Sherlock?" John asked ignoring the jab to his intellect.
Sherlock placed his hands on the doctor's shoulders and shook him slightly.
"A writer, John, a writer!" He exclaimed as he released his friend and practically danced around the room.
"What about a…Sherlock, what are you scheming?" John asked trying to get his best friend to hold still long enough to answer the question.
The detective came to a stop suddenly and faced his confused companion.
"Instead of waiting for the series to return, we will have our own author create cases for us to solve and finally put an end to this excruciating and unbearable boredom once and for all. How hard can it be to find a suitable candidate?" Sherlock asked happily.
John gave his best friend a dry look. He simply had no idea, did he?
"Quite hard actually. Take into account that you are a very difficult character to write for, let alone accurately. It would take someone as clever as you to be able to write how you see the world, your mind palace, and not to mention the often lengthy explanations you have to give when explaining your deductions to others. Then take into account that they can't be exactly like you, because they have to write the others characters which means actually being in touch with their emotions. I don't honestly see that happening given that it takes an entire team of writers to do the series." John answered crossing his arms.
Sherlock frowned as he processed his friend's answer.
"Then we will simply have to hold interviews." He replied as if it was the answer to everything.
John gave Sherlock an 'Are you being serious?' look.
"Sherlock, there are thousands if not millions of writers out there. Frankly, a vast majority of them are complete and total rubbish. What are the chances of finding and author with a brilliant mind and is well versed in human nature?" John asked already exasperated with this idea.
Sherlock took on a thoughtful expression as he mulled over his friend's query.
"The probability of finding an author whose level of intelligence is even remotely close to my own is 1 in 3,678,464 with a margin of error around 0.0043% once all variables have been calculated. An author being well versed in human nature alone has a much higher probability rating of 1 in 467,582 with a margin of error of 8.652% given that no one knows the true depth and range of human emotions. As for an author with both areas of expertise required for the occupation that we desire is…" Sherlock rattled off but was interrupted by John.
"Shut up, Sherlock." John stated very annoyed.
Sherlock was slightly confused by his friend's sudden shift in moods.
"I was simply answering your question, John." He replied.
"I know, but Sherlock, the question was rhetorical and therefore did not require an answer." John explained.
"Ah, apologies." Sherlock replied.
John nodded slightly and returned to his chair with an exhausted sigh. He was seriously going to regret going along with this idea, but it seemed to mean a lot to Sherlock. Besides he was getting rather bored himself. He did not do domestic life very well.
"So when do we get started?" John asked berating himself internally for opening his big mouth.
Sherlock smiled and John knew that this was going to be the greatest challenge of his patience to date.
"Right now." Sherlock answered his smile growing wider.
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Over the course of the next several weeks, Sherlock and John interviewed thousands of writers ranging from young to old, amateur and professional, fictional to fan fictional, male and female. The range and depth of the proposed story ideas was vast and quite a few were simply ridiculous or appalling. Some writers were particularly trying and grating on John's nerves, much like the one in front of him at this very moment.
"Well my story idea is about how you and John are actually lovers and…" One avid Sherlock fan fiction author rambled.
"Next." John replied as said fan/author vanished, "How many times do I have to tell people I am not gay?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but John shushed him.
"Rhetorical, Sherlock." John stated quickly.
The detective closed his mouth as the next author appeared on the couch. It was a young woman with dark auburn hair, weaved into a single braid down her back. Her forest green eyes sparkled with mischief and amusement. She was wearing fitted blue jeans, a long sleeved v neck white shirt, a crimson leather jacket, black boots, and a beige shoulder bag, most likely containing her laptop.
Sherlock rose from his chair to examine her more closely. She had a decent fashion sense, meaning that she at least had common sense. He stared her down and she didn't even flinch. She was intelligent, that much was clear from her eyes, but was she perceptive as well?
"Impress me." He ordered.
If she rose to the challenge then he would allow her to remain, but if she didn't then she was gone. She simply smiled and stood up. She walked around the small coffee table until she was standing next to him. Though he was slightly taller than her, it didn't stop her from bringing her face close to his. John watched on in fascination wondering what was happening between his friend and the mysterious woman.
She looked deep into his eyes, forest green clashing with his steel blue.
"No." She said her eyes never leaving his.
He smiled slightly. She had spunk, but how far was she willing to go? He leaned in a little closer.
"Then I don't need you." He replied.
She smiled softly, her eyes full of warmth and understanding.
"I'll make myself at home." She countered.
Sherlock had to use all his self control to keep the smile off his face. Oh he liked her; intelligent, perceptive, spunky, and very, very interesting. She moved past him and sat down in his chair, swinging her legs over the arm rest.
"Um…Sherlock?" John asked bewildered.
Sherlock glanced at the woman and she smiled.
"Artimes Blaine." She spoke answering his unsaid question.
She was very good.
"We are continuing the interviews, John." He stated turning towards the couch.
"What about her?" John asked pointing the pen in his hand at the red head lounging in his best friend's chair.
Sherlock glanced back at Artimes.
"Ms. Blaine…" Sherlock began.
"Artimes." She chimed in her eyes alight with humor.
A small appeared and disappeared on the detective's face.
"Artimes is simply an observer. Leave her be." Sherlock stated.
John looked between Artimes and Sherlock and back again. He was very certain that he had missed something very important. As to what exactly he had missed, he hadn't the foggiest, but he knew that things were about to get interesting.