Sherlock Holmes is gazing spitefully at the coroner. "It hasn't been claimed for several days. Legally I should be able to take it. Human Tissue Act, 2004."
"That's an act of Parliament in the United Kingdom."
He pauses and shrugs his shoulders. "It was worth a try. It's not as if it would be a major player in, say, a murder case."
"Yet that's precisely what you're using it for."
"Well, yes. But the murder in question has yet to be committed."
The coroner gazes at him, nonplussed. "Wait, so are you trying to tell me that—"
"No. Nothing like that. Future murders. Plural." He is still not convinced. Sherlock, tall, curly haired, and at times entirely intolerable, snaps his latex glove impatiently. "Look, it's for the good of everyone living in this city, now if you'd just let me…"
The coroner zips the body bag shut with one wrist movement. "You're not experimenting on it. That's final. Not now, anyways. Once I'm off duty or looking the other way, well…you know what, read between the lines. I'm getting coffee."
"Get me some. Black, two sugars."
"Yessir," says the coroner mockingly as he leaves the room.
"Idiot," mutters Holmes as soon as he's out of earshot. He follows him out of the room and heads upstairs to a chemical laboratory, where his experiments are waiting. He breathes a sigh of relief, having anticipated some problems keeping the experiments from cleanup.
He sits down, muttering to himself about sulfates and chemicals. He doesn't notice Mike Stamford entering the room until he looks up to check the time. "Oh, hello, Mike."
"How're you?" asks Mike, not sounding as if he really cares. Following him is a man that Sherlock doesn't recognize, and he recognizes everybody in this hospital. He notes his military haircut, his hands, indexes his entire appearance, taking a moment to consider each of these factors. Doctor, trained at St. Mary's, joined the military, discharged from Afghanistan judging by his unhappy appearance and the way he cradles his shoulder. Quite recently, looking at his tan. Sherlock bends over the microscope and smiles internally, as he always does when he makes particularly successful deductions.
"Fine, thanks. Who's your surgeon friend?"
The man gapes at him. "How did—"
"Never mind that." He drips some chemical into a bottle and shakes it vigorously, smiling to himself when it turns a dusty brown color. "Oh, yes!"
"Sorry, what?" asks the surgeon.
"Mud. I've developed a chemical test that can analyze soil taken from shoes in the San Francisco area. It can tell if someone's been outside the bay area. The chemical composition of the soil is tricky, but I found the right formula."
The surgeon looks surprised. "And is that useful to you?"
Sherlock smiles genuinely. "Oh, yes, very. Sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't give it. John Watson." he offers his hand. "Ah, Doctor John Watson."
Sherlock offers his left hand to Watson, but noticing that John offers his non-dominant hand quickly covers it up by wiping it on his suit jacket. "Sherlock Holmes. I hope you're enjoying San Francisco. It must be quite a change from Afghanistan."
Dr. Watson's mouth moves up and down, not quite sure what words to form. Sherlock bends down and removes a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, along with a pen, which he uses to write something down on the paper.
Sherlock checks his watch. "Oh, sorry, I should run. Here's my number." He hands John a small business card. "I think I wrote the address down there as well. Have a good day, Dr. Watson."
John is left in a stunned silence. It takes him several seconds to open his mouth and choke out, "How much have you told him."
"Nothing!" exclaims Mike. "But he does that to everyone!"
"Sherlock Holmes, huh." He glances down at the card. "Well, we'll see about him, won't we?"
Handwritten on the card were the words: 221b Bryant St. 2 pm tomorrow don't be late Dr. Watson! All that was printed on the card were four words, a name and an occupation. John studied them with some curiosity.
Sherlock Holmes
Consulting Detective
Dr. Watson is late. I am waiting here, at 12 minutes past the appointed time, and he is late, which is a shame. He looked like a promising roommate. People, of Dr. Watson's type—that is, military men and women—tend to be early, perfectly on time, or never show up at all.
I am beginning to despair of ever finding someone to share this apartment with when a cab pulls up and he climbs out. Restless night, obviously. Bad dreams? Probably. His hair is ruffled, he had two cups of coffee. No lunch. I can tell this, all of this, just from the first glance. The second would probably give me more, but he approaches me too quickly. "Mr. Holmes," he says, shaking my right hand with his right, which is his non-dominant. This I can tell from the way he has clipped his fingernails. So far, so simple.
"Call me Sherlock, please."
"John, then."
The street is unusually busy, and one can't help but notice the way the passerby move. There is something machine-like, yet entirely organic about the way that people communicate and travel in this city. All people are unpredictable, but at the same time, it all happens according to a pattern. I can tell right now that the woman on the side of the street opposite us is going to go to the cherry red car, the convertible. And now she's going to pull down her sunglasses even though today is perfectly cloudy. Even as she does this is starts to drizzle.
"Let's take a look?" asks John, a bit put off by the rain.
Someone else might exclaim at being startled. I just turn back around as if I've been listening to him this whole time—yes, he's been talking, I just haven't been actively listening—and tell him "yes, of course."
"Nice place," I say.
"Oh yes," says Sherlock Holmes.
"It might be hard to afford. You might want someone else to—"
"No, you'll suit nicely," he tells me with a very slight grin.
"I haven't even seen the inside of the—"
"You'll like it."
"Could you stop—"
"No."
"I'm not really sure if this arrangement is going to work." I pause. "Wait, you let me finish that—"
"Nope."
