I was hearing voices. Well, just one—his…whoever he was. A week of this madness, and I was ready to accept I was going insane. It was a late work night for me. I had just finished the autopsies of two murder victims with the same calling card attached, which just so happened to be the letters 'I.O.U.' carved into each victim's hand. Scotland Yard was stumped at what it could possibly mean. I, however, planned to do what I could to deduce the killer's motive. I wasn't a detective by any means, but forensic pathology is a necessity in any kind of detective work.
When I arrived at my building, taking out my keys to unlock my flat, I heard a voice—the same voice—speaking rapidly. I was cautious, of course, when I opened my door. A chilled breeze blew throughout the flat eerily enough. What I saw was the last thing I expected. A man was sitting in my chair, but he was translucent. He looked as if he walked out of the pages of a Dickens novel. His onyx hair was slicked back, making him look quite distinguished. He wore a camel-coloured dressing gown over his suit, and he was somehow smoking a pipe. What truly caught my attention were those beautiful cerulean eyes. Though, he was translucent, I could still see the brightness of the color.
"It's Moriarty," he said simply, taking a puff of his pipe.
"Who is?" I asked, dumbfounded. The name he mentioned sounded vaguely familiar. Unbelievable, I was conversing with a ghost. Or I was crazy. I think I preferred the former.
"Your serial killer," he replied. "I thought it was fairly obvious. He's a copycat of my arch-nemesis."
"Right, sorry, who are you?" I was definitely going to get put away in the looney bin for this.
"Sherlock Holmes." He stood with his hand outstretched. "I don't know why I bother. It's not as if you can touch my—"
I gasped as my hand met with his. I could feel him, but faintly. It seemed to have shut him up too. I pulled away quickly at the icy feel of him. And then it hit me.
"Sherlock Holmes!? The one from Doctor Watson's stories?" I couldn't believe this was happening. I had done extensive studies on those stories out of fascination with his brilliant mind.
"Ah, so you've heard of me then? Wonderful. By the way, you're living in my flat." He sounded annoyed with her already.
"Well, yes, but—"
"And you now own my pocket watch. Delightful." He didn't sound very delighted. "What have you done to my flat? It looks so"—he searched for the right word—"meticulously clean." His nose wrinkled at that.
"Well, excuse me, but I live here now, not you," I retorted.
"It's a disgrace," Sherlock scoffed.
"Well, you're dead, so get over it!" I snapped. I had had it with him already. They tell you to never meet your heroes. I understood why now.
His expression showed a flash of pain at my comment before it settled into a cold look in those eyes. And that's when I watched him disappear, fading into obscurity once more. Good riddance.
I fell asleep rather quickly despite the circumstances. As I padded out of my room toward the kitchen, I could smell the strong scent of smoke from a pipe. I ignored it, as I was more focused on making my cup of coffee. Soon, the kitchen felt cool, and I knew he was probably standing behind me. I continued to focus on my task at hand. I had thought I dreamt him up, or had possibly hallucinated due to my long shift. Sherlock Holmes was really haunting me, and he already rattled my nerves.
"You know, if this arrangement is unchangeable, then we might as well find some common ground," he finally spoke up.
"Don't you have an opium den to haunt?" I asked with no patience.
"Are you always this moody?"
"Aren't you?"
"Touché, Miss Hooper." He sighed out of frustration. "It seems we have reached an impasse."
"Glad you agree on that," I replied, taking a sip of my coffee, the smooth liquid sliding down my throat. I stomped off with my cuppa into my bedroom, and when I came out dressed, I had brought with me the object that caused all this trouble.
"Wait—what are you doing with that?" Sherlock inquired urgently. He rushed to my side, pestering me about my intentions.
"I'm taking this damned thing back to the thrift shop. I never asked for this," I told him.
"You don't want me here." It wasn't a question. I didn't pay him any mind until I turned and met his gaze. His eyes looked sad, but the rest of his face was like marble; unmoving and cold. I said nothing. "Miss Hooper, please. Forgive me. I am not usually rude towards women—well, I try not to be."
"You're forgiven, Mister Holmes, but I'm afraid I just can't handle this," I admitted.
"Then meet me halfway. Let us strike a deal," Sherlock suggested. I looked at him with curiosity. "If you take that back to the shop, I will be stuck there for God know how long. If I am here, you could help me."
"Help you with what?" Damn my curious nature.
"Apparently the only reason I am stuck is because I have unfinished business. What it is, I haven't the slightest idea. But, if you help me find out what it could be, I will be free from that blasted pocket watch. We will both get what we want." He made a good point.
"Why didn't you get someone from the thrift shop to help you?" I inquired.
"Because, Miss Hooper," he spoke lowly, "you're the only one who has ever been able to see me."
Author's Note: Our new roommates don't seem to be getting along very often. What do y'all think Sherlock's unfinished business is?
