Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was sitting in his armchair at 221B Baker Street, London, England.
He was incredibly bored. No new cases, no one to talk to, John was on a date, everyone was ignoring his unexpected return from a possible death.
No one wanted to know how he had survived. No one cared. They just thought he was insane and attention-seeking.
Sherlock didn't feel the need to correct them. He knew he wasn't insane, no matter how much of a psychopath everyone tried to tell him that he was. Sherlock knew that he wasn't a psychopath - he was a high-functioning sociopath, and anyone who called him otherwise obviously hadn't done their research.
He reached for his violin absently, then took his hand away. As much as Sherlock liked to play the violin while he was thinking, he had nothing to think about. And that was driving him insane.
The door opened, and John walked in, surprisingly early. "Hi Sherlock," he said dejectedly, trudging in and shutting the door behind him.
"She broke up with you, didn't she?" Sherlock said rhetorically. "She broke up with you because she is, in fact, cheating on you with one of her coworkers."
John made a disgusted face at Sherlock. "How did you - You know, I don't even want to know. But did you really have to tell me why, Sherlock?"
"Saving you more pain and wasted time in the future." He smiled sarcastically. John scoffed at him and strode into the kitchen.
Picking up a paintbrush and absentmindedly coloring the back of his left hand a bright yellow, Sherlock absorbed himself as the phone rang. It was right next to him, but he didn't bother to pick it up. "Could you get that, John? I'm rather busy at the moment."
John snatched the phone out of its cradle, muttering obscenities under his breath as he did. "Hello...I see...Yes." He paused, held the phone away from his ear, and said, "Sherlock? It's for you."
Sherlock leaped out of his chair in excitement. He barely contained himself from dancing around the room. It was a case. He knew. Only people who had a case called that phone - he hoped it was something as exciting as his last few.
He grabbed the phone out of John's hand and answered. "Sherlock Holmes."
From the other line, he heard a male voice, one that was either American or Canadian, he couldn't tell yet. "Mr. Holmes. Thank you for giving me your time. We have a situation here that calls for your skill level alone."
"Where are you?"
"America. Westlake, Texas." The man sighed. It was obvious that something unexpected was happening, and he had no other options. That's how they always came to Sherlock: they had nowhere else to go, no one would believe them.
Either that, or something so out of the ordinary was happening that they thought that he was the only one who could handle it.
Still, it was surprising for Sherlock to get a call from an American. He'd never done a job overseas, and the prospect intrigued him. "What's the case?"
"My name is Lee Rosky. I'm an administrator at Westlake Academy, which is a school in this town. We seem to be under some sort of personal vendetta from a serial killer. Many of our staff and students have been murdered, and later found on school grounds. They've either been shot, stabbed, or burned to death. Some have been found on campus still alive, but they have been tied to chairs and stuck under some sort of symbol inked on the ceiling. These victims have suffered from extreme trauma, and have often been tortured. All who have been found like this have been hospitalized."
"How long has this been going on, and what do you expect me to do about it?" Sherlock asked dryly. "If this is murder, fine, I can find the killer, but I think that there is something bigger going on. It's highly unlikely that anyone with this kind of murder under their belt is simply insane, especially in this time and age."
"This has been going on for about two weeks," Rosky answered. "The police haven't been able to find anything, no leads, nothing. We even have the FBI involved, but nothing has been uncovered. We can't even figure out what the symbol on the ceilings mean. We just need you to find the killer, and we can put an end to this."
Sherlock glanced at John, who was watching him intently and trying to figure out what was being said on the other line. "How soon do you need me?"
"As soon as possible. We will pay for your airfare, stay, and other expenses. Also, how much do you want for this service? What do you usually charge your clients?"
"Let's talk about price when I get there. Right now, I'm more interested in this killer," Sherlock said, raking his right hand through his curls. "I'm booking the first flight to Dallas; I can be in the state nine hours from then."
"Thank you; I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes."
"I'll see you," Sherlock said shortly, and hung up. He jumped in the air for joy as Mrs. Hudson came in.
"Sherlock, what are you on about?" she exclaimed as Sherlock ran over and hugged her.
"A case! A case, Mrs. Hudson! Ha ha, I knew there was one coming!" He paused and stared intently at John. "Pack your jumpers, John, we're going to America." Sherlock turned his attention back to both of them, shouting, "Murders at a school in Texas, mysterious symbols on the ceiling, disappearing cows, all sorts of kerfuffle! My God, this is fantastic!"
Sherlock sprinted out of the room to get his suitcase, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson staring after his retreating figure. "Well, good luck, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, patting John on the shoulder and walking into the kitchen.
"I'm a little worried, to be honest," John told her. "Sherlock in America...I just hope he doesn't demolish the entire country or get arrested or anything." He grabbed his computer and glanced into the kitchen, where she was daintily rearranging the cups in the cabinet. "As long as you're over there, would you mind making me a cup of tea while I buy those tickets?"
"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she replied.
John shook his head. Some things, at least, never changed.