All names are chosen for you, sometimes even before you exist, before it is sure you will even survive the first day you stare at the world, which is in many ways, absurd. However, not many are born to have the names they are given. I, and the twenty-four others were born to be Sherlock Holmes. It is in fact not a name, more like a title.

…Yes, okay, fine, I didn't exactly invent the term Consulting Detective. But… it's complicated.

I am the twenty-fourth in the long line of Sherlock Holmes' in England. Their task is to keep the world safe from crime, without drawing attention to themselves. I've never quite understood myself, all I know is I hate this tradition so much. I don't care for these people's lives! To be frank to myself, I just do it because it's the only profession in the world that could actually entertain me. If that hadn't been the case, I probably would've ended up like #25. #25 is the only Sherlock who is alive apart from me. I assume that the pointless tradition of the Consulting Detectives is going to die out soon, and as he probably doesn't want to continue it nor I have any intention to, #25 will be the last.

Every time I get furious about my situation, I think of #25. He's the only other person out there who could possibly understand me, even if we've never met. He is in a way family, though we are probably not blood-related, and I can only imagine John being opposed to me not trying to bond with my family (he's such a hypocrite when it comes to family). But that is against the rules: No member of the up-to-now #25 can ever meet under any circumstances. Another rule which I fail to understand. Anyway, #25 might even be someone I couldn't even properly communicate with. He's also from London, but apparently he'd been sent to rehabilitation after having abused of drugs. After that, I never heard a single word of him again.

It was frustrating, having to live with my purpose, which I knew so little about. All I know, I was taught, trained and conditioned for. They made sure my brain was the perfect weapon for deducing. And they did the same with all twenty-five of us. That's the one thing I will never forgive my parents for, forcing me to do what was foretold I had to, simply to keep the century-old tradition going, which no one really understands anymore, anyway. I just wish I could find out why I'm doing this, that's all… If I knew the greater cause I was serving for, maybe, just maybe I would find this a good idea. But that would involve breaking the rules again…

On the other hand, it's not like I haven't done that before. I got tired of living all on my own (isolation was another one of their rules), so I decided to get myself a flat mate. The day they found out, they got furious with me, told me about how I was jeopardizing his safety, and when I bitterly asked safety of what, they sat there in silence, as if they didn't know themselves. Of course they didn't know, nobody knows, that's the whole point. The less you know, the less you're at risk. That's what they told me. It's all just rubbish to me. So in the end they let my rebellious act of trying to socialize the one time in my life, I actually wanted to (but I'm guessing my finding it appalling is due to them) slip through, under the condition that I never said a word about my life-long secret to him. Which I did. Until today.

Something is odd about John's phone ringing today. I don't know why but watching him stare at the number on his mobile, the way he seems to be coming to some odd conclusion is just wrong. I furrow my eyebrows as I get close to him and discretely peek over the screen. The area code is definitely American.

Strange…

One part of my mind is thinking, "Maybe you should leave him his privacy", but the second, much louder voice in my mind is yelling: "Investigate!" It's almost an instinct for me by now.

"Who's calling you?" I ask while sitting down on the couch beside him. He quickly looks up and covers the phone screen as if I hadn't already memorized the number.

"What? Nobody, it's probably just a mistake," he says innocently. I raise my eyebrows at him, and I can tell from his expression that he knows he can't fool me that easily.

"The number's from America," I remark.

"So?" he retorts.

"So, the person is calling for a special reason. If the person would call you frequently a) I would know about it and b) you wouldn't look as surprised about him or her calling you. That means that the person would've had to check your number to call you, meaning that they carefully punched in every number by reading from a something that had it written down. Now, if they already get the entire international code correctly, do you really think they'd make a mistake in the phone number that easily? The question is, why would you just assume it was a wrong number, unless you don't want me to know about it…"

In that time the phone continued to ring, and I tilt my head to it, wondering who could be on the other line. I can feel John looking at me with that same astonished gaze he wears around me painfully often for the fact that we've lived together for so long. There's a brief pause, in which only the phone continues to make that irritating buzzing noise.

"So who's calling you?" I finally repeat, for some reason not very irritated by the fact that John kept something from me. My wanting to know who's one the other line is just more dominant at the moment. John swallows harshly; he obviously has no intention to tell me. I let my eyes rest on his nervous face, my patience wearing thin. He looks around in search for an explanation and just before he opens his mouth, I grab my chance and the phone and pick up:

"Hello?"

"Hello?" a male voice replies, "Is this John Watson speaking?" My eyes flash over to John who's trying to reach for his phone, but I'm forcing him into his spot on the couch with my free hand.

"No, why do you wish to speak to him?"

"Oh, it's just that his sister wanted to apologize to him," the voice says in a seemingly playful manner.

"No I didn't!" a voice with a clear New York answer calls in from further away from the man. I furrow my eyebrows trying to make out the fight the two are having on the other end, while John screams something at me, but I don't understand a word of what either of them is saying.

John's sister? John's sister certainly doesn't have an American accent. The whole thing is just getting more puzzling by the second.

"Why do you want to talk to him?" I ask the male voice, the only other person who doesn't seem to be completely furious at the moment, and they probably know some answers.

"Oh, no particular reason, she just seems to not like me calling her brother, which for me is a great pleasure." I let out a small giggle.

"Okay, and with whom do I have the pleasure?"

"Sherlock Holmes, and you?" I let out a sarcastic laugh.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Why would I?"

"If you're calling John Watson, you probably know that he lives with me, my name is Sherlock Holmes."

"What?!" The voice on the other end seems more shocked than it should be. I feel myself becoming nervous, as if the truth is catching up with me. It can't be… It isn't possible…