I first met Sherlock on a damp day in the middle of a laboratory. It was stuffed with test tubes and odd colored liquid, there were all sorts of things stick out in piles, strange experiments and an old mate from school at my side. I was looking for a flat mate, nothing fancy, but someone I could live with to help cheapen the rent and still live in a fairly nice spot. My mate said he'd introduce me to a fellow. That man was Sherlock. He had raven curls and cheeks bones like none I'd ever seen before. The man was tall, he had a few good inches on me, and I'd be daft if I said he wasn't handsome.
I let him borrow my phone for a moment. Maybe it was a mistake, but I think I know it wasn't. The first question he asked, just three words, but enough shock to send me back a moment. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, as if it were the most ordinary question in the world.
"Excuse me?"
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he repeated.
"Afghanistan... how did you-"
He then began telling me my life's story, listing how the scratches in my phone told him it was handed down, from a drinker. Harry Watson, relative, then. A drunk relative hand me down, mobile, meaning to stay in touch. He doesn't want to stay in touch? Probably a sibling then. The man talked and talked, almost as if his mouth was running in time with his brain. John was astonished.
The next few days consisted of checking out the lovely new rooms in flat 221B baker street. Mrs. Hudson, our new land lady, was pleasant and kind. She had tiny and wrinkled features as well as a heartwarming smile. She made us giggle more times then I could possibly count. Speaking of giggling, we did that a lot. I remember cupping my hand over my mouth in an attempt to hold down my laugher with Sherlock. "Sherlock we can't giggle it's a crime scene!" I chuckled.
There were lots of cases we went on. If you've read any of my previous blog entrees then you'll know. There were hundreds of cases, all brilliant. A study in pink, the aluminum crutch, the speckled blonde, Reichenbach, the hound of Baskerville, and numerous others. I guess you could say, I was his assistant. He used to taunt and tease, "I'd be lost without my blogger." while I badgered him about his own website, where the highlight was his 240 types of tobacco ash. Oh wait, 243.
He was always like that, I don't even know how to describe it. I think he called himself, "a highly functioning sociopath."
For the longest time, it was just me and my sociopath... and then the woman came.
The Woman, Miss Irene Adler, was an opposing person in one of our cases. My first impression of her was walking in on a naked figure sitting in the chair across from Sherlock. Of course, the sight of a completely nude woman took me off guard. Sherlock gave me a dismissive signal and I was shooed. I guess she's more where it started, but it started even before I or Sherlock met her. You see, there was a case.
"Sherlock..." John groaned before slapping the alarm over his bed. "We need to get up."
The seemingly dead body beside him stirred, rolling over to face him. "I don't feel like it. I'm staying here. You should too."
"Sherlock!" John whined, "We told them we'd check out the crime scene today. No ifs ands or buts." John stated before rolling out of bed.
Sherlock didn't budge. So, John packed his laptop into his bag and hailed a cab, cursing under his breath. The ride was long and tedious, but John fired up the computer, mentally prepared to close it right away. John was greeted upon arrival, "Ah yes, Sherlock Holmes."
"John Watson, are... you set up for Wi-Fi?" he asked, pulling the laptop out of the car. "Sherlock you do realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?"
"It's okay I'm fine." Sherlock answered through the screen. "Show me the grass."
"I didn't really mean for you."
"Look, this is a six, I told you this morning that I wouldn't be leaving the flat for anything less than a seven."
"Why are you the one who stays home for recovery?" John barked, "Shouldn't it be the other way aroun-" John stopped himself mid sentence, realizing he was getting a funny look from the cop standing beside him.
"I was very worn out and it wasn't enough to make me want to leave-"
"Alright Sherlock shut up." John interrupted.
We continued examining the scene, Sherlock showing off whenever possible and pissing off everyone within a five mile radius, including a radius of the laptop. We continued like that until a man came into the screen, shutting the cover and cutting connection. Then the helicopter came for me. I do remember my heart racing as I stared down at Buckingham Palace.
I was greeted in a spacious room by none other then my flat-mate, who was still wearing nothing other than his sheet. The same sheet stained with... well... I asked him if he was wearing any pants, but I most certainly did not blush when he replied with a serious no.
Then we broke out into a fit of giggles, unable to control ourselves.
"I am seriously fighting the urge to steal an ash tray!" John chuckled, clearing his throat before he attempted to talk again. "What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously what? Are we here to see the queen?"
Mycroft, the elder Holmes, walked in casually at this time, "Apparently, yes."
I remember dying right there on the queen's couch, laughter threatening to split my belly open. Mycroft tried to tame us but we were too far gone. Eventually, an employee to the queen walked in, calming us down a bit. Sherlock was given the case, and we started work.
I remember laughing to myself as Sherlock tossed numerous different disguises throughout the room, claiming he needed to find his battle armor. I didn't even know he had so many goon get-ups. He finally found the one he wanted. Apparently, Sherlock was about to become a priest. He suited himself up and I followed gladly. I was eager for another adventure with Sherlock Holmes.
