Chapter 4
It was fascinating to see how Sherlock lived. Every object portrayed the mad genius inside him, from the human skull to the sleek violin on the windowsill. I trailed my long fingers across a leather chair as we walking into the dining area/kitchen.
"There are feathers clogging up the sink, Sherlock! If you think I'm cleaning this up you can – oh!" The man whose voice we'd heard stopped abruptly as he noticed me standing behind Sherlock.
The middle-aged man walked over to me and held out his hand in the typical greeting of strangers and I smiled as we exchanged pleasantries. He was a rather short, kind-faced man who had an air of authority about him. His posture was excellent and I could tell from the way he carried himself that he was an ex-military type.
"John Watson." He declared.
"Rosabeth," I replied, "But just Beth is fine."
"I hate to break up this meet-and-greet but I'm thirsty for a new mystery," said Sherlock, not actually sounding sorry at all.
"But you just solved one!" John cried, "Surely you can see she needs to rest, not quench your thirst for drama."
"Thank you for your concern," I put in before they could start arguing, "but I am well enough to tell a quick story."
Sherlock huffed and whipped off his sarong, revealing the black slacks he was wearing underneath. He then started to pace. John rolled his eyes and indicated that I should take a seat, so I sat at the long wooden table and suddenly wished I was somewhere else. I cleared my throat and launched into my tale.