Don't own anything. Don't know how to write script style. Not British, not familiar with addresses. This story is mostly from the point of view of the film crew that is making a documentary on the workings of a mid-range paper supply company called Holmes & Holmes.
It's a gloomy day in Ferndale, London. Even though it is 9:15 am in the morning, Rumsey road is quite deserted with the exception of a car, a classic Sebring that rolls cautiously into the nondescript parking lot of Ferndale Business Park's nondescript building.
"Oh yes, that's supposed to be the new boss," a woman in her early fifties chirps happily, her excitement a stark contrast against the weather. She leans in happily towards the camera, "Sorry dear, I couldn't hear what you were asking—oh, how do I know, you ask? You see that car, that's how I know. That is the car of a Holmes & Holmes Inc regional manager," she saunters out the conference room with her now-cold tea and places it gingerly on her desk, "I had a car. My ex-husband—God rest his soul—had a beauty just like that! Oh, the times we spent in those leather seats—"
A loud clear of the throat. Camera pans to reveal a man in his mid-thirties, untidy streaks of white already in his short but unkempt beard. Clearly irritated by the conversation, he staples away loudly in an attempt to drown out the din.
"Can I help you, Philip? Perhaps some herbal tea with ginger?"
"Some of us are trying to work here, Martha," Philip exclaims indignantly, and then looks suspiciously at the camera.
Martha looks guiltily at the camera, but it is short-lived as her eyes widen. Camera follows her line of sight and pans to reception, where a young man, barely thirty, looking sharp in a sleek suit, everything about him posh and trim and tidy except for the mass of unruly curls on his head, is talking to the receptionist. Everyone in the office has spotted the newcomer, with people in distant nooks and crannies of the office space craning their necks to get a better view. He spots the camera crew, his eyes narrow, then says a few more things to the receptionist. She gingerly hands him a collar mic and then he throws an insincere smile at the rest of the employees before scramming into his office.
Camera pans back to Martha, whose arms are crossed. She doesn't look too happy.
"He's. . . younger than I expected. Very much younger. . ."
"Come in!"
We enter to see the young newcomer stand up and unbutton his jacket, extending a hand, "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft told me you all are working on a documentary, is that right? Now is that for real or is he just paying you to keep an eye on me?"
Sherlock is looking at the camera defiantly, "Is that filming already—oh, okay. Mycroft is driving down here from his corporate throne, he'll be here in a while. Till then, why don't you guys. . . take a break or something and I can take this thing off my chest!"
Sherlock starts pulling out the collar mic, and then he looks up at the camera again as a hand motions at him.
"Oh I'm not supposed to do that? Why? I'm not required to wear this until you are in the room! Ugh-okay whatever, just get out of my office. My head is killing me as it is."
Camera pans out as Sherlock adjusts his seat and rests his head on the desk. We cut to see. . .
"Hey Molly, how you doing?"
We see a short, stocky blond man in his early thirties take off his jacket and hang it on the coat stand. He is in a simple white shirt, dark brown tie and matching dark brown trousers.
"Hey John, I'm good," Molly smiles at him and fishes in the pile of mail, "These came for you, and. . . Mr. Rutherford called you some time before."
"Oh shoot," John takes the envelopes, turning them over, "Got late this morning. Bloody rains."
"No bike today?"
"Can't commit everyday," he chuckles politely and turns to see the blinds in Sherlock's office down. John's eyes narrow and he turns back to Molly.
"Is that the new boss? Is he here already?"
"Yeah," Molly glances at the camera and whispers not-very-discreetly, leaning over the reception desk, "He's already in a bit of a mood," she drops her voice further, "doesn't like the cameras."
John nods sympathetically, "Well, better go say hi to him before his mood worsens."
"Yeah. Also, friendly warning, Battlestar Galactica night was ruined."
John turns discreetly to look at Philip Anderson and exhales defeatedly, "Well. . . thanks for the heads-up, soldier."
Molly does a bit of a curtsy, blushing, and then looks at the camera and stops smiling. John sets his bag on his chair, plugs his phone into charging on his desk and plops down, dialling Mr. Rutherford furiously. Philip, whose desk is right next to John's, sighs annoyed.
"Hey Mr. Rutherford! How are ya? I'm great too! I'm calling to renew your account with H&H, and see if H&H is meeting all your paper needs. . ."
Philip gets off his chair and crawls under his desk, only to retrieve a mini paper-shredder. He reaches out for a pile of old-looking paper, and shoves it into the whirring shredder. Everyone turns to Philip, who carries on, unaware of the ruckus.
". . . See, that's the thing," John chirps on the phone, "It is our premium 24-pound letter stock, made entirely from recycled paper, so there's savings in cost along with a much, much more increase in the product quality Blue Cross is using now. . . what's that? I'm sorry, Mr. Rutherford, I'm losing you. Hello? Yes, hold on one second. . ." John covers the mouthpiece and waves at Philip, "Do you really have to do it now?"
"Should have done this weeks ago, in fact."
John sighs exasperatedly, "Mr. Rutherford, I'm sorry about that. What were you. . . Can you hold on one second? Yeah, just one second. Thanks."
John bends and pulls at the power cord, powering off the shredder, savouring the silence after the din, "Hello? That's it. Perfect. So what I was saying. . ."
Philip gets up and turns off the landline, smiling victoriously as he sits back down.
"Hello? Thanks a lot, Philip!"
"Retaliation. Tit for tat." Philip leans back and promptly restarts the shredder.
Camera cuts to show John sitting in the conference room.
"So Mr. Rutherford is one of my biggest clients. As a salesman, my salary is mostly commissions, and this sale accounts for 20% of my total cap. He works at Blue Cross. His oldest son was in the army, not the same regiment as mine though. He died on duty, so I think they think of me as their son. Last year, I even went to Old Trafford with their family for the weekend. Basically, I give them a call twice a year, do a little chitchat, tell them about H&H's newest products as per their needs, and it works out quite well. I keep a bottle of sparkling cider in my desk, you know, just for the occasion. Also because. . . we can't drink at work."
Camera pans to Philip, who is still noisily shredding documents.
"I'm just hiding out here till he's done—oh that? Well, Philip is a big fan of Battlestar Galactica, which I'm told is a TV show about people battling in stars and galaxies. Every Sunday is dive-into-science-fiction day for Philip. Once I asked him why and he told me it was a cure for Monday blues. Apparently, he finishes Sunday strong so that the "testosterone" generated propels him through the Monday. His words, not mine."
John turns to look at Philip through the blinds in the conference room, and then back at the camera, slightly annoyed.
"As you can see, that is how Monday blues look for Philip. Actually, can you do me a favour? Can you call Philip into the room for 10 minutes while I complete my sale and hide his shredder? Thanks a lot, mate."
"Come in."
Camera follows John as he walks into Sherlock's office, "Hi, I'm John Watson. I work as a salesman here."
They shake hands, and Sherlock scowls at the noise outside, "What the hell is going on outside?"
"That is. . . Philip shredding some documents and me hiding from him till he's done," he chuckles weakly.
Sherlock grabbed his head, "Ugh, close the door please!"
John sits down gingerly as Sherlock motions him into one of the chairs, "So, tell me about yourself, John Watson. My brother says I also have to invest in my employees, whatever the hell that means."
John narrows his eyes, "Your brother. . ."
Sherlock looks confused, and then shakes his head, "I forgot to introduce myself, I'm Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft's my brother."
John looks visibly perplexed, "Mycroft as in. . . Mycroft Holmes? The CEO?"
"Yeah, he's coming by today, to introduce me or whatever. Don't tell me you're one of those types that gel up their hair to meet that fat git?"
John looks at the camera discreetly, but Sherlock catches his line of sight, "Oh that? I called my brother fat. There's no way Mycroft will let that footage go on air."
John looks at the crew in commiseration, "Well, it was nice meeting you, Sherlock. I'll try and get some work done among the din."
Camera cuts to show John back in the conference room, looking exasperated as the shredder whirs on and on.
"This was all my fault. I got too cocky trying to push Blue Cross our recycled stock. Should have just got on with it, got my commission. Then I can work here for years. And years. And years."
Camera pans from John's mildly despairing face over to focus on the break room door. A handsome man, probably in his early forties walks past Martha Hudson's desk, then Philip Anderson's desk, towards the office where Sherlock is half-sleeping at the moment.
"Yeah, come in."
"Yeah, hi, Greg Lestrade. I'm the Human Resources rep for the Ferndale branch," Greg closes the door behind him and extends a friendly hand, even going so much as to smile at Sherlock. Sherlock regards the hand with suspicion and rolls his eyes, going back to his nap.
"Another divorcee, I see."
Greg looks at the camera uncomfortably for a couple of seconds, and then back to Sherlock, "Just wanted to introduce myself and check in with you."
"Check in with me? Did my brother put you up to this?"
Greg stares at Sherlock, dumbfounded, "I don't know what you mean—"
Suddenly, Sherlock gets up from his napping state in a flash, looking over Greg's shoulder with thinly-veiled resentment. Greg follows Sherlock's line of sight and straightens up too. A tall, plump man with pasty complexion and dressed in a posh suit, accompanied with a beautiful woman with perfectly done nails, blood red lips and a sharp business suit are at reception. Mycroft looks around the floor, slowly turning head till he can see Sherlock peering at him intensely through the office blinds. Sherlock ducks immediately, and glances at the camera.
There's a sharp knock on the door, "Sherlock?"
Sherlock clenches his jaw, "Bite me."
Reviews are appreciated, loved, obsessed over, hung as metaphorical framed certificates over the imaginary fireplace of my fangirl house.
Also, if you're reading this and you also write Sherlock fan fic, could you recommend me one of your own? I'm getting back into fanfiction after years, and reading the other wonderful fics out there keeps me going (Also keeps my fanfic machine well-oiled lol)