Chapter 2

Tim greeted us at the door of my apartment. He'd been there for a few minutes and let himself in. Beside me, Sherlock Holmes stepped cautiously into the studio flat, his attention seeming to be everywhere at once. He sure is keeping the "time traveller" act up good, I thought as I took the handful of clothes from Tim. I gave Holmes a weak smile.

"Sorry, it's not much," I apologized. "Go ahead and lay down on the bed behind that curtain. Here's something dry for you to change into." I handed him the bundle, a pair of sweats and a Pantera T-shirt. I stifled a giggle at the thought of the great detective dressed in such a way. He accepted them with a nod, and came back out into the open moments later.

"I'm terribly sorry," Holmes started, "But I've no time for sleep when I'm caught in such a fascinating case."

"Case?" asked Tim. "Are you a detective or something?"

Holmes smiled extended a hand. "Consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes, sir. A pleasure to meet you."

Tim ignored the hand, doubling over in laughter. After a moment he looked at me and said, "You were right, Chele. This one is definitely a nutjob."

I quirked a brow to say "I told you" while Holmes' congenial manner turned to one of infuriation.

"Can we please desist with this madness?" he barked. "I am Sherlock Holmes! Whether you choose to believe that fact is inconsequential. But I refuse to be ridiculed any further upon the mention of my name!"

I looked at Tim. What more could I say to the guy? His story was impossible, and he was clearly suffering some trauma from the injury. Schizophrenia. Something. Tim, on the other hand, clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing around the room.

"Sherlock Holmes" he said, "had an uncanny ability to tell qualities about a person from objects that they own." He picked up my SLR from where I'd dropped it at the door. "What can you tell about the owner of this camera?"

Holmes took the camera into his hands and studied it intently, trying buttons, focusing and unfocusing the lens, even setting off the flash, which caused him to jump, startled. After several minutes, he finally looked up. "The owner of this camera," he started, "is a somewhat careless female with a penchant for having her nails long, yet her nervousness renders them to the short state they are in now. She is obsessed with photography, yet is unschooled in the art, and often takes undesirable photographs. Also, she has recently had a small, active kitten." He handed the camera gently to me. "As this is one of your most cherished possessions, I don't want to accidentally cause it harm." I took the SLR from him, stunned speechless.

"How did you do that?" I managed.

The detective smiled. "It was all correct, then? I admit, as I am unfamiliar with the particular device, I couldn't gather much out of it. I deduced you were careless due to the scratches along the entire body. Obviously from being thrown about. This comes as surprise, since you rid yourself of the cat that scratched the surface of the lens, meaning this object holds great significance to you."

"And the nails?" I asked.

"A trace of nailpolish on the side of the camera."

Seemed simple enough, I decided. "What about the messed up pictures?" Honestly, I did throw out a great deal more than I kept.

"A smudge on the lens. From being brushed by a finger on the shooting hand."

By this time, Tim had stopped pacing and collapsed into an armchar. He looked up at Holmes, then myself in awe. "That does it," he stated. "I'm convinced."

My eyes narrowed. "Timothy....did you put him up to this? This is all some trick, isn't it?" I wasn't about to be fooled so easily. I crossed my arms smugly across my chest.

"Chele," Tim said in an exasperated tone. "Name one Sherlock Holmes mystery."

I thought for a minute. I really never was much of a fan of Doyle. "Um...that Baker Street Hound one?"

This brought a hearty laugh from both my guests. "It was the Baskerville Hound," Said Holmes. "221B Baker Street is my address."

"Are you sure? You didn't have a dog or anything?" More laughter.

"You see," Tim said, "the point I'm trying to make is that you're not even a fan of the stories. Why would I make a joke like that? And how was I supposed to know that you went down to the beach today?"

I thought it over for a moment. "Makes sense, I guess." Then it dawned on me. "So that means...." My eyes grew wide. "You're Sherlock Holmes!"

"As I stated nearly two hours ago," he replied.