Chapter two, as you can see, is now up. Lestrade, Watson, and Holmes are not mine, although everything else is. Enjoy and Review!
Within minutes, Officers swarmed through the café, creating a swimming mass of activity where there once was none. Elbowing through chubby, blue obstructions, I systematically progressed towards my goal. This would be my greatest literary triumph, the start of a booming career…
And thus, lost in thought, I smacked into the future star of the article forming in my head.
Perhaps he was more impressive from the floor, his height and lanky figure accentuated by my current vantage point. Still engaged in conversation with what appeared to bean inspector, the faux-waiter turned his head, and cast a sardonic, superior look toward my sprawled figure. Apparently, he recognized me as his former client, as he turned to the Inspector, "Ah, Lestrade, it would appear the associated press has already heard of your success in solving the case." By this time, I had risen, but at hearing his words, was just about knocked over again. He rotated to face me, pivoting deftly on the ball of his foot, and cocked his head a bit, as if to indicate that is iteration was, in fact, the truth. Period.
"Excuse me, Sir, I am not an imbecile," I hissed through clenched teeth. "I saw you detain that man, and am perfectly aware that it was yo…"
"Here you are, Lestrade," My former server took on a very forward attitude, placing both hands on my shoulders and pushed me within conversation distance with Lestrade. "Allow me to introduce you to Miss Callie Talbot, of the Times. She would like to ask you a few questions about the Sanger case. I'll let you filler her in on the details, as you are the head of the operation." With that, my story nodded briskly, politely took his leave, and walked out the door into the fog.
Resigned to my fate, I took out my notepad, and listened half-heartedly to Lestrade's uniformed outline of the investigation, though I must say he was briefed very well by…Holmes, was it? A jolt of memory startled me, and caused my hand to leap in realization, ruining my notes. He knew my name, my employer. With a perplexed glance cast at the door, I watched Holmes turn left into the dank mist.
Scotland Yard Solves Case
LONDON January 18- With the conclusion of the Martin Sanger case, Scotland Yard seems to be rectifying their spoiled record. Chief Inspector Lestrade deftly handled the case, taking appropriate action and following up on all clues left by the murderer. "We did our job," said Lestrade, "It was our train of logic which lead us to discover the identity of the murderer." The Yard…
Upon Entering, my pen was flung across the room, endangering the white walls of my apartment. I glanced at the clutter that characterized my living space, and threw up my hands; not so much at this mess, but at the one ripping chaotically through my brain. This was ludicrous. To write this garbage when none knows the truth is just beyond your grasp; that is the most hair-raising dilemma. My hands started to subconsciously braid my hair, the red tendrils catching themselves in my fingers. I refused to write this drivel anymore; or at least until I needed to foot the grocery bill.
Curling my feet under my body, I sulkily hunched over, elbows on knees, and gave an exasperated moan to commence my reviewing of the situation. All I had to work with was a name, and the horrible drudgery of sorting through the hundreds of "Holmes'" in the metropolitan ocean of faces. Yet, in my frustrated state, I could still see light at the end of the tunnel. The man had turned left, or west, out of the café, which itself was about 100 meters away from my apartment, on the same road, Paddington Street. Therefore, I could rule out everything to the east, and narrow my search down by half a city.
I vaulted to my feet, raced to the computer, and awoke it from its slumber. Rather than typing up my rough copy of tomorrow's article, rather than being a good little employee and emailing my work to the editor, I instead searched for "Holmes", yielding a list of 20 names. Holmes, John Spencer. Holmes, William David. Holmes, Sherlock. Holmes, Anne Catherine.
At least I could rule out one. And those few who lived in the incorrect direction. This still left 14 names. Looking disgustedly down at my hands, aglow with blue electronic light, I silently cursed them for failing me in my quest.
Ah, revelation. Could I not root out the man's occupation? Click. The glowing box spat out a discouragingly normal list of jobs. Save one. Sherlock: Occupation Unlisted, Address; 221B Baker Street.
I leant back in my chair, a self-satisfied grin morphing my face from a tired visage, to that of a Cheshire cat. Follow the White Rabbit, Alice; we shall see what is down the rabbit hole.