Chapter Two

A Study in Sherlock

I knocked thrice upon the door and stood back. "Just a moment," said a voice from within the apartment. This was no ordinary man's voice. I could tell that at once. It had a certain vigor and flair to it. It was a deep timbre, yet quick, wasting absolutely no valuable microsecond in singing the words. They were spoken like an expert dealer dispenses cards.

The door opened and I found myself looking out at the back of a man's head as he walked away, returning to whatever he had been doing. "Welcome," he said. "This is my home, 221B as you clearly saw to the left of the door. If you didn't, I have no time for you, so please, be honest and leave."

He scribbled upon a scrap of paper on his clutter of a desk. He went and retrieved a book from his overstuffed bookcases which lined the living room. From the small cracks in between, I could see that the color of the wall was a dark beige.

The man didn't even seem to register I was there. What the hell? I cleared my throat as loudly as I could. He turned quickly, snapped would be a better description.

"Ah, yes, you're still here, are you? What's your name, doctor?"

'Doctor?' I thought. 'How the hell does he know I'm a doctor?' I voiced this question. The man scoffed.

"It's quite simple, and rather meaningless. Your prescription pad is hanging out your side pocket. It might interest you to know it's out of date. I doubt you are unaware of that fact. You haven't practiced in quite some time. Please tell me you don't carry round that pad for sentiment, for I've no time for people such as that."

I ignore his questioning. He's right, of course, but why give anyone so arrogant the satisfaction? "What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes. And yours?"

"Dr. John Watson."

"Well, Watson, tell me, did you sign up immediately following 9/11?"

"Excuse me?"

"You served in Afghanistan as a medic. The tattoos upon your left forearm are of the army. Do you know what they say? Poor words about the Taliban, I'm afraid. And given that you're a doctor, it's not a stretch at all to arrive at medic. Sent home because of that leg problem? What was it? Injured in a roadside bomb?"

"Hollow point bullet to the thigh muscle; developed necrosis afterwards. Surgery left me with a neurological pain disorder called—"

"--Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, or more commonly CRPS: In laymen's terms, the nervous system is hijacked by pain. A wild deduction, I admit, but you are not the first I've seen befallen by it."

"You are a doctor as well?" I asked. I had known the man not five minutes and already he astounded me.

Holmes laughed quite loudly. "No, no, no. Clearly you ask because in your mind – a mind of a collegian and doctor – no man can be as smart as I am without having such degrees. I teach myself. Saves time and the energy dealing with moronic teachers."

"You're an ass, I hope you know," I said truthfully.

"Oh, I know," Holmes said. He looked at me. He had piercing eyes and a thin nose that reminded me of a hawk. He was taller than me and far slimmer with a large forehead and mop of brown hair. "You've bothered me long enough. Do you want to stay? If so, there's a key on the piano. Get out and come back tonight with your things. If not, then get out. Either way, piss off."

I was back. Oh, I was back. The man intrigued me. He accepted me as his roommate and was very gracious when not busy at work. I'm sure the only reason he tolerated me pestering him with questions in the beginning is because I paid my rent.

It was the Thursday after I moved in when a knock came upon the door. Holmes was lazy as hell and did not move. "Who's there?" was all he bothered to do.

"Carrus," said a grave voice from behind the door.

It was amazing. Holmes had tossed down his $500,000 Stradivarius and practically ran to the door. He opened it and I saw what living in L.A. and New York had taught me was a junkie. "D'you have it?" Holmes asked.

Carrus handed over a large package wrapped in brown packing paper. "Nineteen 8-balls, just like you asked."

Holmes grabbed the package and dropped it to the ground. He pried it open and pulled out a small baggie. He popped open the baggie, dipped his hand in, and put it in his mouth, as if brushing his teeth. After a moment, he smiled. "Some good stuff here, Carrus. You did well this time."

"I always do good," Carrus said. Holmes pulled out his wallet and withdrew a large wad of cash and handed it over. "Next time'll be double."

"'Scuse me?"

"Hey, man's gotta make some sorta livin'. New president ain't so worried bout the terrists no more. Feds started comin' back on cracking down our backs again. Losing customers cause they 'fraid to get caught. No one wants to kick it in Chino, man."

"What's not to like?" Holmes asked, his words dripping in sarcasm. "Drop the soap and get a surprise when you go to get it."

"Do we got a deal or what?"

"Yeah, yeah, go away."

Holmes slammed the door. "Who was that?" I asked.

"Delivery," Holmes said. "Now shut the hell up. If I want your comments, believe me I won't want them."

It was then I discovered my new roommate, as smart as he was, was a junkie. Coke was clearly his preference, but I had seen him do heroin at least twice. I didn't understand. He sat around the house doing nothing. He was clearly bored, but why. Didn't he have a job? He watched COPS and Judge Judy and recorded an ungodly number of hours of shows documenting real-life murder cases. At night, he played the violin, occasionally the piano, and once or twice flamenco guitar.

Two months in, I discovered what Sherlock Holmes did for a living. When the police pulled up outside our apartment complex, I thought for sure he would be caught with possession. My first clue should have been that it was not a squad car but a detective's car which pulled up.

Five minutes later, I was introduced to Detectives Lestrade and Gregson of the LAPD. They had brought Holmes a murder to solve. "You're a PI?" I asked with obvious enthusiasm.

"Consultant, dear Watson."

He read through the file in ten minutes and handed it back to them exclaiming it was the husband's brother who did it.

"Fellas, I had hoped you would bring me a case of interest. This is just plain boring."

"If you're looking to be entertained, go get yourself a lapdance," Lestrade said.

Holmes laughed. "I've had one too many of those in my life. Besides, I'm looking for a more intellectual stimulation."

"What's a matter? Bad crop of coke?"

"No, you kidding? The coke's fantastic, but there's only so much drugs can do for you." I couldn't believe how freely he discussed his illegal drug habit with two LAPD detectives. Unbelievable and yet, I said nothing till after they left.

"Won't they arrest you for possession?"

"What? Watson don't say dumb things. I've solved more cases than all the detectives on the force combined. They won't throw me a possession charge for a little bit of coke. A blind eyes goes a much longer way."

"That's a bit dishonest."

"Oh, Watson, everyone has a price. Know that."

"You're very depressing, Sherlock-"

"No, I'm very depressed. There's a difference. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll return to my strumming."

"Crazed lunatic," I mumbled. Sherlock turned, not angry, but curious.

"What did you say? I'm a lunatic?"

"You sit around the house all day. Anybody would call that languid and insane!"

Holmes – well fed on his cocaine habit – stares at me just before breaking into hearty laughter. "Bored people are not insane, Watson. However, morons on the other hand…" he let his voice trail away.

With that, he swept into the lounge, where I knew he would chain-smoke two packs of cigarettes while reading up on this and that academia which he so loved to self-teach.

The next two days Holmes spent pacing up and down the house, restless as hell. In between paces, he would lounge around leisurely, drowsing in and out and enjoying the fine crop of cocaine he had purchased.

It was at eleven o'clock on the night of the second day that I finally saw him do something I would deem productive. After a call from Lestrade (I know, for I answered the phone), he had thrown on a baseball cap and suit jacket and knocked upon my door. I was in my pajamas and reading the latest Stephen King.

"Watson, come with! Throw on some clothes."

I'm not sure why I did go with, but I'm glad I did. It was the first adventure of those that I would never forget.