Sherlock

I went back to my flat that night, feeling unsettled. I knew I should be delighted, elated that my first day of my first job since deployment had gone so successfully. My boss liked me, I hadn't messed up anyone's order so badly that they hated me, and I had no reason to think I couldn't keep working at Speedy's as long as I liked.

Still, there was the nagging memory of our two strange regulars—brothers who missed each other by ten minutes (intentionally?), looked nothing alike, and both seemed to be in pain.

That wasn't Angelo's inference; it was mine. I've always been able to read people and understand them. My downfall is that I can't let it go. Once I know, I care. Maybe this is what I should have started with. Oh well.

I settled in to sleep, hoping my nightmares wouldn't keep me up all night, but I had just started to dose when I heard emphatic knocking on my door. On my way to open it, I grabbed the gun I'm not supposed to have. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by the tall, angular form of Sherlock Holmes, the younger brother with the drug habit.

"John Watson?" he asked.

"Yeah? How do you know my name?" I asked, curious and not feeling particularly threatened. He wasn't shaking this time. He was almost frighteningly controlled, obviously under the influence of a drug of some kind, but not coming down yet the way I'd seen him before.

"Speedy's," he answered, "I saw your I.D. You had your wallet lying next to you on the counter. I also know that you're an army doctor, you just came back from Afghanistan, and I need your help."

I had no idea where to start, so I said the first thing that came into my brain. "You figured all that out while you were coming off a high?"

"The—body is weak, but the brain is unaffected," he said, slightly piqued.

"Keep telling yourself that," I replied, "until it kills your brain cells."

To my surprise, he chuckled. "You're exactly how I expected. Are you ready to come?"

"Come where? Do what?" I recalled my junkie college roommate Ed, who used to want to go walking at 3 a.m.

"I had hoped to save time," he answered, "but if you insist—Angelo is a talkative man who knows I'm a detective. There's no way he wouldn't share that information with his new employee. I'm here because I'm on a case, and I need your help. There's a dead body, and I need someone to come with me who isn't—"

"On drugs?" I asked plainly. He didn't answer, but I could see that I was right.

"Why don't you talk to your brother?" I asked. "I'll go with you if you tell me."

"How do you know we don't talk?" he asked.

"It's—call it a hunch," I said.

"We haven't spoken since I—" he hesitated.

"Since you started whatever you're on," I finished.

He nodded. That part I could understand. That part made sense because I have a sister named Harry with a drinking problem she hates to admit. She doesn't talk to me any more, either.

"All right," I said, "I told you I would go, but I'm in my pajamas. Give me a minute." He came inside and settled his long frame on the lone chair in my living room.

There was a body and a case, and Sherlock solved it in about ten minutes, much to the annoyance of the forensics team and the delight of the police inspector he introduced as Lestrade. Maybe some day that will be the story I tell, but not today.

Sherlock and I went our separate ways, and I got home in the early hours of the morning. I sat on my bed and wondered what strange world I'd entered, where five muffins and an espresso turned into a night of adventure. I had no idea why the younger Holmes had chosen me, but I was beginning to understand how brilliant he was. That made it all more depressing that he couldn't live without meth.

It was Speed. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I deduced the name of the drug from the symptoms.