I came home to my temporary apartment. The apple I'd placed on the table still lay there, untouched. Without further ado I placed my cane against the wooden chair in front of the table and opened the drawer underneath to get my laptop out. As I logged in, I sat down as well. I opened a quest search tab and typed 'Sherlock Holmes'. To be sure I checked the images first. The man on my screen luckily resembled the one I'd met less than an hour ago. I went back to the regular search and opened his website. The science of deduction. That's unusual, not exactly what expected. On the site weren't many articles. I decided to click one. Mister Holmes could distinguish 43 types of tobacco ash, so he wrote. Also, he could identify a pilot by his left thumb and a software designer by his tie. Not sure if I should believe that. There I sat, behind the screen, staring at small letters describing Sherlock Holmes. I closed the screen onto the keyboard and left my hand on top of it. Sherlock Holmes. A gentleman with a certain flare of mystery. Who was this man? Why did he give me this weirdly pleasant feeling the moment we looked each other in the eye? His deep blue irises were still on my retina. I could relive the moment he looked up. A delightful shiver ran down my spine. This man was special, I was sure of it, but how? With these questions circling in my head I lay down on my bed. I couldn't sleep for another hour. All I could think about was the tall, dark-haired man.
I didn't really do much the next day. I looked up the directions to my potential future flat, not just once. Over and over again I typed in the address. By lunchtime I knew the way by heart. Also I knew I'd recognise it by a café right next-door. I felt restless. Was it nerves? Maybe… but why would I feel nervous about looking at a flat with some bloke? I walked to my bed and back several times. I drank, what, three glasses of water, continuously hoping the time would pass a little faster, just to get it over with. It felt like weeks, waiting for the clock to show six thirty. It was just a fifteen-minute walk, but to be sure I counted double in case something would happen that would delay my arrival. At six thirty precisely I stood on the sidewalk in front of my door. I visualised the turns I had to take next with every ten steps. There it was, the red sunshade belonging to "Speedy's", the café. I walked towards the black door of the house. Golden letters read '221B' and a rectangular beater hung underneath. I reached out for the doorbell on the far right, when I heard a voice from behind me: "Hello." I turned around to see Sherlock Holmes pay a cabbie. "Mister Holmes" I answered. I wasn't sure how to address him. "Sherlock, please" he said, with a very kind smile, as he took my stretched out hand. Together we walked back to the door. I could read from his face he didn't know what to say. "Prime spot, got to be expensive" I tried as an ice-breaker. Sherlock ringed the bell. "Misses Hudson, the land lady, is giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour," he said while turning his head to me, "few years ago, her husband got himself sentenced to death. I was able to help out." His last words got me confused. "You stopped her husband being executed?" I asked full of disbelief. "Oh no," a smile grew on his face, "I ensured it." Before I could ask any further, the door was being opened. A small, jolly lady in her middle years stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck. She greeted him happily and let him know that she would appreciate it if he notified her if he was planning to come home, before she showed us in. Two staircases led up to a roomy apartment. Newspapers were stacked up everywhere, several computers lay around, books all over the floor and a skull resting on the mantelpiece apart from several other things. Needless to say, it was a chaotic view. "This could be very nice," I stated, "very nice indeed." Sherlock looked pleased. "Yes, I thought so. My thoughts exactly… so I moved in already" he said while I said: "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out." We looked at each other, both confused at the other's answer. Sherlock cleared his throat and, embarrassed, turned around to organise a messy stack of papers. I pointed out the skull. "A friend of mine," he clarified, "and when I say friend-" Mrs. Hudson came walking in and interrupted him: "What do you think, doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two." I was startled and blurted out "of course we'll be needing two." I looked at Sherlock, who didn't have a shocked expression at all. He simply smiled gently.
"Oh don't worry, dear," the lady started, "there's all sorts 'round here. Mrs. Turner next door has got married ones." Changing subject, she started scolding Sherlock for the mess he'd made, especially in the kitchen, which was full of all sorts of laboratory equipment. The tall man scurried around a little, straightening things up, closing laptops. I turned around to him, my cane supporting me as I did so, and admired him for a while. He looked up at me every now and then. "I looked you up on the internet last night" I said, in attempt to break the ice once again. "Oh," he said, while turning to me and straightening his back, "anything interesting?" I thought for a second: " found your website: 'The Science of Deduction'?" I implied as a question. A smile grew on the man's face. "What did you think?" he asked in return, seemingly proud. His smile disappeared when I turned my head sideways. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb." I decided to try and get an answer to the questions that had popped up in my head the night before. "Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and leg and your brother's drinking habits from your phone." "How?" I simply couldn't believe what was happening. It had all happened yesterday and yet the same amazement boiled up inside me. However, I was still confused. I really wanted to know more about this man. Who is he? Yes sure, Sherlock Holmes, but who is he? I chuckled softly and shook my head, while looking down at my feet. In my thinking process I hadn't noticed that Mrs. Hudson walked towards Sherlock with a newspaper in her hand and asked him about the three suicides that had taken place in the past few days. A siren wailed in the street and I could see the lights flickering on the houses opposite ours. The police car stopped and Sherlock, who was standing at the window, simply said: "Four." Mrs. Hudson asked him what he meant, to which he replied with "there's been a fourth. And there's something different this time." Mrs. Hudson asked him how he knew. Sherlock pointed out the window. In the meantime a man, I'd say in his late thirties, came running up the stairs. Sherlock didn't greet him or anything, but instead asked where. "Brixton. Lauriston Gardens" he said, still panting. "What's different about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something new." Sherlock asked the officer. "You know how they never leave notes?" he explained, "this one did. Will you come?" Sherlock looked away to think. "Who's on forensics?" The man sighed "Anderson." Sherlock sighed too, but it was more of an annoyed huff, as he looked away. "Anderson won't work with me" he snarled. "He won't be your assistant" the man tried desperately. "I need and assistant" Sherlock answered. The man's expression was pitiful and sunken. "Will you come?" he asked once more. Sherlock thought for a moment and said: "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind you." The man smiled gratefully and turned around with a nod to both me and Mrs. Hudson before walking out again. When he was just gone, Sherlock jumped up in the air like a small child, his fists clenched in front of him, letting out a squeal of happiness. "Brilliant!" I didn't know how to react. This man, whoever he really was, was happy about… a suicide? He leapt over to his desk and scurried through his stuff, picking up a small package from beneath some papers. "I thought it would be a boring evening. Serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas!" With a small number of big steps, he went through the door. Probably while fetching his coat, he yelled a few words to Mrs. Hudson, to which she replied with "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." I was startled, not understanding a lot of what was going on. I walked to the line which split the kitchen from the living room. There, two big chairs faced each other. I propped up one of the cushions and sat down on one, while picking up the newspaper. 'Third suicide found' it said. Underneath the headline, a picture of a man. I thought I recognised him, and when I looked closer I realised it was the man who had come bearing the news about the fourth. The subscription to the picture said: 'DI Lestrade, in charge of investigation.' Mrs. Hudson had a sympathetic smile on her small face. "Oh, look at him, dashing about. My husband was just the same," she paused for a moment, looking down at me. I didn't look back, but I could feel her gaze wandering over me. After a while she added: "But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you a cuppa, you rest your leg." Upon hearing those last words a feeling of rage raced through my body.
"DAMN MY LEG" I shouted at her, slamming down the newspaper on my lap. She jumped. Realising what I'd done, I apologized to her. I couldn't help it. I don't want people to pity me, especially not about my injury. "I understand, dear, I've got a hip" she said sweetly, while placing a hand on said body part. To make it up to her I said: "a cup of tea would be lovely, thanks." She walked out the door to her own apartment. "Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper" she said as she turned around. Carefully I added "Couple of biscuits too, if you've got them." "Not your housekeeper" she repeated. I took out my phone from my pocket, repeating Sherlock's words in my head "I can read your military career in your face and leg and your brother's drinking habits from your phone." How on earth is that possible? My thoughts were pierced by a deep, somewhat familiar, voice. "You're a doctor," Sherlock stood in the doorway, "in fact, you're an army doctor." I stood up, partly out of habit, partly not knowing why, and cleared my throat. "Yeah, yeah I am." "Any good?" "Very good." Sherlock looked at me and smiled, but turned serious again when going on talking. "Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths?" I nodded as an answer, in combination with "well… yes." "Bit of trouble too, I bet." His eyes showed a flicker of joy, but that was all I could read from his face. "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." I didn't know where he was going with this. "Care to see some more?" he said after a short while. "Oh god yes!" I blurted out. Sherlock grinned widely.
Hey you guys, I'm sorry it took so long. I'm having a bit of a dilemma here. So obviously what I've written now is all canon. It will take a while before I will actually start my own part. My question to you, readers, is the following: shall I, or shall I not write everything out from John's perspective. Of course, a lot will be the same as in the series, but everyone knows exactly what is going to happen. I would change some minor things and of course write John's thoughts down with them, but it will take an eternity for me to reach the Johnlock part. I will write some scenes out anyway, because I want to write down what I would imagine John thinking about, but that's a lot less in comparison. Please let me know in a review or in a comment (or PM) what you think I should do. I really enjoy writing this and hope you enjoy reading, but I don't want to bore you. I can't believe so many of you have visited my story. Please let me know what you think of my writing style. I'd love to hear from you guys.