A/N: I keep telling the person I'm writing this fic with to write an author's note at the beginning of one of his chapters. I told him it would make him seem more personable. But he hasn't. So it's me again! Ta da. Hope you enjoy the chapter. ~Basil
Casper sat in a dark room. His bedroom. At his mother's house, where he had lived all his life. He sobbed quietly, playing back - over and over again - his short, spectacular career at the Dunkin Donuts at 225 Baker Street. The interview, landing the job, the walk to work, the food discounts, putting on the polyester uniform for the first time...
Ah, the uniform... Casper always felt like a real American man when he put on his uniform. He was serving his country - or at least its citizens, quite literally. Sure, he wasn't putting his life in danger, nor protecting anyone. And, the food he served was perhaps a bit high in calories and somewhat low in nutritional value. But history was replete with stories of the reliable, solid kitchen-man; the guy who slogged the hash so the men and women on the front lines could be fed. Casper always felt a little taller, a little less pale, when in uniform; especially with the paper hat cocked jauntily on his head... he had even created a Dunkin Donuts solute (well, he had adapted it from that used by the future special forces in a 1970s sci-fi film involving mutant dolphins that Casper had watched 72 times)...
The side door slammed closed; Casper's mother was home from her job at the pefume counter of a high-end retail store. Soon the sickly-sweet, half-nauseating smell that clung to his mom after a long day spraying perfume samples would float through the house, eventually reaching Casper's room. Casper snapped back to reality, and a small choke-sob passed his thin lips. In the dark he could swear he saw Sherlock's face, just beyond his sight. Casper suddenly realized that his time in the kitchen was over - he now WAS the man on the front lines; the man of action; the Abercrombie guy. And Sherlock... well, Sherlock was going to taste the bitter revenge of someone who was no longer willing to sit idly by while Baker Street was pummeled by the class bully. "Shaken, not stirred" Casper muttered to himself semi-audibly, over and over.
Casper stood up in the darkness (bumping his knee on an unseen piece of funiture). He knew what he needed to do. But how? How? Who would assist Casper in his cold, dark, lonely quest for vengeance? By the time Casper had found the door in the darkness and opened it to suddenly blinding light, dabbing the tears from his face, he knew that his destination was Baker Street. Hopefully Moriarty's would be open.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! And I always appreciate reviews, regardless of whether they contain positive or constructive feedback.