Meeting Sherlock Holmes

Molly and I meet in the cafeteria. She's grabbing coffee, black with two sugars. It has to be for someone else, because Molly always takes milk with her coffee and tea. I grab a cup of tea, two sugars with a dash of milk, and a powdered pastry. We walk in silence until we reached the lab. Much to my surprise, Molly isn't the only one working there. Sitting at one end of the table is a man with dark curly hair, wearing a black suit and white shirt. He's leaning over a petri dish with some blood in it, a dropper in his hand. He glances up at us for a second before going back to his work. His eyes are like ice, and I shiver. I start making my mental notes. Working with blood, but he's clearly not a doctor. I think I've seen him around at work. Is he a detective? Wait, I really don't want to think about work right now.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you," he says, putting his tools down to stand and get the coffee. Goodness, he's tall. Probably six foot, at least. He looks at her closely as he takes the mug. "What happened to the lipstick?" I look at Molly, my brows rising. Now that I look, she has a faint trace of lipstick on her lips, the kind of trace you get when you were wearing a fresh coat, but then wiped it off soon after. He's observant. Definitely a detective.

She shifts awkwardly, glares at me, then smiles and turns to answer him.

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too," he pauses, looking for the right word, "small now." He turns and walks back to his seat, taking a sip from the mug. I catch a grimace on his face. Molly seems frozen. I nudge her in the side.

"Okay," she responds. I'm shocked, and getting angry.

"No, Molly. It's not okay," I retort. They both look at me like I've grown a second head.

"You don't need to take that sort of treatment from him. And you," I turn to the man sitting in front of me. "You need to be nicer to people. She got you coffee, got it exactly how you asked. And the thanks she gets is a grimace. I saw the look on your face when you took that first sip. If you want better coffee, get it yourself at an actual coffee shop. And when you asked her a question, she gave you a perfectly valid answer. And you insult her. And wipe that smirk from your face when I'm admonishing you!" I'm near shouting at this point. Molly turns to me with wide eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asks me. I just shake my head and turn back to the infuriating man.

"Bad day, I take it?" he asks. I glare.

"You're clearly a detective. You tell me," I fire back. He seems surprised, but the only indication is that his eyes widen a tiny bit.

"Kat, you don't want to do that," Molly squeaks from beside me. She seems stunned by my behavior. As well she should be. I'm usually much sweeter and happier than this.

"Why not?" I ask.

"He'll tell you your entire life story just by looking at you. He's probably already figured out everything about you," she whispers. The man interrupts.

"How did you know I'm a detective," he asks. The corners of his mouth are turned up just slightly, like he's amused.

"Tell me how you know I'm having a bad day and I'll tell you how I know," I respond, smirking. Molly sighs, giving up, and walks to a chair on the opposite side of the room. He turns to Molly instead.

"Molly, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," he asks. The nerve of him.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" I ask, irritated.

"He prefers to text," Molly answers. She turns to him. "Sorry, Sherlock. It's in my coat in my locker."

I'm about to yell at him again when I pause. Sherlock?

"Sherlock? The Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" I ask. He turns back to me.

"Yes. You've heard of me, then?" he states, smiling a fake grin. So THIS is the man Donovan's always calling "freak". THIS is the man Anderson hates more than he hates me. THIS is the man Lestrade's always talking about. I dig my phone out of my pocket.

"Here, use mine," I say instead of answering.

"Oh, thank you," he takes the phone from me, glancing briefly at Molly.

"Sherlock, I'd like you to meet by best friend: Kat Wilson," Molly introduces me. "She's just-"

"Shhh!" I shush her. "I want to see if he's as good as his reputation says he is." Sherlock looks up from the phone at me.

"Oh? I have a reputation, do I?" he asks.

"That's for me to know and you to figure out how I know it," I reply. He looks back down at the phone, finishes the text, hands it back to me, and heads back to his seat. He looks back at me and starts his monologue.

"I know you're lower middle class or upper lower class. I know you were born and raised in London in a large family but you don't get along with them, possibly because of your temper, more likely because they don't agree with your religious preferences. I know you work in a café. And I know you share a flat with your boyfriend who you just caught cheating this morning," he finishes with a flourish. "Am I wrong?" Molly and I both stare at him in shock as he stands and grabs his coat. "No, I didn't think so." Molly starts laughing. "What?!"

"Actually, Sherlock. You're only right on two accounts," Molly responds. Sherlock looks back at her, stunned.

"Really?"

"Three," I respond quietly. They both look at me for an explanation. "Three accounts. That's actually why I came to see you, Molls. I need help finding a new flat." Sherlock looks perplexed.

"What? Why?!" Molly asks, concerned. "Don't tell me Sean…" she trails off. I nod. "Oh, Kat. You can stay with me until we find you a new flat, ok?" I nod again, and she hugs me.

"Thanks, Molls. You're the best," I whisper. A throat clears behind us. We turn to see Sherlock writing something down.

"Actually, if you'd like, come to this address tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock sharp. There's a flat available," he states, handing me a slip of paper. I feel a shock as his hand touches mine, but if he feels it, he's not letting on. He puts his coat on, and then wraps his scarf around his neck. "Sorry—gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He walks halfway through the door before he stops and leans back. He click-winks at me, then looks at Molly. "Afternoon." Molly half-heartedly waves back, to focused on me to give a proper goodbye. He glances in my direction once more, before turning and leaving.

Molly and I stand in silence for a moment, before I speak up.

"Riding crop?" We both start cracking up.

After laughing for a few minutes, we calm down enough to speak again.

"So, what's the address?" Molly asks. I look at the slip in my hand.

"Two two one Baker Street," I answer.