A Shadowy Figure

by noraagnes

Kathryn just moved into her new flat. Every night she notices something that no one else does. There's something different about 221 B. It will take time for her to realize the true reason for her being linked to the old resident of 221B Baker Street. But one day, with the help of a few friends, she might just learn

2. Part One: The Café at Sunrise

Part One: In the Café at Sunrise

"Thanks," I smile as I'm handed my cup of tea. It's early in the morning so not many people are here. I walk over to the seat next to the window and sit down. The early morning fog still lays over the street.

I continue to sip my tea as I observe the few other people in the small café. A jogger, no doubt coming in after only a light run as she doesn't appear to be sweaty enough to have run for long (and judging by her physical appearance this isn't the first time she's skipped her day's run to have breakfast at the café). The only other person in the café is a man. Small, blonde, and judging by the quality of his clothing he has a regular job that pays well. Even from my seat across the room I can see an unusual amount of dirt on his hands. Making a quick decision I walk over to the man and sit next to him.

First, I take a look at his hands. The dirt is under his nails showing that he had been digging at something and did not have the proper tools to do so. There is another thing about his hands though that is peculiar, the tips of all his fingers are worn and rough, as if he writes at the computer all day. The line across his wrist where it rests on the desk confirms that he does a lot of writing. Then, I look up at his face. He is tired, and looks as if he has aged more than he should have due to his lack of sleep. Something about his face is familiar though.

Then it hits me, "Dr. Watson!" he jumps at the mention of his name. He hadn't seen me sitting next to him before. He looks me over once and then returns his eyes to the paper in front of him. It surprises me that a man that spend so much time with Sherlock would spend so little time observing and studying his surroundings.

"Dr. Watson?" I repeat attempting to get his attention.

"Oh, not now," he whines stand from his seat, "I don't want to talk to some other child in love with the 'fictional character' Sherlock Holmes from my blog. I'm not signing any damn autographs." He puts air quotes around "fictional character."

"I can assure that is not what I came to speak to you about," I begin but am interrupted by him again.

"Well, I don't want to talk. I've eaten my breakfast and now I'm leaving," he says throwing trash from his pockets into the bin.

In every one of his blog posts, and in every article I've read about him, I'd never have expected him to be so rude. Something is wrong with him, something I should look into. I go to the last thing he had that might have information about what he's doing, the bin. The trash he threw away was not a napkin it was a receipt. The receipt is for a flower shop, which explains the dirt under his nails. The thing that makes the least sense is why is he back on Baker Street? He hasn't lived on Baker Street since Sherlock's death.

Getting an idea I head out the front door. Looking on both sides of me to be sure no one is around I quietly sneak over to the door of 221B Baker Street. I place my hand on the doorknob and pray it's unlocked.

It is.