I scream. I kick. I try to wriggle free. I scream again. I do what anyone would do if they were kidnapped, regardless of how strong and independent and fabulous they usually are. But it doesnʻt work. My kidnapper is strong, definitely, even with just one arm around me. I hear the door slam with a bang, rain pelting me. We must be on the street. I kick out again, making contact this time with a shoe, judging by the quiet British expletive. Itʻs definitely a manʻs voice, and definitely familiar. A door is opened once more, and I feel as if Iʻm dragged upstairs. A neighbor kidnapping me? Great. My one thought is, that, so far, Iʻm not loving the UK. Stepping backward, I stumble into a chair, rather ungracefully. Smooth hands abruptly pull the sck from my head. As my eyes adjust to the bright light, I quickly survey the room. Thereʻs a huge bookcase, with colorful covers and words that are too small to read from here. Too bad. The room is rather messy, with a skull on the mantlepiece. The wallpaper is the second most striking aspect of the place, a complex pattern, with a bright yellow happy face painted haphazardly on one wall behind me. Chrystal sits beside me, glaring venomonously at a familiar tall man with chiseled cheekbones and a trenchcoat. Of course. Just of course. Chrystalʻs slightly bizarre neighbor. Sherlock Holmes. But why the hell did he kidnap us?

"Sherlock! You canʻt just kidnap our neighbors!" An older woman, Mrs. Hudson, rushes into the room, sighing. She turns to us. "I am so sorry. Why donʻt you explain yourself, Sherlock."

He shrugs, like kidnapping us is no big deal. "Theyʻre in danger. There was no time. A carbon monoxide is going to explode in the flat next door in... four minutes fifty-two seconds."

Chrystal gasps, her dark eyes widening. "Youʻre kidding. If this a joke, Iʻm honestly going to kill you. Youʻre like joking. Wait, no, you arenʻt. Thatʻs poisonous... right?"

Sherlock Holmes nods. "Only in enclosed spaces. Or semi-enclosed. Such as a house. You would have died."

Chrystal faints. I canʻt blame her, even if I donʻt. Iʻm not really the fainting type. Iʻm not any less shocked than her, though. Who would want to kill her? Or me? This was supposed to be a vacation, not some scene from a movie. I pull myself together as fast as I can, getting to my feet.

I try to keep my hands from shaking, finally crossing my arms. "Let me get this straight: you kidnap us because my best friendʻs flat has a carbon monoxide bomb in it?" I canʻt keep a note of sarcasm from my voice. Not that Iʻm trying...

Sherlock Holmes nods, smiling. I fight the urge to punch him, instead studying him to find if he is telling the truth. I can find out easily enough. Shoes are oxfords, polished. He therefore has a job where he communicates with people and needs to look presentable. Heʻs dressed in a trenchoat with the collar turned up, indoors, indicating a dramatic, showy persona. Eyes are intense, focused. Heʻs driven, not distracted easily. Not a people person. Judging from what Chrystal said, a sociopath. Eccentric, due to the contents of the flat. Used to have someone else living here, seeing as thereʻs two chairs, facing each other. Lives alone now, probably socially awkward. Sociopaths always are. Finally, exhibiting no nervous twitching, not blinking too often, nor too little. No dishonesty here.

Itʻs only when Sherlock says, "Impressive," that I realize I said all that aloud. "I can do better. Name and hometown I know from the luggage tag on your purse. You arenʻt carrying a phone, so you must not need it for your career, so a domestic job. Youʻve done whatever job you need to- currently, a secretary, judging by the ink spot on your hands. Single, but had a boyfriend, that left you with that necklace. Youʻre too sentimental to remove it. Hobbies are jazz dance, as indicated by your poise, and reading, seeing as the first thing you looked at was the bookcase. Your parents... you donʻt get along with them. You havenʻt talked to them in years. Am I right, Mrs. Christophson?"

It takes me a moment to nod, dumbfounded. "How the hell did you know about my parents?"

"Your reaction, of course." Iʻve been alive for twenty-eight years, and no one, no one has ever been able to do that. Except me. I try my best to think of a comeback. "Oh, so youʻre a showof, too." I say, rather snidely. "That explains why you pulled off a fancy kidnappping and scared the hell out of us! Instead of explaining to us like a normal person would!" Maybe its that, or maybe its the irrational annoyance of finding out Iʻm not unique in deducing people, but I lunge forward and punch Sherlock Holmes in the face. He stumbles backward, his hand rushing to his face to hold back the blood. I sigh. "Just so you know, donʻt expect me to apologize later. Not my style. But, um, thanks, though, I mean, the bomb thing. For like saving our lives. That was good. Like, I donʻt want to die. And Iʻm shutting up now. Would you care to explain, though, why someone was trying to kill my best friend?"

Sherlock sighs in exasperation, holding a hankerchief to his bleeding lip. "Someone planted it after you arrived... the door was unlocked... must have been unusually quiet. The flat is never completely empty, they were hoping to lure myself and Mrs. Hudson out by having you be found dead a house away. Then, they would plant the bomb here... and kill me. Itʻs brilliant."

"And sick." I add. "Okay, so how did you know about the bomb?"

"Iʻm not just a detective. Iʻm a scientist. I know this stuff, and trust me when I say you wonʻt understand."

"Probably not. I failed high school physics." I admit.

"Your talent is in analyzing people. How did you learn?" he asks, genuinely curious.

I laugh. Heʻs just like me; he should know. "Idiot. I didnʻt learn. You canʻt learn this stuff. Itʻs just how I am. Always have been."

"Iʻm not an idiot." He says vehemently. "But your friend should probably get far away from here. So should you. Whoever is doing this wonʻt stop here."

I donʻt know what craziness possesses me then. Something obviously did. Unless I always have this insanity inside me. "I can help. You can analyze places, occupations. I can analyze personality. Weʻd make a good team, Mr. Holmes. We could track them down. Together." I almost take back that statement. Is it really worth it? This was supposed to be a vacation, not a job opportunity.

Sherlock Holmes looks shocked. "Youʻre insane. This isnʻt a game, Christophson. You might die. Itʻs a horrid idea to have anything to do with me." Heʻs not lying. Heʻs dead serious, seeing as with no doubt, heʻs speaking from experience. But right now, I donʻt really care. I can feel my impulsive side coming bakc to me, ready to take control.
"Oh, who the hell cares?"