Why Me?

OK. So this is a fan fiction about Sherlock Holmes featuring Jane Watson. This will be mostly based off the books, but may also pull from Sherlock and the Robert Downey Jr movies. Though not very much with the Robert Downey Jr movies. The chapters will be very random, almost one-shotty in tone.

And, since I'm terrible at writing mysteries, I will LITERALLY be lifting cases from the stories or anything else mystery that I happen to be reading/watching.

If this bothers you, don't read.

I do not own Sherlock Holmes. Actually, no one does, because he's technically in the public domain. Something I am both happy and sad about.

Anyway, enjoy!

I peeked into the dissecting room. Being an American in London was…different. Being an American who was going to medical school in London was not bad.

Of course, that was what I thought before I saw this guy beating the cadavers.

He was really going at it. He had some type of whip and everything. Maybe they do that in England.

"Uh…is this normal?" I asked the only person I knew in the room, my best-friend-as-of-now Cassie.

She sipped her Starbucks. "Nope. Not at all. But nothing that guy does is normal."

"Really? What else does he do, or do I want to know?"

"Well…". I could see that she was relishing this. "He keeps switching his major. Like, every six months he picks a new one. And he cuts classes all the time, but for some reason he aces tests and papers. All of his neighbors request to move after a week."

I had a sinking feeling in my chest. "Where's his dorm?"

"Where's yours?"

"Building C, dorm 53."

She chuckled evilly. "Lucky you, he's Building C, dorm 54."

"Oh joy."

Just then he finished beating the body (sorry, cadaver) and headed towards the door. Which was where I was standing.

I decided to say nothing. On closer inspection he was really tall. But then again I'm like five foot four so basically everyone is taller than me.

He looked at me as he walked past. I froze. His eyes were grey. Sharp, piercing, bright. I barely took in the rest of him. Just a mop of black hair swept back, pale, and an aquiline nose.

"I hope you don't mind the violin." He said. "I play it sometimes at rather odd hours. Or the smoke."

I did not know what to say to that. As he continued past me he said "I hope you enjoy London, Jane Watson. You'll find it's a bit different from New York City."

And with that he was gone. How did he know? I didn't talk to him. He couldn't have heard us talking, it was too loud. How the heck did he know that I was American?

I had the weirdest feeling. Oh boy. This was going to be something.

Yay! What do you think?

Review and comment!

Or I will die.