Sherlock From The Beginning

I met Sherlock Holmes because she ran into me. Literally. I was walking down the street after getting fired from my job at the bank, and suddenly she just appeared. Sprinting at breakneck speed, she somehow missed the six foot tall redhead in front of her. Rather than pausing to apologize or excuse herself, she just stumbled back a little, stared blankly at me, then proceeded to offer me a more dangerous job, far more exciting than my previous one. 

 “How do you know that mine isn't exciting and dangerous?”

She smirked at me. “Well, I don’t know about you, but banking isn't my version of exciting and dangerous. If you want something of the sort, contact me. Or find me. 221B Baker Street.”

And she promptly took off, once again, at breakneck speed. About a minute later she casually strolled around a corner and fell in step with me. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, by the way. And you are…?” 

 “Jack. Jack McKelley.” 

 “Don’t introduce yourself that way. You sound like a cheap imitation of James Bond.” She walked away, like it was the most normal thing in the world to offer a stranger a job and insult them in a time frame of less than five minutes. That was the last I saw of her. 

At least that’s what I would like to say. Most people would run like hell from her, or never meet her in the first place. Me, on the other hand, I liked her brand of odd. It was like coming back. I was in the army before banking. Why I went into banking in the first place I have no clue. It is, in my opinion, the most boring job since the dawn of time. 

So of course, the following day, I showed up at 221B Baker street. Walking in, I saw that the little flat was as odd as the girl herself. It was messy, with out of the ordinary strewn about. A rock painted and carved like a human skull, a noose around the neck of a stuffed animal, and her. She was currently standing on a stool blindfolded. On the wall behind her was a dartboard, and in her hand were three red darts. Spinning in place on the stool, she whipped a dart at the board, and hit it directly in the center. Throwing the last two, she managed to get them all nearly in the same spot: the direct center of the bullseye. 

Taking off the blindfold, she said “There’s a bedroom upstairs, you can have it if you want. Otherwise, find your own flat and all. I assume you’ll be willing to split rent and whatnot.” 

 “Well, cleaned up a bit could be a nice place.” 

She looked at me for the first time since I walked in. It was a strange gaze, but not in the kind of strange that the rest of the flat was. It was all eccentric, but her gaze was different. It was like the kind of stare a wild predator would give you, like they’re looking at you and yet looking through you. Like you should be terrified, but you simply feel steadier for it. “Well, I suppose I could clean up a bit.” Just like that, she jumped around and tossed random things into piles and cleared a chair off. 

 “So how much is rent?”

 “928 pounds. Your half is 464. You can afford that, right? If you can’t, I’m sure I can work something out with the landlady. She’s perfectly nice, owes me a favor for proving she was innocent.”

 “Ah. So what was the job you, um, told me about?” Sherlock spun and strode confidently up to me.

 “Yes, the job. It’s simple you see, your business to help me in my business.”

 “Which is..?” 

 “Oh, I forgot to mention that didn't I?” 

 “Well, yes, yes you did.”

 “Occasional-” Just then, Sherlock looked out the window. “Oh, goodie, work.”

She was a whirlwind of activity then. The piles quickly were neat stacks of papers, odds and ends straightened, and a couch and another chair unburied. I sat down just as the door was opening. She turned as if she were just casually looking to see who was entering.

 “Ah, Detective Inspector Drummond. How is your day?”

 “Cut the bull Sherlock.” The thin man grunted. He was middle aged, about 35 or 36 and had greying hair. “You know why we’re here.”

 “Of course I do. You never come for polite visits or tea. Obviously you’re here because someone is dead and you need me. Who is it and where are they?”

 “She was my best friend,” came a small voice from the entryway. A petite girl stepped from the shadows. She had light hair and dark eyes, a complete opposite of Sherlock in everything but size. “Lucille Brooks is dead.”

 “Wait, wait, what? You never told me that this was your line of work! That might be a nice little bit to drop when you offer a job! Something like ‘Hi, I’m Sherlock and I work as a detective or something and investigate murders. Want to work for me?’ That would be nice!” 

Everyone looked at me. Sherlock looked at me with her odd stare again, just for an instant. The Detective Inspector Drummond glanced from her to me. 

 “Who is this Holmes? Who are you?”

 “This is my potential assistant. Are you my potential assistant?” 

All eyes landed on me. “Yes, fine, I’m your potential assistant. I’m Jack Watson McKelley.”

 “I don’t care who you are I want you to find out who killed my best friend!” And suddenly we all looked to the small girl. 

Author's Note

Please kindly alert me of grammar and spelling errors, I do apologise but they probably do exist as I am only human.