Sherlocked

Sherlock

I despised the crushing tedium of narrowing down potential flat mates. I was appalled at the lack of prospects they possessed. A few seconds spent on each hopeful’s Facebook page or blog was enough to tell me that they were blubbering idiots who thought they appreciated what I did, but in fact had not the slightest clue. They were a flock of idiots.

I narrowed it down to a very small list, and then proceeded to make calls to the three that annoyed me the least, scheduling each of them for a meeting at 221B Baker Street thirty minutes apart from each other later that afternoon. Not that I really needed thirty minutes per each person to make a decision. It would probably be closer to two minutes, followed by twenty-eight minutes of trying to talk myself out of applying nicotine patches and fetching my revolver.

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Rose

I arrived at 221B Baker Street just in time. The subway system was still confusing to me. It took me a couple of tries to find my way to the flat.

I brushed imaginary hair behind my ear, forgetting once again to quash the habit. I had recently gotten pixie cut, after years of having hair that was just past my shoulders. Frankly, it was at least partially a result of my recent break up. I was tired of things being the same, being the same old Rose. I figured that if I was going to move to a different continent, why not get a different hair cut?

I knocked at the door, and a deep voice from inside called out “Come in. It’s unlocked.”

I opened the door, walking in to a tall man lounging in a large armchair. The flat was nice, although severely cluttered. I was more surprised, however, by just how attractive Mr. Sherlock Holmes was. He had piercing blue eyes, angular cheekbones, and full lips with a dramatically pronounced cupid’s bow. It was the sort of face I would have liked to paint.

He was long and lean, and lounged in the chair as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He seemed put off, however. I wondered if he was really as particular as his website seemed to imply.

I walked up to meet the man, offering my hand in a friendly gesture. His hands were held together, long fingers meeting under his full lips, and he stared at me with his light blue eyes as if he were studying me, like a specimen under a microscope. When he ignored my hand, I shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to do next.

“Well, do sit,” he said impatiently, and I did as I was told, sitting in the chair opposite him.

“So, Rosaline Gwyneth Sparks. How very pretentious your parents were in naming you.”

I bit back a retort regarding his name, and instead settled for, “Please, call me Rose.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked.

“Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. I stumbled across your website last night when I was looking for flats. Why does it matter that I know who you are?”

“I was merely making sure you weren’t another on of those morons from the press or from my apparently growing fan base.” He said the last words as if they sickened him. “Granted, you are an American, but that rather works in my favor in this particular instance.”

“Are you famous here or something? Is that why you’re making an exception in your disdain for Americans?” I asked.

“Obviously,” he said as if I were stupid for asking such a question.

“So, did you have any questions for me?” I asked, wanting to speed up the process. “If you just invited me here to make fun of me, I would prefer to look elsewhere for a place to stay.”

“How do you feel about the violin? I sometimes play all night long.”

I could see why he might have a hard time finding a flat mate. “It depends whether or not you play well. I am particularly biased. My father is a violinist in the Los Angeles Philharmonic. I was raised on classical music, so I don’t have a problem with it. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

“I don’t cook,” he said.

“I’ve cooked for myself since I was ten years old. I’m fairly certain I have that covered,” I responded.

Sherlock had resumed staring at me. It wasn’t in the usual way that some men stared. There was no attraction in his gaze. It was merely as if I were an experiment and he was predicting the outcome.

“I’m an artist, so I really just need a little bit of room for an easel. Other than that, I’ll try and keep everything else in my own room. Like I said, I don’t sleep much, so I don’t really mind noise. I’m a night person. I spend most of my free time reading, painting, or listening to my iPod, so I shouldn’t disturb you.”

“Seems reasonable enough, albeit boring. When would you like to move in?”

“Don’t you want to know me better? We’re complete strangers.”

“Please, don’t insult my intelligence. I researched you. You’ve recently broken up with your boyfriend, and I suspect it’s due to his extracurricular affairs with your best friend. You wore a ring on the middle finger of your left hand, but its gone now. Probably a gift from him. If he had broken it off with you, you would have kept it. Most of your status updates on Facebook involved how deliriously happy you were with him, which leads me to believe the breakup was sudden, initiated by you. He was cheating on you. It also explains your recent change of location and your new haircut, which you may find that you regret once you’ve come to your senses.”

“How did you get all of that just from looking at me?” I was completely baffled.

“I pieced it together, taking into account what I already found out about you and what I observed as soon as you walked through the door. You have a small tan line on your finger where the ring used to be, and you keep gesturing as if your tucking hair behind your ears, but your hair is far too short to have anything to tuck back. It’s a new hair cut, probably a side-effect of the break up.”

“That is incredible.”

“It’s what I do,” he said simply.

“You mind if I have a look around?” I asked, desperate for a change of subject, hoping I could distract him from his careful scrutiny.

“By all means.”

Nothing appeared to really be dirty, just cluttered. I walked towards the kitchen, taking care to sidestep a pile of books. The kitchen table was occupied completely by a chemistry set.

“You keep the sulfuric acid next to the salt. Nice touch,” I said, chuckling to myself as I walked over and opened the fridge.

I closed it immediately, crying out. “What is a severed head doing in the fridge?”

“I’m doing an experiment on the coagulation of saliva after death.”

“And you couldn’t research that or go to a lab or something? Surely you have friends in the medical field, being a detective.”

“Yes, well. They’re mostly idiots. They try to get involved with the experiments and usually just bungle the entire thing.”

“Tell you what; I am going to buy you a mini fridge for your experiments.” I opened the fridge again and closed it.

“No need to buy me gifts. Like you said, we barely know each other.”

“I don’t know if you understand how normal people work, but I would prefer not to have severed body parts in the fridge next to my eggs.”

Sherlock just shrugged at my words, and I could tell that living with him was going to be interesting.