Chapter Text

A STRANGE MEETING

I don't know how I'm meant to be writing this. I'm not a writer. Ella thought keeping a blog would help, but it hasn't. Not sure what kind of help it's meant to provide; a bit like whispering into a void, really. The black hole of the world wide web.

I told you the truth, Ella: Nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened.

I was walking in the park, and I bumped into Doctor Mike Stamford. We were sort of mates when we were students at St. Bart's. We got coffee together, and I mentioned that I wanted to move out of my bedsit. Said I wanted to stay in London, but it seemed impossible with the rents so bloody high. He said he knew of someone else in a similar situation. So we went to the labs at Bart's, and Mike introduced us.

Except, he didn't. He didn't introduce us. The man knew who I was, somehow. He knew everything about me. He knew I'd served in Afghanistan, and he knew I'd been invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic, so he didn't get everything right, but he even knew why I was there. The bedsit. The flatshare. Mike hadn't mentioned a word of it.

And then... well, it seems quite unbelievable. But his name is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock. 

I'm not drawing any conclusions. Well, I am, but I'm trying not to. Mike looked like a cat eating a bloody canary.

I googled "Sherlock Holmes" when I got back to the flat and found a link to his website: The Science of Deduction .

It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant, and really quite rude, and he looks about 12 (he isn't, though, Harry, so bugger right off). He's clearly a bit public school, as expected, and... Yes, I definitely think he might be mad.

He was also strangely likable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.

So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.

13 comments