"YOUR WRITING style is impressive, Miss Watson. We've reviewed your manuscript thoroughly and we appreciate that you've given us that opportunity. But . . . I'm afraid to tell you that we can't accept your work. Your narrative lacks the depth and tension that our publishing company's looking for. You can try some stronger conflicts and dynamic characters development to bring out the best in your writing. I'm really sorry, Miss Watson. But I still encourage you to keep refining your work. So then, I wish you the best with your future submissions."
There goes my fifth rejection this month. Honestly, I'm not even surprised at all anymore, maybe I've gotten used to it by now. Their smiles that seemed coming from a disappointed soul, and the way they clasp their hands together when they apologize made me wonder why did I even bother coming here.
I guess I just have to throw this out. No, burn this to the ground.
The moment I stepped out of the publishing company's building, I felt hopelessness sucking the life out of me. Moreover, the gloomy sky and the rain seemed to be mourning with me. Maybe I should've listened to my gut feelings and rather waited for their email instead of coming here personally.
It's been a week since I lost my full-time job just because of a couple of envious girls who conspired against me. I felt most unfortunate to have to deal with their teenage girl problems in their 20s.
It's also been two weeks since I moved out of my parents' house and carried on my own to a neighbouring city, two hours away from my hometown. People would think I'm living the dream-having my own life at the age of 21—no, I'm rather living a nightmare.
"The usual, Miss?" My senses came back after hearing a sweet feminine voice across the counter. The adorable barista beaming at me somehow restored a little of my energy, enough to make me return with a smile.
In the midst of a unfriendly frigid weather, her having my usual order memorized felt somehow warm.
"Yes. The usual, please," I replied.
Out of habit, I found myself at Baker Street Café after a rough bittersweet encounter with the publishing company. This is my fourth sweet treat to myself this week—aside from my kidney, I should probably start to take care of my wallet too. After all, it'd be really tough to afford my living necessities without a job.
I was about to head to the end of the counter, next to the dark wall when I found someone had already occupied the seat. He seemed to be my age, a college student, and a keen decent sense of fashion. However, it would be easy to dismiss him from my mind if it wasn't for the gauze bandages that are wrapping his hands as they swiftly continuously press his laptop's keyboard. There were also visible bandages around his neck, as his his polo's collar was unbuttoned.
That was the kind of someone you don't see everyday.
My eyes couldn't help but observe more of him. The fringes of his bangs were covering his forehead, but it was clear enough that he's wearing glasses.
"Mocha Frappuccino for Miss Watson!"
The young man suddenly glanced over his shoulder and met my eyes. Peculiarly, the right side of his face . . . his right eye was also covered by gauze bandages.
Is he okay? He looked like he got beaten up.
Oops. Now he knows I was staring.
"Miss Watson?"
My attention shifted to the counter and my sight was greeted by the same bright beaming barista, handing over a cup.
"Oh, yes. I'm sorry, thank you. How'd you know my name?" I asked, showing hints of immense confusion. It's only been two weeks since I got here and I haven't been talking to anyone, or befriending anyone at all because I've been too occupied with my own stuff.
She chuckled delicately, more ladylike than I ever seen from anyone. "Mrs. Hudson told us about you. We heard you're the new girl who moved in upstairs."
Baker Street Café is a two-story building, having the ground floor as a commercial space, hence the café. The second floor has two apartment units, addressed as 221A and 221B-I currently reside in the latter.
"Yes. Are you the one occupying the other unit?" I asked.
Honestly, I have no energy left for a chitchat. I just thought I'd make a little conversation to be a polite, and make a good impression to people that'll probably be with me for a long time, maybe.
"No, I just work here in the café. My home's a little farther away."
"I see." I smiled subtly. "Uhm, thank you . . . or the coffee. Nice to meet you."
"You too. It's a pleasure to meet you."
I took my coffee and checked the status of my usual spot again. The odd young man occupying it was already packing his stuff and preparing to leave. He was also inevitably catching the attention of a few newcomers.
I walked as slowly as I could towards the seat, waiting for the guy to finish. Before he completely departed, he gave me one quick look, as if he figured one I wanted his seat. It felt quite awkward because he was only using one eye as the other one was covered with gauze.
When I arrived at the table, I heard a noise gave away that stepped on something. I looked down and found an familiar ID on the floor, a type of ID I could effortlessly recognize, sending nostalgia to my bones. I picked it up and looked at the identity.
Sherlock Gabriel Holmes
FORENSIC SCIENCE 2-1
DOYLE UNIVERSITY
There wasn't any profile photo, only a barcode, which was definitely odd and far from what I recall.
I immediately turned around and hurriedly ran towards the door, leaving my coffee inside. My sense of sight felt heightened by twice the normal proficiency as I roam my eyes around to follow that guy. The raindrops were gradually coating all over me, and I wished I didn't look dumb getting soaked for leaving my umbrella too in a hurry.
When I spotted him, he was already walking away from the café. I thought about shouting his name, but he was also wearing headphones, and immediately concluded it'd be pointless. I ran to him as fast as I could and grabbed his arm.
I felt his body jolted in shock by my sudden rude demeanor and turned around to face me. But unfortunately, I have no idea how worse my stamina is—from a short distance of running, I was already almost out of breath.
He seemed like I rendered him speechless. He took his headphones off and hang them on his neck, waiting for me to initiate a word. I also noticed he adjusted his umbrella to take me under its wing, as I couldn't feel the any drizzle on my head. It took me a couple of seconds to speak up because I was a little distracted by the gauze covering his right eye and half of his forehead.
"Sherlock . . . Gabriel . . . Holmes, right?" I asked between my breaths.
"Yes? That's me."
I immediately let go of his arm the moment I noticed it was awkward. I also realized that I might've squeezed him tight, his hand that was wrapped in gauze bandages.. I had a feeling that the gauze ran throughout his arm behind those hoodie sleeves.
"I'm sorry . . ." I almost stuttered. Then I showed him his ID. "You left this on the table."
He stared at me for a few seconds—his eyes started at my head, hair and then my face, and then my body, down to my toes.
"Excuse me?" I blurted out, unintentionally, feeling offended by his action.
"Oh-" He smiled as he took his ID from my grasp. "Thank you."
He wore his headphones again and turned away to walk. Somehow, my heart sank a little. I must admit I was a little disappointed, that my encounter with such an intriguing person as him ended like a drop of a hat. Though I was feeling a little conflicted because it seemed like he was completely judging me.
I watched him walk away until my eyes couldn't catch him anymore. Another conversation ended just like that. Maybe that was why my stories had been referred as dry. Because I couldn't even think of a better dialogue to keep it going where I want it to.
Sherlock Gabriel Holmes. His name definitely rang a bell.
After getting my coffee, it was time to head straight upstairs, and finally come to my front door of the apartment I'd be calling home from now on.
221B Baker Street?
I wonder where'd the landlady got the name for this building. Is she a baker? Were she the one baking those pastries down the café?
Before I entered my unit, I glanced over my shoulder to look at the door next to mine, the one called 221A. And for some reason, that unit felt deserted. Although the landlady has informed me that someone was already occupying that unit, I had once never met the people behind that door within my first two weeks.
I had also been wondering if I should knock one day and suddenly become friendly, bringing a homemade pie or something, the classic introduction, 'Hey, I'm your new neighbor. Glad to make your acquaintance for the next 10 years or more . . . or only or the next two weeks if I don't get a job right away.'
It's alright! Despite being a huge introvert, I can handle human interactions—I'm not a writer for no reason.
The first and foremost thing I accomplished after getting to my home was to lit my my stove open, and burned the manuscripts I printed out and stare as the fire and its stifling smoke escape my unit through my one window.
This useless junk. At least they warmed me up like a comfortable fireplace after getting soaked in the rain.
The next step of spending my remaining hours of this night is to stare at my laptop for a couple of hours. From time to time, I'd write few sentences on an empty document, that may or may not end up as a paragraph. Then all of them eventually had to be hit by backspace, erasing them from existence.
How could writing a story be this hard? All I had to do was narrate one.
They told me my narrative was bland. Now could someone show me a demonstration how to spice up a story step by step? This shouldn't be anywhere close to rocket science.
For some reason, a memory popped in my head. The extraordinary young man from the café earlier. Or maybe he wasn't really extraordinary—maybe he was just badly injured and still had to go out alone at that state of his body. Maybe I can make an OC out of him.
Suddenly, a series off incredibly loud knocks banged my door. It awakened every cells of my body and I felt my adrenaline rush. Nobody had ever knocked my door that hard, except for my mother when I was still had my room in their house. The landlady couldn't have that much strength to actually almost push my door open by a mere knock.
Fortunately, my door has an additional security so when I swung it open, the chain and it's sliding bolt only allowed a small opening space, enough for my sight to slide in.
"Sherlock, we need you."
"Excuse me?"
"I know it hadn't been good for you, but I swear to keep you private at all cost. I can't promise this isn't the last time but we really need you on this case."
At first, I was speechless. Thank goodness, they had the wrong door.
"I'm sorry, you must've been mistaken. I'm a new tenant."
Two middle-aged men were standing before my threshold, wearing familiar black coats. As the moonlight shone behind them, the their own figures casted a shadow on their faces, hindering me from picturing what they really look like.
"I told you he ran away," the other man replied with a sneer. "Like a rat."
"Excuse me, Miss?" the persistent man ignored his company and still paid attention to me. "Is this the 221B Baker Street?"
"Yes . . ."
"Do you know someone named Sherlock Holmes?"
"No?"
"This is ridiculous, man. This is a waste of time."
Oh? Wasn't it the bandaged guy I met at the café earlier?
"Wait, were you referring to the guy with lots of bandages?"
"Yes! Are you an acquaintance of his?"
"Not at all . . . I just saw him earlier at the café downstairs. He dropped his ID and I returned it, didn't talk to him much. Why?"
Why on earth would they knock on my door and ask me personally about that person?
"See?" the other man turned to the one questioning me. "Lestrade, if he's still in this city, he would've known it by now. If he's as maniac as he used to be, he would've came to us instead."
As much as I'm curious why they're looking for that person that intrigued me, I don't want to stir up trouble for myself by getting involved with this Sherlock Holmes's shenanigans.
"I'm Inspector Lestrade from Central Yard." He pulled out a wallet, lifted up to my view to showcase his proof of identity. "Sherlock Holmes used to live here, in your apartment for years. Please let me know right away if you've seen him again, or be acquainted with him by any circumstance."
I hope I won't have any reason to, I thought to myself.
Wait. The real Central Yard? Like, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police in this city? Why would the police search for Sherlock Holmes? His tone didn't seem like a police officer asking about a serial killer desperate for leads; like every ticking minute was gold because they had to capture the culprit as soon as possible, like in the movies—no, Inspector Lestrade didn't seem like so. It wasn't inauspicious at all, he seemed sad if anything.
After handing over a calling card, the two policemen went on their way out of the building. The other officer wasn't thrilled to leave me with such a card, as if dismissing their search for Sherlock Holmes and calling Inspector Lestrade's action as pointless and lunatic.
Maybe Sherlock Holmes was just listed as a missing person, like what the officer said, he just ran away and I quote, "Like a rat."
Come to think it . . . The name really did sound familiar. I think I've read it before.
I was left with questions that maybe internet may have had the answers to. So I immediately went back to my laptop and looked up the name that I've been hooked throughout the day. Sherlock Holmes didn't disappoint.
The first thing that came up was a website called The Science of Deduction, made by the young man himself. It was explained how the so-called logical method of drawing conclusions from keen observation of details, then using the process of elimination until the only truth remains. It seemed like this is where he posted his high school essay about deductive reasoning.
I must admit I'm not as brilliant as he appeared in his website, but that thing he mentioned actually sounded more like abductive reasoning instead. Should I look up their meanings too?
I explored his website a little more, which was almost an empty trunk, and found a section where he listed all of . . . I didn't even know what I was looking at—he called them "cases." But when I opened them one by one, it was just a blank page or something. Looks like this site had been deserted too.
I left the website and explored the other results. The one that caught my attention was the article published last year by the gossip website of the university that I used to attend to, something like a freedom or confession wall.
The very same university that I saw from his ID earlier in the café, the Doyle University. If I remembered correctly, he's in his sophomore year in forensic science department. And if I had stayed there, I would've been a year ahead of him by now, though in a different department of course.
The university wasn't a place for me to be a social butterfly, hence I had never once heard one gossip or any infamous issue among students.
Except this big one scandal about a student named Holmes that reached the internet.
Yeah . . . so that's why his name sounded so acquainted. It jogged my memory to last year where everyone knew who he was.
The article was even printed like a flyer without permission from the administration, that's why it never made itself to the official gazette's website. The printed copies were confiscated from everyone—I once had a block mate who collected each of those pages, and her dormitory was even searched for those. It was crazy, like she was hiding something illegal.
It was the peak gossip I had ever been told, and I couldn't believe I just had two encounters of that name today, a year later.
The headline of this gossip article was as crystal clear as I recalled.
STUDENT HOLMES CHARGED FOR ATTEMPTED HOMICIDE AT REICHENBACH BUILDING