I WAS woken up by consecutive knocks on my door, calling out my name. It was already past one in the afternoon when I checked the time so I hurried to the door and swung it open. The sunlight was blinding my eyes and a silhouette was standing on my doorstep until it made sense to my eyes. I squinted hard enough to see Mrs. Hudson carrying a tray of food while beaming at me until she wasn't after seeing my state.
"Oh, dear, would you look at yourself? You just woke up and skipped breakfast and lunch, didn't you? I heard you accompanied Sherlock to a crime scene last night, for goodness' sake! I hope he's not up to something! I'm glad you're safe! He really is stupid enough to take a girl out at midnight, unbelievable! And worst of all, it's a crime scene!"
I have zero idea what to reply. Maybe I still feel a little half-asleep and everything around me hasn't made sense yet. I even feel a pulse in my temple beating with pain. It was thoughtful of Mrs. Hudson to wake me up, I didn't want to miss the day after all. Though she felt like a mother nagging me first thing in the morning. She once told me that she didn't have the chance to bear any child since her husband died early, so I noticed she has the tendency to take care of other people, especially ones she could consider her child—saw it the way she treated the staff in the café the past two weeks I've been here.
"Sure, I'd like to drop this on your dinner table."
She came inside and headed to my small dinner table while I wash my face in the sink so I started feeling a lot better. It's either Sherlock told her about last night or heard from the pretty barista downstairs. I noticed the amount of food she brought was too much for a single person like me. There's a pair of everything; a pair of soup, two meals, and two slices of cake. I feel so delighted to save up money for today's expenses.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson but . . . isn't this a little too much for me?"
"Oh, yes dear, it's too much for you. Please do give the other half to Sherlock when he wakes up. I've been knocking for minutes and he just won't open! I'll be busy downstairs so it'd be wonderful if you help me out with him. You two seemed to be getting along after all. But don't get along too well"—Her voice suddenly shifted to monotone—"Or one of you might get in trouble, especially you, Luce. You're new here. And Sherlock is a little . . . out of ordinary."
After saying all those things, she dashed off without even hearing back from me or enlightening me about what she really meant. Who's she being protective to, me or Sherlock? Or was she trying to scare me off?
She does talk too much, but it wasn't annoying—I guess it's like landlady, like tenant (not me, the other tenant).
I figured I'd check on Sherlock later after an hour since he's still asleep. I'm still in the middle of processing what happened last night and I even left a room for doubt to ponder if it's just a dream, but if Mrs. Hudson had heard about it . . . then it must be real. That was the most peculiar experience I ever had. Nobody would've ever thought that I'd be invited to a crime scene. Crazy!
After talking to the Inspector last night, we were sent home to Baker Street and I remembered dozing off right away, choosing not to think too much about it. Especially that creepy scarlet sculpture. Sherlock did explain some stuff about the crime, but I couldn't recall one bit. It's comical because it felt like being drunk.
Eventually, I arrived at his doorstep and knocked. I was astonished to find out that his door was unlocked so the force of my fist pushed it halfway open. I called his name multiple times but to no avail. Is he a heavy sleeper? Is he out? Why'd he leave his door open?
How could anyone ever fight against their intrusive thoughts?
"I'm coming in!"
I pushed his door open and a dim room greeted my sight. From a corner, a light was flashing from a screen and there a familiar figure lies before it. I could even hear the faint sounds of keyboard noises. My eyes ventured around his unit, adjusting to the dark and noticed piles and piles of papers scattered everywhere on the floor and on tops of shelves and bookcases. From another corner, a grand piano occupied a huge space, however filled with papers on its top as well. One side of a wall seemed to have a massive map with red strings running around it.
His unit looked more like a basement than the one I visited last night.
"Sherlock?"
He didn't move one bit, even with my knocks hurting my knuckles already. Turned out, he was wearing headphones, sitting across his laptop as he seemed to be completely invested on something. Isn't bad for human eyesight to work on a screen in a dim surrounding?
I ran my hand on wall next to the doorway find the light switch. It was a huge struggle for me because my other hand was holding the tray of food, trying my outmost best to focus to not spill anything.
When the light turned on, it illuminated the whole room and revealed how much of a mess it is. Sherlock craned his neck to look at me in a deadpan manner, but deliberately went back to what he was working on. I really couldn't help but notice the gauze bandages on his face, underneath his glasses. It sometimes felt so unsettling. Also, he looked more exhausted than yesterday like he didn't sleep a wink and he's still even wearing the same clothes last night.
Is he okay?
He let his headphones down and hanged it on his neck.
"Sorry?"
"Mrs. Hudson wanted to give this to you—"
Suddenly, an old familiar ringtone drew our attention. My eyes instinctively roamed around his unit but I couldn't find any phone on sight.
"It's in the piano. Could you get it for me?" Sherlock asked and returned to his screen, scrolling on something.
Couldn't he just get it himself? He's the one who knows his way around his own space, and there's barely any floor to step on—besides, he's wearing socks, it'd be better if it's him. However, the phone just kept ringing and he showed no signs of movement.
Alright. Maybe he's just extremely exhausted.
I internally sighed and made my way through the heap of these paperworks until I eventually made it to the dusty piano. There was another stack of papers I had to go through because there wasn't a phone on rhe surface. After flipping them, an old model of flip phone from two decades ago came into view, ringing with an incoming call drom a contact named Lestrade.
"Answer it and put it on speaker," Sherlock demanded with a monotonous voice.
I did as he told and Inspector Lestrade's voice came through, rushing to the point without even a greeting.
"Sherlock! Come here at once! We have a bigger problem. The body found at Victor Rodin's house wasn't Victor himself at all! It was a different body all along!"
"Oh?" Sherlock even seemed unamused, without even stopping himself from whatever he's doing. Maybe because he was wrong—he claimed that the life-sized creepy sculpture of Victor Rodin himself was the victim.
Whoa, this is the first time I heard him say something wrong.
I gave him his flip phone when he reached out his hand. He closed his laptop and stood to his feet, preparing to leave.
"Did you even sleep?" my mouth blurted out when he rushed to the door.
"I'll sleep later. Coffee can make it work."
And he dashed off, leaving me all alone in his messy unit. Does he trust me that much? He didn't strike me as someone so trusting, I literally just met him yesterday. Will he be okay? Won't he collapse? He looked so unwell.
I took the liberty to lock his own unit and return to my own and continued doing chores. I tried to distract myself as much as I could from thinking about the case, especially now that there's a new lead from Sherlock's call earlier. I tried piecing it altogether, and understand the chronological events.
I guess I'd stick to my own business now, again—as I should. I was just invited last night because I wanted enlightenment about rhe Reichenbach Fall and he needed to prove that he's a consulting detective. Yeah! That's what happened.
An hour later after completing my chores, I decided to head downstairs for a coffee. I love little rewards for myself from time to time.
"The usual, Miss Watson?"
"Yes. Mocha Frappuccino, please."
I stared at my usual spot to the farthest corner. But something compelled me to just take a seat at a stool next to a counter, quite close to the barista where I can even watch her make my coffee. Guess she's the only one on duty today.
"Thank you," I said when the service was done. "You don't have to call me Miss Watson everytime. Just Luce. Luce is fine."
"Alright, Miss Luce. I'm Alice Argon," she said while smiling sweetly at me. Maybe that's why customers were drawn to this café, maybe that's the smile that warms up the coffee here.
"No," I said, giggling. "Just Luce. Drop the Miss. I think we're about the same age. You look quite young."
"I'm turning 23 this year. How about you?"
"I just turned 21 this year."
"Oh! Same age as Sherlock."
I became more attentive when she mentioned his name. "Is he your friend?"
"Hmm . . ." Even the way Alice put her forefinger in her cheek, a renowned pose for thinking, she did look adorable. "No, we're not friends. Just acquaintances. He's a regular here, but we barely talk. Though I heard a lot about him through Mrs. Hudson. She owned the café after all, and he's her tenant upstairs."
The thought made me smile. "Oh, yes. I bet Mrs. Hudson's had vented out some . . . uh, frustrations about Sherlock to you from time to time. I had my first this morning—I meant, afternoon. I woke up in the afternoon, haha!"
We both chuckled. It's been a while since I had a proper conversation with a girl this kind; she's really refreshing to talk to. I've been wanting to befriend her for a while.
"Yeah, you're right. But I don't believe Sherlock's really that bad."
Of course you don't, you're sweet. I just spent, like, six hours with him and he's rude, he talks a lot about his deduction and he has creative insults, especially to people he dislike. He looked at me from head to toe twice, piercing his judging eyes to my skin.
"So how's your time with Sherlock last night? I heard you two went to a crime scene." Her smile was kind, but it was obviously teasing me as if there's something going on with me and him.
"Oh, no! It's nothing like that," I immediately said and waved my hand in the air to protest. "He just had to clarify some stuff."
"Oh, I see." She nodded and understood that she doesn't have to push further. "Sherlock's been really helpful to the café, but not as an employee. His being a detective helped us deal with thieves and troublemakers. Thanks to him, the café was prosperous."
"How long has he been living here?" I asked.
"Hmm . . . I honestly don't know. He was here already when I started working in this café, about half a year ago."
"I see . . ." A thought popped in my head. "Uhm, weird question—you don't have to answer, really. Has Sherlock Holmes ever . . . done his thing to you, the deduction thing? Knowing things he couldn't have known unless—"
"Oh." Her face gone serious for a moment, but then her signature sweet smile came back. "Yeah. He deduced I had more than 10 body counts through my make up kit."
She what?
I didn't know how to react, she just blatantly stated a fact about herself that's I'm not supposed to know during our first talk.
All of a sudden, a phone started ringing. She excused herself and went to a shelf where the phone is. From afar, I watched—not too much watching—her talk on the phone. She had various expressions as she listened.
"Hey, Luce! It's for you." Alice came back to me and handed the phone over, with a playful smile. "Sherlock called through the café's number to reach you."