Deduce Me

Two: 221B Baker Street

John's PoV

     I got my schedule from Ms. Hudson, the older, kindly secretary at the front desk who had whitish-blonde hair and a friendly smile. "Here you are, Dear," she handed me some papers. "Room 221B; that's building B (the boys'), room 221. Oh, you'll be sharing with Sherlock! That's nice, Dear, I do hope you'll get along. Have a nice stay in Baker Street!"

     "Freak," a girl's voice said from behind me. I turned to see a dark-skinned girl with wild, curly hair standing with her arms crossed.

     "Excuse me?" I asked. Surely she couldn't be talking about me.

     "I said, Freak. That's who you'll be rooming with. A bit of advice: stay away from that guy."

     "Why?" What had this guy done to be labeled 'Freak'? 

     You know what he does? He solves crimes. He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day that won't be enough. One day we'll be standing 'round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one who put it there," the girl sneered. I could tell already that I didn't like her very much; she seemed like the kind to stir up a lot of drama.

    "Why would he do that?" I asked. So the kid likes crime solving— like a young detective or something. That doesn't mean he'd kill someone.

     "Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored."

    "Sally!" A boy with greasy black hair called to her.

     "Coming," she called back. She threw me one last warning as she walked away. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

     I couldn't believe someone could be so adamant about hating someone. Why? Because he's different. I shook my head, picked up my bags, and left to find building B.

    "John?" A somewhat familiar voice called out to me. "John Watson?" I turned to see a somewhat large boy walking up to me. He had a wide smile. "Stamford. Mike Stamford? We were in primary school together."

     Recognition dawned on me. "Mike!" I shook his hand. "Nice to see you again!" After we caught up a bit, I asked him if he could show me where I was supposed to go. He picked up one of my three bags, despite my protests  that I could handle it, and led me to one of the larger buildings.

   "Building A is the girls' dorms," he explained, "and we're in B. There's 222 rooms on three floors, so 74 dorms on each floor. What's your dorm number?"

     I had to reach for my schedule and information, but the papers weren't in my back pocket, where I'd stuffed them. "Uh-oh... I don't— I don't remember the number."

     "Well, blimey, John, do you at least happen to know who you're rooming with?"

     "Oh! Yes! A girl said his name was... Sherlock, I think? Sherlock Holmes?"

     A deep voice resonated from behind me. "Really, it's not that hard to remember." I turned to see a tall, extremely thin boy with his hands clasped behind his back. His skin was very pale, especially compared to his deep ebony curls. He had very high, very sharp cheekbones that accentuated his multi-colored green and blue eyes. His bellstaff coat made him seam even taller than he was, with the collar pulled up around a blue scarf. I felt a tug in my belly just looking at him.

     What the hell, John? You're not gay!

     "Uh— sorry, what did you say?"

     The boy rolled his eyes impatiently before he spoke. "Honestly, John, try to keep up. I said the room number isn't that hard to remember."

     "I'm sorry, who are you? And how do you know my name?"

     I thought that was fairly obvious," he said as he pulled the building door open. He went to walk through it, but leaned back to peer at us. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and the dorm number is 221B." He winked at me— he actually winked at me. Who does that? —before nodding at Mike. "Afternoon!" he said as he ducked through the door, and Mike nodded and smiled back at him.

     "Yeah," Mike noticed my bewildered expression, "he's always like that."

Sherlock's PoV

     I'd decided that I'd not do anything out of the ordinary. If I had to share a room with someone, then do be it. I'd just met John— he didn't seem too idiotic, and maybe I could put up with him. But I sure as hell was not going to be nice to him. No, I'd treat him just I would treat everyone else, and he'll no doubt be sick of me by the end of the week. Just like everyone else. Let's just hope I don't get punched in the face before then.