Deduce Me (A Sherlock Fan-fic)

Chapter 1: Her Dilemma (Ren)

Nothing good ever happens on a Monday.

It's eleven o'clock and I'm currently lounging around my flat. In my right hand, I'm clutching a squatty "I Love England" mug and in my left there's a damp newspaper. The ink was thoroughly smudged by the wet, morning air, but I can still make out the basic content of its pages. A burglary was committed on the West End (Marie mentioned something about that when she came home from work last night), some kind of election was being held at the end of the week, and there are toy poodles on sale.

Not a single job posting is printed, but the poodles look awfully cute.

"Good morning, Ren." A cheerful, yet tired voice hums.

I take a sip of my coffee and grimace at the taste.

There's nothing worse than coffee that's room temperature.

"It's afternoon."

"So it is." The brunette yawns, her wavy locks toppling over her shoulder as she stretches away the remnants of a short hibernation. She squints at the window with bleary eyes. "Looks like it's going to rain again."

"It's been raining for two weeks..." I place my mug onto a nearby coffee table. Rain and fog and air that smells of stale sewage have become an every day expectancy. There are many things I love about England, but a handful of its characteristics leave me homesick for the States. North Carolina is probably dry and warm right now.

Out of curiosity, I check the weather app on my phone.

It's 58 degrees in Rutherford County and a little cartoon sun is beaming happily at me through the screen.

I feel unnaturally aggressive towards its cheery, cartoon expression.

"I want to go home."

"No you don't."

"Yeah, you're right...I don't. That's why I need a damn job!" The paper snaps loudly (louder than I intended) before I stuff it into a ball. "Why is nobody hiring?"

"To be fair, I did offer to help you get a job at the newspaper office." Amelia pads her way over to the sofa. She places a coaster under my mug before adding, "And Marie mentioned an opening at the police station."

"Doing what?" A lazy toss sends the crumpled newspaper sailing past the waste basket. "Filling coffee cups? Wiping inmates' asses?"

Amelia snorts. "Maybe. Or you could pursue a career in stand-up comedy."

"Because my life's a joke?" My lips twist ruefully. My flat-mate gives me a soft, sympathetic look, before continuing,

"In all seriousness, Ren. Maybe you should just look into it. It can't be any worse than working at Joe's."

Joe's. God, I hate that place. I visibly cringe at the thought of Joe Russo's greasy face. His existence is a permanent stain on my memory; the way he looks, sounds, smells.

There's nothing attractive about an obese Italian man with the demeanor of a grizzly bear.

"That may be true," I hoist myself from the couch and smooth my ever-wrinkly jeans. They're tight, too tight, and I'm once again reminded that not only am I poor, I am "can't-afford-a-crappy-pair-of-jeans-that-fit" impoverished. Upon further inspection, I find a small rip just below one of the pockets. It's tiny enough that it doesn't show any skin, but large enough that if it does rip further then I have a problem.

I open my mouth, but the sound of a violin being strummed viciously makes me lose all notion of speaking.

"Oh, Sherlock's awake." Amelia's tone is nonchalant, but I notice the pinkish tint to her cheeks. Once again, I poise my mouth to speak, but a man's voice filters through the flooring.