A Sign Of Two

3 - I Make Deductions

I went about my business for the rest of the day after my awkward encounter with Sherlock, running errands and helping Ms Hudson, the landlady. Normal stuff really.

Although, I hated normal. That's why I moved up here in the first place.

I was loving London though, everything was so much more lively here, and yet I couldn't help but yearn for more.

I thought about my unlikely neighbour Sherlock, about how mysterious he'd been both times we'd met, and about the kind of exciting non-stop life he must lead.

Why was he in the hospital asking me questions? Was he part of the police? He didn't seem like a policeman. He seemed like an arsehole. Still, I couldn't help but envy him.

It was around 10'o'clock at night; I opened the door to 221 Baker street and then unlocked the door to my flat. 221C. The landlady, Ms Hudson, also lived at 221C, but she was renting out a spare room to me.

I had started to decorate already, although there was still much to be done. There were polaroids of my family and friends back home hanging above my bed, surrounded by tiny fairy lights, and an old oak bookcase that Ms Hudson had kindly given me after a day of 'Spring cleaning'.

Even though the bookcase was so old it was practically falling apart, on it were at least 50 books, some I had brought with me, some I had bought from various bookshops in London. I really enjoyed reading, I liked reading about people, I liked the way in which people's minds worked.

My parents always thought I was weird for that.

I walked into my flat and threw my bag onto the single bed on the far side of the room. I picked a book up at random and opened it, almost instantly falling into the kind of deep trance that a good book could take you into.

It was was about 'Jack the Ripper', a serial killer who was never caught.

Dead interesting.

I was thoroughly enjoying reading the book, until I was rudely interrupted by the sound of my phone buzzing from inside my bag. I tried to ignore it and get back to reading, but I couldn't help but wonder who would text me at this time of night. Certainly not anyone back home, and I don't think I'd given anyone else my number? I was new in London after all.

I gave in to my curiosity and grabbed my phone out of my bag. The room was dark and the bright light of the phone screen startled me and made me squint. On the screen was a single text from an unknown number:

You're needed at Bart's hospital.

Come ASAP.

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes huh? Wait a second, how in God's name did that lunatic get my number?! And what was he doing in Bart's hospital at stupid'o'clock at night?! I scowled and unlocked my phone quickly before texting the idiot back:

I'm busy

I nodded to myself, content with my response, and got halfway across the room before my phone buzzed again.

No you're not.

SH

I groaned and realised even if he was a pompous arse, he was right.

I guessed he wanted me for something to do with the string of murders in London. He probably had more questions.

I'm already caught up in this stupid business anyway. What harm can it do?

I knew above all, that whatever was going on at Bart's was much more exciting than sitting alone in Baker street. So with that I pulled on an oversized hoodie, grabbed my bag and walked out into the street in the middle of the frosty London night.