THE OTHERS had called it The Reichenbach Fall, because two students literally fell down the building after brawling on the rooftop and some have witnessed that the other was pushed, and the culprit just got dragged down. It might've been one of the stories that'll go down in Doyle University's history.
My eyes couldn't handle reading the rest of the contents in the article as my mind drifted to Sherlock Holmes's appearance, as to why he caught my attention in the first place.
I gasped.
I should stop prying on somebody else's business.
Yes! That's right. That's how I should roll and survive in this world—the mere thought of minding my own business brings me flowers and rainbows over my head. That was the kind of peace most people would trade the world for.
I cleaned up the manuscripts I burnt and took out the trash outside my unit. One thing I loved about the Baker Street building is that the moment I step out of my door, it greets me with its open-air corridors where sky and the moon seemed to be displayed for my night view. I leaned on the concrete wall just above my chest—such a safe railing, I've never felt so secured—and adored the landscape for a brief while. The clouds were completely off grid by now, as if it didn't rain all day.
The novel I wrote started exactly like this scene I'm trying to reenact. It's just the protagonist, a monologue of her innermost reveries that nobody had ever heard, and the stars glistening like they're excited to listen to her.
Seriously, what makes a story interesting enough to make it published? And . . . what's the point, anyways?
A loud screeching noise made me almost jolt in shock. The door next to my unit has been opened, in the middle of the night, and a familiar figure came out of that room. His one exposed eye flickered a flashback of my entire day and my laptop's screen. His arm that was holding the door open was completely covered in bandages, and his other arm with the same state was holding the very familiar eyeglasses that I've seen earlier in the day.
"Ah!" I shrieked in surprise and pointed a finger at him.
"Oh, it's you."
Alright, how lucky could I be? Three encounters with Sherlock Holmes within the day, and this time was a plot twist—he's the tenant in 221A Baker Street.
Keeping my thoughts to myself was something I excelled at, but today, I seemed to be quite struggling. The urge to bombard him with questions made me feel my hands shaking, feeling my heartbeats harshly banging against my ribs. Merely seeing him was enough to shake my existence.
Why is his presence so overwhelming?
"You know"—my mind decided to start off friendly, the safest approach, maybe—"Two officers came knocking on my door, looking for you."
"I know," he answered quickly. "Look at your doorstep."
I did as he said and noticed a small puddle and dirt on the entrance of my unit. "Uh, yeah? It rained earlier, remember?"
"Yes. They're not just yours. That amount of puddle could only form that much if someone else—or a pair of people, given the wide range it occupied on the floor—had stood longer in front of your door. Hmm, they wore raincoats and one carried a wet dirty umbrella, am I right?"
"Did you hear them talking to me?"
"Not at all. I was preoccupied."
"Huh? Then how did you know—"
"Just a lucky guess." He smiled sheepishly, which I have no ounce of trust now by the way. The air around him were promptly sending chills all over my body, heightening my senses as my instincts were disturbed.
Details from earlier began flooding my mind—keywords that rang and were emphasized.
Officers on my door. Used to live on 221B. The calling card. Sherlock Holmes. Doyle. Reichenbach. Attempted homicide.
"Are you gonna call him?" It felt like glasses shattered when he broke the awkward silence. "You were checking your pockets frantically. Are you perhaps looking for the calling card that Lestrade gave you?"
Is he a psychic?
"No, I'm not."
"What?!"
"It's just written all over your face. You're the type of person to ask that after getting your first impression on me. Besides, your being a writer adds up to your fantasies."
"How did you know I'm a writer? Are you my stalker? Is that why the police are after you? Is this not your first offense that's why you already know his name?"
"No. If I were to practice to art of stalking, I would've done it long ago when I had the inclination to fellowship."
What is he talking about?
"Then why are they looking for you?"
"Are you gonna snitch on me?"
"Yes. They were looking for you, it's not rocket science to figure out that it's about an important matter."
"Believe me, it's not."
"I can't take your word for it."
He paused. He finally wore the eyeglasses he had been grasping the whole time—it was a comical scene as it only helped one of his eye. He stared at me as he tilted his head before replying, "You looked me up online, didn't you?"
It was obviously a rhetorical question, so I kept my mouth shut. Meanwhile, he took a step forward, to which I took one back.
"You found something interesting. Something that has to do with our common ground."
I returned his gaze with a fierce look. "For all I know, you could be a criminal who had gone to hiding. You've been acting suspicious to me, knowing details you couldn't have known, and going out in the middle of the night, right after the police came knocking next door. Not to mention, your background—Reichenbach Fall, does it ring a bell?"
I must be stupid to somehow ignite a challenge before someone who's highly potentially dangerous. Even if I ran away in this narrow open air corridors to the stairs, he'd simply catch up to me—should my suspicions ever hit the bullseye.
Damn. Since when did I forget to mind my own business?
"You see but you don't observe, lady."
"And you're covered in bandages. That one on your eye, is it to hide your face and identity?" I asked, with the same ardent tone.
"You speak well as if you had deduced everything you need to know about me. You even sound convinced, it's cute." He leaned forward, arching his body to meet my eye level. It was a blatant insult, asserting dominance whatever.
I stood frozen as stone while his hand reached for my hair. His fingers twirled with the strands he touched. I could almost feel his skin over my shoulder.
"Dyeing your hair blue—is it to showcase to yourself the rebellion you pulled against your parents, showcase of your independence?"
He's a real mad stalker!
"You wonder how I came to know you after only meeting you twice? In the café, you were carrying a manuscript folder loaded with a slightly thick stack of papers than your usual hand-carry documents. What profession could that be, wandering free in a local café within working hours? Editor or proofreader? Journalist? Researcher? Law? Accountant? Couldn't be. In our society, it's absolutely rare for companies to hire someone without a degree for those positions. We're about the same age. You couldn't have a degree yet. How about a playwright? An actress? You don't seem fit in theatrics—the rain didn't wash up any make up because there was no make up at all. In fact, you're not even used to it. What else is there? Yes. A writer, web novel writer most probably, whose manuscript just got rejected—let me guess, not the first time."
How—
"You walked to the counter absent-mindedly, shoulder slumped. Your manuscript envelope also had several faint rectangular outlines, like a ghost from each company's label peeled off. Four?" He stopped for a moment to look up to recall something. Then he returned his eyes on me with a vacant expression. "No, five faint layers of glue residue. It also had its edges crushed at the corners where you've been gripping it, a humane reaction of frustration or . . . disappointment—yes, disappointment mostly, because you actually expected. You came in person for a follow-up instead of waiting for an email at home. The fifth time you were rejected."
Whoa! Spot-on!
"You were clearly bitter to the bones. You burned them all, didn't you? I thought your unit was being steamed-that's how the smoke looked like so in the rain. It lasted an hour."
Oh, right. He's living next door, he would've even smelled the smoke if his window was opened as well.
"Wow . . ." I murmured and felt my mouth gaped open. "So you got it all from that?"
I couldn't even put it exactly to words. He said so many things I thought wouldn't catch up.
"I love how you make it sound simple when it is truly that simple—when you eliminate all of which is impossible, whatever remains no matter how improbable must be truth. Others make it sound like I practice complicated magic."
"You told me I'm rebellious. Is it your prejudice against people who dyed their hair?"
He sighed. "It baffles me how you failed to understand that I literally just showed you that I absolutely use my method of reasoning, instead of jumping to conclusions from my own prejudice, which you just ridiculously accused me of."
"Your sentence's too long. Do you eat dictionary for dinner?" I scoffed, because I understood none of what he said. And I think I like him better when he doesn't talk much, just like how he made his first impression on me back in the café.
"Yes. Now will you please excuse me? I want my midnight dose of caffeine."
Somehow, my wariness lessened and was replaced by curiosity. Maybe they were right about me being too trusting in people? But then, Inspector Lestrade's words suddenly echoed in my head, the tone of his voice, and the choice of words of his company.
"Sherlock, we need you."
"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."
"Lestrade, if he's still in this town, he would've known it by now. If he's as maniac as he used to be, he would've came to us instead."
"Hey!" I spread my arms to block his way. Now my heart's pounding in excitement after I chose to follow what seemed to make sense to me. "Are you a detective?"
"Hmm? I want to say that you made a brilliant conclusion and that you learn fast. But that's just where your imaginative writer instinct brought you, didn't it?"
"You're like Auguste Dupin!" I exclaimed, ignoring what he said.
"Sorry, who?"
"Auguste Dupin! Edgar Allan Poe's fictional detective. I assume your science of deduction thingy from your website is inspired from his method of ratiocination!"
For the first time, I saw Sherlock Holmes made a grimace on his face. "What?! No! Who even is that?"
"Wait. You're still in college—you're an amateur detective then. Like Dupin. He solves crimes as his hobby, and he was really good at it! I've read Poe like years ago, but there wasn't really anyone to talk to, it was really a classic. But to think that I'll meet the real life Dupin, isn't this too much of a coincidence?"
"I think you should stop running your mouth and call Lestrade already."
"Excuse me?"
He started pacing towards the stairs, left me offended by his remark. Did he just tell me to shut up while I was talking about something I love? He's been really rude to me! Is he running away now?
When I heard his footsteps echoing in the staircase, I ran back to my room and rummaged my table filled with papers I don't even recognize what for. I could feel my heartbeat pumping hard against my ribs, like my brain tells me there's a timer that I have to catch before it hits zero. When I finally found the calling card, I immediately dialed the number and climbed down the stairs while listening to the ringtone.
To my surprise, Baker Street Café was still completely lit up, almost enlightening the whole street. The glass walls of the café revealed the absence of customers, leaving a pair of barista inside. It's already close to midnight, a quarter or two, why are they still open?
When the phone call I dialed was answered, an old masculine voice crossed my hearing. "Hello?"
"Is this Inspector Lestrade?" I asked, while staring at the café.
Suddenly, a hand waved at me. It was Sherlock Holmes—sitting inside the café with his legs crossed, and staring back at me with a subtle smile. I thought he already had ran away.
"Yes, this is Tobias Lestrade. Who am I speaking to?"
"Sherlock Holmes . . . is in the Baker Street Café."
"Tell him to stay put. I'm coming over. Buy me some time to make him stay."
When the call was dropped, the silence in this night finally felt like a whisper to me telling me to process what's happening.
I walked inside the café and the familiar pretty barista greeted me with a smile, the most ladylike smile I had ever seen. She seemed to be already busy making coffee already. I couldn't help but notice her movements were also delicate and timid. If she was an actress, she'd definitely get the role of a female lead that everyone loves.
Anyways! I sat across the table that Sherlock Holmes was seated on and chose to be silent before I say anything else that might scare him off. My priority at the moment is to be of help to the inspector from Central Yard, and once they got him in their hands, everything would make sense.
"I won't run away, if that's your concern."
Thank goodness, that made me feel a little at ease.
"I'm a consulting detective."
"Huh?"
"I'm not an amateur detective like your Lupin."
"It's Auguste Dupin—"
"It's a profession of mine, the only one in the world. I'm the independent specialist who offers services for complex cases, particularly those ones the law enforcement can't solve. Lestrade's looking for me, because they have another unusual case to bring to me. He came to your door because I used to live in your quarters weeks ago. However, some journalists found me and wanted to squeeze more details out of me about that case from last year—as you have mentioned, the Reichenbach Fall. So I simply moved in next door and asked for Mrs. Hudson to keep it a secret."
The pieces seemed to finally fit in. "I see," I replied while nodding. "So what about the Reichenbach Fall?"
He crossed his arms and sighed. Before he could say anything, the barista came to our table and served two takeaway cups for iced coffee.
"One iced Americano with an extra shot and one Mocha Frappuccino with an extra shot as well. Are you two pulling an all-nighter?"
"Yes, I think I will," Sherlock said without even looking at her and took out his wrist to check the time.
"Very well then. Enjoy!"
The only thing that remained a mystery now is . . . is his past record from a gossip article where they claimed it attempted homicide. But here he is, walking free. There wasn't any other article about it, published from any official journalism site either.
Hold on, did he order other drink for me? Both have an extra shot though, I don't order that.
"Do you really want to know what happened in Reichenbach?" he asked as he stands to his feet, carrying the iced Americano and taking a sip. I thought he'd run away now, but he seemed to be waiting for my reply.
"Yes?" I skeptically answered.
"Hmm? You don't sound very convincing."
Suddenly, a car just honked in front of the café. Our attention drifted to the person who hurriedly came out of it and a familiar figure of a middle-aged man started rushing towards the café—his eyes even lit up when he saw Sherlock.
"If you'd really like to know, take that coffee with you and follow me to the crime scene."