1. "It's been two years, Sherlock Holmes! Two bloody years since the whole 'Miss me?' thing from
Moriarty! This was probably all just a joke!"
"Oh please, Gavin-"
"It's Greg Sherlock!"
"Gavin, Greg, Gabe... Unimportant. Do you really think that this is not exactly what Moriarty wants,
Lestrade? If we let our guard down, he'll attack. He's most likely still planning things out... Something
must've gone wrong... And he's taking his time to fix it. He can't miss. He has to make his come-back
from the dead something unforgettable. To all of us.To me." Sherlock trailed off as he usually did
when he followed a line of thought.
It was a very humid January in London, England and it was currently raining (nothing new about
that) while Sherlock Holmes was all by himself at the police's headquarters. Lestrade had called him
to complain about how he thought that Moriarty wasn't really back from the dead... They haven't
heard anything in over two years. Lestrade was getting worried. One thing Sherlock had learnt to
deal with when he met Jim Moriarty was patience. He'll act when he's ready... And when they least
expect it. Which was the only time when Sherlock had any patience... When waiting for him. Being
anxious kept him busy.
Lestrade sighed.
"I'll call you if we hear anything." Sherlock nodded and left the headquarters. Lucky for him, it had
stopped raining. He hated carrying any umbrellas since Mycroft had and obsession with them.
Sherlock started to think. What could he be doing? What is the possible explanation for his death?
How did he fake it? Did he even fake it? How did he know that Moriarty was even Moriarty? He
didn't. And he did not like not knowing.
Mary had given birth exactly a year and nine months ago to baby Elliot Scott Watson. And now John
had to be a full time dad keeping him occupied enough to not have the extreme urge to solve cases.
But sometimes, John said to Sherlock once, everything drove him a little insane. This explains why
Sherlock has been all by himself for a year. Exactly like last time after John and Mary's
wedding. Only this time, he thought, this time I'll try my best not to get high.
But he also knew that he'd give into it sooner or later. I need something, he thought. Or someone.
Sherlock Holmes had found himself wondering through London... He seemed to do that a lot now.
What the hell, of course he could do that. He didn't have to get back to the flat because John would
be waiting there and Mrs. Hudson knew how busy the life of a sociopath was. She didn't question
him at all.
He stopped in front of a building which he identified as an average three stars hotel, not very well
known in London. He looked around. Too many people walking through the streets. Sherlock

2. frowned and pulled his collar up. He left the sidewalk and walked straight ahead crossing the street
to an empty park right in front of the hotel. Or so he thought it was empty. He didn't notice her
because she was being covered by a tree right in front of the pond.
She was trying to get close to the pond to take pictures of the ducks with her Polaroid camera.
Sherlock scoffed.
"Ignorance is such bliss." He muttered under his breath. It had been raining no more than twenty
minutes ago, therefore the grass was muddy... and slippery. If she tried to get even an inch closer to
the pond she'd fall in with the ducks. Sherlock chuckled and smirked. This could be quite a show.
Then again... He grew anxious. Sherlock noticed her coat... Very similar to his, and he liked it. Time
froze. He glanced again at the coat and noticed hair. Aside from one strand of her hair, there were a
few short white ones at the end of the coat. From a cat, a Persian white cat. He noticed how her
long, chestnut hair was neatly tied up in a pony-tail. She couldn't be taller than five feet... Maybe a
five-foot three. He looked down at her shoes, they were covered with mud but you could notice that
she was wearing dark flats. Seemed comfortable enough to go for a walk. Her earrings were pearls,
clearly fake meaning that either she couldn't afford to buy real ones or she didn't care if they were
fake or not, considering that she wasn't hiding them with her hair. He noticed the side of her face,
ovaly shaped but yet her back was still facing him... he grew curious. And time resumed.
This was it. Either he enjoyed the show and let her fall or he saved her from embarrassment.
His curiosity got the best of him, and at that exact moment when her foot slipped, Sherlock Holmes
launched forward and caught her. She gasped.
"Jesus Christ! I almost died!" She exclaimed.
"Well, now. You're just exaggerating." Sherlock said and glanced at her face for the first time. She
couldn't be much older than twenty-five or twenty-six years old. Her skin looked smooth, her
eyebrows were well groomed and her eyes we bluer than his own. She was wearing makeup to
cover the slightly dark circles under her eyes that wouldn't have been noticed by any other person...
But he wasn't just "any other person". Something was keeping her from sleep and he grew curious
again. He sighed. There had been no more cases since the police had focused all of their time on
Moriarty and the only thing that kept him going were the clients that knocked on his door once a
week or every two weeks... Which wasn't enough. This was going to have to do.
Sherlock could feel her pulse accelerate as he realized how he was still holding her. He quickly
withdrew his grasp and she restored her balance.
"Well, uh... Thank you." One thing he also noticed... She was American. He raised an eyebrow at her
thanks. He was slightly disappointed that she didn't know who he was. He had been in the papers...

3. In the telly. He frowned. She should've at least seen him somewhere. Unless she was just a tourist.
Yet Sherlock didn't think she was. It's the coat, he thought.
"Um, are you alright?" She said probably noticing his frown.
"Yes; do you have change for a fiver?" He asked. That old trick.Always worked. He could glance at
her wallet and find out everything.
"Oh, y-yes. Well, I think I might..." She put her hand on the right pocket of her coat and took out a
rectangular, light peach wallet with a zipper. It looked slightly vintage, it was probably a present.
From her mother most likely. She unzipped it and Sherlock started to work.
Time slowed down giving him enough seconds to take everything in.
By her driver's license he could confirm that, yes, she was American. The picture looked a few years
old, she was blonde. Her full name was Scarlett Arlandria Davis Prince and by her address, she still
lives in the United States. She's 27, her birthday was two weeks ago. She lied about her weigh, a
woman like that can't weigh less than 125 pounds. Organ donor, not surprising. And, god, her
signature was terrible.
She doesn't have any dollars, but she has pounds. A few unused gift cards here and there and a
picture of her brother and that Persian cat. Brother? Same hair colour, same chin, similar nose,
same eyecolour... But her eyes are a bit more...
Sherlock looked up to meet her eyes. Almond shaped... Her brother has round eyes. And she had a
strange eyecolour... Blue and green mixed together, but it yellowed when getting closer to the pupil.
Time resumed.
"Oh... Uh, no. Sorry, don't have any change." She said looking up at him.
Sherlock blinked. There was a second of silence between them.
"Maybe I could buy you coffee... You did save me from ruining my coat." She said.
"Erm, that won't be necessary." It's the coat. Sherlock turned around to walk back to the street.
"Wait," He stopped dead on his tracks. "Aren’t you maybe even a bit disappointed that I didn't
mention you were Sherlock Holmes? ... Well, I mean of course not, you're Sherlock Holmes. You
don't get disappointed." That took him off-guard. She did know who he was after all. And oh, he had
gotten maybe a tiny bit disappointed but... He turned around and raised an eyebrow.
"You live in the hotel down the street with your Persian cat and brother... Your cat died yesterday...
And you're here taking pictures of ducks?"

4. "Well... I see that the great Mr. Holmes had already made some deductions. Are you sure you're
asking the right question?" Scarlett asked.
"Of course I am. I also know the answer. You were emotionally attached to that cat, ordinary people
care so much. Taking pictures is not just a hobby but also a passion. It calms you down because
you're a perfectionist. What person takes two full minutes to take a picture of ducks? You need to
make sure they fit the frame perfectly because since it is an instant camera you only get one chance
to take the perfect photograph, putting enough pressure on yourself to forget about your dead cat."
Sherlock looked at Scarlett intently. He noticed how she swallowed.
"You also know my social security number, my address, my weigh, my height, that I am an organ
donor and my full name. Maybe we should skip to first name basis, Mr. Holmes." Scarlett raised an
eyebrow and smirked.
"Please, Ms. Davis, call me Sherlock."