Deduce Me

Four: A Case of Graffiti

Dedicated to MarvelNerdhq, who, for some very strange reason, thinks this story is actually worth reading. I really hope you're right! ;)

Sherlock

     John stood with his mouth hanging open after I had deduced him. I was waiting for him to move— for that flash of anger  that I knew would come, for him to hit me, yell at me, call me a freak. None of these happened.

     Before John could do anything, Lestrade walked in, needing my help with something stupid. "Sherly, we need you to solve a mystery for us."

     My eyes widened in anger at his brazen use of the wretched nickname. John apparently thought it was hilarious. I closed the door quickly behind me, cutting off John's snickers, chuckles, and snorts. "Would you please not call me that, Graham?"

     "I'll get your name right when you do the same for me," he said. "So come on, Sherly, I have some interesting graffiti we want you to look at."

     The case was so simple it was practically insulting. I'd solved it in less than a minute. The direction of the letters's slant suggested a left-handed person, the height of the paint on the wall put the artist around 5'6", and, the most obvious clue of them all: a dmamear in the paint. "Youre looking for a left-handed, roughly 5'6" student with a streak of red paint across the back of their right hand. You don't get that pattern any other way." I scanned the crowd and pointed to a boy looking in our direction. "Him," I confirmed before turning and walking away. "Honestly, Gavin, even you should have been able to figure this one out."

     I made my way back to my dorm, irked for being dragged out for something so stupid.

     But the minute I walked in the door, I was captivated (a bit) by the sight before me. Short, sandy blonde hair and beautiful green eyes on a young boy lounged across his bed with a book in his hands, chewing idly on his bottom lip. "That was quick," John commented.

     So much for wanting him to move out within a week.

John

     I looked up from The Hobbit as the door opened and Sherlock waltzed back in. He hadn't been gone long at all— the boy with dark hair had said something about solving a case, and though I had no idea what he was talking about, I still thought it would have taken longer than four minutes. Not that I was counting.

     "That was quick," I said.

     "Just another case."

     "Care to explain?'

     "I'm a consulting detective," he informed me. "At least, I will be."

     "Should I pretend like I know what that is?' I asked. It sounded like he made it up.

     "No. I made it up." Well, that explains it.

     "You can't just do that... Make up a career." But I was wondering if he could.

     "Mmm," Sherlock hummed like he'd already made up his mind, and no one could change it. His hum said, 'watch me.'

     "Well, what does a consulting detective do?"
"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." Isn't he full of himself? I thought.

    "So..." I tried to piece it together. "What makes the police consult you?"

     "I'm the best," he replied simply.

     "But the police don't consult amateurs."