I sat in a small coffee shop on Baker St, sipping my now lukewarm London Fog.
I, a Ms. (F/N) (L/N) of 25 years, had my eyes glued to my laptop screen searching for an available flat space in downtown London.
I knew it was an impossible mission, especially with the cities scarce availability and extremely expensive rent fees, but I had to try.
I had just graduated from Cambridge University, and was looking for a place to stay until I figured out what to do with my life. At least past my current part time job at Scotland Yard's Forensic Unit.
"Ugh, this is hopeless" I sighed, frustrated that I hadn't been able to find anything for the past two hours.
I shut my laptop abruptly, to reveal a man sitting in the chair right across my table.
"What!?" I squeaked, my eyes the size of dinner plates.
How had I not noticed him? Was I that zoned out?
All these questions zoomed through my head as I looked the stranger up and down.
Though he was sitting, he seemed to be of tall stature, maybe 6 feet?
Dark, silky curls, a set of brilliant blue eyes, paler skin and to top it all off, sharp, high cheekbones.
I mean, he had a pleasant face.
Okay, it was very pleasant.
Anyway.
"What are you do--"
"How long have you been looking?" he questioned, staring right at me.
"You mean for a place to stay?" I answered, astonished he knew.
"Yes, of course, what else?" he shot back, looking a bit irritated.
To be honest, I was irritated that he was irritated. This mystery man just shows up and starts interrogating me, and expects shot fire answers?
"Maybe around 2 months or so?" I replied cooly, packing away my laptop and finishing off my drink.
"That's a shame. Your name, may I ask?"
"(Y/N). Yours?"
"Sher-- Oh! At last, that idiot responded!"
I was thoroughly confused, watching him suddenly stand up in excitement of receiving this text message.
Before I could utter a word, Sherlock spoke, shoving his phone back into his coat pocket.
"It's Sherlock Holmes. If you're interested in a flat mate, you'll find me at 221b Baker St, just down the road. I really must dash, but I quite hope you will take this excellent offer".
The man turned his back on me and walked the few steps towards the door, grasping for its worn brass handle as he pushed it open.
But, just before he exited onto the windy London streets, he tilted his head to the side and gave me a wink.