THREE DAYS were enough for me to conclude that Sherlock Holmes is eccentric in his own ways. It didn't need for someone to have the same level of observation prowess as his to notice that. But now, is he eccentric enough to take interest in someone like me?
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"It's been two since weeks since you moved into the apartment but you haven't befriended or been talking to anyone at all! It's like you're a ghost," he said, his voice terribly louder than his usual and his tone sounded happy—utterly unusual because he was always always talking in monotone.
"Actually, I've been—"
"So tell me!" He cut me off. "Why'd you move here?"
"I thought you already knew?" I said and started eating. After all the things he deduced about me, what is up to now—digging more stuff?
"How would I know? You were never the friendly type of person who'd share anything about yourself."
Well, he's slightly right. But it's not that I repulse social interaction. Though his 'how would I know?' question was really off-putting, he really seemed like the know-it-all type of person.
"For work," I simply said, but doubting if he'd believe me. He knew what my family thought of me after all.
"I see. But I never saw anyone who visited you. Are you not close with your family?"
My eyebrows furrowed and shot him a glance of disbelief. He made it clear last last night that my parents were disappointed in me, what does he want now? The tea itself?!
"I'll go home after I finish this," I firmly said, showing some hints of annoyance. "I already gave you the landlady's money, so you can go home without a problem now, right?"
"221 Baker Street is too far from here! How'd you expect me to go home without a problem?!" he shouted without a warning. "That's why I asked you to come pick me up! Even though we're not friends. And I don't have phones!"
Now he's getting out of the line, and too out of character—he's being so childish! Is he drunk?
"That money is enough for a taxi. Just tell the address and you'll be fine."
"You're not even coming with me? You're too distant!" He really didn't have any plans on lowering his voice. I bet he even took the attention of staff in the cashier. Meanwhile, I just let him say whatever he wants while I try my best to finish my food.
"You know, I didn't want to bother Mrs. Hudson. Lately, she's been receiving prank food deliveries. She never made Baker Street as her shipping address, but she really made a lot of enemies throughout the years so i won't be surprising if you received one too. It's to bother her tenants and send her apartment business to downfall. Even I had pranks this week. It was really horrible."
He began to be more expressive through the his facial reactions. Even he looked like he's tearing up. Now that I noticed, his cheeks are kinda flushed.
"Are you drunk?"
"No, of course not!"
I squinted my eyes to look if he's lying. Unfortunately for me, I haven't grasped the science of deduction to tell whatever he had been through the whole day. Was calling for me his way of making friends? For an oddball like him, it's not so unlikely.
"I just feel so overwhelmed with my studies. I'll be busy from now, you won't even see me for days end."
"What about the case?" I unintentionally blurted out.
"What case?"
Right, he's not sober enough to answer such important matter as that. I sighed when I looked at his untouched food. Am I now becoming this guy's babysitter? Mrs. Hudson should've given me an extra as my payment.
"You!" Sherlock pointed his finger at me. "Wait, what's your name again? Never mind. You're so unfriendly that you might not even tell me. You must be . . . you must've felt so lonely."
What is this guy talking about? Did his science of deduction tell him that? What a load of nonsense! Guess he wears off his detective genius when he hits the bottom of the bottle. Or does he suffer from multiple personalities disorder?
Assisting a drunk Sherlock Holmes wasn't a hassle at all—at first. He could walk on his own without stumbling over something. He could understand whenever I reply, and he still knows whete he lives. It's just . . . his mouth run more than usual, and it's just a load of nonsense. Sending him home alone wasn't a bright idea after all, so I had the heart go accompany him in the end.
We were now inside the cab already and he seemed close to passing out. His head was leaning on the window but he was still mumbling some things.
"My professor mocked me earlier for some stupid nonsense and the whole class laughed with him . . ." he said with contorted facial expression. "They laughed after they told me that the Earth revolves around the Sun."
"Yes, and?" I entertained this chatter of his because it seemed like he's trying to open up to me about what happened in this day that led him to this state.
"They laughed because they stored a stupid useless knowledge in their brain and I didn't."
"You didn't know? About the Earth and the Sun?"
He craned his neck to look at me, his eyes filled with irritation. "What? Are you dumb enough to laugh as well?"
"Dumb enough?" I chuckled. "It's elementary science. How could you not know that?"
"The brain is an attic," he explained, pointing his two forefingers on his temple. "If you stuff it with useless information, the useful ones wouldn't have someplace to be. Now why would I care to put the Earth revolving around the Sun? It's not like I'll be solving an important and unusual somewhere in space."
Unbelievable! Is this his way of thinking all this time? Is that what made him so eccentric? It seemed plausible and practical, but yeah—I'd understand if he did get laughed at by people. Even to me, it sounded funnier in my head.
"Is that why you decided to get wasted?" I asked, refraining myself from smiling.
"No, of course not . . ." His head went back leaning on the window as he stare at the rain with his half-open eye. "I had to do it . . . to catch another ghost."
And there, he went back to spouting stuff that doesn't make sense. We arrived at Baker Street but this time, Sherlock was too drowsy that he wanted to sleep at the cab. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson and Alice was there to help me get him to his unit upstairs. I was told that this wasn't the first time that his eccentric would go home unconscious—sometimes he didn't even come home for three days or so.
Mrs. Hudson apologized to me as many times as she could, no matter how much I told her it was nothing for me. I didn't have anything better to do and I wasted no money. Moreover, I may have gained a little trust from my landlady and who knows, maybe she'll give me a chance if I can't pay the rent on the deadline.
Two days later and Sherlock became really true to his words that I won't see him for days end. As for my side, it was a huge struggle to find a job without a degree. But my mind was more occupied by what happened to the case about the the poisoning. There wasn't anything on the news about it and it bothered me even more that it's taking longer than Sherlock says he'd solve it. Has it been five days?
Suddenly, I heard knocks from my door. I thought it was Mrs. Hudson because I wasn't expecting anyone at all but when I opened the door, a man in a yellow and red uniform of something was standing before my door, carrying a box. The moonlight'd casting a shadow on his face so I wasn't able to picture it very well. It reminded me of my memories from the first night meeting Inspector Lestrade.
"A delivery to Hudson from the Cupcake House," he said.
But I never ordered anything.
Hold up. Did he just say Hudson?
"I'm sorry, you must've gotten the wrong address. I didn't order anything . . ." I said, softly.
"But the address was specifically pinned here. There wasn't any particular residence downstairs, that's why I figured it's here."
"What was the address it's intended to?"
"221 Baker Street."
Mrs. Hudson doesn't live here anywhere in Baker Street. The café was always just a café that she manages, and she actually resides in another area. Why would a package be delivered here?
A memory from two days ago popped in my head. Sherlock once told me, "You know, I didn't want to bother Mrs. Hudson. Lately, she's been receiving prank food deliveries. She never madr Baker Street as her shipping address, but she really made a lot of enemies throughout the years, it's not surprising if you received one too. It's to bother her tenants and send her apartment business to downfall. Even I had pranks this week. It was really horrible."
Is that what's happening tonight?
"Is it already paid?" I asked.
"No, actually . . . Wait. Oh, no . . ." the man said in a dejected manner. "Is this another one of those prank deliveries these days?"
I sighed and took out a specific amount of cash as a payment. I honestly feel bad for delivery men who goes through these situations. It was never their fault to begin with. I once had a classmate in college who worked a part-time job as a delivery man and the people who couldn't pay reflected badly on his income.
I also didn't want to bother Mrs. Hudson with her enemies' prank deliveries but it has to stop, really. It bothers tons of peoole. This'll be the first and last time I'll pay for it. Did Sherlock do the same?
"Thank you, Ma'am! Thank you!"
I took the box from him and he sent himself away. I figured since I paid for this, I might as well eat it to my heart's content. It was a single cupcake with a chocolate ganache on top and it looked so scrumptious—I always have a sweet tooth for chocolates.
I took a bite when my door suddenly opened with a loud bang. Sherlock Holmes kicked my door open!
"DO NOT EAT THAT! IT'S THE ZINC PHOSPHIDE KILLER!"
And he went away running down the stairs. It echoed throughout the building as he was no doubt in a rush. His last remark left me speechless and my heart began to pound heavily in my chest. My mouth wanted to speak up to ask questions but the dead silence of the night was deafening that I couldn't process anything at all.
What did he say?
The first thing I did was close my door again, locked it with all the security it has. My body gave in to weakness and I sat down on the floor before the doorstep. My eyes lingered at the cupcake, and at the bite that I made. It was a moist chocolate cupcake . . . I wouldn't be able to see which part of this ominous thing has the zinc phosphide. Is it everywhere in here?
How did Sherlock know? Why did he rush off after telling me something like that? Is he trying to catch the delivery guy? How did he know it's the zinc phosphide killer? Why did it knock on my door, bringing me cupcake?
I found myself laying on the floor, without any will to do anything at all. My mind was going blank, and I felt my whole body getting numb—no, I don't think these are the phosphine gas' symptoms in a human body.
I don't feel anything. No, I feel sleepy.
I have no idea how much time had passed but the silence of the night broke when I heard my door being unlocked from the outside. Is somebody coming in?
Aah . . . I have to get up, so they won't see me in this state. What should I do? I ate a poison.
"Miss Luce Watson."
An unfamiliar voice of a man. I adjusted my head to check who came in—I thought it'd be Sherlock, but it was a young man who seemed to be my age, wearing a suit; wearing white polo underneath the black coat and a black neck tie. My entire instincts told me he's a great deal of danger, but somehow, my body wouldn't move an inch.
I've seen him somewhere, but if I had interacted with someone who wears that much of a charming face, I wouldn't have forgotten about him. Is he a celebrity?
What is he doing in my unit?
"Don't you need to go to the hospital, Miss Luce?" He was standing before the doorway, looking down on me. "Isn't it too early for the symptoms to kick in?"
Is this the zinc phosphide killer that Sherlock warned me about? Why'd he run off then?
"You . . ." He crouched down and I felt his cold fingers on my temple, and then he tucked my hair behind my ear. It was a creepy sensation as if a ghost passed through me. "Miss Luce, Sherlock ran off to catch a cold-blooded serial killer after using you as a bait."
Me? A bait?
"You have no energy to stand up? I don't remember instructing him to put any sedative. Yes, Miss Luce, he didn't put any sedative at all. Is this perhaps your will?"
I slowly got up to and sat down, leaning on a wall. Now, the man and I were finally seeing each other eye to eye. He was slightly smiling, as if pitying my weakened state.
"You don't seem like you'll take me to the hospital," I whispered, but loud enough that he could hear.
He sighed. "I wanted to crush Holmes emotionally, drive him even more insane by killing the bait he used to catch a criminal. You see, his methods are very . . . how do I say it?Hmm! Yes, atypically unsympathetic."
He smiled, as if proud of the combination of that two words he made.
"But seeing you accept it this much . . . it pained me, Miss Luce. He doesn't deserve you, you know. So I'll take you to the hospital and give you the best care you need to recover from the poison." Then he looked at the cupcake on my grasp and a little crestfallen half smile flickers over his face. "You haven't eaten the whole thing, so you haven't ingested a bunch. You'll live. Yes, Miss Luce, unfortunately, you won't die—not on my watch."
He unexpectedly carried me without a sound of grunt from him. His one arm was supporting my back, the other one was behind my knee—a princess carry or something. I couldn't resist and insist that I wanted to be left alone since my mind was already drifting away from consciousness.
"You've probably heard bad stuff about me. I'm Jerediah Moriarty, by the way, Miss Luce. Might as well remember the person who saved your life when you curled up in your own home refusing to help yourself."
Jerediah Moriarty . . . the opposite version of Sherlock as I've heard from the Inspector. What is he doing to me? Why?
"Holmes solved cases in atypical unsympathetic ways, and now he made his comeback after a year of hiatus, I guess he didn't change much."
I want to be left alone, please.
"In reality, I have something that Holmes doesn't have—a heart."