This book may have Imagine, Preferences, and one shot.
Don't trust the tittle!
WARNING
SOME chapter might have : ANGST, SMUTT, FLUFF , DEATH, BLOOD, DEPRESSED, SELF HARM, FIGHTING. AND MORE!
Also, the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for Sherloc...
Just finish, my, homework so here we go another chapter from me (☞ ᐛ )☞
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The cobbled streets of London were crowded with busy people and lazy buggies. Horses clomped along the broken Baker Street, dirty boys shouted about the latest Dr. Watson story, and women under brightly colored parasols gossiped about the reclusive and handsome detective, Sherlock Holmes.
You quickly made your way down the cracked pavement, your own parasol hanging from your arm. The sun was out but it was hidden by a dense layer of smog. The buildings lining Baker Street were covered in a veil of soot that eventually stuck to everyone and everything. When you reached the recently polished door of 221 Baker Street, the hem of your lilac colored dress was black with soot. You grumbled to yourself as you banged the knocker three times against the black door.
Quick footsteps could be heard, a crash of what sounded like dinner plates, and a muffled yell before the door swung open with such force that the knocker banged against the door. A rather disheveled man with an obnoxious mustache was standing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy as he attempted to smooth down his hair and fix his beige vest. It took a moment but you recognized the mustache.
"Dr. Watson," you said with a grin, extending a gloved hand, "I'm (Y/N) and I'm here to get Mr. Holmes' help."
Dr. Watson took your hand and shook it cautiously. "Women don't usually shake hands," he said innocently, clearly in shock by your out-of-place gesture.
"A curtsy dirties the dress and a kiss wrinkles the glove. A shake is quicker and easier," you replied curtly.
"I meant no offense, Madam, I apologize."
"No offense taken, Doctor. May I consult Mr. Holmes?"
Dr. Watson swallowed hard at this question and ran a hand through his hair. "Now is not the best time. The detective is in one of his.. erm.. moods. Shall I send you a telegram once he's straightened out?"
As if he had been called to dinner, Mr. Holmes in a royal purple smoking jacket and no shoes or stockings came flying down the stairs. He towered behind Dr. Watson who now looked simply perplexed. "John, I knew it was a client at the door so why haven't you brought her up yet?"
Mr. Holmes was wild eyed and a strand of his oiled hair fell across his face. "I don't believe you are fit to be taking clients at the moment. Your feet aren't quite on the ground," Dr. Watson said tight lipped.
To this, Mr. Holmes pushed his hair out of his face, buttoned his smoking jacket, and bent forward into a deep bow, extending his hand to you. "How may I be of assistance, Miss?"
You took Mr. Holmes' hand and gave it a strong shake, to the surprise of the detective as well. "I may have a case for you, Mr. Holmes," you say assuredly.
