Slave (OC x Sherlock Holmes)

Chapter 1: The Doctor & The Detective

"I'm sorry! I didn't know! I promise I won't screw it up, again!" Mr. Hall chuckled darkly. "I should've gotten rid of you months ago!" "Please!" I cried. "I have no other options!" He gave me a small shove out the front door of the arcade. "Miss Miller, you have no special talents, and you hardly offer Hall's Arcade any unique additions." I moaned. "Please, Mr. Hall. You don't understand. This is what I'm living off of!" He grinned evilly. "Goodbye, Miss Miller!"

I stumbled out onto the sidewalk. "No! Wait! Wait, Mr. Hall!" I sighed. Great. Now I was stuck with no job. Again. Groaning, I walked to the nearest grocery store. I had just enough spare change to buy a sub sandwich, chips, and a corn dog for later. I took a bite of my sandwich, my headache getting worse. The realization of my situation was settling in, and I got nervous. Climbing into my car, I got some gas. Now I had a full tank, but an empty wallet. Driving to my apartment, I realized I was screwed.

Once in my room, I opened my laptop and searched for the only website that would help me. When the page pulled up, I searched for open jobs in London. The first five were dull, but the sixth caught my attention. A man named Sherlock Holmes was looking for a second assistant. I had heard about him and John Watson. They were a team. Where one went, you could surely find the other. I sent a text to the number on the cite, and two minutes later, I was shocked at a quick reply. He asked for my name, age, sex, and experience. I gladly told him all, and he said to meet him at 221B Baker Street tomorrow at 10:30.

After we were done chatting, I smiled. This could be fun. Yeah, this could work. I grinned, and went to the living room, preparing to celebrate with a movie marathon.

The next morning, I ate a cold corn dog and drank the last half of an old soda I had found in the back of my barren fridge. I needed this job. Desperately. I took a cold shower, washing thoroughly until I smelled of avocados and melons. I changed into skinny jeans, a buffalo plaid shirt, and black ankle boots. I brushed my teeth and hair, and dashed out the front door. Running to my car, I knew that I could get this job. I looked up the address, and followed it until I reached the flat. I walked up to the door, took a deep breath, and leaned forward to knock.

But just as I was about to, the door swung open, and I fell forward a bit. Someone with strong arms caught me. Quickly, I stood up, blushing a bit at my fall. Then, my jaw dropped when I saw who it was.

Of course, I had seen pictures of Sherlock in the newspaper, but never up close. He had sharp cheekbones, pale skin, emerald green eyes, and dark, curly hair. I sucked in a deep breath, shaken with the sudden eye contact. "Miss Miller, I presume?" I laughed nervously. "Mr. Holmes?" He nodded in confirmation. "Please, step inside, as we both know you're expecting to make yourself at home, anyways." His blunt comment confused me, but the only thought that pushed itself to my mind was that I needed this job.

He led me to the living room, where there was more junk than not. I awkwardly sat in a foldable chair. He seemed to be observing me, so I didn't say anything. I heard a loud clatter, so I turned around to see the famous John Watson. His light hair was going silver, and he had warm brown eyes that looked kind and caring. He wore jeans, brown leather shoes, a dark jacket, and a white and blue plaid shirt. He had accidentally dropped a tea set onto the floor.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his eyes as if he had a headache. "Sorry," John said. I giggled. I went over and helped him pick up. "Thanks, mate," he said. He stood up and stopped dead, dropping the pot again, and this time cracking it. I bit my lip. "What's wrong with me, this time?" I asked, exhausted. He shook his head, and quickly finished picking up.

Eventually, we were all sitting down chatting and laughing like old friends. John turned out to be extremely nice, but I wasn't so sure about Sherlock. He was a good listener, but he would give me looks that made me feel like he was planning my murder. How ironic.

"So, Campbell, wasn't it?" John asked. "Candace, actually," I responded with a smile. "Right, my apologies." Yep, I liked John. He was a lot older, but I felt like we could be friends. "So, Candace, I am in full support of you helping Sherlock and I, but you'll need to be tough. We do solve murders, you know." I smiled.

"Dr. Watson, I don't believe you're aware, but I spent many days with my father in the operating room. He was a surgeon. I am not untouched by gore." Sherlock smiled, almost like he was impressed. I had to grin at his smile. John, too, looked impressed. "Well," he said. "I am perfectly glad to pay you a small wage to keep track of minimal things such as how many cases we solve, how many we don't, and so and so." I grinned. "I'd be delighted."

And so, three days later I was out of my own flat, and moving in with Sherlock and John. I was beyond thrilled, and, quite frankly, relieved. So there I was, moving in with two of London's most well-known detectives, and I was only seventeen. I was shocked at myself. John and I had talked a few times, but I didn't expect anything sexual to happen. He seemed like a good friend, but nothing of that sort.

But when it came to Sherlock, I didn't know what to think. He was quiet, but he didn't seem shy. It was like he was waiting. Like a snake waits for its prey.