"John, could you pass me that pen?" Sherlock called out into the empty flat.
After a few minutes of silence, he just let it go. Suddenly, he heard a knock. "John, answer the door."
Nothing.
"Oh, God damn it." Sherlock exclaimed as he put down the eyeball he was examining and went to answer the door. He opened it to reveal a girl. She was quite petite in frame, yet she gave off a strong aura. (A/N: Photo of Abigail in the sidebar)
"Hi, I'm Abigail Scott. I'm here to see John Watson." She said. "Your landlady just let me in."
Sherlock caught himself staring at her, trying to deduce every aspect of her image. "Oh, yes. He just popped out for a while. You can wait in the living room."
Sherlock sat back down on his seat and let Abigail sit on John's chair. She whipped out her phone and started fiddling with it. Sherlock, on the other hand, stole frequent looks at her, deducing her even more.
Smart, Clever, College Graduate, Non-Smoker, Passionate Writer, Artist, Easily Smitten, Kind, Bad Liar, Anti-Social, Size 12, 32-27-36, Single, Dyed-Copper hair, Lives Alone, Dog Lover, Mysterious.
Sherlock smiled at her, but she suddenly looked up, catching Sherlock stare at her. "You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"
"Yup." Sherlock replied, popping the letter p. "If you're here to fangirl over the crimes I've solved, then go away."
"Not really a big fan, I've heard of you a couple of times, but there's not much to you to be honest. I think you're a bit overrated, really." She said.
Sherlock scoffed. "How could you not know me?" He told her. "I have been on every tabloid, newspaper, news show, and social networking site in London for the past three years."
"I've just come back from South Africa after living there for about five years." Abigail added.
"I HAVE AN INTERNATIONAL REPUTATION." Sherlock exclaimed desperately.
"I don't know, I just don't want to fill my head with things that have no significant effect on my life." Abigail explained.
Sherlock smirked. "Good point... So how did you know I was Sherlock Holmes?"
"Well, basing it on the state of your flat and the equipment in it, I've deduced four possibilities for your occupation, that you were a chemist, a forensic specialist, a detective, or a mad scientist. Chemists and forensic scientists are neat freaks, and your flat is obviously not in obsessive compulsive condition. So it was down to detective or mad scientist. Then I saw your evidence board on that wall over there, so detective it is. Then I saw that medal which had a seal that was obviously from Buckingham Palace. Why would the Queen give a medal to some ordinary detective? Because you're not ordinary. You're the only consulting detective in the entire world. You are Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock just sat there, a bit shocked. "Good observational skills."
"Thanks." Abigail replied.
Sherlock sighed. "But you should know that John is happily married to a woman named Mary and does not need an outside interference in their relationship."
John suddenly entered the flat. "Oh, Abigail, you're here." He said, shaking her hand. "Hope Sherlock didn't piss you off."
"No he's hasn't pissed me off yet." Abigail replied.
"Sherlock, Abigail is going to be my assistant." John said.
"Damn." Sherlock said. "So wait, let me clarify this. My assistant hired his own assistant?"
