Secret-Keepers

The first time I had heard of him was when I was watching the news. I seemed as if the whole world had turned their heads to watch a man who was once revered as a hero fall from glory. Of course, at first, it was just stories. But after the fall, almost everyone now believed in the stories of the so called genius faking his "superpower". At least, most people. But why would one be correct every time if their intelligence was fake?

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The first time I saw him was a month after the fall. I was getting my normal coffee what a tall man with curly brow hair and a scar on his lower lip walked in. He had been all over the news for the last four weeks. I mean, he was there before that to, but for a much different reason. The reason I recognized him is the fact he was dead. Photos were all over the internet, conspiracy theories flooded everyone's social media. So, if he was dead after his suicide in London, why was he standing at the counter ordering a black coffee with two sugars?

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The second time I saw him was 1 week later. He was in the local library, flipping through books on forensics and chemistry. I approached him, not realizing he was the man from the coffee shop and the news. I only recognized him once he lifted his head. Cold, blue eyes that held far to many thoughts for a simple man. I opened my mouth to speak, but even before the first sound left my lips, he was gone. But one would know those eyes anywhere. Anyone would. After all, who would not recognize him?

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I began to see him everywhere. At work, on the streets, even near my house. Always at the coffee shop though. Exactly at 8:15 am every morning, he would walk in and order a black coffee with two sugars. From nine to three he would be found in the science section of the library, flipping though book after book at an inhuman pace. At 3:15 he would go to the park, where he would wander around until five. On the dot at five, he would disappear until the next morning, where at 8:15 he would walk into the coffee shop. I started to notice I was changing my sceduale to follow his actions. One would think I was almost being stalkerish, but would you not do the same if you saw someone who was supposedly dead walking around, very clearly still alive?

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The first time I talked to him was at the park. I was walking my dog, a Pomeranian, Lola, when she took off after him. I, for one, was not pleased about being dragged along by a tiny fluff-ball. She ran right at him and jumped, yipping loudly the whole time. He seemed startled by the sudden intrusion of privacy. As he brushed himself off, I grabbed Lola and picked her up. "Sorry, sorry. She's normally calm." "No problem," he said. He had a very obvious British accent, probably from around London. Conferming my suspitions even more.

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I log on to Dr John Watsons blog later that night. Hours on hours, reading story after story. Then I stumbled upon some photos. Shakily, I clicked on the comments section. I began to type out 3 words. Sherlock is al... My computer froze. Looking at my phone, a message appears. -Come outside.-SH

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Closing my laptop, I slowly stood up. I walked over to the window and drew back the curtain. There, in the streetlights soft glow, stood a tall man in a dark coat. Blinking a few times, I closed the curtain and re-opened it. Still there. I slowly moved towards the door, grabbing my coat as I went. Turning my phone onto record, I walled down the stairs and out the door. Still there, was the same man. "Hello?" A wind whips by, biteing and icy. "Turn off the phone." His voice was cold and commanding. I clicked off the recording. He turned around. "Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes."