Sherlock and the Missing Sister.

"What the hell kind of a name is Sherlock?" I asked. I was trying to sound more curious than annoyed but I'm terrible at hiding my feelings.

"I don't know, girl, maybe it's more common in the UK", my friend Amy was a saint. She had to be to put up with me lately.

"It's not", interrupted the cab driver.

Not in the mood, I flashed a sarcastic thumbs up.

He was lucky I was there with my best friend holding my hand or I would have given him an earful. Instead I just rolled my eyes. London was dark and wet. The car tires splashed from street to street. It wasn't completely unlike any city anywhere in the states, with the tall old buildings, busy city streets filled with people cars bikes and buses. A pop of color standing out here and there through the drab rainy afternoon. I stared blankly out the window not noticing too much.

My clothes were thrown on in a typical sweater and leggings fashion I wear everyday and my medium dark hair pulled back in an efficient low ponytail. Simple, practical, plain Jane, that was me. Should I have dressed differently, maybe less homely to meet with the detective? I didn't care. The death of my sister has taken over most of my care. At least I had forced myself to shower. So here I was in London. I might of found it quite charming under different circumstances.

This was my first time overseas. After they found my sister's body a couple days ago in a London hotel, I've been snapping at anyone who dares give me a side look and I wanted to tell the driver to mind his own damn business. This wasn't home though. I didn't know this place or this cab. I was lost there in England. I was lost since my sister's death. The cop said that the coroner ruled it a suicide and the police swept any investigation under the rug. To them I guess it was cut and dry but I knew better. Poor Chelsea, I choked back tears as my friend gave my hand a little squeeze.

Being the first time out of the country, along with just losing my sister of course, made my brain feel foggy. I wanted to text her every time a british stereotype came to life before me and experience all the newness of the situation with her. Now here I was, because instead of spending a long weekend for work, she was found in a bathtub full of her own blood in a hotel room the same night she had arrived.

"This is it here, ladies", he said pulling up outside a sandwich shop with a door to the left labeled 221B. It was an old building made of flats and had storefronts wrapped around the sides. No sign for a detective Holmes, just the number 221B. Maybe he's modest, I thought. Plenty of people work out of their homes. I had read about a couple of his cases from blogs that Amy's brother had emailed me. Seeking out the detective was him and Amy's idea. Mr. Holmes was called on by the police for cases regularly and his brother held an important place with the government.

Amy and I got out of the cab slowly while she recounted her fare, not used to the currency outside the US. She stopped me from going straight for the door on Baker Street. Her full auburn hair shuffled around in the wind with her soft brown eyes fixed caringly on me. One of her hands landed firmly on each of my shoulders waking me up a little bit.

"Hey, if anyone can help at this point, it's this man. Everyone here knows about him. Like I said, he's supposed to be some kind of genius but I've also heard he can be incredibly rude." She said. "Even...strange, just different."