A Market Meeting

Chapter One: The Collision

The crisp wind slammed into Sherlock's face, whipping his curls around his angular face and his ice blue eyes narrowed against the cold air. No weather could prevent Sherlock Holmes from investigating, and if his intel was correct, it would wrap up a case the consulting detective had been assisting with for a few weeks. He thrived in this fast-paced environment, the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline pumping through his veins gave him the purpose he sought in this world. He quickened his pace, darting around familiar street corners, closing in on the distance from Baker Street to Marylebone Farmers Market. 

He arrived at the entrance, and briskly pushed his way past crowds of people, never bothering to excuse himself as his broad shoulders bounced off unsuspecting patrons. As he maneuvered further into the market, the crowd thinned out, and Sherlock honed in on the area he came to investigate. A sudden collision and an "OI!" was the shout that startled Sherlock, breaking his concentration and halting his stride, and his eyes focused on the man he has just inadvertently struck in his focused beeline. He looked in the clearly annoyed eyes of a shorter, sandy haired man wearing a horrendous jumper. Sherlock realized the jumper was made even more horrendous by a growing stain over the front, presumably coffee. "Watch where you're headed, mate, this was my favorite jumper!" the man blurted out. "On the contrary, you should be thanking me that now you have a decent excuse to rid yourself of that atrocity," Sherlock sneered. The man's eyes widened and his jaw dropped open slightly, clearly taken aback by the comment. He recomposed himself and put a powerful hand up to Sherlock, his striking blue-gray eyes narrowing, "I'll have you know my gran made this for me right before she passed, you git." Sherlock's eyes faltered, and he felt an unusual pang out guilt in his stomach before looking over the man's ill pattern jumper. "Right, well, I do apologize but you'll have to forgive me, as catching drug traffickers is of slightly more importance to me than spilling coffee with one cream and no sugar on a jumper that was clearly purchased roughly 8 years ago, been in storage for 7, and only recently discovered after going through, likely, your father's unwanted clothing items." The man stood there in awe, large eyes blinking, realizing he'd been caught in his lie. He then let out a cough, clearing his throat, clearly trying to divert away from his failed attempt at a guilt trip. "Drug traffickers at Marylebone Market? That's the most rubbish thing I've ever heard, what, did they stuff cocaine in the carrots? Shove amphetamines in the apples? And anyway, what are you doing trying to catch drug lords, you don't exactly look like the police?" The man had too many questions, and Sherlock knew he needed to continue on to his destination, every second he stood talking to this man was seconds lost following his lead, but there was something about this man that compelled him to stay. "Yes, that's precisely what they did. And though you are correct in inferring I am not police, I am a consulting detective trying to assist a very pathetic unit of Scotland Yard," Sherlock smiled quickly and kurtly, his voice brimming with sarcasm, "Now, I did apologize, which I'll have you know is highly uncharacteristic for me, especially considering you were lying in the first place, so please do be grateful and leave me alone." He emphasized those last three words, making his point to not be disturbed any longer. With that he spun on his heel, resuming his path to the vendor he needed to question, leaving the man behind him dripping in coffee and clearly still trying to work out what just happened.