There once was a man named Sherlock Holmes. He was very tall and very thin, with dark curly hair, a beaky nose, and blue-green eyes that never missed a thing. He seemed an ordinary, though somewhat unsettling man.
He was, however, the furthest thing from normal. He was brilliant beyond belief. In his mind was a huge palace-a Thinking Palace where observations, information, and ideas were stored like precious stones and gold. Whenever there was a problem or a mystery, Sherlock would go to this place and search the vaults, enabling him to solve cases with tremendous ease.
One day, he found himself facing an unfamiliar problem. He'd found himself a nice little flat at 221 B. Baker Street (though the landlady was slightly suspicious) that was perfect except for one thing-the price. There was really only one logical solution-Sherlock needed to find a flat-mate. He found it a rather daunting task, as he preferred to be on his own, and wasn't very good with people. The very thought of sharing an apartment with another human being made him shudder. But it had to be done.
He went about it the best way he could think to. He placed an ad in the paper and waited.
One week later, Sherlock was sitting in his flat glaring at the hideous wallpaper when Mrs. Hudson the landlady came into the room.
"There's rather a large number of visitors for you, Sherlock. Would you like me to send them up?" she asked kindly.
Sherlock picked up his violin. "Send up the first one please, Mrs. Hudson." He put the bow to the strings and began playing a frantic series of unharmonious chords that sounded rather like a cat getting stopped on, or perhaps dying
The first candidate came in hesitantly, cringing at the terrible noise Sherlock was making. Sherlock didn't look up, or even acknowledge his presence. Finally, Sherlock stopped his erratic playing and looked at the young man.
"You can go," he said.
"Um…" The young man was very confused. "It's just…the advertisement said there would be an interview."
"I didn't need to," Sherlock replied. "I'm very fond of playing my violin at all hours of the day-and night-and obviously you don't appreciate music. Please send the next person up."
The young man left, dragging his feet a little.
The next man to come in was very different from the first. His clothes were dirty, his face whiskery, and there were twigs sticking out of his hair. Sherlock sighed and pointed at the door.
"I need someone who can help me pay the rent," Sherlock explained.
A few candidates later, Sherlock thought maybe he'd found someone fit to be his roommate, but it turned out to be someone his older brother, Mycroft, had sent to see what he was up to.
Then, someone unexpected entered-a woman. She had long brown hair and bright mischievous eyes. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as she sat across from him.
"I can be a very, very good flat-mate," she said. "And we could rent out the extra bedroom to someone else."
Sherlock sent her away. She was the last person.
He was beginning to lose all hope of finding a flat-mate when he heard someone coming up the stairs-a late-comer. Maybe due to the fact that he walked with a cane (Sherlock could tell be the sound of the foot-steps).
A small man with graying hair entered the flat. He was wearing a button-up shirt and a black jacket. He walked with a limp and a scowl on his face. When he reached Sherlock, he stuck his hand out for a handshake, introduced himself, and sat heavily in the armchair across from Sherlock.
"Do you mind the violin"?
The man shrugged. "Not really, no."
Sherlock's hope began to rise. "Are you bothered by blood or body parts?"
The man chuckled. "Hardly."
"Do you smoke?" Sherlock asked, fingering the nicotine patch on his arm. He was trying to quit.
"No. It's a nasty habit."
Sherlock stuck out his hand. "Well, welcome to your new flat. You can move your stuff in whenever you like."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the man said. "How do you know I want to be your flat-mate? I have a question, too."
Sherlock was taken by surprise. "Yes?"
"Did Mrs. Hudson seem somewhat suspicious to you?"
Sherlock smiled. "See you tomorrow then, Doctor Watson?"
John Watson smiled, too. "Yes, I think you will."
Sherlock watched him as he left. He'd done the impossible: He's found a flate-mate he could tolerate and that could tolerate him back.
Perhaps they would even turn out to be friends.