Chapter Text
Well, it's been very quiet round here, Sherlock's had no cases - not even a three, so I've not really had anything to blog about. I was racking my brains trying to see if there were any old cases I hadn't already told you about, and realised I've never blogged about how I actually met Sherlock - so here you go.
I was looking for some new digs - I'd been living in a grotty one roomed bedsit - and I just happened to bump into an old friend of mine, Mike Stamford, who I hadn't seen for absolutely ages. We went to have a coffee, got chatting, and he mentioned that a mate of his was looking for a flatmate, so we went off to find him. In about ten seconds flat, Sherlock managed to look at me, see everything there was to see about me, and tell me my life story - it was amazing, I'd never experienced anything like it! He told me his name, gave me an address and swirled off. I felt rather shell-shocked, I can tell you, but against my better judgment I decided to go along and have a look at the place he'd told me about. Baker Street, Westminster - I didn't think I'd have a snowball's chance in hell of being able to afford to live there, but apparently Sherlock had managed to help out the landlady a few years ago with a problem she'd been having, so she was giving us a major discount on the rent.
The place was an absolute tip, boxes of stuff everywhere, piles of papers, odd objets d'art - none of it mine - but it felt like home in a way the bedsit never ever had, and I'd been living there for four months. The icing on the cake though was when he dragged me out on a case - the serial suicides that were all over the papers because of that MP - and cured me of a psychosomatic limp. To go from hobbling around like an old man to chasing criminals all around London in the space of a couple of hours was incredible, and I was hooked on Sherlock Holmes from that moment on.