Your Life Is Not Your Own

Two weeks later, I am sitting in the office belonging to a local restaurant owner. My interview is at 11 AM but it is currently 10:45. I thought I'd show up early just in case and also to get out of the flat, any excuse to leave that place.

The whole Sherlock showing up stabbed in my apartment thing feels like a fever dream. I can hardly believe it. But considering all the stories he's told me combined with his line of work, I shouldn't be surprised. Once I had managed to stitch him up (I did a very bad job) he did exactly as he said he would. He left. And he didn't come back.

I saw on the news the following day:

"Detective Sherlock Holmes catches yet another criminal who caused the death of a 59-year-old man named Christopher Richards. Doctor John Watson, the detective's partner, has been returned back to his flat on Baker Street after he was kidnapped and held hostage by the criminal. Reports also state that Sherlock Holmes was stabbed during the events that occurred before the arrest, but it now appears both Sherlock and his partner are safe and well."

I'm pissed off. I know I told him to leave me alone. But I didn't mean it. I wish when I stitched him up he would have stayed. I wished he would have even said thank you. But he didn't. He just left.

"Lara Westwood?" A woman with brown hair wrapped neatly in a bun wearing a suit holds her hands out for me to shake.

"Yes, that's me. Good morning," I say with an enthusiastic smile, hoping it's enough to hide the pain in my eyes.

The woman sits and I copy her. Then she scans my resume and begins asking the typical job interview questions about my past experience, about who I am, about what makes me employable. I reply with a load of made up bullshit, whilst reminding myself to continue smiling even though my cheekbones ache. 

After another tedious twenty minutes of smiling and remaining calm, the restaurant owner once again holds her hand out to me.

"Congratulations," She beams, "When can you start working?"