This story is a prototype of how people would respond to a Sherlock Holmes in a modern day setting, in America. I have taken a few liberties, but I deemed them neccessary to be able to, later on, show the true nature of Holmes as Doyle meant him to be seen: calculating, manic-depressive, drug addict, deductive genius, etc. I hate how all the previous interpretations of the novels/stories have not been able to capture everything of his character. I feel that the modern world gives the character enough room to flourish all his character faults, flaws, and positives. Please review and provide suggestions for any changes you might want or anything you might want to see.

Chapter One

A No-Meaning Existence

Circa October the 2nd, 2002

People oft tell me I belong in a different century than the one to which I live in. But it's funny, because all I want is normality and yet here I am, readying myself to explain the very extraordinary life's work of the most, er, memorable man I've ever met.

Circa February 2001 – Somewhere in the Afghani Mountains

What the hell I was doing there, in the throes of a fierce territorial war, I still do not know. I was a medic for lord's sake. I wished to heal people, not see them die on my table in the M*A*S*H.

Fire came at us from all sides - us being myself and the two soldiers who were assigned to me after the evacuation of the infirmary.

'Damn,' I thought to myself, realizing the contents of my medkit, 'I should've brought the good drugs.'

"Let's go," the commanding soldier said, lifting me off my feet with one hand and in just as swift a movement, tossing my exhausted and anemic body upon a larger, thicker boulder.

We were now halfway up a mountain's backside, surrounded by a minion of stones and boulders, each four feet tall at the least, guarding our position like the faithful sentinels stationed faithfully upon Buckingham's gates, ready to die for Queen and Country. The bullets bounced off the rocky soldiers we now slumped behind.

A cry is heard. Dear Lord, don't let it be one of ours. And yet, it is. Looking out, I spot the hurt soldier, lying upon the gravel as parallel as possible to the heated ground. He shrieked in pain.

A born hero, I instinctively move to help, but the secondary soldier – the commander too busy attending to the duty of returning fire – slams me hard. "Don't," he says. "Okay? You go out there you'll be as dead as him. Wars end all heroes."

Now I have no idea who this man is or what his morals may be, but whether I am a hero or whether the war shall end me is something I am unawares of, but am altogether willing to risk for the safe return of a fellow patriot.

"Then at the least," I retort, "I'll get my ticket home."

With such a reply, I'm off into the midst of gunfire, a syringe between my teeth, examining the number of gunshots, both entrance and exit wounds. It is at this moment that a swift gusty sound is heard and a sting is felt upon the side of my left leg. I turn to see a bullet protruding out from the muscle just before I feel it. Now the syringe seems much more appetizing. Upon hindsight, I feel guilt over the lack of debate I had with myself as the decision was made to self-apply the injection of narcotics. I can kid myself all I want that I knew not what would happen to my patient, but I knew. I knew even then as I fell to the ground.

Circa October 2002 – JFK International Airport

I slink against the cushioned seat of the plane, duffel upon my lap. I can feel my leg throbbing, itching to hurt. The nerves flare and it's like nothing I've felt before. White-hot pain, as they say – and they're right – like a poker placed within the muscle. And there's nothing I can do – no meds, massage or surgeries make it subside.

Circa March 2003 – Somewhere deep in Manhattan

I love this country. Upon first being dragged here by my father at the irascible age of eleven, I thought him a fool. Now, however, I see what he was getting at. It's not that we don't love London, by all means it is still the greatest city in the world, however I do have a place for this country in my heart as well.

I have since moved back in with my parents in Long Island, nursing my still hurt leg. I have also taken up the great sport of binge drinking. Yes, at the time I had become an amateur drunk, hell if there was an alcoholics' Olympics, I would take the bronze. Give me another six months had I not stopped, and the gold would for sure have been mine.

But I did stop, because as I walked out of the pub in Manhattan, one of thousands probably, a truck barreled down the road. One would think it would have seen me in time and stopped without any sensational antics. But only with a dramatic swerve was it able to keep me from harm's way. However the driver, a father of seven – yes, seven (six male, one baby girl) – had to be hospitalized for eleven months, followed by what ended up being four years of physical therapy and a lifetime of stress therapy.

I paid for his medical bills, not just because the judge had demanded it, but because I felt obligated. Surprisingly, the judicial system isn't all that kind to war veterans. Even bastardly ones. Especially bastardly ones.

Present Day – Los Angeles

I needed an out. So I got one. I packed my bags, filed them into my father's old red Chevy pickup, and drove out to Los Angeles, the City of Angels… and of murder, and of gangs, and of drugs and sultry, easy celebrity bombshells. Little did I know, it was also the home of a recently-relocated fellow Briton who would become my dearest friend and me his.

I spent the first two days at a Holiday Inn, then, upon a one-night stand with a brunette drunk named Melanie, lived with her for seventeen weeks. Sixteen of which I should add she spent cheating on me with guy after guy in bar after bar. But I didn't care, because I had a place to live. I simply consider myself lucky to not have gotten an STD, for Lord knows she had them. Ha, how that makes me laugh now. How it worried me then.

I left after making the shocking discovery she had been selling my possessions (and here I thought we were routinely robbed!) to each bang buddy as a parting gift. Back at the Holiday Inn, I saw an ad in the Los Angeles Times for a man requesting a roommate. He only asked that the man be willing to deal with strange hours and the playing of instruments.

I copied down the address – 221B Baker Street in the San Fernando Valley and was off the next day. Off to meet my destiny.