It was Monday morning. Despite the growing tiredness that piled on my eyelids every second like an anchor I had to keep telling myself that Monday's weren't as bad as they seemed and something great could happen to me. For example, according to statics there will be over five-thousand weddings and over forty-two million hugs. At least four people will win the multimillion lottery, and there will be over ten-thousand childbirths. The words 'I love you' will be said over nine million times, more than six hundred dogs will be adopted and loads of individuals will be reunited with old friends. So I shouldn't just assume that today will suck, because it could actually be a really nice day.

But knowing that didn't help me to feel more alive. I let out a groan before swinging my feet out of the uncomfortable, hotel bed.

I had only gotten about four hours of sleep. Even when I do get enough sleep I'm tired. I always felt tired after I woke up and that carries on for at least two or more extra hours, it's no wonder mornings are a mystery to me -- I practically sleep walk everywhere. But last night too much was on my mind as I tried to mentally figure out a schedule for the next day. Others may count sheep; I plan. I planned that I would hopefully find an apartment by the end of the day, and hopefully I would have applied to a few jobs with some luck that employers favour me. Additionally, I would absolutely love to be an author. But I figured that I should probably aim for a simple, ordinary job first -- like retail, or something while I worked on my next book. I would much prefer to aim higher, like maybe work in a lab or something of the sort because I did finish university with some amazing grades and as dorky as it sounds, I honestly love science. However it was more like an hobby than anything. My main priority at the moment was my books.

If I do say so myself, the previous book I wrote and published was pretty decent. At the time I thought it was a work of art, having put a lot of time and effort into writing my novel. But no more than a year later when it didn't become as successful as I thought it would have, I started to doubt myself and criticise every sentence that I had written. 

After enduring a quick shower to wake me up from the short amount of sleep I had managed to get, I finally got dressed in my tight, black jeans and a maroon-coloured sweater. I just brushed my hair and left it as it was. My hair was brown and naturally wavy anyway, so I didn't think it mattered what I did with it. Especially when I was only going on a flat and job hunt. I had high expectations today though I knew finding a job and an apartment in London was a big stretch, and a part of me knew it would probably take weeks. But I would like to think I'm an optimist.

I hastily chucked on my coat and black boots before I made my way out of my hotel room. Before this I was living with my aunt in Italy, Brenda her name was, and she was a strong-willed and wonderful woman, but London will and always be my home. It seemed only right that I'd tried to make a living here again.

Time sure flies by when you're having fun -- except, I wasn't really having fun. Maybe I'm a liar as well, I always lie to myself far more than anyone else. It's one of humanities biggest flaws. After a very long day of apartment and job hunting it soon caught up to about five in the evening, and I just got rejected by another landlord who claimed that there wasn't any rooms left and that even if there were, I wasn't reliable enough to invest in without a steady income. The apartments I found were shabby and not worth the prices that they were demanding but I was still determined to find a place. On the positive side, I gave my CV out to some good places. A few good coffee shops, restaurants and clothing stores. I think I could manage in one of them. Just until I get on my feet, I told myself.

With a sigh, I hailed a taxi, ready to call it a night. When the taxi driver pulled up on the gutter I climbed in, telling the man the address to my hotel. I quietly sat in the back and watched as we drove through the busy streets, trying to piece together my memories of the place from when I was here last. I noticed that, for some odd reason, the driver headed in another direction. But I knew where we were in London, so I could only assume that we were going to longer way round. A way to charge more money, I huffed and sank further in my seat. The cab reached Wardour Street when it suddenly stopped, the vehicle screeched to a halt as someone crashed hard into the bonnet. I curse under my breath. "What the hell?!"

"Some mad man just ran in front of the cab!" The driver started, staring out the window in direction towards the tall figure. The man outside scrambled in his left pocket and pulled something out, showing it to the driver before he ran towards the right side of the cab.

"Police! Open up!" He called. I furrowed my brows, confusion washing over me. Did I do something? My mind started racing. Is this about the ketchup bottle I stole from the pub while I stopped for lunch? It's only ketchup!

"What the bloody hell..." I muttered. Despite the fact that I lived in Italy for quite some time, I was still able to speak English fluently -- with the correct accent, too. One of the perks from travelling all over the place. Before I had the time to open the door for him, the man had already began to open the rear door and stared at me, panting heavily. I look back at him anxiously.

"No." He said.

"What?" I finally asked, and he could probably tell how confused I was by my tone if it wasn't my expression. He leaned down again to examine me for the second time. It was hard to see his features due to the season has it had began to get darker. However I still made out his dark, curly hair and cupid-bow lips. He seemed almost familiar.

"It's not who we're after, John."

"So, basically just a cab that happened to slow down?"

"Basically."

"Sorry -- are you guys the police?" I questioned. When I finally spoke more than one word, the tall man stared back at me, meeting my eyes. He paused momentarily as he stared, as if he was figuring something out.

"Yeah." He answered, flashing his I.D badge briefly at me. "Everything all right?"

I smiled, "Yeah."

He paused for a moment again, as if wondering what else to say. "I'm sorry, have we meet before?"

"Depends, have you ever been to Italy?" I asked. I doubted this stranger knew who I was, judging by his accent he was originally from London but I probably haven't met him in person unless he visited Italy before. I only had a couple of friends when I lived here as a child, and I wouldn't expect those particular people to still be around. However, this man continued to stare. And it was starting to make me feel a bit uncomfortable.

He widened his eyes after a few seconds, as if something clicked in his mind. "Eleanor!"

Now it was my turn to widen my eyes, taken aback by what he just said. "How on earth do you know my name?"

"I was-- I mean... Don't you remember?" He stuttered, and his fellow companion beside him just stared at him with his eyes narrowed.

"Remember what?"

"It's..." He hesitated, swallowing thickly. "It's Sherlock."

That was it. That was all it took for my heart to stop in it's tracks. Sherlock. It had been so long, and I honestly couldn't even formulated another word, never mind another sentence. I just stared at the male with my lips slightly parted in shock.

"I'm not waiting around here all day, lady! Either I continue driving or you pay me my fair!"

I snapped out of my thoughts when the cab driver spoke back up, and I shook my head slightly, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall. I didn't know if they were happy tears or sad tears. You do not cry for anyone, I had to remind myself. I dug in my pocket and leaned forward towards the driver and handed him some money.

"I've been driving for thirty minutes, this isn't enough!"

"Well, I would have been enough if you didn't take the longer route in order to get some extra cash." I pointed out to him, before I finally climbed back out of the car. When my feet were placed firmly back on the ground, and reached up to my tall friend and wrapped my arms around him, giving him a tight embrace. He tensed, and I could tell he wasn't used to hugs, or at least he wasn't expecting it. But he soon wrapped his arms around my back and returned the comforting embrace. My heart gave a weird little hiccup, as if it's lost it's balance and was about to fall into my stomach.

"Oh my god, Sherlock," I finally began, "It's been eleven years!"

"I can't believe it's you." Was all he mumbled in response, and we just stood there hugging in the middle of the street for what seemed like years. Until the man behind us cleared his throat. We quickly pulled away.

"I'm sorry," The shorter guy apologised to me, before looking at Sherlock. "Aren't you going to introduce me? Or, you know, explained what just happened."

"Oh," Sherlock started, gesturing towards me. "Eleanor this is John. John, this is Eleanor, an old friend of mine. As it were, I managed to successfully create a lasting friendship with another human being."

"Maybe you're not as sociopath as you think you are." I commented, and a simper appears on his face.

"It's a pleasure, Eleanor." John smiled, stepping forward to shake my hand. I smiled at him in return and shook his hand.

"Please, just Ella."

John nodded. We pulled our hands away, and John looked back up to Sherlock. "So, she's not the murderer then."

"Not the murdered, no." Sherlock replied, a little exasperated.

"And where-- where did you get this?" He asked, reaching for the card in Sherlock's hand before reading the name on the piece of plastic. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

"Wait, hold on. Did you just mention murder? You thought I was a murderer?" I questioned him, referring back that what the two men were just talking about. I should have known he was up to no good as usual, but chasing murderers was far down on the list on possible activities he would be doing frankly.

"Oh, Sherlock's a consulting detective." John told me, probably thinking I already knew somehow.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock muttered. I just arched a single brow up.

"Consulting detective?"

"We're -- well, he is helping the police solve a case of mystery suicides." John informed. I've never even heard of the title before, but I was still proud of him. It sounded like a great and serious job to have. Right up his alley, too.

"Well, didn't you do good." I commented, nudging Sherlock's arm slightly with a grin. I could tell he was trying to keep a straight face, but his smile was dying to break through. I looked towards John although my question was aimed for either one of them to answer. "What did you mean, mystery suicides?"

"It's a long story." Sherlock replied, before bringing out his phone when it buzzed in his pocket. "I just got a missed call from Mrs Hudson. I'm surprised she knows how to use a phone, really."

Me and John chuckled, even though I was still confused. He was an consulting detective, or whatever it was. Him and John probably live together, along with a woman named 'Mrs Hudson' who I only assumed was elderly due to Sherlock's joke about her lack of knowledge about technology. I didn't know what the hell was going on, but I didn't decide to question it yet. We'd be standing here forever.

We all followed Sherlock's eyes to where he was looking down the road, where a police officer had gone to investigate the cab I was sitting in only moments ago. Probably to find out why the cab had stopped in the middle of the road. We could see the side of the drivers face, but it was only like a shadow due to the darkness and distance. He pointed towards us all.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked, supposedly to John.

"Ready when you are."

The two started to run off down the road. I stared after them questionably, unsure on where they were running to and why they just decided to leave without a goodbye. Until Sherlock called back: "Come on Eleanor!"

I exhaled heavily and picked up my pace as I ran after them, not bothering to look back. Little did I know that this would be the start of my greatest adventure yet.