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John Watson walked into the grey, four story, and all too modern looking building. He ignored the bustle of people around him and checked the directory. 'Holmes & Holmes', the well known advertisement agency that had recently taken London by storm, was listed on the second floor. With a nod and a double-tap of his cane, John found the staircase and made his way up to the office, careful not to lose his footing or put too much weight on his bad leg.
The office looked much more like a doctor's waiting room than an advertisement agency, with at least two dozen mustachioed men seated, chatting or reading. Ignoring those around him, he walked to the receptionist, a prim-looking woman with a bright, though demure look, her long hair spilling over her shoulders. He smiled at her, waiting for her to put the phone down. "May I help you?" she finally asked.
"Doctor John Watson," John introduced himself. "My agency sent me over?" He wasn't sure exactly why an advertising agency needed a doctor, but his colleague Sarah told him that Holmes & Holmes new contract with a large European firm required physicals for their new employees. And as John was trying to keep busy ever since he and Mary had divorced, he was actually glad for the work diversion.
"Molly," the young receptionist replied as she held out her hand, then added, "Nice to meet you. Someone will be with you as soon as-"
She was cut off as the front door to the agency flew open and noisily banged off the rubber doorstop. Two men, the first with shaggy dark hair and sharp cheekbones, the second looking much more business-like but slightly bored, noisily crossed the threshold. Cheekbones spoke first as he leveled a contemptible gaze at the group of gathered men. "Honestly, Mycroft. Our waiting room has become about as predictable as darkness after sunset. These people-"
"Are here because they fit exactly the role that we need for Garde Razor Company. Mid thirties to early forties. Handsome; Attractive to both women and men, but approachable. Ability to grow a proper mustache-" and then the gentleman named Mycroft cut a glance at two younger men at the edge of the crowd. With an eyebrow raised, he continued, "Well most of them at least. Sherlock, this is exactly-"
John shook his head. It seemed as if he was suddenly in the presence of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, the owners of the prestigious agency.
"Not exactly what we need. You two," Sherlock said as he pointed to the young pair that Mycroft had rolled his eyes at, "Out. And don't come back until you can grow a proper mustache. You three," he pointed to others, "we are looking for confident men who won't feel emasculated by the removal of their facial hair." And then Sherlock continued, dismissing men from the room until it was nearly emptied. "If we have the need for a balding weasel that's taken up shaving implements, we'll call you back. You? Teeth so crooked that it pushes out your upper lip unattractively. You," Sherlock said, and it appeared to John that he actually shuddered slightly, "I would suggest a visit to your GP. The sooner the better." When the gentleman didn't move, Sherlock waved his hand, adding, "Go on, then," and turned his attention to the rest, adding, "Too jaundiced. No amount of lighting could save you from looking sickly. You? Fingers are far too nicotine stained for someone of your age. You? This position will require travel, something which you will not be capable of after your incarceration."
Finally, his eyes lit on John, and John stood stock-still as the younger Holmes brother studied him for a few seconds, as if he was able to read John's life story.
"The rest of you, out!" Sherlock announced, then focused on John with such intensity that John nearly felt uncomfortable. "Not you," he said, never taking his eyes off of John. He confidently strode across the office, putting his hand out and barely touched John's shoulder before turning to his brother. "This one," he called, nodded confidently, then walked through the inner door, calling back, "Well come along then.".
"Excuse me," John said, not moving.
"You got the job," Mycroft said as he hung his overcoat and followed Sherlock into the inner office. "My brother and I will guide you, working out all of the details."
John watched Mycroft's retreat, then turned to Molly, who just shrugged. "Job? What job?" John asked.
"Oh do come along, Doctor," Sherlock called as he gestured for John to follow him into a private office.
John was about to walk towards Sherlock to see what exactly was going on, but stopped as the receptionist held out a manilla envelope. "Congratulations," she said, and then nodded towards Sherlock and Mycroft's office before answering the now-ringing telephone.
After stomping into the office, John waved the folder about and demanded, "May I ask exactly what the bloody hell is going on?" He stared at Sherlock, but it's the other brother that responded.
"Doctor-" Mycroft began.
"Watson. Doctor John Watson," he replied, leaning on his cane.
"Doctor John Watson," Mycroft continued. "Welcome to the world of modeling. You are the new face of Garde Razor Company. There will be a minimum of six commercials, for which you will be compensated handsomely."
"But I'm not a model," John protested. He placed his bag on a nearby table, opened it, then pulled out a stethoscope. "Medical. Doctor."
Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, resting his chin on his steepled fingers and began what sounded like a practiced monologue. "Doctor John Watson. Recently divorced, so you've decided to change up your appearance at the suggestion of your therapist, and thus the new mustache." John reached up and touched the bristly hair that adorned his upper lip. "You've had it six months though not many people like it, which makes you the perfect person for a shaving commercial. You did two tours - Iraq or Afghanistan? Though," he seemed to scan John again, "I would say Afghanistan. The pay for this job is quite above what you make at the clinic that you work at, seeing bothersome people to help deal with their sore throats, piles, and other pedestrian ailments. And because of the economic surge in your bank account, you won't need to seek out extra work via agencies as you are doing now, though not enough that you won't need a roommate to help cover the extraordinary cost of living in London." He smiled, adding, "Which works out quite nicely for me and has the side benefit of getting you out of your brother's? No, sister's spare bedroom. The loss of your medical agency work is a good thing, however, because as the new face of Garde Razor, you will be making several trips to the continent, with options for future trips to the States as Garde are seeking to expand into North America."
Sherlock took a deep breath, then concluded, "Congratulations, John. You're going to be a star." And as quickly as he started, Sherlock turned his attention to several letters on his desk.
Sputtering for a moment, John finally protested, "What if I don't want to?"
"Pish tosh," Mycroft, at last, spoke up. "My brother is the best casting agent in all of the entire Commonwealth. And if it's a matter of compensation, then I'm sure we can work something out."
John was distracted when Sherlock, his attention now focused on the laptop in front of him, held his hand out and snapped his fingers.
"Use your words, brother dear," Mycroft said. "Your young new ingenu is not used to your," he smiled sweetly, "uniqueness."
Sherlock snapped his fingers once, then twice again.
"I believe he wants your mobile," Mycroft translated as he goes to work on his own laptop. John handed it over, which Sherlock took, looked at John for a moment, then somehow inputted the correct lock code. A small smirk on his face, Sherlock's fingers flew over the keyboard. "There," Sherlock said, then handed back the phone. "Molly?" he called.
John glanced at the text sent from his phone, then looked up when Sherlock's phone pinged. A second later, the young receptionist appears at his arm. "The standard package?" she asked of the brothers, which Sherlock answers with a nod. "Very well. Come this way, Dr. Watson," she requested, "and let's get your headshots started." She led him to a small office across the hall. As they entered, a photographer already setting up some lights, she said, "Greg? This is Dr. John Watson. Introductory package, please, with a few extra headshots since he's new to the business." The photographer, Greg, just nodded, and Molly disappeared a moment later as the session got underway.
John was still stupefied twenty minutes later as lightbulbs flash around him. The photographer stopped to check his equipment, so John took the chance to talk to Molly. "What-" he started, but Molly ignored him, instead having him sign several pieces of paper.
"I'll have 'em on his desk in an hour," Greg announced. He nodded, and then disappeared from the room.
Finally getting a chance to speak, John asked, "How... I'm sorry, but how in the bloody hell did he do that?"
"He's Sherlock," is all Molly responded with.
And when the paperwork is finally completed, and the bright lights are flicked off, John looked at his phone and saw a single message:
221B Baker Street, 7pm. Mrs. Hudson will let you in if I am not there. You can take the second bedroom on the upstairs floor. -SH
John hadn't considered his life being turned upside down when he walked into 'Holmes & Holmes' an hour previous, but something inside him said that he was about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime.