The Girls In 221B

Welcome to the blog of Jade Watson (she/her). I'm a student at UBC, I'm an artist, jock, and D&D nerd, and as of very recently, I'm an ameteur private investigator. I never really saw myself as a sleuth, but that all changed once I met a girl who's probably the smartest, strangest, and most interesting person I'lll ever know. This is my account, ameteur or otherwise, of the adventures I've had with Shirley Holmes. (Story, Jade posts, and cases by @deconstructthesoup) (Art, Shirley posts, and beta reading by @balalaijka)

[girlsin221b]

Okay, uh... let me just say, first off, I'm incredibly sorry that the next part of our first case (Shirley insists that it should be called "A Study in Scarlet," I keep on telling her that there's no way I'm calling it that, we're still arguing) is taking so long. Again, my memory's kind of shit, and I keep on having to ask Shirley exactly what was said---and sometimes, I'm pretty sure she's fucking with me.

But on the bright side, I've got some more motivation to post this stuff now, because I started classes... and without going into the details, there's a guy in my ceramics class who might have something case-worthy going on.

Then again, the guy is---and I say this as lovingly as possible---as smart as a ping-pong ball, so it might lead nowhere.

In any case (heh), fingers crossed that the next part'll be out soon.

-Jade

[girlsin221b]

Shirley has been doing her best impression of a Victorian lady mourning the loss of her dead husband for two weeks now

I've listened to Tom Lehrer's music and yeah I'll admit it the guy was amazing but there is a limit to how much I can take a violin cover of "The Masochism Tango" on repeat

For two weeks

[girlsin221b]

BAD NEWS

Still working on the next update---it's difficult doing exact accounts when your recall's shaky at best, I might have to start recording these things in the future

GOOD NEWS

Apple Pencil's working again, here's a drawing of Shirley

[girlsin221b]

Part of me is surprised that Shirley figured out the password to this account literally a day after I started this

Part of me is wondering why she didn't make the first post

(Joke's on you, Shirley, you're now included if we ever get asks)

[demonicdragoncat]

I mean, as long as it's all above board, I don't see what the problem is. It's not like she's trying to be like Victor Frankenstein.

Right?

[girlsin221b]

“Shirley paused the show and got to her feet […], beaming like she’d just figured out the secret to bringing a dead body to life” (Watson, 2025, par. 45).

It appears Watson has made up her mind.

Watson, if you’re reading this, rest assured. I shall use my access for only the most benevolent of ends.

[girlsin221b]

Part of me is surprised that Shirley figured out the password to this account literally a day after I started this

Part of me is wondering why she didn't make the first post

(Joke's on you, Shirley, you're now included if we ever get asks)

[girlsin221b]

Shirley Holmes Log #1

Shirley Holmes here. I have been informed by an acquaintance that I should “lay it off with the human tissue experiments so as to not scare my poor new roommate.” However, this would compromise the integrity of the experiment, as bovine or porcine substitutes would yield different data.

However… I have never had a roommate outside of my classmates before and would not like to “scare her off”. How should I proceed?

[demonicdragoncat]

Exposure therapy

[girlsin221b]

As Jade has chronicled, a week ago we investigated a cadaver, that, while not on the premises of our residence, hypothetically fulfilled the same purpose. She has now achieved the ‘first cadaver’ milestone.

Thank you for your advice.

[girlsin221b]

Jade again.

First off---it's really cool that there's a couple of you here already. Seriously, I haven't even started adding art yet, I thought it'd be dead until that happened.

But anyways, I promised I'd include the list of what Shirley's into, so... here ya go.

Shirley’s Incredibly Niche (or not-so-niche) Interests:

Fiction podcasts (favorites are Welcome To Night Vale, The Magnus Archives, Midnight Burger, Wolf 359, The Amelia Project, and The Case of the Greater Gatsby)

Goth cabaret/folk/generally weird music (favorites are Aurelio Voltaire, Charming Disaster, Tom Lehrer, Twin Temple, the Crane Wives, the Oh Hellos, and Fish In A Birdcage—when it comes to classical music, it’s Saint-Saëns, Chausson, and Philip Glass)

Indie animation—the more obscure, the better (favorites are Vampair, Lackadaisy, Monkey Wrench, Spice Frontier, Far Fetched and Who Is Olive McGuire)

Cult classic films (favorites are The Princess Bride, Rocky Horror, Labyrinth, Repo: The Genetic Opera, Clue, and Treasure Planet)

Old-school mystery novels (favorites are Miss Fisher and anything by Agatha Christie—I’ve been debating introducing her to Knives Out, which she somehow has never heard of)

The Addams Family (specifically the OG Chaz Addams comics, the 1960’s sitcom, and the 1990’s movies)

Shipwrecked Comedy (it has some Starkid actors and big D&D names in it from time to time, so there’s an instance of my interests and hers colliding in a weird way)

Jane Austen, Mary Shelly, and Anne Brontë (not Charlotte or Emily Brontë, though, she gagged when I asked her about them)

This TV show called Leverage (she promised she’d show it to me, but she hasn’t told me what it’s about, just that she’d think I’d like it)

Art history (I don’t mean, like, gothic art history, or Asian art history, or whatever—I mean art history, period)

Botany (she has a Venus Flytrap named Cleopatra)

Dead bodies (for some ungodly reason)

Anthropology (something about unraveling the ongoing mystery of the human condition, I dunno, I wasn’t fully paying attention)

Lots of stuff she learned for her criminology degree, forensics especially (she doesn’t believe in criminal profiling, though, which I guess is a good sign)

Puzzles (the girl’s phone is ninety percent puzzle apps of ranging difficulties)

Math (she sees it as a puzzle on its own, I do not get that, I am dreading all of my math classes)

Cyphers (I’m pretty sure that one of her goth rings is a decoder)

Zoology (mostly when it comes to animals that have some sort of poison in them)

Archeology (she won’t admit it, but I’m like 99% sure she was a dinosaur kid)

Museums (art, history, and science are all fair game, and I’ve promised to take her to OMSI if she ever visits Portland)

Learning new things in general

[girlsin221b]

Writing On The Wall

The first couple days living in 221B with Shirley were… well, let’s say they were an adjustment.

Contrary to what her little Betty-based deduction might have you believe, I didn’t really have a lot of stuff—just clothes, some books, my tech, my meds and toiletries, art supplies, bedding, and a twin mattress. Again, I completely forgot to plan for actually getting an apartment, and I sure as hell didn’t take a trip to IKEA before I left.

Shirley, on the other hand, not only was planning on bringing a miniature version of her storage-unit lab, but had full kitchenware and silverware sets, a wardrobe that I’m pretty sure can only be fully contained in a walk-in closet, a bedframe with a matching hanging canopy overhead, a full desk setup, and a clawfoot couch. Among other things.

“So, how rich are you, exactly?” I asked when I helped her set up her bedframe (which is only a twin, thank god). “And if you’ve got all this money, why do you need a roommate?”

“I am not rich, my parents are rich,” Shirley corrected, as if that really made a difference. “They would probably pay for everything if I let them, but I made it abundantly clear that beyond tuition and a monthly allowance, I want to be able to prove that I have some level of self-sufficiency.”

“Uh-huh, and how much is that monthly allowance?”

She was quiet for a second.

“Shirley…”

“All right, fine, roughly double the Canadian minimum wage if I was working a nine-to-five shift five days a week,” she snapped. “The equipment I require for my experiments is expensive, and so is renting out that storage unit. Are you happy?”

“You’re helping me go furniture shopping,” I told her. “And you’re paying.”

Shirley sighed. “I suppose I asked for that.”

I now have a totally sick loft-bed-and-desk setup, as well as room for plenty of bookshelves.

Oh, yeah, one thing I forgot to mention—221B has built-in bookshelves. And it’s got a fireplace.

Told you it was a great apartment.

Anyway, I also wound up getting a pretty good idea of Shirley’s various interests. I made a list, but Shirley told me that it’d “break up the flow of narration” if I posted it all here, so I’ll just hit the basics:

She likes indie animation, but none of the big names—unless you consider Lackadaisy to be a big name. She’s a fan of macabre music, whether it’s goth cabaret, folk, or the kind of classical music that would play at a vampire’s ball, and she’s learned most of her favorite songs on the violin. She’s a complete fiend for fiction podcasts with horror and/or sci-fi elements—her top three are The Magnus Archives, Midnight Burger, and Welcome To Night Vale, and I’ve only heard of the last one—and she’s obviously a big reader, though she’s more of a mystery girl than a queer-romance girl.

When it comes to academia and stuff like that, she’s into everything from art history to archeology to zoology, and she’s obviously pretty well-versed on everything she learned for her criminology degree. Apparently, she could ignore a subject for years until something comes up that’s relevant to what she’s working on, and then she’ll immediately do a massive deep-dive and come out as well-versed at worst and an expert at best.

Surprisingly enough, some of our interests do overlap a little. Don’t get me wrong, I doubt she’d use my Dropout password if I shared it with her, but she does really like The Locked Tomb, and she even compared me to Gideon.

…Not sure if that was just because I’m a tall, vaguely athletic redhead, but I’ll take it.

But Jesus Christ, Shirley was not kidding when she said that she was a bad student when it came to anything that she wasn’t interested in. I’ll give you an example—before listening to this podcast called Wolf 359, and Midnight Burger immediately after, she wasn’t interested in astronomy. At all.

And before that?

She didn’t even know that the earth revolved around the sun.

“How the fuck did it take you listening to a sci-fi podcast to figure out something that most of us learn in kindergarten?!” I exclaimed after she’d told me that. “What, was that one of the valuable pieces of information that you missed when you skipped four grades?”

“Oh, someone probably told me about it one way or another, and I convinced myself to forget it in order to make room for more interesting subjects,” Shirley answered. “Besides, at the time, I hardly thought it mattered.”

“Wh—what do you mean, you didn’t think it mattered?”

She gave me one of her trademark librarian-stares. “Watson, look, I’m all for studying up on the mysteries of the universe in my spare time, but the fact remains that that kind of information rarely has an impact on our day-to-day lives.”

I spread my hands. “Uh… solar eclipses.”

“Rare.”

“Time zones?”

“I only need to worry about those for two hours every month, which is when I have to have an obligatory video call with my parents.”

“Shooting stars?”

“Also rare, and I feel as if you’re grasping at straws.” Shirley downed her cup of coffee. “What are we having for dinner tonight, by the way?”

Ah, yeah. The other thing.

Even though Shirley’s the one with the kitchenware and silverware, I’ve been doing most of the cooking—though, that’s really just limited to dinner, since Hudson gives us breakfast and lunch at a discount. I do know how to cook, even if it’s mostly New York Times recipes (yeah, yeah, roast me in the comments, but there’s some damn good ones in there), but I usually prefer cooking for someone who actually remembers to eat.

Seriously, Shirley, if you’re reading this—not all of the recipes I know leftover well. Next time I make dinner, don’t start one of your experiments or Wikipedia deep-dives while I’m in the middle of browning the meat.

Also, Shirley likes to wear cat’s-eye glasses on a chain, even though her vision is perfect. They look good on her, but speaking as someone who needs glasses, I dunno how I feel about that.

Speaking of her style, almost all of her outfits feature a skirt of some kind—the pants, apparently, are only for her lab days, because flowy things are a fire hazard. I’ve seen her in everything from plaid dark-academia short skirts to full-length Victorian-lady-at-a-funeral gowns, and she seems to be borderline immune to the heat. It helps that she’s got an umbrella for literally every occasion, including hot weather.

That’s all the stuff I was able to learn about her before the case came in.

We were chilling on the couch together watching Gravity Falls—which she’d never seen, and she’s vaguely enjoying it so far—when someone knocked at the door. I’ve got the show memorized by now, so I got up and answered it.

And hooooooooooo boy.

Standing on the other side was… a fucking goddess, that’s all I can say. A tall, buff, Japanese stone butch goddess in overalls.

“Uh… hey,” she said, giving me a little smile (she had a goddamn tooth gap, you guys, I’m not even kidding). “I’m looking for Shirley Holmes?”

I really wish I could say that I said something cool and suave, but I just let out a little “uh-huh” and let her in.

Hey, I never said that I was good at interacting with hot people.

Shirley paused the show and got to her feet as soon as she saw Butch Goddess, beaming like she’d just figured out the secret to bringing a dead body to life. “George, how lovely! It’s been too long!”

“Nice to see you found yourself a good place to live.” Butch Goddess—George—pointed to me. “Strawberry Punkcake here’s your roommate, I’m guessing?”

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

“Right, yes, introductions.” Shirley gestured to the two of us in turn. “George, this is Jade Watson, my roommate and newest acquaintance. Watson, this is George Lestrade-Narakuma, my freshman-year roommate back when I made the egregious mistake of living in a dorm.”

“And roommate for pretty much every year ‘till I switched to trade school,” she added, shaking my hand. “Nice to meetcha, Jade. I use she/her, by the way.”

“Oh—uh—same. Nice to meet you, too,” I said, cringing internally at the fact that my palms were absolutely sweating. “Uh, what trade did you study?”

“I’m a mechanic. I work at a car repair shop downtown.”

“Cool. That’s, uh, really—”

“How are you and Tabitha doing, by the way?” Shirley interjected. “You’re coming up on your two-year anniversary soon, correct?”

Yeah. That.

Butch Goddess is, sadly, taken. Don’t worry, I was able to recalibrate my senses, and I only cried internally a little.

George let out a chuckle. “Well, she’s not exactly thrilled that you’re living upstairs from her boss, I’ll tell ya that. Probably not thrilled about me coming to see you, either.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, is she still on about me being a bad influence?” Shirley said in an exasperated tone, throwing her hands into the air. “You’re one of the most self-controlled people I know, how could any of my habits rub off on you?”

“Um… well.” George clasped her hands. “So… this isn’t exactly a social call, Holmes.”

After a beat, Shirley leaned against the kitchen island. “All right, I’m listening.”

“Okay, so I might have figured out how to tap into the police scanner frequency,” she explained. “And I heard that there was a body, and that the circumstances were weird.”

The hell?

“How odd are these circumstances?” Shirley asked. “Because Watson and I are watching television at the moment.”

“I didn’t get any specific details,” George admitted, scratching the back of her neck. “But it’s apparently interesting enough that Dad’s going down to check it out.”

She froze. “Oh no.”

“Oh yeah.” George jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “My car’s idling on the sidewalk. We leave now, we might get there before he does.”

“Then we clearly have no time to waste,” Shirley said, rushing over to the shoe rack and grabbing her boots. “No offense to your father, George, but the day that Gordon Lestrade doesn’t bungle up an investigation is the day—”

“I—sorry, back up,” I interrupted, holding up my hands. “What the fuck is going on?”

Both of them stared at me as if they’d only just remembered I was here.

“You… didn’t tell her what you do, did you?” George asked, raising an eyebrow.

Shirley let out a little mmph noise. “Must I? She’s been under the impression that I’m somewhat normal—”

“Girl, in no universe do I think you’re normal,” I told her (sorry, Shirley, but it’s true). “Now what. The fuck. Is going on?”

One second. Two. Three.

“Fine.” Shirley finished putting on her boots and held out a hand. “Watson, are you a fan of mysteries?”

I slowly pointed over to the TV, where the Mystery Shack was still very much onscreen. “Is that a question?”

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to solve one?”

That was the moment where things started to actually click for me.

In hindsight, maybe I should’ve said no. I could’ve just left Shirley to her own devices, stayed home and had a quiet night in, and set up a status quo for us as roommates who just did their own things separately.

But when you realize that you’ve officially become a character in a detective novel… well, everybody knows that the “refuse the call” trope never works out.

“I would fucking love to,” I said, surprised to find that I was dead serious.

Shirley gave me a relieved smile. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

One thing I learned about George almost immediately—she drives like a maniac.

You’d think that someone who fixes up cars for a living would be way more conscious about avoiding accidents, but nope. She finds the quickest way to a location, figures out how to circumnavigate traffic, and slams her foot down on the gas pedal.

Well, not exactly the gas pedal. Her car’s retrofitted to run on diesel oil.

I mentioned how hot she is, right?

Anyway, as we were speeding through the Vancouver city streets, George filled us in on what she’d picked up.

“The body was found on 14th and Main, right inside a lot that’s up for rent,” she announced, jerking the wheel to the right as we rounded the corner. “Apparently, the landlord was giving some prospective tenants a tour, and boom. Dead guy, right there on the carpet.”

“Well, that should bring down the value of the place significantly,” Shirley said, already tapping away on her phone. “Maybe I should send out a message amidst the local goth community, I’m sure there’s plenty of zillennials there who’d jump at the prospect of living in a low-rent former crime scene.”

“That’s the part you’re focusing on,” I muttered. “Not the dead body. Of course.”

“Watson, I’m absolutely focusing on the dead body, I’m just allowing myself to make jokes in order to diffuse the tension.”

“What tension?”

She gave me a side-glance. “The tension in your shoulders, for one.”

“Ah, go easy on her, Holmes, it’s her first body,” George said. “It is your first body, right, Jade?”

How the hell do you answer a question like that?

“Yeah,” I managed. “Yeah, it’s my first body.”

“See? She’s gonna be a little tense. Give the girl some slack.”

By the time we finally screeched to a stop in front of the address, the place was already crawling with cops.

Shirley clicked her tongue. “You shouldn’t have allowed me to engage in casual conversation with you, George.”

“Hey, I’m not legally allowed to equip Rustbucket with a siren. Cops have an advantage over me.”

As soon as she climbed out of Rustbucket, I turned to Shirley. “She named her car.”

“She’s taken,” Shirley reminded me.

“And she’s not polyamorous?”

“Even if she was, you’re not her type.”

My hopes and dreams thoroughly dashed, me and Shirley got out of the car, hopefully ready to face whatever the hell was waiting for us inside.

George grabbed Shirley by the shoulder as she started towards the yellow tape. “Before we go in, I need you to promise me something.”

“And that is?”

“If my dad is in there, and even if he isn’t,” she said slowly, “please, for the love of God, be less… yourself.”

Shirley gave her a wide-eyed, innocent look that definitely added to her overall doll-like appearance. “Why, George, this is a serious situation. I fully intend to be on my very best behavior.”

“Good.”

Honestly, I expected there to be more fuss about us going through the yellow tape, but George just gestured to Shirley and we got let through. Knowing what I know now, though, I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of thing that only happens if we have George with us.

I also learned that Shirley’s word has the potential to be about as reliable as a tightrope made out of sewing thread.

“And once again, a perfectly good crime scene has been turned into a pigsty!” Shirley declared as soon as we walked through the door, causing George to immediately bury her head in her hands. “Please tell me that there’s still some actual evidence leftover, I really don’t feel like testing the security system of your forensics labs tonight.”

A broad guy in what I assumed was a VPD captain’s uniform whirled around, face red and eyes wide.

“Ah, here’s the unqualified man in the flesh.” Shirley gave him a little finger-wave. “Horrible to see you, too, Captain Lestrade. Wrongfully convict anyone lately?”

“What the hell,” Captain Lestrade growled, “are you doing here?”

“Solving a case, apparently,” Shirley said breezily. “Mind if me and my associate take a look at the body?”

And just like that, I got promoted from “roommate and acquaintance” to “associate.” Or, well, I dunno if it was a promotion exactly. Sounds better, at least.

“No, I’m not gonna—who let them in here?” Lestrade shouted, pointing between me, Shirley, and George. “What part of not letting civilians into an active crime scene do you bozos not understand?”

“I’m pretty sure half of the VPD knows the drill by now, Dad,” George told him, rubbing her temples. “Just—let her do her thing, all right?”

Lestrade rounded on her. “Georgie, I’ve told you a thousand goddamn times—I don’t care if she’s your friend, I refuse to let some kid solve my department’s cases for them. Again.”

“Well, she’s not just ‘some kid’ anymore, Dad, she’s a full adult and a qualified criminologist,” she retorted. “And like it or not, she’s solved a lot of cases for this squad in the past six years.”

“I think you mean in spite—” Shirley started, right before George jammed an elbow into her side.

“Look, you and I both know that Holmes is just gonna figure out a way to break into the crime scene even if you kick her out, and even if you scrub the whole thing clean, she’s gonna find something that you missed, and she’s gonna use it as an excuse to bully you.” George spread her hands. “So? Are you going to accept what’s happening, or are you gonna make things harder for you later?”

There was a long pause.

“Fine,” Lestrade said through gritted teeth. “But make it quick.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Body’s in the living room. Good luck, though—based on what we’ve seen so far, we’re pretty sure it’s a suicide.”

Before I could really have second thoughts about seeing an actual dead body in the flesh, Shirley pulled me into said living room.

And… okay.

Um, trigger warning for, y’know, death. And all that.

Long story short, there was a guy lying on the carpet. Mid-forties, white, dark hair, wearing a green polo and khaki shorts (probably the worst outfit to die in, right up there with dying sans pants like that politician guy in BBC’s Ghosts). In my mind’s eye, I was picturing some sort of bloody stab wound, or strangulation marks, or something like that, but there wasn’t anything like that.

He just looked dead. Dead, clutching at his throat, and with an incredibly pissed expression on his face.

“Has this man been identified yet?” Shirley asked, not even a little bit unnerved.

“Found some business cards and a letter addressed to him in his pockets,” Lestrade said. “Pretty sure this guy’s name is Enoch J. Drebber, and—wait a second, why am I telling you this?”

“Because you’re letting me help, Gordon.” She took out a set of rubber gloves and pulled them over her hands. “Was there an address on those cards?”

Lestrade didn’t answer this time.

Shirley sighed, looking around at the other cops. “Shall we try that again?”

“Somewhere in Cleveland,” a tallish one with blonde box braids said. “He also had a letter addressed to a guy named Joe Stangerson.”

“And I’m assuming that… Enoch…” Shirley made a face as she said it aloud. “Isn’t a resident here?”

Pretty much everyone shook their head.

“Thought so.” She crouched down next to Enoch. “Cause of death?”

“Well, we won’t know until we get an autopsy, will we?” Lestrade said in a low-key mocking tone. “Look, kid, it’s weird that this guy kicked the bucket somewhere he had no business being, but the signs are pointing to either suicide or natural—”

“What’s that under the wallpaper there?” George cut in, pointing to one of the back corners.

The room went quiet for a minute.

“Watson,” Shirley said carefully, still looking down at the corpse, “could you take a closer look at what George has observed?”

Honestly, at this point, I’d genuinely forgotten that I was actually standing in the room and not, say, watching this play out like a movie or a TV show. So I’m not gonna lie, I got a little jumpscared by Shirley addressing me directly.

“Oh, you—” I started.

“I brought you along for a reason, Watson,” she reminded me. “Make yourself useful.”

So, I sidestepped the dead guy and turned on my phone flashlight, aiming it at where the wallpaper was peeling.

There was something there. Writing, to be specific, almost exactly at my eyeline.

“‘Be thou an example,’” I read aloud. “Is that Shakespeare, or—”

“Hello / My name is Elder Price / And I would like to share with you this most amazing book,” Shirley sang under her breath, lifting up Enoch’s hand. “Hello / My name is Elder Grant—”

“Okay, kid, I’ll bite,” Lestrade said with a sigh. “What’s with the Book of Mormon singing?”

Shirley pointed to the body. “Well, he’s Mormon.”

Lestrade scoffed. “Come on, there’s no way you could know that.”

Even though I’d obviously only known Shirley for maybe a week at that point, I already knew what was coming. The hardest part was trying not to laugh in front of the corpse.

“Oh, yes, certainly, Gordon, you’re right, there’s absolutely no way I could know that this man belongs to the Church of Latter-Day Saints,” Shirley drawled, rotating the hand to face Lestrade. “I’m sure that the fact that he’s got callouses and a tan that both suggest years of living in a rural, farmland-heavy area is just an inconsequential detail, the Bible quote scrawled roughly five feet away from his body was something that the previous owners had added, the cross around his neck is ironic, and this class ring from Brigham Young University, a well-known Mormon private college in Utah, is simply a collectable. I’m sure that if you do a background check on this man, you’ll find out that he’s a Catholic or a Methodist or one of those other five billion subsects of Christianity that I really and truly have lost track of.”

It was really hard not to giggle at the expression on Lestrade’s face.

“All right, so he’s a Mormon,” he admitted. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, someone scribbled a Bible quote on the wall, so it might have to do with everything.” Shirley got to her feet. “If one of you could email me the coroner’s report once it’s taken, that would be fantastic. Ask George for my contact information.”

Now, I don’t exactly have my roommate’s impeccable observation skills. Sometimes, I’m really good at spotting little things that are out of place, and other times, a thing could be right in front of me and I’d need it to be shoved into my hands to realize it was there. Maybe it’s the nearsightedness, maybe it’s the ADHD—whatever the case, my brain’s pretty picky and choosy about what it chooses to pick up on.

But I did see Shirley pocket something as she stood up. And nobody else did.

“Judging by where George and Watson found the writing, I would say that the person who wrote it is…” She squinted at the Bible quote, holding out her fingers like an invisible ruler. “Roughly six feet tall, given that most people tend to write at eye level—that definitely disqualifies our corpse as the man who wrote it. I would recommend tracking down this Stangerson fellow, see if he knows anything—and, by the way, what’s the name of the landlord who found the body?”

“John Rance,” Helpful Cop supplied.

“I’ll need his address,” Shirley said, taking out a notebook and scribbling something down. “And again, I really would benefit from a coroner’s report once you have it—what’s your name, by the way?”

Helpful Cop blinked, pointing to herself. “Uh—me?”

“Yes, you. You’ve been very forthcoming.”

“Um—” She stood up straight. “Lisa. I mean, Detective Bradstreet,” she added quickly. “I—I just got promoted, I—”

“Thank you very much, Bradstreet.” Shirley reached out and shook her hand. “George, give her my email, would you? I think I like this one.”

“Kapeesh,” George responded.

“Bradstreet, I assume that this is your case, so I would like to formally request a copy of the coroner’s report,” Shirley continued. “To that end, I would also like to request any information you glean from that background check, and updates on Stangerton.”

“Y—yeah, sure, hang on,” Lisa said, digging out her phone. “I can send you Rance’s address right now, if you want—”

“Bradstreet, the hell are you doing?” Lestrade barked.

Lisa froze. “Um… helping her?”

“Oh, for the love of—”

George cleared her throat. “Dad, if I could, uh, talk to you over here for a sec?”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t try to overhear their conversation, but any attempts at eavesdropping kind of got lost in the sauce as the forensics team picked up the dead Mormon. By the time George finally led us back outside, her dad had the air of someone who a) has been punk’d, and b) has accepted it.

“Well, I just told my dad that if he lets Bradstreet ask you for help on her cases from time to time, I’ll start doing Friday night dinners with him again,” George muttered, steering us back towards the car. “And I gotta introduce Tabby to him, so. You’re welcome.”

“Rough relationship, huh?” I guessed.

George let out a grunt. “Let’s just say that we’re not exactly supportive of each other’s life decisions.”

“Well, it’s good to know I have an in,” Shirley said, checking her phone. “Maybe I can convince her to have a career change at some point—she believes in police reform, right?”

“Oh, yeah, Lisa’s a big believer in changing systems from the inside.”

“I suppose I’ll take what I can get.”

I didn’t ask her about what she’d swiped from the crime scene—at least, not at first. Mostly because I kept on trying to start an actual conversation with George on the way back.

For friendship purposes. Obviously.

But after George dropped us off at the apartment (and I grabbed myself a chocolate croissant, because, well, first dead body and I needed some comfort food), I put myself between Shirley and the coffee machine as soon as we walked in.

“I—this is very rude of you, Watson,” she huffed, trying to step around me. “I let you see a body today, this is—”

I folded my arms. “Spill.”

“Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Shirley, I saw you swipe something from the crime scene,” I snapped. “What the hell was it?”

She drew herself to her full height, which you all know by now isn’t really saying much. “Something that the police overlooked.”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“All right, fine.” Shirley dug into her pocket and pulled out what she’d swiped.

It turned out to be a ring. A wedding ring, from the looks of it.

“Okaaaaaaaay,” I said slowly. “Was that his?”

“What? No, Watson, his fingers were too large for this one—I mean, I did see an indent where a wedding band might have been at some point, indicating that he’s either widowed or divorced, but—oh, that doesn’t matter right now.” She shoved it into my face. “Look.”

I had to clean my glasses to see what she was actually trying to show me.

The wedding band had an inscription. Nothing too fancy, no flowery quotes or anything like that—just a couple of initials.

LF + JH.

“Notice anything unusual?” Shirley asked, visibly brimming with excitement.

“Um…” I shrugged. “The initials don’t match. Probably didn’t belong to his wife… or, well, wives. If he was super devout or something.”

“Exactly,” she whispered. “No external wounds and no clear signs of a struggle could very well indicate death by suicide or natural causes. But if it was either of those things, then why did Enoch J. Drebber die in a for-sale apartment he didn’t live in, with a Bible quote about setting an example scrawled near his corpse, and with a wedding ring belonging to someone else’s wife?”

My brain already started jumping to a few conclusions, but looking at Shirley then, I was ready to bet everything in my savings account that none of my conclusions would be as good as the actual answer.

“So… we really do have a murder to solve,” I concluded.

Shirley pocketed the ring, her grin shifting into a triumphant smirk. “It certainly appears that way.”

“What do we do, then?”

“We wait until I hear back from Bradstreet,” she informed me. “And until then, you continue showing me this very charming show about the twins.”

I gave her a confused look. “I—not that I’m not happy that you like Gravity Falls so far, but why aren’t you immediately jumping onto the case train?”

“Because like it or not, these things take time. And as much as I would love to instantly follow this thread, you look exhausted, and I need to mull this over before I ‘jump on the case train,’ as you so eloquently put it.”

Shirley pushed past me and grabbed a mug, filling it up to the brim with coffee before downing it in full.

“But trust me, Watson,” she added, raising her mug in my direction. “The game is most certainly afoot.”

[girlsin221b]

Shirley Holmes Log #1

Shirley Holmes here. I have been informed by an acquaintance that I should “lay it off with the human tissue experiments so as to not scare my poor new roommate.” However, this would compromise the integrity of the experiment, as bovine or porcine substitutes would yield different data.

However… I have never had a roommate outside of my classmates before and would not like to “scare her off”. How should I proceed?

[girlsin221b]

The Roommate From… Somewhere

Okay, before I get going—I’ve never actually done something like this before.

I mean, yeah, don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a Tumblr account for a few years now, but it’s mostly just been Gravity Falls, Dimension 20, and Locked Tomb fanart. Maybe with some Owl House and Amphibia sprinkled in. Basically, just fun stuff for me.

This is… a little different.

Since this is an account of what’s legit happening in my life—and, let’s be honest, you’re probably gonna be able to Google some of this—we’re throwing anonymity out the window here. I’d say look up “Mormon murder case,” but that doesn’t exactly narrow things down.

So… introductions, and some explanations.

I’m Jade Watson. She/her. I’m twenty years old, I’m from Portland, Oregon, and I just moved to Vancouver. The one in Canada.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Portland and how weird it is, but Portland is where my parents live. And without getting into all the nitty-gritty details, my parents are ex-military, insanely strict, really believe in respecting authority, and have been pushing me to become a doctor since I was a kid.

I, on the other hand, have raging ADHD that I literally just got a diagnosis for, am a “troubled kid” who got into fights in school and developed an “eat the rich” attitude pretty early on, I think that the military causes more problems than good, and the thought of all those years of medical school makes me break out in hives.

So, yeah. I needed to get outta there. Thanks, therapy.

Thankfully, for the past six years, I’ve been in a D&D group on Discord—and believe it or not, we’re actually on our second campaign, and we’ve managed to have regular biweekly meetups against all odds. And, in the past six years, all of the members of the campaign have moved to Vancouver… including me, as of about a week ago.

I’d been “undeclared” at PSU for the past couple years, which, in translation, means that I was completely at a loss for what to do and starting to get more than a little depressed, but once I decided that I was gonna transfer to UBC, I found out that they had a kinesiology program.

In case you don’t know, kinesiology is the scientific study of movement in the human body. It’s kind of like sports science. And since I’ve always been interested in biology, and I’m a bit of a jock—if bouldering and occasionally getting into fistfights makes you a jock—that kind of felt like the perfect thing to study.

So, I put in my transfer, changed my degree, applied for a job at a climbing gym there so I wouldn’t be completely broke in a new city, and had the obligatory fight with my parents about moving to a different country. Apparently, even the fact that I’m studying something medical-adjacent isn’t good enough for the Sergeants Watson.

You see why I had to get out of there, right?

Of course, being practically broke with zero parental support meant that I had to get to Vancouver by myself. The drive isn’t that bad in theory—especially since I didn’t have a lot of stuff to bring—but my car, Betty, is a) roughly my age, and b) not exactly built for long travel.

And there was an accident on the highway.

And the border was a nightmare.

And there was traffic as soon as I got into the city.

Add all of that up, and I arrived at my DM’s house… oh, about six hours later than I said I’d be there.

Lucky for me, Mika’s literally the sweetest, kindest, and most understanding person on the planet.

(Should I go into Mika? I feel like I should go into Mika.)

Okay, uh… can you tell I didn’t plot this out beforehand? Yeah, this is all stream-of-consciousness, I’m sorry about that.

But anyways. Mika Santos.

They’re five years older than me, and their uncle runs a game store near where I grew up—that’s how we met, I told him I was having a hard time finding a group and he immediately told me about his nibling in Canada who was trying to get a group going. And through Mika, I met Daria Lisowski (a take-no-shit kind of person who shows she cares by being brutally honest), Katie Winter (a complete ball of energy and the only member of the group who’s close to my age), and Anoosh Farahmand (a genuine, actual himbo, the likes of which I didn’t think existed in real life until I met him).

Lots of things have happened since we met—Mika and Daria started dating (and got engaged a few months ago!), Katie dumped her shitty boyfriend and got the hell out of her Midwest-small-town, and Anoosh… well, he pretty much just moved to Vancouver because he felt bad about being the only one not in the Pacific Standard time zone, but he’s thriving here. He’s got a boyfriend and everything. So I’m not gonna lie, it felt really good to finally join everyone in the “making a big change in my life” club.

Back to me arriving at Mika’s.

I collapsed onto the couch as soon as I got there—didn’t change or anything, I even forgot to take off my glasses—and I slept for… god, I don’t even know how long. When I woke up, Mika was cooking breakfast, and Daria was very insistent that I take a shower.

Again. Driving for twelve hours.

After I got cleaned up and started chowing down (Mika’s cooking is legendary, by the way, it’s insane that they’re a YouTuber-slash-lighting-technician and not a professional chef), our conversation went like this:

Mika: So, Jade! When do you start at the climbing gym?

Me: *mouth is entirely full of delicious food* Mmph-mmf-mmmph-mmmf.

Mika: Um, what was that?

Me: *swallows* In two weeks. Give or take.

Daria: Hey, look at you. New city, new job, new school, new major—I’m looking at a whole new Jade.

Me: *actually feeling confident* Yeah, I—

Daria: So, have you figured out where you’re gonna live yet?

Me:

Daria:

Mika: Jade?

Me: Whoops.

So… yeah.

Did I mention that I have untreated-until-recently ADHD?

Apparently, amidst all of my planning-out-my-new-life-trajectory stuff, fueled by medication and a better sleep schedule, I figured out everything except where I’m actually going to live.

Brilliant, Watson. Real stroke of genius there.

So, after I screamed into every single pillow in the Santos-Lisowski household—and Daria dumped a glass of water over my head after she decided that I was being too hard on myself—Mika told me that they’d give me a hand finding an apartment, and in the meantime, I could crash with them.

“How the hell am I gonna be able to find an apartment?” I said. “I haven’t even started my job yet, and it’s not like I get an advance on my paycheck.”

“You could find a roommate,” Mika suggested. “It’s usually a good idea to get a roommate or two when you’re finding an apartment, anyway.”

I snorted. “Oh, come on, Mika, who the hell would want me as a roommate?”

At that point, I figured they’d immediately tell me to stop devaluing myself, and Daria was already heading into the kitchen to fill up another water glass. But they just stared at me for a few seconds.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” they said, looking thoughtful. “It’s just… you’re the second person this week who’s asked me that question.”

Huh.

“Who was the first?” I asked, right before Daria poured cold water over me again.

Who was the first? Now, that’s a pretty damn good question.

When Mika offered to introduce us, I said yes. I mean, why not? It wasn’t like I didn’t already know people in Vancouver, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to at least get to know this person a little. Plus, according to Mika, she was a student at UBC, too—they’d met her in a class they took in senior year, and they’d just gotten back in touch. Apparently, this girl already had a bachelor’s degree in criminology under her belt, but she liked the learning aspect of college—excuse me, university—so much that she went back for another round.

Call me crazy, but I was picturing someone who was at least Mika’s age, if not older. Probably someone who was either as sunny and warm as they were, or who was as chic and confident as Daria. Someone nerdy, but still relatively normal.

As you can probably guess, that’s not who I was about to meet.

Instead of meeting up at a coffee shop or a library or somewhere you’d normally meet a prospective roommate, we met at a storage unit. A storage unit that had been converted into a full-on mad scientist’s lab.

Okay, maybe not a mad scientist’s lab, but a full lab in a storage unit doesn’t exactly scream “regular person,” and I was definitely not going to meet a regular person.

“Mika, if she’s a serial killer, you legally have to tell me,” I said in an undertone as we walked inside.

“Nah, she’s not a serial killer. The opposite, actually.” Mika raised her voice. “Hey-o! Anyone home?”

Before I could ask what exactly “the opposite” meant, my mystery maybe-roommate came out from behind one of the desks full of beakers.

So. Lemme pause for a second, and do a little word-picture here. And yeah, it has to be a word picture, because my Apple Pencil’s broken at the moment.

The girl standing in front of me was Black, and at least a full head shorter than me—not that that’s saying much, I’m the definition of “gangly,” but without the heeled boots, I would’ve been surprised if she was taller than five feet two. Between the long, twin-braided pigtails and the black-and-purple Victorian-Gothic outfit, she looked like she was either cosplaying Wednesday Addams or trying to pass as a vampire. Or both.

I’m not kidding about the outfit, by the way. Aside from lab goggles and rubber gloves, this girl was dressed like Mina Harker with pants.

Did Mina Harker wear pants?

I haven’t read Dracula.

“Um.” I raised my hand. “Hi, I’m—”

“She’s not an art major, is she?” the girl asked, surprising me even further by speaking with a posh British accent—apparently, it’s called an RP accent, though I wasn’t really aware of the distinction at the time. “You know I don’t mind creative-types, Santos, I’m acquaintances with you, after all, but living with one—”

“She’s a kinesiology major,” Mika jumped in, grinning from ear to ear. “Fitting, right? She’s studying bodies in motion, and you—”

“Are studying bodies in rigor mortis,” she finished, giving her a black-lipsticked smile. “Yes, very amusing, Santos, but she is an artist.”

Mika shrugged. “Thought you didn’t have a problem with creative-types.”

“No, I don’t.” The girl let out a sigh. “I suppose I have nothing to complain about, I do play the violin. Besides, paintings and sculptures are a good way to decorate an apartment.”

I frowned, definitely confused at this point. “Uh, I mostly do digital art these days? And how did—”

“Oh, digital art, perfect, why didn’t you say so? I adore animation, it’s a science on its own, truly fascinating stuff.” Before I could tell her that I wasn’t exactly an animator, she took off her lab glasses and held out her hand to shake. “Lovely to meet you, Miss…?”

Not knowing what else to do, I shook her hand. “Jade. Jade Watson.”

“Well, Watson, I’m honored to make your acquaintance,” she said (she actually said that, I’m not even kidding). “My name is Shirley Holmes, and my pronouns are she and her. I’m from London, in case you couldn’t tell via my accent, and I’ll be attending the University of British Columbia this fall, studying mortuary sciences. This will be my second time attending this fascinating college, and my first time attending the undergraduate program as an adult.”

Yeah. You read that right.

Adult.

“Sorry, wait—how old are you?” I asked.

Shirley gave me a confused expression. “Why—twenty, same as you. Did Santos not tell you that?”

“Ah, I figured I’d let the two of you be surprised,” Mika said, giving both of us a shoulder squeeze. “I know you like getting first impressions of people, Shirley, and I wanted to see how Jade would react.”

“You didn’t warn her about my eccentricies?” Shirley repeated.

Mika shook their head.

“Ah.” She clicked her tongue. “That explains the expression on Watson’s face.”

I had an expression on my face. Apparently.

Shirley clasped her hands and looked me in the eye. “Watson, you should know that while I do my level best to be as sociable, as polite, and as charming as I can, there are several things about me that, while I could certainly mask in a social setting, would absolutely be impossible to hide if we were to live together.”

“Okay…”

“I am, apparently, a genius,” she continued. “This might come as a surprise, as I am a very poor student when it comes to subjects that I am not personally interested in, but in this world, having a photographic memory, excellent observation skills, and a reading level far above those your age means that you skip four grades and forego several valuable years of learning how to connect with your peers. Also, my quote-unquote status as ‘a gifted individual—’” she did air quotes— “comes with a hefty dose of neurodivergence, as I am not only autistic, but I also suffer from mild OCD and anxiety. I am sure that one look at my outfit tells you all you need to know about my taste in decor, I often conduct experiments that smell odd at best and are considered ‘grotesque’ at worst, I play the violin when I have difficulty sleeping, and I’ve been told that I have an unreasonable addiction to coffee and caffeine as a whole. Taking all of those things into consideration, am I truly someone who you would want as a roommate?”

She’d been talking incredibly fast up until that point, and her mouth pretty much snapped shut as she waited for me to respond.

Now… hearing all of that, I’m sure a lot of people would’ve said no. I wasn’t gonna judge her for being neurodivergent—I’d be a hypocrite if I did—but goth decor, mad-sciency experiments, midnight violin, and a tiny genius hopped up on expresso are probably all dealbreakers for someone else.

But I had already been rehearsing a speech about my ADHD, and how I’d only just started medication. I was all prepared to warn Shirley that the littlest thing could set me off when I was feeling stressed, that I was still learning how to be a functioning adult and human being, that I’d probably brought a lot of my Portlander habits with me and would insist on composting, taking public transit when we could afford it, and finding out if Vancouver had a version of Ridwell so a tiny part of me didn’t die inside when we threw away plastics with regular waste.

And though I know by know that she would never admit it, Shirley looked a lot like she was trying not to panic and/or cry.

“That’s fine,” I told her, shrugging as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

She blinked, shaking her head a few times. “That’s—really?”

“I mean, it’s gonna take some getting used to, don’t get me wrong, but you’re not the only one with weird shit,” I admitted. “I’ve got anger issues that I’m still working on. And I just got diagnosed with ADHD.”

“Oh.” Shirley visibly relaxed at that. “If you’d like, I can assist you in getting accommodations set up with disability services.”

“I… that’d be great, yeah.”

She paused. “So, just to clarify, because I do need things clearly stated at times—you would like to be my roommate?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“You would put up with me, and all my oddities, for the sake of having a decent roof over your head?”

“That’s what I’m saying, yeah.”

She didn’t talk for a full minute.

Mika snapped their fingers in front of her face. “Um, Shirles? You—”

“EXCELLENT!” Shirley shrieked, grabbing my hands. “Watson, I promise you, you will not regret this decision, and I will make sure of it! Tell me something—are you a fan of baked goods?”

“Of course I’m a fan of baked goods, what does that have to do with—”

“Perfect.” She let go of my hands and pulled out her phone. “I have my eye on a very nice apartment above this lovely little bakery called Hudson’s—I’m on excellent terms with the owner, I go there every Saturday morning and I have a feeling you two will get along swimmingly. If I could have your phone number?”

“Woah, woah, wait, hang on,” I interrupted. “Don’t you want to know a little bit more about me?”

She stopped. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” I gestured to myself. “All you know about me is that I’m an ADHD artist and a kinesiology major, and you probably know that I play D&D. Don’t you want to—”

“Ah, yes, that. Did you drive here in your car?”

These are the kinds of questions that Shirley Holmes asks.

“To the storage unit, or to Vancouver?”

She thought for a second. “Both, I suppose.”

“I mean, the answer to both those questions is yes, but—”

“May I see it?”

Out of sheer curiosity more than anything, I told her she could see it.

As soon as we went outside and she got a good look at it, she turned back to me. “Watson, are you genuinely passionate about kinesiology, or are you simply studying it because you hoped it would make your parents approve of your move to Canada?”

I am not joking.

That is legit what she said.

I immediately turned to Mika. “What did you—”

“I told her nothing,” they said, holding up their hands. “This is just how she operates, swear to God.”

“It is how I operate,” Shirley confirmed. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

This fucking girl.

“Okay.” I put my hands on my hips. “Before I answer your question, walk me through how looking at Betty got you to ask that question in the first place.”

“Why, certainly.” She cleared her throat.

And then proceeded to blow my mind.

“Now, Santos deliberately told me absolutely nothing about you, repeatedly insisting that they wanted to see me ‘work my magic’ on you firsthand,” she began, starting to walk around Betty. “However, based on your accent alone, I was able to deduce that you are from the Pacific Northwest, and the fact that you were able to drive here only confirms that. And while I’m sure that I would’ve been able to figure out exactly where you were from in other ways, the ‘keep Portland weird’ bumper sticker on… Betty here indicates that you are from the land of Laika Studios, Powell’s Books, and Voodoo Donuts. I am quite jealous about that first part, by the way, The Boxtrolls was one of my favorite movies as a child.

“However, this car, while clearly well-loved, is rather old, and I highly doubt that it is something that most parents would allow their child to drive across state lines in, let alone border lines, and a quick glance inside the windows shows that you have quite a bit of personal belongings in the backseat and trunk. If your parents approved of your decision to move to Canada, I would wager that they would either offer to drive you or purchase a plane ticket to Vancouver, and either way, they would have your things shipped after you arrived.

“Beyond that, you are very much dressed in a punk fashion—and I did notice both a ‘fuck the police’ and an ‘eat the rich’ bumper sticker on your car, both of which I wholeheartedly approve of—”

Mika coughed. “Says the rich kid.”

“I’m more than aware of my own privilege, Santos, and my parents are nowhere near billionaire status.” Shirley rested a hand on Betty’s hood. “Taking that in with the alarmingly long ponytail and the rough, paint-stained hands of an artist and an athlete—rock climbing, I suspect, judging by the callouses—and you have yourself the picture of a free-spirited rebel against society… and yet, you have absolutely impeccable posture. So…” She raised an eyebrow. “This one is a bit of a reach, I’ll admit, but I’m guessing… military parents? Or parents who simply believed in decorum?”

I want you guys to understand that I asked Shirley to recount exactly what she said for this blog post, just so I didn’t miss anything.

Look, I believed her when she said she was a genius. But it’s one thing for someone to tell you they’re a genius, and it’s another thing for them to get one look at you and your car and immediately read you for filth.

“Military,” I finally managed. “And—and I am passionate about kinesiology. I love my art, but—”

“It’s a hobby,” Shirley concluded. “One that you feel you would lose passion for if you were forced to do it for a living.”

Completely out of things to say, I just gave her a nod.

Shirley started to look a little unsure. “I am correct, am I not? Your parents—”

“They wanted me to be a doctor,” I told her. “A real doctor, not sports medicine. And, well, I’m pretty sure they also wanted me to join the army someday, so if I move to a different country…”

“Ah.” She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “I’m not going to lie, I was rather hoping that I’d missed the mark on this one.”

“They’re just—strict,” I said lamely. “A lot of expectations. They’ll get over it eventually.”

And you know what? Maybe they will. Maybe time away from them is what I need, and time away from me is what they need to realize that they should’ve done a better job supporting me. Or, at least, gotten me tested at any point between the ages of zero and eighteen.

Yeah, Shirley, I know you don’t believe me.

And yes, I know that you’re reading this over my shoulder, just because you’re short doesn’t mean I can’t tell you’re there.

Don’t touch my meat sticks.

Thank you.

So, yeah. As you can probably guess, we did, in fact, move in together.

Shirley might be a terrifyingly perceptive, unnervingly cheery, overcaffeinated goth genius, but she’s also incredibly interesting, which is a win in my book. And, y’know, it’s nice to have a fellow queer and neurodivergent roommate.

Oh, yeah, I’m bi. Did I not mention that?

Shirley’s looking over my shoulder again and telling me that I didn’t mention that.

And she just gave me the a-okay to let you guys know that she’s a demisexual lesbian, so… ladies, you’re in luck.

Aaaaaaaand she’s rolling her eyes and walking away.

Pretty sure that’s, like, her fourth cup of coffee. She was not kidding about that addiction.

Anyway, we met up last week to take a tour of the apartment and sign the lease, and—can I just say, our apartment could’ve been the shittiest studio in the world, and I still would’ve signed the lease, because the smell from the bakery alone is heaven. Seriously, guys, if you’re ever in Vancouver, stop by Hudson’s. The four-and-a-half star rating is well deserved.

Shirley introduced me to Hudson, who turned out to be a full half-foot taller than me, three times as wide, and with a glorious salt-and-pepper beard that’s the perfect combination of scruffy and well-groomed. I can also confirm that he gives the best hugs in the history of ever, and always smells like cinnamon.

Since Hudson lives in the apartment below us, I also got to meet his husband. His name is Lawrence Chen, he’s incredibly chill and weirdly funny, and he’s a criminal defense lawyer.

Yep, you read that right. He’s a lawyer named Lawrence.

He goes by Larry. Well, to everyone but Shirley.

But yeah, our apartment is actually way better than I thought it’d be. It’s a two-bed, one-bath, with a full kitchen and more than enough space for a comfy living room setup—and a fire escape for Shirley to do late-night pondering sessions on. Hudson gave us permission to decorate the apartment however we’d like, walls included, so she’s been watching this show called Gothic Homemakers for the past few days in order to get “proper inspiration.”

As long as she lets me put up some paintings and goes easy on the skulls, I’m cool with what she decides.

At this point, you might be wondering: “Jade, why the hell are you doing all of this? I mean, yeah, Shirley definitely seems like a unique character, but how come you’re typing this all up for the Internet to see?”

Well, as I very recently learned, Shirley is studying mortuary sciences so she can, in her words, get a university experience that’ll “allow me to interact more with those my age, so I can make up for the years I could’ve spent studying and deciphering the fascinatingly complex social rituals of my generation.” No interest in becoming a mortician at all.

But she is putting that criminology degree to good use. Because in her spare time, Shirley is… wait for it…

An amateur sleuth.

I am being one hundred percent serious. My new roommate is a goth, Gen Z version of Nancy Drew.

And pretty much immediately after we signed the lease, she wound up taking me on one of her cases. It was definitely one of the freakiest experiences of my life…

But if I’m gonna be honest? It was also the most fun.

So, if any of this intrigues you, I’m going to be writing down the whole thing in full, as best as I can remember—and I’ll probably need to ask Shirley for help, since she’s the one with the photographic memory and all. Of course, if mysteries aren’t your thing, feel free to scroll past.

But if mysteries are your thing…

Well.

Welcome to the blog of Jade H. Watson. And have fun reading as I tell you about my adventures with Shirley Holmes.