To make one thing clear right at the beginning: I do not believe in exaggerated romance stuff and I clearly "stand with both my feet on the earth" (literally, 100% literally my dears). But this, oh, who would have seen this coming? It doesn't happen every day that- Oh, I'm still so flattered! Let me try to explain this properly, because I think you have no clue what I'm talking about.
My mother was a proud goat, living on the greenest of green hills in Tibet, eating only the best food and she got only the best hairbrush for her beautiful child.
My father never met my mother- you as human beings probably won't understand how this can work, but that's because you have so less imagination, pah! Just keep in mind that it works; otherwise I wouldn't be here. Where am I? Ah, yes. My father...
My father was the sewing machine that made out of the bale wool I was –after brutal being ripped away from my mother's warm skin and after I almost drowned in cobalt blue and black water- an, oh, so beautiful long, smooth, indigo blue, warm ... scarf.
...
3
...
To be serious, my first long journey around the earth in the aeroplane to this big city called London was exciting. And even the first weeks in the store were fun; it wasn't an ordinary store, I'm nothing cheap- keep that in mind. A lot of people came in and I laid there and watched them trying on jackets and cloaks and gloves and shirts and funny hats...and scarves. But somehow nobody, or only a few, wanted to try me on. I still don't get why- I am so beautiful, am I not? And I laid right behind the glass of the window, so everybody could see me! Everybody! Men, women, children, policemen, firemen, bankers, teachers, pupils, students, priests, doctors, criminals, bakers, journalists, photographs, advocates . . . Argh! Somebody, anybody and everybody could have seen me and could have wanted to buy me immediately.
But nobody wanted me and so I ended up in the corner of a shelf between other scarves, which weren't even half as beautiful as me! It was a shame, really, a break of my self-esteem and made me depressive for a long time. I began to ask myself what was wrong with me. I didn't want to believe that it was my obvious beauty. Maybe the price? I really wasn't cheap, but somehow my qualities had to be shown or not? But the store even went down with the price for the half and still nobody wanted to buy me. Sure, now and then someone would come to look at me, try me on, and lay me back. Boring, very depressing.
And then, on a grey rainy day, when I had almost lost all my hope, everything should change.
Lying since almost two years in the same corner, drowning in my depressions and trying to overhear the silly talks of the other clothes –oh, they talk so much, it's annoying!- I didn't notice that someone had entered; Even if I had, I probably hadn't cared, because nothing mattered to me anymore and I was angry that suicide isn't possible for clothes. Stupid thing if you cannot move yourself.
"Another one, another one!"
Selma's (a blue white check shirt) high voice woke me up.
"Come over here, darling!"
"Shut up, Clara! He doesn't want gloves, he already has some!"
"Aww, he looks handsome!"
"And so public school! 3"
I still don't know why so many of the clothes made for men have female characters. It is amusing, because female clothes are exactly like women. Like very talk active women. What else can we do? And it has no sense to think about a Magna Charta for clothes, because nobody will ever hear us and we don't move or have a heart or "live" in the way human beings, plants and animals do... so we don't have any revolutionists who want to change the system or philosophers. We just sit there and watch the earth moving around the sun and talk about the silly things our owners do and -of course- their outward appearance. I mean, it's not only them who want to look good, but us! Why should we want to be worn by someone who is ugly? I wonder if you human beings know about this. What would you say, if you knew your wardrobe is watching you? And we can see everything! Really, I pity the underwear... (But that's not the topic now.)
"I'm not sure", replied Frank, the cloak on the in-store mannequin beneath me. "He scares me- his eyes are so intense!"
"You have no idea, Frank!"
"Yes, you are only jealous because he already has a very pretty cloak!"
"Don't be ridiculous, girls!"
It was so easy to upset Frank and our main activity when no customers came. He was one of the few male clothes in the shop.
Mr Burton's voice, the vender, made everyone in the room quiet- we all wanted to hear, what the customer was looking for. Well, except me. I was still trying to get some sleep.
"Afternoon, Sir! How may I help you?"
"No, thank you. I already know what I want."
And suddenly I was awake. Immediately awake. There was something in this voice, I still cannot tell what it is, that hypnotized me. Clear it was, a bit rough, but not like the rough voice of a smoker or an old man, more like as if you sound a bronze bell, which laid alone in a dusty tower, unseen and not often to be heard, but more beautiful than any other bell. Then I saw the man himself.
Oh!
Oooooooooh!
Forget Jane Austen, forget Shakespear, forget this "Twilight" stuff- this is real love!
Come here, please!, I thought. You need a scarf, you SO need a scarf, right?
However, it took the dark brown haired man with the incredible grey eyes not more than 5 seconds to find the shelves where we (the scarves) all laid together. I had been right, he needed a scarf. I tried my best to look very beautiful and smiled... I even forgot that human beings never see us smile, but hey, who cares? He's the love of my live.
Beneath me I heard the other scarves whisper and giggle. Of course everyone wanted to be bought by him, but who needs more than one scarf? More than one beautiful scarf? Although I was a little panicking, because I laid under eight other scarves, his cold hands (Oh, so pleasant!) found me very quickly.
The Lord -he could only be from the upper class, no doubt. His whole appearance yelled it out.- stared at me for four seconds.
I smiled.
One... still smiling...Two...smiiiiiiile!...Three...blinkblink with my imaginated eyes...Four...Meow!...
"I take this one." And with a FLATSH he threw me on the table.
Yes, yes, yes! My mind spun around and I was going somewhere to heaven. He had decided to buy me. Me! Not the other ugly things in the store.
5th of Nov. 2004, 15:35 And that is the whole story. This is the beginning of our deep and everlasting love.
My name is Blue, I'm a beautiful cashmere scarf and I'm going to chase a criminal now (Sherlock's metaphor for our first date 3). After that I'll see his house for the first time, I'm excited, really. I'm sure, he lives like a king in a large house with butlers and it's all clean
It was nice to meet you.
...
P.S.: Keep your hands off Mister Sherlock Holmes, he's mine.
-BONUS:
Sherlock's POV:
5th of November 2004, 15:27, Trafalgar Square.
Went to the shop Mike recommended.
Vendor was 42, married since 5 years (+/- 1), had a son of the age of 5 and was waiting for the hospital to call, because his wife is awaiting the second child. Takes me no longer than 37 seconds to deduce this. I'm still sick, damn this nasty cold; otherwise I'd be faster.
Mycroft told I should buy a scarf, since I never close my cloak to the top; that's why I always get a cold- I care to less for my health, he says- he even gave me £200 to buy one (how sick does he think am I?). I don't care what he says, but I have to admit he's right and if he wants to waste money, please, he should do it- I'm the last person who would hinder him. Need a scarf.
Most of the scarves in the store are awfully made up and modern. Not exactly my style.
I don't want to go this fashion-whatever-thing in Paris, I'm chasing criminals and all I want is a normal scarf! Something that isn't ruined when it falls in blood, water or mud, can stand the old washing machine in my apartment and the idiotic talks of Anderson.
Ah, found something. God, what is this? Might have been a scarf two years ago, looks more like a dusty kitchen towel now. What, that is supposed to be cashmere?
Blue, black, but somehow nostalgic- melancholic. Like it. Buy it. Case closed.
16:08. Home.
Alone the scarf looks ugly. But that doesn't matter, because I am wearing it and it suits perfect. And it suits my cloak.
Also perfect to be used as towel (-can't find mine, maybe I put it in the bin...).
6th of November 2004, hospital, 11:47.
Molly says she likes my scarf. She likes everything I wear, I wonder if she's planning something? Strange girl. But she makes good coffee.
9th of November 2004, 13:01. Scotland Yard.
Met Mycroft (I didn't ask for it, he caught me before I saw him). He's pleased to see I've followed his advice ("Glad to see you finally obey the commands of your older brother, Sherlock."). I say that's not quite true ("I just came to the conclusion that your orders don't always sound that stupid, so I risked to give it a try."). Mycroft is not amused ("Mummy always said you looked cute with a scarf, but this one is ugly- I want my money back, Sherlock!"). I hate when he behaves like this (which is always the case), so I turn around and go, denying to look at him a last time. He just stands there and is speechless.
Point for me.
(...Yes, somehow the scarf is ugly, but it is my scarf and nobody is allowed to say something against it.)
Mycroft's POV:
9th of November 2004, 13:03. Scotland Yard.
Sherlock is just walking away, after I said this blue thing around his neck is not better than a kitchen towel or a mop. Truth is truth, little one.
Think he's just pissed, because he knows I'm right.
(And Mummy really always said he looks cute with a scarf!)
Geez, how he turned around, with this supposed-to-impress-me look on his face.
Drama Queen.
...
My umbrella beats his ugly wet mop a hundred times!
P.P.S.: Hi there, Blue again
Mycroft just called me a kitchen towel! D:
Barry's (*Mycroft's brolly) POV:
9th of November 2004, 13:03. Scotland Yard.
My Lord and Master had again a little argument with his "beloved" brother. I'm bored by it, really. But I don't complain, because Master Mycroft treated my since the whole ten years we know each other with a lot of respect and friendliness. And I'm glad, because an umbrella like me is a special accessoire and nothing like a newspaper you read and then never look at it again.
But, I have to admit that it seems even Sherlock has found a nice companion. This scarf... I've never seen something so beautiful and female (well, Lady Anthea's Blackberry isn't bad as well, but she's always busy...). I hope we visit Sherlock soon again- I'd like to meet this lovely scarf-lady again.
