My muse has serious commitment issues. Does anyone know a good therapist?
It was an October morning when I first became acquainted with Miss Aoife Holmes. The weather was dull; the rain falling listlessly in a fine grey mist that despite it's feeble appearance was sure to drench any unhappy soul who had the misfortune to be outside within a few short minutes.
I had no desire to go out in the dismal weather and Holmes had no case that would require him to leave the warmth of 221b Baker Street and so we spent the morning in our shared rooms. Holmes was once again updating his extensive index and although he seemed content, I could sense one of his black moods, which were so often the culmination of a successful case, steeling slowly over him. The combination of a lack of stimuli to occupy his mind and the knowledge that he was likely to be confined to our rooms for several days, until the had weather improved sufficiently, was leading to an unsettling sense of ennui within him.
Consequently I could not help but feel relief (for I had no wish to see him turn once more to the cocaine bottle) when Mrs Hudson came up the stairs to announce that we had a visitor who had refused to give a name. Holmes looked up, interest plain in his keen eyes and bade Mrs Hudson to send the visitor up. Shortly we heard light footsteps on the stairs and in due course, a gentle tapping on the door. When Holmes did not immediately invite the visitor in, I glanced at him and saw that he was looking at the door with an expression of disconcertion and mild distain.
I was about to request that our guest entered when the door opened and a slim lady entered the room, her quick eyes taking in the cluttered and untidy vista that was our dwelling. She was strikingly beautiful, taller than most other members of her sex she used her height to her advantage and allowed it to give her a commanding presence even in these unfamiliar surroundings. Our guest had pale skin, waiflike grey eyes and a cascade of dark curls; her dramatic and bold appearance was further emphasized by the deep red dress she wore.
"Sherlock!" she cried as sat down unbidden onto the sofa gently pushing aside a wad of papers to make room. Holmes barely glanced up. As our visitor entered he had returned to his indexes, the brief interest that Mrs Hudson had managed to spark waning.
"Aoife how lovely to see you again" he said dryly without taking his eyes off the newspaper he was butchering, "I'll trust you'll be as good as to close the door as you leave."
Our visitor, Miss Aoife, did not allow herself to react to Holmes' subtle dismissal. She was examining our rooms with a surprisingly sharp gaze and I was left to ponder how she had become acquainted with Holmes. Had I not been witness to my friends distrust and general dislike of women on numerous occasions I would have presumed that this woman was an old lover such was the familiarity with which she had called my companion's name.
"I see that despite advancing somewhat in years your aversion to tiding has remained intact." Miss Aoife commented as she continued to survey the room, her eyes lingering for a moment on the jack knife that pinned Holmes' correspondence to the mantelpiece.
"A stunning deduction." Holmes responded wryly. I listened to the exchange with a considerable amount of confusion. I, however, was the only one at a disadvantage; neither our guest nor Holmes seemed to regard the situation as abnormal. Holmes glanced up and noticed my bewilderment.
"I'm terribly sorry Watson." said he, "Let me introduce Aoife Holmes, my first cousin." My jaw didn't drop but it was a close thing. I'd always assumed Holmes to be without a family, in fact it had been barely a month since I first learnt of the existence of his brother, and yet now I was being introduced to another family member.
I looked over at Aoife who gave me a polite nod before switching her attention back to her cousin. I wondered idly how I had not noticed the resemblance between them before. The dark hair, the sharp features and the intelligent grey eyes, as well as the familiar manner with which they spoke to each other should have informed me that this was a family member. But of course, as Holmes is fond of telling me, I see but I do not observe.
"Is this a social call or is there something particular you wish to speak to me about?" Holmes asked. I stood, unwilling to intrude and thinking I could go up to my room and turn my attention to my latest book. Holmes, however, waved a hand, gesturing that I should sit back down
"You don't need to leave Watson." when Aoife offered no contradiction I took my seat again.
"As to why I have called on you this morning surely you can deduce that for yourself." there was a slight challenge in Aoife's voice. Holmes simply smiled and reached for his pipe.
"A simple deduction. You have never called merely to exchange social niceties as we both believe them to be dull and unimportant. Therefore something inexplicable must have happened which you wish me to investigate." Aoife gave a little laugh.
"Right as always." she said. Holmes lit his pipe.
"Doctor Watson could tell you that I am not completely infallible. There have been one or two little problems to which the solution, I confess, has escaped even me."
"How did you deduce that the problem is one I want you to investigate?"
"Simplicity in itself. If the problem required thinking only you would have gone to Mycroft." Aoife laughed and I remembered how freely Holmes admitted Mycroft was his intellectual superior.
"You're quite right of course. My problem is a strange one and one that will require your investigation skills. Last night a man was murdered-"
"Commonplace." murmured Holmes. Aoife continued as though Holmes had not spoken.
"-on stage. In front of an audience who were watching the third to last performance of a play by Edward Scott, a relatively new but immensely talented playwright." I listened with interest to Aoife and I looked over at Holmes and saw with relief that he too was listening with great interest. It looked as though his black mood was, for the moment, staved off.
"The blunt knife used as a prop had been replaced with a real knife."
Written in a very boring lesson at school (my school may have turned into a draconian prison over the summer holidays but at least they have unblocked fanfiction).
I'm feeling very unconfident about my writing at the moment and I'm finding it very difficult to want to write (with the exception of this but I think that was only because I was really really bored) so I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up. Hopefully soon because this doubt about my writing is very depressing as writing used to be one of the only things I was sure I was okay at. :s
Thank you very much for reading. I really hope you enjoyed it.