Update: 3/1/05 Just breezing through to correct some grammar mistakes. I'm sorry this fic will probably remain unfinished...I just can't bring myself to write the church scene that should go in the fourth chapter! I dunno why...but know that I am still very fond of this fic, nonetheless.
The Mystery of the White Rabbit
A crossover between Sherlock Holmes and Alice in Wonderland
by ArchFaith
It appeared to be a child, no doubt of that. It was perched in a luxurious seat, the sole occupant of a carriage which had made the long journey from Christchurch to London. In the purple velvet lining of the opulent nest, she looked like a small, frail doll, with beautiful blonde ringlets crowning her glorious head, with a dainty blue ribbon to match. Her green eyes, enchanted with all the delights of a forest-born pixie, stared regally ahead. Her clothes were of no less note; a red cloak, white fur hat and muff indicated her position in life, that of a wealthy child. Underneath she donned a blue satin frock, with bell sleeves and a lacy collar. Over this she had on a white cotton play apron, even though she was not playing at anything; her expression silently conveyed this. Underneath her dress peaked an exquisite slip and undershorts which tied at her knees. Black patent shoes and white stockings completed the far-off look the girl wore.
The carriage made its way through the crowded city streets, past tenements and beggars, prostitutes and politicians. The bustling marketplaces, the sophisticated restaurants, the philosophical salons...all wonderful. It was that time of day when everything appears to turn dark blue, and the girl was fascinated. She had never been to London before, and the even the white foggy sky held a particular feeling of excitement for her.
"Still," she whispered to herself, "it would be so much nicer if I were coming to London for a more pleasant holiday." She sighed, and resigned herself to staring out the window, at the freedom of those around her.
She knew what the house looked like, even if she had never seen it. The carriage turned a corner and she found herself staring at it. It was a tall, narrow townhouse, crowded on both sides by similar, low-class looking homes. It was constructed of brown brick, and the door number read, "221B". "B"? How crude.
She prayed the carriage would not stop in front of it, but it did; she found herself mechanically descending the iron stairs, looking back as the coachman unloaded her luggage. Resignedly she stared up at the house and sighed. "Goodness," she muttered as she swung the knocker.
A few minutes the door finally opened. She found herself staring up at a tall young man, about twenty years of age. He was dressed quite commonly; cheap brown pants, a crisp white shirt, and a black vest. Quite common. His hair was long and waved past his ears, and his green eyes, the same shade as hers, looked down upon her. "Ah, hello Alice," he greeted, extending his hand.
"Sherlock," Alice answered, grasping his hand. "Ah, but there's another name too...Shelley?" Her wiry cousin smiled with a tired grin.
"You've called me that ever since you were a baby, Alice," he said, looking at the unusually large amount of luggage that now stood in front of the stoop. "And all that is yours, I see...well, go inside, I'll bring it in."
Mr. Sherlock Holmes-darling Shelley. The black sheep of the family. Her cousin.
Everyone had expected so much to come of this blooming addition to the Holmes legacy—a politician, a doctor, some kind of influential gentleman. His brother Mycroft had taken him under his wing, as an intern in his government office, when Sherlock had been sixteen. It hadn't worked from the start; Sherlock complained, bungled things on purpose, was even found with a small amount of opium once. His heart, he claimed, wasn't in it. No, it was to be found fluttering in criminal investigations.
Detective work.
No word need be said about the Holmes family's attitudes towards detectives. Low, grimy work, fit for sons of factory workers and immigrants. Catering and serving to a client, even putting one's life in danger! Unheard of by this genteel, social family.
But Sherlock had defied them and started his business as soon as he reached the age of eighteen. He had moved out of Mycroft's home and gotten this small house on Baker Street. Of course, his purse was bottomless; to accomplish this rebellious feat, he had borrowed money from the only two sympathizers he left in the family—Lord and Lady Holmes, his aunt and uncle. Alice's parents.
That had been little less than six months ago. The sum borrowed, to buy the house, groceries, clothes, start up an agency—had been three thousand pounds. A very large sum, and it needn't be mentioned that Sherlock wouldn't be able to repay this sum for quite a while. In this time he was at their whim—whatever strange favor they might ask of him, he would perform it out of politeness.
So Alice was to visit him for a "month". She had never seen London before, they argued, she would love the sights and sounds of the city. But why send her to stay in some luxuriously cold hotel when she could stay in the cozy abode of her own cousin? Darling Shelley!
Sherlock clearly appeared frazzled as he appeared in the doorway, framed by his own debt and scrimping life. Alice moved aside to let him down onto the sidewalk, where he tipped the carriage driver and started moving the heavy luggage into the house.
Alice went inside and looked about the house. It looked extremely poor and under-furnished. No carpet lay on the bare hall; to the right, what looked like a parlor was decorated with shabby furniture, a brown faded sofa with tears on its seat, two green flowered armchairs sitting next to a cracked hearth, dusted with old ash. A rather depressing picture of a squalid sea hung on the parlor wall. Alice, pitying its poverty, sat down upon the sofa, clearly uncomfortable. She waited patiently as Shelley brought in her various articles, his chest heaving with each effort.
"I thought you were only staying a month, my dear child," the young detective admonished, wiping the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve.
Alice wrinkled her nose. "What right have you to call me a child when you're only eighteen?"
Shelley smiled, his brown freckles showing through his light skin. To supplement his income until his business picked up, he had worked as a printer's assistant, twenty blocks away from where he lived on Baker St. Of course, ordering a hansom every day was quite unnecessary; he walked, and the sun dappled his skin with each stroll. "Well then," he started. "Shall I dazzle you with my unique powers of observation?"
Alice shook her head. "You're hopeless, Shelley. I do think you've gone mad."
"Then how is it that I know that your dear kitten bid you a fond farewell when you started out yesterday morning?"
Alice sighed. She wasn't in the mood for such nonsense. It was difficult enough that her parents had sent her on a 'holiday'. Now her mad cousin was trying to perform parlor tricks in front of her eyes. Clown.
"Alright then...I suppose I should explain our arrangements," Sherlock said, observing her disgust, cursing himself that he had actually annoyed a child. "I attend to my temporary position on Tuesdays and Thursdays at six o'clock in the morning to seven o'clock in the evening. All other days of the week I tend to my cases. Save Sunday, of course, where we shall attend church. During my absences I've asked my landlady, Mrs. Hudson, to look after you when you come home from school, and when I'm out doing my investigations."
"Landlady?" Alice again wrinkled her nose. "You haven't got a housekeeper?"
Sherlock's eyes grew smaller. "I'll have one as soon as I earn enough," he answered.
"And what's this school?"
"Madame Corrington's Academy for Young Ladies. A hansom will take you there each day at seven o'clock. You'll arrive home at four o'clock."
"Will I have many other girls in my class?"
"From what I've heard, perhaps about seven or eight."
Alice sat back and took her hands out of her muff. "At home I had a private tutor, and I was the only person in my class."
Sherlock was clearly getting irritated. "Alice, you must remember that you are living with me for God knows how long your parents wish me to keep you. Your education, your nourishment, and your shelter are earned through my work, and it's no small task, having to rise so early and work at two jobs—one to be my career, and the other to keep me from starving."
"I see," Alice answered plainly. "I shall go to bed early, dear cousin? I'm rather tired."
"Yes...yes, do that," Sherlock answered, glancing at the broken clock on the mantle, which read seven-thirty. "Shall I get your nightgown from your suitcase for you?"
"Please," Alice answered, ascending the stairs to see her new bedroom, which she could be assured with plastered in peeling pink wallpaper with a second hand mattress covering the bedframe.
(-)
She disliked living like this, living like a poor girl, with a broken down shell of a house as a shelter, a poverty-stricken teenager as her guardian. Her pretty, girlish room in Christchurch was replaced by a smelly old room over looking the alley ways of the backstreets. Her normally delectable meals were a mixture of Mrs. Hudson's no-nonsense London cooking and Sherlock's often-burnt concoctions. Mrs. Hudson was another story. Her Nurse back home had been a kind, gentle middle-aged woman who wore soft cotton gowns and sang to her before she drifted off to bed. Mrs. Hudson was a complete opposite. She wore her hair in a hard knot, wore stiff gowns with a pleated apron, and rarely had anything to say to little Alice, who would come unhappily home after school.
Ah, school. A private school, even an extremely selective school such as Madame Corrington's, was no match for Alice's tutor. Every day she rose to put on the plain white blouse, knee length blue plaid skirt, and boater hat. The hansom, with its cigar-smoking driver and beaten old horse, would carry her down a few streets to a distinguished-looking mansion bearing scars of ivy. Her classes were small, the other girls were friendly towards her, and the Madame welcomed her warmly to the class, but Alice quickly showed that she wasn't in the mood for what she called "common education". She achieved high marks in all her subjects, but didn't interact with the other girls, nor raise her hand in class.
She hardly ever saw Sherlock. His temporary job kept him away on Mondays and Wednesdays, and the few clients he received would take up much of his time. Indeed, it was a wonder he received any clients—the house was so ashamedly shabby that Alice thought few clients would want to venture inside.
In the evenings, the only indication that he was home sounded from his mournful violin, probably the most expensive thing he owned. Alice preferred to spend her time in her room, save for mealtimes. She was comfortable here, in her own world, sheltered from all and any.
It was her own little Wonderland, created amidst poverty and unhappiness. She loved it as well as she could.
(-)
"God," Sherlock muttered, turning over in his bed. He looked up to gaze at the small clock mounted on the wall, sputtering each hour. Three o'clock. Time to wake up.
He warily arose from bed, turning on the bedside lamp near his bed. The lamp was one of the new additions to the house, newly bought only a few weeks ago. The table on which it lay was another story. It was a plain three legged wooden table, and was adorned with a short red tablecloth that didn't quite reach the end of the table. The robe he put on was a present from his mother and father, one of their last presents.
He quietly opened the door of his chamber and proceeded into the hallway, where he slowly pried open Alice's door. The girl was sleeping peacefully, the doll she had brought from Christchurch in her arms. Strange child, Alice. Troubled, it seemed. This was indicated by the letter her parents had sent to Sherlock, full of all the wild stories she had told about her imaginary playground, Wonderland.
No matter how wild they seemed...too drastic. Too drastic to send her to a poorer cousin, to expect him to care for her without any help whatsoever from them. Well, of course they were ashamed of her at the moment. He could still remember the letter they sent, asking—no, demanding—that she be sent to him:
Dearest Sherlock,
Hello dear nephew! We trust that you are doing well in London and hope that your business is receiving many clients, as we have no doubts in your abilities.
However, we have now to report to you some shocking news—your little cousin, Alice, has grown quite strange lately. It all began one day when she returned home from a day out on the pond with her sister. She began telling stories about a made-up world, with all sorts of curious animals. We humored her for a little while, but as the days wore on she began insisting that her stories were real and that they actually had happened. We only assumed that her imagination was overflowing, and that she would eventually grow out of it.
However, the final straw came when out family was invited to tea at the Hammond residence. After the afternoon brunch, as we sat chatting with the Hammonds, Alice went off into the garden with their daughter, Eliza. Soon we heard a loud splashing noise, and flew out to see what had happened. Alice had pushed Eliza into the pond, claiming that Eliza was stupid for not believing her tales about her wonderland. Worst of all things, the girl couldn't swim. Her father jumped in to save her, then he and Mrs. Hammond gave Alice an awful scolding as we watched. After, they quickly showed us the door. It was mortifying!
As you know, word travels around our town quickly, and soon everyone knew. Alice has been under an awful amount of stress lately. We have managed to forgive her, after stern discipline and punishment. The family doctor recommends that she spend some time away from here, to forget about that unfortunate tantrum. Naturally, we thought first of you and your charming house in London! What better way to spend a relaxing holiday then with a cousin she holds so dear? Of course, it won't be an ordinary holiday; we expect you'll find her a tutor, or, if expenses do not allow, a small private academy. We shall be sending her up to you on the twenty- fourth of November, and she will be with you for an extended period of time, perhaps even until spring.
Your aunt and uncle,
Cadrillon and Jane Holmes
How assuming of them...but no, he knew he couldn't refuse. He'd already borrowed a large sum of money from them, and had to give in.
Sighing, he closed the door to Alice's room. He had gone to a great amount of trouble to make the house livable—he had purchased it at a very cheap price—and had made sure she was sent to school. But money flowed tightly these days, and if he didn't work harder he wouldn't be able to afford it.
Sherlock continued down the stairs, to the darkened kitchen, where he began to fix himself some breakfast. No, it wasn't enough that he was gifted with extraordinary powers of observation, that he could distinguish textures, odors, styles of clothing, with magnified perception. He had to prove that he could hold his own against the larger private detective agencies. That even at his young age, he could accomplish much.
It remained to be seen.
The eggs were frying in the pan. A woman's work, but as a bachelor, Sherlock had learned to cook to keep himself alive. Mrs. Hudson only cooked meals for him when he asked her to, and he hated asking her. It was bad enough that she was looking after Alice without any sort of extra payment. She did it out of her heart, and she was clearly not pleased. He'd pay her as soon as he had enough money.
But when would the money come?
"Shelley?"
A sleepy voice startled him, and he quickly whirled around. Alice stood there in her tiny lace nightgown, her eyes half-closed as she stared at him. Her curly head was wrapped round with ribbons, and her bare feet looked painfully pale against the wooden floor of the hallway.
"Alice! What are you doing up so early?" Sherlock turned off the stove and went to her, kneeling down to see her face.
"But Shelley...it's the right time for you to get up, isn't it?" Alice swayed against him, and he took her by the shoulders.
"For me, my soul, but too early for you. You've got school tomorrow." He picked her up, her small legs swung over his arms, and carried her back up to her room.
"Whyis it thatyou get up so early?"
"I have to walk there, love. It's thirty blocks away."
"Oh, you really are a darling, aren't you? You don't really work as a printer's assistant. You just stand outside all day...and go inside every now and then, to make some money."
Something in Sherlock died. "What do you mean?" he demanded as he lay her down in bed.
"Shelley, I know. You could never earn enough money to keep this place if you didn't do dishonest work." Her eyes were closed now, and she was reaching for her blanket.
"Child, you're clearly dreaming," he replied uneasily, tucking the blanket about her. How did she know!
"Alright, whatever you say, Shelley," Alice replied, turning over. She fell asleep nearly five seconds later, as Sherlock patted her soft hair.
Unnerved, he rose from the bed. What had it been? he asked himself. Was it the clothes he wore when he went to work? The fact that he had been bringing home larger amounts of money lately? If Alice's parents knew about it...
Forcing himself to remain calm, he quickly dressed for work and went out the front door, his breakfast remaining uneaten.
To possibly be continued...
Note: Hello and greetings to anyone who enjoyed this fic! This is my first real fanfic based on a book, and I kinda have a second chapter in mind...so, I've decided this if this chapter gets enough reviews, there will be a second. So review if you liked it, or if you have some constructive criticism for me! Byee!