A/N: YOYOYOYO!! What have all my fellow Baker Street Irregulars been up to? It's so, so, SO great to be writing another Sherlock Holmes story-- I was having withdrawals. I really was. And not only because it was so fun and satisfying and everything. It was also because of YOU GUYS! *hugs you all* I personally didn't feel that my last SH fanfic(Hinc Illae Lacrimae) was that great; it was funny, I guess. Good for a laugh. But you all made me feel so appreciated! It was the best feeling, and I thank you.
But wait. Before I start my story, I have to say something. Did any of you happen to see that made-for-TV movie on USA called 'Case of Evil'? Okay, was that not the most horrible Sherlock Holmes movie EVER MADE? I'm not sure how I found the patience to watch the whole thing; maybe to prove to myself that I wasn't biased when it came to anything Sherlockian. But either I am, or that movie made every Baker Street Irregular in the world want to murder whoever made its TV airing possible. From Watson being a CORONER(can you believe it!?) to Mycroft being crippled for life - and not fat - the whole thing just screamed "We didn't read the Canon". But Holmes was the worst of it. There were times while watching it when my eyes actually started tearing up. An amazing feat indeed it must be to turn the most brilliant mind devised in fiction into an alcoholic womanizer, but USA managed to pull it off. Is anyone else here as enraged as I am?
Ugh. Anyway, I didn't mean to turn my author's note into such a downer. I'm sorry. To make it up to you... Drum roll, please... HERE'S MY LATEST STORYYYY, YAAAAYY!!!!!
A Perfect World
a Sherlock Holmes pastiche
by Wakizashi
Chapter One: Mr. Impossible
I'm sure if I had known what I would be required to do to pay for my classes, I would never have gone to massage therapy school.
All right, so working at a coffee shop wasn't that bad. Or at least, it wouldn't have been if I lived anywhere but San Francisco. But alas, there I was, and as luck would have it, I had been hired at the snobbiest coffee shop this side of Fisherman's Wharf. I didn't know it at the time, but this unfortunate predicament I had landed myself in would introduce me to the beginning of the most unusual friendship I would ever have.
Of course, on my first day working at the Boule des Nerfs, the only thing I was focused on was not spilling a cafe latte all over the front of my shirt.
"Nadia, hey!" One of my co-workers, whose name I only knew from the little tag on her blouse, was waving at me frantically from over at the espresso machine. I quickly handed the latte I was holding to the frazzled, middle-aged woman who had ordered it, and wove my way through the tables to the back counter.
"Yeah, what's up?" I asked, brushing the wrinkles out of my skirt.
Jenni (with an 'I') pointed to a customer sitting at a window table in the corner. "Table Six needs his order taken, and all the other girls are busy." For some reason, she was grinning deviously.
"Okaaay, no problem," I replied, my eyes following her finger to where she was gesturing. "Holy cow, who's that tall drink of water?"
A young man perhaps a year or two older than me was sitting slouched at the corner table, deep in a copy of the morning's newspaper. I instantly snapped to attention. My eyes took in his polished black loafers first, then traveled up his long legs to the elegant cut of his dark grey suit, his snow-white shirt front and its open collar, his pale, patrician features, his bright emerald eyes, and finally his shaggy, raven's-wing hair. Even though he was sitting down, I could tell he was tall; almost intimidatingly so, if he had not been so gaunt.
Ee-yikes.
Jenni smirked as she took in my thunderstruck expression. "I figured, since it's your first day here, I would give you the privilege of waiting on Mr. Impossible."
"Mr. Impossible?" I repeated, frowning. "As in, 'impossibly hot', is that what you mean? In which case, I would agree with you."
"No, no, no, that's not the reason." Jenni shook her head, her ponytail smacking her in the face. "We like to call him that because he is, without a doubt, the most impolite, condescending, unbearable customer we've ever had. It's like nothing you do is good enough for him. Sure, he's nice to look at, but once he opens that irritating mouth of his, forget about it."
I laughed. "He's really that bad, is he? Well then," I said as I straightened my apron in preparation for battle, "I relish the challenge."
"Good luck, Nadia," she replied, shrugging as she went back to her espresso machine. And so it was, on my first day at work, that I went off looking for trouble. And found it.
Whipping out my pencil and notepad, I strode boldly to the table in the corner and smiled amiably. "Hello, sir! Beautiful day, wouldn't you agree?"
"Mmm, quite," the man drawled in a sophisticated southern accent that would have been simply *delicious* if it weren't so pretentious. Folding the newspaper carefully in his lap, he looked up at me, sizing me up. "I don't believe I've seen you here before. You must be a new recruit... Nadia," he said, squinting at my nametag. I noticed somewhat absently that, unlike most men, when he spoke, his upper teeth showed more than his lower ones. Kind of like Guy Pearce, only without the horse face.
I nodded, the practiced smile never leaving my face. "You're very observant, sir. This is my first day here at the Boule des Nerfs."
A black eyebrow raised. "At the very least, you are a bit more presentable than the other waitresses." My eye began to twitch, but I oh-so-smoothly disguised it by pretending to remove a stray lash. "All right, shall we get this over with? I will have a grande blackberry mocha. No whipped cream, no chocolate shavings, only a light dusting of cinnamon. Did you get that?"
"Every word, sir," I said, trying not to laugh. This guy was unbelievable. "Your cinnamon-adorned mocha will be ready shortly."
I turned to leave, but he stopped me with a thin white hand on my arm and the words "One more thing." I twisted around to look at him, and the corner of his mouth raised slightly. "I was just curious, miss. How are you adjusting to life in the city, after being raised in western Washington?"
My jaw dropped, and I stumbled a little before regaining my balance. "H-how did you know that?" I managed to stutter.
This time the man brought the force of a full smile on me, taking me unwillingly by surprise. "It was really quite simple. You see the way you stand? Your posture is more erect than someone who has been weighed down with various problems for some time, which indicates you haven't lived in the fair city of San Francisco for long." He smirked in amusement. "Your hands also give you away. They are undoubtedly the hands of a young woman who spent her childhood on a farm. And not least of all, I noticed the words 'Olympia High School' on the pen in your hand. Another determining factor."
I felt like hitting myself in the head. Of course! Idiot! Any dope with more than one brain cell could see, if his eye was trained to look for the signs, that I was clearly not from around here. *Maybe I should make more of an effort to blend in,* I thought to myself, unconsciously drooping my shoulders a little.
The man's deceptively innocent smile at the end of his discourse was what clenched it. "Who are you?" I exclaimed, not bothering to conceal my irritation.
"Forgive me if I startled you," he said, though the mind-reading weirdo was clearly pleased by my reaction. He offered me his hand, which I took. "Ethan Rhodes. And do you have a last name, or is it simply 'Hello my name is Nadia'?"
Ooh, isn't he a clever one? "It's Nadia Bridges. Nice to meet you." Sort of.
"Rhodes and Bridges, eh?" he mused. "It seems that fate, and not coffee, might have been the cause of our little meeting. Well, I must be keeping you from your work. Off you go, Ms. Bridges."
Smiling dryly at him one last time for lack of anything else to do, I turned and headed over to the back counter. I sank onto the nearest bar stool, my chin propped up on my hand. Jenni looked at me dubiously. "Sooo, how was it? Did Mr. Impossible bite your head off?"
With a roll of my eyes, I shook my head. "Unless 'bite my head off' means the same as 'try to impress me', then no, I'm afraid he didn't."
"Say what?" She blinked, confused. "So he wasn't all rude and patronizing?"
"Well, sort of, I guess," I replied, shrugging. "At first, anyway. But then we got to talking about where I grew up--" not a total lie, "--and he evidently decided it'd be funner to dazzle me with his brains than to insult me." I smirked. "Ethan Rhodes. What a loser."
"Ethan Rhodes," she repeated. "Cool name... The only thing cool about him, I guess. Well," she corrected herself, casting a glance at the customer, "that and those big green eyes."
I nodded. "But that's it. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go make His Majesty's whipped cream-free, chocolate shavings-free, cinnamon-dusted blackberry mocha."
Hanging up my apron, I glanced at the darkening sky outside the coffee shop windows. It was late September, which in San Francisco meant that it looked like early December. I smiled in spite of my hectic day as the first drops drizzled lazily down the glass panes; I didn't mind the rain, and sometimes even enjoyed walking through it. Especially on my way home to change into my flannel pants and study for my massage class.
"Christine?" I poked my manager lightly on the shoulder. "I'm going to take off now. My class starts in four days, and I want to get all my studying done."
She nodded absently. "Go, study. Oh, and Nadia," she called as I shrugged my coat on, "thanks for dealing with that snobby guy from the Ozarks or whatever today. He was less of a pain than usual."
"No problem," I replied, laughing as I pushed the door open. The early autumn air wrapped me in a chilly cocoon as I stepped out onto the street. It was almost six o'clock, but I could still hear merchants down at the Wharf shouting to each other. And of course, as with any given time of day, the smell of fresh and not-so-fresh fish drifted to my nostrils. Hopefully the light rain would make the air smell a little cleaner, but I seriously doubted it.
As I continued to walk, the rain began to pour more heavily, and I wondered if I should just wait for the streetcar. Seeing as how the sheltered waiting area less than two blocks away was calling to me, I decided to be patient for once and allow the streetcar to come at its leisure. But it would seem, as I was making my way toward the shelter, that I was destined never to have peace again.
"Ms. Bridges! Goodness, what an unexpected surprise!"
I turned at the mellifluous southern voice to see Mr. Impossible himself striding toward me at a brisk pace, a silk umbrella in his hand. The raven-haired young man was wearing a light grey overcoat, and an expensive-looking black scarf was wrapped tightly about his throat. *This guy must come from money,* I thought wryly as he caught up with me.
"Well," I said, no longer pretending to like him as I resumed my journey to the streetcar shelter, "fancy meeting you here, Mr. Rhodes. If I wasn't so sure you had something better to do, I'd swear you were stalking me."
Ignoring my biting sarcasm, Ethan Rhodes matched my pace and twirled his umbrella lightheartedly. "Oh, no, of course not. I was simply in the neighborhood visiting a client and saw you walking home from your place of employment. I myself enjoy a nice stroll in the rain, but without an umbrella it can be ruinous to one's health. We can share mine if you wish."
I looked at him skeptically, then shrugged my consent. It was wet, after all.
Moving a little closer, Rhodes held the umbrella over both of us and started up his monotonous banter again. "By the way, I must compliment you on the quality of the coffee you make. Really most excellent. From now on, I insist that you take all my orders in the future. Of course, I will understand if you are ill, or--"
"All right, enough," I interrupted angrily. I stopped abruptly in my tracks, which caused him to stumble slightly. "I'll admit, I was a little impressed back at the coffee shop when you told me all that crap about me being a country girl. But frankly, this is getting annoying, Mr. Rhodes. What do you want from me?"
The emerald eyes blinked once or twice, momentarily confused. "I apologize, Ms. Bridges, if I offended you. I merely thought--"
"Oh, you merely thought, did you?" I was so mad I wasn't even making sense. At least to me, anyway. "Look, Rhodes, maybe if I was in a better mood, I'd be flattered, but I'm really not interested in a rich, arrogant little brat, so just leave me alone before I take out a restraining order on you." And I continued walking.
To my surprise, Rhodes let out a loud bark of laughter. I turned around quickly and glared at him. "And what exactly do you find so hilarious?" I demanded.
"Forgive me, that must have seemed rude," he said, recovering from his laughing fit. "It's just, I didn't realize that you were attracted to me."
My jaw dropped. I can honestly say that I didn't move or speak for at least fifteen seconds. Finally I managed to sputter, "You think I'm attracted to *you*!? You, the most infuriating man I've ever met!? You're crazy!"
"Of course you would deny it," said Rhodes with a smug smile. "I must admit, Ms. Bridges, I'm surprised at you. We've only known each other for a day, and already you're making advances toward me. You're a bold one, I'll give you that."
"Oh my God!!" I shouted, throwing my hands in the air. I knew I was creating a scene, and I didn't care. "Are you out of your gourd!? There is no way in Heaven or on earth that I would ever be attracted to you, you delusional psychopath! Now for the love of God, leave me alone!"
By now, I had reached the shelter, but I just kept on walking. There was no way I was going to wait there, right in front of that nutcase. For all I knew, he could shave cats as a hobby. My heels clicked loudly on the wet sidewalk, but that didn't keep me from hearing the splash of shoes on puddles behind me.
"Ms. Bridges!"
"Go away," I said through clenched teeth.
Rhodes caught up with me again, slightly out of breath. "All right, all right. I'm being obnoxious, I realize that. I only wanted to get to know you better. You're a bright girl, I can tell. I apologize for coming on too strong. My actions must have appeared a little... manic, shall we say?"
I turned and stared up at him as I walked. He looked sincere. Of course, there was no way to tell, but for some reason I decided to throw away my instincts that screamed *RUN* and sighed exaggeratedly.
"'Manic' would be an understatement," I said wearily as he grinned. "Okay, Rhodes, you've managed to gain my temporary trust. You've got moxy, kid. But if you turn out to have a collection of seagull feet, or cut my hair while I sleep, you're going to be drinking blackberry mochas with your jaw wired shut."
"Come now, Bridges, you're just being irrational now," he said good-naturedly, holding his umbrella over me again as we walked down the rainy street. "But I have a feeling about you. You've got quite the wicked tongue. With a little polishing, you'd make a superb aristocrat. If you like caviar, that is."
A/N: I know what you're thinking. "Wow, another modern Sherlock Holmes story. How original." In my defense, I'll just say that I already had the idea before I went on Fanfiction.net and found about six million others that had already been written. In fact, I got the idea four years ago, when my English teacher (the best teacher I've ever had) made a passing remark about how he sort of wanted to give the class an assignment that was something along the lines of "re-writing your favorite story with new characters and a different spin on the plot." He never did, the retard - just kidding, he's great - but the idea was planted in my head and impossible to get out after that. And of course I had decided to write a modern version of a Sherlock Holmes story. Come on, what else is worth the effort? But by the time I got around to starting it, which was right now, I discovered that it was far from an original idea. Still, I hope I can keep it fresh and entertaining enough for you all to continue reading it. Your approval means a lot to me.
But yes, in case you're wondering, Ethan Rhodes and Sherlock Holmes DO share quite a few differences. They're both intelligent and charming(when they want to be), but Rhodes is a little bolder than Holmes. Certainly more maddening. He's also not English. *readers: WHAAAT!?!* That's right, I'm doing things a little differently. But at any rate, I hope you like my incorrigible southern gentleman! Review and tell me what you think!
-Wakizashi (back in black... not really)
But wait. Before I start my story, I have to say something. Did any of you happen to see that made-for-TV movie on USA called 'Case of Evil'? Okay, was that not the most horrible Sherlock Holmes movie EVER MADE? I'm not sure how I found the patience to watch the whole thing; maybe to prove to myself that I wasn't biased when it came to anything Sherlockian. But either I am, or that movie made every Baker Street Irregular in the world want to murder whoever made its TV airing possible. From Watson being a CORONER(can you believe it!?) to Mycroft being crippled for life - and not fat - the whole thing just screamed "We didn't read the Canon". But Holmes was the worst of it. There were times while watching it when my eyes actually started tearing up. An amazing feat indeed it must be to turn the most brilliant mind devised in fiction into an alcoholic womanizer, but USA managed to pull it off. Is anyone else here as enraged as I am?
Ugh. Anyway, I didn't mean to turn my author's note into such a downer. I'm sorry. To make it up to you... Drum roll, please... HERE'S MY LATEST STORYYYY, YAAAAYY!!!!!
A Perfect World
a Sherlock Holmes pastiche
by Wakizashi
Chapter One: Mr. Impossible
I'm sure if I had known what I would be required to do to pay for my classes, I would never have gone to massage therapy school.
All right, so working at a coffee shop wasn't that bad. Or at least, it wouldn't have been if I lived anywhere but San Francisco. But alas, there I was, and as luck would have it, I had been hired at the snobbiest coffee shop this side of Fisherman's Wharf. I didn't know it at the time, but this unfortunate predicament I had landed myself in would introduce me to the beginning of the most unusual friendship I would ever have.
Of course, on my first day working at the Boule des Nerfs, the only thing I was focused on was not spilling a cafe latte all over the front of my shirt.
"Nadia, hey!" One of my co-workers, whose name I only knew from the little tag on her blouse, was waving at me frantically from over at the espresso machine. I quickly handed the latte I was holding to the frazzled, middle-aged woman who had ordered it, and wove my way through the tables to the back counter.
"Yeah, what's up?" I asked, brushing the wrinkles out of my skirt.
Jenni (with an 'I') pointed to a customer sitting at a window table in the corner. "Table Six needs his order taken, and all the other girls are busy." For some reason, she was grinning deviously.
"Okaaay, no problem," I replied, my eyes following her finger to where she was gesturing. "Holy cow, who's that tall drink of water?"
A young man perhaps a year or two older than me was sitting slouched at the corner table, deep in a copy of the morning's newspaper. I instantly snapped to attention. My eyes took in his polished black loafers first, then traveled up his long legs to the elegant cut of his dark grey suit, his snow-white shirt front and its open collar, his pale, patrician features, his bright emerald eyes, and finally his shaggy, raven's-wing hair. Even though he was sitting down, I could tell he was tall; almost intimidatingly so, if he had not been so gaunt.
Ee-yikes.
Jenni smirked as she took in my thunderstruck expression. "I figured, since it's your first day here, I would give you the privilege of waiting on Mr. Impossible."
"Mr. Impossible?" I repeated, frowning. "As in, 'impossibly hot', is that what you mean? In which case, I would agree with you."
"No, no, no, that's not the reason." Jenni shook her head, her ponytail smacking her in the face. "We like to call him that because he is, without a doubt, the most impolite, condescending, unbearable customer we've ever had. It's like nothing you do is good enough for him. Sure, he's nice to look at, but once he opens that irritating mouth of his, forget about it."
I laughed. "He's really that bad, is he? Well then," I said as I straightened my apron in preparation for battle, "I relish the challenge."
"Good luck, Nadia," she replied, shrugging as she went back to her espresso machine. And so it was, on my first day at work, that I went off looking for trouble. And found it.
Whipping out my pencil and notepad, I strode boldly to the table in the corner and smiled amiably. "Hello, sir! Beautiful day, wouldn't you agree?"
"Mmm, quite," the man drawled in a sophisticated southern accent that would have been simply *delicious* if it weren't so pretentious. Folding the newspaper carefully in his lap, he looked up at me, sizing me up. "I don't believe I've seen you here before. You must be a new recruit... Nadia," he said, squinting at my nametag. I noticed somewhat absently that, unlike most men, when he spoke, his upper teeth showed more than his lower ones. Kind of like Guy Pearce, only without the horse face.
I nodded, the practiced smile never leaving my face. "You're very observant, sir. This is my first day here at the Boule des Nerfs."
A black eyebrow raised. "At the very least, you are a bit more presentable than the other waitresses." My eye began to twitch, but I oh-so-smoothly disguised it by pretending to remove a stray lash. "All right, shall we get this over with? I will have a grande blackberry mocha. No whipped cream, no chocolate shavings, only a light dusting of cinnamon. Did you get that?"
"Every word, sir," I said, trying not to laugh. This guy was unbelievable. "Your cinnamon-adorned mocha will be ready shortly."
I turned to leave, but he stopped me with a thin white hand on my arm and the words "One more thing." I twisted around to look at him, and the corner of his mouth raised slightly. "I was just curious, miss. How are you adjusting to life in the city, after being raised in western Washington?"
My jaw dropped, and I stumbled a little before regaining my balance. "H-how did you know that?" I managed to stutter.
This time the man brought the force of a full smile on me, taking me unwillingly by surprise. "It was really quite simple. You see the way you stand? Your posture is more erect than someone who has been weighed down with various problems for some time, which indicates you haven't lived in the fair city of San Francisco for long." He smirked in amusement. "Your hands also give you away. They are undoubtedly the hands of a young woman who spent her childhood on a farm. And not least of all, I noticed the words 'Olympia High School' on the pen in your hand. Another determining factor."
I felt like hitting myself in the head. Of course! Idiot! Any dope with more than one brain cell could see, if his eye was trained to look for the signs, that I was clearly not from around here. *Maybe I should make more of an effort to blend in,* I thought to myself, unconsciously drooping my shoulders a little.
The man's deceptively innocent smile at the end of his discourse was what clenched it. "Who are you?" I exclaimed, not bothering to conceal my irritation.
"Forgive me if I startled you," he said, though the mind-reading weirdo was clearly pleased by my reaction. He offered me his hand, which I took. "Ethan Rhodes. And do you have a last name, or is it simply 'Hello my name is Nadia'?"
Ooh, isn't he a clever one? "It's Nadia Bridges. Nice to meet you." Sort of.
"Rhodes and Bridges, eh?" he mused. "It seems that fate, and not coffee, might have been the cause of our little meeting. Well, I must be keeping you from your work. Off you go, Ms. Bridges."
Smiling dryly at him one last time for lack of anything else to do, I turned and headed over to the back counter. I sank onto the nearest bar stool, my chin propped up on my hand. Jenni looked at me dubiously. "Sooo, how was it? Did Mr. Impossible bite your head off?"
With a roll of my eyes, I shook my head. "Unless 'bite my head off' means the same as 'try to impress me', then no, I'm afraid he didn't."
"Say what?" She blinked, confused. "So he wasn't all rude and patronizing?"
"Well, sort of, I guess," I replied, shrugging. "At first, anyway. But then we got to talking about where I grew up--" not a total lie, "--and he evidently decided it'd be funner to dazzle me with his brains than to insult me." I smirked. "Ethan Rhodes. What a loser."
"Ethan Rhodes," she repeated. "Cool name... The only thing cool about him, I guess. Well," she corrected herself, casting a glance at the customer, "that and those big green eyes."
I nodded. "But that's it. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go make His Majesty's whipped cream-free, chocolate shavings-free, cinnamon-dusted blackberry mocha."
Hanging up my apron, I glanced at the darkening sky outside the coffee shop windows. It was late September, which in San Francisco meant that it looked like early December. I smiled in spite of my hectic day as the first drops drizzled lazily down the glass panes; I didn't mind the rain, and sometimes even enjoyed walking through it. Especially on my way home to change into my flannel pants and study for my massage class.
"Christine?" I poked my manager lightly on the shoulder. "I'm going to take off now. My class starts in four days, and I want to get all my studying done."
She nodded absently. "Go, study. Oh, and Nadia," she called as I shrugged my coat on, "thanks for dealing with that snobby guy from the Ozarks or whatever today. He was less of a pain than usual."
"No problem," I replied, laughing as I pushed the door open. The early autumn air wrapped me in a chilly cocoon as I stepped out onto the street. It was almost six o'clock, but I could still hear merchants down at the Wharf shouting to each other. And of course, as with any given time of day, the smell of fresh and not-so-fresh fish drifted to my nostrils. Hopefully the light rain would make the air smell a little cleaner, but I seriously doubted it.
As I continued to walk, the rain began to pour more heavily, and I wondered if I should just wait for the streetcar. Seeing as how the sheltered waiting area less than two blocks away was calling to me, I decided to be patient for once and allow the streetcar to come at its leisure. But it would seem, as I was making my way toward the shelter, that I was destined never to have peace again.
"Ms. Bridges! Goodness, what an unexpected surprise!"
I turned at the mellifluous southern voice to see Mr. Impossible himself striding toward me at a brisk pace, a silk umbrella in his hand. The raven-haired young man was wearing a light grey overcoat, and an expensive-looking black scarf was wrapped tightly about his throat. *This guy must come from money,* I thought wryly as he caught up with me.
"Well," I said, no longer pretending to like him as I resumed my journey to the streetcar shelter, "fancy meeting you here, Mr. Rhodes. If I wasn't so sure you had something better to do, I'd swear you were stalking me."
Ignoring my biting sarcasm, Ethan Rhodes matched my pace and twirled his umbrella lightheartedly. "Oh, no, of course not. I was simply in the neighborhood visiting a client and saw you walking home from your place of employment. I myself enjoy a nice stroll in the rain, but without an umbrella it can be ruinous to one's health. We can share mine if you wish."
I looked at him skeptically, then shrugged my consent. It was wet, after all.
Moving a little closer, Rhodes held the umbrella over both of us and started up his monotonous banter again. "By the way, I must compliment you on the quality of the coffee you make. Really most excellent. From now on, I insist that you take all my orders in the future. Of course, I will understand if you are ill, or--"
"All right, enough," I interrupted angrily. I stopped abruptly in my tracks, which caused him to stumble slightly. "I'll admit, I was a little impressed back at the coffee shop when you told me all that crap about me being a country girl. But frankly, this is getting annoying, Mr. Rhodes. What do you want from me?"
The emerald eyes blinked once or twice, momentarily confused. "I apologize, Ms. Bridges, if I offended you. I merely thought--"
"Oh, you merely thought, did you?" I was so mad I wasn't even making sense. At least to me, anyway. "Look, Rhodes, maybe if I was in a better mood, I'd be flattered, but I'm really not interested in a rich, arrogant little brat, so just leave me alone before I take out a restraining order on you." And I continued walking.
To my surprise, Rhodes let out a loud bark of laughter. I turned around quickly and glared at him. "And what exactly do you find so hilarious?" I demanded.
"Forgive me, that must have seemed rude," he said, recovering from his laughing fit. "It's just, I didn't realize that you were attracted to me."
My jaw dropped. I can honestly say that I didn't move or speak for at least fifteen seconds. Finally I managed to sputter, "You think I'm attracted to *you*!? You, the most infuriating man I've ever met!? You're crazy!"
"Of course you would deny it," said Rhodes with a smug smile. "I must admit, Ms. Bridges, I'm surprised at you. We've only known each other for a day, and already you're making advances toward me. You're a bold one, I'll give you that."
"Oh my God!!" I shouted, throwing my hands in the air. I knew I was creating a scene, and I didn't care. "Are you out of your gourd!? There is no way in Heaven or on earth that I would ever be attracted to you, you delusional psychopath! Now for the love of God, leave me alone!"
By now, I had reached the shelter, but I just kept on walking. There was no way I was going to wait there, right in front of that nutcase. For all I knew, he could shave cats as a hobby. My heels clicked loudly on the wet sidewalk, but that didn't keep me from hearing the splash of shoes on puddles behind me.
"Ms. Bridges!"
"Go away," I said through clenched teeth.
Rhodes caught up with me again, slightly out of breath. "All right, all right. I'm being obnoxious, I realize that. I only wanted to get to know you better. You're a bright girl, I can tell. I apologize for coming on too strong. My actions must have appeared a little... manic, shall we say?"
I turned and stared up at him as I walked. He looked sincere. Of course, there was no way to tell, but for some reason I decided to throw away my instincts that screamed *RUN* and sighed exaggeratedly.
"'Manic' would be an understatement," I said wearily as he grinned. "Okay, Rhodes, you've managed to gain my temporary trust. You've got moxy, kid. But if you turn out to have a collection of seagull feet, or cut my hair while I sleep, you're going to be drinking blackberry mochas with your jaw wired shut."
"Come now, Bridges, you're just being irrational now," he said good-naturedly, holding his umbrella over me again as we walked down the rainy street. "But I have a feeling about you. You've got quite the wicked tongue. With a little polishing, you'd make a superb aristocrat. If you like caviar, that is."
A/N: I know what you're thinking. "Wow, another modern Sherlock Holmes story. How original." In my defense, I'll just say that I already had the idea before I went on Fanfiction.net and found about six million others that had already been written. In fact, I got the idea four years ago, when my English teacher (the best teacher I've ever had) made a passing remark about how he sort of wanted to give the class an assignment that was something along the lines of "re-writing your favorite story with new characters and a different spin on the plot." He never did, the retard - just kidding, he's great - but the idea was planted in my head and impossible to get out after that. And of course I had decided to write a modern version of a Sherlock Holmes story. Come on, what else is worth the effort? But by the time I got around to starting it, which was right now, I discovered that it was far from an original idea. Still, I hope I can keep it fresh and entertaining enough for you all to continue reading it. Your approval means a lot to me.
But yes, in case you're wondering, Ethan Rhodes and Sherlock Holmes DO share quite a few differences. They're both intelligent and charming(when they want to be), but Rhodes is a little bolder than Holmes. Certainly more maddening. He's also not English. *readers: WHAAAT!?!* That's right, I'm doing things a little differently. But at any rate, I hope you like my incorrigible southern gentleman! Review and tell me what you think!
-Wakizashi (back in black... not really)
