Well, it has been longer than I've wanted, but yes, I'm writing again. All I have to say is that you shouldn't get your disk reformatted- you loose everything. And don't get sick- strep throat is a pain. And if you have a family tree project due, DON'T PROCRASTINATE! Yes, those are my lovely excuses. Worship them, because they're the only reasons I haven't written.
If you haven't read my ever so depressing SPLENDOR OF THE STARS, I suggest you read that before you even touch this. Yes, it's an actual sequel, not just another part of the series. And some warning to my loyal readers, this will be an unusual story. A lot of changes in the characters because of what happened in the last story.
And to whomever sent me an anonymous review and said that he or she didn't like my last story, that's quite all right. I don't expect everyone to like my stories. I write for myself, and occasionally that overwhelming feeling of joy when I get a good review. I love building my ego. If you don't like my story, go ahead and tell me why. I might even correct it- I aim to please, after all. If you have any suggestions, I read those too. Does anybody even read my authors notes?
Oh. Right. Chapter.
Chapter One: The Betrayal of Friends
"Does this sweater make me look fat?" I asked, staring into my full-length mirror. I glanced at the dark evergreen sweater, and then turned to look at Christine. My friend was sitting on my desk, her knees tucked neatly beneath her, and a book in hand. I couldn't see how she could read- it was seven at night and I didn't have any lights on.
"Christine, does this sweater make me look fat?" I repeated. Christine didn't move from her perch, but I thought I could see her eyes flicker with something akin to amusement. It was either that, or the candles had moved.
"Yes. It makes you look like a bloody bus," Christine drawled at me, turning a page in her book. I scowled at her and glanced again at my reflection. I'll admit, I hadn't exactly lost any weight in the past three weeks, but I wasn't as big as a bus yet. A small car, maybe...
I moaned in desperation and threw myself down on the bed. I was going to cry. How in the world had I gained ten pounds in three weeks? Ten pounds in three weeks... my mother had baked a chocolate cake last week, but I wasn't the only one who polished the plate off. And sure, I had blown my savings on candy, but...
I moaned again. Ten pounds since Kline had disappeared. Three weeks since Kline had disappeared. I was so screwed if we didn't find her quickly. Mentally, I slapped myself. I was being horribly selfish, and I knew it. Thinking about my weight when Kline was gone... horrible. I was beginning to be like the snobs at my old school- it wasn't always about me.
I felt a long hand rest on my back, but it was smaller than Holmes's. Sighing, I rolled over to see Christine's dull blue eyes staring down at me. They had changed a great deal since Kline had gone, as had her entire demeanor. She was much moodier, and snappy at times. She stared at me for a moment, and then turned away.
"I was kidding," she told me. I touched my sides tentatively and wrinkled my nose. For my extra ten pounds of weight, I didn't look all that much larger. Shrugging, I put my self pity in the closet and stood up.
"So I don't look fat?" I questioned. Christine faced me again, her face pinched into an obviously annoyed look.
"I said I was kidding, didn't I? If I was kidding, it means that I meant the exact opposite of what I said. And since I said yes, you looked fat, then the opposite is...?" Christine said slowly, as though teaching something to a remarkably slow preschooler. I scowled at her again.
"That I'm not. Thank you, Mrs. Penninger. Much appreciated, that lesson was."
"Whatever. Sherlock is waiting for you downstairs."
I rolled my eyes at her and opened my bedroom door, leaving Christine to slip into her own world of fantasies. I was beginning to loose my patience with her, I really was. She had been really annoying recently, more annoying than she usually was. Rather than going back into my bedroom and hitting her, though, I instead ran down the stairs to see Holmes.
He looked as well groomed as ever, wearing a light blue button down shirt and a pair of khaki pants. His hair had been neatly combed, and his shoes polished. I grinned at him and threw my arms around him.
"Tonight's the night," I murmured. Holmes pulled me away from him and took my hand instead, nodding.
"Four students, and I'm certain we'll both get chosen," he commented dryly. I ran a hand through my long black hair and grinned up at him.
"Only because you tutored me in English and in French. And made sure I didn't add something weird to whatever we were making in Chemistry. Not to mention-" Holmes cut me off, his hand tightening around mine.
"Shut up already, Watson. I helped you, yes, but that doesn't mean that you're not smart enough already. You would have figured it out... eventually."
"Probably not."
We stepped outside, a cab already waiting for us. I felt my heart jump into my throat as I thought about what was coming up.
About five months ago, before Christine or Kline had ever visited us in friendly old England, Holmes and I had heard about an experimental school in St. Ives. It was an interesting premise, an Arts Academy. Unfortunately, the school was only accepting four people from our own school, so Holmes and I had immediately filled out an application. The directors of the school had come down for a while and talked to us individually and made us perform for them. Tonight they were holding a ceremony and announcing who was selected.
Rain beat down heavily upon our taxi, melting the little bit of snow that was left on the ground. I watched as the pristine white snow became a brown, disgusting sludge. I watched it for a while, and then turned back to Holmes, who was sitting silently in his seat.
"Excited?" I asked quietly. Holmes smiled at me, patting my hand.
"But of course. Are you?" he asked in turn. I shrugged.
"More nervous than anything, to tell you the truth. I mean, what if you get selected and I don't?" I asked. Holmes chuckled, fingering my hair.
"As if that could happen," he murmured. I batted his hand away with a light smile.
"Come on now. You're far more intelligent than me. The chances of me getting in are slim to none."
"Slim to very high," Holmes corrected me, playing with my long black hair again. I gave in to his incessant fiddling, taking it as a sign of nervousness. Tapping my hand quickly upon his knee, I continued in my protests.
"Slim to none. Holmes, at least one hundred people auditioned for it. Why in the world would they choose me above all the talented people in our school?" I questioned. Holmes regarded me sharply, his eyes digging into me. Had I not have known him as well as I did, I would have cringed.
"Watson! I will hear none of it. You're looking for compliments, and I will oblige, just this once. The reason you will get in is because you sparkle, Watson. You have an air of charisma most lack, and your art is absolutely inspired. You play your flute with emotions, not just notes and fingerings. Now. Silence. I will not hear you protest again," he snapped, though I could hear the affection in his voice. I sighed and leaned back in the seat, carefully tugging my hair out of his fingers once again. He gave me a swift smile, and then turned his stare out the window.
We sat the rest of the ride in silence, both of us contemplating different things. I contemplating his words and the upcoming announcement- he, who knew what? All I knew was that I was very, very nervous.
The cab driver dropped us off, and I quickly paid the fare and then dashed inside after Holmes, who was heading swiftly towards the auditorium. I caught his hand when I finally reached him and squeezed it reassuringly. He squeezed it back, and then opened the auditorium doors.
If I was expecting a huge crowd, I was a bit disappointed. About twenty-five students were sitting in the chairs, all looking bored, tired, or frustrated. Very few looked confident, and even less looked calm. I was among them, I'll admit. Holmes, as always, displayed no outward signs of nervousness, but I recognized the signs. Twitchy hands, eyes darting about, absolute silence, shortened temper... the last times he had obviously showed those signs was during the last case. When he had reached a mental roadblock. When our very lives were endanger...
I pushed the thoughts aside, finding them amazingly uncomfortable. I really didn't want to dwell on the last case, or even dwell on Kline. Not even Christine, sitting alone at my house would enter my thoughts. Tonight was my night, not the night for bad memories and fears and sadness to enter me.
"Don't worry, be happy," I muttered, recalling the song. Actually, I didn't even like that song. The last time I had heard it was from a singing fish. Ooo, I hated that fish. But my thoughts were wandering far away from the desired ones, so I pushed the fish out of my head and stared up at the stage as Holmes led me to a seat.
Within seconds of me sitting, our principal came onto the stage, wearing a tie and suit that was rumpled, as it usually was. Our principal never was one for neatness, a trait that Holmes constantly sneered at. He stared down at the twenty-seven of us, and then smiled brilliantly.
"Well! How can I say how proud I am of all of you?" he began, his blond toupee bouncing excitedly on the top of his head.
"Easy," came a drawling, yet peppy voice from the audience. "Say 'I'm proud of you' and be done with it."
I recognized the voice instantly, repressing a frown. It was Cherry, a girl I had met when I had first moved to London. She had befriended me during a time when Holmes and I were fighting, only to reveal that she was using me and then left me to deal with life- very much alone, as Holmes and I had still been fighting at the time. I still held a grudge against her, which had increased much during the school year. While once rather pleasant and nice to everyone, she had just turned nasty. I remembered distinctly nearly punching her at one point, and probably would have, except that Holmes dragged me away last second for some trivial case. (AN- Yes, ladies and gents, another unwritten case. Don't try to find it, it never happened in any of my other stories.)
The principal looked fondly at Cherry, though it was worn and somewhat fake. "Ah, yes, there's our ever intelligent Cherry! So witty..." he trailed off, shaking his head. Then, smiling brightly, he made a wide gesture with his hand.
"At any rate, please welcome Miss Gardens, the Academy's headmistress," he cheered, clapping enthusiastically. There was a bit of scattered applause from the students, but most just looked extremely bored.
A somewhat pretty woman walked onto stage. She had dark, curly brown hair that was tugged neatly back into a bun, a few loose tendrils hanging down the side of her face. Her eyes were an impressive shade of hazel, with some darker brown specks in them. Her skin was evenly colored, a pleasant looking flush. Small, petite looking lips were carefully painted to a nice brownish color, which went well with her flushed complexion. She wasn't extremely tall, only about 5'5, but she looked shorter because of her posture. She was bent over, holding a cane in one hand. It wasn't hard to figure out why she needed the cane- her right leg seemed mangled. But she was dressed primly and neatly, and I could see Holmes study her with neatness.
"Good day, children and future students of St. Ives Academy for the Intellectually and Artistically Gifted. And before you say it, I know it's a long name. But it suits us quite well. At any rate, I wanted to introduce myself. My name is Felicia Gardens, and as your principal said, I am the headmistress of the Academy. I'm here to announce the four students who will be attending our school. The envelope, please," she announced, her voice pleasant and cheerful, if somewhat strained and quiet. Our principal brought a cream colored envelope out onto the stage and handed it to Gardens. Her small hands opened it slowly, and she brought out a piece of paper.
"I won't say the last names... I don't want to pronounce them wrong. All right, the four students we have accepted are... Cherry, Dakota, Sherlock, and Jennifer."
It took me a few seconds to realize that I was the only Jennifer in the room. I bit my lip in amazement, and felt Holmes take my hand and jiggle it gently. I glanced at him, my eyes filling with happy tears. I sniffed as the tears began streaming down my face, and I buried my face into Holmes's shoulder. However, he just yanked me towards the stage. I went up onto it, looking tearfully at the audience, all of whom looked either angry or jealous.
The only person on the stage I didn't recognize was Dakota. He was a small boy, pudgy, who had thick glasses sitting on his face. He didn't look like a dork, though, with his very fashionable American style. Everything on his body couldn't be less than fifty bucks. He had black hair and a very tan complexion. In fact, he looked distinctly Native American, which would explain his name. He was smiling with a pompous air, but he looked friendly enough.
"That's Dakota Marji. He's Indian, writes with his right hand, eats many yogurt cups, has a garden with geraniums at home, has a bad cold, and is a dancer for the London Ballet Company. He came here about three months before you did, a transfer from India. He doesn't speak a word of English," Holmes hissed into my ear. I didn't even bother asking how he knew half of those things, figuring that he would tell me later. I stared at Dakota for a minute, realizing he did look more Indian than Native American. That didn't really explain his name, but I decided that it was a nickname or something.
"Congratulations," said Gardens, who was standing in front of me quite suddenly. She outstretched a petite hand, which I accepted and shook firmly. Her grip was limp in my hand. She handed me an envelope, smiled, and then moved onto Holmes. She repeated her performance, and then turned to the rest of the students.
"I'm very sorry that I could not accept all of you. You are all extraordinary students, and I'm sure you'll go far in life. There will be refreshments in the hall if you would care to take the time. If not, I wish you the best of luck and much love. Good evening."
Gardens hobbled off of stage as the crowd dispersed, most looking angry and shooting glares at the four of us. Cherry looked at them all, a snobby smile on her face. Dakota looked somewhat dazed and confused, but he certainly held that superior look that Cherry held. Holmes looked bored.
"Well. I suppose we should be going now. Christine will be waiting for us, I am sure," Holmes drawled, looking troubled for some reason. I shrugged and slid my letter open as we walked. Holmes had already read his, and didn't slow for me.
Dear Student,
Thanks much for choosing to apply to our school. You were chosen based on your academic performance and artistic capability, not to mention personality and how we believed if our school was best for you. We congratulate you for your hard work.
In this envelope is a train ticket for St. Ives. The train will be leaving February 25th at 3 pm. You are expected to be there. There is a washing machine at the school, so you can bring as many outfits as you feel necessary. You will have your own dorm room, which is fairly spacious, and will not have a roommate.
Congratulations to you again,
Felicia Gardens
I folded the letter and squinted my eyes shut. The 25th was a Sunday, if I remembered correctly. I glanced at Holmes, who was several feet ahead of me, getting ready to leave the school. I ran over to him and grabbed his arm.
"The 25th is a Sunday, right?" I asked. Holmes spared me a quick glance, frowned, and nodded.
"Yes. We'll only have a few days to pack, so we must get home quickly. I'm sure Christine will be... pleased about this," Holmes said, fairly stammering. I studied him closely. Holmes's only stammered when very unsure of himself. Why would he be unsure as to Christine's feelings? She had only encouraged us when learning about it. Her feelings couldn't possibly have changed.
Holmes stepped outside, the fairly warm air a welcoming change to the stuffy school. I sighed and leaned against the building, pleased and a bit tired. Holmes noticed that I had paused and came back to join me. He let out a long sigh.
"Watson..."
"Yes, yes. I know. Christine will be waiting," I groaned.
"No, I won't," said a voice from my right. I spun around, startled, to see Christine staring at me, her dark blue eyes amused, but without the normal gleam of happiness. I placed a hand to my chest and looked at her, narrowing my eyes into a glare.
"You had to go and startle me?" I snapped, a bit irritated. Christine, who had been leaning against the wall, straightened up and stretched out her long arms, not looking at me. After running a hand through her light brown hair, she faced me again, fiddling with something in her hands.
"Not really. But things have been boring around here lately. How'd it go?" she questioned, suddenly eager. Holmes smiled enigmatically.
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Congratulations," Christine said suddenly, clapping softly. I looked at her oddly, and then looked at my hands. The letter still sat compliantly in my hands, the creamy envelope sticking out in the darkness. I smiled at her as she stuck out a hand.
"Thank you," I replied, taking it and shaking her hand firmly. She shook Holmes's hand, and then held out her own hand. Holmes placed the letter in her hands, which she read quickly. Her eyes took in every detail, and when she handed it back to Holmes, she looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and anger.
"Miss Gardens... her hands aren't crippled, right?"
"No."
"Then why does she have someone else write her letters for her?" Christine questioned. I glanced at her sharply, but Holmes was smiling.
"Ah, you see and observe everything, Christine. That is a mystery that will have to be left for later. I would assume that her position is too high for her to even consider writing her own letters. Either that, or she doesn't have time. Whoever her assistant is, it's nice to know that he's a capable youth."
"Yes, indeed. Writes with his left hand. Not a usual occurrence, I've been told."
"Very well educated."
"Certainly not British- more likely American."
"Indeed. Perhaps a bit far-sighted."
"Glasses need to be checked."
I stared at both of them in amazement, and then looked at my own letter again, not seeing how they could have even figured out half of that. Christine plucked the letter from my hands and began pointing out a few things."
"The hand-writing is distinctively male, if you'll notice. It's written with a firm and confident hand, suggesting youth. His grammar is impeccable, creating the well-educated demeanor. Despite all of his education, he allows the very obvious slip up of blatant American grammar. 'Thanks much'. I haven't heard many British people say that. As for his eyes- well, the writing is large and bold, and there is some smudging along the letters, which means that he dragged his hand along the ink- left handed. I'll admit, the eyes are a bit far-fetched to me," Christine admitted, reading the letter again. The sparks of anger returned to her eyes, and then she left the letter in my hands, turning away.
"I'll be walking home. I won't be back until late. Don't wait up. And congratulations again," she said, her tone suddenly sharp and sullen. She stalked off before either Holmes or I could get in another word, leaving me to gape after her.
"What was wrong with her?" I asked, confused as I stepped into the taxi Holmes had hailed for us. Holmes sighed and sat down next to me.
"Exactly what I suspected she would notice instantly and you would not. We must leave for St. Ives," he commented tiredly. I shrugged.
"So?"
"Well, that means we have to leave London."
"No crap."
"Watson, think about it. A case has just ended with the abduction of a dear friend, whom you believe to still be in London. You're poking around desperately, but can find nothing. You are hoping your other friends will help you search for her, and indeed they seem quite willing. Unfortunately, they get called off to go to St. Ives to attend school, leaving you to your own devices. Even though you know you cannot do it yourself. How would you feel in that situation?" Holmes questioned, ticking off thoughts quickly. I bit my lip in horror, having completely forgotten about Kline.
"Oh."
"Her exact sentiments, my dear Watson. Christine is feeling a bit betrayed right now."
I sighed and buried my hands into my head. I was a complete idiot. I really was. I knew what it was like to loose my best friend. Not nearly as long as we had lost Kline, but long enough to feel sympathy. Holmes put a hand on my shoulder and rubbed circles, humming a gentle melody, which I recognized instantly as one of the songs from Holmes! the Musical.
Misery had made its home.
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It was very late when Christine came home, dripping wet and looking much like a dead rat. Her black clothes were soaked through, and she looked amazingly unhappy, sniffing every once in a while, and wiping her eyes. The rain beat down heavily upon my windows as she came into my room, instantly shedding her long black coat.
I watched her from my bed. She moved stiffly, a bit downcast even. Her hands, usually more twitchy than anyone I had ever met, refused to sit still for even a minute. She was compulsively grabbing and playing with everything in reach. I watched as she dropped a fairly expensive candle on the ground, sigh, pick it up, and promptly drop it again. I raised an eyebrow at her, but stayed still. She still didn't know I was awake.
Finally, she sat down at my desk and put her head down on the surface. She spent a good minute or so like that, and finally looked up again. I was shocked to see that there were tears on her face. But as soon as I had seen them, Christine wiped them away and glanced at me. I shut my eyes in a hurry, but obviously not fast enough, because I heard her laugh.
"Ah, my dearest Jenny. You needn't feign sleep. You usually breath fairly deeply when you sleep. I didn't notice immediately, unfortunately, but when I looked at you I knew you were awake. I told you not to wait up," she reminded me, her voice a bit hoarse. I opened my eyes and looked at her. The smirk I had known so well had returned to her face, if only for a moment. I sat up in my bed and rubbed my eyes.
"I didn't wait up. You didn't exactly come into the house quietly. You know, you don't always need to come through the window," I pointed out. Christine smiled grimly, shrugging.
"Yes. Well. Your mother was in the living room, and I don't think she would have appreciated a figure such as myself appearing in her doorway at- my, is it really 3 am?"
"Yes."
"At any rate... I figured that the tree around back would take me near the hallway window. As it was, I still had to jump. Split my hand against the wood, I'm afraid... oh, bother. Looking forward to the 25th, I believe," she commented dryly, placing her hand to her mouth and sucking on the blood. I crawled out of my bed and smacked her hand away, glancing at it. It wasn't a very deep cut, but it was fairly broad.
While digging around in my desk for some gauze I kept there just in case Holmes snuck in, I continued our conversation. "I suppose," I commented, pulling out the gauze. I didn't really want to mention it, knowing it might be a sore topic. "I mean, it'll at least be a change of scenery."
I nearly smacked myself, knowing it would be a direct illusion to the fact that we were leaving Kline in whatever hellhole she was in. But Christine merely outstretched her hand, allowing me to bandage it.
"Changes of scenery are always nice..."
"Where were you?" I blurted, forgetting myself and my act. Christine's eyes rose to meet me briefly, and I caught some of the ice in her glance. I immediately looked away, but her own response was jovial enough.
"Oh... just around town. I went to a few clubs, played strip poker with some of the Irregulars, climbed a tree and promptly fell out of it... my life was fun tonight," Christine said easily. I looked at her oddly.
"Strip poker?"
"I am remarkably bad at it, as it would appear. No poker face," she sighed. I snickered uncontrollably for a moment.
"Who played?"
"Thomas, Raze, Jimmy, and... oh, one of the younger ones. I can't keep track of them all. I'm going to say, however, that Thomas has a very nice chest. Very nice indeed..."
"Christine! Think about Todd!"
"Oh, pooh. For once in my life I was having a bit of fun and you had to bring up HIS name..." Christine trailed off, giggling a little. I stared at her, and then tilted back her head and smelt her breath. And frowned.
"Christine, how much did the Irregulars give you?" I asked sternly. Christine looked at me, sobering up instantly.
"One glass. Small. I didn't realize until... well, I didn't realize until later. Raze slipped it to me. I wouldn't have drank it otherwise, I promise. I hate alcohol," murmured Christine, looking apologetic. I scowled at her.
"No use drowning your sorrows, Christine. Off to bed with you. I doubt we'll be getting a lot of sleep tomorrow," I scolded her. Christine regarded me sharply, her eyes holding that familiar spark that had died three weeks ago.
"I wasn't drowning my sorrows. I wasn't even aware that I was imbibing until Raze informed me that I was drinking a rather pleasant form of scotch. I think that girl is Scottish or Irish, despite that phony Cockney accent. What was I saying?" she questioned suddenly, confused.
"You really shouldn't drink, Christine. You don't have the stomach for it," I reprimanded her again. Christine sniffed at me and stood up, attempting to look dignified. It probably would have worked, except for the fact that I knew her mind was in a thick haze.
"I know I don't have the stomach for it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with your guest bed."
"No, you have a date with Todd tomorrow."
"Shush, missy."
Christine left my room, and I watched as she pulled out an ancient silver key and unlocked the door to her room. I didn't see why she even bothered to lock it- but it was one of her old habits, I supposed, and then I went back into my room and shut the door.
She hadn't brought up what had been bugging her. It had obviously been bugging her a lot if she had been driven to play strip poker. I nearly laughed at the fact, except now I knew that she had been under the influence. I made a note to yell at Raze, and then lay down on my bed.
She hadn't yelled. She hadn't cried. She hadn't even mentioned it. She was slightly tipsy, had played strip poker, had climbed a tree... what in the world was she thinking? Certainly, she had been a bit more downcast and moody, but she certainly had never done anything so ridiculous.
I rolled over and began to drift to sleep, trying to shove the restless thoughts out of my head. I was just relieved to have been spared the dreadful argument with Christine.
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"You gave her ALCOHOL!" Holmes roared, more furious than I have ever seen him. I had given him the knowledge of Christine's return earlier that morning, while she had been curled up in her bed with a nasty hang-over. When I had told Holmes, he had froze, and then stormed out of my house. I had no choice but to follow him.
Raze stood right in front of Holmes, not even looking slightly fazed. It didn't surprise me- Raze was twenty-two, and Holmes was only sixteen. Still, anyone could see that she was impressed by the raving Holmes.
"She was unhappy," Raze said simply. Holmes whirled around to face her, his eyes blazing in a frightful manner. Raze met his gaze head on, and even I, standing behind Holmes, was frowning angrily.
"I don't care if she was unhappy. You don't give an underaged person alcohol. Especially someone you know is a friend of mine. How much?" he asked. Raze thought about it a moment, running a hand through her spiky blue hair.
"Half a glass. Full glass total, but I loaded it down with water. I don't see why you're complainin', Mr. Holmes. She seemed to have a good time."
"She was drunk," I replied heatedly. Raze glared at me, a look of surprise mixed with anger.
"After only half a glass that was so loaded down? Must have been an act, Miss Watson. No one can get drunk after just half a glass."
"Well, she certainly did."
"Actually, that was a mixture of exhaustion and drink, if you really must know. And yes, a little bit of acting. Not to mention the fact that I had hit my head when falling out of a tree," Christine said from behind me. I turned around and saw her smiling demurely at me, her cheeks tinged with red.
"How do you do that?" I snapped half-heartedly. Christine shook her head and rolled her eyes, turning to Holmes.
"Come now, Sherlock, I'm sure that she meant no harm by it. And it did provide a source of entertainment for a while," Christine reminded him, her eyes flickering with amusement. Holmes rewarded her with an icy glare, but even I could see him relenting. A little.
"You're underage, Christine," he shot at her. Christine snorted a bit, tossing her hair arrogantly.
"What do you care what I do with my life? Raze was cheering me up, is all. Besides, I've had alcohol before, and more than I had last night. So shut up and leave her alone, all right? She was just being a good friend," she hissed icily. I watched the exchange between two of my closest friends in rigid fear and amazement. Never had I seen Christine so... nasty was the word for it, I think. I could hear her implied words. She was insinuating that Raze had been a better friend than either of us.
And that wasn't too far from the truth, I realized dimly. We hadn't treated her poorly, perhaps, but we hadn't taken into account the Kline factor... but those were unhappy thoughts, and I pushed them away again, waiting for Holmes's reaction.
"A good friend would not allow you to have alcohol. Come along, Christine, we're going home," he told her. Christine snorted, and her eyes lost the friendly look of amusement they had previously held. They were replaced by pure iron, the coldest of iron. They burned into Holmes.
"You are not to order me around. I will come when I wish," was her reply. I turned my eyes again to watch Holmes's response.
"You will come when I demand."
"You are not my owner, and you may demand nothing of me."
"You are not in your right state of mind."
"Perhaps, but what I do is my business, not yours."
"When you are like this, your business is my business. As a friend."
"Then you will understand my refusal to go with you."
"No."
"Fool. If you cannot see my reluctance to be near you, than how can you call yourself a friend?" Christine questioned, her voice loosing some of it's venom. Instead, it held a twang of sadness. I felt sorry for her, and deep down I knew why she didn't want to go, but I had no desire to think of Kline. Stepping forward, I placed myself between Holmes and Christine. Both had a huge ego, and if things continued down that path, one or the other would probably strike out physically. And I had no great desire to play doctor once again.
"Hey. Hey, Christine. Look at me," I whispered quietly. Her dark blue eyes had been staring around my shoulder, glaring at Holmes. After a second, she tore away her gaze and focused on me, looking a little less angry.
"Yeah?" she whispered back, instinctively knowing that I didn't want Holmes to hear.
"I understand," I muttered quietly. Christine's eyes flickered, and all her anger disappeared in the blink of an eye. It was all replaced with an ocean of pain, and I wanted to cry as her posture slumped and her head dropped. Her long hands came up and put a hand on my shoulder, leading me away from Holmes. I felt his eyes upon my back, and I heard Raze sigh, but I ignored both, focusing on Christine.
"Jenny... look, I'm really sorry," she whispered to me. I looked at her, confused. She smiled vaguely, shaking her head.
"I've been a complete prat, I believe is what the British say. Or something like that. I've been taking everything out on you. I really did mean it, though, when I said congrats. Look... could you do me a major favour?" Christine asked, keeping her voice down. I nodded, ready to do anything.
"I really need to do this, and so I need you to forgive me. Oh, crap, that sounded completely cliche. Whatever. Anyway, forgive me..."
The only thing I remembered was some bony knuckles hitting me in the face, and then the interesting sensation of hitting the ground. Darkness.
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"I'm going to kill her. She won't even live to see tomorrow if I see her tonight. She dies, I promise, Mr. Holmes. Here I am, thinking she's some innocent little girl, and then she goes and collides with Miss Watson here. I never knew there was such depths to her! My, she's got a tough right hook, though, don't-"
"Raze, do be quiet."
Those were the first words I heard as I groggily returned to a state of awakening. Sighing, I rubbed my eyes and felt a nice lump forming on my forehead. It would appear Christine didn't have very good aim if she intended to hit me in the nose.
Holmes was immediately helping me get to my feet when he noticed I was awake. His eyes were full of concern and I clung to his arm heavily, trying to regain my senses. I sniffed a few times, and then rubbed my head.
"Ok, I'm not going to ask what happened, because I know that. Instead... where is Christine?" I asked. Holmes ignored me, prodding the lump on my head. I winced at his less than gentle touches and swatted his hands away. Holmes regarded me for a moment, and then nodded.
"Gone. She hit you and then ran. For someone who doesn't get very much exercise, she seems to move extraordinarily fast after she's hit a friend," growled Holmes. I shook my head tiredly.
"Holmes, get over it. She asked me to forgive her."
"And then promptly hit you," he argued. I moved my hair over my shoulders and began playing with it.
"You don't know what she's going through."
"Yes I do."
"No, you don't. You can't. Kline," I felt like choking as her name slipped out of my lips, "is her best friend, partner, and constant companion. She's confused, Holmes, not to mentioned scared. Nothing like this has ever happened to either of them. We're used to this by now. How many times have we been hurt by acting like detectives? Too many to count. But Christine and Kline are always so much more cautious then us. They... they have a different style. A different approach. And the results of our last case weren't what they were expecting. To Christine, it just isn't logical that Kline has been taken," I explained, feeling like a psychologist.
"You should be a psychologist, Miss Watson," Holmes commented dryly. I shook my head.
"Come on, let's go home. Mom is probably waiting for us."
We said our hasty farewells to Raze, who Holmes treated coldly, and then set off for home. We went our separate ways, and I returned to my house alone- only to find my mom in a state of panic.
"Jenny! Oh, thank God you're back! Have you seen Christine?" my mom shouted frantically at me. Peeling off my coat, I looked at her in confusion.
"You mean she isn't here?"
"No! She returned about fifteen minutes ago and went up to her room. I went up to check on her, but she wasn't in her room. Her window was open, and her suitcase was gone... I don't know where she went, Jenny! Oh, what am I going to tell Aminta?" my mom wailed. Aminta was Christine's mom, who was very protective of her daughter. I put a reassuring hand on my mom's shoulder, though I was pretty upset myself.
"Don't worry, mom. Christine probably just went to stay at a hotel for a few days. She told me about a week ago that she felt that she was infringing on our space," I said calmly, even though it was a lie. My mom looked at me, tears in her eyes, but then smiled.
"I'm sure you're right. Christine is far too level-headed to run away from home."
I smiled back, but my smile began to crack, so I made up an excuse about homework and ran upstairs. Instantly I shoved myself into the guest bedroom, where Christine had been staying for the past three weeks. I was dismayed at the sight.
Any signs that Christine had lived there had disappeared in those fifteen minutes when she had been left unattended. Christine was a messy person when it came to her room- yesterday her room had been covered in candy wrappers, books, notebooks, and who knew what else. Now it was spotless. The bed was made, the curtains were tied back, and the desk was practically polished.
Knowing I would find nothing in her room, I went to my room. Instantly I was relieved. A small note lay on my pillow, the name 'Jenny' scribbled on it. I sat down immediately, opening the letter and reading it swiftly.
Jenny- I didn't think I could actually hurt you, but I did. Really sorry about that. I didn't actually mean to hit you in the head. Jaw, maybe. Head, no. Look, I'm really sorry, but I had to leave. I'm kind of confused right now, and I need some time to think, without Sherlock breathing down my neck. It's selfish, but I need that time. Don't look for me- you won't find me. I don't want to be found. I'll be back as soon as possible, so don't get your knickers in a knot. Also, tell Sherlock not to use a revolver against me next time he sees me. And tell him to get off my back about the alcohol thing! I'm an actress, for heavens sakes. Good luck at your academy. I'm sure both of you will do great. Christine
It was a hastily scribbled note, and I could barely read her cursive. I set the letter down quietly and felt the tears I had been repressing build up, creating pressure in my head. Standing, I closed the door to my room, and lay down for a good cry.
Yes, that is the first chap. If you haven't noticed, the characters are already beginning to take a drastic change. You'll begin to see how they all deal with grief and things like that. And you won't like some of the ways, trust me.
The rating is a very strong PG13 just because I deal with a lot of social issues in this story. Drugs will show up, alcohol has showed up, suicide... things like that. None of this will be very detailed, but this story will be MUCH darker. My own moods have become darker, which reflects in my writing.
My next chapter will be from Kline's POV. There will be some long delays in chapters now, though. I am an official high schooler now!!! Which means I have a lot of homework. *sigh*
Yes, I own Sherlock Holmes and Watson. If you believe that, you're not very intelligent. Christine and Kline are mine, though.