'Bang, bang, bang'. Shots rang out of 221b Baker Street. This was not an unusual occurrence most of the time, as my companion, Sherlock, often got bored and started blowing holes into our wall. Yet today was different, as Sherlock and I stood on the door step of our flat, and the shots were coming from the inside.
Sherlock's quizzical eyes darted around the hall and our door, for any clues of whom might be inside. The shots continued, until I pulled my keys out of my pocket, and the jangle of them momentarily paused the gunfire. I froze, and only the heavy breathing from me could be heard. My friend stood silently and watching.
"Sherlock" I hissed as the gunfire commenced once again. "Who do you think is in there? And how did they get into our flat?"
"Well," replied my companion "the latter is simple" I raised my brows, yet I should not have been shocked, Sherlock knew everything before anyone else knew anything. "They picked the lock. As for who, is another matter. Judging from the slight indentation in the floor boards, I would say a woman, maybe 5'7, 5'8, wearing stilettos with dark hair, as you can see, one of them has been caught on the light here" and he held up a long dark hair, obviously not one of Sherlock's or mine "and judging from the sound of the gun, I would say a Browning hi-power hand gun, rather small and feminine don't you think? Now, just who is this mysterious, tall, dark haired woman" Sherlock asked himself. "Lets find out shall we?" and he turned the door handle of the unlocked door inwards into our apartment.
Our apartment was nothing special, but it was home. From the body parts in the fridge, to the scattered, endless pages on every available surface. I tried cleaning every once in a while, but Sherlock complained he couldn't find anything and everything 'looked funny'. I have no idea what planet that man is living on sometimes.
In the comfy chair, that Sherlock had claimed as his own by the fire, a figure sat crossed legged with a smoking gun in hand. She lifted the gun so it pointed the ceiling and slowly unfolded herself from the chair, like a giant, graceful cat. Dressed in a blood red silk shirt, tucked into a black pencil skirt that fell just above the knee, with at least two inch penitent red stilettos, and a thick waist clenching belt, she stalked towards Sherlock and me, with certain poise about her. With a 'click-clack' of her heels on the floorboards, she came toward us with her curvaceous, yet thin figure and stopped in front of me. She looked me up and down with heavily made up, dark eyes and her full, bright red lips twitched into what I thought might have been a smile.
"John Watson, I presume" and held out a hand to me, with long black nails. "Oops, please forgive me, Doctor John Watson."
She took back her hand and turned to my companion. They were both about the same height, very tall. Or I'm just short. She repeated the gesture to Sherlock, giving him the once over, and returning her grey gaze to his. Her eyes were the colour you would find in the middle of storm and his, the grey you would see right after. She smiled.
"Do you have any idea who I am Mr Holmes?" she asked walking back towards the coffee table, picking up various pieces of paper, studying them, and then picking up another.
"Well, you are obviously well trained to break into my apartment using specialist equipment, so you leave no trace or evidence behind, yet you wait, inconspicuously in our apartment, blowing holes into our wall-"
"I only added to what was there Mr Holmes"
"- and then, you question me as if I should know you. Now, let us see, the ring on your right hand, is very old, and a family heirloom, to a woman I once knew, and she loved that ring very much, engraved into the black stone an A, for family name, so she would only part with it for two reasons, one you pried it from her cold dead fingers, or she gave it to you. Now I believe the latter, seeing your clothing style is similar to hers when I last saw her. But, you look too similar, too similar in fact, to be just friends, and for her to give that ring to you, you have to be someone pretty important, and your locket that you wear around your neck, her mother owned that necklace, and vowed to give it to her daughters when she died, so, if I am correct from my deduction, I would say you were Miss Irene Adler's sister, Marianne Adler?"
"Very good Mr Holmes, almost correct"
"Almost? I thought I was spot on"
I stood next to Holmes and this woman, who had moved closer to us while Sherlock had been deducting. Who the hell were they both talking about? Irene who?
"Not quite. Yes the ring on my finger and the locket I wear are family heirlooms of the Adler's, yet I am not dear old Aunt Marianne"
"Aunt Marianne?"
"Yes, Aunt Marianne, which makes me…"
"Irene's daughter"
"Correct Mr Holmes, or should I say, Daddy?"
Please, tell me what you think before I continue, I would very much like feedback and to continue the story for you :)
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but the characters from my own imagination, not the lovely Sherlock Holmes, nor the brave Doctor John Watson... Not even Miss Irene Adler :(
KRYPTKEEPER xx
