Well, I promised myself I would finish the stories I've already started...and then I got BBC-America on my TV network. And in the middle of catching up with Dr. Who, a re-run of the first episode of Sherlock aired the other night. And then I found the other five episodes on Netflix. Well damn...and now I'm also guessing that I won't be finishing my book as soon as I had hoped either. Since I don't know how the writer's are going to explain Sherlock's non-death in Series 3, I'm just going to avoid that plot twist altogether. Exactly where in the story line, I'm starting this, I don't know. It's just an idea that popped into my head so I'm just going to see where this goes...I'm...experimenting, but thankfully I shall not suffer too many consequences (you'll get the joke if you read this XD)
Anyway,
ENJOI
Alice
I never knew my father. For a while, I was alright with that. My mom studied abroad in London, England for a year in college, and during her stay, someone stole her parents' identities and within two months, her entire family was bankrupt. She couldn't afford to stay but couldn't afford a plane ticket home, nor could she afford to finish her college studies. So, she did what she could. Took the jobs she could find, and when you're a young and pretty woman in college, no matter what country you're in, you're bound to find at least several handfuls of clients. That's how she was able to pay her way through college and establish a life for herself before she could hold down a real job. That's also how I was born. I know, it isn't the most glorious or romantic of stories, but I had long accepted that life just loves throwing shit your direction without any second-thought. When I was three, my mom met my stepdad. They fell in love, and I was the flower girl at their wedding four years later.
We lived in a small town of New Mexico and I drove my six-year-old brother and myself to Albuquerque for school just about every day. We lived in the city for several years, but when the economy took a turn for the worst, sometimes it's the mis-matched families that suffer from it the most. Mom didn't want us to change schools, so we moved to a "Motel Central" town in the middle of nowhere off Route 66 and requested that Max and I stayed in the school district. I admit I liked it here better. Mom and Dad opened up a diner off of one of the motels and I spent my evenings and weekends there to help bring in some extra money. It wasn't the easiest of childhoods, but I never had a bad life. I wasn't angry at my mother or my birth father for the cards I had been dealt. It was just how everything happened. I didn't care to know who he was nor did he probably care to know me, and until high school, I was content with that.
I've always been…observant. I tell it like it is, state the facts. I never saw anything wrong with that. Well, apparently there is a lot wrong with that, especially when you walk up to one of the most liked seniors in the school as a freshman and announce to her that despite the sweet and innocent façade she puts on, she has cheated on both her boyfriends. Twice. And not just with the other boyfriend. To be honest, I thought everyone knew! I mean, if you smelled the perfume she wore and saw how perfectly combed and unnaturally healthy her dyed hair was, you would have seen it too!
Well, apparently, I'm either crazy or everyone I have ever known and loved are just remarkably stupid because I was the only one who saw that. After that incident, I found it extremely difficult to ignore the blatant facts which everyone around me seemed to flaunt. It was as if teachers wanted the world to know they were addicted to porn or that the upper classmen were selling drugs. It was as if my so-called friends wanted me to hear every single word they said behind my back.
And then my mom got sick.
I was finishing up my junior year of high school when Dad texted me in the middle of class, demanding that I run up to the attendance window and ask for a pass to leave campus. Normally, parents are supposed to call school and then the attendance window calls you down. Even Dad's texts read like an open book. I was an okay person to him, but he never cared for my antics. He thought I was a little too smart, especially when it came to my science classes. He was also strict; he never let either myself or my brother miss a day of school so to receive such a text meant only one thing: something happened to Mom.
By the time I made it home with Max in tow, the ambulance was already pulling away, its sirens blaring. I hardly remember a thing from that day. Just glimpses. Mom in the hospital bed. Her body convulsing periodically. Doctors taking her away through steel doors to run tests. Sitting in the waiting room for hours. Max crying on my lap. And when the doctor came out, his lips pursed to a fine line but his eyes appeared to show kindness. Dad and Max both made the mistake of thinking those eyes meant everything was alright, but my heart stopped in my chest. His steady hands rubbing against themselves as if he were washing them at the sink and the crease at his brow meant only one thing: he had come to announce her death sentence.
They administered chemotherapy as if the damage the tumor had already done to her brain would be fixed. I watched as her body wasted away to nothing, her eyes sinking into her bald head. She died early in the summer, but before she did, she wanted to make her last moments with me count. She wanted me to find out who I really was.
"Alice," she told me one day, a month before her passing. I sat down on the bedside next to her and tried to give her the water she asked, but she merely turned my offer down. "I regret the shame I put myself through to pay for college, but I don't regret having you."
"I know," I nodded, smiling. As I watched her loving eyes gaze up at me with their undying warmth, I fought to stay strong. She and I both knew she didn't have long. "You did what you had to do, and I'm proud to be your daughter. I just wish…"
"That you were ordinary?" Mom finished as my voice faltered, cracking a smile. I sighed heavily and nodded.
"All I do is cause you trouble, I see things that I shouldn't and point them out as if everyone notices. At the very least, I just embarrass my victim," I groaned. Mom took my hand and laughed.
"Life wouldn't be nearly as exciting if you saw anything less, Allie," she joked. At that, I couldn't help but smile, but it quickly faltered.
"Mom, I'm crazy," I sighed.
"No you aren't, you just take after your father," she offered. At that, I stiffened and looked up at her.
"Excuse me?" I choked out. I had never heard her mention my father before. At least not in reference to the man she had married. "Mom, I thought you didn't know my father."
"I don't," Mom said, "but I have a hunch. If you look in the bottom of the top right drawer of my dresser, you'll find a diary from when I was in college. Writing about my experiences back then helped me get through it. I mentioned all my clients by name and dated each passage. I know it's not much, but with your brains, you should be able to narrow down your search. There was one man I remember distinctly. It was back in London while I was abroad and he only came once. He was a strange man, noticed everything about me. He even told me that the only reason he came to see me was because like him, I took no pleasure in the business I was in. All the other prostitutes who he looked into took at least some joy in spending the night with a handsome young man. I never said a word to him before that night either."
I found the diary as she spoke and sat back down, flipping through the pages. I then looked up at her, confused and asked, "And you're saying that he didn't go to you for pleasure?"
Mom nodded her head, "he said he was…experimenting. He had never had someone before and he didn't understand the pleasure people felt in being intimate. He was a strange man, I have to say. Like I said, he noticed everything about me, knew where I was from and why I was in the position I was in, and yet I hadn't said a word to him. We became acquaintances after that night. He helped me get out of the business and lent me some money to get home. Turns out that he lived on the floor above me in our dorms at school. He was odd, but a genuinely nice man. It seemed as though he didn't understand social norms and he occasionally came off as cold-hearted when really he was more like a lost puppy. You're a lot like him, you know."
I narrowed my eyes, trying to picture the face of the man she spoke of before asking, "What was his name?"
At that, mom sighed heavily, "I wish I could remember. There are gaping holes in my memory nowadays. I even mistook your dad for my high school boyfriend the other night. His name should be in that diary though. You'll know the entry when you see it. And check the date on it too. Allie, I'm sorry."
To this day, I don't know what she was apologizing for, whether it was for her memory loss or the entire situation as a whole, but despite that, I gathered the courage to ask, "Mom? Why are you telling me all of this? You know I'm happy as can be with just you, Max, and Dad."
At that, Mom sat back up, and with more strength than I had seen with her since she got sick, she sat up and grasped onto my hands, looking me intently in the eyes, saying, "Allie, you have done so much for me as a daughter and I cheated you of a normal childhood. I owe it to you, and you owe it to yourself to find out who you truly are. If you were any other person I might settle for not knowing who your father is but let's face it. You were born with a gift that very few people have. You see the world differently, Allie, and you also have a big heart. The doctors might say you suffer from social or mental disability but I don't think so. I think you're just different and I think that is something you inherited, but not from me. You're going to do great things, someday, Alice Rhodes, I just know it. But before you can do that, you need to find out who you are. Would you do that? If not for yourself, for your dying mother?"
With a lump in my throat, I nodded my head, but I didn't open up the diary until a week after her funeral. There were hundreds of entries and names listed in the book; I had no idea where to begin. When Mom said this wasn't a lot to go by, she really wasn't kidding. Sighing heavily, I leaned back in my desk chair and opened up my laptop. I made a promise to my mother that I would found out who I was, and hot damn, I was going to keep that promise. I just needed to know how. I typed in several different words and phrases into the search bar hoping I would come across an article that would help me narrow down my search, but I couldn't seem to find the right word or phrase that stood for what I was doing. Hell, I didn't even know what I was doing.
"Hey Dad?" I asked the next morning as I fried bacon. Max ran back and forth between the kitchen and the living room with a towel tied around his neck. From the corner of my eye, I could see him launch into the air and land heavily on the couch squealing and laughing as he imitated the superheroes on TV.
"Yeah?" Dad replied as he flipped several pancakes. With Mom gone, the exchange between us was fairly awkward. He still saw me as a daughter, but there was the barrier between us with the daunting fact that I wasn't really his. I also found it hard to consider the man my father when I knew someone else was out there with my genes and when Dad's smile lines around his mustache wrote "adores his son" instead of "adores his kids". Of course, the other side of his smile also read, "very fond of his stepdaughter" but that wasn't entirely the same thing.
"I'm trying to find the right word for something," I explained, "what does it mean when you have to narrow down a search from a broad list of things based on facts you already know?"
"Oh, you mean deduction?" Dad offered. I turned my head sharply and eyed Dad with slight confusion. I hadn't really expected him to give me an answer so quickly. Dad was a mathematical genius and engineer. He was great with his hands, but his vocabulary was limited. Plus, the fact that that was the exact word that had been sitting on the tip of my tongue for the past twelve hours only confused me more.
"Yeah," I said, narrowing my eyes, "how did you know that?"
At that, Dad laughed, "I'm not one who has a way with words but I read my fair share of books."
I rolled my eyes and grinned, "you mean your blogs?"
"Well, yeah…but there was this one website I found that I think you'll like. It's entitled the 'Science of Deduction' by a Brit named Sherlock Holmes. His stuff is a bit dry, but he has this colleague named Dr. John Watson that writes all about Sherlock in his blog. It's great stuff, the guy reminds me a little bit of you, only you know what's socially acceptable and what isn't," Dad explained.
"Socially acceptable?" I asked, "Dad, I think you know that I can't tell the difference between what is and what isn't."
At that, Dad let out a hearty laugh, "Allie, when you read about this guy's antics, you'll feel a whole lot better about yourself. You know what's socially acceptable, but you just don't have a filter for your mouth. This guy lacks both. Just look him up. Anyway, what did you need to know what 'deduction' means?"
"Mom gave me a diary of names and she wants me to figure out who my father is," I said quickly before plating the bacon and turning away from Dad as his jaw dropped. Without looking up to face him, I called out to Max, "Breakfast is ready!"
After breakfast, I locked myself in my room the rest of the day and googled "Sherlock Holmes". Sure enough, both his website and Watson's blog popped up as the first two things listed. Though the website was helpful, I got bored scrolling through the crap he had about tobacco and began reading through Watson's blog. And Dad was right, Sherlock Holmes had no idea what the social norms were. Running around his apartment in a bed sheet while skyping poor Dr. Watson to figure out a murder case? Telling children that people don't go to heaven but are burned in a special room after death? This guy was hilarious! As I read more and more cases, I found that I too could think like Sherlock. I could figure out the mysteries behind the mysteries before Dr. Watson even seemed to know where Sherlock was heading. Watson wrote as if Sherlock spoke gibberish when he was solving cases, but his verbal deductions were clear as day to me.
And that's when it hit me.
I fell out of my chair as I scrambled to grab my mom's diary. I was seventeen, but I was also born a week past my mother's due date. I could skim through the journal entries and focus solely on the ones that dated back from nine to ten months before my birth day. I also knew a thing or two about genetics and Mom wrote fairly detailed descriptions about each of her clients. I had blue eyes but my mom had brown eyes, which meant she had to be heterozygous and so my father had to be homozygous recessive, which meant that only men with blue eyes could be my father. I had brown hair and so did my mother, however, my hair was dark enough that it could be assumed that Father's hair was also brown. Mom had a nice golden complexion while I was fair skinned, so anyone with the ability to tan was out of the question. I also had fairly prominent facial features and almost no chin, so thanks to the detail of my mom's description, that narrowed my search down to three people.
And they were all from Mom's study abroad. Groaning, I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. It would take a blood test to figure out which one of the three were my father, but I didn't know where any of them lived and I couldn't afford a plane ticket to out of state, much less out of country. All but giving up, I continued scrolling through Dr. Watson's blog with the diary still on my lap. I hadn't bothered to look at the names of my suspected fathers, but I was surprised to see that the man Mom described to me was one of the three. She wrote about him exactly as she described to me several weeks before. My eyes drifted over to the side of the computer screen. I stared at Dr. Watson's photo. He seemed a good-hearted man but he was obviously an army doctor. I guessed that he served either in Afghanistan or Iraq. I then looked down at the picture below of Sherlock Holmes. He wore a ridiculous hat in the picture but was otherwise difficult for me to read. I had to study him for a long time before I could figure out that he was a lonely individual who enjoyed only the weirdest of cases. He hated his brother who held a high position in the British Government and had very few friends besides Dr. Watson. But that was all I could really see in Sherlock Holmes.
The next thing I noticed were his striking blue eyes. I furrowed my brow and zoomed in on his picture. His face was hidden by the hat and the collar of his coat but there was no mistaking his high cheek bones and dark curly hair. I subconsciously lifted my hand to my own hair. It was straight, but extremely coarse as if it wanted to curl but chose not to.
"Allie, you're crazy," I sighed heavily, sitting back in my chair. I continued reading through Watson's blog entries, trying to get my mind off the thought. Without thinking, I clicked back to Holmes' website to see if there were any other tips he could offer to help me with my own search, and that's when I saw another picture of him.
My jaw dropped and I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was rounder, but our lower jaws were almost exactly the same. I laughed at myself, shaking my head. I was just insane, there was no way that man could be…
But as my eyes drifted down to the diary in my lap, my eyes widened. In one of the last entries which Mom wrote about the bizarre client turned acquaintance, scribbled at the top of the page dated eighteen years ago exactly nine months before my birthday to the date was "Sherlock Holmes"
And thanks to Dr. Watson, I knew exactly where they lived.
Sherlock
Bored. Bored. Bored Oh, he was bored! He needed a case! Sherlock groaned loudly before falling backwards onto the couch, shooting his gun up into the ceiling. Within seconds John came stumbling out of the bathroom half-naked with a towel wrapped around his waist and soap bubbles dancing sporadically about his body.
"What in the bloody hell was that for, Sherlock?" John shrieked. Without even looking at him, Sherlock gave the same answer as always.
"Bored," he sighed heavily. Then, chancing it, Sherlock allowed his gaze to drift over to the man before him. He stared at John for 3.2 seconds, turned away slowly, and sighed. Oh, some days, living with John was…oh, what was the word? Something sentimental and ordinary people used…a blessing? Ah, that seemed close enough. Either way, some days, it was good to be Sherlock. Even if he was bored.
"Well, I would appreciate if you would refrain from shooting our neighbors!" John scolded. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.
"Oh, John, the flat above us was vacated a week ago. No one lives there now," he explained curtly.
"I wonder why?" John shrugged sarcastically, his eyes drifting up to the bullet holes in the ceiling. That made at least ten now. John let out a heavy sigh and Sherlock risked yet another look. This time it was only 2.5 seconds, but it was more than enough for Sherlock.
If something exciting would happen (preferably a new case), then Sherlock Holmes' day would be complete.
Alice
Okay, Dad was right. I wasn't crazy, I was psychotic.
When I told him my find and what I had planned to do, he nearly died of laughter. He even fell on the floor.
"Alice, you haven't been out of the state, much less the country! And do you really think some fictional detective is your father?" he asked, wiping tears out of his eyes. When I crossed my arms and glared at him, Dad's laughter stopped.
"He's not a fictional character, Dad, he's a real person. I even looked up their address," I explained.
"But Allie, travelling to England to find some guy you think could be your father because he acts like you?"
"He doesn't act like me, he thinks like me," I corrected, "Look, Dad, summer vacation just started and I have three months before school starts to find him. I have almost enough money to buy a round trip but I just need a little extra help. I'll pay you back and I'll keep in touch."
"You're insane, Allie!" Dad suddenly roared, "Do you have any idea how hard your mother and I worked to give you the life that you had? I've tried very hard to fill the void your father left. You're mom put almost all her life insurance to pay for college! And now what? You're just going to throw it all away because you think there's an explanation for why you're different?"
"I'm not throwing it away!" I retorted, "Mom's dying wish was for me to at least find out who my father was and I can't do that unless I meet Sherlock Holmes. Even if he isn't my father, he could at least point me in the right direction. There are two other possible names in the diary and according to Dr. Watson, no one else knows the streets of London better than Holmes. Just let me do this, Dad, for my Mom. Please."
Letting out a heavy sigh, Dad went over and grabbed the checkbook. I couldn't contain my smile when he turned back to me and handed me the check. But my smile fell suddenly when he said with teary eyes, "I hope you find what you're looking for, Allie. If you do find your dad, this should be enough to get you started."
At that, my jaw dropped and my body numbed, "W-what?"
"In a few months, you'll be a legal adult and your mother is gone. I'm not your father, Alice Rhodes, so you can stop pretending that I am. Feel free to come back if you can't find him, but don't call me your dad anymore. From now on, I'm just Josh, okay?" he said. I nodded my head, not sure what to say. Dad—Josh shifted awkwardly on his feet before he sighed and said, "I'll go ahead and book you a flight to London. You can take care of the flight home; just make sure you're back by August 1 if you do come home. Keep me updated and try to get a souvenir for Max, you know he loves that kind of stuff."
I nodded my head again and the next thing I knew I was staggering off an airplane with a severe case of Jet Lag. I didn't trust taxis, but when I went to the rental car center and found the steering wheel on the right side of the car, I swallowed my fear of having my money stolen and hopped in a cab. First thing's first, I had to check into my hotel.
It wasn't even a motel, it was a shack. It was clean but everything in it was older than the neon signs back home! Groaning, I collapsed on my bed, but regretted it when I felt the knot forming on my forehead after it smacked one of the springs in the mattress. This was going to be a long summer break.
Speaking of summer, it didn't even feel like summer! It was cold! Josh told me to pack jeans and some sweat shirts, but this was just ridiculous! I was so used to the desert that the mildest of chills felt like subzero temperatures to me.
What was even worse was despite seeing Mr. Sherlock Holmes on the front page of every newspaper, 221b Baker Street seemed to be nowhere on the maps the front desk had given me. I wandered around London lost for two days with my hands stuffed in my pockets asking every bystander for directions, but just about every person said the same thing:
"Oh, it's just a cab drive away. Beware of Mr. Holmes though, he's a strange fellow."
Yeah. Cab drive away. As if I'm going to trust my money with a stranger carting me all around town. Where I was from, you never gave your money to anyone for transportation unless it was your credit card to the gas pump. I missed my truck…
When I had all but given up on finding Baker Street by myself, I realized that not only was I unable to find Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, but it was the middle of the night and I couldn't find my hotel! Groaning, I waved a taxi and submitted to my fears yet again. The next morning, I flagged yet another taxi and hesitantly hopped into the car.
"Can you take me to 221b Baker Street?" I asked timidly. The elderly taxi driver turned to me and smiled kindly.
"Off to see Mr. Holmes, are we? My, I'm impressed that he's bringing the Americans to his doorstep now!" he said with a jolly voice, "I will warn you, Mr. Holmes has been known for turning down many cases. He doesn't take kindly to the…uninteresting ones."
"Oh, I'm not here for any ordinary case," I explained, my face flushing, "if anything, he'll end up giving me a case…"
"Oh? Well, I can't wait to read that in the papers then," the driver joked. As he pulled away from the curb and we drove through the streets of London, I slowly sunk back into my seat. Well, this seemed easy enough. I looked out the window wondering what I would find when I got there. Was Sherlock Holmes really as Dr. Watson described in his blogs? He certainly matched up Mom's description of the man. Within five minutes, we pulled up to what looked to be a shop with a dark green door standing off to the side. In gold plates, it wrote, "221b".
"Here we are, ma'am!" the driver said. I thanked him as I stepped out, paying the fair. I walked up the steps, my hands stuffed in my pockets. I let out a heavy sigh, either this was the end of my journey or it was only the beginning. Either way, I buried my face into the scarf around my neck and knocked on the door.
John
"SHUT UP!" Sherlock screamed at the top of his lungs. John had been reading a book quietly in his room but when the knock came to the door, he was surprised that his friend hadn't shot at it. Granted, with Sherlock, nothing could really surprise John at this point.
"Sherlock! It's probably just a client!" John called from his room.
"Then you get it! The case is probably boring anyway!" Sherlock retorted. Groaning, John rose to his feet and scampered down the stairs. He caught the girl just as she was beginning to turn away. She jumped and turned back to face John as he opened the door. She was a cute little thing. A slender girl with a round face and high cheek bones, striking blue eyes and short brown hair with pink dyed into the tips of the underlayers. She wore a black blazer and lavender scarf over the blue tank top. Her skinny jeans and carefully decorated cowboy boots told John that she was from another country.
"Hello, are you here to see Mr. Holmes?" John asked, allowing the girl to step in. She stood at the doorstep awkwardly and looked around.
"H-Hi…and yeah, er, yes I am, thank you," she stuttered, taking a step into the flat. John raised an eyebrow. An American? Her accent told John that much, but Americans were coming to see Sherlock now? This was new.
Before John could open his mouth, he heard Sherlock call down the stairs, "Tell her to go away! The case is probably boring anyway!"
John narrowed his eyes and glared up towards the ceiling before he glanced back at the girl. Her face was pale and she opened her mouth, trying to say something but struggled to let the words escape her tongue. Poor thing must have been scared out of her wits.
"Don't mind him," John said quickly, putting a smile on his face. He placed a hand on her shoulder and led her up the stairs, "you've come a long way. Would you like some tea?"
"Just water will be fine, thank you," the girl answered politely, avoiding eye contact. John pursed his lips. What on earth would scare a young American girl and drive her all the way to London to meet Sherlock? As they made it up the stairs, the girl looked up and let out what seemed to be a long held in breath. Sherlock was lying on the couch, his hands placed against his lips as he stared up at the ceiling. John had to hold in a sigh. Even Sherlock had moments when he looked so…serene. But only Sherlock could ruin those moments by opening his mouth.
He turned to eye the girl and his face contorted in disgust as he sat up and spat, "Oh god, cowboy boots? You let an American in with cowboy boots? For God's sakes, John! And let me guess, you're from some frontier state where they talk with ridiculous accents! Oaklahoma? Kentucky? Texas?"
Suddenly, all of the girl's anxiety drained from her face as it turned red and she spat back with equal fire on her tongue, "I have family from there, thank you! And no, it's New Mexico. And at least down there, we're friendly and know how watch out for rattle snakes unlike you stuck-up morons who can't see a thing with your noses stuck in the air all the time."
John jumped at her sharp remarks and glanced over at Sherlock who gave John and equally confused look. Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock observed the girl for a long time—much longer than usual—before he straightened back up and placed his hands behind his back.
"Oh, a feisty one. I haven't had a client talk back to me with dismal intelligence before. What is your name?" Sherlcok asked. John sighed heavily and turned to the kitchen to make tea and get the girl a glass of water, listening in to the conversation.
"Alice Rhodes," the girl answered. John watched from the corner of his eye as she reached her hand out to shake hands with Sherlock, but the consulting detective merely glared at her. Awkwardly, Alice's hand fell back to her side and she managed to say, "you can call me Allie for short."
"I don't particularly care for nicknames, Alice," Sherlock answered curtly. John let out an exasperated groan. For god's sake, the poor girl had travelled here all the way from the states, didn't she? Sherlock could at least have the decency to show her some respect! Before he could make the situation any worse, John scurried out of the kitchen and placed a tray of drinks down at the table.
"Go ahead and have a seat, Allie, make yourself at home," John offered, handing the girl her glass of water. He fixed a cup of tea just in case she changed her mind. Allie took the glass with great appreciation and sat down in the closest chair. The gesture caused Sherlock to shoot John a glare.
"Don't be nice to her, John," Sherlock ordered, "if you do that, she'll never leave!"
"She's a client, Sherlock," John snapped back, "she's come all this way from America to see you and you're just turning your nose up to her!"
Behind him, Allie snorted a laugh, her point proven. John sighed heavily, with the exception of Irene Adler, Allie was the closest thing to Sherlock John had ever seen. Though unlike Irene, Allie seemed to have no intention of making Sherlock like her, and this was going to make for an interesting several days. Sherlock eyed Allie with his usual cold gaze and walked towards her.
"Alice Rhodes has come here with a case she expects us to solve," Sherlock explained. Allie eyed the detective suspiciously, but leaned forward, anticipating Sherlock's deduction of her. Noticing this, he continued, "unlike past clients she has no intention of leaving even if we were to force her, despite how dreadfully boring it will be. Your kindness has only solidified her stay, John, so thank you for that!"
"How do you know what my case is? You haven't even asked me," Allie pointed out, though it appeared that she knew the answer. John shook his head. His time with Sherlock was making even the army doctor analyze people too much.
"The cowboy boots and the accent tell me that you are from southern United States, though your use of the English language suggests that you have received a good education, though you have yet to graduate secondary school and apply to University. You have also received extra help in your studies, presumably from a parent with a degree in education. The ear piercings and pink hair tell me you are slightly rebellious, if not, blatantly stubborn. You have good posture but your pull your shoulders back and cross your arms as if to shield yourself. You do what you please and say what ever thought comes your way. There must be a parental figure missing from your life and your calloused hands say that you work a lot on the side, so your family must be poor and you have to pay for your own education. The crease in your brow means you are searching for something, yet the certainty in your eyes say that you have a secure family life, despite your financial needs and your missing parent, which suggests there is a stepparent, but you never met the biological parent the stepparent replaces. The complexion of your skin must mean that there was a recent death in your family and the bags under your eyes indicate you are still adjusting from jet lag, so to come to me almost immediately must mean that your search is urgent. So your…mother died and now you are searching for you…father? It was obviously a dying wish and you never felt a strong connection with your stepfather despite his pretend affection towards you and your strong bond with your younger half-sister. That is a boring case, all you need is a blood test and by the look of it, you are an analytical thinker and you must have looked on my website by now so you can find your father on your own. Now, did I miss anything?" Sherlock deduced, his mouth running a mile a minute. Allie sat back in her chair smirking.
"Not my sister, my brother," Allie corrected, crossing her arms.
Sherlock stamped his foot to the ground and grimaced, "Ah! There is always something! Now, you see my point? Go on; find your father by yourself."
"Oh, but I already have," Allie said in a strong voice. John turned to her Allie suddenly. She breathed deeply, though she sounded strong, Sherlock still intimidated her. Sherlock also turned back to face Allie. By this point, he was on the other side of the room. Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock took a step towards Allie. This girl had intrigued him. Perhaps this was the case he had been waiting for all morning after all. When she had his attention, Allie continued, "I'm not here for you to find my father, Sherlock, I'm here for you to prove that I have."
"Is that so? I take it your father lives in London then?" Sherlock asked. Allie nodded.
"My mother was in London for a year in college when her family went bankrupt. She turned to waitressing and prostitution to pay her way through and help her family out," Allie explained, "that's how I came along. She kept a diary and wrote about all of her clients and between your website and my own knowledge, I have narrowed the list down to three people. I could only find one address, however, but the address I did find seems like the most probable suspect."
Sherlock was silent for a long time and he placed his hands to his lips again as he thought. John turned from Sherlock to Allie and back, a horrible feeling welling up inside of him. If Sherlock had caught on to the same suspicion John had, he didn't show it. "You said your name was Rhodes?" Sherlock asked the girl suddenly. Allie nodded her head and Sherlock continued to mumble to himself. "Rhodes…Rhodes…your mother wouldn't happen to be Jessica Rhodes, would it?"
"The very one," Allie answered curtly. At that, Sherlock gave a small smile.
"Ah, yes, I remember Jessica. We went to the same school when she studied in London. I lived on the floor above her," Sherlock stated, remembering fondly. John's shoulders sagged. Sherlock hadn't caught on yet. He was smart, but anything social or scandalous flew right over his head.
Allie pressed her lips together and nodded, "I know you did." Her curt response finally caused Sherlock to halt, his body stiffening.
He faced Allie with slow and stiff movements, narrowing his eyes, he said, "I conducted an experiment with Jessica just before she returned to America."
Again, Allie nodded her head and said, "That's what she said you called it. Now, will you give me a blood sample or am I going to have to punch you?"
"Sherlock!" was all John could manage as he glared at his colleague. Was he really that stupid? This girl couldn't have been more than eighteen years old! What the hell had he been thinking?
But still, Sherlock didn't seem to believe the girl's story completely. He bounded over to where Allie sat and placed a hand on each arm of her chair, staring intently into the girl's eyes.
"When you look at me, what do you see?" he asked in a dark voice, "and don't give me a stupid answer like John would say. Give me every detail, every thought that comes to mind when you look at my face. Go."
Allie wasted no time in answering, "You have a critical eye that is cursed to see everything. You stand tall but your shoulders tip forward slightly because you know you are the best and you see yourself above all others, however you don't think it's possible for you to be the only one in the world such as yourself. You're course hair and defined cheeks suggest that your diet alternates between a healthy one and one that is borderline anorexic. But it isn't body image that alters your diet. Your breath smells of smoke but you're trying to quit and your eyes are blood shot which could mean that you wear nicotine patches quite frequently. Your veins stand up but are shrunken in from dehydration as if you overdose—my guess would be on nicotine patches because for some reason, you think they help you clear your mind. You're also married to your work, which would explain the spotty diet, so you believe that eating slows your progress on a case as your metabolism wastes time digesting instead of thinking. You're also pale and look to the ground frequently, like that of a lonely man who is in denial that his love life sucks. You loved only one woman before, I'm guessing it's that Irene Adler Dr. Watson mentioned in one of his cases considering he didn't understand your alterations in behavior during that time. But there is something else…you'll never admit it but you have a particular fondness of another person…another person you see quite frequently and wish you could reveal your feelings to her but you think that is below you because you don't understand sentiment. Did I miss anything?"
Sherlock and John were both silent for a long time. Slowly, Sherlock stood and croaked, "you missed several things."
"You didn't ask for anything specific and you try to mask the attributes you notice in others so you're harder to read," Allie answered quickly, "I also learned how to refrain from saying things that are embarrassing. Like your brother's pranks, for instance. That is why you hate him after all."
"Oh you're good," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, turning away again, "but you aren't mine."
At that, Allie stood, "if you're so sure, than give me your arm. A blood test should prove my theory wrong, wouldn't you agree?"
"No," Sherlock said, "I don't trust blood tests. You are not mine."
"You slept with my mother!" Allie spat back, "Exactly nine months before I was born, too! How can you be so sure?"
"I didn't sleep with her, I…experimented!" Sherlock retorted. Allie's hands fell to her side and she gave the man a dark glare. John's jaw dropped as he observed Allie. She had Sherlock's eyes. Blue, and vibrant which notice everything.
"Did you insert yourself into her?" Allie asked, then added, "without meaning to be crass of course."
"I don't know—"
"Just answer the question, Sherlock!" John interjected, losing his patience. Both Sherlock and Allie turned to face the doctor in awe. Sherlock walked towards John and leaned into his ear.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked in a low voice. John rolled his eyes and took a step back.
"Did you sleep with Allie's mother? It's a yes or no question, Sherlock," John said. Struggling to find the words, Sherlock lifted his hands slightly.
"Well, yes, but it was—"
"Alright! Both of you, to the clinic, now please!" John lifted his hand and drew a circle with this finger before pointing down the stairs. Both Allie and Sherlock stood motionless watching John as he grabbed his coat.
"John! Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, chasing after his friend. Allie followed close behind as the three ran down the stairs.
"We, as in all three of us, are going to the clinic so you and Allie can take a paternity test," John explained as if the detective before him were a child. Sherlock gasped out a laugh and shook his head.
"You can't possibly believe that this girl is my…daughter can you?" Sherlock asked, his face contorting at the word 'daughter'.
"Sherlock," John whispered as the stepped outside, "take a look at her, she's the spitting image of you!"
"Plenty of people have doppelgangers, John," Sherlock retorted.
"She just probed through your mind and life story with one look at you. One! She knows more about you than even me, and she hasn't been here for more than twenty minutes!" John pointed out, his voice raising two octaves.
"Oh please, John, anyone can get that information by reading your blog," Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Including the part about your brother? And I suspected you had feelings for Irene, but I never mentioned that in my writings," John spat.
"Oh good god," Sherlock groaned. He then grabbed John roughly by the shoulder and turned to face Allie who stood behind them with a straight face, her chin tucked neatly into her scarf and her hands shoved in her pockets—just like Sherlock—as if she waited for them to say something.
"Take a look at John," Sherlock said quickly, "he's a doctor, obviously. But what kind of doctor?"
Allie narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to the side as she looked John up and down. She then looked the man in the eye and asked, "that's a good question. Afghanistan or Iraq? And how long did you walk with a psychosomatic limp? You were only shot in the shoulder."
Allie pushed past them and waved down a cab as John and Sherlock both turned to each other, their eyes widened with terror.
"If we don't go, she can't prove it," Sherlock whispered quickly. John groaned as a cab pulled up and Allie stepped in. He turned to the cap and shoved Sherlock forward.
"In the cab! Now!" John ordered stiffly. Allie and Sherlock sat across from each other, both with their arms crossed and neither said a word. John still couldn't believe it himself.
Sherlock Holmes had a daughter. And it happened because he was conducting an "experiment".
What's more, Alice Rhodes could arguably be an even bigger smartass than Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson was trapped in the middle of it all.
