Chapter 1- Somewhere Only We Know
Text from: John
Mrs Hudson wants to know if you're coming home for Christmas. If you are she'll get a bigger turkey.
Rosie watched the rain fall and wondered why it didn't snow. The lights on the tree twinkled like jewels and the presents beneath it beckoned, begging to be unwrapped. Uncle Sherlock was playing the violin, the mournful, soothing strains of 'Silent Night' flowing across the room. She had her own violin to play but she was happy to listen to her uncle instead of practice herself. There wouldn't be a white Christmas this year; she didn't know where the idea came from when she couldn't remember such a thing ever happening. "Rosie," her dad called from the stairs, "can you help with the shopping?" She slipped from the chair with a sigh, trotting to the door to let him in. His left shoulder was wet, busy streets and an uncooperative umbrella apparently, and he appeared disgruntled so he must have had a poor time of it at the local Tesco. She took a bag into the kitchen, staggering slightly with its weight. Looking towards the dark street outside, she whispered sadly: "where are you Uncle Alex?"
Rosie, like any self-respecting six year old, woke at what John considered the crack of dawn. She woke him by leaping onto his bed giggling excitedly in his ear. "It's Christmas, Dad. It's Christmas." Groaning, he rolled over to check the time. 5:30am. He closed his eyes and pretended to ignore her, hoping- perhaps unfairly- that she would go back to bed if he refused to acknowledge her. "Dad," she whined "wake up; it's Christmas." With a sigh of consternation, he slid from the warmth of the covers to the chill of his wooden floor. Rosie squealed with delight and bounded down the stairs. He could hear Sherlock stirring grumpily in the living room as Rosie appeared and he followed his daughter at a more sedate pace. She crouched at the foot of the tree where a mound of presents lay. She pulled out the first, a box from Sherlock wrapped in brown paper, just as Mrs Hudson appeared with the morning tea, dressing gown wrapped securely around her and slippered feet making little noise on the carpet. "You're up early, John." He gave her a wry grin and inclined his head in Rosie's direction. She set down the tray and remained standing in the doorway as Rosie began to unwrap her presents.
The presents were cleared away by lunchtime. Mrs Hudson had returned to her flat to cook for them; her Yorkshire puddings were legendary and the turkey needed time rest. Wrapping paper littered the floor in gaudy mounds where she had left them. Her dad was trying to convince her to clean the room but she was far too preoccupied with playing with her new toys (Molly had got her a brand new code breaking game she had quickly become engrossed in). It wasn't until she started to sweep the paper out from beneath the tree that she discovered the hastily wrapped gift hidden in the corner. Frowning slightly, she pulled it out. "What've you got there, Rosie?" Uncle Sherlock snorted derisively from his position by the window where he watched the quiet street below. "Isn't it obvious, John? She found an unexpected present. It must be from Alex- only he would wrap something like that." She looked down at the tag, sure enough, it read: 'For Rosie from Alex' in his small, upright letters, and nodded. Uncle Sherlock looked almost pleased. She tore the paper off and almost ripped the letter within before stopping herself. She set it aside and turned to the present itself. She tried not to be disappointed by what she saw. He had left her a memory stick, red on a cheap and touristy keyring. Her dad had picked up the letter and she heard his sudden intake of breath. Looking up at him, she saw the sadness in his eyes and wondered what the letter said. He sat down beside her and, finger following the words, read her letter aloud.
Rosie,
If you are reading this letter, I am unable to be here this Christmas and I am sorry. The first thing you need to know is that it is not your fault in any way, nor is it your Dad's or Sherlock's. If it is anyone's fault, it is mine. I wish nothing more than to be at home with you but it is impossible, for reasons you will soon find out.
The memory stick contains your Christmas present from me- your first clue to all you will ever need to know. I have left a trail for you to follow, breadcrumbs like Hansel and Gretel followed through the forest. Your Dad probably will not approve of you pursuing the truth; he knows my story for himself. Let Sherlock help instead.
I hope you've kept up with your French.
Merry Christmas from your Uncle,
Alex
John and Sherlock shared a significant look over Rosie's head. They had heard nothing from Alex since he had left Baker Street over a month ago on Rosie's birthday but, until that moment, they hadn't been too worried. Alex left for weeks at a time very often and rarely with sufficient warning or explanation. This sounded far too similar to Sherlock's own 'note' for John's liking though and he could tell Sherlock thought the same. Rosie had moved from her place on the floor, however, and had dragged out John's laptop. The screen lit up and his most recent half-finished blog post opened. Rosie impatiently closed in. John had a heart-stopping moment of terror before realising he had, in fact, saved it. Then she plugged in her memory stick. A folder popped up, the only file a video clip. She clicked on it. Alex's face filled the screen. It had obviously been made some time ago for his hair was it's natural blonde and his eyes a clear brown. He looked healthier than John had seen him in a while and he was smiling that special smile he only used for Rosie. Sherlock visibly started when he began to speak, the rapid fire French was impossible for John to follow but to which Rosie was listening intently.
Bonjour, Rosie!
J'espère que vous passez un bon Noël et ne me manquez pas trop. Si vous regardez ceci, je ne suis évidemment pas disponible pour répondre moi-même à vos questions mais je sais que vous êtes assez intelligent pour le comprendre.
Voici mon premier indice:
Je t'ai dit beaucoup d'histoires. La plupart ne sont pas vraies. Mais, de tous ceux que j'ai dit, les plus incroyables sont ceux qui sont réels. Aller à l'endroit où commence notre histoire et vous trouverez votre prochain fil d'ariane.
Bonne chasse.
Author's Note:
As promised, here is the first chapter of the sequel to 'The Spy in 221B'. I waited until Christmas Eve so the timing matched with the story slightly better. I will attempt a posting schedule of a chapter every two weeks for the first few chapters but I don't know if I'll be able to keep it up. While on the topic of chapters, each chapter title will be a reference to something, whether it be a song, book, TV show or film. Send me a message or post your guesses as reviews for virtual congratulations.
A brief note on the French in this chapter: my French skills are negligible to non-existent. The note came from Google Translate so if anyone has a better translation (read. if anyone speaks French) please let me know. A rough translation is below:
Hello, Rosie!
I hope you have a good Christmas and don't miss me too much. If you are watching this, I am obviously not around to answer your questions myself, but I know you are smart enough to figure it out.
Here is my first clue: I told you many stories. Most are not true. But, of all those I told, the most fantastic are the ones that are real. Go to where our story begins and you will find your next breadcrumb.
Happy hunting.