"First of all, let me express my deep grievances for your situation, Ms. Frederick, but have you any relatives over the age of eighteen?"
"I…I have one."
"Alright, we'll contact them and ask if it's sufficient for you to live there while we sort out the situation, could take a few months. It would be safe to say about the expanse of summer. And what is their name?"
"John, John Watson."
I twiddle my fingers. My gaze flitters to the seat beside me, across the row, where he's sitting. It's been three hours, only two more left to go. An over-primped flight attendant with a snug uniform rolls a cart past. She didn't ask if I wanted the big chocolate chip muffin I've gotten since I was a child. I decide not to mention it. He looks up, I snap my head back to my lap and pretend like my hands are interesting. This is a fun past-time for a five-hour flight, flirting with the cute boy in the next row. I've nothing better to do. As I pretend to be occupied, I catch sight of the purple spot on my lower wrist.
I never looked at the boy again till the plane landed.
I am filled with the desire to forget. A new beginning is why I'm here, no secrets, no reminders, just a suitcase full of clothes and makeup.
Eagerly I step off the plane into the cold, crowded airport of London. I roll my blue suitcase across the airport, avoiding eye-contact, looking up to check where I am occasionally. I roll my shoulders and massage my neck, yet the tenseness creeps up my spine like an inchworm every second I live this lie. But I'm going to tell him when I see him, no secrets over the summer; a clean future.
I haven't seen Uncle John since I was eight years old, bedizened in pigtails and pink. He must be older, since he went through the war; I've heard war ages a man more than time. How sad to think of Uncle John as a serious old man, he was always joking before.
Jovi's Pizza Place stood red, illuminated in the street across from the airport, alone in the midst of a long road to city. There are a few tables scattered outside, red and white umbrellas covering them vibrantly. Beneath a particularly crooked umbrella I see him, blonde with a few grays, stout and urgent. He looks up to acknowledge the brunette, plain teenager walking his way, giving a smile and meaning it as much as I can. All of it rushes to my head, like an explosion, and I can barely breathe.
"Hello Uncle John," I say. He stands to greet me, his eyes widening. The first thing he says,
"My goodness, you've grown." He gives me a big hug, which is terribly awkward because I'm three inches taller than him. He steps away to take me in again, "it's very nice to see you again.
"How was your flight?" he asks, sitting down and gesturing for me to join him.
I laugh a little, to break the ice and say, "long, but I never seemed to be bored."
"How fortunate for you," a deep, brooding voice answers from behind me. I gasp and clutch my heart, then turn around. Standing there, towering over me, is a curly black-haired gentleman donning an ominous trench coat. Uncle John quickly intervenes,
"Sorry, Claire, I forgot to say. He's my roommate Sher-" Interrupting Uncle John with a brisk sigh,
"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes," he holds out his hand and stares down at me. I look to John with a glanced, to see if he's joking. He's not. I shake Mr. Holmes hand and smile brightly,
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes." He doesn't answer, only nods and rapidly joins us at the table. I can see Mr. Holmes better now. He has a long, shapely face with prominent cheekbones and sharp nose. His eyes are shockingly white-blue and invasive.
"John," he says to my uncle clandestinely, "Lestrade found Kerry Brooks, dead, over a porch a few hours ago." He speaks so fast I can barely understand.
"How terrible," I say and shake my head at the death he speaks of. Sherlock shoots his vibrant eyes towards me and looks me up and down. His squints, then back to John, with an even faster speed,
"Anderson. I need you to come with me.'
"Now hold on," John puts his hands on the table, "now my niece has just came from a long flight, I haven't seen her in ages and I would like a little bit of peace, thank you very much."
This curious, dark man nods, unsatisfied, and sits back in his chair. I gaze at him unintentionally; he is by far the strangest man I've ever seen, though I can't say why. He looks at his watch, and says abruptly,
"You have fifteen minutes for this 'peace,'" he relaxes in his chair and stares at John and I, waiting for a conversation to begin. John jumps up impatiently and grabs my luggage.
"For god's sake let's go."
Uncle John helps me load my luggage into the taxi. Sherlock peers closely behind. Something about him chills me and is intriguing at the same time. Before he steps into the cab, he ruffles his curly locks, lifts his collar, and checks around him suspiciously. Did he expect someone to be watching or was he just dramatic? Abruptly John glanced around as well, and stepped closer to me, as if protective. I turned where he was looking and saw only a flurry of cars down the street, a blinding light show of blinkers. He guided me into the car first, putting me snugly in between Sherlock and himself. Sherlock's glare was burning through my skull. I was afraid to even turn my head, as if I would disturb the beast. A very handsome beast at that...I moved on to other thoughts.
"So Uncle John," I began anxiously as the tiny cab lumbered down the busy night streets of London, "Where do you work?"
"I'm a doctor in this little clinic...quite routine and a bit exciting..."
"That's nice," I answer awkwardly. Because I felt his stare, I turned to the man of mystery, "And you?" He turned his head out the window and when he spoke, I felt a steeping burn in my chest.
"Consulting Detective." His voice was darker than his appearance and deeper than his eyes. I didn't speak for a few moments, if only to curb the amazement I felt. Who was this man?
"I've never heard of that before."
"That's because there's never been one before," he answered, wholly annoyed with my incompetence.
I didn't ask what that meant, but I greatly wanted to know. He flipped out a black phone and began typing on it speedily. Oh I get it, he's in his rebellious teenage years…
The rest of the ride was without daunting, I had the chance to catch up with my Uncle about his work, his return from the war. I found it easy to ask him questions. Then the tables inevitably turned, and John asked,
"And how have you been doing?"
My answer was the same answer I give every time I am asked that question,
"Fine."
But the scarily perceptive car neighbor wouldn't let that answer slip by me.
"What was that?" Sherlock asked, as if he had realized something.
"Fine," I repeated with the same distinctive tenor of apathy. He then gave me the most intrusive inspection with his bright eyes, even more so than before, and I felt my cheeks reddening.
"Sherlock, do you have to-" John was rubbing his temples.
"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes but what are you looking fo-"
"Of course, how rude of me," he suddenly interrupted, quickly breaking his stare. He had found something that he did not want to discover. My bruises, my seemingly-well placed clothing, the bit of extra makeup under my chin, and the piece of yellow paper sticking from my purse. I habitually rubbed my right arm, which he pretended not to notice.
John, on the other hand, leaned over and said,
"He's like that. He can know where you live by looking at you. He's a very good detective." John was trying to hide something; I could tell he wasn't giving the whole story. This wasn't a good detective. This was a…psychopath? No one could be that good.
The black little car came to an abrupt stop. I couldn't see out the window past Mr. Holme's curly mane, so when I got out, I found myself upon my very first crime scene.