Bounjour, tout le monde! Je retourne! :D
To my returning readers: I'm terribly sorry for my hiatus. School's been kicking my butt. And Tumblr. Mostly school. :P I haven't even read House of Hades Yet...or Allegiant... :'(
To any new readers who've stumbled across this: Hello! I'm Wolfy. Nice to meet you! I hope you enjoy this story!
To everyone: I will try to update once a week. TRY. But I'm in Theatre, and Choir, and just school.
Anywho, to the story!
The Girl With the Baggage
A Sherlock FanFiction
By: DeDe/Wolfy
It was a boring, rainy day at 221b Baker Street. John Watson was busy blogging, and Sherlock Holmes was cleaning out his mind palace, thus neither of them heard the timid knock at the door.
Knock.
A few moments passed, and there was another knock.
Knock. Knock.
John looked up from his computer. "Are we expecting anyone?"
Sherlock appeared not to have heard.
John sighed. "I don't suppose you'll get the door."
Still no reply.
John sighed again, saving the draft of his next entry.
"I'll get the door Mrs. Hudson!"
A young girl, maybe 16 years old, was standing at the door, with a single pink suitcase, a Vera Bradley duffel, and a backpack. She wasn't much shorter than John (there was only about 3 inches difference). She was wearing a long blue trenchcoat that looked to be a bit too big, with a silver charm bracelet peeking out from the sleeve, and her hair was soaking wet—clearly she'd been in the rain for a bit.
"I-I-Is this—" she cleared her throat, "Is this the home of Sherlock Holmes?" She asked shyly, shifting uncomfortably—You didn't have to be Sherlock to see she was nervous.
John frowned in confusion. "Yes, yes it is." He hoped this wasn't a lost pet case—Sherlock was bored enough he might take it. Why does she have baggage?
"May I speak with him please?" There was something off about her accent. It sounded a bit too perfect, like she was really concentrating on it. Or maybe he'd just been around Sherlock too long. "It's rather important."
John decided to humor the girl. She seemed genuinely nervous about something. It's not like we're busy. "Sure—please, come in." He stepped aside, opening the door wider and allowing the girl—and her baggage—inside. He led her to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson ushered her to a chair and started some water for tea—the girl was shivering.
"Sherlock!" John yelled. He looked over at the girl, who was sitting demurely with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, like she was scared to touch anything.
There was no sound of Sherlock coming.
"Sherlock, there's someone here to see you!"
No answer.
John sighed. "Excuse me." He walked into the sitting room, where Sherlock was laying on the sofa, eyes closed. John reached down to shake him. "Sherlock, there's—" He cut himself off when Sherlock grabbed his wrist.
"I know, I heard the first two times. I was hoping she'd leave—She is a she, right? About 5 foot 3 inches, nervous, been out in the rain—Am I close?" He stood up, releasing Johan's wrist and striding past him into the kitchen, sitting across from the girl. "I was right then."
"Are-Are you Sherlock Holmes?"
He gave her a once over. "You're fifteen years old, wearing contacts, 5 foot 3 inches, 85 pounds, and I'm sure even Watson could tell you're nervous about something."
John didn't even look offended by that.
"That coat is your mother's, oh, she's dead, and you took a cab here but were standing out in the rain for about 5 minutes before you worked up the courage to knock on the door."
The girl, who had turned paler than she was before, nodded quickly.
"Your name starts with a C, you were a dancer, you've more recently began theatre, and today you've eaten a cupcake, a bag of Cheetos, and you've drunk a bottle of water."
She shifted uncomfortably.
"And for an actress you hate being the centre of attention. Interesting." He sat back, crossing his arms.
"How—"
"I can see the faint blueness where your contacts are, I used how tall you are right now and the height of the chair, you're tiny even for your height, and a moron could tell you're uncomfortable." He explained quickly.
"As you became more uncomfortable you wrapped the coat tighter, indicating it belonged to someone who made you feel secure, and given it's too big and woman's style it's your mum's. You winced when I mentioned that, obviously something bad had happened, and why else would you have her coat? A cab drove by five minutes before you knocked, and your hair is soaked through but not your coat." He gestured to her bracelet.
"Your bracelet has a 'C' charm, and a very worn ballet shoes charm. There's also a newer Drama Masks charm, and under your nails are frosting and orange crumbs," The girl blushed, looking down to examine her nails.
"Lastly, this was too easy, there's a water-bottle shaped lump in your coat pocket."
She was still focused on the dirt under her nails.
"What's your name?"
"C-Castiel." She finally made eye contact with Sherlock, and he noticed their eyes were the same shade of blue. "Castiel Holmes."
Yes, yes, I am aware, Castiel is the Angel from Supernatural. Don't give me grief about that. I decided to call her Castiel before I made the connection, and by then I'd already attached it to the character and couldn't think of something better.
Anywho, please tell me what you think! I apologize if this idea is cliche, I haven't delved into the Sherlock Fanfictions yet, but I'm trying to do something new with it :)
Constructive criticism is welcome, but hate is not.
Question of the Chapter: Any Whovians in the audience? If so, how are you spending the 50th? :)
I love you all!
.
—DeDe/Wolfy