It's been around two years since I've seen my father happy. Sure, he'll smile every once in a while, and when somebody visits, he acts delighted. But I've seen Father alone in his studies, crying. I've seen Father cry too many times.

Of course I know what it's about. His old friend committed suicide off of a large building. I've seen papers, of course: large bold headlines reading, "Suicide of Fake Genius." My father was traumatized by the experience, and I had hardly gotten a word out of him about it. How do I know of this old friend, you may ask? I've sneaked into his studies before, where Mrs. Hudson helps him with his trauma. I've never seen Father's old friend before, even in the papers, and I haven't the slightest idea what he'd seen.

Mum hardly ever was home. I don't know why, but Father said it had something to do with their wedding. A rat? I don't know.

As for who I am, I am a Watson. I used to be Emma Jenks, but now, I'm Jamie Watson. I never liked the sound of my name anyway. I have light brown hair, and blue eyes that my father says reminds him of his old friend. And who may that be? Well, the one and only genius, according to my father:

Sherlock Holmes.

Right now, I was walking through the cemetery towards Mr. Holmes's gravestone. You see, since he made Father happy once, I was going to pay my respects to him as I did every Saturday. That's when there was something new.

There was a scarf hanging on the edge.

A beautiful blue scarf, hanging on the headstone. I ran forward towards the grave, kneeling in front of it. I carefully picked it up, examining every little detail that I could.

It had been lying there for maybe an hour or so, the wearer of the scarf had carefully untied the knot of which it was around his throat, telling by the wrinkles and that it was a man's scarf. The cologne was a man's, and judging by the smell, he had applied some maybe three hours ago. It had been directly in my line of sight, which told it that it was meant for me to see.

Who wanted me to see a scarf? This question rang in my ears until I heard a deep voice say, "Oh, dear, there's my scarf!" I looked up to see a man. My eyes went instantly to work, recognizing every little thing I could. His large coat was wet, and his shoes had mud on them, which meant he had been standing in this cemetery for a while. His face was concentrated, scanning everything all at once, taking things in. He hand his hands in his pockets, but he seemed to be unarmed, as he wasn't in a threatening stance. He never shook, and he didn't look nervous, which told me he was used to bodies. He in fact, looked thrilled here. The idea of every story that was to tell here excited him. As for his face, his eyes, a solid blue, were calculating everything I did, all while being steady. His brown hair was dark and slightly wet, but drying on the tips, due to his being out here. His cheekbones were high, his mouth set, and his face pale, but that was his complexion.

He also had the same distinct smell as the scarf.

"If you're expecting me to give it to you, you're wrong," I said. He smiled and put his hand out. "I believe it is accustomed to return properties to its rightful owner," said the man kindly. "Unless the purpose of the property was to be right in your line of sight. You set this here for me to see around an hour ago, and waited for me to get here. Why?" I asked.

He said, "Hm. You're much cleverer than you look. Judging by your coat, you've been here all of thirty minutes. Judging by your shoes, you're around your mother's size, as those shoes are often worn by older women. There's a scar on your right ankle, indicating that your older shoes were scuffling along the skin and causing you to bleed, which led to you using your mother's old shoes. Your coat is old, maybe around five years by the looks of the pattern and the stain. The coat was your father's, as he lent to you today because it's much chillier than usual, and because of the cigarette smell coming off of it. Your father smokes because he has a problem, probably a friend who did suicide a few years back, as the grave is new." He smirked.

I smiled. "Like to show off, do you, sir? What might your name be?" I asked.

I stuck my hand out to shake, and as he took my hand, he said," Do you have a name?" I nodded, but before I could answer, he said, "Good. May I stay for lunch, if you don't mind?" I nodded again. "I live on 221 B Baker Street. I'm afraid I don't have any spare cash for a cabbie, though. Do you have any loot on you, sir?" I asked. He let go of my hand, and stared at me.

"221 B Baker Street?" he asked. I nodded. "I live with my father, John Watson, and my mother, Mary Watson," I replied. He stared a moment longer before grabbing my arm and taking me towards the street. "Hey, wait, where are we going?" I yelled. He hailed a cab, and told them my address as we got in.

"You said I could stay for lunch, didn't you?" he asked. I nodded, and we chatted until the cabbie pulled in my street in front of my apartment. As we got out, he paid for the cab, and went up to the door. "You never told me your name," I said as I walked into the house with the man behind me. We walked up the stairs, and as I opened the door to the apartment, I saw my father working on his blog. He didn't even look up.

"Father, I have a guest over, I hope that's okay," I said. He nodded, still distracted by his laptop. And then the man spoke. "John, still working on that blog, are we?" My father stopped typing. He seemed frozen, his fingers just hovering over the enter key. He turned his head to look over, slowly. And he whispered one word:

"Sherlock?"

And then our computer blew up.

Sooooo hi! It's been a really long while, and I've gotten into Sherlock! Yay! So excited for Season 3! Anyways, I don't own Sherlock, and I look forward to writing this story! Bai!