Chapter 1
NOVEMBER
It was a quiet morning in Baker Street. Speedy's Cafe slowly rolled open its shutters and the pavements outside were swept with a damp brush. Cabs sped past on the glistening tarmac, small droplets of water splashing onto the brushed down paths. They shone brightly in the morning sunlight against the deathly grey concrete. A short distance away, tires were screeching and horns were being honked loudly. The noises harmonized into a suitable, generic city soundtrack. Bicycle bells tinkles in the deep, motorized sounds bringing an uplifting spirit to the early Sunday Morning.
As the first customer of Speedy's tinkled their bell above the door, it wasn't long before Mrs Hudson was out collecting her paper. She scratched her head and let her eyes adjust to the bright Wintry sky. The bright sunlight stung her tired and sensitive eyes. With some effort, Mrs Hudson reached down to the pavement where a crisp and iced Independent sat. She gripped it in her warm, tired hands and retreated inside.
As the black door to 221B Baker Street was closed with a loud thud and a chime from the knocker, a Black Cab slowly pulled up in Baker Street.
In the apartment above Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson was sitting on the setee, taking a casual read through his blog drafts. As sunlight grew brighter outside, the inside of 221B followed suit. The dark mahogany floorboards grew to a lighter chocolatey wooden colour. The maroon floor covering became a more enriched and inspiring matured scarlet shade, complementing the deep browns and greens in the furniature of Baker Street.
Deep in the heart of the kitchen, Sherlock Holmes was brewing a pot of tea for his brother's timely arrival. Sherlock Holmes was a particular kind of man. His clothes were always set out the night before and his watch was synced up to Big Ben's clock tower to a tenth of a millisecond. But today in particular, this very sunny yet deceivingly cold day, Sherlock Holmes was instead draped in a white bedsheet and looking extremely disheveled and strained. John called from the living room, "You best get ready. Mycroft will be here soon". Sherlock muttered back a few infamous choice words of his before John quickly replied, "One day. Just, one day, you will meet your maker, Sherlock." Sherlock could only scoff as he slowly and steadily carried the pot of tea out into the crisp and bright living room.
China clattered on top of more china and the pleasuring sight of tea trickling out of the spout was a sensation to not only the eyes, but the ears. The copper toned brew had steam coming straight from the flow and into the mug which was rested on the oak table top. The gush of tea was abruptly stopped by Sherlock when the door of Baker Street was rattled. "Maybe today will be that day. You never know." John smiled at Sherlock before setting his laptop down on top of the coffee table to go and fetch the door.
Sherlock slumped down into one of the two wooden dining chairs which sat on either side of the hardwood surface which had been piled high with multiple police files and biographies. Sherlock Holmes sighed quietly to himself as he sipped the molten liquid and let it run down his throat, heating his very core. He gazed out the window to the open London streets and counted his blessings that today was a work-free and serene day.
Footsteps slowly approached the door of Mr Holmes' living room and Sherlock bounced up out of his chair to take in the sight that was in front of him. Small. Brunette. Help For Heroes T-Shirt (maybe just fashion to show a cause?). Large backpack and stuffed suitcase, obviously a traveler going by the state of her hiking boots. Her hair pulled back into a curled ponytail. Sherlock felt it time to speak,
"Now, don't tell me. You are John's travelling girl who happens to be a friend who has just come to town for a visit. Ah, you are a charity worker who seems to live off your tips but judging by your eighteen carat gold earrings, I'm guessing you come from money or you have just fallen into money. The tightness of your plait tells me that you may do charity work but you don't share the slums. You're put up in a Hilton somewhere in the hills. A real charity worker wouldn't have the time to apply her makeup as accurately as you unless it was for publicity. Need I go on?" Sherlock smiled to himself, satisfied with himself once again. The girl in the doorway seemed stunned and watched as John rubbed his forehead and Sherlock drew in a breath, "Really everything you're wearing is a giveaway. Your jeans; Topshop, twenty British pounds, bought and paid for here. The Help for Heroes necklace was clearly ordered and your jacket, obviously bought out of a mens clothing store explains your desire for a male role in your life you have evidently been missing for sometime-"
"Sherlock. Stop it." John warned,
"Judging by the way you hold yourself, you have been trained. You're not used to standing this tall in such a small company, a high ranking job on the side because charity isn't so fulfilling, I'm right aren't I?" Sherlock smiled again,
"Dammit, Sherlock, this is my sister!" John raised his voice. He let out a very shaky sigh before continuing, "Victoria Watson. This is Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock blushed slightly and extended his hand in apology and welcoming. Victoria sat her duffel bag down on top of her case and crossed her arms before taking a deep inhale of the musty apartment air,
"Sherlock Holmes. I only know your name but I see so much more" Victoria sighed and started to look him up and down. John felt it right to intervene,
"Okay. It's nice to meet all of you. Sherlock, go put on your pants. Mycroft will be here very shortly. Come on, V. I'll put your bags in the spare room-" John went to lift her duffel bag before Sherlock stepped in,
"No, no. Have my room. I don't sleep much anyway. Take it. It's yours."
It wasn't long after Sherlock and Victoria's unordinary meet before Mycroft made his way up to 221B. John and Sherlock sat adjacent to each other at the cluttered dining table whilst Mrs Hudson tottered about, trying her very best to organize Sherlock's scattered muddle. Behind the small group, Victoria sat comfortably upon the worn leather couch, slowly unpacking her belongings from her beaten and recycled suitcase. On the mahogany coffee table in front of her; t-shirts and dresses were laid out,
"So, I'm assuming that Baskerville was a success?" paced Mycroft back and forth in front of the mantelpiece. John's younger sister just laughed in the quiet room before anybody else could reply to Mycroft's comment. Mycroft chuckled lightly, "Yes?".
Not looking up from her suitcase, Victoria sassed, "You should never assume. It makes an ass out of you and me." Silence fell across the room and Sherlock's pale, thin lips broke into a smile,
"See, Sherlock. Your maker."