I stepped out of the glossy black taxi peering around the loud bustling streets of London as my navy converse hit the pavement. Dad exited the car just after me
"Come on Mary darling, we'll be late" he said helping her out.
"It's not for another forty-five minutes, John" she said in a futile attempt to placate him for he had been on edge the whole morning , no doubt excited to catch up with the famous Sherlock Holmes I had heard so much about.
Dad was always talking about him, whenever anything I did would trigger a memory of some sort it was always
"That reminds me of the time when Sherlock and I…" or "God, Amelia, you're worse than Sherlock" he would chastise me.
I had discovered his old blog too, some of the stuff sounds much too exciting and adventurous for my father but then again that was at least fifteen years ago, seeing as I am fourteen now, technically fifteen.
Suddenly Big Ben chimed twelve ceasing my mother and father's petty squabble over parking spaces or something equally dull.
"Okay that's it, I'm going in" declared Dad who could contain his child-like excitement no longer. Very out of character for him I thought. My mother and I exchanged an exasperated glance and followed him into the luxurious hotel reception. It was a reunion of sorts, I was told. What for, I could only imagine.
We were lead inside by an awfully cheerful-looking porter to one of the large rooms intended for business meetings or formal wedding parties. There were a lot of men in suits and women in bright jewel-coloured dresses gathered in a circle around a tall man in what appeared to be a black trench-coat and navy scarf.
He seemed to be in the middle of telling a story, his pale, sculpted face holding an animated expression, using hand signals to describe something very large. The others hung on to his every word. He turned and froze his voice faltering and whatever tale he was recounting forgotten as he saw my father and sprinted towards us almost knocking over Dad in a forcible embrace.
"John" he breathed, his face alight with excitement as he patted dad on the back. "I haven't seen you since I left London because of that miserable old git Magnuson—"
"Language Sherlock" the lady beside him gently reminded, I assumed she was his wife. "John, Mary" she said acknowledging my parents with brief kisses on the cheeks.
"Ah Molly" Mum smiled at the woman and they launched into conversation while Sherlock lead Dad down to a table beckoning me to join them.
"So" began Dad "I see you survived that mission Mycroft sent you off on then?"
"Just barley" replied Sherlock with a laugh, shaking his dark curls. "I see you have a daughter" he continued "Hello Amelia" he smiled down at me "Happy Birthday he added. How did he know it was my birthday? Or even my name? Dad couldn't have told him, Sherlock was out on a government mission, they had no contact. I gave my father a quizzical look to which he replied with a smirk and a shrug. "Oh uh thanks" I said quickly "But how did you know?" Dad sighed in a here-we-go manner as Sherlock replied "I didn't know, I saw" and he spent a half an hour telling me that he could tell my birthday, music taste and favourite books by my nail polish and my grades at school by my phone case. Wow, I thought maybe he really was as brilliant as Dad always made him out to be.
"You know what Mother thinks about showing off" interrupted a boys voice I turned around to see a tall boy with dark hair and gleaming blue eyes approached me wearing a similar trench-coat to his father only more stylish and edgy "Hello" he said formally though his eyes glinted with mischief "You must be John and Mary's daughter, I've heard a lot about your father, I'm Everett Holmes" He said with a firm handshake "Pleasure to meet you Amelia Grace Watson." He said, his soft clear voice caressing my name like a prayer. He looked about my age maybe a year older at most. Butterflies erupted in my stomach at the simple touch of his pale pianists hand around mine leaving me somewhat incapable of speech. I could do nothing but stare into his dizzying blue gaze causing him so raise an eyebrow.
I shook myself and smiled back. "And I assume you too can deduce my life story simply by looking at me?" I enquire. Both Sherlock and Everett grinned at this, I felt like I was missing out on some sort of private joke "I was simply observing, Miss Watson" he said, his tone rich with amusement. "What happened?" Sherlock asked suddenly as Everett sat down, almost like he read the boys mind. "What do you mean 'What happened?'" enquired Dad. "Well Everett is sitting with me" explained Sherlock "You never sit with me unless…" a realisation seemed to dawn on Sherlock "Anderson" both he and his son said at the same time. "I couldn't survive another minute in the foyer with him, just prattling on and on." Everett complained with a roll of his ice-blue eyes, running a hand through his dark disheveled curly hair, which he obviously got from his father.
He went on to tell both my father and Sherlock about Lewis Anderson, son of one of his father's colleagues. Sherlock nodded understandingly while my Dad constantly looking between Sherlock and his son was just shocked at just how similar Everett was to his father. Just then the door opened and the whole room went quiet as a shadow filled the doorway.