Words are stupid.
But I love them. I'm a blogger, of sorts. I'm related to fame, and almost famous myself. Except nobody will admit they know who I am. Only a select few will recognize that they've visited my page once, twice, some even weekly. Everyone, though, can lament some way about my relations.
My brother's kind of a big deal back home. People where I am now have usually heard of him, too. He's a great man. It is to be hoped that someday he can be a good one too. It's not that he's a bad person, he just doesn't care. Never though, ever, will I admit I'm related to him.
It's a hard thing, to live in the shadow of a great human being. A tree can never grow in the shadow of one before it. Or, rather, one next to it. I'm not a tree, obviously. Trees cannot type. Trees cannot speak. Trees cannot loathe. I can.
My name is Elizabeth Holmes, and I've finally escaped.
I've escaped from London, from my family, the unfeeling, near abhorring and constant analysis from my brothers. By escaped, I mean we don't share a bedroom anymore. Now we're just flatmates. We're all one and the same, really. All of us, separately, could tell you whether or not your husband was having an affair by the scent of your shampoo if you asked. The answer, by the way, is yes.
Recently, one of us has gotten into a spot of trouble. Death was faked, moreover happened for real a little bit. That's why we're here. Even though we might act like we hate each other, we would be lost if we weren't together.
This is my side of a famous story. This is my life. The life of Elizabeth Holmes, sister of one of the greatest minds in history.
Hello.
Six months had passed since her brother's "death," though only she and three other people could have said it so. She missed the old days, though she wouldn't admit it. She missed being flatmates with her brother and his John.
John Watson was a strange man. Almost as strange as her brother. She remembered seeing them stare at each other, knowing what the other was thinking. John was always the first to look away, but it was easy to tell that he would be the last to stop thinking about it. He was loyal, even in his mind. Now, she could be sure that he would always be loyal. Because where else could he go? This was America. This wasn't London. This wasn't where he was used to. But he was used to one thing: Sherlock.
"Ah, Ms. Holmes," an older man smiled.
"Elizabeth is fine, thanks," she followed him into a room with a large round table in it.
Around the table there were six people, including the obvious eldest, the one she'd just met. There was the leader, an unsmiling man with crayon on his right sleeve. The way he held his hands suggested that he was left handed, meaning he had a child, probably around the age of six, maybe seven. His posture said, "Don't come near me," but he was lonely. Missing someone. His wife, probably. Three years, no more and no less.
There was a younger man, likely the youngest beside herself, who seemed rather interesting. He was a genius, no doubt. Graduated young, but never stopped dealing with a teacher. He seemed subconsciously guilty about something. Something family related. Something to do with his mother. The way he stands with his arms folded shows he needs to prove himself. Something about himself specifically. It's obvious that he's smart, that can't be it. But, you know what most clever people are? Crazy!
A smiling blonde woman, in a new position. She is happier now. Moving up in the world. Her fingernail were clean and painted, but bitten. Stressful job, but, by the looks of the skin around her lips it always has been. Elizabeth was nearly finished with her analysis of the one and only Jennifer Jareau when she heard her phone ring.
It was a special ringtone, three octaves higher than her usual one. Of course, she would receive a call from her family on a big day.
"Hello," she sighed, looking to the group apologetically. They assured her it was alright and she continued. She, of course, knew that they just wanted to study her.
"Where are you?"
"I told John that there was food left in the microwave for you when you got back. Also, I've figured out the microwave. And broken it," she said animatedly.
"Why do I let you touch the appliances?"
"Because everyone else gets your order wrong dear brother," she smirked.
"Anyways, I was worried, you weren't at home."
"No, no, no. Don't do that," she shook her head, even though she knew he couldn't see it.
"Do what?"
"The concerned thing. You know it bothers me," she looked at the group and the strange stares they were giving her. "It doesn't suit you."
"I'm not doing a thing, I was just perturbed at your absence."
"Stay home. Sleep. Eat something for God's sake just, no."
She could hear his smile through the phone. "Can I talk to Mr. Hotchner?"
"Can't you call him yourself?"
"But then where would I get my recommendation?"
"Fine," she sighed and handed the phone to her new boss.
"Hello," her brother chimed. "This is Sherlock Holmes, I'd like to join your team."