A Summer with Sherlock
By Colvin
Authors note: Hey guys! Almost a year with no updates, here I am! I wanted to start off with something fresh and new. However, this idea, A Summer with Sherlock, has been a buzzing around in my head for a long time. Yes, this short story has a deep connection to Recreating Love (my other unfinished book) but I'll do my very best to make it where you don't even need to read it. Bare with me. I'll explain as I go and will answer any questions you may have. Thank you!
Special note: This story is meant to be set up like a unofficial published blog. The side notes are just Roman's thoughts and edits needed to be made (not real edits I hope).
-Roman's private blog-
A re-re account by Roman S. Holmes
A Summer With Sherlock Holmes
Side note/Possible chapter title/The opening: Beginnings are always the hardest.
Now, I'm going to tell you a story. A rather lengthy one so I'd suggest you take a seat and strain your vision until I finish. I can assure you, you aren't going to want to stop reading. I can see it right now; there you lay, in your desired position, coiled, it's so late into the night the moon is curious to see what is so interesting on that electronic device you are addicted to. It wouldn't come to a surprise, not even to me, the secondary resourcer behind the tale you are about ready to hear.
Side note: Coming off as a jackass makes a reader desire a character "break-down". Not that kind of story.
When I was first told this real-life story I didn't want to stop listening. And not for the reasons you think. It sounded like complete rubbish, utter garbage. I could compare it to one of those half-assed bedtime stories your brain-dead parents told you so you'd settle down and go to sleep. I couldn't stop listening because regardless of how many times I broke into disbelief laughter and attempted to dismiss it, the emotion spoken, the impact each and every word carried so much meaning and impossible truth I finally shut up, opened my ears and closed my denying mouth.
So, I've decided to take time out of my busy schedule, which is very busy mind you. I'm a funeral home director, (death and I don't necessarily having collating schedules) and explain, in great detail, to the best of my knowledge, the events of this unique, one hundred percent true story. However, on the down side, I may have been told this story about a million times it seems, forgive me if I get a detail or two wrong. It's unlikely, but probable.
One thing I have noticed, it always starts off like this: "I had no idea Sherlock Holmes had a son." and continued into, "Sherlock doesn't seem much like the family type." or "Can this world really handle another Sherlock Holmes running around?" If I had a dollar for every time I heard those three sentences I would no longer be a funeral home director but one of the world's youngest retired man. Moving on, irrelevant, the answers to those statements are— well as you will read they will shed some light on your wonders. Be prepared, though, one of those opinions is completely wrong.
Side note: Don't ramble, people really couldn't care less. I don't. Maybe remove occupation, quite obvious, and schedule joke. Death isn't funny, only to you. You sick bastard. Also too much leading.
Okay, I think it's about time I started, so I will.
I'm almost positive I was five and a half (give or take a couple months) the summer I went and lived with my father, Sherlock Holmes. I had never met the man previous to our introduction to a summer long session together and from what I've been told my reaction to him was not that of a smile but shameful shyness. I hid behind bags my mother packed for me and stared at him. And giving you an idea of what I saw as a five year old compared to now I'm sure is no different. A tall and thin, pale skinned, too well dressed for home, man with dark, rich, curly brown hair and big blue eyes just like mine. He had a loud, confusing voice and moved around the cluttered room with ease. To a five year old who understood he was going to be spending a lot of time with this—scary being, hiding from him for as long as possible was my only option. I guess throwing a temper tantrum was out of the question given that we were there. Then again, I've been told I was a decent behaved child, other than some kinks...you'll understand later.
Side note: Sherlock was and still is a startling person to me. Maybe I was possessed as a child or had a very active imagination? I wonder if my mother sat me down for one of those speeches she gives just before company came over or we went somewhere out in public where her imagine mattered. I'm starting to question what kind of child I was.
I can give a clear, 3-D picture of just what my mother would have looked like the day she dropped me off at Sherlock's. A stained image of her is burned into my mind and I can recover it to perfection whenever I need nevertheless the circumstances. It's only one of three accurate images I can remember when I was that young. But my mother would have been wearing her favored red high heels. She was already a skyscraper compared to myself and with those shoes it seemed the sky was not the limit. More times than not have I saw her wear those shoes. A silk black dress that reached a inch or two passed her knees fit snug on her tiny, bony body. Even for being a mom my mother kept a good figure. To match her heels, bright red lipstick that only needed reapplied once made her face glow, like an angel. Just like Sherlock, she had thick brown curly hair. Which even as an adult, it still throws me off. Both my parents had decently curly hair and I did not. Well, on my best days.
Side note: Why isn't my hair curly? I'm not complaining, it seems hard to manage but genetic...
My mom was everything to me. She was all I knew. I don't remember having any friends nor did it seem I ever interacted with anyone else but her before coming to Sherlock's. Now, I'm only guessing. There was no way to find out if this was actually true or not. Again, I was a five year old boy who was going to be leaving his mother for the first time and it was going to be for an entire summer. I'm positive I was scared shitless. Holding back the tears the best I could.
To his observation, Sherlock's I mean, (he accounts for seventy percent of this story) my mother and him argued slightly over my placement. According to Sherlock, he did not agree to this babysitting job but typed emails to each other said otherwise. But he can remember my mom's and I departing. She dismissed him and his futile attempt to change her mind and bent down to my level, forcing a stress free smile on her face. She reached out for me to uncover myself from the suitcases, I walked to her sheepishly. A glassy layer glazed over her eyes as she studied me and ran her white tip painted finger nails threw my hair.
Side note: This dialogue is only about 43.8% accurate given it was over twenty years ago not even Sherlock's amazing brain can recall such a useless conversation. Don't give up too much information.
She said something routine like this, "You are going to be good for mommy, right?"
I nodded, not really knowing if I was telling the truth or not.
"You are going to be brave for me? No crying, okay? If you cry mommy will cry and then my makeup will be ruined. We can't have that, can we?"
It was already too late, for her anyways. Tears were already starting to build, I just stood their faintly shaking and chewing on my jacket sleeve. I wasn't much for talking when I was younger, even now you're lucky to get more than a paragraph out of me a day. It's a honest trait I get from Sherlock.
She grabbed me and quickly pulled us into a tight hug, her arms crushing me, I was drowning in the scent of sweet perfume. My small arms couldn't move to hug her back. No one is sure how long we stayed like that but I'm sure it was before I blacked out from lack of air. Before she stood up she collected herself, wiping escaped tears from both our eyes and and assured I looked presentable. Adjusting my jacket and hair. The normal mom things. All while she kept that same forced smile on her face.
My mother exchanged some more words with Sherlock. Something about my favorite foods, favorite T.V. programs and what to do if I couldn't sleep at night. Which in reality, my mother left that instruction rather vague. Too vague. Things she knew Sherlock wouldn't care to remember so she gave him a written list about me.
Side note: Insomnia. I'm not really sure why I had such sleeping issues as child. I was never exposed to horror films, bad video games nor did I hear terrifying things at school. But as I got older and more curious I could see why. I rarely sleep now. Again, thanks to Sherlock.
My face must have been too much for anyone to bare because as my mother made her way to the door to leave she did not look at me. I'm sure I wanted her to look, thinking if I gave her big enough puppy dog eyes we'd go home.
No, not this time.
She quietly shut the chipped forest green door, leaving me behind. The first time ever.
Sherlock was already stressed, sleep deprived and too busy to deal with me. Once my mother shut that door he told me he scrambled over to his designated chair and threw himself down into it, releasing all the muscle tension he could. He observed me, my small structure was turned away from him, watching the door, patiently. Waiting on my mother to change her mind. Tell me it was all one big joke.
"She's not coming back. The cab was already downstairs waiting on her." He said without an care.
Unsure what to do, I cautiously turned around to face him, chewing on my jacket sleeve nervously again. Sherlock motioned for me to sit down in a large burgundy recliner adjacent from him. My feet tripped over themselves as I made my way over. The closer I got to it the higher up it seemed to get. A endless cotton and polyester mountain. I basically had to jump, my eighteen inch long legs (just guessing again) swimming over the edge.
"Since we will be spending a fairly decent amount of time together, well besides the days I'll dump you off on Marry or my brother, there are some things about me you should know," he sat up in the chair, "I don't eat very much so be sure to tell Mrs. Hudson what you like to eat before she goes to the grocery each day. I don't cook either, that's her job as well. I don't clean nor will I clean up after you so don't make a mess of the flat or yourself. Do not touch any of my things. Over half of it could kill you anyways. Don't bother me when I have company. It's prefer you just leave the room entirely."
Side Note: This is always where I think to myself: What a dick. He completely denied me of my basic child care needs. Things did not get off on a good start and it only gets worse. I'm surprised I didn't die. Add more character to Sherlock.
I was five years old I was hardly understanding what he was saying. Even more so was it even harder for me to pay attention I'm sure. The room was full of interesting, mind expanding objects I was instructed to not touch. The clutter was just an open invitation for a child to explore.
"Do you know how to talk?"
As Sherlock waited for me to answer he knew the question startled me as I almost jumped and returned my full attention back to him. I sluggishly nodded my head.
"So you do, you just don't talk much?" The right side of his face perked up, a crooked smile, "Good, lets hope it stays that way."
And with that, Sherlock disconnected himself from our present moment. His eyes shut, peacefully, and his hands came together in a prayer-like style. Going into another world he knew I couldn't follow.
This man sitting in front of me, so cold in emotion was my father… and this was just the start of a zoo like summer.
The story has only just begun.
-End.
Chapter 2 will be available as soon as possible! So tell me, what did you think? Please review, favorite and follow! The more support I have the quicker I can get things done. Question for you to answer/think about: Do you know who Roman's mother is and how do you think people will react to little 5 year old Roman? Thank you for reading.