Hi Everybody! (Hi Franta!) It's been a long long time since I saw you all last and graced you with the presence of my amazing writing (coughhackhackcough). I simply had to write! It's less than 2 days before a final I haven't studied for, and what's even more horrible is that i've been trapped in college life with NO CABLE and subsequently haven't seen ANY of the current season of CI except the season premier, which I loved! So, pity me for my old-school ways, but I needed fresh Bobby and Alex, and making it up seems to be the only way to get it. This is a-la Sherlock Holmes- as told from Eames' POV (and others') and based on a Holmes story by the same title...

The Boscombe Valley Mystery

I sat in my office chair, casually glancing at a report held in one hand, my breakfast (a bagel) held in the other. The chair creaked as I leaned back. It was early in the day, but late enough that I was fully awake. It was the beautiful part of the day where the white sun makes you feel new along with the rest of the earth. I leaned further back and viewed my partner from an inverted angle. "Hey, Bobby."

"Morning, Eames," he replied. "Got one for you today."

"We've got 3 other open cases already!" I protested.

"But none of them like this- this one's weird," he said sagely, as though that might change my mind.

"Weird means hard," I tried to point out.

"Weird means easy, as I've tried to tell you before. Normal is hard."

"Very well," I said, defeated. "What is it then?"

"Tony Urzo, editor of MayDay Women's Magazine was found dead in his 5th Ave apartment," my partner read aloud from the file in his hand, "he was seen arguing with his son just before-hand, who owns several guns and has a concealed weapons permit. The son has already been arrested, but a neighbor insists the boy's innocent- (she) has friends in high places, put in a call, and we get to review. That sound interesting?" he asked, leaning forward to challenge me.

"Sounds perfectly commonplace," I casually remarked, returning to my file and bagel.

"Ah, but here's the catch," Bobby pressed. "His statement, which would seem to damn him, has several things that remain unaccounted for- when he says his father-"

"So, in other words, he lied to cover up what actually happened, and lo and behold the pieces don't fit together," I replied. I took the file from him and glanced over the son's mugshot and record. "Look, he's got 3 DUIs- the kid probably got got pissed that daddy threatened to cut his allowance after he wrecked his 4th Corvette..."

"That's not what they were arguing about," Bobby said rather seriously.

"What were they arguing about then?"

He smiled. "Don't know- don't you want to find out?" He looked positively school-boyish.

"Not particularly. We've still got 3 open cases right now," I repeated.

"Come on, we can catch the subway and be there in 10 minutes... I'll buy lunch," he bribed.

Sighing, I put my bagel and paper down, got out of my chair and grabbed my coat off the back. "Gimme the file," I said as I led the way to the elevator...


Alice sat on the bench in the church. She was in the corner, like she preferred. She prayed to God for Tony's soul, she prayed to God for Jaime. She knew in her heart he was innocent, and yet he wasn't. He hadn't killed his father, that much she knew, but what she didn't know was why he kept telling her he wasn't innocent.

Alice glanced at her watch, it was almost 11am. They should be here any minute. Wait at the church for someone- something from me. It'll explain everything," he had told her as the policeman shoved him into the back of the patrol car. "Jaime!" she cried, clutching at him, before her fingers lost touch with his jacket and the door slammed shut, obscuring his face.

She pulled her mind out of the reverie to see a young man in jeans and a flannel shirt approaching her. "Are you Alice?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded.

"This is from Jaime," he said, handing her a small envelope

"Thanks," she whispered, turning her attention away from the retreating man and to the small, thick white envelope. She pried the thick paper open and pulled a tightly folded piece of paper from within.

"Alice," it began simply, "Please believe me when I tell you I didn't kill my father. I don't know who did, but it wasn't me. Of that I am innocent. I keep telling you i'm not innocent though, and there's truth in that. My dad and I were fighting about you. I was trying to explain to him without telling the whole story. But I have to tell you. I'm married to another woman. I can't possibly explain to you my motives then vs. how I feel now, but know now I never meant to hurt you like that- you're the only woman I've ever loved since I was 12. I've loved you since before I can remember, and if I could take back what I've done to you I would, but I know nothing can't, and for that I'm truly sorry. I deserve to be in jail- not for what happened to dad, but what I did to you. I hope you can forgive me some day. Love always, Jaime."

Alice sat there as the tears ran down her cheeks. She wasn't angry at him- she was too worried to be angry. She wanted him cleared more than ever so she could be mad at him. She wanted to rage and storm at him, to love and hold him- and she couldn't do either if he was in jail for a crime he didn't commit. Her last chance was whatever tricks New York's best detective had up his sleeves.