This is a short story I wrote that probably does not make much sense, but since Holmes was depicted in the novels as "anti-woman," I thought I would write something that showed him admiring a woman instead.

All rights pertaining to Sherlock Holmes go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

-M

"Mother!" a shrill voice cried throughout the household, "Sherlock's gone again!" The small pale figure of a young girl sprinted into the warm kitchen where her tall mother stood, tending to the pot of soup over the old stove against the wall.

She turned around curiously to her daughter, raising her eyebrows inquisitively. "Gone?" she said, "And how could that be? I only just saw him with you upstairs in the guest r--"

"Yes, but I walked out for a bit to get a book from my room, and when I returned he was gone!" The daughter bounced impatiently on her toes, and reached out to tug at her mother's sleeves, urging her upstairs to the guest room. "He's not anywhere else in the house, I've already checked!"

The woman sighed as she followed her daughter up the fleet of stairs until she stood in the doorway of the guest room, which had indeed been abandoned. Nothing seemed to be amiss, as the room was quite immaculate, with every book in its proper place and the bed sheets properly made. There was, however, an interesting sight at the other end of the room. The beautiful blue curtains, stitched with white and yellow flowers by the woman herself, were gently flowing in the spring breeze, of which blew into the room from the widely opened window. How odd, thought she, no one ever opens the windows up here.

Slowly striding over towards the window, the woman could see a bit of dried mud upon the windowsill, no doubt tracks left behind by Sherlock's own boots. A knowing smile came to her lips as she faced her small daughter. "Martha, my dear," she began, "I shall be off to look for him. Do tell your father and your cousin Mycroft that I shall be out for a while, hopefully returning shortly."

--

A young boy of barely eight years old walked the streets of a rural town in England's countryside, smiling to himself with his hands buried in his trouser pockets. Upon his head sat a bowler hat that was a bit too large for him, however he wore it with pride, for it belonged to his brilliant elder brother, Mycroft; not to mention he felt that it was rather becoming of him. He could picture himself wearing such hats often in the future. He and his brother were undeniably bright and perceptive, the elder of the two being a bit smarter. However Mycroft did not use his gift much. It was Sherlock who enjoyed putting his knowledge and deductive skills to good use, almost giving the impression he was a psychic to strangers. But there were days where he felt the boyish need to roam free and away from condemning walls of a house; much like today.

He was not familiar with these streets, for it was his first visit to the countryside and stay at his aunt and uncle's home. However with each passing grocer's cart and small building, the gears of his brain whirred as he seared each location and detail into his memory. It might be of use to him during his stay, and when he returned to his large, wealthy home in London, he could cleanse his mind of such irrelevant knowledge to make room for far more important information.

As he walked past shops and vendor's carts, he felt a watching presence and soon grew aware that he was being followed. He quickened his steps and dared not glance over his shoulder. Could it possibly be only a curious passerby? It was not uncommon for a young boy to roam the streets by himself, for many street urchins did so. Yet street urchins did not dress in such affluent attire as he did. Nevertheless he ruled out that likelihood and knew it must be one of the following: his aunt, uncle, or Mycroft. For why would they send out his six-year-old cousin Martha to search for him all by her lonesome? Judging by the light footsteps upon the cobblestone road and the sweet aroma of jasmine and honey, (the former being from her perfume and the latter from making a sugary tea that often involved gracious amounts of the golden nectar) there was no doubt it was his aunt chasing him down the streets.

Just as he was about to make a sharp turn into a cozy boutique, a hand reached out for the boy's shoulder and a rich voice called out, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock spun around abruptly, not at all surprised at his aunt's appearance and success in catching him, but he felt the beginnings of dismay seep in. "Ah! Good day, Aunt Katherine. What a pleasant surprise!" he said with all sincerity and a lopsided smile on his rosy face. He truly was happy to see her, rather than face his curmudgeon of an uncle. His aunt was sweet and understanding, not to mention she showed a great liking towards Sherlock.

"And, pray tell, what are you doing out here alone, and without consent?" she asked in a smoothly calm voice, eyes locking with her nephew's. Before he could reply, she gave him a knowing smile. "You could have simply asked me to show you around the town rather than feign ill and venture by yourself, for the fields have dirtied your boots and skipping rocks by the pond has left stains on the legs of your trousers. Not to mention the crumbly bits of dried mud you left on the windowsill during your escape, no doubt from your journey to the meadows yesterday!"
An astonished boy of eight stood baffled before his mysterious aunt; speechless at how she knew every place he had been since the day before. Where had she obtained this knowledge? "How did you know where I've been?" he enquired nervously.

Her eyes danced with mischievousness as she replied, "Why, I notice things that are in plain sight to you. The mud left on the windowsill from your boots was dried and contained small traces of pebbles and a grass known as Meadow Foxtail, which grows strong in the meadows just a short walk from the cottage. Your boots now are caked with mud of a different shade, which I have noticed from the fields. The mud on your trousers, however, is much more fresh and a much darker from the mud by the ponds which are rich with sediment and algae, which explains the faint green color. Seeing as the fields are closer to the cottage than the pond, it is simple to deduce you were at the fields first then upon passing the pond down the path you decided to skip rocks, for why else would your shirt cuffs have a faint gray-brown dust upon them?"

Her smile broadened as she looked up from his cuffs. "And I'm sure Mycroft will be missing his hat. It's a bit too large for your head, is it not? Let's get you a proper-fitting hat before we return to the cottage for luncheon. Come along now, Sherlock!"

He was still quite perplexed at how this seemingly simple housewife could have so much knowledge and incredibly advanced deduction skills, yet no job that was higher up in society. To him, she was magnificent, radiant, understanding, and without a doubt, mystifying. Suddenly he, Sherlock Holmes, declared to himself that he would be exceedingly intelligent and would try his best to surpass the genius of this remarkable woman. It might do him good in the future.

Then again, a proper hat would do him good for the present.