Children's Whims

By Imp

A/N: I am now only contemplating the realm of Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, and I must say he, being such a complex character is quite a challenge. I believe that fanfiction ought to be thoroughly thought out and reasonable when it comes to Holmes, or any other character whom one respects – but in particular Holmes, for if he scoffs at Watson's accounts I'd hate to see what he considered fanfiction to be.

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For some days now my companion and fellow lodger Sherlock Holmes had been working incessantly upon a case, which I have heretofore neither mentioned nor written anything about, saving only some few notes. It seemed that small children were being killed – accidentally was the word from Scotland-Yard, for they turned up having drowned, or starved, fallen and so on only by the forgetfulness or possible neglect of their parents or caretakers. But Holmes was quite evidently of a different view, and his adamancy upon the subject sent him into one of those peculiar moods of his, which consequently left no room for outside distractions, nor even for 'good mornings' and breakfast.

It was an odd one, though if my memory serves not the very most perplexing, yet he had been quite distracted and the wail of his violin and billows of smoke kept me awake more than once while he sat up, neglecting his sleep and bed in deepest thought.

Many things have ceased to amaze me since my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes began, but I must say that I never quite got over some of his oddities, and certainly I never got quite accustomed to the callers who favored 221b Baker Street with their presence. It was a morning after a sleepless night for my companion, and a nearly sleepless night for me that I woke and went out to breakfast to find Holmes at the table, the repast apparently having been set out for some time, yet untouched. His face was drawn, eyes distant – though only with deep thought I noted with some relief – and his long pale fingers lay upon the table, twitching and tapping with what seemed the most random movements.

As I sat I observed that no change altered his countenance so as to show that he had noticed me, and I set about getting my breakfast, for any inquiry or possible show of curiosity would gain me no more than a snarl, and I was quite used to waiting and had no objections to Mrs. Hudson's fine cooking. But to my unutterable surprise he spoke before I had even touched a spoon, and yet he did not look up or change his position in the slightest.

" Do you believe in some thing called a 'premonition', Watson?"

I remained mute for some moments, for my surprise at his sudden speech was quite buried now under the seeming absurdity of the question, and his choice to ask me such a thing was beyond any notion I had had of his current work and contemplations.

"I suppose so," I answered at last, thinking vaguely back on some few old fellows I'd know in Afghanistan, and of their words before they died.

"A rather incomplete answer, Watson, but I shan't blame you, for my inquiry is also rather abstract," said my companion pensively, and fell back into silence.

After a few moments I turned back gladly enough to my meal, and my curiosity was pushed aside and barred by patience, and then gradually forgot, very likely to remain so – for if I have not become entirely used to Holmes idiosyncrasies and his strange visitors, I have certainly become quite accustomed to having questions unanswered and patience in good supply. And if one expects an answer from my companion it must be said that if it is granted it comes when he is ready and for no manner of badgering will it be hastened. But that morning was certainly not to become any less strange or amazing, for very soon after the whole matter had passed to the back of my mind, a knock came at the door.

Holmes sprang up as though he had be struck by some wandering bolt of lightning and snapped a curt "Come in!" at which Mrs. Hudson opened the door, appearing quite startled herself, and I dare say she had seen quite a lot as my companion's landlady; she was holding a rather grey, mottled card, which she extended gingerly in the general direction of myself and Holmes while with the other she held unconsciously to the door handle.

"A man calling himself J. Van Sarn to see you, Mr. Holmes. And by all that is wonderful, he is a strange looking creature," said she, glancing uncertainly to the pale face of her lodger.

Very soon after the man himself entered, and I must say I quite agree with Mrs. Hudson's description of him, though it hardly seemed that he was destined to clear my confusion on account of Holmes's inquiry and my own curiosity for if confusion can be an adjective it would have done nicely to add it to Mrs. Hudson's picture of him.

 

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A/N: This is indeed, I think, short. But 'tis an experiment and I should very much like to hear any reader's thoughts, criticisms and whether they would care for me to go on. Toodles – IMP

© 2003