Deductions and all that Jazz
Two green eyes watched the librarian through a row of books. A small hand shifted over a biography on Isaac Newton. Three minutes until the librarian takes her lunch break. She eats for approximately seventeen minutes—nineteen if she has soup—and she makes a stop at the bathroom. Emma has watched this woman's routine for the last four days. Not for stalking purposes, of course. It's what lies on her desk that Emma truly wants. If she's caught, she'll have to find another library. She sees someone look down the isle. At a quick glance she can tell he's single, has two tabby cats, and has a kink for long haired men. He squints at her, making a face with equal parts confusion and alarm at the teenage redhead spying on the middle-aged librarian through a stack of books; she lets out a feral hiss. She hates resorting to it, but it's always worked for getting people away quickly—they probably think she'll bite. She can't help but laugh as she watches him shimmy out of the isle so fast one of the several bunny-eared romance novels drops from under his arm.
Her attention snaps back to front as she hears the squeak of an office chair. The librarian gathers her coat and purse. Damn, she's going out to lunch; never cataloged the amount of time it takes for that. No matter; she can't go any longer without looking. There has to have been a new entry by now. She let's out a small squeal at the thought that maybe he responded to her e-mail.
The clack of kitten heals fades into the expanse of the lobby and Emma goes into a slight crouch as she makes her way toward the now-unoccupied desk. She gently seats herself, wary of the squeaky chair. She quickly taps the power button and scrambles to turn of the speakers. Too late, the sound of windows powering-up bellows out. She dives under the desk. Much to her relief—and subsequent embarrassment—no one else is present in the non-fiction room. She returns to her seat and finds the browser. Ugh, Internet Explorer; it will have to do. She hastily types into the address bar: . . Nothing new; he's taken down his tobacco ash analysis. Pity; she'd only gotten to tobacco ash number thirty six. She moves on to Dr. Watson's blog. Nothing new there either. Moving on to her email, she clicks on her inbox. Empty. Maybe her email was off-putting. She though that deductionsaremybitch was both whimsy, and stated her intentions, but it seems that was not the case. She decided to give her email draft a quick look through again. Maybe there was a spelling error? He hates those; and least she thinks he does.
Dear Sherlock Homes,
I believe you and I have a great deal in common. We both can read people like a cheap novel. I think I would benefit considerably from learning to fully utilize my abilities (deductions and all that jazz). It is with this in mind that I request some of your time. Perhaps I could even assist you? I'm a very resourceful person and I have no problem committing felonies! If you're interested in meeting me, please email me back as soon as possible. It may be a while before I get back to you.
Thanks,
A hopeful pupil
It's possible she came off as too desperate. She should have gone with her gut instinct to be aloof. Maybe he deduced that she was a nobody from her email. Can he do that? Is there such thing as email deductions? More research was needed. She was about to Google just that when she heard a shout from down the hall.
"Hey, what are you doing? That's private property!" the librarian screeched.
Crap, evidently it doesn't take as much time to eat out as she thought. The startled teen turned to run to her pre-planned escape route, when she was stopped by a large hand on her shoulder. She stopped herself from biting it to make a dive through his legs when she saw the taser on his belt. She'd rather not be on the receiving end of that today. Of course this library has security guards; why wouldn't it?
She was carted off to a small room in the back of the library. It consisted of a white Formica table and two fold-out chairs. Spending the next few hours in here would be fun.
The "interrogation" began with the usual question:
"Why didn't you just use the public computers we have here?" The person asking was a different guard than the one that apprehended her. He was no doubt nursing the wounds he'd received from dragging her back here.
"The website I needed to go to is blocked on those computers." she rolled her eyes as she watched his eyebrows rise.
"It's not porn." she clarified.
Emma let out a sigh. She was in a rush to commit a few more felonies while the day was still young and wanted out of this room now. She decided to pull out her trump card early. She burst into tears. She was a practiced professional; blubbering about her parents and so-forth.
"I'm not buying that." sneered the librarian, who was seated in the corner.
"Funny, that's the same thing your boyfriend said about the engagement ring you were hoping for today." Emma snapped. "Dammit." She said as she watched the librarian pull a face that could best be described as pure rage.
Eventually, there was going to be a day when Emma could control her mouth. Today was not that day. -
Emma was released several hours later with a slap on the wrist and an invitation to never return. That was another library to cross off of her list.
She jogged a few streets over to a department store. It took her a second to recall if she'd been arrested here before. She hadn't; that was the store two streets over. She still felt silly about that one. In hindsight, it was a bad idea to use the sample computers while wearing the clothes she had just shoplifted.
Her stomach grumbled. It had been a day since her last meal, but she didn't want to chance dining and dashing again. She'd made a bit of a name for herself in that regard, and was pretty sure that every restraint in London had a Do-Not-Serve-This-Girl sign with a nice headshot of her, right in the center
She speed-walked through the teen's section, grabbing a few garments as she went. She ducked into a changing room and was soon on her way back out again. There were quite a few tricks for taking off clothes tags without being detected, and she was proud to say she knew all of them. She was pleased by how nice she looked. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, and she had on a nice pair of jeans with a dress coat. It was business casual; perfect for a meeting with London's greatest mind.
Emma ducked the toll and hopped on the tube. She walked through a farmer's market and pocketed and apple; she had just finished and tossed the core in the street when she approached the stairs of 221B Baker St.
Her palms began to sweat. She'd rehearsed her story dozens of times on the way here, but lying to Sherlock Holmes seemed like a feat even she-the master of lies-couldn't pull off. Crocodile tears were one thing, but an entire murder case? She just hoped to God she didn't get sick on him.
She took a deep breath and rapped on the door. An older woman answered the door. Emma tried to hide her shock behind a pleasant smile, but by the way the older woman gave herself a once over, she didn't do it very well.
"Are you here to see the boys?" she asked, still checking herself for something that warranted the look of shock she'd received.
"I'm sorry?" the teen replied as her mind started to panic.
Maybe they didn't actually live here, and just gave a fake address to keep away weirdos. Had this whole trip been wasted? Who was this old lady? Why did she live here? Was she someone's mother?
"Oh, sorry, I mean Mr. Holmes." the older woman said with a giggle.
"Yeah!" she yelled without thinking. "I mean, yes." she said in a more somber tone. She was here as a relative of someone recently murdered; not a fangirl.
"Go ahead up then." she said as she motioned towards the stairs.
"Boys, you have a visitor!" she called up.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Of all the things she could describe that noise as, inviting was not one of them. She slowly moved up the steps, holding on to the railing to calm her shaking knees. The murmur of a conversation floated out of the door. She shimmied her way in through the space that the door that was already open, hoping to avoid drawing attention to herself. She gripped one hand on the wall to the left of the door, and dragged herself inside with what could be described as the worst covert wall-shimmy ever. When her head squeezed through, she was greeted by two men staring at her; one wearing a look of amusement and the other a look of concern for her sanity. The concerned one, Emma recognized as Dr. John Watson. He looked fatigued and had a date that ended badly the previous night. He welcomed her inside and offered her a seat after clearing the numerous pictures of corpses off of it.
"What can we help you with today?" he said as he sat down next to the tall, thin fellow Emma called her idol. Mr. Holmes' fingers were steepled together and he had yet to say a word.
"Well, I need your help solving a murder, um, obviously." she stammered out with a nervous giggle.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and got off of the couch. He strode over to the kitchen; Emma's eyes followed.
"My favorite…teacher was killed. It was mysterious and I need your help. I heard you can help; y'know, using deductions and all that jazz." her words tumbled over each other.
"Deductions are my bitch?" Mr. Holmes called over his shoulder as he filled a mug with tea.
Dr. Watson had been halfway through a drink of his own tea-and in his shock at his flatmate's sentence—let half of it dribble down his chin.
Emma regained her footing. He remembered her. Her confidence came back in full swing.
"Three minutes, I'm actually a little disappointed you didn't figure it out sooner." she said with a smirk.
"Sherlock, have I missed something?" John said, staring intently Mr. Holmes as he walked around the couch and handed her a mug of tea.
"This young woman claims she has astute powers of deduction." he stated flatly. It didn't take a consulting detecting to figure out he didn't believe her.
Dr. Watson looked over at her and tilted his head. He looked at her as if she'd stated she was abducted by aliens.
"You're American." he said.
"That's John's attempt at deduction." he said with a sideways glance at the confused doctor.
Emma suppressed a snort.
"Well, go on then. Deduce." Mr. Homles said, leaning forward.
She cracked her knuckles, and rolled her neck. She learned forward and looked directly into his eyes. Dr. Watson's look of amusement turned to alarm as she turned her attention to him. She took a deep breath and began.
"He had a date last night with someone who was just a bit too young for him. The date ended badly and wine was thrown in his face. He didn't like her that much anyway and is much more interested in your current case. He had to leave in a hurry this morning, and hasn't had a chance to relax since he got home. It wasn't for work, but rather to run around with you. You went to the farmer's market and talked to the grape seller. He yielded no leads, so you went out for Italian afterward."
"Oh God, there's two of them." His voice was muffled by his hands running over his face and through his hair.
Sherlock's face gave no emotion. There was a brief flash of fear that she'd disappointed him; but before she had the chance to mumble out an apology for her inadequacies, he said:
"Interesting. Now explain."
"What? I mean, yeah, ok. Fine." she said; incredulous about the fact that she hadn't been thrown out of the flat yet.
"Dr. Watson smells of wine, and there is a small wine stain in his hair, and since he didn't seem like an early morning drinker—or the type to pour wine in his hair—I assumed it was thrown on his head last night. You hardly seem cross enough with him to do something like that, or lose your temper at all really."
The doctor scoffed loudly and Emma only spared him a glance as she continued.
"Since his phone is across the room, I assume he isn't frantically waiting for any phone calls to be returned. I'm assuming he called after she left to apologize; people often do. The fact that he's not anticipating or anxious over it, leads me to believe he wasn't too fond of her. He has a bit of glitter on his left shoe, the kind you get at dancing clubs, not quite his cup of tea. He's a bit too old to go for that kind of night out. He's also having a bit of trouble hearing this morning, more than likely from the loud music. I can tell by the way he's staring at this chair like a dog at a steak that it's his favorite, and his back is hurting because he's had a bad nights sleep. He had to move papers when I came in so he hasn't sat in the chair yet this morning. I could smell shampoo on his coat hanging by the door, so his hair must've still been wet when he put it on. No one does that by choice when it's this cold outside. It was a stroke of luck that I recognized the sticker of the farmer's market nearby on your bunch of bananas on the counter, as I just went there. They have a different colored sticker for each day of the week, and that color means you bought them today. I could tell you two loitered around the grape stand because your shoes are stained with a tint of purple, and lastly I can still smell the Italian in the apartment."
Mr. Holmes was silent for a minute. He hummed a noise of contemplation. Dr. Watson sat with his mouth slightly agape. Well, if it all went to hell, at least she could say she'd impressed her favorite blogger.
"What is it exactly that you're hopping to get from me, Ms…?" Mr. Holmes said as he stood to pace.
"Emma, just call me Emma; and I'm not sure really. I just want to be better than I am at-" she said flailing her hands about in a way she hoped showed she was referring deduction.
"Emma, how old are you?" said the doctor, finding his voice again.
"Sixteen, Dr. Watson, sir." she said, straightening her back.
"Call me John, please. Where are your pa-"
"Are you squeamish, Emma?" Mr. Holmes said, cutting John off.
"Heh, the food I've eaten has touched things that would make your hair curl." She remarked with confidence.
"You and I have something in common, then." John grumbled.
"Yes, but what about mutilated dead bodies?" the consulting detective continued.
"SHERLOCK!" John cried in horror.
"What? If she wants to accompany me to crime scenes, I need to be sure she can handle it. I though you, of all people John, would appreciate my carefulness."
Emma squealed in delight. She and Sherlock Holmes at a crime scene, solving murders!
"Sherlock, we can't just bring a child to a crime scene!"
"Hey, I'm not a child!" she protested, but her voice was lost in their argument.
"Why not? I was sneaking into morgues at her age." he stated, genuinely confused at his flatmate's anger.
"Yes, but you're-" he trailed off and simply gestured at Sherlock, somehow hoping fate would finish the sentence for him.
"A psychopath?" he said, pulling a slight pout.
"No, no. Just. Hell, I don't know… you." He turned to Emma saying, "Pardon my language."
Emma rolled her eyes. Yes, at the age of sixteen, he expected her to be aghast at bad language. She took a deep breath and focused on her own thoughts, drowning out the apologizing John was doing to Mr. Holmes. For a genius, he seemed a bit touchy.
"If you two are done playing Punch and Judy, I'd like to get a word in here please." she stated, not really expecting to be heard. Both men turned their attention to her.
"I- I'm not really sure what assistance I can offer, but I'm great at pick-pocketing and I can sneak into places unseen… most of the time anyway." Emma could see from the look John gave her that she hadn't helped her case at all.
"Emily-"
"Emma." both she and Mr. Holmes corrected in unison.
"Emma, where are your parents? I mean, aren't they probably worried about you?" John said with that condescending tilt of the head that adults always did.
Emma didn't just hate that question, she despised it. She wanted to make that question manifest itself and bash its head into the wall. She wanted to hold it underwater until it went limp. She held on to the material of her nice, and stolen, pants until her knuckles were white.
"FINE. Forget it, it was a stupid idea coming here. I'm not being taken seriously here, that much is obvious. I hope you all have had a right good laugh at my expense. Have a nice day, sorry to have taken up your time."
She stormed down the stairs and forced down the lump forming in her throat. She ignored the stinging in her eyes and ducked into the first alley she came across. She squatted against the wall, and let one small sob escape. It was her own fault. She'd spent the last year building Sherlock Holmes such a high pedestal to sit on, there was no way he could ever really live up to her expectations. What was she hoping for? Some kind of Orphan-Annie story? The truth of the matter was, she was a skinny sixteen year old street urchin, with no high school education, and the ability to tell if people were right or left-handed by looking at their shoe laces. Where was that going to get her? Emma would be lucky if she got a job waiting tables. Hell, she would be happy if she got a job waiting tables. At least then she'd have a reliable meal source. Her stomach grumbled in agreement at this prospect. It was only a matter of time before she wasn't legally a minor any more, and she'd have to face serious jail-time for all the shoplifting she committed on a daily basis.
She wiped her face and looked for a suitable place to lean against the wall in a fetal position for the night. The sound of dress shoes clicked down the alley way, and a tall figure in a long black coat strode toward her. He leaned against the wall next to her and looked up at the moon.
"How long have you been homeless?" he said searching his pockets for, presumably, a pack of cigarettes, and cursed at John under his breath.
"Awhile. Since I lived in the US." Emma said as she rested her chin on her knees. She tried playing it off as nonchalance, but it truth she was cold. She suppressed a shiver.
"You managed to earn enough money on your own to earn a ticket to London? Impressive."
"Yeah, earn a ticket… I actually just pretended to be a foreign ambassador's daughter. The airline stewards were so stupid it was awe-inspiring."
"Even more impressive." he said with a small but earnest smile. "I was homeless for a short time, as well."
"I'm assuming it has something to do with your ex-cocaine addiction?" she said, nonplussed. Mr. Holmes winced.
"Sorry, that was rude of me. I have a bad habit of accidentally bringing up deep-dark secrets."
"Yes, pesky things, those." he said watching his breath curl in licks of steam in the night air.
They sat in silence for awhile. The emptyness was like a silent exchange of pained pasts. A mutual understanding of pain. The unspoken bond of something unspeakable. Emma turned to look up at Mr. Holmes. His eyes showed he was somewhere miles away from a cold alley in London. His brows furrowed and his mouth twitched.
Suddenly, he was walking with purpose out of the alleyway.
"Wait, where are you going Mr. Holmes?" she called out.
"Call me Sherlock, and were going back inside. Do try to keep up. I can't have my pupil sleeping outside, now can I?" he shouted over his shoulder.
A wide smile spread over her face. It hadn't been there in years, and it slide into place like a glove on a hand. Her chest filled with bubbles and a warmth spread through her body. Suddenly, everything didn't seem so bad. After all, she was a student of Sherlock Holmes.
