Who am I?
Table of ContentsYou are the father!
Imagine yourself sitting in a coffee shop sipping some tea and eating a scone. You're holding a weapon firmly in your jacket pocket. Waiting for a private detective you hired. When he gets there you ask him to find your father, your only living relative. Now imagine that you're a year under age and you need a place to stay. That is what our good friend Clara Kingsly is going through. At this moment that is exactly what she is doing.
Clara sat patiently at the table and nibbled on her scone and read her book, "The Great Gatsby". She was near the part where… Never mind, Spoilers… Anyway she was clutching her small gun tight as the man with a brief case came in and sat at the seat across her. He was tall, thin, out of shape, balding and his shoes were defiantly more expensive than his suit.
"How's the diet?" She joked.
The man frowned, "Miss. Kingsly, You understand that if you do not find your father you'll be placed in foster care, right?" he asked.
Clara's brow furrowed. "Of course I do, but it doesn't look like I would survive like that, right Mr. Holmes?" She spiked.
"My name is Mycroft." Mr. Holmes sighed.
"I don't really care so just get on with it, what are your conditions?" Clara asked impatiently.
"Just one, put the gun away." Mycroft said knowingly.
Clara paused, not because he knew she had a gun, but because she could tell that he knew. Clara took a deep breath closed her book and placed the gun on the ground.
"Go on then, who is he?" She insinuated.
Clara's hazel eyes flashed with suspense and her black hair fell into her face.
Mycroft smirked and handed her a paper from inside of his brief case. It was a birth certificate.
"You can call me Uncle Mycroft. You're my brother's daughter." He said smiling.
Clara didn't seem impressed.
"Oh come on! You honestly- Oh, never mind, Show me to him." Clara said in frustration.
Mycroft stood and took her gun, "Your too young to be carrying this around. Follow me." He then when out and waited for her by the car.
Clara was frozen, was this guy serious?
What do you think? I mean, that was really straight forward. But if you've ever read any of the books you'd see that that is how the Holmes family was. Let's continue…
Clara shook herself awake and gathered her stuff and met Mycroft at his car. He opened the door for her, she climbed in and shortly after he climbed in.
Should we take this chance, while their driving, to explain the situation? Yeah. So to explain then, Clara's mom died of cancer that week; it was a genetically pasted illness that Clara has a fifty percent chance of having. She had no other immediate family so the social service hired a private guy to find her father. When they didn't find anything Mycroft showed up to help. And she didn't trust Mycroft.
Clara climbed out of the limo; she was now standing on Baker Street, in front of a paint-chipped black door that had a slight tint of blue or green. The door had the address on it, "221b" and its knocker was crooked. As Mycroft approached it he straightened the door knocker and walked in. As Clara walked to the door she made it crooked again and continued through it. She hesitantly followed Mycroft up two flights of stairs until they reached the flat.
Mycroft didn't knock but called in, "Sherlock, I have a surprise for you!"
A violin began to play; the music was so calming yet so very sad at the same time. It made Clara seem at home. She shooed Mycroft out of the way and pushed the door open, the handle was apparently broken, it seemed as though it was smashed by something heavy. (Clara latter found that her father had a domestic with a "friend.") Clara walked into a living room, it was a good kind of cluttered, to her right on the wall there was a smiley face with bullet holes in it and to her left on the mantel of the fire place was a skull and some papers with a pocket knife sticking in them. Clara didn't seem fazed by any of this because she was fixated on the man playing the violin in front the window to the left.
He stopped playing, "Mycroft, I'm not taking any cases today. To busy." He said.
"Brother, mine, I don't have a case for you. I brought you your daughter." Mycroft smiled.
The man set down the violin and turned to Mycroft. "What are you talking about?"
Clara suddenly flustered brushed her hair behind her ear and handed Sherlock the birth certificate. Sherlock read it and his expression changed from confusion to surprise. He slumped down into the chair facing the kitchen and stared at the handle of the refrigerator.
"What happen to your mother, Clara?" He asked hesitantly.
Clara sat down in the chair opposite. "Cancer happened." Was all she could manage.
The handle becoming less appealing, Sherlock gazed into Clara's eye. Those blue eyes with a small but noticeable tint of green, gazing right back into his own. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that said that either of them was lying.
"So what are you going to do, brother? After all, I am leaving her here." Mycroft said.
"That was apparent; John got married and moved out, she can have his room." Sherlock replied.
(HA! Now Clara thinks that John and Sherlock were at one point dating! Of course that isn't true but still.)
"Oh, cool, I get John's old room. Sweet." Clara said compressing a giggled.
Mycroft smirked. Sherlock glared at him and threw a small balled up paper at him. "Good day, Mycroft." He said.
Mycroft winced when it hit him and he picked it up, he opened it, it said, "Leave." He nodded and left.
Clara, sitting in John's chair, just stared at Sherlock, Sherlock staring straight back.
"Are you going to show me to my room?" Clara asked after twenty two minutes of awkward silence.
John What Son?So what do you think? Good enough story yet? Does it live up to your standards? If not then you must not get out much… The reason I have you imagine what Clara is going through is so that you understand her. She is an only child whose mother just died. She didn't have a father while she was growing up, so imagine how mad she is at Sherlock Holmes and his brother. It took Mycroft no less than a day to find her father. Imagine how stupid she feels, how stupid she's going to feel standing next to him all the time. Now I'll stop giving a lecture… Clara has made it to that room.
Mycroft had sent all of Clara's belongings to 221B Baker Street after he left and so Clara is unpacking her things. As she is about to stuff all her shirts into a cupboard she notices that there is an object in it already. She pulls out and drops it. A gun, there was a gun in the cupboard! Having second thoughts about this "John" fellow she lays a t-shirt down then the gun then the rest of the shirts. Who was Sherlock Holmes? Clara wondered.
Honestly, if I were her I'd get out of there as soon as possible. I mean, a guy you just met, a paper says he's the father, I wouldn't trust the breath of his lungs!
Clara went and opened another box. Inside it seemed to be full of her wall decor, and some stuff from her desk. She pulled out her poster of a T.A.R.D.I.S from her favorite show Doctor Who©, (Signed by the writer, Steven Moffat) along with many other posters involving the same show and tacked them all up, then her calendar which is of male swim suit models. After a lot of tacking up posters and paintings and moving furniture she finally reached the last box. It was the smallest of them. Clara opened and shifted through the random drawings and sheet music until she found it. The photo of her mother, the last picture they were in together.
The picture was taken at Carnegie Hall in New York City. Clara had a performance on a piece she had written, her mother was very proud. They were in the lobby and a reporter asked for a picture and answers to a few questions. Clara's mother had one condition, that she gets a copy of the picture.
With tears in her eyes she placed that next to her laptop and sat staring at the walls of her room. It looked completely different from an hour ago, when she first stepped foot in it. The walls that once were a pall and bleak green were now covered in works of art from artists all over the world. Clara's music stand (With the music sheets) stood by the window and her guitar sat on its stand on the opposite side.
Clara stood and dragged her chair to the window. She picked up her guitar and started playing. She knew many songs but the one she played at her concert that night was stuck in her head. She called that piece, "The sound of happiness."
Clara played for a while. She stopped when there was a knock at her door.
"What is it?" She hollered.
Sherlock popped his head in the doorway awkwardly.
"I was wondering if you were peckish." He said casually.
"Were you wondering or are you asking?" Clara asked placing her guitar in its stand and standing for a stretch.
"Asking, I guess." He said sheepishly.
Clara nodded, "Where are we going?" she asked.
"You'll see." He said. "Be down and out in ten."
Clara promptly grabbed her coat and scarf and dashed out of her new and improved bed room. As she was walking down the stairs she tied he scarf on and slipped the gloves that were in her pocket on. She jumped off the stairs before the last two steps and bounded on the door. Sherlock was waiting in the cabbie for her. She climbed in and huffed.
"Go ahead now, thank you for waiting." Sherlock said to the cabbie.
Clara stared at Sherlock wondering what to make of him. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.
"What?" He asked.
"Nothing, I just thought he, you, would be different, maybe even deny that I was yours. But you just agreed with Mycroft." She said.
Sherlock, having a long and detailed response changed the subject. "I see you changed up John's room and made it your own." He said.
"Did you just change the subject on me?" Clara interjected.
"Yes." Sherlock replied.
"Are you going to respond to my previous statement?" she asked irritably.
"No." He said.
"Okay, I'll remember that." Clara said warningly.
The cabbie came to a stop. "That'll be twelve pounds." He said.
Sherlock shifted for his wallet. He found it and paid the cabbie. They exited the cab and walked towards some yellow tape hanging between two cop cars.
"So, remind me what the word "peckish" means, you brought me to a crime scene." Clara sighed.
"Detour." Sherlock said and raised the tape for her to go under.
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