~The Red Hair Ring: Intro~
Written by Hannatude, Betaread and Britpicked by TheDragonAunt
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock Holmes (obviously) but I do 'own' Octavia Chandler. Well, as much as an author can own a character, that is. They're rather like cats - you only think you own them. But I digress.
Americans, Sherlock Holmes - currently sitting in his Mind Palace, observing his new alter-ego, Sherman Howard - sighed, rubbing his temples. He felt a headache coming on (probably in part because of the bloody hazel coloured contacts Howard was wearing) and he despised headaches. Almost as much as he despised Sherman Howard.
Sherman Howard, the chemist. Sherman Howard, the chemist, who came 'across the pond' to work in a crime lab associated with the FBI. It was all Mycroft's doing, of course.
Damn him.
He closed his eyes and felt Howard run his fingers through his hair - which had been shorn, bleached, and tinted a bland sort of ash blonde colour - and rotated his shoulders. Sherlock groaned at the dull pain that came as a result of Howard's constant slouching. He really needed to find a competent chiropractor soon...
He sighed again as Howard returned to the task at hand...paperwork. He was a genius detective, for God's sake - why was he being forced to sit in an oppressive lab, taking inventory of chemicals?! He should be out in the field, taking out Moriarty's people - No, no, that was Sherlock - he was Sherman. Sherman Howard. Sherman the Stuttering Shithead.
"Umm... C-could I have a pen, p-please?" Howard stuttered, addressing the woman sitting at the table next to him.
"I'm not the dispensary, Howard," she replied, as she studied a computer printout. She pulled a pen from behind her ear and began filling out the form. "As I've told you quite a few times, now."
"I...um, sorry. I l-lost the other ones, Miss..." Sherlock groaned. So he's forgetful, is he? Wonderful. The woman turned with a sigh, raising her pen to her mouth. She looked at it and groaned quietly before laying it on the table. / ex-smoker / Sherlock noted, filing the information away for later.
"Really, Howard? Really? You've been working here for two weeks now, and you still don't know my name?" She stared at him with incredulity and exasperation. "Octavia Chandler," she ground out, her eyes narrowing as he reached for the pen she had abandoned. She growled and smacked his hand away, ignoring his squeak of surprise.
"No. You've already nicked six of my favourite pens. I'm not letting you nick this one, too." She stretched, nearly smacking the man's forehead. Sherlock, who had been strolling through the halls of his Mind Palace, stopped and blinked at her statement. Since when do Americans say 'nicked'..?
"And here was I, under the impression that this was the land of the free," Sherlock muttered, as he began rooting around in Howard's satchel for a pen. She blinked at his comment and picked up her coffee mug.
"It's the land of debatable political freedom. Not free office supplies." She glared at the mug, silently berating the contents for being cold. He sighed - he had to control himself better. Don't slip up again, Sherlock. You are Sherman Howard. He returned to his Mind Palace and resumed his stroll.
Howard watched as Octavia turned around and unlocked a storage cabinet, flicking up the handle with her elbow. The faint scent of coffee in the room suddenly intensified.
"M-may I ask why you keep your c-coffee maker in a locked cupboard?" Howard asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, already knowing the answer. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes condemning Howard's stupidity. He flinched at the look.
"The same reason anyone keeps anything in a locked cupboard," she replied, turning back towards the machine and preparing herself a fresh cup.
"Oh... P-problems with coffee thieves?" Sherlock had known it from the moment he had first walked into this lab, several weeks ago. He had deduced quite a bit about this woman with a quick glance at her workspace.
/ single / late twenties / adopted in her early teens / only girl / 3 elder brothers, all working in law enforcement in some capacity/ lives alone / one bedroom apartment / likes cats / pets aren't allowed in said apartment / is considering looking for a new place of residence as a result, but hasn't committed to the idea yet / has a second job as a tutor for a young man named 'Anthony' / said young man has a crush on her, of which she is aware / Whovian / Anglophile / caffeine dependency / familiarity with firearms / capable of self-defence /
"No shit, Sherlock," she muttered, shocking him from his Mind Palace once again. Sherlock blinked, tamping down the flash of panic. What..? Did she just say...?
"I said, 'No shit, Sherlock'. Haven't you ever heard that expression? It's from your side of The Pond, after all," she replied. Had he spoken aloud... or had she noticed the momentary change in his demeanour? Sherlock frowned. Just how observant is this woman?
"I hardly think I need to tell you who he is - er, was."
He nodded slowly, pulling back into his psyche.
"I... I was just, um, s-surprised to hear an American say it. I didn't know that it had left L-London, m-much less made its way to the, uh, United States." Sherlock watched her face closely as Howard stuttered on. Howard was afraid of her, he realised with a chuckle. Her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, as she contemplated his response.
"I've got connections, Mister Howard." She rolled her eyes as Howard frowned in confusion. "Specifically, a wireless router." She pointed to a small white box on her desk. "Which allows me to connect to...the Internet." She spread her hand in an arc, as if drawing a rainbow.
"You…you never met him, did you? I've heard he was..." She shrugged, unable to really find the proper words to describe the detective. He was...what?
"S-Sherlock Holmes?" Howard asked, nervously. Sherlock tilted his head to the side. This woman intrigued him. She had no idea that he actually was Sherlock Holmes - and who would? Howard was based in part on one Philip Anderson - a man who was nothing like Holmes, at all - and partially on Henry Knight.
And yet... She knew of Sherlock. She had heard of him. And she wanted to hear more.
The question now was, did Sherman Howard ever cross paths with Sherlock Holmes? He deliberated, surprised by the fact that he was leaning towards telling her that they had. He decided to go with it, and allowed Howard to tell her so.
"W-we went to uni together, actually. We weren't r-really close but we talked. M-mostly about chemistry assignments and stuff, but sometimes we'd discuss other topics."
"Did he do the detective thing back then?" she asked, casually, as she returned to her chair. Her green eyes met his artificially hazel ones and they sparkled with excitement when he nodded. I wonder if she was one of John's readers. "Did he ever tell you about any of those cases?" Definitely one of John's readers. Curiouser and curiouser.
"Y-yes, actually. In fact... I w-witnessed him working during a f-few of them. B-but I'm afraid I've forgotten a lot of the d-details over the years."
Which was an absolute lie, but the look on her face was worth it. Excitement and delight at the thought of hearing about the exploits of a young Sherlock Holmes warred with dismay at Howard's forgetfulness and general simplicity of mind.
"Tell me!" she ordered, the desire for a story winning out against her distaste for Howard. It was obvious she didn't mind Sherlock Holmes, whatsoever.
The man in question was once again sitting in his Mind Palace, his long violinist's fingers steepled in front of his smiling lips. He could definitely benefit from her fascination with his career. He reviewed the cases that John had sensationalised in his blog, chose one he hadn't, and simply inserted Sherman Howard in his blogger's place.
Suddenly, he was no longer Sherlock Holmes masquerading as Sherman Howard. He was Sherman Howard, a bumbling idiot with a penchant for losing almost everything he touched, a nervous stutter, and a surprising passion for science. He thought his new co-worker was mildly intimidating - hell, he thought everything was mildly intimidating - but he persevered because he was British, and that's what Englishmen do.
"O-okay... okay... Ummm..." He scrunched his nose and brows, biting his lip. "The Red... um... Hair Ring, I guess?" He frowned when he saw her twitching in frustration. "W-what?"
"The Red Herring?" Her tone was not impressed.
"N-no, no, Hair Ring. Like, a r-ring of people with red hair." Her expression remained the same. Howard squeaked, "I'll just...start the story..."
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
So... here we are, then - the start of an old story with a new twist or two. I'm going to try to post a new chapter every week, because I know what it's like to wait forever for the next instalment of something-
*cough cough* The next season of Sherlock*cough cough*
But again, I digress.
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When you're done leaving your review, why don't you head over to TheDragonAunt's stuff and give it a read? I suggest starting with "Consequences".