The first chapter of my third story. And to imagine, I was only going to write one story! Work with me, people. As usual, I'm making this up as I go along. I was reading 'To Watery Depths', and realized that some of my info was inconsistent. Oops! Sorry about that. But I won't change it, sorry. But I think you got the general gist of it. So, I'm writing my story from Holmes' POV. This is new, huh? Also, this is very different from anything else I've ever written, so don't expect the same style as before. I think, however, that I will switch into Watson's POV after a while. I can't always write Holmes, he is extremely difficult. Have fun reading it!!!! P.S.- Happy Birthday Goth_Flutist! Hope you like my story!
Chapter One: Terminal and Home
I looked around the busy terminal and winced as people either shoved past me or rubbed against me. Contact with people I didn't know was something I did not appreciate or enjoy.
I carried a single suitcase, a simple blue one, and waited for Watson as she got her various suitcases.
Michigan. Who ever thought I would come here? I was quite happy about with my home, why should I leave for the desolate area of... Ashling was it? Watson had described it as 'a tiny town, one restaurant, one gas station, and no interesting business' to speak of'. This would be different.
"Hey Holmes. Let's go. Aunt Sophia hates waiting for people," Watson called.
Watson, my dearest friend. Her full name was Jennifer Anne Watson. She was fifteen years old, had black hair that shined, blue eyes, and was a very sweet person.
I, on the other hand, might as well be her complete opposite. Me, Sherlock Samuel Holmes, fifteen years old, with brown hair, blue eyes, and a rather cold demeanor.
"Hello, earth to Holmes? Come on, Michigan isn't that bad," Watson smiled. I smiled back at her, charmed by her kindness. Watson walked toward what I hoped to be the exit and pushed open the door.
Sunlight! It tore at my eyes, unshielded, rendering me blind. I hid my eyes instantly, allowing a small exclamation escape my lips. Watson laughed at my reaction and tossed me some sunglasses.
"Holmes, Michigan is sunny. London is rainy. You will be needing these," she grinned. I smiled weakly and looked down at the horrible sunglasses. I knew I would be bringing up an old argument but...
"Watson, have you any sunglasses that aren't purple?"
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A gaudy woman met us halfway down the sidewalk. She was, from what I could figure out, Miss Sophia Watson, age forty or so. Spends an incredible amount of leisure time jogging, all though it hadn't effected her shape in anyway.
Sophia Watson was large, to put it kindly. She wore a horrible looking green and yellow dress, with a quantity of lace surrounding it. She had dark blond hair, brown eyes with cat-eye glasses covering them, and was around 5'4. She ran up to Watson and wrapped her large arms around her.
"Jenny, baby! Darling, it's so good to see ya here! And who is your delicious friend?" Sophia asked. I felt a flush rise to my cheeks as Sophia inspected me. Watson laughed for the third time that day.
"Aunt Sophia, look what you made him do! He's blushing! His name is Sherlock Holmes. He's my best friend," I heard Watson say. All I could hear was the streets. Cars, people, airplanes. Horrible. I carefully stuck out my hand toward Sophia, praying she would shake it.
No such luck. The next thing I knew was being enveloped in two squishy things. Her arms. I stiffened and allowed my self to be hugged. After a minute or so, she put me down.
"Mr. Holmes! Tell me about yourself? Or rather, tell me about myself!" squealed Sophia. I smiled at her. Even if she was relatively annoying, she was nice, and you couldn't help but be caught up by her enthusiasm.
"I'm sure you know enough about me, but you? A challenge, I see. Let me see..." I trailed off and began circling her.
"I see in front of me Sophia Ginger Watson. She is forty one years old. She was named Sophia after her great grandmother, and Ginger after the family's dog. You are slightly scatterbrained. You have married once, only to divorce five months later. You enjoy jogging and love the Jerry Springer show. You are moderately wealthy, and live in a large house for one who lives alone. Correction, for one who lives with only her brother. You own two dogs, a French poodle named Poodlekins (A.N. Goth, you'll get a kick out of this!) and a Labrador named Fluffy. You work as a fashion designer, and occasionally go into your old fashion store. You like fine cuisine, and dine often at your local restaurant, PaPa's. You have a good friend named Lucy. How did I do?" I finished. Sophia's mouth hung open. I smiled at her reaction. Finally she cleared her throat.
"Right on every account, Mr. Holmes. Care to explain to me how you knew?" she gasped. Watson smiled at me, and I shrugged, a very American gesture I had picked up from Watson.
"Very well. Half of those things I knew from Watson here. However, I knew you had a French poodle, a red one, very rare, named Poodlekins, because their is a strand of fur upon your black coat. Red stands out against black, so I noticed it. I also saw your wallet. Inside of it is a picture poking out. I can catch a red ear and a golden muzzle. So you have two dogs. Their names? Written on the back in a slightly sloppy writing, with scratches on the dates, are the names. Poodlekins and Fluffy, November 2000. I knew you were scatterbrained because of the dates, which were originally September, October, and December, until you arrived at November as the date. Your name was told to me by Watson, but I knew you were moderately wealthy by your coat, a minx one, if I'm correct. Your shoes also broadcast a symbol of wealth. I am not familiar with the brand, but made of 100% leather, with wooden heels must be expensive. Your clothes can be bought at *********** (A.N. I don't know the actual name, and I'm not about to guess it). I knew you were married by the large diamond that sits on your middle finger. It is a wedding ring, and I know you once wore it upon your ring finger because their is a slight shadow of it. It couldn't of rested their long to have only gained a small one. In the back of your car, I see tennis shoes, with worn soles upon the toes, suggesting a great deal of walking. But walking involves your heels just as much, and as their are little to no worn areas there, one can presume you run. I already knew about Jerry Springer, but in the backseat of your car I see a great deal of carry out boxes. All marked with the names of fine restaurants. The one that appears the most is a PaPa's box, suggesting it is either your favorite, or comes with convenience, such as a nearness. And finally, about your friend, I come back to your wallet. Another picture pokes out of a purple, spike haired girl. A 'punk', is she not? And upon the back is her name, just as with your dogs. Friend Lucy, October, November, December, and finally September 2000. Do you care to correct me?" I stated.
She merely shook her head and led us to the car which I had based half of my deductions on. Watson smiled at my slightly pleased look and opened the door for me.
"How did I do?" I whispered in passing. She kissed me briefly on the cheek and grinned.
"Oh, you've won her heart. Now let's just try to make my Dad like you," she whispered back. I tensed at the mention of her father, and prayed he wouldn't kill me.
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"Where is the boy who keeps landing my daughter in the hospital!" boomed a large, bold sounding voice. I cringed at the sound of it. A large, bold voice usually ensured a large, bold man. Watson gasped.
"DAD!" she screamed, running up the stairs.
I have heard people say that meeting the father of a girl is one of the worst experiences to go through. I had thought it ridiculous, but now I know that meeting Watson's father would be hard. At least the other boys in the world hadn't put their girlfriend in the hospital twice.
We had pulled up to a large, white house on the corner of East Main Street and Spencer Street. It had three balconies, which impressed me, and a gazebo in the backyard. It was extremely large, telling me that instead of being moderately wealthy, as I had deduced from Sophia, these people were, as the Americans say, 'rolling in the dough'.
Suddenly, a tall, balding, dark skinned man made his way down the stairs. He was huge, about four inches taller than me! I bit my tongue and hoped to God he wasn't going to kill me. The man approached me and stared down at me. I mentally shrunk, but stood my ground. Abruptly, the man laughed.
"Well, Jennifer. Your man has guts. He actually looked me in the eye! Nice to meet you. I'm Greg Watson. Call me Greg," the man thundered. I let loose the breath I had been holding and smiled politely at him.
"Yes sir. It is a pleasure to meet you," I responded automatically. I mentally slapped myself for being so... odd. But Greg laughed, to my immense pleasure.
"The boy has manners. I like that. Another day or so, though, Sherlock, and we'll be having a serious discussion about my Jennifer," Greg said seriously. I glanced over at Watson and saw her redden in the face.
"Dad... come on, you promised not to scare him away. You promised!" Watson whined. I grinned in spite of myself and walked toward Watson.
"It's all right, Watson. I suppose every boy has to hear it someday. I suppose that means I shouldn't put you in a hospital anymore," I teased. She rolled her eyes at me and smiled at her father.
"Daddy, it's great to see you again. I'm going to take Holmes up to his room, all right?"
She led me up the staircase, and the last words I heard from Greg that evening were "Don't show him too much of his room!"
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Watson slammed the door shut.
"Holmes! You shined, you positively shined! Where did you learn to do that?" she asked. I smiled at her odd question.
"Really Watson. I am English. I learned manners at an early age," I replied, setting my suitcase on the large bed. Watson rolled her eyes.
"Not the polite part, numbskull. The joking, the ease, the... well, you know. The acting like a normal boyfriend bit!" she yelled. I laughed.
"A bit of acting, a bit of observing, and a bit of adding exactly what a father would want to hear," I told her. She laughed.
"You are smooth. You are deviously smooth," she hissed. I shooed her out of my room and closed the door.
The room was a bit to large for my tastes. I was used to my attic room, in the top of my house. This room was large, much larger than I was used to. It had a great canopy bed, with blue covers and white pillows. The dresser was a copious, oak one, with seven drawers. There were two mirrors in the room, to my displeasure, and it connected to a generously proportioned bathroom. However, I was pleased to note that my room was one of the ones with a balcony. I had always been quite fond of balconies. Watson had the other balcony, right next to mine.
As I began unpacking, a thought came to me.
How in the world am I going to survive an entire summer with the Watson family? Darn Watson, why did she have to invite me?
It had started but a month before school ended...
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Watson came running up to me, nearly slamming into the brick wall I was leaning on. I laughed at her surprised look as she caught herself and she glared at me.
"Oh, thanks. Some friend you are," she glowered. I nodded in her direction and smiled.
"I pride myself in being a friend, yes," I responded. She rolled her eyes and tugged at the end of her black hair. She started bouncing excitedly all of a sudden and squealed.
"Ooo, Holmes, guess what!" she exclaimed. I placed my hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down to the earth, to stop that annoying bouncing.
"What is it Watson?" I asked, playing along. She clapped her hands together and started dancing around in a little circle.
"I get to spend the summer with my dad, in Michigan!" she yelled. I felt my face fall and tried to recover. But it was to late, she had noticed. Watson stopped and stared at me.
"You don't want me to go?" she asked, hurt a bit. I shrugged.
"I don't mind. Why should I?" I responded, but my voice was a little strained. She smiled.
"Ah, so the great detective hasn't figured this out, huh? That is amazing," Watson said sardonically. I glared down at her. Watson smirked.
"Ah, my dear Holmes. Can't you see that I wouldn't go to Michigan without my best friend? You're coming with me, dummy!" she exclaimed. I started in amazement.
"You cannot be serious. I have my obligations here, in London. I can't just leave. The police... the crime..." I felt myself breaking down. I wanted to go, but my father would never let me go. Unless he saw it as an excuse to get me away from him. My mouth twitched into a smile and I looked at Watson.
"I will be happy to accompany you to Michigan. Although I must say that the prospect of it seems rather dreary..."
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I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Why in the world did I say yes? Sophia is rather gaudy, but her father is nice enough. A bit to loud for my tastes, but I can live. But how am I going to act like a 'normal' boyfriend for two months?
Someone rapped on my door, and I permitted them entrance.
"So, Holmes," Watson said. "Ready for round two? It's dinner time."
I groaned.
So, whaddya think, huh, huh, huh? Trust me, in either chapter two or three I'll get into the mystery. But, yeah, I'll be switching into Watson's POV a lot. Holmes is hard to write. I'm not a guy, I don't know how a guy thinks (although I did play the Artful Dodger at my local theatre once...). Try to succumb to my oddness. Oh, and if anyone wants to give me info on Jack the Ripper, I'd appreciate it.