This is my newest story. Sequel to 'Darker Days'. Not much else to say. Thanks for all the reviews, and I hope you enjoy this story.
Chapter One: A Sister Long Forgotten
I was ready. I was ready to conquer the enemy that was before me.
Poetry.
"Ok. Lets do this. I hide myself within my flow- Holmes are you paying attention?" I asked, annoyed. My study partner was staring out my window. Holmes tapped the pencil on the book repeatedly, and didn't even notice that I had said anything.
My name is Jennifer Watson. I'm in tenth grade, and am the best friend of Sherlock Holmes. All though right now, Sherlock Holmes wasn't paying attention to his best friend.
"Earth to Holmes? Come in Holmes? Are you there? Hey, Holmes, come on. Miss Ruipe says I'm not doing well with poetry, and need help," I said. Holmes started.
"Sorry Watson. Just thinking," he mumbled. I looked at him.
Sherlock Holmes was fifteen years old, and very smart. He was tall, thin, pale, and had long fingers. His eyes were really dark blue, and he had light brown hair. The eyes were quite possibly his best feature, and right now they told me something was wrong.
"Ok, Holmes. What is wrong. And don't try to tell me nothing, 'cause it isn't going to work," I reported. He waved his fingers at me.
"Just finish the poem," he muttered. I glared at him.
"Fine. 'I hide myself within my flower, that wearing on your breast. You, unsuspecting, wear me too-and angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower, that fading from your vase. You unsuspecting feel for me, almost a loneliness'. There. I finished the poem. Now tell me what is wrong," I asked.
"Who's it by?"
"Emily Dickinson. Tell me!"
"How old was she when she died?"
"Fifty-five. Tell me!"
"About how many poems did she write?"
"Around seventeen hundred. Tell me!"
"Persistence will get you know where. I won't tell you. What is your favorite poem of hers?"
" 'I am nobody, who are you'. And you will tell me. Please?" I begged. Holmes rose from my desk and began pacing.
"Please stop bugging me, Watson. It is a personal matter, and I do not care to divulge it in you," Holmes said. I glared at him.
"Fine. Be that way. But your sister will be most displeased that you couldn't tell me that this is the date of her disappearance," I replied, turning back to my book. Holmes whipped around.
"How do you know?" he hissed. I rolled my eyes.
"I'm not that stupid. It was in the paper. Police column. Talks about a 'Miss Irene Rachel Holmes', and how she disappeared five years ago, only ten days before your mothers accident," I said. I opened my book.
" 'In this short life that only lasts an hour. How much, how little, is within our power'," I heard Holmes whisper. I smiled triumphantly.
"Spill. What is wrong," I asked one last time. Holmes looked down at the ground and then looked into my eyes.
"There isn't much point in keeping a secret, now is there? You found out about Marie, my father, Olivia, and will find out about others. So I might as well tell you of my sister," Holmes said.
I sat back in my chair and reflected about the things he had told me about. Marie Moriarty, his mother, had tried to kill me on multiple occasions on our last case. His father, Fredrick Holmes, was a jerk who didn't abuse his son, but wasn't very kind. Olivia Cardia, his French girlfriend, whom had nearly destroyed our entire friendship.
Our last case had ended rather sadly, with me in a cast, and Holmes in a coma. I still wore the cast, but Holmes had come out of the coma, with a gaping hole in his stomach, but otherwise unharmed.
Holmes sat on the edge of my bed and looked at the ceiling.
"Irene was, to begin, very pretty. She had dark brown hair, mahogany or so in color. Her eyes were green, and she was tall and smart. She was only four years older than me, and gifted in the arts. She loved to paint and write. She was fourteen when she disappeared.
"No one could figure out why she left. She had been happy at home, with a nice boyfriend and excellent grades. She had just won a two hundred pound savings bond for one of her paintings and was due to go to France that summer as an art apprentice. The police suspected a troubled girl who had run away, but I still believe there was foul play involved. No one believes me, though," Holmes finished. I sighed.
"That's sad. Did you ever find out if she... you know... died?" I asked.
"No."
"Ouch."
Holmes stood up and picked up the newspaper which sat on my desk.
"Enough bemoaning myself. She's gone. There isn't anything we can do about it," Holmes said. He flipped looked at the newspaper and then stared at it.
"What is it now Holmes?" I asked. He looked up.
"Haven't you been following the newspapers, Watson? For the past two months girls have been disappearing and showing up on the banks of the river. Another one turned up today. I say it's worth investigating, don't you?" Holmes said, obviously strained. I stared at him.
"What is it, really?" I asked. Holmes sighed.
"Remind me to never act like everything is all right around you, Watson. The girl who showed up today is Olivia Cardia."
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Olivia Cardia lay on the coroners table, her face blank and cold. Holmes stared at the dead body and lifted the sheet.
"Stupid coroner," Holmes murmured. I tore my eyes away from Olivia's face and set my eyes steadily on Holmes.
"What?" I asked. Holmes dropped the sheet.
"He says that her cause of death is that she fell from the bridge and was swept away from the current. But," Holmes pointed to Olivia's neck, "if you look here you can see bruises, showing that she was strangled before disposed of."
"Holmes!" I protested. He sounded so cruel.
"Well, it's the truth! She was murdered, Watson. Any fool can see that. Well, except for the coroner. I just want to know by whom was she murdered, and why," Holmes mused. I shrugged.
"Any evidence?" I asked. Holmes sighed.
"The river washed away the little evidence left. For now, lets go have lunch. I believe Simpson's is all right?"
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I ate the food, but hardly tasted it. Olivia Cardia was dead. True, I had hated the girl. She had nearly brought Holmes and I to hate each other, but to think that she was dead...
I stared at Holmes. Olivia had been his girlfriend. I wondered how he felt about the entire ordeal.
"Holmes, aren't you the least bit upset that Olivia is dead?" I blurted.
Oh, brilliant Watson. Just blab out your feelings.
Holmes stared at me in shock.
"Do you really think that I could be untouched by this matter? She was my girlfriend, after all. Even if she did nearly come between us, even if she did dump me, even if she did call me a stupid git. Oops," Holmes said. He had never told me why they had broken up. I grinned.
"A stupid git, huh? I guess I'll have to remember that one. It obviously gets on your nerves," I smiled. He glared at me, but a smile betrayed him.
"You wouldn't," he whispered.
"You know I would, you stupid git," I said. His jaw dropped.
"How dare you!" Holmes declared with mock horror.
"I dare! And I shall dare again, you stupid git!" I cried. The entire restaurant looked at us, bemused.
"Well then, for the amusement of these people, let us have a duel!" Holmes said, loud enough for the restaurant to hear.
This surprised me, I had to admit it. Holmes was usually not so... open. He normally would shudder at such a thing, but I suppose even he needed to show off his drama every once in a while.
"I except your boastful challenge! I know I could beat you!" I announced, just as loud as he. Holmes dropped his napkin and picked up his knife.
"Then to the center, fair maiden," Holmes replied. Picking up my knife, I followed.
"Shall we begin, or do you tremble at my feet?" Holmes asked. I could feel the eyes of the diners looking at how I would answer. It made me nervous, and I felt as though I was on stage. Swallowing my fears I laughed.
"You truly are a stupid git! To tremble at your feet would be to die!" I chortled. Holmes smiled.
"Then prepare to die! For you shall tremble!" Holmes called. He pulled out his knife.
"En garde!"
The battle went on for only a few minutes. I, not being as skilled with the knife, soon fell to Holmes mercy. Before I knew what hit me, I was staring at his polished shoes. I looked up and saw his smiling face looking at me.
"Fair maiden, you have given me true pleasure. You are quite the duelist, but not nearly-gakk!"
I had jumped to my feet during his speech and pretended to stab him. The knife had slid between his arm and side, and now he lay 'dying' at my feet.
"Oh fair maiden," Holmes said in a stage whisper, "you gave me much pleasure. The speech has always been my downfall!" And with that, Holmes 'dyed'.
The restaurant broke into laughter, and even I began laughing. Holmes stood and pulled me into a bow. Finally, when the clapping had stopped, Holmes and I sat down.
"Whatever compelled you to do that?" I asked, gasping for air. Holmes shook his head.
"We all need a good laugh sometimes. Besides, we'll never get to be on stage, why not give entertainment to people at a restaurant?" Holmes asked. I continued to laugh.
Suddenly, a waitress appeared at our elbow.
"You know, if you really wanted him to fight you, 'stupid git' isn't what he dislikes the most," the girl said. Holmes' jaw dropped open and his eyes bulged.
"My name is Jennifer Watson," I said, shocked at how rude Holmes was being. True, the girl was pretty, but that didn't give him the right to stare. Especially when his girlfriend was right in front of him.
"Irene Holmes. Sherlock, do stop staring and close your mouth. You look like a fish."