The Adventures Of Mycroft Holmes
A True Story By Thomas Rowley
Chapter One: Fate In The Making.
It was one of those cold Saturdays, the kind that frustrate you with their stubborn refusal to cooperate with your holiday plans. So my wife and I decided to cancel our weekend trip to the cottage and instead go for dinner and then spend the rest of the time before her business meeting the following evening, watching old movies and eating too much popcorn. A tradition that was more appealing to me then her, as I was, and am still, in possession of an extremely forgiving metabolism.
Looking back, I can't say that I regret the choice that seemed so insignificant at the time, for despite all I lost because of it, I can't help but think that what I gained was worth the despair.
It wasn't raining outside, it was only depressing, so Lucy and I walked the few blocks from our apartment to the restaurant. A lovely little establishment with a quiet atmosphere that had become a favorite of ours since our marriage, four years ago.
Being one of those lucky writers, that people not only read, but also bother to purchase the works of instead of just downloading them illegally off the internet. I had managed to provide extremely well for both myself and Lucy. Although she still preferred to run the company she'd been the driving force of for the last three years, since her most recent promotion to CEO.
You may have heard of it. It's called Warner & Company and it's an investment firm.
It wasn't named after my wife, although that's usually the first assumption that people make, but her father. He handed it down to her upon his begrudging retirement, much to everyone's surprise, after having also had the option of awarding his son the most lucrative position within it.
Well, I say, everyone, but really what I mean is, anyone who didn't know my wife.
Her full name, Lucille, Abigail Warner was written in her stern, sharply executed handwriting across the appropriate lines of the necessary paperwork by twelve in the afternoon of the same day. It's a signature that was far more familiar to our lawyer then my own.
But who am I, you ask? My name is Thomas Rowley.
Rowley.
Pronounced Row-lee.
'Row' as in the British word for 'Fight'.
Actually that's quite a convenient comparison being as that's where I lived, and still do. New London. Although, back then the year was 2137, 34 years after the reanimation of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective and by far the greatest mind criminal detection had ever seen...so far as I knew.
That particular event had never played any significant role in my life up until that day , especially because I grew up in America and still have the accent, but I mention it because it was about to become a very important factor in the years leading up to now, as I sit, writing at my desk.
It occurs to me that if you've never read any of my work before this, you may be wondering what it is that I write that allows me to support myself so well in an age where literature is not nearly as popular a form of entertainment as it was even ten years ago. Well, in case you don't already know, I am an author of biographies.
I know it sounds boring, but it's a living. And real life has always held a greater attraction for me than fiction. The great thing about my books, if you'll forgive the unintentional advertisement, is that even today they are desirable as a kind of tasteful gossip, if that's not a contradiction in terms.
I write the truth about celebrities, but it's done with the subject's permission and I'm always able, due this cooperation, to discover things that have never come to light before. Therefore, if you want the latest information on the newest pop sensation, the first thing any learned fan-clubber does, is download one of my electronic books from the internet site it cost me three thousand credits to hire a graphic designer to put together. It's easy, they're reasonably priced, and I'm always very up to date on latest who's who information.
But it's not one sided, I'm often called up by celebrities who ask me to write pieces or entire books about them. My name's become a sign of quality, wit and a unique perspective since I finished my third book when I was twenty three. It's now become standard procedure, if you'd like to be noticed by the public, get published by Thomas Rowley.
These days, I know everyone worth knowing in celebrity circles, from the hottest screen actors and actresses to their relatives and agents. That's actually how I met Lucy. I was writing a book on her father, one of the richest men in new London, and I was asked to interview her.
But enough about my job, for, as it turned out, there was one very remarkable person I didn't know, who, due partly to my writings, would soon become one of the most famous women in history. And of all of the celebrities I have had the good fortune to meet, I have to say that she was the one most worth knowing.
Once Lucy and I got in the door we sat down at our customary table, it was a booth, close to the window, but with enough privacy that should anyone I knew walk in; we'd be able to hide and pretend we hadn't noticed them. It had been a short walk, but a strange one, as a hover car had almost clipped both our heads off when we'd come out unexpectedly from a side ally.
It didn't seem to have ruffled my wife, she was pristine as always, her black hair glistening healthily in the soft candle light. Her makeup as perfect as it always was, Lucy always wore makeup, every day. Oh, she mixed up the colors a bit, but only at night did I see her without it, and then her face was scrubbed so clean that it seemed as though she had never been unkempt or ruffled in her entire life.
And she probably never had.
She smiled at me, with those full, red lips, and asked me what I was going to order. I was about to answer her, but something caught my eye and I swallowed my words, peering curiously across the room towards the double doors of the kitchen, leaning eagerly across the white linen table cloth.
Something you should know about me, a trait that Lucy was already well acquainted with, is that I'm constantly on the lookout for good stories. I may be known for my books about celebrities, but my hobby is writing about unique and interesting people who have done great things that no one else seems to care about. In between my more lucrative projects, I usually write two smaller books a year about these silent angels. They don't sell well, but they make me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.
Now, these doors were of that antique style of the old gourmet restaurants, with a single round window in each one that cooks usually use to pear discreetly over at the food critiques who stick their noses in the menues every once in a while, much to the displeasure of the other diners.
However, I wasn't looking at them on account of the timeless romance they projected, but rather, because of the windows. Or to be precise, the view through them.
I could see a figure, pacing back and forth. I couldn't make out much of her, but what I did intrigued me. It was of course, a woman. She was tall, very tall for her sex. In fact, I would have placed her as being just a little shorter than I was, and I'm on the taller side of the height ratio for men. She had dark brown hair in a braid that had to reach past her shoulders at the very least.
That was all I could see of her physically, as only the back of her head was visible, however, there was something about her, something in the constant, tense rhythm of movement as she vanished and reappeared continually between the windows, that had gotten the better of my curiosity. It also seemed that every time she left my range of vision to stand in a blind spot behind the door, and the kitchen staff became visible, that they were scowling at her angrily.
I made to get up from my seat "Luse, I'm gunna go see something, I'll be right back." She ginned, her deep brown eyes sparking with amusement. She knew already what was on my mind. "Just don't be forever, Tom, would you like me to order for you?" Lucille had a pretty voice, entirely British upper-class, methodical in it's perfection. Lucy was perfect at everything it seemed.
I nodded, and strode over towards the doors, swinging one of them open towards me. I pretty much had free range wherever I went, as those who knew me did not want to risk being negatively remarked upon in my next project. I'd never do something like that, but I didn't make that common knowledge. So I had little hesitation where protocol was concerned.
There, before me, was the strangest woman I had ever seen, and to this day, that is a phenomenon that remains unchanged. She was almost my height, as I had predicted, but that was completely unimportant when you were face to face with her.
Her eyes were grey, and shaper then any of the knives on the cutting board beside her, they stared out at me from under thick, dark but very handsome eyebrows, and her long, distinctive nose seemed chiseled as though out of pure granite.
She was staring at me, and it was more then a little disconcerting. I felt naked, and vulnerable.
The rest of her face was the same, hard and imposing. I wouldn't have called her beautiful had I been asked, nor exotic. I think the best word to describe her would have to be ethereal, but in a harsh, cold kind of way. Her hair was long, and the braid I had noticed earlier reached almost to the seat of her trousers, it had obviously been combed well enough, but much of it had become lose, and hung in strands around her face.
Her body as a whole was long, and languid. Her strict posture did nothing to detract from the thin fingers, they were not bony, but rather, sensitive, and they twitched descriptively. Her arms were the same, but she did not appear weak. In fact, her entire appearance worked to give her air of purpose and ability. Really, her countenance seemed to posses everything within it except confusion. Without a doubt this woman knew everything she needed to know and only thought about what she didn't in order to remedy the lack of knowledge.
However, through all this, there was something even stranger about her. Now, I'm not one to focus on the outward appearance, I am well aware that I was married to an extremely beautiful woman, and that never stopped me from respecting her mind. But I have to say that at that particular moment I could not escape the impression of this person's clothing.
I come from an age where people can wear pretty much whatever they like and not have to worry about it, women have their…wobbly bits hanging out in unladylike ways, and men's trousers could be a little looser most of the time.
However, this went beyond even that.
She was dressed head to toe in complete Nineteenth Century Victorian attire, not long frocks, and lacey bodices, but men's clothing.
Her suit was black, she wore a vest and jacket to match her trousers and a cravat of black silk was tied deftly around her collar. A high necked white blouse was visible. She wore no jewelry of a womanly kind, but a gold pocket watch chain glistened against the fabric of the vest, and a diamond pin was cozy in the folds of her cravat. Her shoes were black leather, they weren't polished to a shine, but they were certainly elegant. All in all, one did not have the impression of a woman trying to be something she was not. There was a male attitude about her, she not only dressed like one, but cared for her attire in the same way her father or brother would have.
I had the distinct impression she'd known I'd been looking at her for as long as I had been, and although she now faced me, she had not taken her attention away from the other occupants of the room. She took one sweeping look up and down my person, one eyebrow rising from it's place as though in rebellion, Like Spock from Star Trek the Original Series (if anyone even remembers that show). She then walked past me, out into the main restaurant, in swift, authoritive strides that caused that footwear of hers to click eerily upon the ties of the floor.
I hadn't taken much notice of the kitchen, nor did I attempt it now, I remained only long enough to ask who this person was who had intrigued me in such a way. A portly man, with a bushy blonde moustache who I took to be the chief chef answered me, hottily.
"She eez a meddler" he said grudgingly, in a very French way "She spoils my restaurant, why?"
I smiled, trying to ignore the unpleasant tone of voice and the testy gleam in his watery blue eyes.
"I'm just wondering, she seems a very strange sort of person."
He laughed now, throwing his head back, his puffy white hat holding onto his scalp for dear life. "She eez zat, her name eez Holmes, Mycroft Holmes."
I blinked, a smile twitching on my lips. "No, really," I prodded, certain that he was joking, I mean, anyone who knows anything about Sherlock Holmes would have seen the humor in that, and I knew more then most, although try as I might, I never seemed to be able to convince him to let me write anything about him.
The chef's eyes became angry again "eet was not a joke, her name eez Mycroft Holmes, and eef you think zat's funny, just wait until you hear her address."
TBC