Chapter 1- Black Eyes and Icy Patches
Let me get something straight. I ship JohnLock harder than anyone I know. I pray every night for it to come true. There is nothing that would make me change that. Unfortunately, my cousin doesn't think so, she thinks Sherlock secretly craves being in control of a relationship. She asked my to do one, her exact words were "Sweetheart, could you maybe possibly write a story about me. I dunno, probably on where Sherlock learns about his need for control with our relationship." I decided to make it after John and Sherlock are comfortable with each other, but before Moriarty is introduced. So, for my darling cousin Christina, here is a fiction about a blossoming relationship about a girl in London, who may or may not have a suspicious past, and a certain consulting detective…. Where this certain man learns about his need to control and his need to be understood.
I took a deep breath, letting the smoggy London air fill my senses. Exactly like I remembered it, London really was quite lovely. It looked to be not a bit like the States, where I was raised.
I had lived in California, in a small city nobody had heard about. My birthplace is in London, but I had moved out to the U.S. at a young age. The accent had stayed with me, and I was ridiculed at school because I sounded like an 'old stupid man.' I was taught to spell two different ways, talk two different ways, and count two different ways. To this day, I still spell grey like gray, or count in feet instead of metres. I would get marked down in school for spelling favourite wrong. I knew some English slang and some American slang, and every child in Elementary, or Primary school, would laugh when I asked to borrow a rubber instead of an eraser.
My heritage is mainly based in England, and most of my mum's side of the family still lives here. My mum's sister, Aunt Martha, had generously offered to house me when I had asked where the best place to stay in London was. The reason I had moved here, to this glorious city, is because my favourite aunt needed help as a housecleaner in her building, and because I needed to get away from my wretched house in the states.
The slam of a car door brought me out of my head. The bustling streets and noisy cars appealed to me. They promised a fresh start. somewhere where I could begin anew.
My footsteps echoed on the gravel, where I had just stepped out of the airport and into the busy London streets. I quickly made the decision to take a tube instead of a bus, not only because I would take the more scenic route another time, but also because you could tell much about a place by their train-centres.
I searched through a sea of faces and masses of signs for specific writing. I had to stretch on my toes to see over the crowd, and I ended up having to just jump up and down repeatedly to see the sign. The nearest opening to the London Underground was just about twenty feet ahead of me, but the line of traffic was moving downstream. I fought my way through thick bodies and solid bags, struggling to get to my destination.
People pushed into me, and I almost lost my footing twice. I wasn't that small, but people usually counted me as a tiny girl. Being five foot four had it's perks, like being let in first in line, but people usually just knocked me over. Weighing just over one hundred pounds was never good, but people never usually noticed because of how full my figure was.
Finally reaching the steps that led down to the train station, I quickly melted back into the constant bustle of traffic, not wanting to have to fight the crowd again.
I had previously bought a pass that allowed me to go wherever, whenever I wanted on the train. I searched on the board, trying to find a station that would take me near the street Auntie had specified to me. After finding the next train to be at station nine, I wandered to the station.
I chuckled quietly, someone had spray painted the number nine and three quarters in black block letter on the column used for station nine. Whoever had done that, had also painted the words 'ENTER HERE' underneath with an arrow that pointed to the middle of the post. I had always loved Harry Potter, even before the films had come out. J.K. was truly an inspiration.
The train pulled up with a loud whoosh, successfully bringing me out of my childhood memories and into the current world. I stepped into the car, praying that there would be a seat available. To my surprise, almost the entire car was empty, except for two old ladies chatting by the door and a middle-aged man who sat near the middle.
I took the seat in the back, watching the windows as the grey and black slowly started to swirl together as we moved faster and faster. I was so caught up in the beauty of the alternating pitches of black and grey, that I didn't notice the man sit next to me. It took me a good two minutes of being mesmerized by the mixing shades of grey before I felt the weight on the back of my neck from someones stare.
I spun around, startled and somewhat upset. Sitting next to me was to man.
He was average looking. His short black hair and slanting eyebrows giving him an almost dramatic look. He had pale skin. He looked real and proper normal, nothing out of the ordinary. But I wasn't fooled, there was something slightly mysterious, and almost sinister about him. I couldn't quite figure out what led me to this conclusion, until I looked into his eyes.
His eyes were a dark, almost-black brown. They were still, as if there was no thought process behind them. I could only describe his eyes as cold, stoney, dead. He was something different, something dark.
He reminded me of my father.
I smiled at him politely, and turned so I was facing forward. I watched him out of the corner of my eyes, preparing myself for anything he would do. I flinched when he turned toward me, and turned back toward him.
"Hello," he said politely. "I'm Jim."
I eyed him, not trusting a single move this man made. He was waiting, expecting something. He looked down, and I followed his gaze. He had outstretched a hand to me.
I coughed, embarrassed that I had not seen him offer his hand. I reluctantly took it, feeling the cold, clammy texture next to my small, dry hand. I politely folded my hand in my coat pocket, hoping the thick material would dry it off.
"Hullo," I said, trying to sound pleasant, "I'm Chris." He smiled at me, and opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by the train intercom, where he announced my stop.
"Oops, this is my stop," I said, grateful for an excuse to get away from him. "Sorry, I'd love to chat with you, but I must be going." I climbed over the seats,and started down the aisle.
"Oh, I bet you will." Jim said in a quiet mumble, almost as if it was an oath. I turned back to him, with a confused expression on my face. He just smiled, but I could see that there was no humor behind it. I exited the train, not being able to give it much thought because I was immediately immersed in a mass of bodies that took me up the stairs and spilled into the street.
I started down the road Aunt Martha had told me she lived on. Baker Street seemed to be a common enough street. Complete with civilians milling about and honking cars. She said the flats she owned would be in the grey building.
Looking up, I realized they were all grey buildings. I sighed, hoping my dear old aunt would answer if I rang her.
I pulled out my old phone. I had gotten it two years ago, as a twentieth birthday present. My mum had thought that if I had a simple new phone, I would keep in touch. I didn't, I still haven't forgiven her for what had happened.
My thoughts were cleared instantly when I heard a distinct voice call out, "Chris!" It was Aunt Martha, I'm positive. "Christina!" said the voice again, behind me.
I turned, searching the crowd for Auntie. My suitcase stuck on a raised edge on the pavement, and I struggled to pull it off. I slipped on an icy patch, and ended up with my face on the concrete.
My mind went foggy, and it struggled to form a coherent thought. There were muffled slapping sounds beside my head, and I grunted, hoping to let something know I was here. I heard a faint shout, but it sounded to be of disgust, or maybe surprise. I could still feel the cold handle of my suitcase in my palm. I felt something brush past me, and it felt as if fabric was being rubbed against my face over and over. No, not fabric, rougher, like sandpaper. It was gritty, and it was cold. 'Pavement,' I thought.
Once I had concluded on what was against my face, I realized I had fallen, in the middle of a busy London street, while my aunt was looking for me.
"Ugh," I groaned, "Oi, somebody."
I was mumbling, probably incoherently, but I'm pretty sure a few people noticed and tried to stop people from stepping on me. There was a warm liquid oozing on my face, and my head and neck throbbed. I was completely unable to open my eyes.
"Auntie?" I asked no one in particular, hoping that someone would understand. "Please? Auntie? Help, please?" I asked feebly, sounding more and more like a confused child.
I heard another shout, but this one was closer to me. The faint yell was to my left, but I couldn't tell exactly what the person was saying. It was muffled by the ringing in my ears, but there were definitely three syllables, and it started with a sharp consonant.
I heard it again, and then once more, but it was closer, clearer. I felt a soft pat on my back, and then a surprised gasp.
I moaned, trying to portray to whoever had noticed me that I wasn't dead. I was clumsy, and slightly incoherent, but not dead.
Another shout, and another pair of slaps on the pavement. This time, there were stronger hands, and I was pulled against a solid frame.
The sudden movement made my head swim, and I blacked out entirely.
Alright, a lot to handle, I know. For the people who are wondering about the 'sinister train guy,' that was Moriarty, if you didn't already deduct that. Christina gets to meet him before Sherlock! Review, please, if you think this is a great beginning, or if it is the most terrible piece of writing you've ever laid eyes on, just give me feedback! Thank you! 3