A Summer with Sherlock

By Colvin

-Roman's private blog-

A re-re account by Roman S. Holmes

A Summer With Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 2 That Old Lady and Her Cat

Side note: As a child I never had any pets nor did I seem to ever want any but as told, I really liked this cat. So much so, when I decided to care for an injured kitten I found one day walking the streets of London I unknowingly named the creature after that first cat I was exposed too. Recall.

According to Sherlock, my attention span as a child, compared to average, was surprisingly larger. I could focus two minutes and forty-nine seconds longer before getting distracted by something else. So for seventeen minutes and forty-nine seconds I blatantly stared at Sherlock as he was running around in his "mind palace" (That's what he's been calling it since forever now). His hands were stuck together like glue, eyes closed tightly and an emotionless expression spread like butter on his face. Honestly, one of the dullest things I took time to stare at I'm sure.

Side note: I could never understand the basic dynamics of a mind palace for it did not even look like a palace in my perspective. Yes, I am aware something like that conforms to the individual but to me, it's nothing but blank, black and white hallways. They break off into other hallways that end with the requested or unconscious memory I was or wasn't looking for. The memory is attached to the wall like a picture until I mentally press 'play'. Then brain cringing colors rain before my eyes as the memory is entertained. That's just my observation though.

Side note to side note: A little psychology lesson: I'm sure some of you are aware of what exactly my 'mind palace' setup is really. It's psychologically not a place at all but the representation of how your brain goes about recalling disconnected memories. The hallways are nerves connections and the play-pictures (that's what we will call it) are the memories itself. Realistically the play-picture memories are twenty-five percent less accurate each time you make the re-connection with them. And it's not always the memory, it could be shapes, colors and other minor details within the memory that are impacted. Our brain is constantly betraying us, transforming and reforming our memories. You can say I lack creativity with my mind palace.

Moving on, after I decided I didn't want to be bored anymore I must have wondered from that recliner Sherlock welcomed me too and made my way back over to my unmoved luggage. I tried to be quiet as I ravaged through my things. Sherlock can remember rather vividly what I pulled out because it became a foreshadowing of what exactly was expected of him to be a parent, to me that is. It was a super hero action figure, Batman. I've always had a fascination with Batman and watched every single movie made about him. There was just something about his domestic and humane nature that attracted me to him. He didn't have super powers just a shit ton of money and an awesome costume.

To accompany my Batman I found my rather battered Joker action figure. My favorite villain of Bruce Wayne followed up by Cat-woman. I did not give the Joker any mercy when it came to stopping his wicked deeds. I would throw him across my bedroom and hit him with the closest objects around me. His famous cane had broke out from his hands and his face paint was chipping away more and more with my rough beatings.

Side note: The Jokers attraction is still a running theme for me. Inside, we all hold a part of the Joker. But when it comes to crime solving, dealing with such manic, unstable criminals, it really sends a thrilling chill down my spine. My childhood pleasures come to life when I have the opportunity to be apart of such heuristic behavior. Also, I think why I liked Cat-woman is because my mother enjoyed her and carried herself with such control and power.

I guess after I found what I was looking for I drug my knees over to the leather couch that sat against the wall. It was a wet, sandy, tan with rips in the cushions. It was the perfect opening scene to play with my action figures.

I hadn't even made a vocal noise before Sherlock had enough of my noisy playing. The only sound I purposely made was when the plastic toys would make contact with the couch or with each other. I did my best to keep other sound effects in my head.

"What do you think you are doing?"

Subsequently over twenty-five minute of pure silence and then to suddenly hear a deep, sharply spoken voice yelp out my heart rate spiked up, nearly falling out of my mouth with a loud gasp to hold it back. It startled me so bad I dropped both my figures and quickly turned to him. Sherlock likes to elaborate on how big my eyes were, how heavy my breathing was.

Once he realized what I was doing he let out an aggravated sigh and rolled his eyes. He pushed himself up from the chair and started storming his way over to me. With each step my fear in what would happen next rose.

"Oh no, we can't have that. You are too noisy. I can barely hear myself think." Just before he grabbed me up by my arm I managed to pick up my Joker, leaving Batman behind. He drug me over to the door, opening it up and pushing me outside, "You can be annoying out here. Do not leave the building."

Before I could turn around Sherlock had slammed the door shut.

Side note: I'm sure if my mother knew he left me unattended for even a moment, she would have killed him. More detail on how I felt, second account memory though.

This next part, the part about the cat and how I met Mrs. Hudson (the old lady) has only been told one time and never again. Not because something eerie, or spectacular happened but because it served no real significance to anyone but me. I unknowingly renamed a cat after the one I encountered the day Sherlock kicked me out of the flat.

But there I was, sitting on the last step before Sherlock's door looking at my Joker action figure, upset with myself. I hated the Joker. I wanted Batman instead. So with a moment of anger, I threw Joker down. He bounced off numerous steps before thumping to the floor, just in front of the door.

Not even a second after it's fall the hushed sound of jingle bells and a high pitched feline-ring sounded. It seemed I only blinked and there before me, standing over top of my action figure was a solid black cat. It was sniffing curiously. And just like the cat, inquisitive to know what was going on, I stood up and slowly made my way down the stairs. Of course, I was rather small so I clung to the railing, tripping two or three times over my feet. Thankfully I caught myself. Once I got to the bottom, I tip-toed over to the cat. It wasn't scared of me nor did it even seem to notice I was there.

I was standing right beside the cat before it saw me. Shockingly, it just stood there and let out a loud meow. The action figure didn't interest it anymore, only me. It rubbed itself against my legs and meowed repetitively. I smiled for the first time in London, England and it was because a cat was nice to me. It was the only thing that hadn't shunned me for existing.

Side note: It's pretty sad I thought a cat was the only thing that liked me. This event is only 19.43% true. For all I know the cat could have hated me at first. This event may not even be real.

I sat down on the floor to be on the same level as the cat and he/she loved it. The meowing got louder and it climbed on my lap, rubbing its face on mine. I began to giggle, petting its shiny black body. I felt happy, I guess.

Just as I went to stroke the black beauty one more time a door from behind me opened and the sound of heels clicked off the floor. "Luna, here kitty-kitty," the cry of an elderly woman's voice rung out with the beat of a plastic bowl that held the food, "Dinner time!"

Luna, the black cat, jumped off of me and ran to the voice calling for it. Meowing the whole way there. The clicking of the heels nor food stopped until it was almost on top of me. I watched Luna circle the short black heels and the feet inside of it. I hesitantly look up, seeing an old woman with short brown hair and big, brown eyes that locked with mine.

"Oh dear!" She yelled out when she saw me and of course, I jumped.

Side note: If you haven't noticed people scare me. They still do.

"Where did you come from?" She asked as she laid down the food bowl, "Are you a client of Sherlock's?"

My mouth was gaping open, no words coming out of it. They wouldn't come out because I knew my house address and my mother's phone number was not the correct answer. (That was always the answer my mom expected me to tell people if they asked me where I came from, assuming I was lost.) Instead, I looked up the stairs towards Sherlock's and pointed at the door.

"Oh, well what are you doing down here? Parents really shouldn't leave their children unattended. It's a dangerous world! Someone could just come by and take you! You're a cute little boy." She smiled at me.

She held out her pale, wrinkled hand to me, "Come' on now. I'm Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady. Don't think him tell you other wise!"

Side note: Face it, Mrs. Hudson was basically Sherlock mom away from home.

I was a child who didn't trust people so easily so I know I just stared at her hand, debating in my tiny head on whether or not to trust her. Going through my past experiences I'd never had any scary instants with an old person so it was okay to trust her, right? She was just taking me back to the room I was first kicked out of.

I took her hand.

Mrs. Hudson didn't bother to knock on the door, she just opened it and walked inside. I trailed behind her making sure I stayed hidden.

"Sherlock, I found a child down stairs!"

A loud, dramatic, stomp collided with the smashing of objects roared almost at the same time she finished her announcement. Sherlock likes to remind me often how much he hates being interrupted when he's thinking so this was a bad idea.

"Ugh! What! What is it?! Can't you see I'm busy!" Sherlock screamed.

Unlike me who probably cowered away in a corner somewhere, Mrs. Hudson stood her ground, stomping her foot back at him, huffing in aggravation, "Why is there a child running loose in my building!"

"He was being annoying, much like yourself, so I made him leave my presence!"

"Where did he come from Sherlock?"

"Mrs. Hudson! Don't you have something better to do—wait! You don't!" From the corner of Sherlock's as wide as melons eyes he saw me standing behind Mrs. Hudson and the idea popped inside his endless mind, "I will pay you handsomely to care for this child until the end of summer! Say yes."

Side note: This isn't the last time Sherlock tries to sell me off to someone else. I wasn't even surprised when he told me.

In complete, utter shock Mrs. Hudson stayed silent for a minute and I don't think it's because she was considering his offer. More like she couldn't believe he could conjure up such a thing, "No! I'm not your babysitter! I have a life too you know!"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson It's already more than halfway over. Babysitting, knitting, and baking sugary treats are all your about good for."

She gasped with all the breath she had inside her and huffed louder than before, "I'll have you know Mister!—"

He cut her off again, "I really don't have time to listen to your complaints will you watch him or not?"

Side note: This dialogue is only 51.9% accurate and I only say that because this conversation probably moved a lot quicker and was more insulting. Sherlock is such a arsehole.

"Whose child is it? Your brothers?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a much calmer voice.

"No." He sighed, "He's mine."

Now, Sherlock can't remember Mrs. Hudson's reaction to his reveal. Each and everyone's reaction didn't stick with him. I mean, why would it? Sherlock only kept connection to information that served a long term purpose. Even I've grown into the habit of doing that which is why I can't even remember my own birthday half the time. But he knows for sure she didn't panic, faint or cry with tears of joy. So we both assume she remained calm, collective and cool.

"You have a son? Awh, Sherlock, that's fantastic! Why didn't you tell me?" The sweetness in her voice returned.

Sherlock began to pace the room slowly, picking at things around the room as he came to them. "No one knows. Keep it that way. Now the deal will you do it?"

"What's his name? Where's the mother?" Her voice lowered an octave, "...Is she dead?"

"No!" He stopped right in front of her, "She will return at the end of the summer and his name is Roman. I think."

She turned around to me and ran her fragile fingers through my hair with a sincere smile glowing on her face, "He looks so much like you Sherlock."

"Yes, yes. Mrs. Hudson do stay focused. Will you look out for him? I'm much too busy."

Sherlock knew she still wasn't paying attention, she was too occupied by looking down at me smiling like a proud grandmother, which in some odd way she was. She'd known Sherlock for a long time. She took care of him. Seeing a mini-Holmes was a rare experience and I think she was admiring the moment she was glad to be alive for. This moment to be exact.

"No," Sherlock can recall her saying quietly, "I think a relationship between father and son is a special one. No one should come between that," Mrs. Hudson smiled, "Now how about I make you two some tea and sandwiches. I'm sure Roman is starving."

Side note: Mrs. Hudson was a sweet old lady. She took the role of a loving grandmother the whole summer I stayed there. I never knew what having a grandparent felt like but if it was anything like her, man, I was really missing out. My mother never talked about her parents. I'm certain she was a orphan. Tragically, though, by the time I came back to London Mrs, Hudson had passed. A stroke had taken her in her sleep. She was 88. Sherlock always cries when he speaks about her and I can understand why.

-End.

I got chapter 2 up pretty quick right? I'm proud of myself. I worked on it for over 12 hours straight. But what did you think? Be sure to review, favorite and follow! Thank you so much to those of you that have already posted your reviews they make me smile! And thank you for the follows and favorites they mean so much! But, are you guys ready for some mother trucking John Watson? Yeah? I sure hope so because I am! Chapter 3: A Man Named John! See you next time!