HyperActiveSkittles, I am so glad that you were able to put aside your normal preferences and read this, and I can only hope that you will continue to do so. Your feedback means a lot to me; I hold you closer to my heart than a bag of chocolate.
Well, here we are, underway with the second chapter. It's very short, and the third one will be only a small bit longer, but after that the chapters will be lengthy, I promise you. Till then, enjoy these small sections (short but bitterly sarcastic, eh). Thanks, all!
Dead Air
2.
221B Baker's Street. It's a modest place, next to a little bakery. Green door, chipped paint, multiple scrape marks around the latch; as familiar to her as her uncle's angular face. Asher knocks at the door and rocks back on her heels, humming to herself. A few moments later the door swings open, and an elderly lady is standing there in her dressing gown. She's in her mid-seventies, favors her left hip, and her face is wrinkled and kindly. Asher feels warm in the pit of her stomach, and resists the urge to throw her arms around the fragile woman.
"Hullo, you dear old thing!" she chirps, shoving her hands into her pockets. The elderly woman's eyes go very wide, then she lets out a whoop of joy that is much younger than she looks, and pulls Asher into a suffocating hug.
"Elizabeth, you wonderful creature, whatever are you doing here?" she queries, eyes suspiciously wet.
Asher disentangles herself from Mrs. Hudson's clutches, and smiles a brilliant smile.
"Ah, that!" she says, even more brilliantly, "I'm here to see a man named John Watson."
...
"John? John, dear, there's someone here to see you." John looks up from his newspaper when Mrs. Hudson calls from the bottom of the stairs.
"Send them up, then, Mrs. Hudson." He replies, grabbing his cane and easing up from the armchair. For a moment, he allows himself to remember what it had been like to walk, normal and free, but with those memories come memories of a face; a face that he doesn't dare to dwell on, not even for a moment, for fear the grief that has settled into his bones will resurface and drown him.
"I said send them up, Mrs. Hudson-"
"She has sent me up, John." A voice, a drawling, female voice cuts him off, and a figure steps through the door.
And John can't breathe, can't think, can't even speak. Because the girl that has just entered the room is abnormally tall and thin, and her hair is black and curling round her shoulders, and her cheekbones are sharp and delicate and her eyes are blue, bright bright blue and they are so familiar, so familiar that John feels the familiarity like a punch straight to his gut.
"Who." He manages to choke out, clearing his throat and gripping his cane, "Who the hell are you?"
The girl smiles, a smile that is gentle despite the thin, sharp angles of her face, and John feels another kick to his stomach, because he remembers that smile.
"Hullo, John. I'm Asher. You probably know my uncles, Sherlock and Mycroft, though I doubt they'll have ever mentioned me. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Thank you once again for reading.