HOLMES & WATSON

A series of short stories

Rather, a unashamed series of stories where Watson is often right and Sherlock is wrong, because it almost never happens in the TV show.

Chapter IV

The Visitor

Sherlock's POV

...

1

"And when I say 'be nice' to her, I mean just that."

John Watson was agitated and sleep-deprived.

The bags under his eyes; a no-brainer—a lack of sleep, three or four hours at the most.

Another nightmare at approximately 3:43 am when he called out in his sleep—woke himself up—and hyperventilated for fifteen seconds. He used the last of the milk when he made tea at 3:45 am…

He intends to buy more, as I can tell by the 'milk' he scrawled in ink across the back of his hand… though it's already beginning to wear out, and he'd forget after washing his hands.

"Sherlock."

"John."

"You weren't even listening, were you?"

"You said 'be nice'—and you meant it."

"You can be nice, can't you, Sherlock? She's only here for a few hours. It's an eight-hour layover. She'll wants to have a lie-in, and I'll get her a cab to go back to the airport. There's really very little time for you to—to…"

"To what?"

"Oh, you know, to analyze her and make her feel uncomfortable. Please—if there is any social bone in your body, try to put it to use. I'm going to meet her now."

"Getting any milk, while you're out, by any chance?"

John glanced at the back of his hand, and sighed. With a peevish glare at me, he pulled a permanent marker off my side of the desk, drew a huge block-lettered "MILK" on the back of his hand, and marched from the flat—tossing the marker back over his shoulder, which I caught, and placed back where it belonged. He should have used his own marker.

2

The Niece was ushered in by her doting uncle John. This was Harry's daughter, and due to Harry's current sexuality, I determined that this was the result of an unplanned pregnancy during her more experimental stages at a younger age. This was information that would surely be on John's blacklist.

They came into living room, where I had made some attempt to clean up. I had hoped John might be less severe with me if he saw that I made some effort—not to impress him or that sort of rubbish, but to simply curb the irritation he often felt towards me, which is a trivial annoyance I hope to deal with in much smaller increments than I have lately.

"Sherlock," John said amiably, noting the room with a slight smile. "This is my niece, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is my—flatmate, Sherlock. We've been working together as of late."

"I know, I've been reading your blog," Rebecca said with a tight smile.

She seems to play friendly with her uncle, but she does not know him that well.

Obviously uncomfortable, running one hand though long, recently dyed hair, a nervous trait… while the other hand was held out to me—

"Oh, yes, how do you do," I drawled slowly, shaking her hand.

She doesn't tan, unnaturally or naturally.

Left behind a very good friend, perhaps from primary school, based on the age and juvenile 'mates' bracelet.

Callous on the top of the third finger of her right hand—writer?

No, gray smudges. Artist.

Works with graphite pencils, too often to lose any of the stains while on winter vacation… she does the artwork outside of school.

"How is your artwork coming along?" I asked, trying to be friendly.

I was moderately taken aback when John sighed lightly, as if I had disappointed him. I mouthed, 'what?' and he only shrugged his shoulders as if I knew what he meant. Which, not to give myself too much credit, I did.

"Uh—very well. I sold my first piece last week," Rebecca laughed. This laugh was genuine. She looked at John. "Goodness, you were right," she said. "That's bloody amazing. And you didn't tell him I was an art major?"

"No, no, I didn't mention it. But he promised he wouldn't do this," John smiled at his niece, and gave me a look, as if to say stop that right now.

"Oh, I think it's interesting," Rebecca said.

"Maybe not all at once, eh?" John gave me a wide, slightly panicked grin. "I've—uh—gone and forgotten to make up the bed for you." He gave his niece a friendly pat on the arm, his own attempts to be familiar I suppose. "I want you to take a good report back to my sister, all right? And tell her that England is lonely without her. But do try and say it in a way that doesn't make her come back," he laughed.

Rebecca laughed too, wincing and tilting her head towards the right. Hearing problem...

"I know exactly what you mean," she said, her gaze suddenly whipped around the room, as if looking for the source of a sound.

Ear ringing, apparently.

"Your sister must worry too much about you for it to be pleasant that she live within close quarters?" I asked. "You hope to, in some way, provide a familial sense of missing her presence and letting her know that, without actually prompting her to miss you enough that she'll come back and clutter up your life?"

John's grin was now a false one. "Uh—um, something like that. 'Clutter' is not the word I would choose."

"I would," Rebecca smiled at me. "Your distraught sister, or for me... a hysterically worried mother, are not something we want a daily dose of."

"Sherlock, why don't you get us some tea, while I make the bed," John said warily.

"Did you get the milk? Of course you didn't," I said pointedly. "Airport is in the opposite direction and your sleeve is too long for you to see the huge word printed across your hand during the drive. Nevertheless. I'll make tea." I whirled on heel and marched into the kitchen. To my surprise, Rebecca followed eagerly.

"He's busy," she said conspiringly. "And he made you promise you would not attempt to make any deductions about me, but you've already begun. I'd very much like to hear them."

I put the kettle on and turned on the stove. "It's observations. The science of deduction is how I eliminate the possibilities."

"So… what have you observed? Uncle John's blog makes you sound like a genius, I want to hear it for myself."

"Hm," I considered it. Why not? Everything that follows from my mouth is what I've seen already, and now that she asks, what's the point of staying silent to simply keep John from getting his trousers in a bunch?

I made a bit of a show of it, turning away from the kettle and giving Rebecca a pointed look, taking a careful catalogue of what I observed…

Head tilt, callous third finger, graphite smudges, bracelet, hair dye, nervous trait, second-hand clothes, accent, eight-hour layover… I could go on and on. I'll have to narrow this down.

"Alright," I said flatly. "You keep your head tilted at the right angle because you have trouble hearing from your left ear—based on the look on your face, it's not an ear infection, but you're losing your hearing at a young age. Pity…"

Rebecca gave me a rueful smile and tapped her ear. "I can hardly hear a thing out of it."

"Except for the high-pitched ringing," I added.

"Wow. That happens far too often."

"The callous on the third finger of your right hand indicates holding pens or pencils for several hours at a time, the smudges are too light to be charcoal—plus those are held entirely differently—and pencils are not made with lead anymore. You're on winter vacation, not at school, so the artwork is occurring outside of school—pastime, or business."

"Oh—so that's how you guessed. It seems obvious."

I didn't guess.

"You left behind a friend, here in England, primary school."

Rebecca looked down at her bracelet. "Um, it was secondary school actually—but yeah, I did! When I moved away with mum, I mean, we hardly see each other anymore, but luckily…"

"You'll be able to visit for a few hours at the airport, won't you—before you go home for holiday?"

"And what makes you think that?"

"You've dyed and cut your hair recently?"

"Uh, yeah…"

"You're hoping to impress the one who made you the bracelet, remind him that you're still around, am I correct?"

Rebecca frowned. "Strange."

"Am I correct?"

"Yes, yes. We haven't seen each other in ages. I've always liked him. I thought I'd see if he was still wearing his. And we'd pick up where we left off."

I smirked. "Nervous about the layover, aren't we? Hoping that sleeping here for a few hours and going back to the airport will make your entrance—say—more interesting, having the opportunity to clean up a bit beforehand?"

"Something like that."

"Even though you don't know your mother's brother that well."

"I'll take my chances, he's a dear."

"Your mother lives in France," I began again.

"How did you know THAT?"

"John told me," I replied hastily. "But because of the eight-hour layover—it must be a crossing flight to having Christmas in France with your mother, after the longer flight from—hm—Harvard? Harvard must be out for the holidays now. Your accent is picking up some harsh 'R' sounds, none of them Irish. Could be American."

Rebecca's mouth dropped open. "Just by hearing my voice, you could tell I was going to Harvard?"

"Actually," I admitted tersely, "That was a guess."

3

"What did you say to her?" John said suspiciously, glancing towards his bedroom and lowering his voice. "I fixed it up in there, and the first thing she says is 'Uncle John, he's really not as bad as you say he is'."

I focused on the newspaper in my hands. "Maybe you should listen to your Niece, John."

"Meaning what?"

"Use your imagination," I said sarcastically.

"Oh, bother," he snapped, "You did that—thing—didn't you?"

"What thing?" I replied tersely.

"That thing where you tell them that the rip in their coat sleeve means they served for three years in South Africa in nineteen forty… four!"

"I fail to see how a coat rip would indicate serving in South Africa," I lowered the newspaper, giving him a demeaning look. "It's almost as if you don't know me at all."

"Oh! You DID!" John was aghast. "You probably picked the whole girl apart, didn't you? And she liked it of course. The women are always fascinated."

"Are they—who?" I demanded. That's the last time I ever give him permission to use his imagination… the strange things he says…

"Like Molly," John explained. "Fascinated, of course. Hardly knows what to do with herself when you've picked apart her appearance. Even though it hurts her feelings, it only makes her like you more."

"Like me? What on earth are you talking about?"

"A BLIND MAN could see that she likes you, Sherlock."

"Fine," I snapped, "Whatever you say."

"Oh, don't pull that pouty thing…"

"I do not pout."

"Yes you do."

"Invite her over for Christmas," I said, returning to my paper.

"Excuse me?"

"Lestrade and Mycroft are coming. Mrs. Hudson has it all arranged. Invite Molly."

"Invite… Molly?"

"Sorry—did you not hear me?"

"No, no, it's just…" John shook his head and almost smiled. "It just almost seems thoughtful of you. That's all."

"I'm capable of inviting a person over to our home," I said dryly.

"I'm… I'm sure," John chuckled to himself.

Silence fell.

"Did you know your niece has hearing problem?" I asked casually. John's teacup clattered.

4

"Did she sleep well?" I asked politely.

"Yes, very well," John said. "We didn't wake her up with out little discussion, if that's what you were wondering."

"I wasn't wondering that at all."

"Something rather peculiar, happened, though."

"What?"

"When we got to the airport and said our goodbyes, some young man came charging through the doors and practically snogged her. Right there. We were driving away by that time—but she didn't seem to be in any trouble. I called to her from the cab and asked, and she waved me on happily... But still. I wondered…"

"An old friend from secondary school, I shouldn't wonder," I mused lightly.

John just raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really?"

"Indeed."

"And how would you know that?"

"I can't tell you my secrets every time. I simply observed—"

"Yes, yes, I know all that," John said irritatingly. He slammed a bottle of milk into the refrigerator, slammed it, and left the flat again.

"And we're out of tea," I called after him.

"I'm getting a coffee."

"We're English. We can't last long without tea."

"Get it yourself!"

"But you're going to walk by the shop anyhow."

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew which direction I'm going."

"Your footwear was an indicator. It isn't rocket science, you know."

The door slammed.

The End