Chapter Forty Six
He was eight when he started solving crimes. It was something he read about in the paper. A champion swimmer, only in his teens, had drowned. He had a fit in the water, and by the time they reached him, he was gone. His shoes were missing.
Something about this gave Sherlock a nagging suspicion that something was off. Of course, he told the police, but why would they listen to him? He was only a child.
And then the case was swept away, and it disappeared from his mind.
...
When he was thirteen, he was shipped off to boarding school. It was a boys' only boarding school, and all of the lads hated him.
Everyday was the same: He'd wake up in his dorm, and would go downstairs to the mess hall. Everyone would ignore him, and he would have an entire table to himself. He would attend his classes, which were boring. Sherlock could barely sit through them, they weren't stimulating at all. He already knew all that they taught him. In fact – he could probably teach the class better, if he was interested.
But one day was different.
...
He was almost sixteen. He sat alone in the mess hall, barely eating. He didn't like to eat. It made it harder to think.
"So, you're Sherlock Holmes?" a voice asked.
Sherlock looked up from the table and scanned a girl about his age. The read he got from her…it didn't make sense.
She was normal, with a few mental disorders, but everyone has those. Long hair, no make-up. Self conscious, but at the same time, doesn't really care about changing her look. American. Adopted.
But her eyes. Those were eyes that have seen the world.
Maybe she's traveled a lot, Sherlock thought, but he didn't think so. Those eyes. They were different. This girl was different. She was a puzzle.
Oh, how Sherlock liked puzzles.
"They say that you can tell most things by looking at someone," she said. "What can you tell me about…him?"
She pointed at a guy sitting about a table away. He was staring at them. In fact, everyone was staring at them. Then again, here was a young, pretty girl, standing in the middle of an all boys' school. And she was talking to none other than 'the freak', Sherlock Holmes.
"Simple," Sherlock said, his lips curving up in a cocky smile. Time to show off. "Tired. Stayed up late, obviously nervous. I'm guessing that he has some kind of important test later."
"Nope," the girl said, shaking her head.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
She turned and walked to the table. "This boy…he stayed up late, he's very nervous. You got that part right. But he's not studying for some important test."
"Really?" Sherlock asked, sarcastically.
She turned to him, completely serious. "Of course. If it was an important test, he would be studying right now. He'd have his book out in front of him, and he wouldn't be talking to his friend. That means either two things, both of which would make your theory incorrect."
Everyone was watching the tennis match between this girl and Sherlock Holmes. Who the hell was she, anyway, and what was she doing in an all boys' school?
"He either doesn't have a test…or he doesn't care about studying," Sherlock said, nodding in understanding. "I see. So, do tell, what was he doing late last night, AND why is he so worried?"
"Not worried. Restless, would be a better word. So tell me Sherlock. What was he doing?" she asked.
"Why don't you tell me?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because I already know," she said, smiling. "Would you like a hint?"
"Fine," he said, facing his hands together and putting them in front of his face.
"Look at his eyes. That's not just staying up late, that's insomnia. Look at the way that he subconsciously carries out a beat on his leg. Look at the coloring on his nails," she said.
The boy looked down on his leg and stopped tapping.
It dawned on Sherlock. He stood up abruptly. "You sneak out late at night and smoke on the grounds. You go through withdrawal during the day, and the nicotine keeps you up at night anyway."
The girl smiled. "Bingo."
She walked over, put her hands on the table, directly across from Sherlock, and leaned in.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, much quieter. Slowly, the people around them turned back to their friends and re-started their conversations.
"My father's the new physics teacher," she said.
"You're adoptive father," Sherlock said automatically.
She curved up one of her lips. "Good. You caught that."
"So. You're good at deductions," Sherlock said.
She gave a slight shake of her head. "Nah. I followed him out late last night and saw him smoke. He didn't see me, of course. Why do you think that I pointed him out to you, out of all of the people in here? But that's how I learn. I watch people do things, and I learn things about them, and people in general, by watching." She smirked. "See you, Sherlock."
"Wait," Sherlock said. "What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't," she called, turning and facing him, now walking backwards. "But it's Rissa. Rissa Smith."
...
Oh My God, thank you so much to all of the amazing people who commented! Thanks to CatietheAwesome, the guests who keep commenting, and to the authors who are now reviewing my story! Have a nice day!
