Hey, everyone! Yeah, I updated this one fast, but don't get used to it.
*Kidding* Most of you seemed concerned that last chapter 1 was all I was
going to post! *Looks pointedly at Hare* I wouldn't do that to you!
However, I am disappointed at the number of reviews... Four? ;( But, what
am I going to do? I would also like to thank hanschristian84 and nastia_nik
for joining the Yahoo! Group for Brownies! Yet more hugs for you! Now...
*Looks accusingly at all those reading this excepting the two above-
mentioned members* Why haven't YOU joined yet? *Kidding again* Ok, now,
responses to those four reviews:
coolpuella: Yeah, it's on here at 7 too, but there's a channel on my dish that shows it at 5:30... It's like 1284. My mom's nice, but she is firmly convinced that this latest in my line of obsessions is unhealthy, and that I have no social life. I've got a social life, it's just all over the Holmes board!
March Hare: NO, that's not it. Am I spared from the wrath of a ravenous bunny? Yeah, you'll see, Mycroft gets it in this chapter. Virgil and Sherrinford and Theresa... Hey! Don't forget Holly!
Danric-Lover: Yeah, yeah, I know I'm the best. *Blushes uncontrollably* I loved your entry, and I'll have to give Fel an extra big cookie, after I get all that dough out of the nooks and crannies in my oven... I'm still trying to clean the macadamia nuts out of the range top; I tried to see if I could fry up a batch of white choco/macadamia when the oven was going too slowly. I'll never hear the end of that one... =)
Lady Arianna: The greatest compliment I could receive was to tell me that Nona was in character: That's every Brownie's dream. Plus, I never thought that anyone would accuse me of actually thinking something out! Quite the novel experience.
Anyway, 'nuff said. I should get on with this; the Ball at Times Square drops in exactly 1 hour 10 minutes. I wanna be done with this to have my yearly champagne. Oh, and I honestly had no idea that the last chap was so short. I'll try and make this one longer, I promise! *Devil horns pop in to existence above head* Whoops! How did *those* get there? Anyway, Happy Brownie-versary!
Nona:
"Nona... Nona... NON--" *THUMP*
Regaining consciousness in a most untoward way, I opened my eyes to see a pair of concerned gray eyes inches from my face for the second time that day. Rubbing my head where it had hit the floor of the train compartment, I sat up and scanned the countryside out the window: North Riding it was. Grumbling minimally, I sat up and glanced at Sherlock standing above me.
"Ya know, Sherlock," I said, "there *are* other ways to wake a woman aside from prodding her off the bench she is lying on." Heaving myself to my feet via the *painfully badly padded* trainbench, and pointedly ignoring the hand that Holmes had extended downward for that purpose, I brushed myself off and scanned the small compartment for my bags.
"Well, what did you expect?" Came the acerbic voice of my companion from behind me. "I'm not about to carry you all the way to Oakstaff!" Blushing from the memory of what had happened the last time I fell asleep on the way somewhere, I sent him a withering glare and stalked down the artificially illuminated hallway and out the door. No need to keep the other passengers waiting.
The instant I stepped from the train, I was assailed by the smell and feel of fresh country air. I can assure you that it was a relief after the months in the Great Cesspool know as London. Seeing Watson standing by our bags a short way down the platform, I did a 180 and looked for the smiling, waving, white haired escort that had been sent to greet us last time we visited. Oddly, the Holmes family Accountant nee driver Trevor St. Clair was nowhere to be seen. Circling several times on the spot in a manner that I'm sure would have amused passerby's to no end, had there been any at that time of day, or should I say night. The sun had set while I was comatose, and the Milky Way was shining bright in the night sky. From my internal clock, I judged it to be no later than 5:30. Winter tended to bring longer and sooner nights, though.
I involuntarily shuddered as a gust of wind blew my unbuttoned coat open. It was Christmas Eve after all. It was bound to be cold. I had opted for the traditional skirt as opposed to a prototype for this visit, wanting to appear as friendly and... well, *normal* as I could, considering the fact that this was Christmas Eve. The Holmes' were likely to have many other guests at the Manor besides us, and that was the last place that I wanted to cause social outrage.
I shuddered again from the biting cold, though this time, I was surprised by a man's greatcoat being draped around my shoulders. Wondering at how such a thing could have magically appeared on my person, I turned around for the umpteenth time to find Holmes walking towards Watson with a concerned look on his face. Followed him, and made to remove the coat and return it, but Sherlock glanced at me over his shoulder with a look that said that I should keep it, in no uncertain terms. Ignoring a speculative glance from Watson and feeling somewhat self conscious, as well as knowing that Holmes would not allow me to take off his coat, I was left standing in one of those awkward silences that everyone must know about. I was left switching my weight from one foot to another for a protracted amount of time, until Watson stepped in and said something.
"Well... I don't suppose that there would be a cab service in the vicinity?" That brought to mind an entirely new set of problems. In London, cabs were in no short supply, and so transportation was never an issue. Now, however, we were in a quite different situation. There were no cabs bound to be roaming the country roads, and no convenient pay phone to call one. I glanced around nervously, concerned. It was still around a 1/2 an hour cab ride to Oakstaff; surely we were not going to walk? It was one thing when it was the middle of summer and I was wearing proper clothes, but the long walk now was out of the question.
"Don't worry, Watson," said Holmes in a manner that made one believe that he was talking rather more to me than the aforementioned party. "To serve this very purpose, the Ticket Agent here has taken up the habit of ferrying vagrants like ourselves to their destination. With any luck, the traffic to North Riding has not caused him to cease this service. I can see a light in the office; he must not have closed up for the night yet. We will simply inquire there for a ride." Striding assuredly to the Ticket Office, Holmes rapped sharply at the glass.
Catching up with him, I peered in to the office to see a small, short and seedy man indisposed in a swivel chair with The Times, from three or four days ago, I might mention, laid haphazardly across one knee, as if he had fallen asleep while in the process of reading it. A quick survey of the room brought nothing out of the ordinary to view. A small pot-bellied stove was sitting in the corner, providing a hearty ruddy glow to supplement the twin oil lamps on the table. That table was large and functional, stocked with all manner of pigeonholes and drawers, though one could hardly tell it was a desk from the multitude of papers, tickets, receipts, and other clutter atop it. These pieces of furniture, in addition to the stove, made for a very crowded office, though I am almost positive that I spied a rabbit hutch bursting with shredded newspaper in one corner.
These observations took only a few seconds; the Great Detective must be rubbing off on me, too, though I could deduce nothing from them. However, I was cut short from pursuing any further dissection of the room by Holmes rapping his fingers again opon the glass of the window. This brought a reaction from the man asleep in the chair. He sat up, startled, and after a frantic glance around the room, sighted our trio waiting at the window. Obviously devastated at the thought of leaving customers waiting, he leapt up and fairly jumped to the small counter by the window. This changed viewpoint left me in a better position to describe the man. He was able to look me in the eye without stooping, *And that is saying a lot* but he was well proportioned to his height. He wore a pair of glasses that were too big for him, as well as burdened with lenses that magnified his eyes to quite a factor, making him look like some kind of hybrid insect. His dress indicated that he was indeed the stationmaster. A head of unruly white hair that brought to mind a mop completed the ensemble. Glancing fleetingly at Holmes, I could see an annoyed look on his face; it would seem that he did not take well to sleeping on the job. Clearing his throat, he said loudly through the glass:
"Good evening. We were just wondering if you were still in the habit of providing transportation for those just off the train." In a stuttering, soft voice, the Trainmaster responded.
"Um... transpo... hmmm... yes we still will... uh... provide rides for... let me see... ah... Travelers." The last word he proudly proclaimed as if feeling very accomplished to have finished an entire sentence. The rest of the exchange took longer than anyone might have suspected, with long pauses between each word, as if he was deciding what to say next. I am sure that the halting manner in which he spoke annoyed Holmes to no end. Good; he was rude waking the poor man up, and the least he deserves is a little aggravation.
"How much would it be for a trip to Oakstaff Manor?" Holmes said, a good deal faster than I suspect he would have done under different circumstances. Maybe he was making up for lost time? I do not yet feel equal to speculation of the goings-on in the mind of a Consulting Detective, so I fear that that last conjecture must remain precisely that: a conjecture. Looking affronted at Holmes' brief speech, said in an attitude a good deal more harsh than he had intended, the man shuffled around a bit on the table briefly before revealing a much-used time chart. Drawing a shaking finger down a column, he stopped and tapped a point on said chart.
"Oakstaff? Up to see the Squire, are you? That'll be a half-crown" *AN: I have yet to get these British monetary units straight; forgive me if I screw something up.* With nary a glance at Holmes and I, Watson immediately began digging in his front pocket, the end result being the desired coin, which he placed on the counter. The Trainmaster picked it up and examined it briefly. *Much to the chagrin of myself; as if Watson would dare give counterfeit money!* After securing it's authenticity, he placed it carefully in the large register on the counter, invisible to those standing at the window. This finished, he walked of a door on the rear wall. I briefly mused as to where he had gone, but these were banished by the sound of a horse drawn carriage on the adjoining road somewhere between 5 and 10 minutes later.
Climbing in, I repressed the urge to shiver from the cold again; who knows, maybe Watson would give me *his* coat! The whole Victorian Chivalry mindset was certainly a welcome change from the New York suburbanites, but it tended to come and go at inconvenient times with Holmes. And, more often than not, it came at times more inconvenient than it went. Seating myself next to the window, I glanced out at the darkened countryside. North Riding was beautiful at any time of day, or night. I did not notice Watson sitting down across from me. However, a pause of enough time to call attention to itself between Watson being seated and Holmes made me glance over at the door. I am glad I did. There, I spied the most amusing sight: Sherlock Holmes in the middle of an internal dilemma. We had each taken one side of the carriage. Therefore, he *must* sit next to one of us. The million- dollar-question was, which one of us should he sit nest to?
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the viewpoint, the problem was taken out of his hands. Ignoring the fact that Holmes was still sticking 50% of himself out of the doorway, the Stationmaster only noticed that the door was still open. Following the most logical course of action, he then walked around and slammed it shut. This made Holmes loose his balance and sent him careening across the interior of the carriage, headed straight for a world class faceplant on the window across from the door. Oh, what would the world do without me? Thinking quickly, I grabbed the collar of his shirt, acting as an axis for a turn and sending him forcefully in to the seat next to me. Looking around himself, he settled in to the seat complacently and folded his arms across his chest, trying hard enough for it to be humorous to make it seem as if he had intended that all along.
Glancing at Watson across from me, I saw that he was doing a bad job of trying not to laugh; he was almost shaking! The tension in the carriage mounted as we started moving with a lurch, and went on like that for a period of time. By then, Watson was indeed shaking, and Holmes had turned that shade of red that I had seen already today. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I burst out laughing, at the situation more than Holmes, and Watson joined me so quickly we could not have planned it better.
Recovering quickly from this act, I stopped laughing and leaned against the wall with a sigh. However, there was something that my ears did not make sense of. Watson was laughing, to be sure, but a fleeting glance at Holmes out of the corner of my eye showed that he was following our example, and was almost doubled up from it! Will wonders never cease? I watched the two of them until they stopped, then settled back in my seat and stared adoringly at the countryside rolling past my window. If I did not already know the reason, I would be wondering what in the world could have possessed Holmes to leave this home for the cold foggy streets of London. Caught by unpleasant memories, I banished them from my thoughts. This was Holmes' first time back after the events of last summer; doubtless his thoughts were ranging along the same path. Well, there was nothing I could do about it, so I returned to gazing out of the window.
There really is nothing notable about the trip up, so I will spare you. After the outburst at the onset, we lapsed in to companionable silence, each of us occupied by our own speculations. The trip passed quickly, and we pulled up to Oakstaff Manor within half an hour. The sight truly took my breath away. Though Christmas lights and lawn ornaments were *Thankfully* nonexistent, every window in the place was lit with a single glimmering candle, and light streaming from the front windows illuminated the carriage drive. You could hear music coming from inside; they must be having a party. The tune was a graceful waltz, and gave one the uncontrollable urge to either run very quickly or go to sleep. Fortunately, I did neither.
However, here came the difficult part: My left leg had gone totally and completely numb during the lurching ride here. Forget asleep; it was just plain dead! Now, I had to climb down from the carriage with one leg out of operation... Joy. Letting Holmes and Watson get out first, I steadied myself on the convenient handlebar placed aside the door for just that purpose. Stepping down with my right foot, I was feeling very confident, and made the mistake of expecting my other foot to support any weight whatsoever. No sooner had my right foot left the step than I was sent careening facedown in to the mud. Or would have been, if a pair of thin arms had not laced themselves about my waist barely an instant after I lost my balance. Glancing gratefully up at my rescuer, I was assailed by a now- familiar pair of gray eyes. We seemed to be getting in to this position a good deal recently... Unentwining myself, I murmured a few words of thanks and walked briskly across the lawn and knocked at the door.
Holmes and Watson caught up with me just in time for the door to open, revealing... Nothing! The door had apparently opened on it's own! Such thoughts were banished, though, by a gasp and a high-pitched exclamation from somewhere level with my knees:
"Miss Nona?" Startled, I looked down to find... Virgil! The little imp was so short, I had looked right over him! Thumping on to my knees so as to be on eye level with Virgil, I wrapped my arms around his tiny child body.
"Virgil!" I said, "I'm so glad to see you! We all missed you so!" Relinquishing my crushing hold about his shoulders, I held Virgil at an arms length to have a better look at him. I revised my earlier statement about his height. He had grown several inches in the past four months, and I think that he must have doubled the number of freckles. Fortunately, not everything was changed. He still had that devilish grin on, and still looked like a ten-year-old Sherlock reincarnated.
"Miss Nona!" He said again, sure now that it was me. "Father didn't tell us that you and Uncle Sherlock and Mr. Watson would be coming to the party!"
"Indeed, he didn't know!" Came a pleasant voice from behind us with the sound of something said with a smile. Glancing over Virgil's head, I spied Sherrinford Holmes in full Victorian dress attire standing at the door to the Ballroom. Behind him and out of focus, I could see the whirl of color that showed dancing in the vaulted room. I suddenly realized that I had been standing just inside the doorway, allowing neither the front door to be shut, or for Holmes and Watson still standing outside to come in. Noticing this, I stood up, let Holmes and Watson pass, and closed the door behind them. Then, I felt myself free to comment on Sherrinford's earlier comment.
"Didn't know? But you sent us that letter asking us to come!" I pulled the said correspondence from Holmes' front jacket pocket, opened it, and reread it:
My Dearest Brother Sherlock,
By request of the members of the house, especially Virgil, I am obligated to invite you to spend Christmastide at Oakstaff Manor, as well as any companions you may wish to accompany you. Enclosed are three tickets for North Riding for you, Dr. Watson, and Miss Brown; they were charming guests last summer, and we would be overjoyed if they would join us.
Sherrinford
It was entirely straightforward: There were even the tickets! How could he not remember inviting us?
"Nona," sad Sherlock from behind me, "whom did you say delivered the letter?"
"Mycroft. He... Wait... Oh, no." That butterball had pulled a fast one on us! A sardonic voice from the balcony overlooking the foyer only served to confirm my suspicion.
"Dear me, Brother Sherlock! I would have thought that it would take less time than that for you to deduce the true origins of that invitation!"
"Indeed, Mycroft," Holmes replied, his face bearing the marks of one who has suffered long from a most devastating and, sadly, incurable disease: Older Brother. "I had know that it was from you from the start. However, Nona wanted to come, and as long as I had some excuse..." Sherrinford, the poor victim of this fraternal prank was still standing in the doorway of the ballroom and Virgil was standing very quietly behind me. I did that often enough as a small child to know what was going on: He was hoping to hear as much as possible of this argument before being banished to take our coats. My father's familiar mantra came to mind: "If you have dwarves, you might as well work 'em!" I still remembered all the times I had been put on coat duty--
"Virgil," Said Sherrinford, "Take their coats, will you?" Ahh, famous last words. A visible scowl on his face, Virgil dutifully collected our jackets and started to tromp up the stairs to where the coat room likely was. But, before he could get far, Sherlock jogged across the foyer and leaned over the balcony, at eye level with Virgil for once.
"Now," he said in a mock-serious attitude, "What's this I hear of you breaking your magnifying glass?" Virgil's expression changed from adoring to horrified as soon as Sherlock said the word "Magnifying Glass."
"It was an ax-dent, Uncle Sherlock, I promise! But the handle was wet, and it was raining, and... and... it just fell!" Adorable though it was, Virgil was obviously at wits end. I remember when I first met him, the first thing I noticed was that glass. Holding up his hand to silence the small boy's apologetic pleas, Holmes reached over the banister and fumbled around in the pocket of his coat Virgil was carrying for a second. After searching countless pockets, he pulled out, to the surprise of everyone in the room, his magnifying glass and placed it in Virgil's tiny hand. Poor boy, he was speechless! Eyes getting as round, or maybe rounder as saucers, Virgil held the magnifying glass up to the light as one would hold a priceless treasure.
"Merry Christmas, Virgil," he said. Nodding in passing to all present, Sherlock turned on his heel, as he was wont to do, and strode through a door in the direction of the South Wing, where I knew from past experiences that his room was. The youngest Holmes had left everyone in the room, including myself, dumbfounded, especially Virgil. Looking over the glass in his hand, he stood there for a few seconds, until he noticed everyone was staring at him, and promptly stuffed it in his pocket, gathered up the coats, and trotted up the stairs like a good little boy. A glance upward showed that Mycroft had disappeared from his birds eye vigil. This left just Watson, Sherrinford, and myself in the vaulted room. None of us wishing to break the silence that had descended on the foyer, we stood there until a small side door beside which Sherrinford was standing opened, and out popped... Holly! This was just a day for reunions, wasn't it?
"There you are, Sherrinford! I've been looking all over for you! Mrs. Adams has arrived, those guest cooks you hired burnt the ham, so we shall have to do on goose alone, you need to give your toast, and most importantly--" We didn't find out what was "Most importantly," because at that point, Holly caught sight of Watson and I standing at the door. She was utterly speechless for just the briefest fraction of a second, before returning in to Good Hostess mode.
"Nona! Dr. Watson! How good to see you! I was not informed that you would be visiting!" At this last exclamation, she glanced accusingly at Sherrinford, who had not moved from his spot by the ballroom door yet. He held up his hands in a "Don't Shoot!" Gesture and she turned her attention back to us. "Nona, I have just the thing that you can borrow for the Ball! Come upstairs with me, and we can--" Again, we did not find out what we could do, for at that very instant there came, from the direction of upstairs, a piercing, ear-shattering scream.
AN: Well, whadya think? I'll give a cookie to the first person to guess why someone was screaming... Oh, no, even better: I'll give you a BROWNIE!! lol. But you seriously gotta tell me what you think: Is this chapter better or worse than the last one, ignoring the fact that it's over four times longer. It's for the sake of science! While wrighting the first chapter, I loaded a Blind Melon *Easily one of the greatest bands ever* CD in to my disk drive. This chap, I was listing to a mix of famous Mozart pieces, with my personal fav, Divertimento in E flat. Yes, my music tastes are wide and cultured. *Said with sarcasm* But, the wrighting of this has now taken me to exactly 2:11 PM January 1, 2004. Oh, scratch that; 2:12! So much for being finished in time to see the ball drop! Anyway, Happy Brownie-versary, and enjoy your last two days off school! *Shudder* Ciao!
coolpuella: Yeah, it's on here at 7 too, but there's a channel on my dish that shows it at 5:30... It's like 1284. My mom's nice, but she is firmly convinced that this latest in my line of obsessions is unhealthy, and that I have no social life. I've got a social life, it's just all over the Holmes board!
March Hare: NO, that's not it. Am I spared from the wrath of a ravenous bunny? Yeah, you'll see, Mycroft gets it in this chapter. Virgil and Sherrinford and Theresa... Hey! Don't forget Holly!
Danric-Lover: Yeah, yeah, I know I'm the best. *Blushes uncontrollably* I loved your entry, and I'll have to give Fel an extra big cookie, after I get all that dough out of the nooks and crannies in my oven... I'm still trying to clean the macadamia nuts out of the range top; I tried to see if I could fry up a batch of white choco/macadamia when the oven was going too slowly. I'll never hear the end of that one... =)
Lady Arianna: The greatest compliment I could receive was to tell me that Nona was in character: That's every Brownie's dream. Plus, I never thought that anyone would accuse me of actually thinking something out! Quite the novel experience.
Anyway, 'nuff said. I should get on with this; the Ball at Times Square drops in exactly 1 hour 10 minutes. I wanna be done with this to have my yearly champagne. Oh, and I honestly had no idea that the last chap was so short. I'll try and make this one longer, I promise! *Devil horns pop in to existence above head* Whoops! How did *those* get there? Anyway, Happy Brownie-versary!
Nona:
"Nona... Nona... NON--" *THUMP*
Regaining consciousness in a most untoward way, I opened my eyes to see a pair of concerned gray eyes inches from my face for the second time that day. Rubbing my head where it had hit the floor of the train compartment, I sat up and scanned the countryside out the window: North Riding it was. Grumbling minimally, I sat up and glanced at Sherlock standing above me.
"Ya know, Sherlock," I said, "there *are* other ways to wake a woman aside from prodding her off the bench she is lying on." Heaving myself to my feet via the *painfully badly padded* trainbench, and pointedly ignoring the hand that Holmes had extended downward for that purpose, I brushed myself off and scanned the small compartment for my bags.
"Well, what did you expect?" Came the acerbic voice of my companion from behind me. "I'm not about to carry you all the way to Oakstaff!" Blushing from the memory of what had happened the last time I fell asleep on the way somewhere, I sent him a withering glare and stalked down the artificially illuminated hallway and out the door. No need to keep the other passengers waiting.
The instant I stepped from the train, I was assailed by the smell and feel of fresh country air. I can assure you that it was a relief after the months in the Great Cesspool know as London. Seeing Watson standing by our bags a short way down the platform, I did a 180 and looked for the smiling, waving, white haired escort that had been sent to greet us last time we visited. Oddly, the Holmes family Accountant nee driver Trevor St. Clair was nowhere to be seen. Circling several times on the spot in a manner that I'm sure would have amused passerby's to no end, had there been any at that time of day, or should I say night. The sun had set while I was comatose, and the Milky Way was shining bright in the night sky. From my internal clock, I judged it to be no later than 5:30. Winter tended to bring longer and sooner nights, though.
I involuntarily shuddered as a gust of wind blew my unbuttoned coat open. It was Christmas Eve after all. It was bound to be cold. I had opted for the traditional skirt as opposed to a prototype for this visit, wanting to appear as friendly and... well, *normal* as I could, considering the fact that this was Christmas Eve. The Holmes' were likely to have many other guests at the Manor besides us, and that was the last place that I wanted to cause social outrage.
I shuddered again from the biting cold, though this time, I was surprised by a man's greatcoat being draped around my shoulders. Wondering at how such a thing could have magically appeared on my person, I turned around for the umpteenth time to find Holmes walking towards Watson with a concerned look on his face. Followed him, and made to remove the coat and return it, but Sherlock glanced at me over his shoulder with a look that said that I should keep it, in no uncertain terms. Ignoring a speculative glance from Watson and feeling somewhat self conscious, as well as knowing that Holmes would not allow me to take off his coat, I was left standing in one of those awkward silences that everyone must know about. I was left switching my weight from one foot to another for a protracted amount of time, until Watson stepped in and said something.
"Well... I don't suppose that there would be a cab service in the vicinity?" That brought to mind an entirely new set of problems. In London, cabs were in no short supply, and so transportation was never an issue. Now, however, we were in a quite different situation. There were no cabs bound to be roaming the country roads, and no convenient pay phone to call one. I glanced around nervously, concerned. It was still around a 1/2 an hour cab ride to Oakstaff; surely we were not going to walk? It was one thing when it was the middle of summer and I was wearing proper clothes, but the long walk now was out of the question.
"Don't worry, Watson," said Holmes in a manner that made one believe that he was talking rather more to me than the aforementioned party. "To serve this very purpose, the Ticket Agent here has taken up the habit of ferrying vagrants like ourselves to their destination. With any luck, the traffic to North Riding has not caused him to cease this service. I can see a light in the office; he must not have closed up for the night yet. We will simply inquire there for a ride." Striding assuredly to the Ticket Office, Holmes rapped sharply at the glass.
Catching up with him, I peered in to the office to see a small, short and seedy man indisposed in a swivel chair with The Times, from three or four days ago, I might mention, laid haphazardly across one knee, as if he had fallen asleep while in the process of reading it. A quick survey of the room brought nothing out of the ordinary to view. A small pot-bellied stove was sitting in the corner, providing a hearty ruddy glow to supplement the twin oil lamps on the table. That table was large and functional, stocked with all manner of pigeonholes and drawers, though one could hardly tell it was a desk from the multitude of papers, tickets, receipts, and other clutter atop it. These pieces of furniture, in addition to the stove, made for a very crowded office, though I am almost positive that I spied a rabbit hutch bursting with shredded newspaper in one corner.
These observations took only a few seconds; the Great Detective must be rubbing off on me, too, though I could deduce nothing from them. However, I was cut short from pursuing any further dissection of the room by Holmes rapping his fingers again opon the glass of the window. This brought a reaction from the man asleep in the chair. He sat up, startled, and after a frantic glance around the room, sighted our trio waiting at the window. Obviously devastated at the thought of leaving customers waiting, he leapt up and fairly jumped to the small counter by the window. This changed viewpoint left me in a better position to describe the man. He was able to look me in the eye without stooping, *And that is saying a lot* but he was well proportioned to his height. He wore a pair of glasses that were too big for him, as well as burdened with lenses that magnified his eyes to quite a factor, making him look like some kind of hybrid insect. His dress indicated that he was indeed the stationmaster. A head of unruly white hair that brought to mind a mop completed the ensemble. Glancing fleetingly at Holmes, I could see an annoyed look on his face; it would seem that he did not take well to sleeping on the job. Clearing his throat, he said loudly through the glass:
"Good evening. We were just wondering if you were still in the habit of providing transportation for those just off the train." In a stuttering, soft voice, the Trainmaster responded.
"Um... transpo... hmmm... yes we still will... uh... provide rides for... let me see... ah... Travelers." The last word he proudly proclaimed as if feeling very accomplished to have finished an entire sentence. The rest of the exchange took longer than anyone might have suspected, with long pauses between each word, as if he was deciding what to say next. I am sure that the halting manner in which he spoke annoyed Holmes to no end. Good; he was rude waking the poor man up, and the least he deserves is a little aggravation.
"How much would it be for a trip to Oakstaff Manor?" Holmes said, a good deal faster than I suspect he would have done under different circumstances. Maybe he was making up for lost time? I do not yet feel equal to speculation of the goings-on in the mind of a Consulting Detective, so I fear that that last conjecture must remain precisely that: a conjecture. Looking affronted at Holmes' brief speech, said in an attitude a good deal more harsh than he had intended, the man shuffled around a bit on the table briefly before revealing a much-used time chart. Drawing a shaking finger down a column, he stopped and tapped a point on said chart.
"Oakstaff? Up to see the Squire, are you? That'll be a half-crown" *AN: I have yet to get these British monetary units straight; forgive me if I screw something up.* With nary a glance at Holmes and I, Watson immediately began digging in his front pocket, the end result being the desired coin, which he placed on the counter. The Trainmaster picked it up and examined it briefly. *Much to the chagrin of myself; as if Watson would dare give counterfeit money!* After securing it's authenticity, he placed it carefully in the large register on the counter, invisible to those standing at the window. This finished, he walked of a door on the rear wall. I briefly mused as to where he had gone, but these were banished by the sound of a horse drawn carriage on the adjoining road somewhere between 5 and 10 minutes later.
Climbing in, I repressed the urge to shiver from the cold again; who knows, maybe Watson would give me *his* coat! The whole Victorian Chivalry mindset was certainly a welcome change from the New York suburbanites, but it tended to come and go at inconvenient times with Holmes. And, more often than not, it came at times more inconvenient than it went. Seating myself next to the window, I glanced out at the darkened countryside. North Riding was beautiful at any time of day, or night. I did not notice Watson sitting down across from me. However, a pause of enough time to call attention to itself between Watson being seated and Holmes made me glance over at the door. I am glad I did. There, I spied the most amusing sight: Sherlock Holmes in the middle of an internal dilemma. We had each taken one side of the carriage. Therefore, he *must* sit next to one of us. The million- dollar-question was, which one of us should he sit nest to?
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the viewpoint, the problem was taken out of his hands. Ignoring the fact that Holmes was still sticking 50% of himself out of the doorway, the Stationmaster only noticed that the door was still open. Following the most logical course of action, he then walked around and slammed it shut. This made Holmes loose his balance and sent him careening across the interior of the carriage, headed straight for a world class faceplant on the window across from the door. Oh, what would the world do without me? Thinking quickly, I grabbed the collar of his shirt, acting as an axis for a turn and sending him forcefully in to the seat next to me. Looking around himself, he settled in to the seat complacently and folded his arms across his chest, trying hard enough for it to be humorous to make it seem as if he had intended that all along.
Glancing at Watson across from me, I saw that he was doing a bad job of trying not to laugh; he was almost shaking! The tension in the carriage mounted as we started moving with a lurch, and went on like that for a period of time. By then, Watson was indeed shaking, and Holmes had turned that shade of red that I had seen already today. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I burst out laughing, at the situation more than Holmes, and Watson joined me so quickly we could not have planned it better.
Recovering quickly from this act, I stopped laughing and leaned against the wall with a sigh. However, there was something that my ears did not make sense of. Watson was laughing, to be sure, but a fleeting glance at Holmes out of the corner of my eye showed that he was following our example, and was almost doubled up from it! Will wonders never cease? I watched the two of them until they stopped, then settled back in my seat and stared adoringly at the countryside rolling past my window. If I did not already know the reason, I would be wondering what in the world could have possessed Holmes to leave this home for the cold foggy streets of London. Caught by unpleasant memories, I banished them from my thoughts. This was Holmes' first time back after the events of last summer; doubtless his thoughts were ranging along the same path. Well, there was nothing I could do about it, so I returned to gazing out of the window.
There really is nothing notable about the trip up, so I will spare you. After the outburst at the onset, we lapsed in to companionable silence, each of us occupied by our own speculations. The trip passed quickly, and we pulled up to Oakstaff Manor within half an hour. The sight truly took my breath away. Though Christmas lights and lawn ornaments were *Thankfully* nonexistent, every window in the place was lit with a single glimmering candle, and light streaming from the front windows illuminated the carriage drive. You could hear music coming from inside; they must be having a party. The tune was a graceful waltz, and gave one the uncontrollable urge to either run very quickly or go to sleep. Fortunately, I did neither.
However, here came the difficult part: My left leg had gone totally and completely numb during the lurching ride here. Forget asleep; it was just plain dead! Now, I had to climb down from the carriage with one leg out of operation... Joy. Letting Holmes and Watson get out first, I steadied myself on the convenient handlebar placed aside the door for just that purpose. Stepping down with my right foot, I was feeling very confident, and made the mistake of expecting my other foot to support any weight whatsoever. No sooner had my right foot left the step than I was sent careening facedown in to the mud. Or would have been, if a pair of thin arms had not laced themselves about my waist barely an instant after I lost my balance. Glancing gratefully up at my rescuer, I was assailed by a now- familiar pair of gray eyes. We seemed to be getting in to this position a good deal recently... Unentwining myself, I murmured a few words of thanks and walked briskly across the lawn and knocked at the door.
Holmes and Watson caught up with me just in time for the door to open, revealing... Nothing! The door had apparently opened on it's own! Such thoughts were banished, though, by a gasp and a high-pitched exclamation from somewhere level with my knees:
"Miss Nona?" Startled, I looked down to find... Virgil! The little imp was so short, I had looked right over him! Thumping on to my knees so as to be on eye level with Virgil, I wrapped my arms around his tiny child body.
"Virgil!" I said, "I'm so glad to see you! We all missed you so!" Relinquishing my crushing hold about his shoulders, I held Virgil at an arms length to have a better look at him. I revised my earlier statement about his height. He had grown several inches in the past four months, and I think that he must have doubled the number of freckles. Fortunately, not everything was changed. He still had that devilish grin on, and still looked like a ten-year-old Sherlock reincarnated.
"Miss Nona!" He said again, sure now that it was me. "Father didn't tell us that you and Uncle Sherlock and Mr. Watson would be coming to the party!"
"Indeed, he didn't know!" Came a pleasant voice from behind us with the sound of something said with a smile. Glancing over Virgil's head, I spied Sherrinford Holmes in full Victorian dress attire standing at the door to the Ballroom. Behind him and out of focus, I could see the whirl of color that showed dancing in the vaulted room. I suddenly realized that I had been standing just inside the doorway, allowing neither the front door to be shut, or for Holmes and Watson still standing outside to come in. Noticing this, I stood up, let Holmes and Watson pass, and closed the door behind them. Then, I felt myself free to comment on Sherrinford's earlier comment.
"Didn't know? But you sent us that letter asking us to come!" I pulled the said correspondence from Holmes' front jacket pocket, opened it, and reread it:
My Dearest Brother Sherlock,
By request of the members of the house, especially Virgil, I am obligated to invite you to spend Christmastide at Oakstaff Manor, as well as any companions you may wish to accompany you. Enclosed are three tickets for North Riding for you, Dr. Watson, and Miss Brown; they were charming guests last summer, and we would be overjoyed if they would join us.
Sherrinford
It was entirely straightforward: There were even the tickets! How could he not remember inviting us?
"Nona," sad Sherlock from behind me, "whom did you say delivered the letter?"
"Mycroft. He... Wait... Oh, no." That butterball had pulled a fast one on us! A sardonic voice from the balcony overlooking the foyer only served to confirm my suspicion.
"Dear me, Brother Sherlock! I would have thought that it would take less time than that for you to deduce the true origins of that invitation!"
"Indeed, Mycroft," Holmes replied, his face bearing the marks of one who has suffered long from a most devastating and, sadly, incurable disease: Older Brother. "I had know that it was from you from the start. However, Nona wanted to come, and as long as I had some excuse..." Sherrinford, the poor victim of this fraternal prank was still standing in the doorway of the ballroom and Virgil was standing very quietly behind me. I did that often enough as a small child to know what was going on: He was hoping to hear as much as possible of this argument before being banished to take our coats. My father's familiar mantra came to mind: "If you have dwarves, you might as well work 'em!" I still remembered all the times I had been put on coat duty--
"Virgil," Said Sherrinford, "Take their coats, will you?" Ahh, famous last words. A visible scowl on his face, Virgil dutifully collected our jackets and started to tromp up the stairs to where the coat room likely was. But, before he could get far, Sherlock jogged across the foyer and leaned over the balcony, at eye level with Virgil for once.
"Now," he said in a mock-serious attitude, "What's this I hear of you breaking your magnifying glass?" Virgil's expression changed from adoring to horrified as soon as Sherlock said the word "Magnifying Glass."
"It was an ax-dent, Uncle Sherlock, I promise! But the handle was wet, and it was raining, and... and... it just fell!" Adorable though it was, Virgil was obviously at wits end. I remember when I first met him, the first thing I noticed was that glass. Holding up his hand to silence the small boy's apologetic pleas, Holmes reached over the banister and fumbled around in the pocket of his coat Virgil was carrying for a second. After searching countless pockets, he pulled out, to the surprise of everyone in the room, his magnifying glass and placed it in Virgil's tiny hand. Poor boy, he was speechless! Eyes getting as round, or maybe rounder as saucers, Virgil held the magnifying glass up to the light as one would hold a priceless treasure.
"Merry Christmas, Virgil," he said. Nodding in passing to all present, Sherlock turned on his heel, as he was wont to do, and strode through a door in the direction of the South Wing, where I knew from past experiences that his room was. The youngest Holmes had left everyone in the room, including myself, dumbfounded, especially Virgil. Looking over the glass in his hand, he stood there for a few seconds, until he noticed everyone was staring at him, and promptly stuffed it in his pocket, gathered up the coats, and trotted up the stairs like a good little boy. A glance upward showed that Mycroft had disappeared from his birds eye vigil. This left just Watson, Sherrinford, and myself in the vaulted room. None of us wishing to break the silence that had descended on the foyer, we stood there until a small side door beside which Sherrinford was standing opened, and out popped... Holly! This was just a day for reunions, wasn't it?
"There you are, Sherrinford! I've been looking all over for you! Mrs. Adams has arrived, those guest cooks you hired burnt the ham, so we shall have to do on goose alone, you need to give your toast, and most importantly--" We didn't find out what was "Most importantly," because at that point, Holly caught sight of Watson and I standing at the door. She was utterly speechless for just the briefest fraction of a second, before returning in to Good Hostess mode.
"Nona! Dr. Watson! How good to see you! I was not informed that you would be visiting!" At this last exclamation, she glanced accusingly at Sherrinford, who had not moved from his spot by the ballroom door yet. He held up his hands in a "Don't Shoot!" Gesture and she turned her attention back to us. "Nona, I have just the thing that you can borrow for the Ball! Come upstairs with me, and we can--" Again, we did not find out what we could do, for at that very instant there came, from the direction of upstairs, a piercing, ear-shattering scream.
AN: Well, whadya think? I'll give a cookie to the first person to guess why someone was screaming... Oh, no, even better: I'll give you a BROWNIE!! lol. But you seriously gotta tell me what you think: Is this chapter better or worse than the last one, ignoring the fact that it's over four times longer. It's for the sake of science! While wrighting the first chapter, I loaded a Blind Melon *Easily one of the greatest bands ever* CD in to my disk drive. This chap, I was listing to a mix of famous Mozart pieces, with my personal fav, Divertimento in E flat. Yes, my music tastes are wide and cultured. *Said with sarcasm* But, the wrighting of this has now taken me to exactly 2:11 PM January 1, 2004. Oh, scratch that; 2:12! So much for being finished in time to see the ball drop! Anyway, Happy Brownie-versary, and enjoy your last two days off school! *Shudder* Ciao!