A/N: Boomchickaboomchickaboombambam! She's back! I hope this lives up to
your expectations. I won't reply to each individual review, but
surprisingly a lot has been positive so I'd like to say thank you.
Oh and I don't know whether or not I've stated it before but Holmes is quite a bit younger than when we meet him in the books. He's in his thirties? forties? in the book, whereas in this fic he is mid twenties. Tara is like 15-18. I know I'm slaughtering the canon, sue me.
Oh, and btw, this is NOT A MARY SUE. This will NEVER BE a Mary Sue. I have no wish to be Tara and she has no wish to be me. This is simply for lack of non-slash Holmes romance. If I wanted to fantasize about the great detective, I'd keep it in my OWN head thank you very much.
~
Holmes had left for the day; he and Watson had been invited by one of their wealthier friends to see an opera. Watson had, of course, been the gentleman, "Are you sure you would not like to go? I daresay I could persuade the chap into buying you a ticket, or you could have mine?"
Tara had laughed at him, but quickly stopped herself for fear that she had offended him. "I do not wish to go anymore this time than the first six or seven times you've asked me," she said, smiling genuinely at the amiable man, "I appreciate your offer, but I would probably have no taste for such things as Opera. You enjoy yourselves, I'd much rather relax here than jostle myself around in a carriage and then sit straight for about three hours."
Watson had, in the end, complied and left, dragging Holmes behind him, whose nose was stuck in the newspaper.
Tara surveyed the apartment with mingled amusement and disgust. Despite living on the street for a great deal of her life she could still remember a time and place with pressed gowns neat beds and perfectly arranged furniture. The apartment Sherlock Holmes did remotely link with her fond memories of neatness and organization. Papers were covering nearly every inch of floor so the dusty wood underneath them was hardly seen. She took to gathering them into their complete paper and then to organizing them by date. Her odyssey of cleaning led her from the papers to the other areas of messiness about the room. With broom in hand she turned to face the room.
~
Returning from the Opera Holmes felt somewhat bored. It had been satisfactory, but nothing extraordinary. The singers were not overly gifted and the orchestra fumbled over some of the more difficult bits. After a while his attention had drifted and he had resorted to his favorite pastime: People Watching.
His mind had wandered over the crowed spending little more than a moment with each person. This particular group of upper middle-class was boring beyond belief. It was as if not one of them had ever left London, let alone England. Their marriages might be void of love, but not adulterous. The women all fell into the stereotype of their sex and station: self-absorbed, fake and not a single writer in the group.
As Sherlock walked up the stairs to his apartment he almost wished he had forced Tara to take his ticket while he stayed at home, reading. There were some books on Russian history he had not been able to go through thoroughly; and there were those medicinal books Watson had leant him.... Holmes was still brooding on how he could have better spent the evening when he opened the door and saw one of the most horrific sights he had ever laid eyes on.
The room was clean, immaculate, not one object out of place. It was disgusting, horrible, outrageous! How... what ... when ... who? But of course, Sherlock already knew the answer.
"Tara!" he shouted, forgetting the "Miss" or anything else that was remotely connected with manners. She had touched his room, his home. She had ... that girl ... she had ... molested his possessions!
There was going to be hell to pay.
~
The row that had followed that one had been epic. He shouted and ranted at her like a mad man. While this would have terrorized Mrs. Hudson, Tara was not as easily broken. She returned his ranting full force, letting loose a string of curse words and other street words that Holmes had learned from the irregulars when they forgot he was present. Holmes had threatened throwing her out into the street where she belonged until Watson intervened.
"She was only trying to help; your house is a mess and you know it! You can't simply throw her into the street she has not fully recovered. Besides your information is far easier to get at now, much easier to find," said Watson, trying to calm and persuade Holmes.
He did not have the desired results, "Mess! Ha! It was an organized mess! I knew where everything was and how to get to it. How can it possibly be more accessible when the volumes I will most likely be needing are piled under dozens of others?"
It continued in this fashion until Sherlock gave in and said he would bear the unnatural tidiness, but if he took out something, he would put it where he pleased.
Tara had agreed somewhat half-heartedly to this idea, grumbling about it being his house, how he was an obnoxious over-reacting man who smoked too much.
Watson merely rolled his eyes at the pair of them.
A/N: Hey, I hope you like it, sorry I couldn't write more but its really late and I wanted to give you nice people something. I'm actually going to get back on track with this one, promise. Please comment on anything you think could be improved.
Oh and I don't know whether or not I've stated it before but Holmes is quite a bit younger than when we meet him in the books. He's in his thirties? forties? in the book, whereas in this fic he is mid twenties. Tara is like 15-18. I know I'm slaughtering the canon, sue me.
Oh, and btw, this is NOT A MARY SUE. This will NEVER BE a Mary Sue. I have no wish to be Tara and she has no wish to be me. This is simply for lack of non-slash Holmes romance. If I wanted to fantasize about the great detective, I'd keep it in my OWN head thank you very much.
~
Holmes had left for the day; he and Watson had been invited by one of their wealthier friends to see an opera. Watson had, of course, been the gentleman, "Are you sure you would not like to go? I daresay I could persuade the chap into buying you a ticket, or you could have mine?"
Tara had laughed at him, but quickly stopped herself for fear that she had offended him. "I do not wish to go anymore this time than the first six or seven times you've asked me," she said, smiling genuinely at the amiable man, "I appreciate your offer, but I would probably have no taste for such things as Opera. You enjoy yourselves, I'd much rather relax here than jostle myself around in a carriage and then sit straight for about three hours."
Watson had, in the end, complied and left, dragging Holmes behind him, whose nose was stuck in the newspaper.
Tara surveyed the apartment with mingled amusement and disgust. Despite living on the street for a great deal of her life she could still remember a time and place with pressed gowns neat beds and perfectly arranged furniture. The apartment Sherlock Holmes did remotely link with her fond memories of neatness and organization. Papers were covering nearly every inch of floor so the dusty wood underneath them was hardly seen. She took to gathering them into their complete paper and then to organizing them by date. Her odyssey of cleaning led her from the papers to the other areas of messiness about the room. With broom in hand she turned to face the room.
~
Returning from the Opera Holmes felt somewhat bored. It had been satisfactory, but nothing extraordinary. The singers were not overly gifted and the orchestra fumbled over some of the more difficult bits. After a while his attention had drifted and he had resorted to his favorite pastime: People Watching.
His mind had wandered over the crowed spending little more than a moment with each person. This particular group of upper middle-class was boring beyond belief. It was as if not one of them had ever left London, let alone England. Their marriages might be void of love, but not adulterous. The women all fell into the stereotype of their sex and station: self-absorbed, fake and not a single writer in the group.
As Sherlock walked up the stairs to his apartment he almost wished he had forced Tara to take his ticket while he stayed at home, reading. There were some books on Russian history he had not been able to go through thoroughly; and there were those medicinal books Watson had leant him.... Holmes was still brooding on how he could have better spent the evening when he opened the door and saw one of the most horrific sights he had ever laid eyes on.
The room was clean, immaculate, not one object out of place. It was disgusting, horrible, outrageous! How... what ... when ... who? But of course, Sherlock already knew the answer.
"Tara!" he shouted, forgetting the "Miss" or anything else that was remotely connected with manners. She had touched his room, his home. She had ... that girl ... she had ... molested his possessions!
There was going to be hell to pay.
~
The row that had followed that one had been epic. He shouted and ranted at her like a mad man. While this would have terrorized Mrs. Hudson, Tara was not as easily broken. She returned his ranting full force, letting loose a string of curse words and other street words that Holmes had learned from the irregulars when they forgot he was present. Holmes had threatened throwing her out into the street where she belonged until Watson intervened.
"She was only trying to help; your house is a mess and you know it! You can't simply throw her into the street she has not fully recovered. Besides your information is far easier to get at now, much easier to find," said Watson, trying to calm and persuade Holmes.
He did not have the desired results, "Mess! Ha! It was an organized mess! I knew where everything was and how to get to it. How can it possibly be more accessible when the volumes I will most likely be needing are piled under dozens of others?"
It continued in this fashion until Sherlock gave in and said he would bear the unnatural tidiness, but if he took out something, he would put it where he pleased.
Tara had agreed somewhat half-heartedly to this idea, grumbling about it being his house, how he was an obnoxious over-reacting man who smoked too much.
Watson merely rolled his eyes at the pair of them.
A/N: Hey, I hope you like it, sorry I couldn't write more but its really late and I wanted to give you nice people something. I'm actually going to get back on track with this one, promise. Please comment on anything you think could be improved.