I know that this type of fan fiction has been written so many times it's almost become a cliché - a girl with the last name of Watson moves to England and meets a boy with the last name of Holmes… They start solving mysteries… She asks him to the dance… Somebody makes an attempt on their lives…They fall in love at the end…. blah, blah, blah…
But I had so much fun writing this story that I thought somebody else might enjoy reading it! I have changed a few things around, though. A lot of this is based on the movie "Young Sherlock Holmes," and in this story, Watson isn't as helpless or as clueless, plus Sherlock isn't quite as cold…
Also, please forgive me for giving Watson my first name - I couldn't resist!
So, imagine that Doyle never wrote his Sherlock Holmes stories…
Now imagine that Sherlock Holmes lived in the twenty-first century…
Now imagine that he's a teenager…
"We're moving?" I gasped, and dropped my glasses. "We're moving … to ENGLAND?"
Mom and Dad nodded. "I've got a great new job there," Mom said, "We'll be able to live in a much nicer house."
"And my company has agreed to transfer me," Dad said. "Pick up your glasses."
I obeyed. We're moving, I thought. To England. No more hot dogs, or ball games, or apple pie. Everyone running around drinking tea and calling each other bloody swankers. Or something like that.
Then my parents dropped the real bomb. "PRIVATE SCHOOL?" I yelled.
"Isn't it nice we can afford it?" Mom asked.
"No! It's not! Not only do I have to go to school in a different country, I'll have to do it in a PLEATED SKIRT AND BLOUSE!" I stormed away to my room.
"It can't be that bad!" Dad called upstairs.
"Wanna bet?" I asked the girl in my mirror. She scowled, wrinkled her blue-gray eyes, and pushed her glasses further up her nose. Which, by the way, was much too big for her face. A tangled mat of almost-blond hair added insult to injury.
I sighed and grabbed a brush from my night stand. "Why," I said, yanking at my hair, which stubbornly refused to yield, "Do I have to move? Not just down the street. Not just across town. Not even to a different state. To. England."
I put the brush down. "I know I'm going to hate it." The girl in the mirror nodded in agreement.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
London.
And yes, I was in a pleated skirt and blouse. I clutched my notebook to my chest and hurried up the street. I didn't want to be late for my first day of school - in October. My parents didn't even have the decency to move in time for school. I would have to start late. The new kid. Ugh.
At the bus stop, there was already one boy waiting. His back pack was slung over one shoulder and he held a thick text book and a violin case at his side. He was tall, with sandy brown hair and a very chiseled nose. His hazel eyes turned to meet mine as I came towards him.
I stopped running, caught my breath, and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. "Hi, Sara Watson," I said, and extended my hand. The boy shook it. "Sherlock Holmes," he said without smiling, and looked me over from head to toe. I blushed, then broke the silence. "I'm new at Hopkins. Who do you have for AP Chem? Maybe we're in the same class."
Sherlock Holmes looked into my face, startled. "What did you say?"
I blushed again, nervous. "You do go to Hopkins, don't you? You've got the crest on your jacket. And you're carrying a really thick chem book, which means you're probably taking advanced placement chemistry."
Sherlock nodded. "Or, as you call it in the U.S., AP Chem."
"Right. Is my accent that bad you can tell?"
"Exactly." He gave me a very calculating look. "You figured all that out by yourself?"
I shrugged. "Yeah, so?"
"Figuring things out is a hobby of mine." He paused. "You're fourteen years old, a bright student, and have moved to England within this week. You listen to music on a portable discman, play the flute, wear glasses because you're nearsighted, like to eat pastries for breakfast, and stubbed your toe upon leaving your house this morning."
"How did you know that?" I asked, incredulous.
Sherlock was saved from answering by the arrival of the school bus. He boarded and I scrambled behind him. A very pretty girl at the back of the bus waved to Sherlock, and he sat beside her, smiling and talking.
I slid into a seat near the front. Weird kid, I thought to myself. Wonder how he knew about the discman. I took it out and slid the headphones over my ears. I sighed. Well, here we go: English Private School - Day One.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Class, we have a new student," Ms. Rogers said, gripping my shoulders uncomfortably. I tried to smile, but the sea of unfamiliar faces overwhelmed me. "This is Sara Watson, who just moved here from America!"
"Go home, Yank!" Someone called from the back of the room. I blushed.
"Alex, that was uncalled for," Ms. Rogers said. Then she smiled. "Would you like to tell us a little about yourself, Sara?"
No. No I would not! I'd rather have a root canal right about now! I'll never talk! Never!
"Um, I moved here from New Hampshire," I said shyly. "I, um, I play the flute and I like to read and write."
"That's great!" Ms. Rogers said, just a little too loud. I could have barfed. Or died. The latter seemed more appealing at the moment. I tried to slide from her superhuman grasp but she held me in place.
"Let's see. Sara needs a lab partner. Mr. Holmes, I don't believe you have a partner."
Sherlock looked up from his chemistry book. "But Ms. Rogers, I prefer to work alo- "
"Nonsense!" Ms. Rogers said cheerfully. "Sara will be your partner for the rest of the year. I expect you'll help her catch up with the rest of the class…" Her voice went dangerously low. "Won't you?"
"Yes ma'am." Holmes' eyes narrowed but he went to the back of the room and dragged another stool over. I walked back to the last lab station, and dropped my back pack at my feet.
"Thanks," I said, taking the stool and sliding it under me. Sherlock resumed his study of his chemistry book without saying a word.
Holmes never looked up from the book, and yet whenever the teacher called on him, he had the right answer. It was really unnerving.
"Now," Ms. Rogers said at last, "Who can tell me the affects of catalase on hydrogen peroxide?"
I timidly raised my hand.
"Miss Watson!" Ms. Rogers said gleefully.
"Catalase is an enzyme," I said, "Which means it breaks the H2O2 down into H2O, water, and O2, oxygen."
"That's correct," Ms. Rogers shouted, triumphantly. Sherlock looked up from his book. I gave him a small smile, but he rolled his eyes and turned the page.
"Why, then, does a potato have this affect on hydrogen peroxide? Mr. Holmes?"
"Potatoes contain large amounts of catalase," he said without looking up. Right then, the bell rang.
"We'll all be doing a lab tomorrow on the affects of catalase!" Ms. Rogers screamed over the hubbub of collecting books.
My lab partner got up to leave. "Wait, Sherlock," I said, tugging at his sleeve. "Please, can you tell me where…" I glanced at my schedule, "Mr. Halbert's room is? Room 322?"
"You have Mr. Halbert for math?"
"Yeah."
Sherlock sighed. "Me too. Come one, then."
I followed him out of the classroom. "I'm really sorry you got stuck with me as a lab partner and all," I raised my voice over the hustle and bustle of the hallway.
"It's all right," he said. "It's not your fault." He emphasized the "your".
"Okay, great. The first kid my age I meet decides to take offense at me. Just great."
"I don't take offense at you." Sherlock turned a corner quickly, and I fought the constant stream of kids to follow him.
"Then why are you so prickly?" I said, stumbling behind him.
"Because I'm not the kind of person you want to be around."
"Oh, really?" I said out loud, then muttered under my breath. "Brits. They're all crazy."
"Maybe I do take offense at you," Sherlock shot back.
"What do you guys put in all that tea, anyway?" I asked as he opened the door to 322.
"Same thing you put in your coffee. Three parts ego, ninety six parts attitude, and one part god-awful accent."
"Oh, you're riot. A real riot. Did you think that one up yourself?"
"As a matter of fact, I did." Sherlock found his seat and I stormed to the front of the room to introduce myself to the teacher.
"Yes… w-well…" Mr. Halbert said. His liver spots accented his network of veins nicely, I thought. "Y-you s-sit here and we'll get you a b-book…"
I found my seat and the geometry book underneath.
"T-turn… to page si-si-si-si-sixty, six, class…"
I sighed. Not only was math my least favorite subject, now I had Moses's grandfather teaching it. What a snore. Literally.
I felt myself being jolted back to reality by the scraping of desks and gathering of books. To my surprise, Sherlock was standing over me with a sarcastic sneer and my schedule. "Let me guess. Mr. Donneley's Literature Class. What an unpleasant coincidence."
I groaned and snatched the paper from his hands. Another class with this kid? "Imagine my joy," I retorted. But I got up and followed him dutifully.
Once in the classroom, I chose a seat as far a way from Sherlock as possible.
"Good morning class," Mr. Donnelley said as he strode in.
I almost fell off my chair. My English teacher was … gorgeous. He was tall, with long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. His black eyes glittered and his perfectly tan skin practically shone. His sense of style was just right, too. Shiny black shoes, gray slacks, a white collared shirt and a sweater vest. I could have died.
"Ah, a new student," he said, noticing me. He walked to my desk and took my hand. "And your name is?"
Name? What name? …Did anyone ever tell you your eyes are like the night sky?
No! Wake up stupid! WAKE UP!
"S-Sara Watson," I mumbled.
"Enchanted, Miss Watson." He shook my hand and handed me a book. I blushed.
"Thanks," I whispered. Mr. Donnelley grinned his perfect white teeth at me. That's it. I've died and gone to heaven…
I looked at the book in my hand. "Logic Puzzles, 33rd Edition"
"Today we're continuing our study of mind games - thinking outside," Mr. Donelley moved his hands through the air, "The box. Turn to page 45 and read the puzzle there, please. Now, everyone!"
There was a scuffle of flipping pages. I found my place and started to read: On Sunday, October 5, Mr. Johnson lies murdered on the floor of his study. His wife claims she was upstairs reading. The maid says she was dusting the mantelpiece in the living room. The gardener insisted he was in the shed oiling his clippers. The butler announced he had gone to get the mail.
"So, class, to coin a phrase: who done it?" Mr. Donneley grinned again.
Two hands shot in the air. Mine, and Sherlock's.
"Yes, we all know you know the answer, Mr. Holmes. Put your hand down."
Sherlock glowered.
"Miss Watson? Who do you think?"
Eyes… beautiful eyes… huh? Oh, yeah - "The butler," I said, triumphantly.
The room filled with snickers. I frowned.
"Why the butler?" my drop-dead-gorgeous teacher asked.
"Because," I said, "The mail doesn't come on Sundays."
Mr. Donnelley and Sherlock stared, so I avoided their gazes. "At least," I said, "Not in America."
"That's… correct." Mr. Donnelley smiled. "Next page, if you will."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I wasn't sure if I was surprised or please when at lunch, Sherlock Holmes came and sat across from me.
"What is it with you?" I asked. "You told me to avoid you and now I can't!"
"You…" Sherlock said, "You've got, how do they say it? Spunk."
"Spunk. Great." I toyed with the school salad, which looked a little rubbery. "I thought you said you're not the kind of person I want to be around."
"I'm starting to think I'm wrong," he said. "Tell me. Look at me and tell me what you see."
I raised my eyebrows. "I see a boy who's lost his mind. Excuse me." I got up to leave.
"No, stay!" Sherlock caught my hand. Startled, I looked first at his hand, then his face. A distant part of my brain flicked on. He's cute… I thought.
"Remember this morning, when you figured out I went to this school? And that I was taking AP Chem? Do that again. What else can you tell?"
I paused for a moment. "You write with your left hand."
"Excellent! How did you know?"
I sat back down. "Even though you caught me with your right hand just now, the middle finger of your left hand has a callous where your pen rubs."
Sherlock Holmes grinned. "Tell me, Watson," he said after a moment. "How do you feel about solving mysteries?"
But I had so much fun writing this story that I thought somebody else might enjoy reading it! I have changed a few things around, though. A lot of this is based on the movie "Young Sherlock Holmes," and in this story, Watson isn't as helpless or as clueless, plus Sherlock isn't quite as cold…
Also, please forgive me for giving Watson my first name - I couldn't resist!
So, imagine that Doyle never wrote his Sherlock Holmes stories…
Now imagine that Sherlock Holmes lived in the twenty-first century…
Now imagine that he's a teenager…
"We're moving?" I gasped, and dropped my glasses. "We're moving … to ENGLAND?"
Mom and Dad nodded. "I've got a great new job there," Mom said, "We'll be able to live in a much nicer house."
"And my company has agreed to transfer me," Dad said. "Pick up your glasses."
I obeyed. We're moving, I thought. To England. No more hot dogs, or ball games, or apple pie. Everyone running around drinking tea and calling each other bloody swankers. Or something like that.
Then my parents dropped the real bomb. "PRIVATE SCHOOL?" I yelled.
"Isn't it nice we can afford it?" Mom asked.
"No! It's not! Not only do I have to go to school in a different country, I'll have to do it in a PLEATED SKIRT AND BLOUSE!" I stormed away to my room.
"It can't be that bad!" Dad called upstairs.
"Wanna bet?" I asked the girl in my mirror. She scowled, wrinkled her blue-gray eyes, and pushed her glasses further up her nose. Which, by the way, was much too big for her face. A tangled mat of almost-blond hair added insult to injury.
I sighed and grabbed a brush from my night stand. "Why," I said, yanking at my hair, which stubbornly refused to yield, "Do I have to move? Not just down the street. Not just across town. Not even to a different state. To. England."
I put the brush down. "I know I'm going to hate it." The girl in the mirror nodded in agreement.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
London.
And yes, I was in a pleated skirt and blouse. I clutched my notebook to my chest and hurried up the street. I didn't want to be late for my first day of school - in October. My parents didn't even have the decency to move in time for school. I would have to start late. The new kid. Ugh.
At the bus stop, there was already one boy waiting. His back pack was slung over one shoulder and he held a thick text book and a violin case at his side. He was tall, with sandy brown hair and a very chiseled nose. His hazel eyes turned to meet mine as I came towards him.
I stopped running, caught my breath, and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. "Hi, Sara Watson," I said, and extended my hand. The boy shook it. "Sherlock Holmes," he said without smiling, and looked me over from head to toe. I blushed, then broke the silence. "I'm new at Hopkins. Who do you have for AP Chem? Maybe we're in the same class."
Sherlock Holmes looked into my face, startled. "What did you say?"
I blushed again, nervous. "You do go to Hopkins, don't you? You've got the crest on your jacket. And you're carrying a really thick chem book, which means you're probably taking advanced placement chemistry."
Sherlock nodded. "Or, as you call it in the U.S., AP Chem."
"Right. Is my accent that bad you can tell?"
"Exactly." He gave me a very calculating look. "You figured all that out by yourself?"
I shrugged. "Yeah, so?"
"Figuring things out is a hobby of mine." He paused. "You're fourteen years old, a bright student, and have moved to England within this week. You listen to music on a portable discman, play the flute, wear glasses because you're nearsighted, like to eat pastries for breakfast, and stubbed your toe upon leaving your house this morning."
"How did you know that?" I asked, incredulous.
Sherlock was saved from answering by the arrival of the school bus. He boarded and I scrambled behind him. A very pretty girl at the back of the bus waved to Sherlock, and he sat beside her, smiling and talking.
I slid into a seat near the front. Weird kid, I thought to myself. Wonder how he knew about the discman. I took it out and slid the headphones over my ears. I sighed. Well, here we go: English Private School - Day One.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Class, we have a new student," Ms. Rogers said, gripping my shoulders uncomfortably. I tried to smile, but the sea of unfamiliar faces overwhelmed me. "This is Sara Watson, who just moved here from America!"
"Go home, Yank!" Someone called from the back of the room. I blushed.
"Alex, that was uncalled for," Ms. Rogers said. Then she smiled. "Would you like to tell us a little about yourself, Sara?"
No. No I would not! I'd rather have a root canal right about now! I'll never talk! Never!
"Um, I moved here from New Hampshire," I said shyly. "I, um, I play the flute and I like to read and write."
"That's great!" Ms. Rogers said, just a little too loud. I could have barfed. Or died. The latter seemed more appealing at the moment. I tried to slide from her superhuman grasp but she held me in place.
"Let's see. Sara needs a lab partner. Mr. Holmes, I don't believe you have a partner."
Sherlock looked up from his chemistry book. "But Ms. Rogers, I prefer to work alo- "
"Nonsense!" Ms. Rogers said cheerfully. "Sara will be your partner for the rest of the year. I expect you'll help her catch up with the rest of the class…" Her voice went dangerously low. "Won't you?"
"Yes ma'am." Holmes' eyes narrowed but he went to the back of the room and dragged another stool over. I walked back to the last lab station, and dropped my back pack at my feet.
"Thanks," I said, taking the stool and sliding it under me. Sherlock resumed his study of his chemistry book without saying a word.
Holmes never looked up from the book, and yet whenever the teacher called on him, he had the right answer. It was really unnerving.
"Now," Ms. Rogers said at last, "Who can tell me the affects of catalase on hydrogen peroxide?"
I timidly raised my hand.
"Miss Watson!" Ms. Rogers said gleefully.
"Catalase is an enzyme," I said, "Which means it breaks the H2O2 down into H2O, water, and O2, oxygen."
"That's correct," Ms. Rogers shouted, triumphantly. Sherlock looked up from his book. I gave him a small smile, but he rolled his eyes and turned the page.
"Why, then, does a potato have this affect on hydrogen peroxide? Mr. Holmes?"
"Potatoes contain large amounts of catalase," he said without looking up. Right then, the bell rang.
"We'll all be doing a lab tomorrow on the affects of catalase!" Ms. Rogers screamed over the hubbub of collecting books.
My lab partner got up to leave. "Wait, Sherlock," I said, tugging at his sleeve. "Please, can you tell me where…" I glanced at my schedule, "Mr. Halbert's room is? Room 322?"
"You have Mr. Halbert for math?"
"Yeah."
Sherlock sighed. "Me too. Come one, then."
I followed him out of the classroom. "I'm really sorry you got stuck with me as a lab partner and all," I raised my voice over the hustle and bustle of the hallway.
"It's all right," he said. "It's not your fault." He emphasized the "your".
"Okay, great. The first kid my age I meet decides to take offense at me. Just great."
"I don't take offense at you." Sherlock turned a corner quickly, and I fought the constant stream of kids to follow him.
"Then why are you so prickly?" I said, stumbling behind him.
"Because I'm not the kind of person you want to be around."
"Oh, really?" I said out loud, then muttered under my breath. "Brits. They're all crazy."
"Maybe I do take offense at you," Sherlock shot back.
"What do you guys put in all that tea, anyway?" I asked as he opened the door to 322.
"Same thing you put in your coffee. Three parts ego, ninety six parts attitude, and one part god-awful accent."
"Oh, you're riot. A real riot. Did you think that one up yourself?"
"As a matter of fact, I did." Sherlock found his seat and I stormed to the front of the room to introduce myself to the teacher.
"Yes… w-well…" Mr. Halbert said. His liver spots accented his network of veins nicely, I thought. "Y-you s-sit here and we'll get you a b-book…"
I found my seat and the geometry book underneath.
"T-turn… to page si-si-si-si-sixty, six, class…"
I sighed. Not only was math my least favorite subject, now I had Moses's grandfather teaching it. What a snore. Literally.
I felt myself being jolted back to reality by the scraping of desks and gathering of books. To my surprise, Sherlock was standing over me with a sarcastic sneer and my schedule. "Let me guess. Mr. Donneley's Literature Class. What an unpleasant coincidence."
I groaned and snatched the paper from his hands. Another class with this kid? "Imagine my joy," I retorted. But I got up and followed him dutifully.
Once in the classroom, I chose a seat as far a way from Sherlock as possible.
"Good morning class," Mr. Donnelley said as he strode in.
I almost fell off my chair. My English teacher was … gorgeous. He was tall, with long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. His black eyes glittered and his perfectly tan skin practically shone. His sense of style was just right, too. Shiny black shoes, gray slacks, a white collared shirt and a sweater vest. I could have died.
"Ah, a new student," he said, noticing me. He walked to my desk and took my hand. "And your name is?"
Name? What name? …Did anyone ever tell you your eyes are like the night sky?
No! Wake up stupid! WAKE UP!
"S-Sara Watson," I mumbled.
"Enchanted, Miss Watson." He shook my hand and handed me a book. I blushed.
"Thanks," I whispered. Mr. Donnelley grinned his perfect white teeth at me. That's it. I've died and gone to heaven…
I looked at the book in my hand. "Logic Puzzles, 33rd Edition"
"Today we're continuing our study of mind games - thinking outside," Mr. Donelley moved his hands through the air, "The box. Turn to page 45 and read the puzzle there, please. Now, everyone!"
There was a scuffle of flipping pages. I found my place and started to read: On Sunday, October 5, Mr. Johnson lies murdered on the floor of his study. His wife claims she was upstairs reading. The maid says she was dusting the mantelpiece in the living room. The gardener insisted he was in the shed oiling his clippers. The butler announced he had gone to get the mail.
"So, class, to coin a phrase: who done it?" Mr. Donneley grinned again.
Two hands shot in the air. Mine, and Sherlock's.
"Yes, we all know you know the answer, Mr. Holmes. Put your hand down."
Sherlock glowered.
"Miss Watson? Who do you think?"
Eyes… beautiful eyes… huh? Oh, yeah - "The butler," I said, triumphantly.
The room filled with snickers. I frowned.
"Why the butler?" my drop-dead-gorgeous teacher asked.
"Because," I said, "The mail doesn't come on Sundays."
Mr. Donnelley and Sherlock stared, so I avoided their gazes. "At least," I said, "Not in America."
"That's… correct." Mr. Donnelley smiled. "Next page, if you will."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I wasn't sure if I was surprised or please when at lunch, Sherlock Holmes came and sat across from me.
"What is it with you?" I asked. "You told me to avoid you and now I can't!"
"You…" Sherlock said, "You've got, how do they say it? Spunk."
"Spunk. Great." I toyed with the school salad, which looked a little rubbery. "I thought you said you're not the kind of person I want to be around."
"I'm starting to think I'm wrong," he said. "Tell me. Look at me and tell me what you see."
I raised my eyebrows. "I see a boy who's lost his mind. Excuse me." I got up to leave.
"No, stay!" Sherlock caught my hand. Startled, I looked first at his hand, then his face. A distant part of my brain flicked on. He's cute… I thought.
"Remember this morning, when you figured out I went to this school? And that I was taking AP Chem? Do that again. What else can you tell?"
I paused for a moment. "You write with your left hand."
"Excellent! How did you know?"
I sat back down. "Even though you caught me with your right hand just now, the middle finger of your left hand has a callous where your pen rubs."
Sherlock Holmes grinned. "Tell me, Watson," he said after a moment. "How do you feel about solving mysteries?"
