Ok, I'm finally writing again! Sorry, I got sick again. I think I have a weak immune system... anywho. I'm desperately sorry for making the last chapter so... not descriptive. As I said, we had a Tornado Watch, which later turned into a warning, so I had to type like I've never typed before.
I've had a couple of people ask me whether or not Holmes and Watson are reincarnations of the formers. The answer is No. They are descendants, nothing more. I'm going to elaborate more on that later. Trust me! If you have any other questions, just add them to the reviews, and I'll be happy to answer them. Also, both Holmes and Watson are fifteen and are in tenth grade. So... here's the next chapter
Chapter 4: Investigation
A strong hand shook me from my lovely dream. Annoyed, I swatted it away.
"Go away Mom. It's to early," I mumbled into my pillow. A soft laughter pulled me from the last layers of sleep and I rolled over to look at the figure leaning over me.
"Holmes, come on, it's... jeez, it's seven in the morning," I groaned, looking at my clock. He persisted in shaking me until finally I slapped his hand away and sat up.
"What! School's cancelled, I heard it already. Go back to sleep!"
"My dear Watson, you really are a deep sleeper, and a cranky lady when forced awake. Come, we have an investigation to begin. You will need these clothes, and I suggest you move along, quickly of course," he explained, all the while chuckling to himself. I glared at him and pulled myself from my bed. He left the room and I stared at the clothes he had handed me.
"God Holmes! These smell awful!" I whispered. They were a policewoman's clothes, and smelled of sweat and sewer. Reluctantly I pulled them on with disdain, holding my breath. I grabbed a comb and stepped into the hallway.
Holmes stood in front of our hallway mirror, carefully parting his now oily hair. I grimaced at the sight and quickly ran the comb through my hair.
"Holmes, what in the world did you put in your hair?" I badgered. He looked at me with surprise.
"Whose Holmes? My name is Stanley Young. I work for the, I don't know, Welsh police," he said, in a flawless Brooklyn accent. I cracked up as he applied a mustache.
"All right, Mr. Young. Who am I?" I asked. He looked at me thoughtfully.
"Well, you look French... You're Olivia Cardia, my young French assistant. Or apprentice, your choice," he said. I gaped at him in horror.
"I failed French! I can hardly say 'hello' in French!"
"First of all, it's Bonjour. Second of all, why do you think I chose it? You know some words. Besides, this way you might not accidentally blow our cover," he commented.
"Excuse me? Blow our cover? I don't think so!" I half yelled. He laughed and started down the stairs.
"Excusez-moi? Soufflez notre couverture ? Je ne pense pas ainsi!" he said.
"What!?" I said as he darted out the door.
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We approached the crime scene carefully and quietly, hoping not to get caught. I prayed we wouldn't get caught, but everyone knows that it is sure to happen.
As Holmes lifted the crime scene tape, we heard the dull thud of a heavy man's shoes against the pavement. The man turned the corner and looked at us.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing here? Who are you?" he yelled. I assumed the best blank look I could muster and smiled sweetly at him.
"Bonjour, monsieur!" I called. He scratched his head dumbly and turned to Holmes.
"Oi! I asked you a question!" he barked. Holmes looked at him calmly and smiled.
"Good day my dear man. My name is Stanley Young. I was sent by my commander to check out this here crime scene. Now, if you could please let us pass..." Holmes said, waving a hand in the man's face. The man's pudgy face frowned, and finally he turned and stalked away, leaving us to our own devices.
I followed Holmes inside and we went into the gym. The place was in shambles, literally. The bright colored banners that once hung from the eaves now lay draped on the floor. The gym floor had black marks from people's shoes everywhere. The refreshments were still out, gathering flies, and the bullet holes were everywhere (A.N. There were lots of gun shots, but when I was writing that, I heard on the news a tornado had been spotted in the county next to us, and I panicked and wrote as quickly as I could. All together, there were thirteen gunshots). Holmes pulled out a magnifying glass and began to inspect a few of the holes that were stuck in the floor and wood bleachers. His methodical ways slowly moved him to the door, when he issued a cry of triumph. I walked toward him casually.
"What did you find Holmes?" I questioned. He smiled and pointed to a small hole in the brick. I stared at it, but found nothing there.
"Come now Holmes. Nothing is there," I protested. He shook his head.
"I didn't tell you to inspect the bullet, I just told you to look at the hole. What can you infer from it?" he interrogated. I shrugged.
"I don't know... how tall he is?" I asked. He nodded.
"Indeed. You see, if the bullet was imbedded here, and a man wishes to shoot with proper poise and accuracy, they would level there hands, like so," he said, demonstrating. I nodded.
"I dare say that our man would like to use the best poise and accuracy when trying to kill people, so next I looked at where the bullet was imbedded. About six feet off the ground, actually around 5"10. Add a few inches for the shoulders, neck and head, and I would say our suspect is around six feet, only about an inch shorter than me. I also know what hand they write with, because I found these on the floor." Holmes held up a bag full of black ashes, which I could only assume were gun powder.
"These ashes are discharge from a gun that is sold in only one place in England, and thankfully it's near by. This gun is made for a left handed man, and a right handed man would cause themselves great injury if they tried to use it. And so, now we are off to see Danny."
"Whose Danny?"
"Wait and see, Watson. Wait and see."
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We arrived at a small store about seven miles away from my home twenty minutes later. The store was a small, dilapidated old place, with shingles slipping off the roof and rotten stairs. Holmes entered the store with ease and comfort, while I warily eyed the stairs and shingles. It looked like it could collapse at any second.
Danny turned out to be the owner of the store, a weasel eyed old man. He was hideous to look at, with rotten teeth, a mole on his chin, dirty fingernails, and a ugly tattoo on his arm. He was as pitiful looking as he was disgusting. Holmes approached the counter with grace and flair and leaned an arm upon it.
"Hello Danny. We meet again. I have something that I need you to find for me," Holmes said offhandedly. The man bared his disgusting teeth.
"I ain't doin' nothin' fer ya Holmes. One moth in jail 'cause 'o' you. I ain't gonna do nuthin'," Danny said nastily. Holmes remained calm, though I could feel my blood boiling.
"A pound if you help me Danny," he continued. The man licked his lips greedily and smiled.
"Two," he said. Holmes shook his head.
"I don't have two. A pound and a guinea," Holmes bartered. The man's eyes popped open.
"Deal. What'd ya got fer me, Holmes me boy?" Danny said, swiping the money from Holmes' outstretched palm. Holmes reached his thin hand into his pocket and pulled out the bag of ashes I had seen earlier.
"Who bought this gun?" Holmes demanded. Danny glared at him and took the ashes out of the bag. He sniffed them with elegance I wouldn't have granted him, and set the ashes on the counter.
"Huh, left handed caliber. I never sold one of these, Holmes. Plenty of right handed ones, but no lefties," he said, pushing the bag away from him. Holmes scowled.
"This is your signature style, Danny. Do you make them?" Holmes inquired angrily. Danny nodded.
"Sure I do. Two is the total I've ever made," he said casually. Holmes sighed, exasperated.
"Then how could you not sell THIS GUN TO SOMEONE!" Holmes finally yelled. Danny jumped back, very startled.
"Now then, Holmes. No-no need to get excited. This gun was stolen from me. Last week sometime. I don't exactly keep track..."
Holmes slammed his hand down on the counter, his rage shining through his once calm blue eyes.
"Tell me now, you little louse! I know you keep records! I've seen the bloody records! What day was this gun stolen!" Holmes bellowed. Danny shrank behind his arms, and scuried to the back of the store. Holmes ran a hand through his hair, quite perturbed. Danny came back out in a minutes, carrying a large, black book in his hands. He flipped it open and pulled out some glasses.
"Caliber... no that was right handed... Ah! Here it is! Wednesday, this week was when it disappeared. Went with my best hunting knife too!" Danny whined. Holmes rolled is eyes and examined the book carefully.
"Thank you Danny. It says it was kept in a safe. May I look around in the back?" Holmes asked kindly.
This was boring, sorry to say. I was no detective, and none of this was relevant to me. I glanced down at my watch and was shocked to see the time.
"Holmes, it's nearly noon. We must be getting back now! Mom will be worried about us," I whispered urgently. He brushed me aside impatiently and pointed toward the old, battered phone in the corner.
"Holmes, no change," I whispered again. He turned and looked at me, ticked off.
"Really Watson, I don't have time for this. Take the bloody change and call your mother," he said urgently, pushing multiple coins into my hands. As I stalked off to use the phone, Holmes went into the back room, looking at a few things. I called my mom, who was furious at me for not leaving a note, and said I could stay out until five. I dashed to the back of the store, where Holmes was examining the safe with his magnifying glass.
"Picked. It was picked from a hair pin from the company Eve's. Rubber on the end, made of copper, high quality... bent a bit more than one would expect... strong?" Holmes was muttering to himself, fingering the inside combination and lock as Danny stood nearby, rubbing his hands nervously. Finally Holmes stood, brushing himself off and turning to Danny.
"Thank you Danny. You've proved to be of great help today. We might be back later, but I doubt it," Holmes said lazily. He turned to me.
"Come Watson. We have a while, yes? Let me treat you to lunch," he said, pulling me out of the store.
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We had lunch at a cozy family diner. He told me all the facts he had gathered, that our suspect was about six foot, left handed, and lived with an older woman. Quite possibly his mother. The mother had blond hair with brown roots, showing that she dyed it. The suspect was handy with unlocking things, and could bend and manipulate things with ease. All this he deduced from a bullet, ashes, a lock and a hair pin. He knew where the gun had been bought, where the hair pin came from, and a few other details that he laid aside for the moment, saying they weren't important as of yet.
As we walked home around four, we struck up a small conversation that, for once, wasn't related to the case.
"Holmes, have you ever had a girlfriend?" I asked. He looked at me with surprise, caught off guard. He laughed, quite suddenly, startling me.
"You really think that I, Sherlock Holmes, would ever have a girlfriend?" he laughed, but it seemed strained. I looked at him skeptically.
"That didn't answer my question, Holmes," I reminded. He fell silent.
"Yes and no. I had a strong liking for a girl when I was younger, but she liked those who were strong, not smart. She liked the jocks, and she hated me. What about you," he said, changing the subject with simplicity. I shrugged.
"Well, yeah. He was an idiot though. We grew bored and drifted apart. I haven't really met the perfect guy yet," I said. But then I realized that wasn't true.
I had, and he stood here before me.
"Good bye Watson," he said, for we had reached my house, "see you tomorrow," he said. I nodded and watched as he walked down the street and disappeared around the corner, feeling highly confused.
