Olivia sighed as she pulled away form HQ. C.S.I. wasn't a job for anyone with a weak stomach. If fact, you couldn't have a stomach.
Ah, vacation, wonderful vaction. Her hotel room in London was going to be pure bliss compared with the hectic traffic of New York City. She had basicly packed everypiece of her clothing in the trunk of her car.
She pulled on to the highway in her Mustang. Smiling slightly, she looked at the charm bracelett her best friend and investigation partner, Krysten Marianson, had givin her as a joke birthday present.
Krys probably didn't think she would appreciate it as much as she did. Having a last name of Watson could be a pretty big detriment on your way up the scale in forensics. The little magnifying glass, deerstalker cap, pen, and book silver charms were a little reminder of what was in her history. Or what might have been her history.
Recently, some people tearing down a house on Baker street in London had found a journal. It was in the back of the house, away from all the exhibits that now inhabited 221. It seemed to be stuck inside a old case that they had to take to an antique restorer to open due to the state of the case. Olivia deduced that they probably opened it with a "nightingale", so called by turn of the century vandals who used them to break into houses and the sweet sound they made when they banged against eack other.
The journals, after opened, were from about the 1890's to the 1930's. If they were what they seemed to be, that ment. . .that Sherlock Holmes was real.
And the piece of torn out paper with a (as she thought) doctor's untidy scroll that she had gotten from an ancestor of hers from the turn of the century was real.
Thus making it seem like she was an actually, living, breathing, honest-to-goodness Watson. This made her feel very proud.
Humming to a tune on the radio, she payed the toll for the bridge. "Just another perfect day . . ." she sang insync with the singer.
Except the day really wasn't.
Olivia watched as a car switched precariously from one lane to another, and then back. Hope this guy gets pulled over she thought to herself as she glanced forward at the obviously drunk driver.
And then it happened. He stopped abruptly infront of her. She tried to swerve out of the way.
Her car slid a quarter of a turn and straught ahead. . . and over the side of the bridge.
Watson braced herself for the impact, knowing that she'd never have a chance to swim. Closing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and tried to hold on to the last few seconds of her life. "Bye, everybody, I loved you like a sister, Krys. I love you, mom. . . ."
Thud.
She waited . . and waited . .but nothing happened.
Opening her eyes, she saw she was sprawled on the floor of a turkish rug and was in a room that smelled heavily of a particularly strong pipe tobacco.
The walls all had books, jars, and miscallanious items collecting dust on the shelves. "This reminds me of . . "
"Why, Watson, look at what we have hear?" A tall, lanky man rose from a seat infront of a fireplace. His sandy-brown hair was slightly ruffled and a pair feirce, peircing blue eyes studied her criticly as he looked over a stong , pale nose.
Oliva stood up and smirked, "You have Olivia," she put out her hand, "Olivia Watson."