The Adventures of Holmes and Watson
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Note: This is a modern day Sherlock Holmes story. This will be worked on least out of all of the series, as I want this to be novel-length. Watson is a girl, for various reasons. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor do I claim to. I don't own the name Watson, nor do I own the original character, though I do own my Watson, and the storyline.
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Chapter 1
Rain spattered on the cold, grey ground. Baker Street looked gloomy, as did the rest of London, for it had been raining for days on end. People walked with umbrellas and wore rain jackets and boots. The streets were a mass of many different colored umbrellas.
I stepped out into the cool air of the morning, shivering slightly. Quickly opening up my umbrella, I closed the door behind me and stepped into the rain. My boots thudding as I walked, I kept a quick pace as I headed to the bus stop, intent on arriving early even though buses were known to be late if the weather was even slightly bad.
My name is Elizabeth Anne Watson, known to most as simply 'Watson,' due to the fact that I have no friends to speak of. This does not bother me in the least, I prefer being alone over being with people I don't like. It isn't that I have a dislike for people in general, just people that assume things that are untrue and often cruel about me. I do not deny the fact that I'm unusual, yet I don't find myself extremely out of the ordinary. So what if I enjoy my classes? Just because I want to succeed doesn't make me any less worthy of my peers' respect. My looks do not help the situation either.
My dark brown hair is always in a mess, thick and unmanagable. It is usually tied back as neatly as possible, yet strands of hair always find their way out of the elastic. The thing I hate most about my hair though, is my bangs. If I sweat the slightest bit, or the softest of winds blew against me, or even if they were simply a bit long, they curled upwards and to the side and in all directions. Not even actual curls, they just somehow managed to twist upwards.
The rest of me seems quite normal. My eyes are dark brown to match my hair. My cheeks were always slightly pink, no matter what. I'm quite short though (in my opinion), about five feet and two inches tall. Last, but certainly not least, I wear glasses. This, however, does not bother me at all. I quite like the glasses, and so I refuse to wear contact lenses. This is one thing that sets me apart from the people I knew at my old school - I was the only one to wear glasses. Every other student wore contact lenses or didn't bother with their glasses, yet I wore mine. I have yet to see what the students at Sherrington are like.
Once I arrived at the bus stop, I stopped and turned towards the direction the bus would be coming from. There were a few people there, three girls and one boy. The girls were chatting with each other and giggling over what I'm sure was the boy standing only a few feet away from them. He looked like he was about a foot taller than me, and was quite lanky. His hair was light brown and longer in the back and his eyes were light blue behind his glasses, which were round and really made him look intelligent.
Staring straight ahead, as if deep in thought, I'm sure he either wasn't paying attention to the girls, or didn't notice their incessant chatter - the latter sounding quite absurd, for how could anyone not notice it? He looked no more like a social butterfly than I'm sure I do, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Of course, there is always the possibility that he is a jerk who is too arrogant to think anyone else is as good as he himself is, or perhaps he just has a lack of interest in making friends.
But I would only be able to answer this if I were to actually talk to him. He didn't look too bad, and if it turned out that I didn't like him, I would simply just not speak to him anymore.
With this in mind, I boarded the bus as it pulled up to the stop, right after the boy. I took the first seat I could find, the very first seat on the bus, and plopped down. Unfortunately, reading in a bus or car makes me nauseous, so I was forced to sit there and wait to get to the school. Quickly turning around, I allowed my eyes to wander to all of the faces on the bus. Most of them were very rich looking girls and boys, it was obvious from the way they moved and spoke to each other. Finally, when my eyes rested on the boy from the bus stop, I noticed that he was reading a book, though I couldn't tell what the book was from here. He was in the very last seat at the back, and he too was sitting by himself. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he appeared to really be concentrating on what he was reading.
With a sigh, I turned back around and stared straight ahead until the bus stopped infront of Sherrington. Standing up and adjusting my pleated skirt, I grabbed my bag, a notebook, and my umbrella and stepped off of the bus, immediately putting my umbrella over my head and staring straight up at the enormous building infront of me. Students walked past me in all directions, joining people they knew and looking for someone familiar. There were a few that wandered by themselves, but most of them were joined by atleast one acquantance.
Suddenly, I was pushed forward when I felt something, or someone, slam into me from behind. Just barely managing to keep myself on my feet, I turned to see a tall boy who looked about a year older than myself. Infront of him, and at my feet, was the boy from the bus stop, gathering his books and scattered papers as he picked himself up.
"Not so fast, Holmes," snarled the other boy, looking like he was ready to punch 'Holmes,' which I assumed he had already done before he had collided with me. "If you ever imply that I'm stupid again-"
"It was simply an observation, Jackson," Holmes said calmly as he stood up and straightened his soaking, dirty jacket. "If you did not talk things you know nothing of, one would not assume you are less intelligent than most. Lucky for you, most of the students at this school share your knowledge (or lack there of) and do not even notice when you say something without an ounce of truth in it." By this time, the other boy was shaking with rage. "They simply take your word for it and think nothing more on it. I, however, will not believe everything I hear, especially if I know for a fact what has been said to me is a lie."
It seemed that this was the last straw for Jackson. "That's it Holmes, you're dead this time." Before I knew it, he had slammed his fist into the side of Holmes' face, knocking him over once again.
It looked like Jackson was ready to pounce on Holmes and beat him up, but he stopped suddenly, shot a glare at Holmes, and walked away as if nothing had happened. This surprised me at first, before I noticed that there were a few people who appeared to be teachers walking close by. Apparently they hadn't noticed.
Hearing a groan, I turned back around to see Holmes picking himself up, once again. He held soaking books in his hands and appeared to be looking around for his glasses. Looking down too, I noticed they were at my feet and bent down and swiftly picked them up. I unzipped my jacket to wipe them off on my shirt and handed them to the surprised boy. He took them and put them back on, blinking rapidly for a few seconds.
"Thank you, Miss Watson," he said politely, wiping blood off of the corner of his mouth.
This shocked me, I hadn't told anyone my name. "How did you know that is my name?"
He motioned towards the notebook I carried in my free hand. It had my name, 'Elizabeth Anne Watson' scrawled messily on the cover. "Oh, yes."
He nodded politely and continued on his way. But I wasn't about to pretend this didn't happen, so I quickly caught up to him.
"So you want to know what that was all about," he said, looking straight ahead and not slowing down in the slightest.
"Well, yes I would," I paused, "But how did you know that?"
Shrugging one shoulder, Holmes pushed open a door and stepped through, not even holding the door for me, which I frowned at. "Let's just say I can tell a lot about people just by looking at them. I'm good at observing and deducing, you could say."
This boy seemed more shocking the more you spoke to him. But it was quite interesting, to say the least. So I decided to see if what he said was true. "Oh? Well tell me something about myself then."
Holmes turned suddenly around to face me and studied me for a few moments. His wet hair dripped into his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice, either that or he really didn't care. While he was staring at me, I quickly put my umbrella into a plastic bag in my backpack.
"You're sixteen years old, soon to be seventeen." He said, crossing one arm over his chest and moving his right hand up to his chin. "You are an American, and you've only been here for a year. Your parents are divorced, you live with your mother, who happens to be English, and your father still lives in America, an American himself. Judging by your accent, I'd say you lived in California."
I couldn't help it, my jaw dropped. There was no one I knew that could possibly tell him this, and unless he was my stalker, he was really good at observing and deducing, as he said he was. Judging from the look of ammusement on his face, I assumed he could tell what I was thinking.
He allowed a small smile before it faded away. "And there we have it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get to class."
I stood dumbfounded for a moment and then grabbed his arm. "Wait, you know my name but I don't even know yours."
He turned around once again. "Very well," and he stuck his hand out for me to shake. "Sherlock Holmes."
I took his hand and shook it. "Elizabeth Anne Watson. You already know my name but I figure we should be properly introduced."
Holmes nodded and pulled his hand away. "Your first class is english literature, is it not?" Before I had the chance to answer, he pointed behind him. "This way. You seem to be intelligent enough and I can tell you're even smarter than you let on."
Not knowing whether or not to take this as a compliment, I followed him anyway. He didn't seem all that bad, even if he was somewhat cold to most everyone. Along the way to class, he bumped into a countless number of people, and neither he nor the person that bumped him appologized. He seemed fine towards me, but everyone else it seemed he could not even be the faintest bit polite to. No matter, though. He acted polite to me and that was the point. There wasn't anyone I had seen besides him that I was interested in talking to at all.
Once we had reached our english literature class, Holmes opened the door and walked in, once again not bothering to hold it for me. Not that I had expected it, really. After looking around for a moment, he headed over to a desk on the far right side of the classroom, in the middle. I followed him in and sat beside him, opening up my bag and pulling out my literature textbook. Holmes did the same, and placed his wet books on the floor. There were a few students inside already, chattering away and not even noticing us. A few of the students glanced at us every once in a while, grinned at each other and continued talking about whatever it was they were talking about before.
I began wondering when the bell was going to ring, and just as I was going to ask, there it was. Minutes later students piled into the classroom, and a few shot Holmes dirty looks here and there. This didn't bother him in the least.
After the teacher entered, the class eventually grew quiet and turned their attention to the front.
The teacher was a woman who didn't look a day over twenty. Her blonde hair was neatly pulled back into a ponytail, and it was very curly. Her eyes were quite large and a very pretty hazel. Around her wrists she wore sparkling silver bracelets, and she had a matching necklace around her neck. She wore a simple blue dress with no sleeves and ended at her knees. Over top, she wore a knitted, button up sweater.
"Good morning class," her voice was soft yet quite loud. "Welcome to english literature. I am your teacher, Ms Cameron. English literature is a fascinating, interesting subject if you can learn to appreciate it. There will be a lot of reading, and a lot of writing in this class, but I guarantee you, if you ask questions and really, truly try to understand, I will not let you fail this course."
Ms Cameron proceeded on by telling the class about a few rules she had, such as no talking while others are talking, basically the usual rules teachers have. Next she handed out a course outline and then gave out the first assignment, which was to be handed in at the end of the year. Each student was to write about someone special to them, why they are special, and then to write about the most memorable experience the student has had with them. Most of the students in the class groaned, and even Holmes didn't exactly look pleased with what they we're supposed to do. I guess he didn't find this an intelligent enough assignment for him.
Throughout the day, I discovered that each of my classes was with Holmes, with the exception of my optional class, creative writing, inwhich he took advanced calculus. Holmes was, seriously, the smartest person I have ever met, and I told him this on the bus ride home. He simply shrugged one of his shoulders and stared ahead. We got off of the bus together and showed each other our homes.
"Hey, Holmes," I called, as he was walking towards his house. He turned swiftly and looked at me. "Tomorrow, after school, want to come over or something? We can do homework if you like."
For the third time that day, Holmes shrugged a shoulder. Though I could tell it was a yes, and with a smile, I walked into my house. It was great, to finally have found someone who I could understand, and may even understand me.
When my mother asked me how my day was, I told her that all of my classes seemed fine and I had actually made a friend (well, somewhat). She was so happy for me, which made me happy as well.
That night when I was doing homework in my room, the telephone sitting beside me rang loudly, making me jump. After I dropped my pencil I picked up the phone, my heart pounding.
"Hello?" I said into the reciever.
"Look out your window."
"Holmes?"
"Yes, yes, it's me. Now look out your window."
"How did you get my number-"
"Just look out the bloody window!" His voice screamed at me. I flinched and leaned over my desk and stared at the street below. All I saw was darkness.
Shaking my head and sighing, I began muttering, "I don't see anything Holmes, what are you talking about?"
"Just keep looking, you'll see it in a moment."
With another sigh, I bent forward and stared out the window for a few moments. Just before I was about to sit back, I could just make out a black shape moving down the street, staggering slightly. It was too dark to make out any details, but it was very obvious it was a person. A person who appeared to be limping.
"You see it now?"
"Yes," I whispered back, "but why did you want me to see that?"
There was a short pause, inwhich I was sure I could hear him breathing. "Because I'm positive I've seen that person lurking outside of my house before."
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Note: This is a modern day Sherlock Holmes story. This will be worked on least out of all of the series, as I want this to be novel-length. Watson is a girl, for various reasons. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor do I claim to. I don't own the name Watson, nor do I own the original character, though I do own my Watson, and the storyline.
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Chapter 1
Rain spattered on the cold, grey ground. Baker Street looked gloomy, as did the rest of London, for it had been raining for days on end. People walked with umbrellas and wore rain jackets and boots. The streets were a mass of many different colored umbrellas.
I stepped out into the cool air of the morning, shivering slightly. Quickly opening up my umbrella, I closed the door behind me and stepped into the rain. My boots thudding as I walked, I kept a quick pace as I headed to the bus stop, intent on arriving early even though buses were known to be late if the weather was even slightly bad.
My name is Elizabeth Anne Watson, known to most as simply 'Watson,' due to the fact that I have no friends to speak of. This does not bother me in the least, I prefer being alone over being with people I don't like. It isn't that I have a dislike for people in general, just people that assume things that are untrue and often cruel about me. I do not deny the fact that I'm unusual, yet I don't find myself extremely out of the ordinary. So what if I enjoy my classes? Just because I want to succeed doesn't make me any less worthy of my peers' respect. My looks do not help the situation either.
My dark brown hair is always in a mess, thick and unmanagable. It is usually tied back as neatly as possible, yet strands of hair always find their way out of the elastic. The thing I hate most about my hair though, is my bangs. If I sweat the slightest bit, or the softest of winds blew against me, or even if they were simply a bit long, they curled upwards and to the side and in all directions. Not even actual curls, they just somehow managed to twist upwards.
The rest of me seems quite normal. My eyes are dark brown to match my hair. My cheeks were always slightly pink, no matter what. I'm quite short though (in my opinion), about five feet and two inches tall. Last, but certainly not least, I wear glasses. This, however, does not bother me at all. I quite like the glasses, and so I refuse to wear contact lenses. This is one thing that sets me apart from the people I knew at my old school - I was the only one to wear glasses. Every other student wore contact lenses or didn't bother with their glasses, yet I wore mine. I have yet to see what the students at Sherrington are like.
Once I arrived at the bus stop, I stopped and turned towards the direction the bus would be coming from. There were a few people there, three girls and one boy. The girls were chatting with each other and giggling over what I'm sure was the boy standing only a few feet away from them. He looked like he was about a foot taller than me, and was quite lanky. His hair was light brown and longer in the back and his eyes were light blue behind his glasses, which were round and really made him look intelligent.
Staring straight ahead, as if deep in thought, I'm sure he either wasn't paying attention to the girls, or didn't notice their incessant chatter - the latter sounding quite absurd, for how could anyone not notice it? He looked no more like a social butterfly than I'm sure I do, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Of course, there is always the possibility that he is a jerk who is too arrogant to think anyone else is as good as he himself is, or perhaps he just has a lack of interest in making friends.
But I would only be able to answer this if I were to actually talk to him. He didn't look too bad, and if it turned out that I didn't like him, I would simply just not speak to him anymore.
With this in mind, I boarded the bus as it pulled up to the stop, right after the boy. I took the first seat I could find, the very first seat on the bus, and plopped down. Unfortunately, reading in a bus or car makes me nauseous, so I was forced to sit there and wait to get to the school. Quickly turning around, I allowed my eyes to wander to all of the faces on the bus. Most of them were very rich looking girls and boys, it was obvious from the way they moved and spoke to each other. Finally, when my eyes rested on the boy from the bus stop, I noticed that he was reading a book, though I couldn't tell what the book was from here. He was in the very last seat at the back, and he too was sitting by himself. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he appeared to really be concentrating on what he was reading.
With a sigh, I turned back around and stared straight ahead until the bus stopped infront of Sherrington. Standing up and adjusting my pleated skirt, I grabbed my bag, a notebook, and my umbrella and stepped off of the bus, immediately putting my umbrella over my head and staring straight up at the enormous building infront of me. Students walked past me in all directions, joining people they knew and looking for someone familiar. There were a few that wandered by themselves, but most of them were joined by atleast one acquantance.
Suddenly, I was pushed forward when I felt something, or someone, slam into me from behind. Just barely managing to keep myself on my feet, I turned to see a tall boy who looked about a year older than myself. Infront of him, and at my feet, was the boy from the bus stop, gathering his books and scattered papers as he picked himself up.
"Not so fast, Holmes," snarled the other boy, looking like he was ready to punch 'Holmes,' which I assumed he had already done before he had collided with me. "If you ever imply that I'm stupid again-"
"It was simply an observation, Jackson," Holmes said calmly as he stood up and straightened his soaking, dirty jacket. "If you did not talk things you know nothing of, one would not assume you are less intelligent than most. Lucky for you, most of the students at this school share your knowledge (or lack there of) and do not even notice when you say something without an ounce of truth in it." By this time, the other boy was shaking with rage. "They simply take your word for it and think nothing more on it. I, however, will not believe everything I hear, especially if I know for a fact what has been said to me is a lie."
It seemed that this was the last straw for Jackson. "That's it Holmes, you're dead this time." Before I knew it, he had slammed his fist into the side of Holmes' face, knocking him over once again.
It looked like Jackson was ready to pounce on Holmes and beat him up, but he stopped suddenly, shot a glare at Holmes, and walked away as if nothing had happened. This surprised me at first, before I noticed that there were a few people who appeared to be teachers walking close by. Apparently they hadn't noticed.
Hearing a groan, I turned back around to see Holmes picking himself up, once again. He held soaking books in his hands and appeared to be looking around for his glasses. Looking down too, I noticed they were at my feet and bent down and swiftly picked them up. I unzipped my jacket to wipe them off on my shirt and handed them to the surprised boy. He took them and put them back on, blinking rapidly for a few seconds.
"Thank you, Miss Watson," he said politely, wiping blood off of the corner of his mouth.
This shocked me, I hadn't told anyone my name. "How did you know that is my name?"
He motioned towards the notebook I carried in my free hand. It had my name, 'Elizabeth Anne Watson' scrawled messily on the cover. "Oh, yes."
He nodded politely and continued on his way. But I wasn't about to pretend this didn't happen, so I quickly caught up to him.
"So you want to know what that was all about," he said, looking straight ahead and not slowing down in the slightest.
"Well, yes I would," I paused, "But how did you know that?"
Shrugging one shoulder, Holmes pushed open a door and stepped through, not even holding the door for me, which I frowned at. "Let's just say I can tell a lot about people just by looking at them. I'm good at observing and deducing, you could say."
This boy seemed more shocking the more you spoke to him. But it was quite interesting, to say the least. So I decided to see if what he said was true. "Oh? Well tell me something about myself then."
Holmes turned suddenly around to face me and studied me for a few moments. His wet hair dripped into his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice, either that or he really didn't care. While he was staring at me, I quickly put my umbrella into a plastic bag in my backpack.
"You're sixteen years old, soon to be seventeen." He said, crossing one arm over his chest and moving his right hand up to his chin. "You are an American, and you've only been here for a year. Your parents are divorced, you live with your mother, who happens to be English, and your father still lives in America, an American himself. Judging by your accent, I'd say you lived in California."
I couldn't help it, my jaw dropped. There was no one I knew that could possibly tell him this, and unless he was my stalker, he was really good at observing and deducing, as he said he was. Judging from the look of ammusement on his face, I assumed he could tell what I was thinking.
He allowed a small smile before it faded away. "And there we have it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get to class."
I stood dumbfounded for a moment and then grabbed his arm. "Wait, you know my name but I don't even know yours."
He turned around once again. "Very well," and he stuck his hand out for me to shake. "Sherlock Holmes."
I took his hand and shook it. "Elizabeth Anne Watson. You already know my name but I figure we should be properly introduced."
Holmes nodded and pulled his hand away. "Your first class is english literature, is it not?" Before I had the chance to answer, he pointed behind him. "This way. You seem to be intelligent enough and I can tell you're even smarter than you let on."
Not knowing whether or not to take this as a compliment, I followed him anyway. He didn't seem all that bad, even if he was somewhat cold to most everyone. Along the way to class, he bumped into a countless number of people, and neither he nor the person that bumped him appologized. He seemed fine towards me, but everyone else it seemed he could not even be the faintest bit polite to. No matter, though. He acted polite to me and that was the point. There wasn't anyone I had seen besides him that I was interested in talking to at all.
Once we had reached our english literature class, Holmes opened the door and walked in, once again not bothering to hold it for me. Not that I had expected it, really. After looking around for a moment, he headed over to a desk on the far right side of the classroom, in the middle. I followed him in and sat beside him, opening up my bag and pulling out my literature textbook. Holmes did the same, and placed his wet books on the floor. There were a few students inside already, chattering away and not even noticing us. A few of the students glanced at us every once in a while, grinned at each other and continued talking about whatever it was they were talking about before.
I began wondering when the bell was going to ring, and just as I was going to ask, there it was. Minutes later students piled into the classroom, and a few shot Holmes dirty looks here and there. This didn't bother him in the least.
After the teacher entered, the class eventually grew quiet and turned their attention to the front.
The teacher was a woman who didn't look a day over twenty. Her blonde hair was neatly pulled back into a ponytail, and it was very curly. Her eyes were quite large and a very pretty hazel. Around her wrists she wore sparkling silver bracelets, and she had a matching necklace around her neck. She wore a simple blue dress with no sleeves and ended at her knees. Over top, she wore a knitted, button up sweater.
"Good morning class," her voice was soft yet quite loud. "Welcome to english literature. I am your teacher, Ms Cameron. English literature is a fascinating, interesting subject if you can learn to appreciate it. There will be a lot of reading, and a lot of writing in this class, but I guarantee you, if you ask questions and really, truly try to understand, I will not let you fail this course."
Ms Cameron proceeded on by telling the class about a few rules she had, such as no talking while others are talking, basically the usual rules teachers have. Next she handed out a course outline and then gave out the first assignment, which was to be handed in at the end of the year. Each student was to write about someone special to them, why they are special, and then to write about the most memorable experience the student has had with them. Most of the students in the class groaned, and even Holmes didn't exactly look pleased with what they we're supposed to do. I guess he didn't find this an intelligent enough assignment for him.
Throughout the day, I discovered that each of my classes was with Holmes, with the exception of my optional class, creative writing, inwhich he took advanced calculus. Holmes was, seriously, the smartest person I have ever met, and I told him this on the bus ride home. He simply shrugged one of his shoulders and stared ahead. We got off of the bus together and showed each other our homes.
"Hey, Holmes," I called, as he was walking towards his house. He turned swiftly and looked at me. "Tomorrow, after school, want to come over or something? We can do homework if you like."
For the third time that day, Holmes shrugged a shoulder. Though I could tell it was a yes, and with a smile, I walked into my house. It was great, to finally have found someone who I could understand, and may even understand me.
When my mother asked me how my day was, I told her that all of my classes seemed fine and I had actually made a friend (well, somewhat). She was so happy for me, which made me happy as well.
That night when I was doing homework in my room, the telephone sitting beside me rang loudly, making me jump. After I dropped my pencil I picked up the phone, my heart pounding.
"Hello?" I said into the reciever.
"Look out your window."
"Holmes?"
"Yes, yes, it's me. Now look out your window."
"How did you get my number-"
"Just look out the bloody window!" His voice screamed at me. I flinched and leaned over my desk and stared at the street below. All I saw was darkness.
Shaking my head and sighing, I began muttering, "I don't see anything Holmes, what are you talking about?"
"Just keep looking, you'll see it in a moment."
With another sigh, I bent forward and stared out the window for a few moments. Just before I was about to sit back, I could just make out a black shape moving down the street, staggering slightly. It was too dark to make out any details, but it was very obvious it was a person. A person who appeared to be limping.
"You see it now?"
"Yes," I whispered back, "but why did you want me to see that?"
There was a short pause, inwhich I was sure I could hear him breathing. "Because I'm positive I've seen that person lurking outside of my house before."