Hello again! I'm back with the third addition to this story *cracks
knuckles* But first, I'd like to say a few things. My computer was infected
with a friggin' virus called "Backdoor" *raises fist* and Internet Explorer
refused to work. Even now, though it's gone, it's acting a whole lot
slower.
QueenofSpain: You're right! The title of chapter two was a line from the Beatles' song "Tomorrow Never Knows". Also, if you haven't already noticed, Rita Michelle's name was also taken from two other Beatle songs, "Lovely Rita" and "Michelle".
March Hare: Thanks for the tips, darling!
Snowwolf: Hmm. Well usually I associate hangovers with extreme sensitivity of hearing, i.e. everything sounds louder than usual, so I left the yelling in chapter one, when everyone was drunk. Rita, having been awake most of the night, without having a clue where she is, and worried about her sister after watching her pass out, is scared beyond words, so I made her act very quiet. But I value your insight; actually, I picture Leyla as the more in- your-face person! It was interesting that you pictured Rita that way.
Now... on to chapter three!
CHAPTER THREE: HOPE YOU GUESSED MY NAME
* * * * * *
For the next several hours, Rita and I talked. And talked. And talked. Going over what the hell was going on and what we should do about it. We didn't really know anybody in England. We didn't know the currency, which was another scary thought. We definitely didn't know anybody in the nineteenth century period. Then we went back briefly to wondering how the heck we had gotten to 1887. Apparently, neither one of us could clearly remember what had happened. Rita remembered a book, but what the book had instructed neither one of us could recall, obviously giving us no choice as to our staying here.
By the time the afternoon sun filtered through the gray clouds and set it's warm yellow over Dukes Meadows, the park which we figured out we were situated in, we had to set our confusion aside and seriously figure out what we were going to do. To make matters worse, the terrible pounding headache I had woken up with had not ceased as the hours wore by, and I was starting to get the chills. Despite these minor setbacks, though, I tried to keep my mind on the more pressing concerns.
The topic however, was graced upon with much debate.
"I say we walk down a busy street with little shops and ask for job applications," Rita suggested. Ever the long-term thinker, she was ready to start earning some wages in case we had to be here for a while. I suppose I should have considered myself blessed to be with someone who obviously knew how to prioritize, but well... I didn't.
I scoffed at the remark, my hunger, fatigue and utter frustration getting the best of me. "How are you going to file an application without an address? We need to look for a place to live first!"
"Well we can't live anywhere without money!"
"You can't make money without having a place to live!"
This was getting to become a problem. The situation stressed the both of us out majorly, making the situation none the easier. As much as I secretly enjoyed entertaining the possibility of not having to worry about college or family problems or any other anxiety with my former way of life ever again, I was really starting to miss how easy I had it.
"Please let's just at least try my idea," Rita pleaded. "What other options do we have?"
Ever the optimist, I piped up with my best suggestion yet. "You know, with our job skills and being more than a century ahead of the rest of the world's population, we'd probably make the best damn prostitutes in the West End. Hey, maybe Jack the Ripper will swing by a little earlier than expected and put us out of our misery. You never know!"
"I've always admired your ability to make any situation look better than it really is."
"You and me both."
"Look," Rita raked her fingers through her short, ash-blonde hair as she crouched down beside me, "Sure, we're leaving everything we know behind us. I'm not going to try to lie to you or myself—maybe we'll never get back. The butterflies are flying in my stomach, too! I'm scared! But we can't look back. We need to keep on our feet and try to survive, at least to find out if things can get better! Who wants to take a backwards step, Leyla? Am I right?"
I looked up at her, my sister suddenly sounding once again, far more mature than she looked. She always was the more emotionally stable of the two of us; something I had learned after mother had died. I had swiftly developed a self-destructive, pessimistic streak, whereas she inherited mom's endearing talent to keep steady no matter how hard the waves may crash. Memories of long talks late at night during that painful time haunted my brain just then, and with a sudden feeling of need and reliance on my younger sibling's quiet inner strength, I nodded in reply. "Right."
"Things haven't always gone well for us. But this is a new chance... to get things done right." She paused for a moment; her face was blank as she thought, before a half-smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. I had a feeling that whatever she was going to say next was especially going to appeal to me. "Hey, if we make it, it'd be worth it alone not to have that bimbo dad's dating as our step-mom!"
That won me over.
The first big street we hit was Great Chartsey Road. There weren't many stores as we were hoping for, but there wasn't much room to complain. There was a rundown pub, a jeweler's shop, a dentist's office—I cringed as I passed that one, not wanting to imagine what dental hygiene in the late nineteenth-century was like—and a small market, none of which appealed to us.
I stopped. "This is starting to suck."
"We have to try!"
"How did you ever talk me into wanting to come to 1887?" Rita had been able to refresh my memory as to the little candle-trick we pulled last night, but as to the exact ingredients and measurements of such, neither of us could fully remember. I tried to keep my voice down, conscious of the wandering passerby's, "Why didn't we go to the seventies, sixties, or even the fifties, for God's sakes?!"
"I believe you were drunk," she pointed out.
I guess I couldn't hold her entirely responsible, then. "Well," I started, determined to share the blame at least, "why didn't you at least stay in southern California? At least we're familiar with that area!"
"Well unless you wanted to live in a *mission*, Victorian England at least offers, one- human contact," she counted off the items on her fingers as she spoke, "two- adequate housing, three- indoor plumbing, four- English- speaking people, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera! There was nothing in Los Angeles in the turn-of-the-century except the occasional mud hut and church!"
I was about to give some sarcastic reply, when suddenly I went into a coughing fit. My throat had been itching ever since we left the Yard, and I was starting to think that maybe I was coming down with something.
"Leyla! Are you okay?"
I nodded, but the coughing didn't die down until a few moments later. "I'm fine. I think it's one of those twenty-four hour cold things, probably from sleeping in the park."
"You know, you don't look so good, Leyla. Maybe we should—"
Suddenly, a strange voice from behind addressed the two of us. "Excuse me, ladies," we both whirled around, wide-eyed at the tall, slender gentleman in the frock suit, who apparently had the same expression on his face at the sight of our foreign attire, "Uh... I'm sorry to intrude; were you planning on taking the hansom?"
"The what?" I asked stupidly, just as Rita elbowed me and gestured towards the small, black carriage thing that had parked beside us. I guessed that whoever was driving it had thought that we were waiting for a ride, and the gentleman before us had assumed the same thing. "No! No, we weren't. We don't have any money, anyw—" I started coughing mid-sentence, much to my annoyance, "anyway, so go on ahead."
I suppose I had derived some pity from the man, or else, which I found highly unlikely, he was a normally polite fellow. "Oh, did you ladies need a ride somewhere? I'd be happy to pay the expenses."
Did I hear him right? Not that I was interested in taking him up on the offer, but even still, I decided to voice my surprise intelligently. "Huh?"
Rita cleared her throat and spoke up on our behalf. "Where are you headed?"
"Baker Street, miss...?"
At the mention of that infamous tourist magnet, Rita cast a glance at me, her eyes now lit up and I knew what she wanted to say. Ever the Doyle fanatic, she was going to try looking for a job up there. I sighed, but I didn't want to voice any complaints, it being that where we were now didn't seem to hold much promise. "My name is Rita Clairemont; it's a pleasure to meet you! Are you sure it's no trouble?"
"No trouble at all, Miss Clairemont, I'd be happy to assist you!" He opened the door for her, receiving one of Rita's toothy smiles in return, and assisted her inside the hansom. Oh great, I thought, no wonder he's being so polite. He's trying to hit on my sister. I made sure to interrupt their conversation by purposely coughing extremely loud, startling the young man and receiving a death glare from my younger sibling.
Despite having coughed on my hand, he helped me into the hansom anyway, much to my ... slight surprise. I wondered briefly if germs had been discovered yet, but quickly set the thought aside as I sat down. After the driver was given his directions, the hansom set off on the cobblestone road. The silence hung over us at first like a thick cloud, and I could practically feel the man's eyes gazing about our (I hoped) clothing. I smiled faintly, "Laundry day."
I suppose he hadn't realized that he was staring and laughed a bit nervously, "Forgive me, I've just... never seen women wearing such clothing."
"It's the latest style in America," I replied unperturbedly, "You should see the men. They all wear dresses."
He gasped in obvious shock, and I had to bite back the urge not to laugh. Rita, however, was not in the least amused, and quickly changed the subject. "So what business brings you to Baker Street?"
"Actually, it's of a private matter. I'm looking for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you've heard of him?"
Rita hesitated for a moment, surprised at the man's answer, since it was obvious that the man didn't really exist. I was curious as to how her reply would be, and having turned to study her reaction, she smiled sweetly at the man as she replied, "Oh, uh... how do I say this? The man you should probably be looking for is an optometrist by the name of Arthur Conan Doyle... or Scotland Yard... I'm guessing you've probably read stories of Sherlock Holmes in some magazines? Well he was the one that wrote them."
The man looked at either of us, his brow creasing in confusion. "I fear I don't understand."
"Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson are fictional characters," she finally said bluntly. "As a matter of fact, 221-B Baker Street isn't even a real address yet, not until—" she cut herself off, as if suddenly afraid of saying any more. "I mean... well, like I said, it's a made up address."
He looked at me with the same strange expression, but I shrugged my shoulders in silent reply. Hey, I didn't know what she was going to say; she's the Sherlockian expert here. I had a feeling that had she continued, we might have been thrown in the loony bin, but nonetheless, I wasn't going to even try to pitch into this argument. It was stupid.
"But..." the man began tentatively, "I know people whose cases he's worked on. They referred me to him; they say he's the greatest detective they've ever seen."
"Look," Rita leaned forward unladylike, resting her elbows on her knees as she inched closer, "I'll make you a bet. Five-pounds says that the address is nonexistent. What do you say?"
I perked up on that comment, sitting straight up in eager expectation of the man's reply. Easy money! I wasn't sure how much five pounds could fetch in the late nineteenth-century, but if it bought us lunch, than I was happy. I put on my most cheerful face, doing anything that might subconsciously encourage the man to take her up on it. Do it, come on!
He looked about hesitantly, and then cleared his throat. "I would never take money from a lady."
Damn Victorian manners! "Why not?"
"Because... it's not polite."
"We don't care!"
We tried convincing him to do it, but it didn't work, to our dismay. So much for lunch, I thought miserably as I slumped back into my seat and resumed feeling sorry for myself.
The rest of the ride was made in silence, until finally the cab came to a stop, followed by the driver's announcement that we had arrived at our destination. The gentleman paid our fare and, helping us out of the hansom, waited with us until the cab pulled away in search of more customers, revealing a tall, brick building consisting of four-stories, structured in much the same way a house in San Francisco is, but... in a much older fashion. Pointing towards the window above the large entrance doors, there in gold-painted letters, the address was etched onto the clear glass.
221 Baker Street.
"But I—what—I," Rita stuttered in disbelief, "I can't believe... I thought it didn't exist..."
The man smiled, and tipped his hat towards us, "I hope we meet again, ladies" and with that he crossed the cobblestone street and entered into the little apartment building.
Rita was still in shock. "But the numbers didn't go up this far in 1887... I researched this! The farthest it went up was to 43! York Place was incorporated into Baker Street in 1921 and that's when 221-B became a real address, but it was originally made-up... I swear it... I can't believe this..."
I rolled my eyes at her conniption. "Who cares?"
"Me! Everyone can't be wrong; several people recorded it! This is too weird!" She sighed for a brief moment, scratching the top of her head as she gazed with a mixture of bewilderment and excitement. "I have to go inside and check it out!"
"Rita, don't—!" My commands, however, were in vain, as a blonde blur went racing across the street and raced through the wooden entrance doors. I groaned audibly, dodging past hansoms and horses and people as I weaved my way through the street and stepped onto the sidewalk. Figures she'd pick this time to Sherlock-obsess; it was bad enough at home as it was, but this was ridiculous! We still needed to figure out where we would get some money!
I stepped inside the building with an irritable sigh, but my breath caught in my throat when I realized how elegant the place looked from the inside. Beautiful wooden floors beneath my feet, climbing up the stairway... my eyes traveled upwards until I gazed at the high ceiling in awe. The walls were painted white, giving a feeling of cleanness as I walked in. An attractive grandfather clock ticked away near the entrance doors, echoing in the silent hall.
I nodded with approval. "Nice."
"Tell me about it," came my sister's awestruck voice, and I realized with surprise that she was up on the second level, standing in front of someone's door and staring at it. My eyes widened and I gasped at the horrific sight. If someone were to walk out, they'd probably think she was some psycho-stalker and we'd get sent straight back to Scotland Yard!
"Rita, what are you doing?" My mouth gaped open. "Do you want to freak people out? Get back down here!"
She whirled around, her expression absolutely frivolous. "Seventeen steps!!" she giggled in excitement, hopping down the stairs one at a time and creating, to my horror and embarrassment, a booming sound with each descending step. I had no idea what had come over her and what had suddenly prompted her frightening obsession with a flight of stairs; all I knew was that I had to get her out of here before she could do anything worse.
Just as she jumped from the last step and turned to look triumphantly from where she came, as if she had conquered it, a door from the first floor flew open, revealing a very alarmed woman of about fifty. I swear to God that I never wanted to fall through the floor more in all of my life.
"Good heavens, girls!" The woman cried, "What is going on out here?"
"I'm very sorry, ma'am," apparently, the sharp inhale of shock that I had made revived my coughing fit. Could this get any more embarrassing? "We were just—"
"Are you the landlady?" Rita suddenly piped up.
The woman's gaze shifted from me to Rita. "Yes... can I help you?"
I began to pull on Rita's arm, dying to get out of there. For all of her maturity, despite being younger than myself, she sure could be a pain at the worst possible times. "We're sorry if we've been a nuisance, but we were just leaving—"
"Do you have any rooms for rent?"
"Rita!" I whispered harshly, trying to snap her back into reality. Honestly, when it came to her little obsessions, she was horrible! We didn't even have any money! I could have slapped her!
The woman's expression, however, quickly shifted from annoyance to pleasant surprise. "Why, as a matter of fact, I do! It's on the third floor; were you ladies interested in—"
"No!" I answered quickly, not realizing how rude that sounded until I observed the shock on the woman's face, "I mean—no thank you. We really need to le—" My coughing started up again, this time harder than before; so hard that it was hurting, and my chest began to burn. They ripped through my body and tears began to fall down my cheeks during my spasms.
My sister tried to hold me steady. "Leyla, try to breathe!"
I looked at her, slightly annoyed, but my gaze fell as I continued coughing. The pain was unbearable, good God! My throat felt as if I had swallowed razorblades and it hurt to inhale; the room became dizzy and I soon became aware that the woman had rushed to my side and caught me as my knees gave way.
Eventually, the coughing began to subside, and my head felt heavy and light at the same time. I was vaguely aware of my sister's next words, they seemed so distant, "Leyla, you're bleeding!"
I wiped the corners of my mouth and was mortified to see splotches of crimson—blood.
The woman turned to my sister, "This young lady needs to see a doctor as soon as possible; fortunately we have one right here in our rooms, in apartment-B!"
Rita's voice seemed unsure, unsteady. "I... we... oh god, I don't know! We have no money!"
Through my jumbled mind, I was faintly aware of the woman's arms around my waist, walking me towards the stairs, and I somehow managed to comply by setting one foot before the other. I didn't want to faint... please God don't let me faint... "Write down your address for me," the woman replied to my sister, "I'm sure your parents could cover the bill!"
"You don't understand; we're orphans!"
The woman stopped. "Orphans? Gracious! Where do you live?"
"We're homeless!"
We started ascending the stairs again. "My word... I'll pay if I have to, dear; don't you worry about it. This girl is very sick and needs immediate attention. Until she gets better, I'll house you."
Everything was disoriented, and I felt almost nauseous by the time we reached the top of the stairs. The knocking on the door felt like a hammer in my head, and I groaned despondently as it was answered, followed by an audible gasp of surprise from the tenant within. "What's happened?" a soft, male voice replied.
"Doctor, this young woman needs your assistance immediately."
I was quickly walked over to a small couch in the center of the apartment and layed down; out of nowhere, I started feeling chilled, and I began shivering. The doctor felt my forehead, "She has a terrible fever," he muttered, opening my eyes wide by gently pressing the skin surrounding my eyes, and sighed.
I suddenly heard a familiar voice from across the room, whom I instantly recognized as the gentleman who was riding with us in the hansom. "Miss Clairemont? What's happened?" My sister began softly conversing with him, and I barely remembered that he had walked into the Baker Street apartments in search of Sherlock Holmes...
"I take it you won't be able to accompany us, Watson?"
The doctor glanced up, "I'm afraid not."
"Very well; send me word if the situation clears up. I may need your assistance on this case, if you've time to spare."
I heard the door close, and following it, a small sigh from the doctor.
Followed by a loud thud on the other side of the room.
* * * * * *
Hehe, if any of you guessed that Rita had fainted, you're right!! Leave a review and I'll be back as soon as I can!
-Jamie
QueenofSpain: You're right! The title of chapter two was a line from the Beatles' song "Tomorrow Never Knows". Also, if you haven't already noticed, Rita Michelle's name was also taken from two other Beatle songs, "Lovely Rita" and "Michelle".
March Hare: Thanks for the tips, darling!
Snowwolf: Hmm. Well usually I associate hangovers with extreme sensitivity of hearing, i.e. everything sounds louder than usual, so I left the yelling in chapter one, when everyone was drunk. Rita, having been awake most of the night, without having a clue where she is, and worried about her sister after watching her pass out, is scared beyond words, so I made her act very quiet. But I value your insight; actually, I picture Leyla as the more in- your-face person! It was interesting that you pictured Rita that way.
Now... on to chapter three!
CHAPTER THREE: HOPE YOU GUESSED MY NAME
* * * * * *
For the next several hours, Rita and I talked. And talked. And talked. Going over what the hell was going on and what we should do about it. We didn't really know anybody in England. We didn't know the currency, which was another scary thought. We definitely didn't know anybody in the nineteenth century period. Then we went back briefly to wondering how the heck we had gotten to 1887. Apparently, neither one of us could clearly remember what had happened. Rita remembered a book, but what the book had instructed neither one of us could recall, obviously giving us no choice as to our staying here.
By the time the afternoon sun filtered through the gray clouds and set it's warm yellow over Dukes Meadows, the park which we figured out we were situated in, we had to set our confusion aside and seriously figure out what we were going to do. To make matters worse, the terrible pounding headache I had woken up with had not ceased as the hours wore by, and I was starting to get the chills. Despite these minor setbacks, though, I tried to keep my mind on the more pressing concerns.
The topic however, was graced upon with much debate.
"I say we walk down a busy street with little shops and ask for job applications," Rita suggested. Ever the long-term thinker, she was ready to start earning some wages in case we had to be here for a while. I suppose I should have considered myself blessed to be with someone who obviously knew how to prioritize, but well... I didn't.
I scoffed at the remark, my hunger, fatigue and utter frustration getting the best of me. "How are you going to file an application without an address? We need to look for a place to live first!"
"Well we can't live anywhere without money!"
"You can't make money without having a place to live!"
This was getting to become a problem. The situation stressed the both of us out majorly, making the situation none the easier. As much as I secretly enjoyed entertaining the possibility of not having to worry about college or family problems or any other anxiety with my former way of life ever again, I was really starting to miss how easy I had it.
"Please let's just at least try my idea," Rita pleaded. "What other options do we have?"
Ever the optimist, I piped up with my best suggestion yet. "You know, with our job skills and being more than a century ahead of the rest of the world's population, we'd probably make the best damn prostitutes in the West End. Hey, maybe Jack the Ripper will swing by a little earlier than expected and put us out of our misery. You never know!"
"I've always admired your ability to make any situation look better than it really is."
"You and me both."
"Look," Rita raked her fingers through her short, ash-blonde hair as she crouched down beside me, "Sure, we're leaving everything we know behind us. I'm not going to try to lie to you or myself—maybe we'll never get back. The butterflies are flying in my stomach, too! I'm scared! But we can't look back. We need to keep on our feet and try to survive, at least to find out if things can get better! Who wants to take a backwards step, Leyla? Am I right?"
I looked up at her, my sister suddenly sounding once again, far more mature than she looked. She always was the more emotionally stable of the two of us; something I had learned after mother had died. I had swiftly developed a self-destructive, pessimistic streak, whereas she inherited mom's endearing talent to keep steady no matter how hard the waves may crash. Memories of long talks late at night during that painful time haunted my brain just then, and with a sudden feeling of need and reliance on my younger sibling's quiet inner strength, I nodded in reply. "Right."
"Things haven't always gone well for us. But this is a new chance... to get things done right." She paused for a moment; her face was blank as she thought, before a half-smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. I had a feeling that whatever she was going to say next was especially going to appeal to me. "Hey, if we make it, it'd be worth it alone not to have that bimbo dad's dating as our step-mom!"
That won me over.
The first big street we hit was Great Chartsey Road. There weren't many stores as we were hoping for, but there wasn't much room to complain. There was a rundown pub, a jeweler's shop, a dentist's office—I cringed as I passed that one, not wanting to imagine what dental hygiene in the late nineteenth-century was like—and a small market, none of which appealed to us.
I stopped. "This is starting to suck."
"We have to try!"
"How did you ever talk me into wanting to come to 1887?" Rita had been able to refresh my memory as to the little candle-trick we pulled last night, but as to the exact ingredients and measurements of such, neither of us could fully remember. I tried to keep my voice down, conscious of the wandering passerby's, "Why didn't we go to the seventies, sixties, or even the fifties, for God's sakes?!"
"I believe you were drunk," she pointed out.
I guess I couldn't hold her entirely responsible, then. "Well," I started, determined to share the blame at least, "why didn't you at least stay in southern California? At least we're familiar with that area!"
"Well unless you wanted to live in a *mission*, Victorian England at least offers, one- human contact," she counted off the items on her fingers as she spoke, "two- adequate housing, three- indoor plumbing, four- English- speaking people, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera! There was nothing in Los Angeles in the turn-of-the-century except the occasional mud hut and church!"
I was about to give some sarcastic reply, when suddenly I went into a coughing fit. My throat had been itching ever since we left the Yard, and I was starting to think that maybe I was coming down with something.
"Leyla! Are you okay?"
I nodded, but the coughing didn't die down until a few moments later. "I'm fine. I think it's one of those twenty-four hour cold things, probably from sleeping in the park."
"You know, you don't look so good, Leyla. Maybe we should—"
Suddenly, a strange voice from behind addressed the two of us. "Excuse me, ladies," we both whirled around, wide-eyed at the tall, slender gentleman in the frock suit, who apparently had the same expression on his face at the sight of our foreign attire, "Uh... I'm sorry to intrude; were you planning on taking the hansom?"
"The what?" I asked stupidly, just as Rita elbowed me and gestured towards the small, black carriage thing that had parked beside us. I guessed that whoever was driving it had thought that we were waiting for a ride, and the gentleman before us had assumed the same thing. "No! No, we weren't. We don't have any money, anyw—" I started coughing mid-sentence, much to my annoyance, "anyway, so go on ahead."
I suppose I had derived some pity from the man, or else, which I found highly unlikely, he was a normally polite fellow. "Oh, did you ladies need a ride somewhere? I'd be happy to pay the expenses."
Did I hear him right? Not that I was interested in taking him up on the offer, but even still, I decided to voice my surprise intelligently. "Huh?"
Rita cleared her throat and spoke up on our behalf. "Where are you headed?"
"Baker Street, miss...?"
At the mention of that infamous tourist magnet, Rita cast a glance at me, her eyes now lit up and I knew what she wanted to say. Ever the Doyle fanatic, she was going to try looking for a job up there. I sighed, but I didn't want to voice any complaints, it being that where we were now didn't seem to hold much promise. "My name is Rita Clairemont; it's a pleasure to meet you! Are you sure it's no trouble?"
"No trouble at all, Miss Clairemont, I'd be happy to assist you!" He opened the door for her, receiving one of Rita's toothy smiles in return, and assisted her inside the hansom. Oh great, I thought, no wonder he's being so polite. He's trying to hit on my sister. I made sure to interrupt their conversation by purposely coughing extremely loud, startling the young man and receiving a death glare from my younger sibling.
Despite having coughed on my hand, he helped me into the hansom anyway, much to my ... slight surprise. I wondered briefly if germs had been discovered yet, but quickly set the thought aside as I sat down. After the driver was given his directions, the hansom set off on the cobblestone road. The silence hung over us at first like a thick cloud, and I could practically feel the man's eyes gazing about our (I hoped) clothing. I smiled faintly, "Laundry day."
I suppose he hadn't realized that he was staring and laughed a bit nervously, "Forgive me, I've just... never seen women wearing such clothing."
"It's the latest style in America," I replied unperturbedly, "You should see the men. They all wear dresses."
He gasped in obvious shock, and I had to bite back the urge not to laugh. Rita, however, was not in the least amused, and quickly changed the subject. "So what business brings you to Baker Street?"
"Actually, it's of a private matter. I'm looking for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you've heard of him?"
Rita hesitated for a moment, surprised at the man's answer, since it was obvious that the man didn't really exist. I was curious as to how her reply would be, and having turned to study her reaction, she smiled sweetly at the man as she replied, "Oh, uh... how do I say this? The man you should probably be looking for is an optometrist by the name of Arthur Conan Doyle... or Scotland Yard... I'm guessing you've probably read stories of Sherlock Holmes in some magazines? Well he was the one that wrote them."
The man looked at either of us, his brow creasing in confusion. "I fear I don't understand."
"Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson are fictional characters," she finally said bluntly. "As a matter of fact, 221-B Baker Street isn't even a real address yet, not until—" she cut herself off, as if suddenly afraid of saying any more. "I mean... well, like I said, it's a made up address."
He looked at me with the same strange expression, but I shrugged my shoulders in silent reply. Hey, I didn't know what she was going to say; she's the Sherlockian expert here. I had a feeling that had she continued, we might have been thrown in the loony bin, but nonetheless, I wasn't going to even try to pitch into this argument. It was stupid.
"But..." the man began tentatively, "I know people whose cases he's worked on. They referred me to him; they say he's the greatest detective they've ever seen."
"Look," Rita leaned forward unladylike, resting her elbows on her knees as she inched closer, "I'll make you a bet. Five-pounds says that the address is nonexistent. What do you say?"
I perked up on that comment, sitting straight up in eager expectation of the man's reply. Easy money! I wasn't sure how much five pounds could fetch in the late nineteenth-century, but if it bought us lunch, than I was happy. I put on my most cheerful face, doing anything that might subconsciously encourage the man to take her up on it. Do it, come on!
He looked about hesitantly, and then cleared his throat. "I would never take money from a lady."
Damn Victorian manners! "Why not?"
"Because... it's not polite."
"We don't care!"
We tried convincing him to do it, but it didn't work, to our dismay. So much for lunch, I thought miserably as I slumped back into my seat and resumed feeling sorry for myself.
The rest of the ride was made in silence, until finally the cab came to a stop, followed by the driver's announcement that we had arrived at our destination. The gentleman paid our fare and, helping us out of the hansom, waited with us until the cab pulled away in search of more customers, revealing a tall, brick building consisting of four-stories, structured in much the same way a house in San Francisco is, but... in a much older fashion. Pointing towards the window above the large entrance doors, there in gold-painted letters, the address was etched onto the clear glass.
221 Baker Street.
"But I—what—I," Rita stuttered in disbelief, "I can't believe... I thought it didn't exist..."
The man smiled, and tipped his hat towards us, "I hope we meet again, ladies" and with that he crossed the cobblestone street and entered into the little apartment building.
Rita was still in shock. "But the numbers didn't go up this far in 1887... I researched this! The farthest it went up was to 43! York Place was incorporated into Baker Street in 1921 and that's when 221-B became a real address, but it was originally made-up... I swear it... I can't believe this..."
I rolled my eyes at her conniption. "Who cares?"
"Me! Everyone can't be wrong; several people recorded it! This is too weird!" She sighed for a brief moment, scratching the top of her head as she gazed with a mixture of bewilderment and excitement. "I have to go inside and check it out!"
"Rita, don't—!" My commands, however, were in vain, as a blonde blur went racing across the street and raced through the wooden entrance doors. I groaned audibly, dodging past hansoms and horses and people as I weaved my way through the street and stepped onto the sidewalk. Figures she'd pick this time to Sherlock-obsess; it was bad enough at home as it was, but this was ridiculous! We still needed to figure out where we would get some money!
I stepped inside the building with an irritable sigh, but my breath caught in my throat when I realized how elegant the place looked from the inside. Beautiful wooden floors beneath my feet, climbing up the stairway... my eyes traveled upwards until I gazed at the high ceiling in awe. The walls were painted white, giving a feeling of cleanness as I walked in. An attractive grandfather clock ticked away near the entrance doors, echoing in the silent hall.
I nodded with approval. "Nice."
"Tell me about it," came my sister's awestruck voice, and I realized with surprise that she was up on the second level, standing in front of someone's door and staring at it. My eyes widened and I gasped at the horrific sight. If someone were to walk out, they'd probably think she was some psycho-stalker and we'd get sent straight back to Scotland Yard!
"Rita, what are you doing?" My mouth gaped open. "Do you want to freak people out? Get back down here!"
She whirled around, her expression absolutely frivolous. "Seventeen steps!!" she giggled in excitement, hopping down the stairs one at a time and creating, to my horror and embarrassment, a booming sound with each descending step. I had no idea what had come over her and what had suddenly prompted her frightening obsession with a flight of stairs; all I knew was that I had to get her out of here before she could do anything worse.
Just as she jumped from the last step and turned to look triumphantly from where she came, as if she had conquered it, a door from the first floor flew open, revealing a very alarmed woman of about fifty. I swear to God that I never wanted to fall through the floor more in all of my life.
"Good heavens, girls!" The woman cried, "What is going on out here?"
"I'm very sorry, ma'am," apparently, the sharp inhale of shock that I had made revived my coughing fit. Could this get any more embarrassing? "We were just—"
"Are you the landlady?" Rita suddenly piped up.
The woman's gaze shifted from me to Rita. "Yes... can I help you?"
I began to pull on Rita's arm, dying to get out of there. For all of her maturity, despite being younger than myself, she sure could be a pain at the worst possible times. "We're sorry if we've been a nuisance, but we were just leaving—"
"Do you have any rooms for rent?"
"Rita!" I whispered harshly, trying to snap her back into reality. Honestly, when it came to her little obsessions, she was horrible! We didn't even have any money! I could have slapped her!
The woman's expression, however, quickly shifted from annoyance to pleasant surprise. "Why, as a matter of fact, I do! It's on the third floor; were you ladies interested in—"
"No!" I answered quickly, not realizing how rude that sounded until I observed the shock on the woman's face, "I mean—no thank you. We really need to le—" My coughing started up again, this time harder than before; so hard that it was hurting, and my chest began to burn. They ripped through my body and tears began to fall down my cheeks during my spasms.
My sister tried to hold me steady. "Leyla, try to breathe!"
I looked at her, slightly annoyed, but my gaze fell as I continued coughing. The pain was unbearable, good God! My throat felt as if I had swallowed razorblades and it hurt to inhale; the room became dizzy and I soon became aware that the woman had rushed to my side and caught me as my knees gave way.
Eventually, the coughing began to subside, and my head felt heavy and light at the same time. I was vaguely aware of my sister's next words, they seemed so distant, "Leyla, you're bleeding!"
I wiped the corners of my mouth and was mortified to see splotches of crimson—blood.
The woman turned to my sister, "This young lady needs to see a doctor as soon as possible; fortunately we have one right here in our rooms, in apartment-B!"
Rita's voice seemed unsure, unsteady. "I... we... oh god, I don't know! We have no money!"
Through my jumbled mind, I was faintly aware of the woman's arms around my waist, walking me towards the stairs, and I somehow managed to comply by setting one foot before the other. I didn't want to faint... please God don't let me faint... "Write down your address for me," the woman replied to my sister, "I'm sure your parents could cover the bill!"
"You don't understand; we're orphans!"
The woman stopped. "Orphans? Gracious! Where do you live?"
"We're homeless!"
We started ascending the stairs again. "My word... I'll pay if I have to, dear; don't you worry about it. This girl is very sick and needs immediate attention. Until she gets better, I'll house you."
Everything was disoriented, and I felt almost nauseous by the time we reached the top of the stairs. The knocking on the door felt like a hammer in my head, and I groaned despondently as it was answered, followed by an audible gasp of surprise from the tenant within. "What's happened?" a soft, male voice replied.
"Doctor, this young woman needs your assistance immediately."
I was quickly walked over to a small couch in the center of the apartment and layed down; out of nowhere, I started feeling chilled, and I began shivering. The doctor felt my forehead, "She has a terrible fever," he muttered, opening my eyes wide by gently pressing the skin surrounding my eyes, and sighed.
I suddenly heard a familiar voice from across the room, whom I instantly recognized as the gentleman who was riding with us in the hansom. "Miss Clairemont? What's happened?" My sister began softly conversing with him, and I barely remembered that he had walked into the Baker Street apartments in search of Sherlock Holmes...
"I take it you won't be able to accompany us, Watson?"
The doctor glanced up, "I'm afraid not."
"Very well; send me word if the situation clears up. I may need your assistance on this case, if you've time to spare."
I heard the door close, and following it, a small sigh from the doctor.
Followed by a loud thud on the other side of the room.
* * * * * *
Hehe, if any of you guessed that Rita had fainted, you're right!! Leave a review and I'll be back as soon as I can!
-Jamie
