AN: Thanks to my reviewers! (personal notes at the bottom of the chapter) As always, ACD owns anything that reminds you of The Final Problem.
Chapter 7
I sat on the bench on the MetroLink Red Line platform, trying to appear nonchalant as I thumbed lazily through the New York Times. I was bundled in my warmest clothes, looking very bit the part of the bored commuter, with the dead-end job in a downtown office, waiting for the 6 AM train. Inside though, I was a nervous wreck. I felt quite unprepared for whatever Holmes had planned; Holmes had specified that I carry my shoulder bag and nothing else. Was I supposed to wear the same thing for the entire week? Damn him.
Holmes had left my apartment after he gave me explicit instructions about how and where to meet up with him. Given that the designated meeting time was at Union Station Downtown was at 7 the next morning, and that it was about 4 in the morning when he left, I gave up on the idea of sleeping. Instead, I spent the next thirty minutes trying to figure out how to get in contact with James to postpone our lunch date until I got back on Tuesday; I realized that I could leave a message on his voicemail at the USC Math Department. Then, I spent the next hour trying to figure out what exactly to say. It ended up being something along the lines of this: apology, something came up, apology, apology, Holmes' fault, apology. And then the stupid part: I miss you.
I smacked myself on the forehead. How could I have been so moronic! I miss you? If he didn't know I had no social life (other than tagging along with a detective who was an arrogant jerk most of the time), he knew now: I was still in pieces over him. God, I'm pathetic.
Pay attention, I scolded myself silently, trying to pull myself out of the self-pity fest. Holmes had admonished me more than once last night about being completely aware of my surroundings. I glanced at my watch. It was 5:50, and people were starting to board. I glanced around, gauging my surroundings. There were only a handful of people who were taking this early Saturday train into downtown LA.. Three middle-aged Hispanic ladies were speaking animatedly to my left, and to my right, two overzealous scowling corporate suits, who were trying to avoid the rest of us- me, an old Catholic priest, a bearded man with shaggy blond hair carrying a well worn tenor saxophone case, and a couple of teenagers, interlocked in a revolting display of affection. It was going to be an interesting morning. I sighed, and got on the train, picking a window seat off in the middle of the compartment.
I stepped off the train forty-five minutes later at Union Station, hurrying off the platform to the back of the station, where (like the typical commuter) I would buy a raspberry pastry and coffee. Then, I was to board the Amtrak northbound to San Francisco leaving from Platform E. Seat 7, he had said, in the third car from the front. And make sure you're not being followed.
I obeyed his instructions to the very letter, finding myself in seat 7 of the third car from the front. Ten minutes had gone by, the conductor was announcing final boarding calls, and I was starting to get more anxious, staring out the window for any sign of Holmes. What if something happened to him this morning after he left my apartment?
The doors closed, and I felt the train moving. Shit. Where the hell was Holmes? At that moment, the same bearded man with the tenor sax case walked into the car, and plopped right next to me. Ugh. This was not looking good.
I gave him a dirty look, and resigned myself to the fact that Holmes was probably elsewhere in the train, and would be coming by any minute. Anything was better than the alternative reason, and Holmes had always had this love of the dramatic. But then again, his absence would indicate some sort of foul play-
"You gonna have that raspberry pastry?" my neighbored asked in a raspy voice, gesturing to the Starbucks paper bag I had in my lap.
I glared at him. "Why do you care?" I shot back testily. After the last twenty four hours, my nerves were shot.
"Well, I was wondering if I could have some breakfast, since I did ask you to buy it for me," the man remarked, smirking. He proceeded to tear away his beard, a deceptively real glue-on.
It was Holmes. I was astonished, and then infuriated. I shoved the bag at him, rendered speechless.
"Coffee, too, please," he acted as if he didn't notice my furious expression. "And don't spill it," he winked.
I handed the cup over grudgingly, and watched him wolf down the pastry and chug the coffee.
"I had to deceive you, Watson, but I was sure I was being followed since I left your place. But it's all right for now, he didn't get on the train before the doors closed. Ah, but don't tell me you were worried?" His eyes held a mischievous glint.
Inwardly, I let out a sigh of relief. But I'd never give Holmes the satisfaction. "As if," I scoffed. "You owe me $3.50 for the pastry and coffee. Pay up."
He cocked his eyebrow, but said nothing as he handed me the money, which I pocketed.
"It'll be another six hours before we hit San Francisco. I'm getting some sleep," I announced, throwing one last defiant stare at Holmes. I curled up in the seat and closed my eyes, as the sound of the train on the tracks gradually lured me into a deep slumber.
AN: I know, I know, boring chapter! But it'll get more exciting when they get to SF, really; after all, James is not thrown off that easily.
To snowwolf: you know that you hold a special place in my heart! You've been my most faithful and your encouragement really means A LOT! Especially since you're such a sweetie reviewing every chapter- I'm so flattered. Anyway, yeah, I do like writing about guys who… uh, clean up well. Apologies for Watson being a bit … "blur"… after all she's only human… I'll be explaining the surname thing later, as Holmes and Watson have quite a bit of talking to do in the future… Thanks again!
Thanks to A.Spencer (thanks for your faith in my logic!), Silent Beatnik (much thanks), Moonrose (nah, the Grand Canyon is too easy… and yes, tough times for Watson ahead…)