Hello there! Let me start off by thanking Iara and Angelina 809 for their
reviews. Now here, you see, is chapter number three!
The early morning sunlight peaked in through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom. The room was furnished in pale colors, including white, and oak. The sounds of the not so far away beach and of crying seagulls filled the breeze that blew in through the open window. Only a tuft of black hair was visible under the white sheets. Groaning, Kyle opened his eyes. He was alone. She had gotten up before him, sometime before dawn, not that he was worried about it. His beloved liked to be alone in the mornings; to be outside when the world was still asleep. Rubbing the sleep from his grey eyes, he got out of bed and walked over to the open window, and there she was.
outside
Clad in a pair of pajama pants and a tank top, Tori stood alone on the sand in front of the wooden deck. She quickly set of in her routine kung fu, gracefully dropping to a crouch and arms moving fluidly through the movements. Every turn she made flipped her loose hair, creating a rich chestnut halo around her face. When she was done, her eyes fell on the half- dressed form of her boyfriend on the deck. Flashing a smile she trotted over to the stairs and climbed them up to the deck. "Good morning, sunshine," she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. "I thought you were on vacation, Tori," he replied, picking up her hair scrunchy and tossing it too her. "That means time to brake free of the daily routine.' "Old habits die hard," she said. "Besides, I had to clear my head." Within a few seconds her hair (now a bit messed up) was in a loose ponytail and she spotted the cups of hot tea on the deck table. "Nice and hearbaly," Kyle said, handing her a cup. "So, I hear Operation: "Kidnap"-Sister was a success." At the last remark he got a harsh glair. "Uh-oh, trouble with customs?" "Not funny, Ky." Tori took a sip of the tea. It was just warm enough to lightly burn her tongue. "Tell me." "Well," she began. "She fell asleep during dinner. We played it off that she had taken a sip of the Bloody Mary and couldn't hold her liquor. When we go to the airport, we told the people that she had narcolepsy and would be out for a while. They bought it!" "No problems so far," he said, sipping his own tea. "What's the problem?" "Well... Irene was supposed to leave a note in Liz's apartment saying that she had decided to take me up on my offer... and she didn't." Kyle almost spit his tea out. "W-what?!" Tori nodded. "No one knows she's gone. If they go to her flat and she isn't there, with some clothes gone and stuff, they're gonna think that she's been kidnapped for real!" "'They'?" "Sherlock Holmes and Chief Inspector Grayson." "Surely they'll think she on vacation, with her clothes gone and that." "That's why I'm worried. You don't know my sister. She never goes on vacations. EVER." Tori collapsed into a patio chair and held her head in her hands. "I really screwed this up didn't I?" "No, you didn't," Kyle said, pulling her out of the chair and hugging the detective close. "You've been in worse situations than this. You'll figure it out." He then lifted her face to look at him. Her green eyes caught some of the morning sun's light, giving them a gold tint. They're faces drifted closer to each other, and then... "VICTORIA RENAE LESTRADE!!!!!" "Oh, crap. She's awake."
NEW LONDON
Holmes awoke to the annoying beep of the vidphone demanding his attention. From his seat in his comfy armchair, he cast a weary blue-grey eye at the machine. He groaned, stretched, and listened to the heavy thumps that came closer outside the living room door. It was Watson, he deduced, or rather, he knew from countless occasions when he had fallen asleep in his armchair.
Just like he guessed, Watson opened the door and entered with a tray of eggs, bacon, and biscuits. Noticing the tall blonde still in his place, he crossed the living room to the table and laid the tray down. "Fall asleep in the armchair again, Holmes?" At the sound of his name, said detective rose from the chair and crossed over to where his metal friend stood.
"I see that the food processor is still not working as it should," he observed, picking up the fork and moving the eggs with it. "I should remember to call the repairer about it."
"I would do it myself, but I'm not equipped for such things."
Holmes smiled at this. The real Watson wasn't equipped for a lot of tasks, save his medical knowledge and trusty pistol. Both of which, Holmes recalled, came in handy during almost all of his cases. The Watson nowadays was equipped with even more knowledge as well as many new gadgets including a built-in ionizer, much of an improvement.
The vidphone had been beeping throughout all this, and Watson went to answer it. The angered and flustered face of the chief inspector popped up instantly on the screen.
"Ah, Chief Inspector Greyson," Homes said coming over to pear over Watson's metal shoulder. "To what do we owe this interruption of the morning?"
"Skip the Victorianism," growled the graying man. "Where is Lestrade?"
"As you can see," he replied, moving so Greyson could have a clear view of the room. "She is not here. Have you perhaps tried her flat?"
"About a hundred times. She won't answer."
"Maybe she's still asleep."
The remark earned the revived detective a sharp glair. "That woman's been on time for work since day one. She never sleeps in."
"Maybe she's taken ill," Watson chimed in, taking interest in this conversation.
"Lestrade's the reason most of the workers get sick. She never takes a sick day. If she was dying she'd still be at work."
Holmes was running out of ideas. It was true; the inspector never took a single day off. The only other explanation for her actions jumped up and down at the back of his mind, attempting to get his attention. Frowning inwardly, he brushed the thought from his mind, but he couldn't shake the question: Was there foul play at work here?
"Anyway," Grayson continued. "I want you to go over to her apartment." He added, when Homes' eyebrow arched. "Better you than me. That way she doesn't go off the deep end." The connection then ended.
By then, Homes was already donning his everness and deerstalker.
a few minutes later and on the other side of New London
When Holmes got to the building where Lestrade's flat was, he restrained himself from bolting up the stairs and breaking down her door. He knew what he would find; he just didn't want to admit it. As he walked up the stairs, into the building and to the flat in question, that annoying explanation jumped up again, yelling, "pick me, you know it's going to be me!" Yet again, he brushed the thought away, but it didn't completely go away, it just went into a far corner of his mind.
They stopped in front of 23b. As Watson fumbled for his lock-pick, Holmes reached up and found the extra card-key atop the doorframe. Ignoring the robot's astonished look, he swiped the key and opened the door.
The flat was just as he remembered it: a nice view of the New London skyline, desk with papers strewn across it, same second-hand furniture, and the bookcase full of books of all subjects, ranging from space exploration to Watson's journals. The one thing missing was the owner of the place. Watson crept (as well as he could; he is made of metal) into the bedroom, leaving Holmes to examine the rest of the place.
A few minutes later, Watson's head poked out of the bedroom. "Some the closet door is open, and there are clothes strewn about in here," he reported. "It appears that some of her necessities are missing from the bathroom."
Holmes fallowed his friend into the bedroom and gave it a look-over. The bed, a four-poster, was made and looked like no one had recently slept in it. On the bed were different types of clothes, a sundress here, and a skirt there. A big armchair was in the corner, under a pile of various tops. The dresser (matching the dark cherry bed) had clothes neatly folded and socks and other undergarments (noted by a slightly blushing Holmes) stuck out of the closed drawers. The detective could hardly believe all these clothes belonged to Lestrade; the only clothes he'd seen her wear was her uniform.
"Watson," he called (Watson was in the bathroom). "What do you see that is missing?"
"Toothbrush, hairbrush, toothpaste, hygienic items... Things one usually need for a trip of some sorts."
"Any DNA evidence?"
"Only Lestrade's. Either she was here or someone wearing gloves."
The last part struck a chord in Holmes' mind. Now it was official. He had seen the evidence and it pointed in one direction: kidnapping. The blonde returned to the living room with Watson at his heels. After a few moments of thinking, she spoke.
"I'm afraid that our dear Lestrade has been kidnapped."
"By whom?" Watson was quite alarmed.
"My guess is Professor Moriarty. No doubt that he'd try to get his revenge for our little intervention with his plan."
"I wouldn't put it past him, but where do we start? Moriatry could be anywhere with Inspector Lestrade!"
'True,' Holmes thought. It did seem that the cloned professor had the upper hand... 'Not for much longer.'
As his eyes gave another sweep of the room, they fell on the pad of paper next to the vidphone. He swooped down at it, snatching it up and studying it. The handwriting was Lestrade's own, written in a hurry and then tossed carelessly on the desk:
"Oxford's- 8 o'clock"
"Let's go," Holmes spoke aloud, making way for the door.
"Where to, Holmes?" Watson asked, fallowing the taller man.
"To Oxford's. Perhaps someone there will know the whereabouts of our dear Lestrade."
I'm done! Yay! ::does a happy dance:: I hope you liked it. This one is the first of many hard chapters, mainly because I've got Sherly on the case, and he's hard to write! ::wah:: Anyway, I think I did ok with this. Any helpful hints will help me a lot. Until the next chapter, ja-ne! (goodbye) PS: I'm reading a Mary Russell novel (Justice Hall-got it Monday) just for the sake of it, and because school is out and I'm curious as to what her story is... so far it's really good. PSS: Sherly = Sherlock Holmes. Hope he never finds out ::sees the shadow of a tall man in a deerstalker, squeaks and runs for cover::
The early morning sunlight peaked in through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom. The room was furnished in pale colors, including white, and oak. The sounds of the not so far away beach and of crying seagulls filled the breeze that blew in through the open window. Only a tuft of black hair was visible under the white sheets. Groaning, Kyle opened his eyes. He was alone. She had gotten up before him, sometime before dawn, not that he was worried about it. His beloved liked to be alone in the mornings; to be outside when the world was still asleep. Rubbing the sleep from his grey eyes, he got out of bed and walked over to the open window, and there she was.
outside
Clad in a pair of pajama pants and a tank top, Tori stood alone on the sand in front of the wooden deck. She quickly set of in her routine kung fu, gracefully dropping to a crouch and arms moving fluidly through the movements. Every turn she made flipped her loose hair, creating a rich chestnut halo around her face. When she was done, her eyes fell on the half- dressed form of her boyfriend on the deck. Flashing a smile she trotted over to the stairs and climbed them up to the deck. "Good morning, sunshine," she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. "I thought you were on vacation, Tori," he replied, picking up her hair scrunchy and tossing it too her. "That means time to brake free of the daily routine.' "Old habits die hard," she said. "Besides, I had to clear my head." Within a few seconds her hair (now a bit messed up) was in a loose ponytail and she spotted the cups of hot tea on the deck table. "Nice and hearbaly," Kyle said, handing her a cup. "So, I hear Operation: "Kidnap"-Sister was a success." At the last remark he got a harsh glair. "Uh-oh, trouble with customs?" "Not funny, Ky." Tori took a sip of the tea. It was just warm enough to lightly burn her tongue. "Tell me." "Well," she began. "She fell asleep during dinner. We played it off that she had taken a sip of the Bloody Mary and couldn't hold her liquor. When we go to the airport, we told the people that she had narcolepsy and would be out for a while. They bought it!" "No problems so far," he said, sipping his own tea. "What's the problem?" "Well... Irene was supposed to leave a note in Liz's apartment saying that she had decided to take me up on my offer... and she didn't." Kyle almost spit his tea out. "W-what?!" Tori nodded. "No one knows she's gone. If they go to her flat and she isn't there, with some clothes gone and stuff, they're gonna think that she's been kidnapped for real!" "'They'?" "Sherlock Holmes and Chief Inspector Grayson." "Surely they'll think she on vacation, with her clothes gone and that." "That's why I'm worried. You don't know my sister. She never goes on vacations. EVER." Tori collapsed into a patio chair and held her head in her hands. "I really screwed this up didn't I?" "No, you didn't," Kyle said, pulling her out of the chair and hugging the detective close. "You've been in worse situations than this. You'll figure it out." He then lifted her face to look at him. Her green eyes caught some of the morning sun's light, giving them a gold tint. They're faces drifted closer to each other, and then... "VICTORIA RENAE LESTRADE!!!!!" "Oh, crap. She's awake."
NEW LONDON
Holmes awoke to the annoying beep of the vidphone demanding his attention. From his seat in his comfy armchair, he cast a weary blue-grey eye at the machine. He groaned, stretched, and listened to the heavy thumps that came closer outside the living room door. It was Watson, he deduced, or rather, he knew from countless occasions when he had fallen asleep in his armchair.
Just like he guessed, Watson opened the door and entered with a tray of eggs, bacon, and biscuits. Noticing the tall blonde still in his place, he crossed the living room to the table and laid the tray down. "Fall asleep in the armchair again, Holmes?" At the sound of his name, said detective rose from the chair and crossed over to where his metal friend stood.
"I see that the food processor is still not working as it should," he observed, picking up the fork and moving the eggs with it. "I should remember to call the repairer about it."
"I would do it myself, but I'm not equipped for such things."
Holmes smiled at this. The real Watson wasn't equipped for a lot of tasks, save his medical knowledge and trusty pistol. Both of which, Holmes recalled, came in handy during almost all of his cases. The Watson nowadays was equipped with even more knowledge as well as many new gadgets including a built-in ionizer, much of an improvement.
The vidphone had been beeping throughout all this, and Watson went to answer it. The angered and flustered face of the chief inspector popped up instantly on the screen.
"Ah, Chief Inspector Greyson," Homes said coming over to pear over Watson's metal shoulder. "To what do we owe this interruption of the morning?"
"Skip the Victorianism," growled the graying man. "Where is Lestrade?"
"As you can see," he replied, moving so Greyson could have a clear view of the room. "She is not here. Have you perhaps tried her flat?"
"About a hundred times. She won't answer."
"Maybe she's still asleep."
The remark earned the revived detective a sharp glair. "That woman's been on time for work since day one. She never sleeps in."
"Maybe she's taken ill," Watson chimed in, taking interest in this conversation.
"Lestrade's the reason most of the workers get sick. She never takes a sick day. If she was dying she'd still be at work."
Holmes was running out of ideas. It was true; the inspector never took a single day off. The only other explanation for her actions jumped up and down at the back of his mind, attempting to get his attention. Frowning inwardly, he brushed the thought from his mind, but he couldn't shake the question: Was there foul play at work here?
"Anyway," Grayson continued. "I want you to go over to her apartment." He added, when Homes' eyebrow arched. "Better you than me. That way she doesn't go off the deep end." The connection then ended.
By then, Homes was already donning his everness and deerstalker.
a few minutes later and on the other side of New London
When Holmes got to the building where Lestrade's flat was, he restrained himself from bolting up the stairs and breaking down her door. He knew what he would find; he just didn't want to admit it. As he walked up the stairs, into the building and to the flat in question, that annoying explanation jumped up again, yelling, "pick me, you know it's going to be me!" Yet again, he brushed the thought away, but it didn't completely go away, it just went into a far corner of his mind.
They stopped in front of 23b. As Watson fumbled for his lock-pick, Holmes reached up and found the extra card-key atop the doorframe. Ignoring the robot's astonished look, he swiped the key and opened the door.
The flat was just as he remembered it: a nice view of the New London skyline, desk with papers strewn across it, same second-hand furniture, and the bookcase full of books of all subjects, ranging from space exploration to Watson's journals. The one thing missing was the owner of the place. Watson crept (as well as he could; he is made of metal) into the bedroom, leaving Holmes to examine the rest of the place.
A few minutes later, Watson's head poked out of the bedroom. "Some the closet door is open, and there are clothes strewn about in here," he reported. "It appears that some of her necessities are missing from the bathroom."
Holmes fallowed his friend into the bedroom and gave it a look-over. The bed, a four-poster, was made and looked like no one had recently slept in it. On the bed were different types of clothes, a sundress here, and a skirt there. A big armchair was in the corner, under a pile of various tops. The dresser (matching the dark cherry bed) had clothes neatly folded and socks and other undergarments (noted by a slightly blushing Holmes) stuck out of the closed drawers. The detective could hardly believe all these clothes belonged to Lestrade; the only clothes he'd seen her wear was her uniform.
"Watson," he called (Watson was in the bathroom). "What do you see that is missing?"
"Toothbrush, hairbrush, toothpaste, hygienic items... Things one usually need for a trip of some sorts."
"Any DNA evidence?"
"Only Lestrade's. Either she was here or someone wearing gloves."
The last part struck a chord in Holmes' mind. Now it was official. He had seen the evidence and it pointed in one direction: kidnapping. The blonde returned to the living room with Watson at his heels. After a few moments of thinking, she spoke.
"I'm afraid that our dear Lestrade has been kidnapped."
"By whom?" Watson was quite alarmed.
"My guess is Professor Moriarty. No doubt that he'd try to get his revenge for our little intervention with his plan."
"I wouldn't put it past him, but where do we start? Moriatry could be anywhere with Inspector Lestrade!"
'True,' Holmes thought. It did seem that the cloned professor had the upper hand... 'Not for much longer.'
As his eyes gave another sweep of the room, they fell on the pad of paper next to the vidphone. He swooped down at it, snatching it up and studying it. The handwriting was Lestrade's own, written in a hurry and then tossed carelessly on the desk:
"Oxford's- 8 o'clock"
"Let's go," Holmes spoke aloud, making way for the door.
"Where to, Holmes?" Watson asked, fallowing the taller man.
"To Oxford's. Perhaps someone there will know the whereabouts of our dear Lestrade."
I'm done! Yay! ::does a happy dance:: I hope you liked it. This one is the first of many hard chapters, mainly because I've got Sherly on the case, and he's hard to write! ::wah:: Anyway, I think I did ok with this. Any helpful hints will help me a lot. Until the next chapter, ja-ne! (goodbye) PS: I'm reading a Mary Russell novel (Justice Hall-got it Monday) just for the sake of it, and because school is out and I'm curious as to what her story is... so far it's really good. PSS: Sherly = Sherlock Holmes. Hope he never finds out ::sees the shadow of a tall man in a deerstalker, squeaks and runs for cover::