This is a rewritten and extended version of my story that I wrote on QuoteV and decided to post here! This follows the plot of A Game Of Shadows, which is my favourite of the two movies. (Not that I want to be faced with that choice anyway.) So, before we start, I want to say that I do not own anything, be it characters or plot, in the Sherlock Holmes movie universe, all characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, and Warner Bros. Except of course, for Charlotte and Jane, they are totally my own.
Anyway, here we go.
Chapter One.
I sat at my desk, glaring icily at the keyboard of my typewriter that my father bought me as an early birthday present. I couldn't wait to start writing, to publish my work and let the whole world see what I had to offer. It wasn't often that women in this day and age would even dare to pursue writing as a career, but that wouldn't stop me. In fact, it would only motivate me more. Since when did I care what other people thought of me?
But that moment of pure ambition was short lived. The blank piece of paper stared mockingly back at me, I typed a few random words that popped into my mind, I raised my hands in the air, scrunched up my nose, and groaned in exasperation as I crumpled up another piece of paper and tossed it into the pile. I had been sitting here for the past two hours trying to think of the perfect beginning for my book that I had been working on for the past two months. Countless drafts later, and nothing seemed perfect enough. I was always comparing my work to that of other, much more talented authors and that didn't make the process any easier, in fact, it made me doubt all of my abilities as a writer.
"Come on!" I yelled and banged my head dramatically against the desk. "How am I supposed to become a famous author if I can't even think of anything decent to write?"
"Charlotte!" I heard someone shout, interrupting my thought process and I rolled my eyes. It was my mother who always had a keen way of taking me by surprise. My mother was a very charming woman and was also known as a very loud social butterfly. With her it was all parties, parades, shows, weddings, circuses, whatever she could lay her gloved paws on and somehow, I always got dragged along with her. "What are you doing up there locked away in your room again?" I heard her feet approach my door. Staying silent, I closed my eyes and took two deep breaths.
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
"What's this mess you have made?" She said, swinging open the door, and her expression turned from curious to annoyed. "You know Charlotte, you could learn a thing or two from Doctor Watson! If your room was as clean as his office, you would have a much easier time finding your things, and you wouldn't have to rush to get ready for classes in the morning." Her small green eyes glazed over the balls of paper and she gave me a pointed look. I huffed, shoving myself out of the small wooden chair and then starting to clean up the mess I had made. "Your sister is going to a party with some friends, why don't you go with her?"
"No, thanks, I'm quite happy here." I went back to glaring daggers into the keyboard, then ran my fingers through my hair, grabbing clumps of it between my fists.
"I can see that," she retorted. She shook her head and then sighed, it was one of those things she did when she was cross and someone was getting on her last nerve and she was trying very hard not to lose her temper. "I mean it, Lottie, you have been stuck inside this house for two weeks. You need to get out of the house, socialize, or you'll soon turn into an unsociable hermit."
All I could do was hum in reply. It was always the same thing with me and my mother. She would insist upon me going out to all these gatherings and parties, when all I wanted to do was stay in and read and write, to live a life inside the books. "Don't give up so easily," she said, changing the subject slightly. "It takes some people years to write a book." She placed her hands on my shoulders and then kissed my cheek. "Well, at least you have dinner with your Aunt Lucy tonight, maybe a change of scenery will help you get some inspiration."
She walked out of the room and as soon as the door was shut, I dragged myself out of my chair, tucked it into the desk, and then walked over to my closet filled with satin gowns and silk dresses, mostly vibrant colours like green, blue and even yellow. I didn't want to wear white because I didn't want to ruin it with a dreadful stain. My mother had this saying when it came to stains on white clothes, "If it's red, you're dead." And by that, she meant that the stain would never come out.
And when I say never, I mean never.
So instead, I ended up going for a black dress whose straps hung off the shoulders a little bit, and whose neckline was daringly low, low enough to show off a little cleavage. Satin boots replaced my muddy ones. I brushed my hair so that it was in pretty waves. Normally, women of my station were expected to keep their hair up at all times, unless at home, but those pins poked at my scalp and sometimes my mother would twist it up much too tight so that I had a dreadful headache by the time I took them out before bed. I pinned it out of my face before nodding to the mirror in satisfaction. "There we are." I walked away from the mirror before walking down the stairs.
Jane, my twin sister, was in a simple rose-coloured gown and her light blond hair was pinned up in a bun. She looked so much like my mother that it wasn't funny. It was almost as if someone had painted my mother's younger self and somehow, brought her into this world. But though she looked beautiful, I could tell she would have been much more comfortable wearing her favourite pair of trousers and a loose fitting shirt.
"Oh, Charlotte!" Mother cried, clapping her hands together and walking over to me. "Don't you look stunning?" Mother walked over to me and smoothed down my dress.
"You do look lovely, my loves," Father said, looking up from his novel at the both of us standing together.
"Thank you, Father," Jane said with a smile and I looked over to her. Jane may have been twins, but we were complete opposites in regards to looks, other than we both had our mother's blue eyes. Unlike Jane, my hair was a dull brown, like my father, which was wavy and curled at the tips. Instead of her clear, milky skin, mine was covered in patches of freckles. Seriously, you could learn your multiplication tables just by counting them. I didn't bother covering them up with powder. I kind of liked them.
"Now, Jane, do try to behave." Mother glanced over at her while she smoothed down my dress and then sprayed some of her favourite perfume on me so that no one could smell how nervous I was. "I would send you to watch her, Lottie if you weren't going with your sweet aunt."
"But Mother, if only you could see some of the men that come to these parties, you would find them rather handsome, too." Jane defended herself.
Father had to laugh at this, then stood up to say goodbye, kissing Jane's cheek first, then mine.
"I expect you to be home by ten o'clock on the dot," Mother continued. "Heaven only knows the insane folk that roam these streets."
Father sighed loudly. I knew that if it were his choice, he wouldn't send us out without an escort, not that we had any. "And if anyone tries to harm you, you fight as hard as you can," Father added. "Then go straight to the police."
"What good is the police when you have a detective protecting the city?" Jane mumbled.
"Now, Jane," Mother raised a chastising finger at Jane before embracing her quickly and going into the kitchen. "The police have done a fine job, doing what they can to keep us safe."
"No, she's right," Grandfather said from his armchair. He had been snoozing up until this point. "Have you not read the papers regarding Lord Blackwood? It would take a machine to figure out how that clever man's mind works. Sherlock Holmes, I mean." He held up the paper for emphasis. The photo on the front was that of Lestrade, Watson in the back and Sherlock in front of him hiding his face from the camera. I expected no less from a man like him.
Blackwood had created a great fear in London, so when the papers announced he had been stopped, a huge sigh of relief was released over the city. People started to feel safe once again. I, for one, was glad to not find myself a victim of such a vile man.
It was of no surprise that my family and I knew who he was. I, just like everyone else in Britain, had heard of the infamous detective. They say he could tell a lot about you just by looking at you. He had a keen eye that picked up even the slightest bit of detail, which more often than not saved lives and there was a certain bit of relief to know there was a man like him out there, helping people. Whether he chose to help or not.
"Don't fill yourselves up on drink." Father said, ruffling my hair playfully. "The carriages should be here any minute to come and pick you up." He slipped upstairs into his study and with a nod, I took leave into the hallway and grabbed my coat, buttoning it up as Jane and Grandfather continued their discussion.
As the clock chimed seven, I went outside and shut the front door, then reached into my pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of white paper with an address written in black ink on it as well as the time of our arranged meeting. From the sound of it, this place seemed a little too fancy for my taste, but there was no way that I was going to turn down the offer of a good meal, or in my mother's words, a chance to get out of the house and socialize with other people.
I never truly felt safe being alone in the streets, even though I was in the mortar carriage, the doors weren't exactly bullet proof or anything. Someone could still shoot at me through the open window and the worst thing was, I didn't have any means of defense. Even when Father said that both Jane and I should be taught how to use a gun in case of emergency, Mother said that ladies shouldn't carry a gun or travel alone to begin with.
Then why did she seem perfectly fine sending Jane to a party and me to a crowded restaurant on our own? Was it a mistake? Even if the party Jane was going to was literally a five minute ride and the restaurant would take me only a short time longer to arrive at, it didn't make sense to me, but maybe I was just being paranoid. After all, things seemed to be alright after the arrest and death of Lord Blackwood, perhaps one of the most insane criminals to ever grace London's stone cold streets and people appeared to be more at ease, smiling and greeting each other as they passed by.
But who was to say that other, much more dangerous criminals could make their grand entrance and threaten an already crumbling city. There had been talk of war for quite some time now, and since both my Grandfather and uncles fought in the Afghan War, I couldn't stand the thought of them having to go back. Though Grandfather was retired due to having lost a leg and the state of his health.
When I arrived, I stood against the cold brick wall, looking down at my grandfather's pocket watch. It was half past seven, meaning Aunt Lucy wouldn't be arriving for another half hour. I fiddled with the buttons of my oversized black coat, doing them and undoing them to pass the time, occasionally looking up as someone walked into the restaurant, usually on the arms of their lover or best mate.
I looked down at my watch again, another ten minutes had gone by. I tapped my foot impatiently, my legs getting restless, before I realized that she probably wasn't coming after all. The one flaw Aunt Lucy had was that she was often forgetful and didn't always show up to things on time. I was starting to get worried, but then again, she was probably already inside and I was fretting over nothing. Either way, I made up my mind that I wasn't going to stand out here and freeze to death out here, so I pushed myself off of the wall and went inside.
The place was more beautiful than I could have imagined, the women all wore silk gowns and the men were all dressed in fancy suits. The polite young woman behind the reception desk eyed me expectantly, and it took me a moment to realize that she was speaking to me.
"Oh, excuse me. Table for two, please." I said to her and she nodded.
"Have you been here before?" she asked, seeming to regard my amazement with a mixture of amusement.
I shook my head. "I haven't."
I felt almost embarrassed as I noticed people staring at me, presumably making assumptions about me, but there wasn't much to tell. My mother was a school teacher and my father was an accountant. My sister, Jane was an accomplished artist, a talent she got from my father, who was always painting in the summertime, it was something that earned a little income for herself, and would prove to be a suitable job if she couldn't find a husband. But I had no doubt that she would find one, she was a wild and social butterfly, just like Mother, always flirting, always chatting up a storm with any young man she found desirable whereas I preferred to watch from a distance.
Which was the very reason why my mother and father took on the responsibility of presenting me to a million different suitors, hoping that I would marry into a well-bred family. Though several of those masterful attempts ended in some sort of disaster. I will spare you the long and boring story of my parents' quest for suitors. Basically, there was always something about him that I wouldn't like, like this one man was very violent when he drank, one was seeing someone else at the same time he was seeing me.
Sounds cliche, I know. The 'girl doesn't want to find a husband' trope, but let me tell you, if you were in my shoes, you would understand. Three summers ago, she introduced me to an Austrian prince whose little brother was going to be a student in her class the following autumn. Because of her elite social life, our mothers were good friends immediately and spoke about the possibility of us getting married. The prince overheard this and we talked about it during a picnic. Neither of us wanted to marry each other, but we agreed to remain on good terms as did our mothers.
"And I'll need the name that you used to book your reservation," the waitress said, bringing me out of my thoughts. She was holding a large black book with the name of the restaurant engraved in gold letters on the cover.
"Nolan," I said, leaning across the front desk to speak to her without being overheard by everyone within earshot. "Lucy Nolan." She had been widowed for a few years now, but never went back to her maiden name.
The receptionist flipped through the pages in the book; each name was written down in alphabetical order and I started thinking about what would happen if they had another reservation and had to sort them all over again. When she was finished, she looked up at me and shrugged. "I'm sorry, Miss, but I don't see anyone by the name of Nolan on our list."
"That can't be right, my aunt made a reservation a few hours ago." I insisted. I tried to keep my voice low and not shout since she looked to be the sensitive type, and it was becoming impossible. She shook her head, telling me once again that the reservation had not been made.
I took a deep breath, feeling my patience drop lower and lower. "She should be here soon," I lied, my ears were getting hot and I took a deep breath to calm myself down. "Can't I sit in here until she arrives?"
"I'm sorry, Miss. But I'm afraid you aren't allowed in without a reservation. We have other guests arriving and they'll need somewhere to sit." She tucked a piece of black hair behind her ear. "If you make it now, we can book a table for you tomorrow."
I huffed, thinking that maybe she had forgotten to book it. A sense of worry took over me, a billion ideas and scenarios came flooding into my mind, but I shoved it aside, hoping that it was just my lack of patience talking and not my intuition.
"No, it's alright. Perhaps I forgot to make it after all. Well, thank you, anyway," I said, a little bit of controlled irritation in my voice and I turned around and walked back into the cold air. I would have to wait for a carriage to come and take me home. Well, this was bad luck if I ever heard of it, and to add insult to injury, it began to rain.
"Really?" I looked up to the sky and put my arms up in surrender as if the heavens above were mocking me. Luck just wasn't on my side today.
I stood on the corner of the street checking my watch. It was nearly eight o'clock, so every bar, club and restaurant would be full by now. I would have given anything to be back at home in my room reading a good book in front of the fireplace or studying. But instead, I was stuck out here, getting more wet by the second.
I walked a little ways down the street, groaning as the rain soaked my hair and clothes, making them stick to my skin. I glanced up at a sign for a man's club. I doubted that I could make a good disguise in time, so I hoped that the people in this place would be kind enough to let a poor, cold, lonely woman in from the rain. There was an age limit, over twenty-one, but I was well past that, nearly twenty-four.
I was about to go inside when I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder. I turned sharply, prepared to defend myself if necessary, but then dropped my fist when I saw that the hand belonged to a woman with dark brown, wavy hair. She was dressed in what appeared to be a gypsy's dress and over it was a thick wool coat and shawl. "Nice evening for a walk?" she asked, clearly amused at the state of me.
"I'll say," I said calmly, laughing at myself. "Listen, I'm not looking for trouble," I was already worn out and I didn't have the energy to deal with anything else today.
"You're not going to get any," she replied, putting her hands up to show me that she meant no harm. She walked closer toward me, looking me over. "I can get you into the club," she whispered. "Just follow me." Before I could ask her any questions, she took my hand and led me through the entrance and up a short flight of steps to the foyer where we were greeted by a waiter who seemed very interested in the woman.
"Ah, Madam Simza, we've been expecting your arrival," The waiter said, even her name sounded mysterious, undoubtedly foreign and I'll admit, she was quite pretty.
"There is a small room upstairs that you can use however you see fit," he continued, then shifted his glance over to me and his expression changed as his eyes trailed over me, almost suggestively. "And who is your lovely friend?"
"She's part of my act," she said coolly, linking her arm through mine, giving him a somewhat dark look, as if she could somehow sense the man's intentions. "And if you'd like to keep that handsome face of yours, I suggest you move aside." The waiter was surprised by the sudden change in Simza's nature, but he sighed and nodded, then stepped aside, allowing us to pass into the dining room and to a small table where we could sit down and eat.
Simza smiled, her posture relaxing slightly, and then looked up to the balcony. "If you don't mind, I should be on my way, I'll be up there if you need me, or if you would like to see me in action." I nodded, thanking her and with that, she turned around, going up to the second floor.
Usually, I didn't trust strangers easily, but Simza didn't strike me as the type of woman who would hurt me, though she was obviously more than capable of putting up a good fight if she needed to.
Feeling a little more relaxed, I removed my gloves, stuffing them into my coat pocket. My hair was still a little bit wet and would probably be a nightmare to untangle once it completely dried up, but at the moment, all I wanted was to sit down and have a nice, warm meal in peace.
*Folds hands together* Well, that's chapter one, y'all! So I apologize if the chapters are a bit long, I just kept thinking of more things to add to the story and the ideas kept flowing. And watching BBC's Sherlock in the background definitely helps a BUNCH! Anyway, feel free to tell me what you think of it the story.