Disclaimers: I don't own any BBC characters in this story, no beta, not british so bear with me...that is all.
As I sit here on the steps of the apartment, I sketch the eyes of the new client upstairs. She is young and pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes. She had a gleam of skepticism towards Sherlock, and a major crush on Dad. I hate her already.
She obviously has a husband, or did if the indent on her left finger has anything to do with it. He is definitely cheating on her with a redhead, and she wants to know who it is. Probably her sister, or someone equally as scandalous. Quite boring to be honest. Based on the whispers I'm catching, she is probably hearing the same thing.
The door opens and she storms out, perfect hair fluttering behind her. She looks down and sees my drawing. She gives me a withering look and mutters under her breath about teenagers and their obsession with anime. I just smirk and rip out the page, making a three pointer into the bin.
I go up the stairs to see my uncle pacing across the floor and Dad making his fifth cup of tea today. I unceremoniously plop onto the couch and turn on the telly to watch the news. Apparently there is a terrorist on the loose running rampant around Essex, and a higher crime rate than ever in the states, not suprisingly.
Sherlock stops pacing and announces that he is going to his bedroom so that he can think, like he hasn't been thinking this whole time. Always so dramatic, my uncle. After he leaves, Dad comes over and hands me a fresh cuppa. I gladly take the steaming mug and take a small sip.
I bring up how that girl looked like my mum from the pictures he's shown me. His eyes divert and he glances nervously around the room. Too late, I already saw the pain in his eyes. He doesn't like how chalantly I speak of Mum.
When he took me to her grave, I didn't really know how to react. I couldn't find it in me to cry. This was a woman I only knew about from stories, and I've learned how biased those tend to be. Whenever I tried to remember her, I only see faded images of a smile, a finger, an eye.
Sometimes I try to draw her eyes, but I always get frustrated and ended up tossing them one after one in the bin. They are always flat and lifeless, emotionless. I hate them. I wanted to meet them, to hear their stories, to find a hint of myself in them. But I never even got the chance.
My Dad tries to say that she will always be there, but I can tell that he is broken inside that I resent her. He tries to tell me I'm just like her, but I think he is just trying to keep his dead wife alive. My dead mother alive. I shouldn't feel this way, but I can't shake the feeling that all my dad sees is her, not me.
I realize that my tea has gone cold, and my dad has fallen asleep in the recliner. I dump out the mug and take a blanket and drape it over him. He is so peaceful when he sleeps. His sadness is painful to see, but I can never look away. I just want him to be happy with me.
I go to the loo and splash some cold water in my face. When I look up I look at my own eyes. Brown with blue undertones and gold flecks dotted around the iris. I can see the inquisitiveness in them, the sense of adventure. I also see the tiredness and loneliness.
I look back at my story and I wonder if there was something more I could do with my life. My few friends text me to do to the cinema with them, or to grab a bite, but I always turn them down. I push them away, just like my dad pushes me away.
I blink out of my reverie and head to my bedroom, softly closing the door behind me. I hear the faint trendils of a violin floating from my uncle's room, and I close my eyes and let the tears fall.
When they stop, I quickly wipe them away and get ready for bed. But my mind is already calculating a plan to figure out who Rosamund Watson is, and what she can do to make a difference in her life.