Not so Shakespearean
Disclaimer: I do not own anything about BBC's show Sherlock, I only own my original character (OC) Ophelia Doreen Watson and bits of the plot.
Author's Note: Thank you SpectrumLight for the review! I hope to exceed your expectations ;) Without further ado, lets begin!
1. Enter: Ophelia Watson, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes
She couldn't help it, couldn't help that every pore of her was leaking happiness; she thought she would explode from the sheer amount of glee that coursed through her veins. She couldn't help that her mouth broke out into a vicious, wide smile that made her cheeks hurt. She couldn't even stop herself from throwing herself at her older brother, the sheer excitement from seeing him for the first time in four years clouded her vision or perhaps those were just the tears forming in her eyes. She knew better than to cry in public, especially in front of her older brother; he was always the worry-wort of the family, always taking on everyone else's problems before sorting himself out first. She cleared her mind, even if it was brief and obscure, and managed to force the tears down. She could feel his hands slowly pat her back and the warmth radiating from him; she missed him. She pulled back for a brief second, her eyes looking over his face. He looked older than he actually was. His hair parted and slicked back, she could even see some white hairs here and there, his eyes looked sad, dull even, and he walked with a limp.
"I missed you," she finally breathed out before dropping back from his hug, mentally scolding herself for making him hold her since he had a bad leg, "letters and phone calls just aren't enough you know." She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks and could hear her mother's words: you're far too attached to your brother, let him breath. From a small age Ophelia made John into a white knight, always knowing in the back of her mind that he would always be there for her, and she would always be there for him. She glorified him in her small, childish mind and now she could see that even white knights could be beaten. The overwhelming feeling of wanting to hug him again rose into her when his eyes cast down to his feet, but he quickly covered it with a smile that didn't really meet his eyes and a gentle push against her shoulder.
"I missed you too Effie," her eyes softened, he hadn't called her that in years, "I wanted to visit, but…" he tapped his leg with the side of his cane, smiling sadly, "traveling for too long makes my old bones ache." She smiled, of course she would, what else could she do?
"I don't care about the past, I'm here now. In London," she stepped forward and picked up her suitcase, "and you're going to show me around brother dear."
Arms linked, strolling down the sidewalk at a slow pace, John showed her every bit of London that he could in two hours.
"Do you want me to walk you to your flat?" John offered, she weighed the idea around in her head; she knew that he would worry if he didn't, but if he did it would tire him out quickly, "I'm not an invalid, I can walk just fine and your flat isn't too far away is it?" John always told her that she wore her heart on her sleeve and her thoughts on her face. She nodded, tightening the hold on his arm, "I think that'd be excellent." It was reassuring at the very least.
John stopped outside her flat and blinked at the site of it, "this, this is where you'll be living?" She couldn't tell if he was surprised, astonished, or angry; maybe all three. She smiled lightly, the corners of her mouth barely lifting up before waving the single key in the air, "I do believe so." It was on the main road, accessible to cabbies and cars a like, and was only a block away from the grocery store that John had pointed out on the way over. It was nice, the outside was bricked and an off-white siding, even the front door had the off-white color. It looked narrow, compact just like the rest of the flats on the street, but Ophelia called it home. "Want to come in? I can make some tea and we can chat." John nodded his head and limped up the steps. She didn't mean to stare and she didn't mean to look sad, but John caught it. He always did.
"Stop it." He commented once and she knew what he was talking about. She turned and forced the key into the hole, turned it, and allowed John to come in. The flat itself wasn't large, wasn't even considered to be average; it was small. Once you came in through the door, you had a short hallway that led to the living room and a door that probably led to the alleyway in the back. The kitchen was in the same room, a small half-wall dividing it from the rest of it. Stairs were pressed against the left most wall, and another room was situated beside them.
"I see all your things arrived already," he commented while Ophelia went into the kitchen to put on a kettle, "even your ugly sofa." He tapped the floral designed sofa with the bottom of his cane before sitting down on it, the sofa immediately sunk in. She chuckled, "you know Mum bought that for me when I first moved out, don't be mean." He stood his cane up against the wall, "I know she did, but she always had a taste for all things floral and coral pink." The sofa looked silly sitting in a room that was full of fine things, but John brushed it up to sentimental value. He saw boxes among boxes lining the room, even her mattress which was pushed up against the wall. When she brought the tea out his eyes immediately went to her fingers, the dainty small digits that were covered in band-aids.
"Sorry if the tea isn't is hot as it should be, forgot to run the tea-pot under some hot water."
John shook his head, "nonsense. Warm tea is better than piping hot tea." Her hands shook as she poured the tea into the tea-cup and handed it to him, "thanks." He said quietly before sipping on it. He had missed his sister's tea, she always had a certain way of brewing it that made it taste better than anything else; he sighed with content.
"I missed you." He confided, smiling as he brought the tea to his lips again. She didn't look shocked, but rather amused by the statement, "and I you, John." It was funny how much comfort her presence brought to him, he almost forgot. Usually she was nervous and timid around people, but not around him; it was funny really. They talked about multiple things as the hours passed and afternoon soon became dusk. They had said their goodbyes and John went outside to hail a cab.
"Oh, and John?" He turned as a cab pulled up to the sidewalk, "be careful." He smiled loosely at his sister. She was worried. Her eyebrows always knitted together and she always tugged at her sweater when she was. He nodded, "always am Effie." He closed the cab's door behind him and watched as she disappeared from sight.
She stood outside for what seemed like an eternity as the cab disappeared from sight. She brought her cardigan closer as a breeze blew in before heading inside. She stared at the mess before her, pulled off her cardigan, and got to work. By nine o'clock, she had managed to drag her mattress up the steps (cursing the movers for not doing this themselves,) and got her bedroom in working order. She hung the twinkle lights above her headboard, unpacked almost all of her clothes, and hung up her pictures and posters. She flopped down on her bed, moved her arm over her eyes, and went to sleep.
It was around one in the morning when she woke up, the sound of something being pushed over in the alleyway behind her flat waking her up. At first she thought it was a stray cat, she had seen almost seven different ones parading behind her home when she was moving things around a few hours earlier. Then, she heard the back door unlock itself, and felt her heart drop into her stomach. She heard a crashing noise and winced; it was the sound of her coffee table being broken. She didn't know what to do but slowly lift herself off her bed and try to close her bedroom door. She screamed when a hand stopped her from doing so, and with all her strength tried to slam the door on their fingers. Superior strength won the battle as her door came crashing back, hitting the back wall, and she landed on her backside with a scared yelp.
It was a man, late thirties if she had to guess, that looked frightened, but just as menacing. He grabbed Ophelia's arm, hoisting her up just as another figure arrived at her bedroom door. He looked just as menacing and stoic, his lips forming a thin line, and his eyes going to her neck. That's when she felt something cold against her neck, she swallowed as the pit in her stomach got larger. He had a knife to her neck, she was going to die. She panicked, wriggling in the man's grasp before feeling a pinprick of pain against her neck and something flowing down. He cut her, actually cut her. "Stop moving." The man said behind her, twisting her wrist behind her back. She whimpered in pain.
"Troy Abbey, age thirty-eight weight at about two-hundred and eight; works at the coffee shop down the street, responsible for maiming and killing three people and framed his little brother for four murders. Look at you," the man at her bedroom door stepped into the light and the first thing she noticed was his striking blue-green eyes, "thirty-eight going nowhere in life, the only job you've held longer than three months was working as a barista, your wife left you for your younger brother - actually, had an affair for eight months with Frederick before becoming pregnant," the man's eyes went to her and her bleeding neck before licking his lips and smiling, how could he be smiling? "And you think holding a hostage will stop me from taking you in? The game is over Troy, don't make a bigger fool out of yourself. Don't add her to your list, she doesn't even look like the others." Ophelia would've fainted, she wish she would've. She froze as the knife dug into her skin more.
"Don't make a fool out of myself?" He growled, the knife cutting into her skin and his hand twisting her wrist more, "don't add her to the list?" He twisted her wrist more, a hard popping noise coming from it and she cried out, "who do you think you are?" The man at her doorway slid his hand into his pocket, took out his phone and looked at the screen, smirking to himself, "I'm Sherlock Holmes, and you, Troy Phillip Abbey, are surrounded." The man, Sherlock, moved to the side as a police officer held a trained gun, aiming at Troy's head. He cursed and released her, throwing away the knife, and holding his hands up in the air. Once the officer moved to Troy's side, he cuffed him and led him out of the room. Sherlock still stood there, stoically as the medics rushed in to look over Ophelia, and as they did so he turned to leave.
"Brilliant," she managed to mumble out as the medics attempted to stop the trickling blood, "that was bloody brilliant." He paused in his steps, looked over his shoulder at her, and she would've sworn she saw a hint of what could be a smile before he left in a flurry of coat and scarf.
"I can't believe that happened," John fussed, his hands going to the stitching on her neck and the cast on her wrist, "I can't believe..." He stood up from the chair, his cane momentarily forgotten. He was angry, angry at the man who attacked his sister, angry at his sister, and most of all angry at himself. She grasped his jacket ends with her good hand, tugging it, "it's over John, I'm not dead. I'm still breathing, I've dealt with worse. I'm terribly sorry, really am." Her voice was timid and small, immediately calming him down enough so he'd sit. He leaned against the bed, his head in his hands, "I should've stayed with you."
"John," she stopped him and he finally noticed the tremor in her hand as she spoke, "please, just be here with me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She repeated herself as the tears welded up in her eyes and ultimately spilled over. John embraced his sister, kissing the top of her head, and tracing circles on her bad, "I'm here, I'm here." Her good hand clenched his jacket material, "I can't imagine how scared you were, how brave you had to be." Ophelia sobbed again.
"I wasn't brave, I wasn't. He saved me, he was absolutely brilliant. You should've seen him." The sob broke from her throat again and a cracked laugh. John rubbed his sister's back, not asking any questions and listened to her cry.