Yes, you heard me right. The Sherlock Holmes. And there is no doubting the fact that he is - was - real, for if he was a fictional character, I simply would not exist. I also know that I am the first girl born with the name Holmes; the name is from my father's side of the family. And I think you've all worked out by now that we are related in some way. I am not his granddaughter, but his great-granddaughter. Much like James. James Watson is the great-grandson of Holmes' faithful companion, Doctor John Watson. I too thought that Holmes and Watson would find a way to stay together despite various laws preventing such things, but no.

Being their descendants several heirlooms had made their way into James' and my possession, including both of their pocket watches, Holmes' treasured violin and a series of journals. From these, we had learnt more of our heritage. Apparently, Watson remarried for the third time in 1901, to an American woman named Leanne Rhodes, and they had a son, William-Sherlock. And despite Watson's opinion that Holmes was a machine, not affected by love or the 'softer' emotions, he too married. However, his wife passed away due to severe blood loss following complications during childbirth, so Holmes was left to bring up his son by himself.

I smiled to myself, almost forgetting where I was until Professor Hanson brought me out of my thoughts. To tell the truth, it was the bell that brought me out of it.

"Miss Holmes, we still have the matter of your lateness to discuss." I stifled a groan and reluctantly put my books and pencil case back into my bag. "Bring me your homework diary." The next sigh took a lot more effort to successfully suppress, but thankfully I managed to stop it from surfacing.

I pulled my homework diary out again and walked up to her desk. The way they are designed for different years used to really annoy me; when you were in year 10 or 11, you used to get the really boring ones (like ones with books on them) while the younger and older years got rainbow designs. Being a year 12 has its perks, and I'm not referring to the fact that we don't have to wear a uniform.

"Now," She said, drawing my attention back to her. "Is there a reason you have been late to almost every lesson, save today, for the past two weeks?"

There was, but it was highly personal (not to mention embarrassing) and not something I was likely to tell her. Rather than saying this and getting myself into a complicated mess, I decided to choose the path of least resistance. In my case this was simply saying no and accepting the punishment that came with it.

"No reason, Professor. I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be able to stop it for a while."

She looked at me, concerned. "Is there anything the matter?"

I decided to tell her, my earlier decision and the consequences be damned.

"It's my aunt... She's... ill, at the moment, and the... prognosis isn't very promising. Almost every lesson I've been late is because I've stayed at the hospital with her every night and had to go home and change... But I fear that when I leave for school, it'll be the last time I see her..." I trailed off, repressing the urge to fidget in discomfort. I can't remember the last time I told one of my teachers something like that... but it felt kind of good to tell someone. My only other option was James, but I hadn't told him. I don't know why I haven't; he's my closest friend, has been since we were little, and I know I can talk to him about anything.

She looked at me sympathetically. "So naturally, you want to spend as much time with her as possible. I understand. But you -" She broke off mid-sentence. "Never mind." She handed my homework diary back to me. "Off you go then."

I nodded and didn't say anything. I pulled my bag back onto my shoulder and walked out of the classroom, only then looking at what she'd written. She'd given me detention; that much I expected. But I had expected it to be two or three, not just the one. Not that I was complaining.

My stomach was battling with my bladder for my attention, and I thought it best to see to the latter first.

I pushed my homework diary back into my bag as I made a beeline for the bathroom on the first floor.

Once my bladder had stopped complaining, I dropped my bag to the floor in front of the sinks. Having washed my hands, I dug around for the little make-up bag that I always kept with me and touched up my mascara.

I've heard many people tell me that I don't need mascara, that my eyelashes were naturally long enough as it is. I was inclined to disagree with them, but I only used mascara to define my eyes. They were an odd shade of grey, verging on silver around my irises and darkening gradually towards the edges. The dark grey often became more or less pronounced dependent upon the mood I was in; if something or someone had particularly annoyed me that day, they darkened so much that their colour was often referred to by James as 'stormy grey'. Inversely, if I was in a good mood, the dark grey seemed to contrast less with the lighter shades, and they seemed clear of any other colour. You'd expect such a rare colour to be lost through the generations, as grey gave way to brown. This is what my father had expected to happen to me, that I wouldn't inherit my great-grandfather's definitive eye colour, that it would be subdued and replaced by the dull brown of my mothers'. The only featured I inherited from my mother was... well, two X chromosomes. All of my other features came from my father's side of the family.

As I was reapplying the mascara to my lashes, I felt something strain and snap on the back of my head. A white ribbon fluttered to the floor; as it did so, my long black hair unwound itself from the plait I'd tied it up in this morning. I sighed and searched my trouser pockets for another hair band, but they were empty. How could I have forgotten to put a spare in my pocket? I brushed my fringe out of my eyes and tucked a few errant strands behind my ears. Don't get me wrong; I love my hair, but sometimes it really irritates me. At the moment, the irritation came from the length, and was directed back at my father. I usually have my hair cut just above shoulder length, but last time I decided to try something new. The result was that my hair didn't reach past my chin. My fringe had curved to the right and almost covered my eye. Needless to say, my father was less than pleased and promptly forbade me from cutting it that short ever again. So I let it grow, and it now hung in thin waves (from the plait) down my back, to around waist-length. I checked my watch again and headed towards the already crowded hall.

The remainder of the school day passed with little trouble.

It was on the way home that the trouble began.

"So..." James began as we walked home. I looked at him expectantly. "You have a violin lesson today, don't you?"

Did I? "No... It's Thursday, James. Michael has his piano lesson today."

"Oh."

"How did you manage to mix up my lesson with my brothers', seeing as you always offer to walk me there and pick me up?"

He laughed, but there was something different. It was off-key, almost. "I don't know."

I smiled, determined to get him to reciprocate. "Maybe you just had one of your blonde moments." I teased.

He responded, whether he wanted to or not. "Must you continue to insult my kind?"

"Yep." I replied.

He looked me up and down, and grinned. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed, putting his arm around my shoulders. I rolled my eyes and was about to push him away when a strange noise floated towards us. James' laughter stopped, and he turned to me.

"Can you hear that?" He asked, gripping my shoulder a little too tightly.

It sounded like a ghost wailing, before it got louder. As the volume increased, I realised the noise was similar to that of an engine, and it was right in front of us. I was about to take a step towards the noise when my foot came into contact with something hard. Wood. Blue wood. What on earth...?