Hey everybodys peeps, and especially to everyone who has read/reviewed or faved this story so far. Hope it lives up to your expectations. I'm enjoying becing back and writing fanfiction.
Anyway, I'll stop rattling and let you read. Muchos Loveosxxxx
I've lived in London my whole life, and I've always hated tube trains.
With nothing but my Oystercard, purse and Mum's note shoved into my pocket, I caught the underground to Baker Street station. It was hot, and crammed with folk wending their way to work. I hate the underground, it's like playing sardines, but with people. I felt cramped and dirty, which only served to add to my worry and confusion. It was no surprise, therefore, that I reached Baker Street in a bad mood.
221B was in the middle of the terrace, a three storey building with a café on the ground floor known as 'Speedys'.' It was handsome, if a little imposing. And probably an extortionate price - prime location, one squashed flat. And Sherlock Holmes lives here?
A net curtain twitched on the second floor. I glanced up, but couldn't see anybody.
I debated throwing the towel in and just calling the police. Who would then call social services because I was underage.
I weighed my options and rapped on the doorknocker.
It was opened by a motherly looking lady in a rather ugly purple dress and apron. "Hello dear, anything wrong?"
Don't call me dear. I bit back the retort. "I, um…I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes?"
She almost looked sad. "Oh dear…you are young to be a client. I swear they're getting younger…come on up with me, I'll see if they're in. Not that they ever tell me, I'm the landlady, not their housekeeper…"
Client? Oh God, he's not a pimp, is he?
Mum's voice whispered in my ear. Bite the bullet, Evelyn. This won't do itself. The constant mantra that got me through my homework, past the bullies, and out of bed every morning. I stepped inside after the mother hen-like landlady.
We passed into a narrow hall, papered in a horrible sort of green, up 17 thinly carpeted stairs, and onto an upper landing. The sound of a violin came wailing cheerfully through the door. Whoever was playing wasn't half bad.
"Just in here, dearie." The 'landlady' knocked on the wooden door. "Oo-oo! Sherlock!" The violin player ignored her, but the door was opened by a stocky man with light brownish-blonde hair. An army doctor, going by his rather severe haircut, straight backed stance and the mug of tea bearing the medical caduceus he held in his hand.
He looked harried. "Sorry, I was just on my way out, he won't shut up…hullo," he said, noticing me, standing a little in shadow. "Here to see Sherlock?"
"Er…yeah…I take it you're not him…"
"Uh, nope, I'm his…flatmate. Sherlock!" He called over his shoulder.
Abruptly, the violin cut off. "Hopeless!" There was a clatter as something fell over. The Ex-Army Doctor rolled his eyes and ushered me inside.
Nervously (and I'm never nervous, so this freaked me out as much as anything else had), I stepped into a surprisingly spacious living room, cluttered with various books and papers, two armchairs, a sofa and…
That's a skull. That's a flipping human skull, on his mantelpiece.
The room was occupied by one other figure. A tall, rake thin young man with curly black hair, dressed only in pyjamas and a blue silk dressing gown. By process of simple observation, this must be Sherlock Holmes.
He was pacing, violin in hand, ignoring the music and stand on the floor, that he'd clearly just knocked over in frustration. I wondered if he was a professional concert violinist…With clients, and a skull on the mantelpiece? Don't be daft, girl. More likely an amateur detective of some kind. But how does mum know him?
He never even glanced at me. "Got an appointment?"
"Should I?" I retorted.
Then his grey-blue-green eyes rose to meet my brown. His gaze raked up and down me, analysing me. I glared back, resenting the intrusion.
"I don't have time to solve trite schoolgirl issues, I'm the middle of a very important case of kidnapping. Mrs Hudson will show you out, she may even give you tea and sympathy on the way, good morning."
Mrs Hudson's mutter of, "I'm not your housekeeper" went straight over my head. I reached for the paper in my hoodie pocket. "It's not a schoolgirl issue. It's…"
"Oh please, you're 13 years old, you've lived in London your whole life, sheltered lifestyle and above average IQ, what kind of trouble could you get into that would require my help to get out of? Nope, sorry, more interesting cases to solve. You're perfectly capable of figuring out whatever it is on your own, stop wasting my time."
"Sherlock…" said the doctor warningly, but it was too late. Mum always told me I have the temper of a bear with a headache. Every bit of pain, and worry, and stress and fright finally overtook me at his casual blow off, and I reached out and grabbed his arm as he turned away.
"Listen you, I have been through the mill and back today, and it's not even 11am. My mum skipped town this morning and left me with nothing but your name. I don't know who the hell you think you are, you arrogant twerp, or why my mum sent me to you, but something is going on, and you're the only lead I have."
He looked at me again, the angle of his head casting shadows beneath his high cheekbones. If there was a flash of interest in his eyes, I couldn't see it.
"You know what? I don't know who you are and frankly, I don't care. If you're not interested, then fine. Clearly mum was wrong about your capacity to help me. I'll just go home, and you can sit here with your army doctor" – someone by the door spluttered. I was right then – "and your 'landlady,' and forget this ever happened. And if you do, and me and my mum turn up dead or something, I hope you're damn proud of yourself!"
Not bothering to wait for a reply, I wheeled and shoved past the person gawping in the doorway, banging downstairs. At the bottom, I stopped and tried to collect myself, swallowing the tears that threatened to prick my eyes. Evie Adler doesn't cry. Evie Adler gets over herself and moves on. Even when the girls at school tease her for wearing converse, and call her 'Evil' Evie because she once told one of them to go die in pain. So much for Sherlock Holmes. Now I'll never find Mum. We're both screwed.
Evaluate, Evie. You don't know you're going to wind up dead.
But when I considered the strange behaviour of Godfrey, the missing passport and the abandoned phone, the strange code on the back of the note…it didn't take a genius to work out that I had been thrown into the middle of something big. And nasty. And I had nobody on my side.
"You mustn't mind him," came a friendly voice at my elbow. I yelped in shock and jumped back.
"Oh, it's only me, love," said Mrs Hudson. "Sherlock can have that effect, but he means well."
"Oh, really?" I muttered sarcastically. "Who even is he? Some kind of detective? Cause he's not going to get much business with that kind of attitude."
She looked at me sympathetically, and I wanted to throttle her. "Come and have a cup of tea. I've baked some scones as well."
She had me at 'cup of tea.'
"I remember when my dad left," said the landlady as the kettle boiled. "Broke my mother's heart. We never saw him again. I never knew what happened to him…"
I let her rattle wash over my head, trying not to listen. I knew she meant well, but it wasn't working.
"What did your mum say? Just to find Sherlock?" She set a steaming mug of tea in front of me.
"I think it's more complicated than that." I mumbled. "She ran away, she wasn't kidnapped. Her law partner definitely knows something. And she left me this funny code…on the back of the note."
"Oh, Sherlock loves codes. He'll sort it out for you."
I snorted. "After that display of indifference? I'll sort it out for myself. I just…" I concentrated on the swirling brown depths, unable to meet her motherly gaze on the other side of the table. "I just don't know where to start."
"At the line of least resistance."
I whipped around at the sound of the low, purring voice in the door. Holmes stood just inside it.
We stared at each other.
"Show me her note," he said, finally.
Sherlock was sitting in the library, thoroughly engaged in a book about chemical discoveries in the 19th century when he was disturbed by Mycroft.
"Sherlock? They're leaving if you want to say goodbye."
"Why would I want to say 'goodbye', when they're hardly around to say 'hello' to?" replied the ten-year old without glancing up, lazily turning a page, his raven curls ruffled in the light streaming through the window behind him.
"Because they won't be back for a long time? Because you're their son?"
"Mycroft, don't be so dense." Finally, grey-blue eyes looked up. "You're the credit. The golden older son who will inherit all the estate. I'm just 'the slightly odd younger brother,' as Father said at the last family gathering."
"You had left a dead bird in your desk drawer for the maid to find two days previously."
"Experiment in the type of flies it attracted. Hardly my fault I'm curious. As I recall, you encouraged it when I was younger."
"Sherlock…"
"She shouldn't have been poking in there anyway." The boy's indignation was clear in his tone. No remorse, only annoyance that his experiment had been disturbed.
Mycroft tried a different tack. "I'm sure they're going to miss you. And you will too, despite all you've said. Come and say goodbye."
"I don't see that it matter too much. They're the ones flying away to random destinations around the globe every other month. It's not like the place will be much different." He went back to reading.
"Sherlock…"
"Have fun pining over Mummy and Daddy, Mycroft. I'm staying right here."
Mycroft gave up and returned to the entrance hall.
He didn't have to say anything. It was written in the coldness of his father's face, and the slight tear in his mother's eye. Without a word, they turned away and went down the stairs to the waiting car. Mycroft watched them go silently.
In the library, Sherlock turned the pages angrily, ignoring the traitorous tear that slid down one cheek.
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