Sherlock Holmes - A Study in Crimson

Chapter 1: Sherlock Holmes

Life doesn't really matter to you until it's been nearly taken from you seven times. I really don't think I should have been here. I've lived under the unfortunate name of a war brat for a good part of my life, because both my parents were in the military, and I had no one in the civilian world to take care of me while they fought for our country. Now, neither of my parents are in the military, because neither of them are alive. I've been shipped from the war fields of Afghanistan and now
I'm back home. But it's not really my home. I don't belong anywhere.

The entire adoption process and the idea of stripping me away from everyone I knew and loved wasn't the best thing that ever happened to me. But I've recovered enough from it. Mrs. Hudson, the lady who's adopting me, seems calm and peaceful enough to ensure me a calm and peaceful life. Tomorrow I go to live with her. For my last day alone and hopeless, the man at the front desk of the foster care services facility, Mr. Mike Stamford, tells me I should go around the city which will be my new home. And though I don't really care to do it, I do it anyway.

I take my stick and head out the door, Mr. Stamford leading the way. He can't help but look at my stick as I use it to walk, and asks in concern, "You okay?"

"I'm fine." I reply. I'm not about to get into all the details of a psychosomatic disorder.

He notices the awkwardness, and tries to change the subject.

"You'll want to make some friends, wouldn't you?"

"Who'd want me for a friend?"

He chuckles a bit. "That's funny," he says, "you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

By now, we've reached a building with the words "Office of the Chief Medical Examiner" written at the top. It's a morgue. We enter the building, and head toward a certain room. I can see in the window a tall, thin girl, with long, curly, black hair and high cheekbones. She's looking intently at a laptop, typing away fiercely. Without looking up, she asks, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the landline?"

"I'd rather text."

Mr. Stamford searches his pockets. He doesn't have his phone on him.

"Here," I say, "Use mine."

She swirls around in her chair and noticing my outstretched hand with my phone, she says, "Oh. Thank you."

"This is Joanne Watson." Mr. Stamford tells the girl.

She takes a sideways glance at me, and says, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I'm sorry?" I reply.

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I don't understand."

"Which one did your parents die in?"

I hear Mr. Stamford gasp in a warning tone, and I can't deny that I'm taken aback. But it doesn't really matter. At this point I'm trying not to care.

"Afghanistan." I say, "But, how did you know?"

She grins. "I know you're a war brat who's recently been sent home from Afghanistan, because you've been orphaned, and you're being adopted tomorrow. You've got a limp which your therapist thinks is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

I'm in shock. How on earth did she know all that? "You told her about me?" I ask Mr. Stamford.

"Nothing at all." He says.

"Then how did she know  - "

"How do you feel about the violin?" The girl asks me. I don't know how to respond. The girl clarifies herself.

"I play the violin when I think, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Potential sisters ought to know the worst of each other."

"Sisters?" I reply, aghast, "Who said anything about sisters?"

"I did. Hudson's adopting you, isn't she?" She sees my blank stare and continues, "Mike Stamford is the same man who brought me to Mrs. Hudson when she adopted me. Wasn't a difficult leap." She hands me back my phone and puts on a magnificent trench coat. "I'll see you tomorrow. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?" I ask.

"Is that what?"

"We just met and are apparently going to be living together, and you're just going to walk off like that?"

"Problem?"

"I don't even know your name! And where will I see you?"

She's opened the door, and right before she leaves, she says, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." And with a wink, she leaves.

"Yeah, she's always like that." Mr. Stamford says with a sigh.