Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters belonging to Shirley Holmes. I promise to return them, hopefully, in one piece and still breathing.

Colour Blind

Not everything is black and white. Seeing can be as sightless as being blind. Yet, when you're blind you are attuned to the world around you, while sight numbs your senses. To get over this dullness you have to open your heart as well as your mind. It is those who are intellectually clever that fail so bad to see, that life isn't one big problem with a dozens solutions. It is a dozen solutions with no problems. Those, who may not be so sharp, are more able to accept that not everything is right or wrong, it is what we make it. For a true loner does not want to be lonely, it is those that wrongfully push themselves to be alone, that make loners lonely. The message I hereby give you is; intellect is nothing without the emotion and vice versa, though when the two are put together, there is nothing that they can't achieve. I look past my life and remember time and time again when this rang true and nothing reminds me better than the lives of two of my best friends. It was after they divided and went their separate ways. They both could see and I was blind, one was the intellect, one was the emotion. Their sight numbed their senses and that was what stopped them from understanding the loss. Both struggled with their only power, for what good is intellect to someone who wants to be loved but cannot love? And what good is emotion to someone who needs intellect to survive? In this changing world, we all need that one special person to keep us from slipping towards the edge. It could be you lover, your soul mate, your mother, your father, your sister, your brother, your aunt, your cousin, your colleague, your next-door neighbour, who is yours? I was never overly bright yet I wasn't stupid - although on occasion my friends certainly let me know when my lack of judgement got the better of me! But I knew from the minute I met her that she was dull. Of course we had good laughs and always had time for fun, it was just the laughter never quite made it to her eyes. She was one of these people who were too smart for her boots. Infuriatingly smart sometimes. I couldn't even have a toothache without her figuring it out immediately. Though, at that time, Shirley was just smart. Dull but smart. We had met at University and it was her passion for mysteries that had drawn me to her. For I, myself was quite intrigued with the intriguing. There is nothing better than sitting down and figuring your way through a list of suspects, each with a motive and means. We hit it off like a house on fire and by the end of four years the police had a leaving party for us. The numbers of guys we brought to justice was mystifying and made us close to the officers in charge. At that time, we weren't too worried about keeping a low profile. As long as the bad guys didn't know about us then all was fine. It was always joked at the station that we were doing the detectives out of a job! I recall that Shirley used to get totally wrapped up in each case, almost as if she was trying to relive something that she loved. If it weren't for that day when she asked me to go through her old stuff for fingerprints, I would never have found out about him. The box was brilliant, well I suppose anything having belonged to Sherlock Holmes would be utterly enthralling. The casing itself was a rich mahogany and woven with intricate flora patterns. Shirley told me that the box would tell me how to open it but of what I could see, there was nothing there except a number on a brass plate. With a little Shirley advice, eliminate the possibilities until one (no matter how impossible) is left, the number meant something. Within five minutes I had worked out it was a date. 1455 - 1485, the only thing I could think of was the War of the Roses. I knew then and ran my fingers over the rose in the pattern and a small compartment revealed it's key. Inside was a mixture of what had to be the man his self's possessions and Shirley's. Of hers, I found a dusting kit, a folder, newspaper clippings, a book, an ink set and an album. Without thinking I flipped open the book and immediately felt guilty. It was her diary. I was about to slam it shut when I noticed the name at the top. Dear Bo, who was Bo? I sat back into a more comfortable position, straightening out my legs in front of me. A small piece of paper fell out.

To the holder of this letter, my commendations. Solving the puzzle of the chest required more than considerable deductive powers. My work has consumed my life and I have produced no heir to follow in my path. But I picture you - a young man of good imagination. Any mystery devised by mortal minds can be solved therewith. Yours faithfully, Sherlock Holmes.

Then there was a new script underneath,

To the holder of this letter, my commendations. You have solved the mystery of the chest and made proud my Great Great Uncle and indeed myself. For deducting the War of the Roses, I must allow you to observe my work through this journal. The first one has already made it out into the world and I believe has been taken care of. Hopefully by reading this, you will understand the importance of the image. Be wise my friend and learn by my mistakes. If I am alive at this time of your reading, I must ask you in return to grant my wish of ignorance. As what is contained, I do not desire to relive. Prove us proud and always remember to keep an open mind. Yours faithfully, Shirley Holmes.

Curious was not the word to describe how I felt reading that letter. And as began my journey through her past I couldn't help but long to see that first journal. Even more so, I was desperate to find out whom the Bo was, that the journal constantly addressed. Case upon case was depicted out and explained and my respect to my best friend heightened to that of reverent awe. The way her mind so easily explained everything out, now I could say I understood her in a way. That book was she. Then it stopped. So suddenly. The page was blank. The journal stopped on the closure of a store robbery. It was like her life just stopped. BAM! Everything halted and disappeared - it was eerie. Why did she stop so suddenly? Who WAS this Bo? Why did she stop writing in this journal? Did she stop detecting? Flicking over the page to check that there was no writing on the other side I was met with a pure white blank page and an envelope. Gently pulling out the tab I emptied the contents of it onto the floor in between my legs. They were newspaper clippings each heading the same sort of line, "Ukrainian Kids killed in Explosion", "Tragedy strikes Ukrainian School; Gutted parents weep for their lost". I sifted through them, each told the similar story of a gas explosion within a Secondary School, which completely destroyed the place and took 98% of the lives inside it. The wrenching statements of the parents brought tears to my eyes and my heart constricted so tight I could hardly breathe at the picture of the devastated school. But what did this have to do with Shirley? My answer came in the form of an address book at the back of the journal. I skimmed the names briefly, Alicia Gianelli. Bart James. Stink Patterson. Molly Hardy. Matt. Bo Sawchuk.

Wait, Bo Sawchuk????? Is that the girl who Shirley was writing too? Sawchuk, hmm. that second name is rather odd, kinda unusual, sounds foreign. But she has scored the name out, including the number. This is getting interesting. What is Shirley trying to hide? Wait a second, she has Alicia's email address here, and maybe I could. 'Nah I better not. Shirley would kill me if she found out'. But, the other part of me argued back, 'you're a detective; you HAVE to find out! Anyway, Shirley doesn't have to know.' That decided it; I clicked away the screensaver on my laptop and open up my Email box. I quickly typed a letter and send it to the email address on the page. I just hoped that the girl hadn't changed it in the last, what, seven years? I turned to the other stuff in the box and having found the finger print album, I turned to my attention to the newspaper articles. I got so engrossed reading them that I jumped ten foot in the air when my computer beeped new email. Eagerly I crawled back to my laptop and opened up the mail.

Dear Anna, Thank you for your email. I haven't seen Shirley for years so it's great to hear that she is doing well. I lost her number and couldn't get in contact with her again. As for your request I'm afraid I can't tell you all that much. Bo and Shirley met when they were thirteen in Detention; from then on, they were the best of friends. Jeez, you couldn't break them up. Wherever Shirley went, Bo was sure to follow like a sheep. To tell the truth I thought they would get together in the end, we all even had bets on it. Anyway, both of them went around like Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, constantly sticking their noses in where it didn't belong. Unfortunately, Bo's parents sent him to the Ukraine when we were seventeen and Shirley was left heartbroken without her partner. After that, I don't know what happened to Bo; Shirley never spoke about him. In fact at the end of Sussex Academy she was a whole different person - I wouldn't say it was a change for the better either. At least she acquired a slightly better dress sense though. I hope I have been a little helpful in your quest, say hi to Shirley from me,

Yours faithfully, Alicia.

I finally understood and felt an overwhelming sympathy for my best friend. She had lost her best friend, her emotion. I picked up a newspaper clipping. His second name was unusual because it was Ukrainian. He wasn't a girl but a boy. He and Shirley had divided because he was sent to the Ukraine. I presumed she kept in touch with him while he was there until. I stared at the picture of devastated school. until he died in a disaster. That's why, I flipped open the journal; she stopped writing. It was then I noticed some jagged bits of paper between the pages; a sheet had been torn out. Looking carefully at what would be the corresponding page, I noticed there was a sight indent. I hurried over to my desk, switched on my lamp and holding the book under the intense light I read the worst writing ever, indented on that page. In scraggly writing, as though the author's hand was shaking I read, Dear Bo, I'm so, so, so sorry, forgive me.

The tell tale splash marks of her tears made me the drop the book in anguish. Shirley would never be whole again; her life was a misery, a struggle. It was all here. Here is the wretched journal. I understood then, I was blinded and I saw everything for what it was. Shirley loved this guy Bo. He was her constant, her grasp in life. The one person whom she had depended upon, the one person she trusted with her life. They were a whole and they didn't know it. You know what the worst bit was; there was nothing that could have been done. He couldn't be avenged, the culprit couldn't be brought to justice and no revenge was available for his death. Shirley had had to accept it as it was. No wonder she wanted to forget that that period in her life had existed, I knew Shirley was strong, but something like this was eventually going to get the better of her. But, what to do? What to do? Who am I kidding; there was nothing I could do. Nothing at all. Picking up the newspaper articles I sat back and read them again. As I read, the hairs on the nape of my neck rose, something nagged at the back of my mind but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it was. After an hour I threw the papers to the floor, something did not add up right and it was bothering me something chronic. Finding the picture was the last straw. The back of it told me it was Alicia holding the prize for best amateur video with Bart and Bo standing behind Shirley with his arms around her shoulders. They were all grinning as though they were on top of the world. I knew then I had to follow my gut feelings. I was about to embark on an investigation taking me through one the biggest cover-ups in History and I was going to do without Shirley. I had to, Shirley could not know about this at all. I was alone. totally alone.