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Sherlock Holmes was a ready man. Always prepared, ready for anything. He can deduct a person and less than fifty seconds, sometimes finding out their exact age and birth just by studying their clothes. The man was a genius. Intelligent, but not outgoing. Charming, but not social. He had few friends and acquaintances. Watson, Clarkie, Gladstone, and Mrs. Hudson, an elderly woman that claims he has a talent for driving her mad. And then, of course, there's family. Eleanore, his older sister, had moved to America with her husband, George Rims. The two siblings never bothered to write each other, they had not gotten along since they were children. And with the distance between Boston and London, their relationship grew even thinner. The first time in over three years that Eleanor wrote was over a month ago.
It pains me to have to send you this letter, containing the most dreadful tidings. My husband, George, died last month of fever, he never recovered. Our only daughter, your niece, Samantha-Emily Rims, is currently fifteen years old. She is taking her father's death very hard, she is very miserable, she cries often, and sometimes refuses to eat. I am afraid that Boston holds to many memories for her, that is why I am sending her to London to live with you for a few months, until winter returns. Expect her at the London train station on October 12th.
How he despised that woman. He had written to her, "Eleanore, be reasonable," but she sent him another letter written with words he dare not repeat. Did she not know that he can't babysit her child. He lived alone, worked only with Watson, and hated meeting people. He liked it that way. But Eleanor was too much like their mother, she did not take no for an answer. That is why he sent Mrs. Hudson to the train station on a rain afternoon to fetch his niece. And why at this exact moment he is sitting on his favorite chair in his dusty room, plying his violin, trying to drown out Watson's nagging voice, and why he is staring at the holes he made in his wall from spending the afternoon shooting at it.
"Holmes, I insist." Watson was saying, watching him intently. Holmes flicked his gaze at him for a second, then back to the bullet-holed wall. "The humane thing to do would be to at least take a bath before your niece arrives, you'll frighten the poor girl.
Holmes fired again."What's it to you Watson? That woman is a witch!"
Watson cocked an eyebrow."Your sister Eleanore? No Holmes, consider her a saint for sending your niece, some social interaction would do a great deal of goodness to you."
Holmes didn't answer, instead he fired again.
Samantha-Emily Rims, how she hated that name. Her father, George, new that, and always affectionately referred to her as Sam. Just that small thought of him brought tears to her glassy eyes as she leaned towards the window of the train, her forehead pressed up against the glass, her breath clouding her view. As the train sped to London, she watched the foggy English countryside fly past her eyes. She looked away, feeling a twinge of homesickness in the pit of her stomach for Boston. It had taken a week to get to England, from Boston to New York, New York to Liverpool, strange name, Liverpool to London.
Sam remembered when she was three years old, and the war between the states surged on at full speed. She remembered her father, dressed in a blue Union suit and a bag thrown over his shoulder, hugging her goodbye. He told her comforting words that she will never forget,"Don't cry, Sweet Sam, and when you will miss me, look up at the sun, and remembered that I can see it too."
And whenever she would be to painful to bare, she would look at the sun, and know her father saw it too. Except now. It pained her to know that he could not see the sky anymore.
She turned from the window and pushed the sad thoughts out of her mind.
Instead, she tried to focus on her uncle.
How would he be like?
Would he be the perfect gentleman? Rich and handsome with tailored suits and silk handkerchiefs?
Or perhaps a daring spy for the English Parliament?
She glanced at the slip of paper in her hand.
Sherlock Holmes, it read. 221B Baker st.
The name definitely sounded interesting.
Mrs. Hudson stood inside the London Train Station, wrapping her shawl tightly around her chubby body to keep in the warmth, coughing into one of her lacy handkerchiefs every so often. The train was fifteen minutes late, she realized, as it screeched to a stop in front of her, and the passengers began to deboard. She glanced at the slip of paper in arm, on what Mr. Holmes had scrawled on what his niece would be wearing, in his cursive handwriting that Mrs. Hudson heard Mr. Watson 'affectionatly' refer to as "chicken-scratch."
The note said: black hair, blue coat, two carpet bags.
No sooner as she scanned it, the very girl hopped off of the train. She was wearing a navy-colored suit that matched her eyes, and her dark-hair was wavy and sleek from the moisture of London's famous fogs.
Mrs. Hudson rushed to her."Oh my poor dear, you ust be chilled to the bone, come come, we are very happy to have you here. What is your name?"
The young girl smiled sadly at her."Samantha-Emily." she replied simply."Just Sam."
Watson paced back and forth across Holmes' filthy, organized floor, while Holmes was aimlessly plucking away at the strings of his violin,
"Why is it that every time you are about to meet someone I get nervous?" Watson asked him."I am psychologically disturbed. So are you."
"There is no need to panic, Watson." Holmes replied, nonchalantly, without so much of a dismissive glance in Watson's direction.
Glaring, Watson pulled the heavy, dusty drapes away from the large window of Holmes's room. The few rays of sunlight filtered through the dark, heavy clouds and into the room, as the icy rain beat steadily against the glass. Holmes immediately dropped his bow and hissed."Must you do that?"
But Watson's eyes were focused on a carraige that pulled up below."She's here."
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