Author's Note: Hi, hello, hola, bonjoir, jambo, and all that good stuff! Thanks for choosing to read my newest story, "Five Flutes and a Black Rose". But this story is the third in a series about Sara Watson, an American recently moved to London, and Sherlock Holmes as a teenager. The first story is called "The Seven Princesses," the second one is called "Hypnosis". You might want to read those two first, but otherwise, enjoy and you can look up the references later. (if you want to, of course)
Also, a quick note to Piano Ann - this is pay back for that Mr. A allusion... you'll see what I mean... bwahahahaha.....
Ahem. Right, well, enough of me blabbing. Here we go:
"ShptcackleWatson?"
"What?" I whispered into my walkie talkie, as softly as I could.
"Suspect approaching your location. Got a visual yet?"
"No," I whispered, again, peering into the fog. "What about the police? They didn't care about your tip?"
"Not enough information. Myron, the stiff head -"
"Shut up! Shut up!" I whispered furiously. I heard footsteps approaching and I clipped the walkie into my belt. Flipping my notebook open, I tried not to even breathe.
Okay, roughly five foot seven, brown hair, eye color? indistinguishable. Wearing blue jeans, a London Rugby Club jacket with the name "Skipper" on the front. Black sneakers. I scribbled furiously. And, I peered closer as he entered the streetlight, a small red scar over his left eye.
Bingo.
I waited, breathless, until the suspect was gone. "Okay, Holmes," I whispered. "We're good, he's gone. Meet you at the corner of Baker Street."
"Roger."
I slipped from the shadows of the building, hustling down the cool January night. A few last minute snowflakes drifted down and wound up in my golden hair. I grinned as I noticed Holmes and Rascal in the distance, and blew on my bare hands.
When I reached them I bent down and scratched Rascal's, our puppy's, ears. He snuffled and then I turned to Holmes, brandishing the notebook triumphantly. He grinned, tore out the page, and clapped my shoulder.
"We've got him this time," Holmes said, softly. "I'll send this along as an "anonymous" tip. Really, Myron would rather take the word of a stranger than mine."
I yawned. "One less drug dealer, I guess." I glanced at my watch. "Oh, my gosh. It's midnight and tomorrow, no, now today is a school day!"
"But today's Friday," Holmes said, digging in his pocket. "Friday, January 11th. Happy fifteenth birthday, Watson." He handed me a small, flat package wrapped in silver.
Puzzled, I turned the package over in my hands and began unwrapping it. It was a silver picture frame, and inside the frame was a black and white photograph. I recognized it from a month ago - my mother had snapped it when we weren't looking. It showed Holmes and me sitting, reading, back to back in front of our fireplace. Rascal was curled at our feet, and I was smiling softly.
"Holmes, this is beautiful," I whispered. "Thank you."
"Happy Birthday, Sara." He said, and I turned. It was one of the few times I had ever heard him call me by my first name.
Then I shivered. "Let's get home." We started walking back to our houses, in silence. When we got to our block Holmes veered off and I waved goodbye.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Eight hours later the two of us, ashen faced and yawning, were waiting for the bus. "Happy Birthday to me..." I muttered. "Happy Birthday to me..."
"Fifteen now, eh?" Holmes chuckled. "Quite the young lady." I grinned and flipped my hair over my shoulder.
When the bus pulled up, Marianne called and waved to Holmes. Holmes looked at me. Then at her. Then at me. Then at her.
I gritted my teeth. "Don't be rude, Holmes. If she wants to talk to you that bad..."
"You can come, too." Holmes said, and dragged me to the back of the bus.
"No - I - no, please - oh dear." Holmes and I plunked into the seat across the way from Marianne. I tried to smile. It didn't work.
"Sherlock, dear, I've missed you," Marianne purred and pouted slightly. "You never come talk to me like you used to."
"Like I used to? Marianne, you always came to talk to me."
"This is all because of -" Marianne sneered at me. "Her. I would think you'd get tired of hanging around ugly old American brats like her."
"Marianne, that's enough!" Holmes said sharply. "Really, I think you two could be friends if you gave it a chance."
Our eyes met across the bus. And for once, Marianne and I were thinking the same thing - No. Way.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Hey," I stopped and pointed to the notice board. "Check this out, Holmes."
He stopped beside me and we both read the flyer.
GREATER LONDON YOUTH SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA, it said.
Be a part of the grand RE-OPENING of the Caldecott Theater!
All youth ages 12-18 are invited to audition, January 21-25. Call (786) 857-3251 for details.
I turned to Holmes. "That looks really cool!"
"Yes, it does. Why don't we... audition..." Holmes said softly, narrowing his eyes and squinting at the flier.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing... but why does the name Caldecott Theater sound so familiar?" he mumbled.
I shrugged. "I don't know. Come on, we're gonna be late for class." I scribbled the phone number for the auditions on my palm as we walked away.
Also, a quick note to Piano Ann - this is pay back for that Mr. A allusion... you'll see what I mean... bwahahahaha.....
Ahem. Right, well, enough of me blabbing. Here we go:
"ShptcackleWatson?"
"What?" I whispered into my walkie talkie, as softly as I could.
"Suspect approaching your location. Got a visual yet?"
"No," I whispered, again, peering into the fog. "What about the police? They didn't care about your tip?"
"Not enough information. Myron, the stiff head -"
"Shut up! Shut up!" I whispered furiously. I heard footsteps approaching and I clipped the walkie into my belt. Flipping my notebook open, I tried not to even breathe.
Okay, roughly five foot seven, brown hair, eye color? indistinguishable. Wearing blue jeans, a London Rugby Club jacket with the name "Skipper" on the front. Black sneakers. I scribbled furiously. And, I peered closer as he entered the streetlight, a small red scar over his left eye.
Bingo.
I waited, breathless, until the suspect was gone. "Okay, Holmes," I whispered. "We're good, he's gone. Meet you at the corner of Baker Street."
"Roger."
I slipped from the shadows of the building, hustling down the cool January night. A few last minute snowflakes drifted down and wound up in my golden hair. I grinned as I noticed Holmes and Rascal in the distance, and blew on my bare hands.
When I reached them I bent down and scratched Rascal's, our puppy's, ears. He snuffled and then I turned to Holmes, brandishing the notebook triumphantly. He grinned, tore out the page, and clapped my shoulder.
"We've got him this time," Holmes said, softly. "I'll send this along as an "anonymous" tip. Really, Myron would rather take the word of a stranger than mine."
I yawned. "One less drug dealer, I guess." I glanced at my watch. "Oh, my gosh. It's midnight and tomorrow, no, now today is a school day!"
"But today's Friday," Holmes said, digging in his pocket. "Friday, January 11th. Happy fifteenth birthday, Watson." He handed me a small, flat package wrapped in silver.
Puzzled, I turned the package over in my hands and began unwrapping it. It was a silver picture frame, and inside the frame was a black and white photograph. I recognized it from a month ago - my mother had snapped it when we weren't looking. It showed Holmes and me sitting, reading, back to back in front of our fireplace. Rascal was curled at our feet, and I was smiling softly.
"Holmes, this is beautiful," I whispered. "Thank you."
"Happy Birthday, Sara." He said, and I turned. It was one of the few times I had ever heard him call me by my first name.
Then I shivered. "Let's get home." We started walking back to our houses, in silence. When we got to our block Holmes veered off and I waved goodbye.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Eight hours later the two of us, ashen faced and yawning, were waiting for the bus. "Happy Birthday to me..." I muttered. "Happy Birthday to me..."
"Fifteen now, eh?" Holmes chuckled. "Quite the young lady." I grinned and flipped my hair over my shoulder.
When the bus pulled up, Marianne called and waved to Holmes. Holmes looked at me. Then at her. Then at me. Then at her.
I gritted my teeth. "Don't be rude, Holmes. If she wants to talk to you that bad..."
"You can come, too." Holmes said, and dragged me to the back of the bus.
"No - I - no, please - oh dear." Holmes and I plunked into the seat across the way from Marianne. I tried to smile. It didn't work.
"Sherlock, dear, I've missed you," Marianne purred and pouted slightly. "You never come talk to me like you used to."
"Like I used to? Marianne, you always came to talk to me."
"This is all because of -" Marianne sneered at me. "Her. I would think you'd get tired of hanging around ugly old American brats like her."
"Marianne, that's enough!" Holmes said sharply. "Really, I think you two could be friends if you gave it a chance."
Our eyes met across the bus. And for once, Marianne and I were thinking the same thing - No. Way.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Hey," I stopped and pointed to the notice board. "Check this out, Holmes."
He stopped beside me and we both read the flyer.
GREATER LONDON YOUTH SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA, it said.
Be a part of the grand RE-OPENING of the Caldecott Theater!
All youth ages 12-18 are invited to audition, January 21-25. Call (786) 857-3251 for details.
I turned to Holmes. "That looks really cool!"
"Yes, it does. Why don't we... audition..." Holmes said softly, narrowing his eyes and squinting at the flier.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing... but why does the name Caldecott Theater sound so familiar?" he mumbled.
I shrugged. "I don't know. Come on, we're gonna be late for class." I scribbled the phone number for the auditions on my palm as we walked away.