“I’m going to the grocery store, Sam; would you like to tag along?” Ms. Howler stood in her daughter’s bedroom door, watching her carefully spoon out a greenish material from a little baggy to a bowl.
“Dull,” Sam replied. Grocery stores were so utterly boring. Filled with little old ladies that screamed a lot and small children. Or was it the small children that screamed a lot?
“Alright, be back before you know it!” Her mother trilled happily. The front door opened and closed; Sam was left alone with her thoughts and the baggy of marijuana that her mother had thankfully overlooked. Sealing it back up, she tossed it on the pile of underwear nonchalantly.
It was time to visit her father.
She wrapped her trademark scarf around her neck and donned the old coat that had once belonged to the worlds only consultant detective. Smiling to herself, the young detective left her bedroom, the flat, and the apartment complex, making her way towards the flow of London traffic. Like always, she was jostled about by adults chatting away into the phones they pressed to their ears, suitcases swinging. It amazed her how much time humans spent working. There were far better things to do then sitting behind a desk all day. Boring.
Sam hunched up her shoulders, sticking her face into her scarf. In this way, the only thing you could see was her mop of curly hair and sharp eyes that scanned everything and everyone around her. He had a row with his wife. She was allergic to cats. That little boy wanted an ice cream.
Tired of wading through human flesh, she weaved and bobbed towards the curb. Lifting her gloved hand she bellowed, “Taxi!” At first, she was met by the murmur of the population and the occasional honk of a horn. Finally, a black cab pulled up. Satisfied, Sam opened the door and hopped inside. She rattled off the name to the cabbie who responded with a, ‘Yes Miss,’ before stepping on the gas. Leaning back, Sam made a steeple with her fingers beneath her nose and closed her eyes.
“Hello, me again. I would ask you to help me with my most recent case, but the dead can’t speak, so…”
Sam shifted awkwardly. A wilted bouquet of irises bobbed lazily in the breeze. Was it just her, or were the gold letters on the tombstone staring at her?
“Six months clean. Until last night. Unfortunately.”
The tombstone remained silent. A bird chirruped somewhere, scattering her already broken thoughts. “Hello?”
Sam whipped round, her coat snapping open like a sail on a ship. A man was standing behind her, leaning heavily on a silver cane. He seemed annoyed by her presence. “Yes,” Samantha snapped, equally angry by this man who dared interrupt her conversation with the man buried beneath her feet.
“Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?” The man had blonde hair with streaks of grey and a face lined with age. Sam could tell that his limp was psychosomatic and that he had been in Afghanistan…Iraq? No. Afghanistan. He was wearing a jumper that was at least ten years old and his loafers had seen better days.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Sam uttered each syllable slowly and deliberately. What was this man playing at?
“Dr. John Watson,” He hobbled forward and offered the girl his hand. She stared at it like it was a snake about to strike.
“I would tell you my name but mum told me not to speak to strangers,” Sam hissed sarcastically. John pulled his hand back. “Oh for god’s sake,” The doctor muttered. Sam seized the moment to show off.
“You’ve come here to see a friend of yours, probably not the grave I’m standing at – I hope its not anyway. You were in the army, an army doctor, your limp is psychosomatic, probably about the war but it went away for a while came back when your friend died your sister is homosexual and your in a relationship with a woman named Mary am I wrong?”
John’s mouth fell open in shock. Not only did this girl bear a striking resemblance to Sherlock – coat, curls and all – she seemed to have the ability of deduction as did his dear departed friend. “Christ,” He breathed, the cane falling to the ground with a thump. He staggered forward, his knee buckling.
Sam lunged forward and supported him, stopping him from falling.
Well, the difference between Sherlock and this girl was written all over her face in concern and confusion.
“So, I remind you of your friend which must mean he was indeed the late great Holmes,” Sam reached for the cane, offering it to John. He nodded breathlessly, taking the cane from her.
He dug the end into the ground as he pushed himself back to his feet. “Who…..are…you?”
“Holmes. Samantha Holmes,” His eyes grew wide in shock. The doctor searched her face for some evidence that she was related to Sherlock. Obviously in her facial features hair and clothing choice but she couldn’t have been…
“Daughter,” She explained. John blinked rapidly, “He didn’t even have a girlfriend,”
“One night stand,” Bored with the whole situation, Sam reached into her coat pocket for her phone. One text from her mother. Where are you? it read.
Sam didn’t particularly like how he kept saying the Lord’s name in vain.
“Jesus has nothing to do with it,” She commented drily, tapping a response into the mobile. At the cemetery.
“I….was his flat mate,” John told her. Sam looked up from her phone, fixing her blue-green eyes to John’s grayish ones. “Really?” Suddenly interested, the junior detective returned her phone to its pocket.
“Yeah. Would you like to have lunch…with me?” Sam looked away from the doctor. Lunch? With a strange man she had only just met? She cast a cursory glance at the tombstone behind her. She could almost imagine her father nodding his approval. If only she had known him…
Perhaps this John character would give her some insight.
“That would be lovely,”