Moor than Meets the Eye: a Sherlock Holmes fanfic (No Vacancy at 221c spinoff)

Analyze and Synthesize

Long shadows cast across his face from the rare sunlight streaming in through a window of rippled glass. His sharp nose and piercing eyes, along with his angular chin and harshly lined cheeks, brought a sense of intrigue to his first impression. His eyes were the eyes of a hawk, seeing everything and devouring each sight. His whole body seemed to be stretched in a most strange fashion, his limbs being excessively thin, while his height exceeded six feet in the most conservative of estimates. He held - in the palest of hands - a letter riddled with the delicate handwriting of a well-educated gentleman. His black shadow brushed the spidering text in an almost analytical manner.

            He was the mystery man. The man who could read the indistinguishable, produce meaning from absence, and decipher detail from ambiguity. He was Sherlock Holmes.

"Anything notable?" a second man questioned. He sat comfortably in an overstuffed armchair covered in crimson velvet that had been well loved. His hair was fair and stood out brilliantly in the golden light. While he was not overweight, the man's shoulders were broad and his limbs strong. He seemed, out of habit as it were, to lean to one side in favor of his right half, keeping his left foot just grazing the floor and his shoulder on the opposite bearing the weight of his torso. Tan and clean shaven, the handsome male's face began to knit in frustration as his companion failed in responding to his inquiry. "Holmes!" he snapped a bit brashly, leaning forward in impatience. This was an everyday battle.

            Sherlock allowed another moment to pass, mostly to perturb his comrade in good fun. "Yes Dr. Watson, quite a few notable things," he finally responded with.

            The sound of a ticking clock could be heard as the room fell silent again, then a sigh as the doctor set aside the newspaper he had been mulling over. His oncoming remark was halted as he caught a gleam in the eye of the detective, and his chair was soon vacated as he rose to read the letter from over Sherlock's shoulder. "Carlow? How odd, but certainly you don't plan to travel so far when you could surely find another suitable case without traversing to Ireland," he reasoned.

            "Oh, are you against the notion?"

            "I suppose not, but can you not wait a few more days? A brilliant enigma is bound to surface sooner or later," Mr. Watson laughed.

            "John." His tone froze the doctor. "I wish to partake in the solving of this case and will do so whether you follow me or not." There was pause. Slowly, Holmes turned his head up to face a standing Mr. Watson and lifted his eyebrows in a pleasant invitation, not a brash stare as his carping tone would suggest.

            Watson was thoughtful a moment, amused, "I believe I shall join you, the journey should be fair in length and God forbid I die of boredom at being excluded."

            ******

            "When you read this account, what do you speculate of the writer?"

             The detective and Watson sat in a lavish personal car on a train fit for royalty paid for by their soon to be client. The vehicle bumped over the tracks in a rhythm some would call comforting and others, nauseating.

             The doctor leaned over the offered letter in contemplation. "He's well learned, obviously, and quite articulate besides, I should say. Very attentive to detail and extremely precise; it is such an in depth story I should think it hardly seems true and that he has the qualities of a writer.

            "That is a start," Sherlock admitted with a shrug, "but there is much more."

            "Naturally."

            "He describes the others in such a sporadic fashion, seeming to blend their characteristics evenly into points of the account, but if one looks in a more widespread fashion, it can be noted that a surplus of information is given on Violet, while Joseph hasn't been elaborated on at all, lest we count his presence. Whether he realizes this or not, dear sir, these introductions show us the feelings of our client on each and every one of the preliminary suspects, and thus a fair estimation of their perception of him."

            "You don't say? Do continue," the gentleman urged.

            He speaks quite a lot about Violet, as I noted, why do you think this is so?"

            "I would say it is due to his interest in her, but his story says otherwise."

            "Precisely."

            "That would lead me to believe that, if not love or friendship that spurred such an account, then perhaps another strong emotion or opinion?"

            "He despises her, or in the very least wishes us to believe so," Mr. Holmes stated matter-of-factly.

            "What of the others?" Watson inquired, thoroughly engrossed.

            "He cares nothing for this Joseph, for who would brush over a good friend with hardly a word? The mention of Felicity brought a pause to his writing, and he spoke highly of her. I'd say he either finds this young woman rather captivating or this is again a plan to mislead us."

            "His sister?"

            "He does care for her, I believe... no, I know this to be true. In both possibilities this strikes with honesty. If this is an account to be trusted then naturally he would seek me out to find such a close sibling. If the story is tainted in some way, the only reason he should lie and still request my help would be that there is more to this story than meets the eye-"

            "And that something went terribly wrong?" interjected the doctor.

            "Indeed." Sherlock looked out the window in thought.

            "Is that probable?"

            A mumble of distraction set the anxious man at ease, "Not in the slightest."