Fan Fiction ❯ Hinc Illae Lacrimae ❯ Berceuse ( Chapter 1 )
[ P - Pre-Teen ]
By: Trick Sparrow 
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Mystery | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 04.30.2002 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.4K | Visits: 211 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Mystery | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 04.30.2002 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.4K | Visits: 211 | Status: Completed
//This is my first stab at a Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, so go easy on me. As always, Holmes, Watson, and everyone and everything else Sir Doyle invented, do not belong to me.//
Hinc Illae Lacrimae
Chapter 1: Berceuse
"Deadlines suck," I muttered, propping my chin on my left hand as I tried to stay awake. Granted, a desk in the Portland, Maine public library wasn't the most comfortable place to rest, but seeing as how it was 1:45 in the morning, the prospect was beginning to interest me.
But no, I had to get this book report done on time, or my English professor Mr. Self-Righteous Know-It-All Brockhurst would chop off my head, attach it to a pole, and stick it in his front yard to scare away little kids. Don't get me wrong; 'The Sign of Four' was one of the greatest stories Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ever wrote, but even the most avid Sherlock Holmes fans know when to go to bed. Or maybe your truly, Amanda Crewe, is just an enormous wuss.
Either excuse you want to go with, the hard, cold surface of the mahogany desk was all too inviting. Before I knew it, I was out like a light. They must put Nyquil in the water there or something.
When I awoke, I recieved a shock. Not the same as shoving a fork in a toaster, but it probably gave me the same jolt. The 60-watt reading lamp on my desk was gone, replaced by an oil lantern. I lifted my head to see the same was true with all the tables. Come to think of it, the entire room was different. The bookshelves that were previously directly behind me were now on either side of where I was sitting. The windows, which were clear before, were now of yellow stained-glass. The ceiling was much higher, and even the carpet was different.
I blinked. "Holy crap, I'm in a completely different library!"
I was about to go find a librarian to inquire as to where in Heaven's name I was, and how I could have gotten there, when the sweetest sound filled my ears. It was a berceuse; a lullaby, and played on a violin by the most expert hands, I'm sure, in existence. I stood and left my desk, momentarily oblivious to the fact I was completely lost. Trying not to trip over my backpack, I walked out of the study area. I felt like Frankenstein's monster, staggering along, trying to find the source of the beautiful, almost haunting music.
I turned a corner, and passing a row of bookshelves, I found what, or rather who, I was looking for. Sitting at a window, his long legs folded on the wide sill, was a tall, thin man dressed in clothes that definitely stood out from what everyone at the college wore. They sort of reminded me of what men wore when horses and stagecoaches were more common than Fords and Mitsubishis. Still, even in the dim light, I could tell he was pretty cute. He had black hair that was combed back from his forehead, high cheekbones, and keen blue-grey eyes that stared intently past a strong nose at the strings of his violin. Cute in an old-fashioned way, but cute nonetheless. Hey, I never said I was normal.
Anyway, whoever this guy was, he played like a pro. As my eyes darted from his right hand, which pulled the bow flawlessly back and forth across the strings, to the elegant, tapered fingers of his left hand as they flew over the neck of the instrument, I was convinced I had never seen a more accomplished violinist. That was it, search was over-- I'd found my new hero. My apologies to all the other applicants.
At last, when the piece regrettably ended, I found the courage to venture forward and compliment my new hero. Startled by the sudden movement in the darkened room, the man stood up and faced me, hastily setting his violin on the windowsill.
"Do forgive me, miss," he said in a rich English accent. Swooon! I was always a sucker for accents. I really don't know what's wrong with me. "I was not aware there was anyone else here this late."
"No, no, that's okay!" I blurted, instantly fearful I had hurt his feelings. "I don't mind at all. In fact, I've never heard more beautiful music. Are you self-taught?"
He looked at me for a moment like I was some madwoman fresh out of the maison de sante, then slowly nodded. "Indeed. I was only practicing a piece I decided to write, since my roommate is averse to my random chords. I am terribly sorry if I disturbed you."
I stared at him, my mouth wide open. "You wrote that?!" I exclaimed, rather tactlessly. "I mean... it's amazing!"
"Thank you," he said quietly, either embarrassed or finding sudden interest in the floor.
I held out my hand and gave him the most winning smile I could muster. "My name is Amanda Crewe."
His grip was cool and firm as he replied, "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Crewe. I am Sherlock Holmes."
Remember when my mouth dropped open? That was *nothing*. At this, I practically had to pick my jaw up off the floor. "What!?" I cried, bursting out laughing. "You've got to be kidding me! This must be one of those reenactments or whatever they're called. Still, the costume is very good. Is there a group of people you're with who dress like Sherlock Holmes, or is it just you?"
"My dear young lady," he said, smiling in amusement, "I frankly haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about, but if there were any other men in London by the name of Sherlock Holmes, let me assure you, I would be the first to know."
I closed my eyes. Lord, why did *this* one have to be a nutcase? "Haha. Look, 'Holmes', I don't know what loony bin you escaped from, but we're in Portland. You know, Portland, Maine? It's that whimsical land north-east of New York. Maybe you've heard of it?"
"Yes, Miss Crewe, it so happens I *have* heard of Maine," he said, his patience clearly wearing thin. "And I do not appreciate my sanity being questioned, particularly by a woman wearing such... singular clothing."
I looked down at my clothes. Light blue tanktop, khaki skirt, black nylons, tall black boots. What was wrong with what I was wearing? If anything, I should have been interrogating Mr. 221B Baker Street over there.
"Listen, pal," I snapped, pointing a finger at this poor, insane musical prodigy's nose, "I don't like being insulted any more than the next girl. But let's get a few things straight: There's nothing wrong with my clothes, which is more than I can say for some people, we're not in England or the nineteenth century, and you are most definitely *not* Sherlock Holmes."
The violinist stared at my finger with disinterest. "Very well," he said, letting out an exaggerated sigh. He turned around, and unhooking the latch on the stained-glass windows, pushed forcefully on either side, swinging them wide open.
I leaned against a bookshelf, unable to believe what I was looking at. A cold, foggy night lay outside, and through that fog I could see a small, black hansom being pulled along the cobblestone street by a Clydesdale horse, its reins held by a man in a top hat. Other people were walking outside, bundled in clothes strikingly similar to those my once-thought crazy acquaintance was wearing. But now I wasn't so doubtful of the man's sanity. Not a single Subaru Outback or Old Navy in sight. God help me, I was in London.
Suddenly feeling lightheaded(I have *no* idea why), my knees gave out. I'm not usually such a... well, *girl*, but given the circumstances, I'm sure anyone else would have collapsed, too. A blur of black and grey overtook me, and suddenly I was enveloped in a pair of sturdy arms, my head cradled against a chest that wasn't as emaciated as I would've thought. I looked up into two sharp, observant eyes, and I found myself smiling for no reason.
The last thing I remember saying before I passed out was, "You really *are* Sherlock Holmes."
//I KNOOOW, everyone else writes this type of thing. So sue me. NO, WAIT, DON'T! Anyway, you like it? Interested in the least? Then by all means, leave a review! More chapters to come if I get enough positive response.//
Hinc Illae Lacrimae
Chapter 1: Berceuse
"Deadlines suck," I muttered, propping my chin on my left hand as I tried to stay awake. Granted, a desk in the Portland, Maine public library wasn't the most comfortable place to rest, but seeing as how it was 1:45 in the morning, the prospect was beginning to interest me.
But no, I had to get this book report done on time, or my English professor Mr. Self-Righteous Know-It-All Brockhurst would chop off my head, attach it to a pole, and stick it in his front yard to scare away little kids. Don't get me wrong; 'The Sign of Four' was one of the greatest stories Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ever wrote, but even the most avid Sherlock Holmes fans know when to go to bed. Or maybe your truly, Amanda Crewe, is just an enormous wuss.
Either excuse you want to go with, the hard, cold surface of the mahogany desk was all too inviting. Before I knew it, I was out like a light. They must put Nyquil in the water there or something.
When I awoke, I recieved a shock. Not the same as shoving a fork in a toaster, but it probably gave me the same jolt. The 60-watt reading lamp on my desk was gone, replaced by an oil lantern. I lifted my head to see the same was true with all the tables. Come to think of it, the entire room was different. The bookshelves that were previously directly behind me were now on either side of where I was sitting. The windows, which were clear before, were now of yellow stained-glass. The ceiling was much higher, and even the carpet was different.
I blinked. "Holy crap, I'm in a completely different library!"
I was about to go find a librarian to inquire as to where in Heaven's name I was, and how I could have gotten there, when the sweetest sound filled my ears. It was a berceuse; a lullaby, and played on a violin by the most expert hands, I'm sure, in existence. I stood and left my desk, momentarily oblivious to the fact I was completely lost. Trying not to trip over my backpack, I walked out of the study area. I felt like Frankenstein's monster, staggering along, trying to find the source of the beautiful, almost haunting music.
I turned a corner, and passing a row of bookshelves, I found what, or rather who, I was looking for. Sitting at a window, his long legs folded on the wide sill, was a tall, thin man dressed in clothes that definitely stood out from what everyone at the college wore. They sort of reminded me of what men wore when horses and stagecoaches were more common than Fords and Mitsubishis. Still, even in the dim light, I could tell he was pretty cute. He had black hair that was combed back from his forehead, high cheekbones, and keen blue-grey eyes that stared intently past a strong nose at the strings of his violin. Cute in an old-fashioned way, but cute nonetheless. Hey, I never said I was normal.
Anyway, whoever this guy was, he played like a pro. As my eyes darted from his right hand, which pulled the bow flawlessly back and forth across the strings, to the elegant, tapered fingers of his left hand as they flew over the neck of the instrument, I was convinced I had never seen a more accomplished violinist. That was it, search was over-- I'd found my new hero. My apologies to all the other applicants.
At last, when the piece regrettably ended, I found the courage to venture forward and compliment my new hero. Startled by the sudden movement in the darkened room, the man stood up and faced me, hastily setting his violin on the windowsill.
"Do forgive me, miss," he said in a rich English accent. Swooon! I was always a sucker for accents. I really don't know what's wrong with me. "I was not aware there was anyone else here this late."
"No, no, that's okay!" I blurted, instantly fearful I had hurt his feelings. "I don't mind at all. In fact, I've never heard more beautiful music. Are you self-taught?"
He looked at me for a moment like I was some madwoman fresh out of the maison de sante, then slowly nodded. "Indeed. I was only practicing a piece I decided to write, since my roommate is averse to my random chords. I am terribly sorry if I disturbed you."
I stared at him, my mouth wide open. "You wrote that?!" I exclaimed, rather tactlessly. "I mean... it's amazing!"
"Thank you," he said quietly, either embarrassed or finding sudden interest in the floor.
I held out my hand and gave him the most winning smile I could muster. "My name is Amanda Crewe."
His grip was cool and firm as he replied, "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Crewe. I am Sherlock Holmes."
Remember when my mouth dropped open? That was *nothing*. At this, I practically had to pick my jaw up off the floor. "What!?" I cried, bursting out laughing. "You've got to be kidding me! This must be one of those reenactments or whatever they're called. Still, the costume is very good. Is there a group of people you're with who dress like Sherlock Holmes, or is it just you?"
"My dear young lady," he said, smiling in amusement, "I frankly haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about, but if there were any other men in London by the name of Sherlock Holmes, let me assure you, I would be the first to know."
I closed my eyes. Lord, why did *this* one have to be a nutcase? "Haha. Look, 'Holmes', I don't know what loony bin you escaped from, but we're in Portland. You know, Portland, Maine? It's that whimsical land north-east of New York. Maybe you've heard of it?"
"Yes, Miss Crewe, it so happens I *have* heard of Maine," he said, his patience clearly wearing thin. "And I do not appreciate my sanity being questioned, particularly by a woman wearing such... singular clothing."
I looked down at my clothes. Light blue tanktop, khaki skirt, black nylons, tall black boots. What was wrong with what I was wearing? If anything, I should have been interrogating Mr. 221B Baker Street over there.
"Listen, pal," I snapped, pointing a finger at this poor, insane musical prodigy's nose, "I don't like being insulted any more than the next girl. But let's get a few things straight: There's nothing wrong with my clothes, which is more than I can say for some people, we're not in England or the nineteenth century, and you are most definitely *not* Sherlock Holmes."
The violinist stared at my finger with disinterest. "Very well," he said, letting out an exaggerated sigh. He turned around, and unhooking the latch on the stained-glass windows, pushed forcefully on either side, swinging them wide open.
I leaned against a bookshelf, unable to believe what I was looking at. A cold, foggy night lay outside, and through that fog I could see a small, black hansom being pulled along the cobblestone street by a Clydesdale horse, its reins held by a man in a top hat. Other people were walking outside, bundled in clothes strikingly similar to those my once-thought crazy acquaintance was wearing. But now I wasn't so doubtful of the man's sanity. Not a single Subaru Outback or Old Navy in sight. God help me, I was in London.
Suddenly feeling lightheaded(I have *no* idea why), my knees gave out. I'm not usually such a... well, *girl*, but given the circumstances, I'm sure anyone else would have collapsed, too. A blur of black and grey overtook me, and suddenly I was enveloped in a pair of sturdy arms, my head cradled against a chest that wasn't as emaciated as I would've thought. I looked up into two sharp, observant eyes, and I found myself smiling for no reason.
The last thing I remember saying before I passed out was, "You really *are* Sherlock Holmes."
//I KNOOOW, everyone else writes this type of thing. So sue me. NO, WAIT, DON'T! Anyway, you like it? Interested in the least? Then by all means, leave a review! More chapters to come if I get enough positive response.//