Fan Fiction ❯ Hinc Illae Lacrimae ❯ Dies Faustus ( Chapter 2 )
[ P - Pre-Teen ]
By: Trick Sparrow 
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Mystery | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 04.30.2002 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.6K | Visits: 222 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Mystery | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 04.30.2002 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.6K | Visits: 222 | Status: Completed
//Yay, reviews! I love you peeps! Okay, here's the next chapter. Typical disclaimer must proceed: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any other element of Sir Doyle's stories. Now then!//
Hinc Illae Lacrimae
Chapter 2: Dies Faustus
Slowly, my vision cleared, and I was aware that I was in yet another unfamiliar room. I was lying on a maroon sofa, and a crackling fireplace nearby warmed my feet, which instantly made me wonder where my boots went. I raised my head and found the last eyes I had seen before I had passed out were once again locked intently on me. Sherlock Holmes sat in a large armchair across the room, regarding me with unhidden curiosity. Looking up at the mantle above the hearth, I noticed an old, much-used clay pipe.
Gee, I thought wryly, I wonder whose house this could possibly be.
I dragged myself to a sitting position and smoothed the wrinkles out of my skirt. "Um, hi," I said quietly, feeling Holmes's blue-grey gaze burning into me even as I looked down at my stocking-feet.
"I trust you are feeling better, Miss Crewe?" he asked, leaving his chair to sit beside me on the couch in an uncharacteristically forward gesture. Boy, did I feel uncomfortable.
"Yes, I am," I replied, trying to be polite. After all, the man had taken me home with him after I had fainted in front of him. Any guy in my time would have left me there on the floor. "Thank you for asking." I hesitated, then looked up at him. "I'm... sorry for what I said earlier, Mr. Holmes. It was rude of me to insult you like that."
"Quite all right, madam," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Most people tend to deal with situations such as yours in a similar fashion. There is no need to apologize."
I shook my head. "Yes, there is. I'm not normally such a jerk, but I mean, how would you react if you suddenly found yourself in a whole different world?" I clenched my fists in confusion. "How did I even get here?!"
"I carried you," he said bluntly, observing my, what he would call, "singular" behavior.
"That's not what I mean!" I cried, frustrated beyond belief. "I mean, how did I get here, in the nineteenth century? God, what year is it?"
"1884."
"18-freakin'-84!" I repeated, slightly embellishing upon his response. "In case you haven't noticed, I don't belong in this time period, my *dear* Holmes."
His head tilted slightly, he arched a sable eyebrow. "Pray elaborate on your statement."
"You may find this a little weird; then again, you may not, considering all the cases you've worked. But I'm from the year 2002. And I was trying to finish a book report for my college English class, when to my indescribable surprise, I met *you*." I suddenly laughed at the absurdity. "You, Sherlock Holmes, the very person I was reading about. See, in my time, you and your friend Dr. John Watson are very famous people. Though the majority of the world believes you are fictional characters created by a man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."
Holmes listened with growing astonishment; something I don't recall him having that much in Watson's narratives.
"So yeah, you can imagine my shock when I found out you were a real person, and that I had woken from my nap a hundred and eighteen years *before* I had fallen asleep."
He leaned back in the sofa, tenting his fingers. "Yours is a particularly fascinating case, Miss Crewe," he commented, calm as could be. "I daresay Watson will be most interested in hearing about this curious business."
Case, I thought irritably. That's all this insane predicament is, another one of your cases? "Oh, right, I almost forgot about Watson. Where is the ol' bean right now?"
"He is out calling on one of his patients," said Holmes, closing his eyes nonchalantly. "He will be back momentarily."
How I had gotten in this time period and what I was going to do were nowhere near as depressing as the fact that I would never see my family or friends again. I had never felt so alone. I leaned forward and buried my head in my hands. Oh, this was just perfect. I was going to start bawling my eyes out in front of Sherlock Holmes. Boy, this was just my lucky day!
As my shoulders shook with sobs, I heard Holmes's soothing voice next to my ear. "Come now, dear," he said, offering me a handkerchief. "Dry your eyes. I promise I will try to resolve this dillemma using any means possible."
Feeling his breath against my neck sent sweet little shivers down my spine, which probably weren't appropriate for that moment, but they made me feel better, along with his reassuring words. Heheh, okay, enough of my pathetic infatuation with the opposite sex. I took the proffered handkerchief and blotted my eyes, giving Holmes a watery smile. "Thanks. Whoooops, I mean, thank you." Amused by the glance he gave me, I sat up straight. "So, Holmesy, my bestest pal, what do we do now?"
"I am afraid I don't follow you."
"Till Watson gets back, I mean." I thought for a second. "Hey, I know! You're Sherlock Holmes, right?"
He rolled his eyes in irritation. "Your powers of observation are impressive."
"Just thought I'd double-check," I said, grinning. "So if indeed you are who you claim to be," I continued, ignoring his glare, "then you can tell who a person is, along with their profession, just by looking at them. So..." I stood up in front of him, turning around once. "Tell me all about me!"
Holmes crossed his ankles, staring at me intently. I tried not to feel self-conscious as his keen blue gaze roved over me, taking in every detail. Finally he nodded in satisfaction. "I would say you are twenty-three years old, 1.6 metres in height, roughly fifty-five kilograms, with a dominant right hand. Obviously American, as made clear by your accent and mannerisms. Your work involves food preparation; most likely serving or catering." I was a waitress part-time, so I guess he was right. "You do a bit of drawing, though it looks to me you have been writing a great deal as of late. You enjoy swimming, for reasons unknown to me, if you indeed live in such a cold place as Maine. You wear rather tall shoes which affect your posture some, you own a short-haired dog, and you require reading glasses."
"Oh, please, Holmes!" I exclaimed, my hands on my hips. I wasn't about to let him get off so easily. "You can do better than that! Come on, tell me something about me even I don't know!"
Chewing his lip in thought, he declared, "You are an extremely difficult woman."
I laughed. "Nice try, but I knew that one, too. And I'm not going to stop pestering you until you hit me with a really shocking one!"
"Very well, if you insist." Holmes stood up and walked in a slow, lazy circle around me, looking me up and down. I would have slapped him across his face had I not known that the gears were turning in that brilliant mind, trying to come to some conclusion about me that would knock my socks off. Finally he ceased his sharklike circling and faced me with a cocky smile. "Your dog is a basset hound named Fenton."
My eyes widened, and I backed away from him, making an 'X' with my fingers. "Demon! Witch! Burn at the stake!"
"I must confess, Miss Crewe," he said, gesturing casually toward my backpack which sat leaning against to the sofa, "I did have a peep at your rather unique knapsack. I learned a great deal about you before you even regained consciousness."
"What? How dare you!" I cried indignantly. "One of the biggest crimes a man can commit is rifling through a woman's purse!" Purse, backpack, same diff. "You know, you're destroying a lot of illusions," I said, collapsing in a heap in Holmes's nearby basket chair. "Hey, if you knew about Fenton before I woke up, then what was all that circling for?"
"Mostly for show," he said, walking to the mantle and lighting his pipe. Returning to his armchair, he leaned back, blowing pale blue smoke rings. "But also to admire your figure. One of the other things I deduced, which I must venture to say, is more obvious, was that you are exceptionally lovely."
I blushed, surprised by his blunt confession. As I tried to smother a smile, I asked, "You don't talk to a lot of women, do you, Holmes?"
"Not any more than necessary," he replied, yawning.
//Heheheh, good old Holmes and his ineptitude around the fairer sex. Anyway, I'm afraid I made this chapter exceeeeedingly cute, and if it made you barf, I'm sorry in advance. And in case you didn't notice, I fixed some of the errors in the first chapter which were caused by my dumbassitude. But concerning the whole library thing, it was just a library in London, not at a university, so it wouldn't be weird for Crewe to be in there. By the way, not to be all *needy*, which I am, but what do you think of Crewe? Is she funny, annoying, somewhat three-dimensional, stereotypical... What's your opinion of her? I'd really like to know. Yeah, anyway, please leave a review, and I'll continue if I get some positive feedback! ("Some" meaning "one", and "positive" meaning "any type of".)//
Hinc Illae Lacrimae
Chapter 2: Dies Faustus
Slowly, my vision cleared, and I was aware that I was in yet another unfamiliar room. I was lying on a maroon sofa, and a crackling fireplace nearby warmed my feet, which instantly made me wonder where my boots went. I raised my head and found the last eyes I had seen before I had passed out were once again locked intently on me. Sherlock Holmes sat in a large armchair across the room, regarding me with unhidden curiosity. Looking up at the mantle above the hearth, I noticed an old, much-used clay pipe.
Gee, I thought wryly, I wonder whose house this could possibly be.
I dragged myself to a sitting position and smoothed the wrinkles out of my skirt. "Um, hi," I said quietly, feeling Holmes's blue-grey gaze burning into me even as I looked down at my stocking-feet.
"I trust you are feeling better, Miss Crewe?" he asked, leaving his chair to sit beside me on the couch in an uncharacteristically forward gesture. Boy, did I feel uncomfortable.
"Yes, I am," I replied, trying to be polite. After all, the man had taken me home with him after I had fainted in front of him. Any guy in my time would have left me there on the floor. "Thank you for asking." I hesitated, then looked up at him. "I'm... sorry for what I said earlier, Mr. Holmes. It was rude of me to insult you like that."
"Quite all right, madam," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Most people tend to deal with situations such as yours in a similar fashion. There is no need to apologize."
I shook my head. "Yes, there is. I'm not normally such a jerk, but I mean, how would you react if you suddenly found yourself in a whole different world?" I clenched my fists in confusion. "How did I even get here?!"
"I carried you," he said bluntly, observing my, what he would call, "singular" behavior.
"That's not what I mean!" I cried, frustrated beyond belief. "I mean, how did I get here, in the nineteenth century? God, what year is it?"
"1884."
"18-freakin'-84!" I repeated, slightly embellishing upon his response. "In case you haven't noticed, I don't belong in this time period, my *dear* Holmes."
His head tilted slightly, he arched a sable eyebrow. "Pray elaborate on your statement."
"You may find this a little weird; then again, you may not, considering all the cases you've worked. But I'm from the year 2002. And I was trying to finish a book report for my college English class, when to my indescribable surprise, I met *you*." I suddenly laughed at the absurdity. "You, Sherlock Holmes, the very person I was reading about. See, in my time, you and your friend Dr. John Watson are very famous people. Though the majority of the world believes you are fictional characters created by a man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."
Holmes listened with growing astonishment; something I don't recall him having that much in Watson's narratives.
"So yeah, you can imagine my shock when I found out you were a real person, and that I had woken from my nap a hundred and eighteen years *before* I had fallen asleep."
He leaned back in the sofa, tenting his fingers. "Yours is a particularly fascinating case, Miss Crewe," he commented, calm as could be. "I daresay Watson will be most interested in hearing about this curious business."
Case, I thought irritably. That's all this insane predicament is, another one of your cases? "Oh, right, I almost forgot about Watson. Where is the ol' bean right now?"
"He is out calling on one of his patients," said Holmes, closing his eyes nonchalantly. "He will be back momentarily."
How I had gotten in this time period and what I was going to do were nowhere near as depressing as the fact that I would never see my family or friends again. I had never felt so alone. I leaned forward and buried my head in my hands. Oh, this was just perfect. I was going to start bawling my eyes out in front of Sherlock Holmes. Boy, this was just my lucky day!
As my shoulders shook with sobs, I heard Holmes's soothing voice next to my ear. "Come now, dear," he said, offering me a handkerchief. "Dry your eyes. I promise I will try to resolve this dillemma using any means possible."
Feeling his breath against my neck sent sweet little shivers down my spine, which probably weren't appropriate for that moment, but they made me feel better, along with his reassuring words. Heheh, okay, enough of my pathetic infatuation with the opposite sex. I took the proffered handkerchief and blotted my eyes, giving Holmes a watery smile. "Thanks. Whoooops, I mean, thank you." Amused by the glance he gave me, I sat up straight. "So, Holmesy, my bestest pal, what do we do now?"
"I am afraid I don't follow you."
"Till Watson gets back, I mean." I thought for a second. "Hey, I know! You're Sherlock Holmes, right?"
He rolled his eyes in irritation. "Your powers of observation are impressive."
"Just thought I'd double-check," I said, grinning. "So if indeed you are who you claim to be," I continued, ignoring his glare, "then you can tell who a person is, along with their profession, just by looking at them. So..." I stood up in front of him, turning around once. "Tell me all about me!"
Holmes crossed his ankles, staring at me intently. I tried not to feel self-conscious as his keen blue gaze roved over me, taking in every detail. Finally he nodded in satisfaction. "I would say you are twenty-three years old, 1.6 metres in height, roughly fifty-five kilograms, with a dominant right hand. Obviously American, as made clear by your accent and mannerisms. Your work involves food preparation; most likely serving or catering." I was a waitress part-time, so I guess he was right. "You do a bit of drawing, though it looks to me you have been writing a great deal as of late. You enjoy swimming, for reasons unknown to me, if you indeed live in such a cold place as Maine. You wear rather tall shoes which affect your posture some, you own a short-haired dog, and you require reading glasses."
"Oh, please, Holmes!" I exclaimed, my hands on my hips. I wasn't about to let him get off so easily. "You can do better than that! Come on, tell me something about me even I don't know!"
Chewing his lip in thought, he declared, "You are an extremely difficult woman."
I laughed. "Nice try, but I knew that one, too. And I'm not going to stop pestering you until you hit me with a really shocking one!"
"Very well, if you insist." Holmes stood up and walked in a slow, lazy circle around me, looking me up and down. I would have slapped him across his face had I not known that the gears were turning in that brilliant mind, trying to come to some conclusion about me that would knock my socks off. Finally he ceased his sharklike circling and faced me with a cocky smile. "Your dog is a basset hound named Fenton."
My eyes widened, and I backed away from him, making an 'X' with my fingers. "Demon! Witch! Burn at the stake!"
"I must confess, Miss Crewe," he said, gesturing casually toward my backpack which sat leaning against to the sofa, "I did have a peep at your rather unique knapsack. I learned a great deal about you before you even regained consciousness."
"What? How dare you!" I cried indignantly. "One of the biggest crimes a man can commit is rifling through a woman's purse!" Purse, backpack, same diff. "You know, you're destroying a lot of illusions," I said, collapsing in a heap in Holmes's nearby basket chair. "Hey, if you knew about Fenton before I woke up, then what was all that circling for?"
"Mostly for show," he said, walking to the mantle and lighting his pipe. Returning to his armchair, he leaned back, blowing pale blue smoke rings. "But also to admire your figure. One of the other things I deduced, which I must venture to say, is more obvious, was that you are exceptionally lovely."
I blushed, surprised by his blunt confession. As I tried to smother a smile, I asked, "You don't talk to a lot of women, do you, Holmes?"
"Not any more than necessary," he replied, yawning.
//Heheheh, good old Holmes and his ineptitude around the fairer sex. Anyway, I'm afraid I made this chapter exceeeeedingly cute, and if it made you barf, I'm sorry in advance. And in case you didn't notice, I fixed some of the errors in the first chapter which were caused by my dumbassitude. But concerning the whole library thing, it was just a library in London, not at a university, so it wouldn't be weird for Crewe to be in there. By the way, not to be all *needy*, which I am, but what do you think of Crewe? Is she funny, annoying, somewhat three-dimensional, stereotypical... What's your opinion of her? I'd really like to know. Yeah, anyway, please leave a review, and I'll continue if I get some positive feedback! ("Some" meaning "one", and "positive" meaning "any type of".)//