S. Quinlan. The Early Chronicles: The Case of The Imposter Client.

As a young person, I very enjoyed fan fiction. The idea of being allowed to take someone elses thoughts and play with them, creating a new structure, loves, hardships for something you already know and love... the concept still baffles me. I must admit I started out as your average slash fan fiction writer, but so what? I was a young teenage girl inspired by an impossible universe, the mind is bound to wonder....

One of the reasons I enjoy Fan fiction so much, I think, is because so often it shows you that you don't the OG (original) author to write of your fav books, just a good one. I think a common misconception is that being a writer is easy, and that is seriously, seriously, not the case. Sure, many can sit down and write, and maybe even write something compelling, but there are very few that can come up with entire worlds in their minds and then take you there with their words.

The Case of the Imposter Client.

To me, he had always been the detective. A machine built purposely, precisely, designed to observe. In my eyes, Sherlock preponderates and reigns over those that might dare think their intellect holds even a weak spark to his. Sherlock's unwavering manner often left my warmer heart wondering if it was flesh after all, under that seemingly human-like skin, and if Sherlock's absolute avoidance of the softer passions left him devoid of emotion. His temperament expertly stretched, dried, and twisted like a gut string, ready for any client that may walk through the decrepit door to 221B Baker Street, filled with knife wounds and odd darts. I knew there were more delicate intrusions however, having spent many years working together, I had felt the occasional moment of what might even be considered love, but to the trained reasoner such an admission would only mean distraction.

The accident had meant that it had been quite some time since we’d seen each other, and after Mary Watson’s death, I found myself needing a friend more than ever. I expected to find Sherlock about his books in our old lodgings where he had remained, but when Mrs Hudson swung open the door and embraced me, I could feel in her heavy breaths she was bereaved, and not expecting my company yet.

“John! How are you?” She cried.

“Mrs Hudson, good to see you! How are you keeping?” I reply, only half listening and glancing up the stairs behind her. “Is he here?” Martha’s eyes widened as she began stammering.

“—Oh—Sherlock? —n—n— “

“I’ll just go and look.” I barge past her and up the stairs, my mind associating the memorialised door with the sordid case, the Study in Scarlet as it always had done in the past. I was overwhelmed with the desire to see Holmes again, after watching him fall from such an extraordinary height, and his sudden disappearance, I was assured that the possibility of seeing him was all but none. I looked up, but saw no tall, dark, spare figure, only the same old well-lit rooms with the odd skull decorating the mantel, but before I could finish ‘deducing’ the room, a sharp knock came from the door. I prayed in the few steps it took from where I was standing, that it would not be Mrs Hudson here to tell me that all my darkest thoughts had found me in this room, lonely all of a sudden.

“Hah,” I thought to myself “If Sherlock could hear you, I can only imagine how incredulous that would make him! He would say ‘A room cannot be lonely Watson, it is only a room, there is no emotion attached to the empty space within it only, one would assume, the absence of a person inside you exhibited emotions towards.’ Or something to that effect. I inhaled deeply as I neared the door, preparing for the onslaught of kindness and empathy Mrs Hudson was sure to bring with the words I knew I just could not bear to hear. I reached for the handle as slowly as I could, prolonging the last few moments in which I could turn around and maybe, just maybe, he’d be sitting in his usual armchair, but suddenly I could hear two voices arguing quietly as they waited. I pressed my ear flat to the door and from what I could make out, I realised it might even be a client Mrs Hudson was trying to usher away.

“Hello? What can I do for you?” Speaking directly to the man who had now begun to walk away.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” His voice was deeper than most men, and there was a raspy croak undertone, I reached out my hand as an invitation to shake his.

“No, I am Doctor John Watson, Sherlock… Sherlock isn’t here— “

“I must apologise for my colleague” I whip my body around as fast as I can and sure as day, there he is, draped in his usual red silk gown and his curly black hair tossed about his head.

“I was only in another room, Watson. As usual, you see but you do not observe, you had no data in which to conclude I was not here, and it is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data, one begins to twist facts to theories— “

“—Instead of theories to suit facts, yes Sherlock, I am aware, however, I deduced this upon the fact that you have been missing for months…” I trailed off as his stare caught my eye.

“As you’re finished Watson, I should just like to add, one would have to visit and find another absent in order to ‘deduce’ one as missing, but we have company, and I should like to find out who I have the honour of addressing?” He posed the question loudly as if to tell me my part in the conversation was now over, but the man appeared to have moved out of earshot. I moved over toward him and guided him back into the room.

“Mr Holmes asked your name?” He looked around quizzically for a moment but sat when I gestured to our normal chair reserved for clients.

“My Name is Messier Laffite Rothchild, but you can call me Francis.” His French accent was thick, and his surname sounded familiar,

“Is that a Belgian accent I’m detecting Messier Francis? Perhaps you’re connected to the family in Bruges known for the famous ‘Chateau Laffite Rothchild 1787’ bottle, unopened until the youngest son… What was it that happened? Pray, tell.” Sherlock leaned forward slightly, placing his elbows on his knees and his interlocked fingers under his chin, however, the man seemed unaffected, which only proved to anger Sherlock, so I decided to intervene.

“Do you smoke Francis? I noticed the stains on your fingers—“both Francis and Sherlock interrupted me simultaneously,

“I used to.”

“He used to.”

“Oh” I sigh, but before I had a second to contain my disappointment, Francis suddenly leapt from his chair in furious irritation.

“Messier Watson I have had quite enough! Can you help me or not?” His moustache quivered as spit flew out his mouth in agitation “You write the stories about Messier Holmes, no? You help him? You help me.” His English was a little broken and only got worse the more upset he was, so I decided I had to calm him down.

“Sir, please sit back down, tell us why you’re here.” He sat, fiddling with the ends of his sleeves.

“It started with my brothers. My, err, grand? brother was found with his throat…” he made the motion of a knife slitting his neck “Couper, and my two… petit brothers, they were err, brûlè?” I shook my head at him to show I didn’t understand, he looked confused and grabbed the paper on the desk before shuffling all the items on it roughly, I handed him the pen from my jacket pocket and he drew a small house, without windows but I assumed it was due to the fact he was drawing quickly, with loads of curled and wavy lines above it, then, he looked me in eye, pointed straight at it and said,

“Fire.”

“Your brothers were burned in their home? Where were your parents?” I asked, trying to hide my shock, meanwhile, Sherlock listened, stoically.

“Soon to be murdered out at sea, some trip for Papa’s work, pooh, I am sure I am to be next, tell me how it cannot be! They found my family all over the world. They can surely find me here, this is why you must help me, it is for my family’s money, placed now in my hands but what of my uncles? Huh? Oy putain I am not safe!”

“Messier… where were you when you received the news of your family’s passing?” I had never presumed Sherlock to be cold, but he could cross lines, he had always had this ineptitude for speaking tentatively toward the bereaved, but I could tell this was the best he could do.

“Messier Francis? I am aware it may have been in poor taste but as a consulting detective it is his prerogative to ask these types of questions, it could prove very useful if you answered.” I noted his puzzled eyebrows, and I began to get the sense he was uncomfortable as his eyes darted around the room once more and his fingers continued to twist and pull at his sleeves.

“Answered what?” He half muttered.

“Mr Holmes simply asked where you were on the night in which your family… passed.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Sherlock shaking his head.

“I never...! This is propost… what exactly are you insinuating Messier Watson?” His face bloomed into a deep red colour.

“We are not insinuating anything, Sir, only asking— “

“I heard what you asked.” He snapped “You think I don’t know what you mean? Stupid Frenchman doesn’t know someone is going to kill him? Huh?”

“I thought you were Belgian—“I started, but before I could even finish my sentence, Francis picked up a bowl from the table nearby and smashed it over my head.

“Get up Watson! Get up!” Sherlock shouted from nearby. I opened my eyes to find the world sideways, as if I had fallen and my head throbbed as if as much were true, so I placed my hands beneath me and upon finding the ground, I propelled myself upwards, watching the walls spin and no one left in it I fell backwards into the familiar sofa and heard Sherlock's voice once more.

“Oh Watson, you still fail to observe what is plainly, quite obvious.”

“Ugh” I groan as I move to try and see him “and what might that be?”

“Come now dear Watson, do I have to spell it out for you?”

“He wasn’t Belgian?” I moan, the room still spinning uncontrollably whether my eyes were open or closed combined with my throbbing head lead to a recipe of awful queasiness making it hard to focus.

“What else?”

“Oh, Sherlock I don’t know! You’re the detective!” I snap, frustrated.

“Mm” he murmurs, “but even you could understand why a Frenchman with a new, quite large, inheritance might seek some professional help, couldn't you? And didn’t he say it was life or death?”

“And Bruges… the unsupervised brothers…”

“Come on Watson, it’s elementary!” My eyes widen as I finally realise what Sherlock has been saying and I grab my coat off my chair as I race out the door, just slow enough to catch Sherlock mutter,

“The game, is afoot.”

---

Attempting to bring a dead character back to life, without actually letting on to the fact that he is dead, is very difficult! Sherlock is a hard enough character to grasp, but when you add being invisible and inaudible except for mighty Watson, it gets rather confused. None-the-less I think Arthur Conan Doyle's writing style was remarkable, he actually took lots of points from his own character in the making of Sherlock (you'll see the resemblance if you compare) and I often wonder if this is the cause for his deep-seated hatred of the fictional man, leading Doyle to want to murder him off in the first place. Although the fans didn't allow for this, I found the gap in the storyline intensely cool to fill.

What are you opinions? Should Doyle have been able to kill him off? Or are we all happy with the extra books we were gifted?