Journal of Sherlock Holmes [entry 12 up!]

[Starthorn]

I don't think it is too long. And I am really enjoying reading it!

It is probably slightly long... but oh well^^ So long as someone likes it!

[Betta132]

Me likey! Me wanty more !!

[Starthorn]

Me likey! Me wanty more !!

Thank you muchness!!!!! I'm writing up the next entry now... will post tonight^^

[Starthorn]

*silly dance*
Um, okay. Please bear in mind when reading this, that although it is based on the modern day Sherlock Holmes, he would have been 14 in the 1980s, and I have tried to display his 'encounters with technology to reflect this. It's hard to believe, but the likelihood that he would have ever come into contact with a computer is fairly slim So... yes, just in-case you assumed it was set in 2012! More failed deductions in this entry...
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Entry 10
30/1

Felt a little better when I woke up today. They even let be play a few notes on my violin. No visitors.

Entry 11
31/1

There is a small library at the hospital, where they document all of their past cases, and store books for medical students to do research. They even have a computer. A real, amazing computer. Human intervention, and they're all idiots. I took quite an effort to lug myself and my drip down the numerous corridors, but it would have been worth it, if only for this. I wanted to go on my own. I hated being cooped up in that bed, with them controlling my every movement. This wasn't exactly freedom, just an illusion, but forcing myself to walk what seemed like miles gave me some sense of achievement, of purpose. It took me about half an hour to get there, and when I eventually did, sunk down into one of the padded seats that sat along the wall. That's a stupid expression. Seats don't sit. People sit on them, not the other way round. For them to sit, it implys that they have consciously changed their shape, something which lumps of metal and fabric cannot do. The librarian looked over at me above her glasses. She was a middle aged woman, about 42 with a hawk like seated precision, a rigid back, and eyes alert and watchful. Her dark brown hair was tinged with strands of grey, especially visible as it had been pulled back into a tight bun. I assumed that she had been recently divorced, going by the indentation on her ring finger as she held her pen. Clearly put on weight in recent years, so the ring must have been difficult to remove. Maybe that was why her husband had divorced her. But more likely that she had divorced him. The number written on her handkerchief, written from across the table judging by the angle. It was in good condition. It had been unused previously, so the person who wrote the number was clearly important. But as I watched her she raised it to her face, and blew her nose. Not so important now then. Her eyes were red and her skin blotchy. Regretting her decision to break up the marriage? It can't have been all that long ago, if the mark still remained on her finger. Still raw. Hurting. That's what mother always used to say, that it hurts inside when something bad happens. I do not understand how it can hurt inside, if you are not being caused physical pain. A lot of things mother said don't didn't make sense, and now I suppose she will never be able to explain them to me.

'You must be hurting inside' the woman had said. 'Both of your parents killed so close and unexpectedly. You can talk to me Sherlock. You need to get your thoughts out into the open.'
I vaguely remember telling her not to be stupid. Why on earth could my stomach hurt because my parents were dead? It would hardly affect my life. I spend most of it locked up in school, hardly ever seeing them. Why should I even care?

I looked at the woman again. She was sad. Was she 'hurting inside'? She glared at me, and I stared back defiantly. However ill I was, I wasn't going to let a silly woman like her scare me. I scuffed my bare feet over the rough carpet, wishing that the hospital night dress was warmer. I feel like a girl wearing this. Why don't they have pyjamas?
"What are you staring at boy?" her voice was harsh and crisp, just about as stereotypical as a librarian could be. It was a rude awakening. I had hardly noticed how my thoughts had spiralled off on a completely different route. I hardly knew anything about this woman, and yet here she was, talking to me.
"Is it not perfectly obvious that I am staring at you?" I replied, barely giving a thought to the words as they tumbled from my mouth. She appeared greatly taken a back at my answer, and took a moment to regain her composure. Used to authority, having people do as she says then. I was comforted as my mind fell back into its erratic and yet steady rhythm, taking things in, filing and keeping them.
"I believe so." she retorted, her haughty grey eyes fixed upon me. "And do you not know boy, that it is immensely rude to stare?"
"Did you not know that it is immensely incorrect to begin a sentence with the word 'and'?" Her face tinged a slight shade of pink as this remark reached her ears. She was a librarian. Books and English were her area. Had anyone ever questioned her authority in it before?
"Is there any way in which I can help you?" she asked, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed.
"Yes." I replied, instantly returning to the point and remembering why I had bothered to walk all this way, if not for the exercise. "I want to do some research into post viral fatigue."
"Oh. Is there another child on your ward suffering from this condition?" I wondered how much I would need to tell her. I stood carefully, and began to push the drip ahead of me, trying not to trip over the tube that connected it to my arm.
"No. I'm the one that’s ill." She looked momentarily surprised, then her brow furrowed.
"May I see you wristband?" she asked, although judging by the tone of her voice, it was more of a demand than a request. Hesitantly, I rested my arm on her desk, so that she could see the plastic band around my wrist, the only thing that identified me in this place.

S. S. Holmes
Patient number: 37592204 CW
Admitted: 7/1/1996
Condition: Severe Post viral fatigue

She examined the lettering carefully, and then frowned at me.
"How long were you unconscious?" she asked
"Three weeks, according to my brother.” I suddenly struck me that I hadn't questioned this. She nodded slowly.
"So you first came back to consciousness 4 days ago?" I shook my head in agreement. Why was she asking these questions? She was now looking at me critically, as though there was something very wrong with me.
"What is it?" I demanded my voice quiet and yet sharp, a thousand anxious thoughts cascading across my vision. She sat in silence for a minute, thinking. People think so loudly. It is blatantly obvious when they are, which makes it annoying and frustrating.
"What?" I asked again.
"Oh, nothing really, only according to your tag, you have severe post viral fatigue, and yet only returned to consciousness 4 days ago. You have made a remarkable recovery." her voice was quieter, all of its former sharpness lost.
"So?"
This was very frustrating. What on earth was wrong with this woman?
"No one recovers that quickly." her voice was strangely distant, as she stared down into my face.
"Well maybe I'm different? Why shouldn't I be? My brother Mycroft-" but she interrupted, her voice alert, warning.
"You trust your brother very much don't you?" I hated myself that I had to question this. Mycroft... how much I hated him so much of the time... She was right. Of course. I would trust him with my life.
"Yes." She stood, and pushed her chair under her desk.
"Come. I have something to show you." I had to admit, of everything, this was the last thing that I had expected to hear. She took hold of the metal frame that supported a transparent plastic bag, containing the drip, and began to wheel it across the floor, making it easier for me to walk, or rather stumble after her. I managed to keep up, as we passed the shelves and shelves, lined with books. Why hadn't they bought me here before? I wanted nothing more than to delve into one of those thick volumes, guarded from my boredom for as long as it took to read the book.
We reached the computer at the far side of the room, and I stared at it in awe. It covered about half the expanse of the wall, and as she flicked the switch on the wall it began to slowly hum with energy. Lost in the moment, she smiled fondly at it, rather like a proud mother watching her child as they left for their first day of school. She removed a small black metal disk from one of her inner pockets, and inserted it into the machine, rather like a key. This machine was so new, so valuable, that there had to be more than one, but the fact that she kept it in her pocket all the time told me that either she, or her employers were extremely protective over this device. And as I looked up at it, I decided that I really couldn't blame them. This great feat of engineering and technology, showing how much human brain power could do. I snapped myself out quickly. That was stupid. One day, this complex machine would fit into something small enough to hide in your ear, and used as a weapon of mass destruction. Because that's all humans do. Kill. Life may be worthless, but they still don't have that right. Which is illogical, because it would mean that if we can't kill each other, we can't do anything else either, because they balance out. But I know killing is wrong, and this confuses me, and that hurts. That hurts... is that what mother meant? It hurts when you don't fully understand something, but know that it is either right or wrong?
"Mr. Holmes?" I snapped my head back round so fast that the back of my neck clicked painfully and I grimaced."You were looking a little distracted." the Librarian continued. It is becoming very tedious calling her the librarian, and if I had access to them, I would look her up in the records. But I don't so I can't and cannot get out of bed without being regulated. A small monitor had lit up, black figures on green, numbers and letters flashing. I stared at it, mesmerised, as the librarian scrolled through thousands of records. A CCTV camera blinked down at me from up on the ceiling. Struggling to take me eyes off the screen, I scowled at it, which was silly.
1. CCTV cameras do not blink. The red light flashes on and off.
2.There is no point scowling at it, because there is probably no-one manning the televisions on the other side.
"Sherlock?"
Mycroft! I spun round, almost knocking the drip over. I hadn't heard him coming in? How...?
"Ms. Sharp?" my brother was glaring at the librarian. No point looking her up in the hospital records then. She had turned around too, abandoning whatever she had been planning to show me on the screen. She looked terrified.
"Mr. Holmes." her voice was steady, even, but she looked as though she was about to have a fit in her terror.
"Ahh. I'm glad that you have remembered me. Finally." My brother’s voice was quiet, dangerous… she stood stock still, glaring defiantly back at Mycroft. What was going on? She was attempting to hide the fact that her hand was trembling, but I could see it shaking violently behind her back. What had she done, to have made herself so afraid of Mycroft? I looked at my brother, but his face was impassive, empty.
"Come along Sherlock. Enough adventures for one day. It is time to return to your ward." But? How could he?
"Why?" I demanded. "Ms. Sharp was going to show me something on the computer." My brother apparently ignored my protest, and continued to look at the librarian. If I didn't know better, I would have said that he was issuing a silent threat.
"Now Sherlock."
"No!"
"Come. Now." There was a hint of menace creeping into his voice, and I was beginning to panic. This was certainly not the brother that had visited me while I was unable to move from the hospital bed. He marched quickly over to me, and took the frame of the drip in his hand, and placed his other arm firmly on my shoulder, guiding me away. I tried to glance backwards, but all I saw was a fleeting image of Ms. Sharp, standing rigidly as we left, staring at the wall, eyes wide with fear. As soon as we were out in the corridor, I overflowed with questions, firing sentence after sentence at my older brother. He ignored every word, as he chaperoned me back to the ward. I tried refusing to move, but the needle of the drip only pulled painfully in my arm, and I had to follow. Why was he doing this? WHY?
He picked me up off the ground, and laid me gently in bed. This was some feat for Mycroft, as he always refused to use physical exertion in any form.
"Why?" I murmured quietly, as I felt the soft sheets beneath me, and a wave of exhaustion that resulted from my escapade hit me like a spade, and I slumped backwards. Of course... I would never see Ms. Sharp again. She had been prophesising her own death.
"Why Mycroft?" I muttered, a desperate question, fighting against the urge to let sleep take me. He read my thoughts, as he has always been able to do. When he looked at me again, the icy exterior was gone, and he was the Mycroft from before again.
"Because then they will kill you too." without another word, he turned and left, but as sleep overcame me, and everything merged into one, I was sure that my brother had tears in his eyes. But that's stupid. Mycroft never cries.
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Lordy! Thought I never get this one finished! The deduction about the tissue... I’m really annoyed, because a few years back, I sat in front of one of the people I know and told them basically what Sherlock told Sir. Charles in Hound of B. It annoyed me very much, because I could not use it in this story, because it was in the episode. I know this is about Sherlock, but I’m kinda writing a lot of it from my point of view, because I struggle pretending to be someone else. I hope it’s okay! Some of the deductions in Sherlock are amazing, but some are really unrealistic. It just doesn’t work like that in real life. Sometimes you get lucky, and there are many things you can learn from a person by looking at them, but Sherlock gets lucky all the time, and that just doesn’t happen. That’s why my deductions probably seem bad. I’ve tried to make it as realistic as possible, drawing on my own experiences but I don’t know how much it worked. D: Also, more clues. Am I making this too complicated? I do that quite a bit... Sorry to bother you, but could you possibly try and ummm... make a theory from what I’ve written so far and post? I know it’s not much to go on, but I’d like to do it on a level that’s good for everyone. I seem to spend my life trying to work things out, and I mainly started writing this for myself, but now that I know that a few people are following it I would like to make it as enjoyable for you lot as possible ^^

[Gui-Chi]

It's really good! You're great at writing stories!

[Starthorn]

It's really good! You're great at writing stories!

Why thank you gui. Now...

Did you actually read it?????

[Starthorn]

O.O Does anyone have any ideas???? (see last story post)

[lioness99a]

I'm really bad at coming up with ideas as to where things are going but part of me wants to think that this is some kind of Mycoft plan to get Sherlock out of the way, either to keep him safe from something (presumably whoever is going to kill him too) or to keep him out of the way for something Mycroft has planned (although it sounds quite excessive to have your brother put in hospital just to keep him out of the way). I also think that Mycroft has lied about how long Sherlock was out for-this is based on the librarians reaction to his wristband, although her shock could also have been the connection with Mycroft dawning on her. I have no idea who Madeline is though...

I'm sorry if this all sounds slightly weird but I'm not the best deducer (and I'm certainly not Sherlock!). I'm really enjoying reading it, keep up the great work and I can't wait to see how things unfold in the next few entries!!

[Starthorn]

Actually, that's very good! I can't say much more, but given what I've written... Glad that you're looking forward to the next entries, and thank you a million times over for your continued support

[Betta132]

I LOVE THIS!!!!! MUST STALK! *turns into black cat and stalks*