The new Watson

Cyndi Watson lives a quiet life and goes to a quiet school and works in a quiet bookshop. All of this changes when a young man appears on the scene and introduces her into a whole new world.

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1. The Cafe

Meet me at Ventus, I need to speak with you.

SH

P.S. I added my number to your phone whilst you were buying that book a couple of minutes ago.

 

I was walking down the street, minding my own business when I received the text.

I looked to see who the sender was: Holmes, Sherlock. The name made me laugh out loud – what a prank to pull; I rolled my eyes as I made my way through the crowds towards my favourite cafe in town, Ventus. Something compelled me to go that day, perhaps the fact that I’d received a text from a random person who’d noticed me, of all people, in a bookshop; plus, I needed tea and I had time. Ventus made the best tea and had window seats which meant I could sit and read and not worry about anything in particular, how “Sherlock” knew I liked that place still beats me, but I guess he’s Sherlock and Sherlock just knows.

I pushed open the heavy doors to the cafe and was greeted by a usual “Hi Cyndi,” from Tim, the cafe I owner, I returned the greeting and then let my eyes wander around, every table was taken – including my favourite window spot – and most had more than one person on. I figured that my ‘Sherlock’ would be somewhere quiet, seen as he “needed to speak with me”, so I let my eyes wander over to the more quieter, darker area of the cafe and there he was. Well, I say there he was, there was the back of an older teenage boy’s head, sitting on his own, looking mysterious, collar pulled up around his neck – he was most likely to be the one I was looking for. I made my way over to the table and he stood up as I walked over, without even having to turn around, “How di-“ I began to ask how he knew I was coming over,

“Your perfume, Daisy by Marc Jacobs; a gift from you sister. It’s her favourite, not yours. I noticed you were wearing it before,” The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, “in the bookshop.” He finished with a small nod and I held out my hand, a little nervous,

“I’m –“ I began, again ‘Sherlock’ interrupted,

“Watson, I know” he said, as if it was the most obvious, well known thing ever. He shook my hand and offered me a seat. He glanced at my attire as I sat down, I was in my work uniform, the look wasn’t anything like the way a normal teenager would look at a member of the opposite gender – it was like he was trying to figure me out, “The bag, from your boyfriend?” My eyebrows shot up,

“No, actually” I smirked then, I remember that I had smirked because he had looked irritated; it was the first time he’d got something wrong about me, I’d always won when it came to being a mystery and as trivial as the original ownership of my hand-bag was, I took a little pride in the fact that I’d just fooled Sherlock Holmes,

“It’s plainly a gift, I can tell from the way you’re protecting it from spillages and the dirt from the floor; it can’t be from a family member, because a girl’s bag taste is something that she keeps between herself and her closest friends, the people she shops with.” He mused out loud, took a sip of coffee and continued, “A female friend wouldn’t buy it for you because every girl knows a bag is a ‘boyfriend gift’, plus they’re expensive so whoever got this for you cares about you enough to spend quite a bit of money on you,” his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, I interrupted him without even thinking about it,

“You know, they really have got you right on the TV. Cumberbatch looks a lot like you, just older... he even sounds like you. Which is a little disconcerting.” this time ‘Sherlock’ smirked, “so,” I drank some tea wondering how I could phrase this without sounding utterly stupid, “what actually is your name?” I regarded him,

“Sherlock Holmes, detective.” He didn’t even bat an eyelid, I snorted in response, “And you’re Watson... Cynthia Watson. Known as Cyndi to your friends because no one calls you Cynthia, no one except your Grandmother who has taught you all about the things you love most, books. You despise that name, but you treasure it too.” It was his turn to chuckle quietly as he saw my eyes widen,

“You wanted to speak with me?” I asked him, trying to change the subject because I was beginning to feel not only unnerved but a little irritated by Sherlock’s omniscient attitude,

“Ah! Yes, I wanted to ask you about the book you bought!” I took it out of my bag and placed it on the table, “Sherlock Holmes, I see” his eyes sparkled a bit, “What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?” He placed his fingertips together in thought and waited,

“Oh, two can play the deduction game, Mr Holmes,” I sat a little straighter, I always did when I talked about the things I loved, “Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character written by Arthur Conan Doyle, for the entertainment and enjoyment of many thrill seekers who just love a good mystery.” He smirked, the look on his face telling me he thought I was nothing more than an ignorant, silly little girl and with that I’d had enough of these games, and the fact that all he wanted to ask me about was the character that he was meant to be! I regarded him coldly, suddenly a little more than irritated and fed up by him, “Sherlock is, I assure you, fiction. Good day,” I waved flippantly, “whoever you are.” I got up, grabbed my book and just before walking away turned round, “Thank you for the tea, it was nice meeting you but I don’t like people that are so secretive and don’t even tell me their names. Bye Sherlock!” I smiled mockingly and walked away, determined that I would not look round, no matter how curious I was of this strange person,

“Cynthia Watson, you cannot look me in the eye and say you don’t like secretive people; when was the last time you told someone your name was Cynthia? Do your friends even know that’s your name?” He said this so quietly that I nearly didn’t hear but I did and he knew I did so there was no point in pretending I didn’t,

“Mr Holmes,” I said looking him straight in the eye, my irritation building, “At least I don’t delude myself into thinking that I am, in fact, a work of fiction written by a wonderful man who has been dead for the last eighty-two years!” I realised how loud I had got and with an apologetic smile at Tim, I exited the cafe. I felt frustrated and wound-up, a way that I never feel. I took in a deep breath of air and then made my way to the train station, if I was going to get to work on time then I had to catch the next train to York or I’d never make it. Work would be a good distraction; I was going to forget that boy who had managed to add his number to my phone without me realising and had worked out more about me than I probably had myself, yes, I told myself, I’m going to forget him.

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