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Izabella Q. Frazier, Amateur Holmes

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Izabella Q. Frazier, Amateur Holmes

Postby AUTOA113 » Mon Feb 08, 2010 11:34 am

My first-ever, halfway decent prospective novel idea (LOL, English pun ). I've had this idea for a while but put it on hiatus having lost the manuscript of the first chapter in 9th grade. I regained the memory of what happens thanks to my watching Sherlock Holmes and The Great Mouse Detective. Oddly enough, the Great Mouse Detective was what inspired me to write this in the first place back in 9th grade. It's seriously a good movie, so watch it.

Anyway, I know Holmes a bit better now, so I'm adding some characters, plus my new, improved writing skills (WAY better than 9th grade), I'm making this as best as possible, so I hope you enjoy!

By the way, I won't update this story for a while, I'll begin updating my fanfics (this isn't a fanfic, at last, hooray!), so this is all for now. Which is good, because I typed it pretty late at night (It's 3:30 here now, wow ) without stopping, plus I have homework to do, so I'll do my absolute best to get on the forum later today (it is morning, so I can say that. ).

PLease enjoy! *collapses on floor rug. *

PROLOGUE: My Younger Years, and A Life-Changing Discovery
It was such a dreadfully long time ago, it seems, yet in reality humans lives are so short that it really does not matter how long ago something was in the grand scheme of things.

In any case, the madness and obsession began early in my youth, as I was a young, impressionable child, standing within the depths of the local library. Within these massive stone walls, there lay a wealth of information and joy at my young fingertips. If only to know where to look...

And that is why, while meandering between the cookbook section and the mysteries, I had found it.

A dog-eared, poorly tended-to copy of a children's book by the name of "Basil of Baker Street."

Basil...that's a spice, is it not? And if that were not enough, the word "Baker" certainly was misleading, perhaps suggesting a cookbook within the pages. I almost put it back...

But I was a child, and, being a child, kept the paperback in my hands, taking it to the checkout line. On the way over, I skimmed the back cover.


"Imaginative mystery for children..."

"As charming as E.B. White's Charlotte's Web, if not greater..."

"Curious readers will be enchanted."

And enchanted I was. While I had never even heard of a mystery before, I was eager to learn what that and all those other grand words like imaginative and enchanted and stupendous and so on all meant. And indeed, I was a curious reader...

And enchanted I was, from the first moment of reading it. That one innocuous little paperback would change my life forever.


After reading the novel in one sitting, I ran to tell my mother all about it. At first, she goaded me about missing dinner on account of reading the silly thing, but I persisted until her eyes lit up at mention of the plot. She sat stunned for a few brief moments, then stood up to retrieve something from the cupboard, the one high up that I could not reach until I was a bit taller. (I would like to foreshadow a bit here and add that I do indeed get taller, and quite fast, if you will, but that’s until later, and I’m afraid I might already have spoiled that part)

She deftly retrieved a large, thick leather-bound book from the cupboard, along with something else, and stepped down to show me her findings.

“This, Izabella, is a collection of short stories that that book you’ve read is based on, the story of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You know that Basil chap you’ve told me about?”

I nodded.

“Well, he is the mouse equivalent of one of London’s greatest heroic legends, Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself. This book is all of his short stories, written by Dr. John Watson, who is much like That Dawson chap in your storybook there.”

“Ooh...” I exclaimed. I was eager to read more stories like the one I’d just devoured. I held my hands out expectantly. “Could I read it, please?

“Oh, I’m sorry, love, you might not be able to read it just yet. It’s very advanced English, I’m afraid. But as soon as you can reach the upper cupboard, I suppose by then you may have the repertoire to read this.” And with that, she carefully set t back up on the shelf in the cupboard where it belonged, then shut the cupboard door.

She absentmindedly fingered the little something else she got from the upper cupboard, but did not appear to have any attempt to show me what it was. At first I supposed, as children do, that it was nothing for children to know about.

However, another feeling kicked in soon afterwards, a new kind of feeling I never before knew nor attempted to know about. A slick, overwhelming feeling of defiant, devious and depraved mania. It fell through my entire being, coursed all throughout my small, young frame, and powerfully thrust through my heart with a resounding, assured beat, that immediately telegraphed to me what the sensation was.

Desire of Investigation.

I stood in stunned silence at first, bewildered at the feelings washing over me, and bid my mother good night before going to bed.


However, sleep was not readily accessible. I could not stop thinking back to that encounter.

The sensation.
The book.
The something else.

What...WAS IT?

I turned and tossed and found no good solution until I discovered something fantastic.

Basil himself had these feelings! My sensation was that of a detective on Baker Street!

Without further reverie, I threw off my cotton sheets and covers to run straight to the upper cupboard. I had to get that book and figure out the something else’s identity.

Carefully stacking pillow after pillow upon a large chair, I climbed up my structure until I could just barely reach the cupboard door. I pulled gently, but it wouldn’t budge.

Of course! Mother locks it! How could have I forgotten? It would take far too long to find a key. That left only one option.

I would have to pick the lock.

I grabbed an old pen and a letter opener before climbing back up to the cupboard. Time to execute my well-thought out plan. How precocious of me, to be picking locks at age seven!

However, the timing of the letter opener thrust hadn’t quite worked as well as I planned out. In fact, the entire keyhole fell out of the cupboard door, leaving a big, splintery hole.
At least, I sighed with gratitude, My structure didn’t give way.

No sooner had I thought that, but the towering pile began to topple and move from underneath my feet. Surely if the entirety of it fell down, I would be left suspended, hanging onto the now-keyhole-less cupboard door for dear life.

Not to mention the even greater fate: My entire family waking up from the noise and finding me in such a situation! Oh, the humiliation would be ENDLESS!

Quick as a flash, I analyzed the situation at thought, What would Basil do in such a predicament?

First things first, top priority is to prevent the noise. Bodily injuries are nothing compared to blowing your cover, so have a go and risk it.

I let go to get down to the floor quickly, which was almost a mistake. I began to feel immense pressure at my heel where I’d landed. But wait! First things first, this is the time to stop the chair tower from falling and waking everybody up!

I hobbled over to the chair and took it out from underneath the cushions. The little pillows fell softly to the floor without sound. I picked them up and put everything back where it properly belonged. Sort of. I didn’t quite know where the pillows went exactly, so I put them on the couch just in case. I congratulated myself on keeping my cover well.

And even better, on the way back to the kitchen to straighten anything else up, I found the cupboard door closed, normal looking (from a distance), and the brown Sherlock Holmes book sitting on the countertop!

It was too good to be true! The pillows must have blocked the sound of it falling. I excitedly grabbed a flashlight and cracked open the heavy brown tome and began reading.

I got through quite a bit of the first story, which I think is pretty good, considering I had to get up and use the dictionary several times for tricky words, but I had to stop be cause I became incredibly exhausted, and also I had to medicate my heel, as Doctor Dawson, or Watson, as the human character I know was familiar with, would do.

It was amazing. The stories of people, instead of mice, in London, doing extraordinary feats of courage and wit, saying witty and incomparable things with flawless logic and reason...the language of the story sounding so grownup and eloquent...every little detail made the story seem that much more alive and real. I even found joy in learning the differences between Basil and Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was far more aloof and played the violin well whereas Basil was warmer to his clients, and played horribly. I was exalted to discover that Holmes still retained the disorderly housekeeping and eccentric, charming personality, yet always appeared well-groomed in public. He most definitely came before Basil.

My mania grew, far past the regions of Basil of Baker Street, the Great Mouse Detective, and fell far into the bounds of Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street.

But, the catharsis after reading something so impeccable was not to last; at approximately three thirty in the morning (0330 hours military time, courtesy of Dawson’s conversion, as he was in the military in Afghanistan preceding his partnership with Holmes), my father ambled into the kitchen while I was setting out for bed, and we collided.

Flummoxed, he fumbled for the overhead light, but after no avail, he simply lit the table side lamp. His expression was at first drowsy, then surprised, and finally geared into anger. He muttered in a stunned voice,

“Izabella, love...do you realize it’s FAR TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING to be reading? And...what are you reading?”

“Sherlock Holmes, Daddy.” I replied cheerfully, “I’m almost all the way through the first one. It’s rather introspective. I love it.”

“Is that...” He paused to yawn, “Is that...so?”

“Yup! And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get into bed, thank you.” I waved farewell and started up the stairs to my bedroom, “Sleep full and well. See you ‘till morning.”

“Wait a minute there, kiddo,” Dad halted me with a hand on my shoulder. “It is morning first off, and second, I have a rather horrid case of insomnia, that-”

Just then, Mother walked in, her short blond hair in shambles.

“Izabella Quenna Frazier, what is the meaning of this?” She cried out loudly. My siblings, Alvin, Lawrence and Maryann, came out from behind her.

“Good god, Iza, what is all this whatnot?”

“Wow, great job on the house, Iz! What a doozy!”

“I’m so glad Mum is here to stop you before you wreck the whole place to smithereens.”

They all had such kind things to say.

“Well, Izabella? What on Earth were you trying to do?” Mother asked. Dad, Alvin, Lawrence, and Maryann ll looked on expectantly.

I froze, but inly for a moment. After all, you can’t keep a good detective down for too long! Nothing could faze me.

“I have simply tried to discover just how difficult a read Mr. Sherlock Holmes is, and I have found myself almost completely through the first story. I did have some hinderances, but a good dictionary and context clues are a reader’s best friends.

“Furthermore, I have come to the conclusion that I like reading about this Holmes chap, as he has already taught me a great deal of things. For instance...”

I turned to my onlooking family. I had planned on saying up to this point what I had said, certainly not at this hour, but no time like the present. Besides, I had something to prove to the in order to stay out of trouble. However, I had no clue how to continue. I just decided to wing it.

“I have deduced the contents of your little silk bag from the upper drawer!” I exclaimed just as Mr. Holmes or Basil would. It had the desired effect. Mother and the rest of the family looked stunned.

“Oh...that? I didn’t even think you saw it, but...really? You know what it is?” Mother was flabbergasted.

“Yes, indeed, and I intend on showing the evidence!” I calmly walked over to Mother and held out her hand. “For starters, I’ve noticed you don’t wear any rings on you hands.”

“It’s...it’s three in the morning, Iza! Mum wouldn’t be wearing jewelry at this hour!” Lawrence but in.

“Yeah, what do you think you’re proving?” Maryann added.

Mother shushed them, then looked at me. “You’re right, Izabella. But on the rare occasion I do wear jewelry, it’s on my right hand.”

I blushed fervently. Oh, well. I’m sure Holmes and Basil never let a mistake like that happen to them, but if they did, they’d ignore it and go right back on talking.

“Oh, yes, quite...ahem...right. But I would like to point out, that there is a freshly made mark on your right middle finger, which is where you do wear rings, if ever.”

“What a memory!” Mother commended.

“Moreover, this mark appears to be an outline of a fleur-de-lis, a unique mark found on only one of your rings. You don’t have many, so it’s easy to narrow down. Now, I would like to bring to your attention my observation of something round and sparkly within your little silk bag from the upper cupboard.”

“Jeez, Iz, if you wanted to know what was in Mum’s little silk purse, why didn’t ya just ask?” Alvin piped up.

“Because it is more fun, and rewarding, to discover that by myself.” I proudly proclaimed. It shut Alvin up, more or less. I pressed on.

“Therefore, but my powers of deduction, the contents of that purse is something delicate that you didn’t want damaged. The bounty within that purse is none other than your wedding ring!”

Dad and Mother looked up simultaneously, amazed. Even Alvin, Maryann and Lawrence were surprised.

“Excellent!” Mother shouted, and they all gave a mild round of applause.

“Now...go to bed.”
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