The Junior Consulting Detective: The Sign of Three

Here it is guys – The Sign Of Three. After two days of that authors note on my first story I was met with plenty of positive support and feedback. So I thought I'd have a crack at it. I hope you all enjoy this first chapter.

Just a heads up for new readers, DO NOT READ THIS UNLESS YOU'VE READ MY FIRST STORY – The Junior Consulting Detective, otherwise you'll have no clue to who Alex is. I know there is a greater time span difference for Sherlock's death but let's just pretend, hey ;) Anyways, I wrote this up from all my notes from ideas of how Alex would be in this and I think it's gone fairly good. Now I'll let you guys have a read and see what you think

Chapter 1

'Please be quiet.' Sherlock hissed through his teeth as he massaged his temples, the laptop screen light highlighting his face. I don't even glance up from reading the crumpled newspaper on the Waters family bank robberies.

'I didn't say anything. Again. I haven't said anything for the last hour.' It's been quiet in here for the last hour since Uncle John and Mary came round before getting just a whiff of how stressed Dad seems before hastily running off. I sigh as I drop the paper; thinking of all the ways Uncle Greg isn't doing right in catching the Waters family. As I stand up from the sofa, I accidently trip (Damn these new shoes Mrs. Hudson decided to buy me) As I fall over my own feet I land on a certainly painful remote control and, well, lets just say my Dad isn't to happy when a remote control police car drives straight into his leg, causing him pain and more importantly interrupting his precious silence. Thanks Uncle Greg.

'Damn!" Sherlock cries as he springs from his seat as if burned. I feel myself flush crimson as he glares at me.

'Sorry.' I murmur as I quickly dash across to the opposite side of the table, sitting down and playing with two loose treads, one from my jumper the other from my shorts and twirl them around.

'I can't do this!' Sherlock picks up the newly bought book, the bold title gleaming in the laptop screen light: How to write an unforgettable best man speech.

If Uncle John saw what lengths Dad's going to with this I think he'd be as creeped as I am, but sort of flattered. Creeped but flattered.

'I need help.' Sherlock says to himself as he re-sits at the table.

'You don't need to tell me that. We all need help in this family.' I laugh but Dad doesn't hear me. Wow he really is taking this seriously. I step up from my seat and walk round to see what he's written so far. As if he only just noticed I existed, he turned to face me, with some sort of fascination.

'You talk to other people. You talk to John; in fact you're pretty close. Any good stories?' I smile at Dad.

'I know a few,' I open my mouth to tell him of the time John walked around in a pair of uncomfortable underwear upon losing a bet with me, but I stop. 'It's got to be your own words Dad. Besides, my story telling style is different to yours.'

'I can put it into my own form. Don't underestimate me.' I sigh and see the blinking curser on the blank document page. Nothing. He's stumped. I move back around to my own seat and pick up the nearest book on the table. I smile at the leather bound covering of my favorite story: The Hobbit. Uncle John used to read it to me when I was little. In fact he read to me again not to long ago, doing to voices as if I were a mere child (I may only be 10 but I'm not 10). Once up to the introduction of the dragon, Smaug, Dad actually criticized Uncle John's lame attempt at the voice and he himself demonstrated. He, Sherlock Holmes, demonstrated impersonating a dragon's voice. I can't help but grin as I look at Dad thinking of his 'dragon voice', he claimed to have inhaled too much helium that day on an experiment for it to go to his head. Yeah right.

'Wait,' Dad looks up at me as if sensing my thoughts on the event, but his topic is unrelated: 'others can help me. What about Grahame?' I look at Dad as if he's stupid – a big insult to any Holmes.

'Who?'

'Grahame?' Sherlock looked at me as if I'm the idiot. 'The man who bought you…' He pulled up the toy police car by its back wheels. '…this infernal thing.' I roll my eyes as he makes sense.

'You mean Greg.' Sherlock looked hesitant before handing me his phone.

'Text him, get him over here now.' I scroll through the brief messages between Uncle Greg and dad to establish their tone towards each other.

'How urgent should I put it?' I ask as my thumb hovers over the keypad.

'I don't care. If you won't help me then get him here as soon as possible.' I shrug as I began to type, Dad flicked through the pages of the book again, frowning here and there. As he did I sent in total about four messages to Uncle Greg to establish how serious this situation is. Don't judge; believe me you don't live with Sherlock Holmes when he's hell bent on doing something he's stuck at.

'Is this alright?' I ask but Dad's in another world now. I look over the messages, wondering if they make the situation at hand slightly more dramatic than usual.

'HELP.'

'BAKER ST. NOW.'

'HELP ME.'

'PLEASE.'

The last two are really how I feel about spending the night here with Sherlock pacing up and down with mental stress. I just hope Uncle Greg isn't doing anything too important right now; I may have put him off. Just a bit.

'Did you send them?'

'Yeah, I made it…quite serious so he should be here soon.' I re-picked up my book and began to read, ignoring the distant helicopter sounds. It was only after nearly ten minutes when the claxon sounds raced up the street and the once distant helicopter became too loud to bear did I draw myself away from my book.

'Can't get any peace here.' I mutter as the front door slams, too loud for Mrs. Hudson, followed by heavy breathing and fast pace steps up the stairs. Detective Inspector Lestrade, known as Uncle Greg, appeared at the top of the stairs. There he is, as if the world is ending with Sherlock staring intensely at the screen again whilst I glance between them both.

'What's up? Uncle Greg asked, despite being short of breath.

'This is hard.' Sherlock practically breathed the words.

'What?" Greg's level of fear rising.

'Really. Hard. The hardest thing I've ever had to do.' As Sherlock kept his eyes on the screen he held up the Best-Man speech book. I realize I may have slightly over exaggerated. Again. 'Do you know any funny stories about John?'

Uncle Greg continues to pant, as if not getting it. Finally he manages to speak: 'What?'

'I need anecdotes. You didn't go to any trouble did you?' Sherlock asked as if he's ignorant of the heavy breeze through the window thanks to the helicopter, blowing papers across the room. Now I hide my face behind my book, as Uncle Greg looked ready to rip Sherlock's vocal cord from his throat whilst Sherlock only seems to notice the sudden 'breeze' blowing through the windows. After a blank stare, which lasted five minutes, Sherlock glanced at me and realized the 'seriousness' of the messages I sent.

Let's just say with the looks I'm receiving I wish I could just disappear into Middle-earth right now.

Yeah…this is life in 221b Baker Street. This is the life of a Holmes. This is me, Alex Holmes, hiding behind my book as my Dad, Sherlock Holmes, stresses over writing a best man's speech for the marriage of Mary Morstan and John Watson.

Oh what fun this is going to be.

There we have it: the first installment of my own version of 'The Sign Of Three'. I'm not sure how this will turn out as I've never written my OC into an existing story before but I'll try my best. So what did you think? If you've got a sec I wouldn't mind hearing your opinions, they help a lot, thanks :D