A Study in Charlotte

The two of us, we're the best kind of disaster. Apples and oranges. Well, more like apples and machetes.

Truth be told, I liked that blurriness. That line where reality and fiction jutted up against each other.

I began wondering if there was some kind of Watsonian guide for the care and keeping of Holmeses.

We weren't Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I was ok with that, I thought. We had things they didn't, too. Like electricity, and refrigerators. And Mario Kart.

I don’t need someone to fight for me. I can fight for myself.

I was maybe the only person to ever have his imaginary friend made real.

I felt like I was being pulled through a dark, dank wardrobe into some boozy Narnia.

You really should take up boxing, or fencing—” “Fencing? What century are you from?” “—or solving crimes.” “Are you prescribing me your company, Doctor?” “Detective, you can read me like a book.” She lifted her glass, and I clinked mine against it.

You have my implicit forgiveness, you know, even when you’re driving me crazy.” . . . “Jamie.” “Charlotte.” “Do come home soon. It won’t be London without you.” “You never knew me in London.” “I know. I intend to fix that.

It appears that I am willing to put with many things for the sake of Jamie Watson . . . I can tell he’s hiding a laugh when he curls his mouth in like he’s eating a lemon. Sometimes I say terrible things just to see him do it . . . He flagellates himself rather a lot, as this narrative shows. He shouldn’t. He is lovely and warm and quite brave and a bit heedless of his own safety and by any measure the best man I’ve ever known. I’ve discovered that I am very clever when it comes to caring about him, and so I will continue to do so. Later today I will ask him to spend the rest of winter break at my family’s home in Sussex . . . Watson will say yes, I’m sure of it. He always says yes to me. – Charlotte

He put it into drive and turned on the headlights. And there she was, standing in their white glow. Holmes’s skin was smoked black from the explosion, her hair flecked with snow. Her violin dangled from her fingers. She opened her mouth, and I saw her say my name. I was out of the car in a heartbeat, and in the next, she was in my arms . . . “You’re alive,” I murmured, tucking my head over hers. “I’m so sorry.

Jamie Watson is far smarter than you think. He isn’t my accomplice. He’s no one’s accomplice. And he isn’t guilty of anything. – Charlotte

And even so, before I had ever met Charlotte Holmes, I was sure she was the only friend I would make in that miserable place.

What do normal people talk about? – Charlotte

Watson.” “What?” “I’m sorry I picked a fight with you,” Holmes said sleepily. “But you should know I had a good reason.” “I know, I was being an idiot.” “No, it wasn’t your fault. The note said you’d be killed if you stayed, so I fixed it. I was horrible until you went away.

Jesus, come on. Charlotte’s sitting outside, alone. You guys are just sad without each other. There’s like this obvious empty space next to you. – Lena

I wanted the two of us to be complicated together, to be difficult and engrossing and blindingly brilliant.

That was when I remembered rules 1 and 2. “Search often for opiates and dispose of as needed.” “Begin with the hollowed-out heels of Holmes’s boots.

But tonight I'll go alone. You're about as stealthy as a lame elephant. See you later." She patted me on the shoulder and took off down the path, leaving me behind, both charmed and insulted. The side effects of hanging around Charlotte Holmes.

Even someone as disguisting as Dobson deserved the chance to grow up and become a better person.

Have I missed anything, Watson?” “Were you going to tell him about the molted snakeskin under the chair cushion he’s sitting on, or should I?” With an undignified yelp, Milo leapt to his feet. “Oh, yes,” Holmes said blandly. “That. Peterson, do check the walls for a rattlesnake.

You can’t fall apart yet.” She nodded, her face turned from me. “Come here,” I said, moving over in the bed. “If you really don’t mind my being patient zero.” She swallowed her tears. I pulled back the sheet, and she crawled in beside me, putting her head on my chest.

John H. Watson might have been many things - a doctor, a storyteller, and by most accounts a kind and decent man-but he clearly wasn't a zoologist. There's no such thing as a swamp adder. And the idea that Sherlock Holmes deduced its existence from a saucer of milk is ridiculous- snakes have zero interest in milk. They also can't hear anything but vibrations, so they wouldn't hear a whistle. But they do breathe, so a snake couldn't survive in a locked safe.

My mother had been monologuing about how much I’d like it there while I packed up my closet in silence, wondering if I flung myself out the window, would it properly kill me or just break both my legs.

The sun was rising in the distance, pulled up by its lazy, invisible string, and the sky was shot through with color. Her hair was washed in gold, her cheeks, in gold, and her eyes were as knowing as a psychic’s.

I have a rainy-day fund, you know," she said, not quite looking at me. "Until recently, it was raining...rather a lot. But I...I've been trying to use an umbrella.

When I saw a story about a stolen painting on the front page of the newaspaper, I told my mother that Charlotte Holmes and I were going to solve the case. My mother cut me off saying, "Jamie, if you try to do anything like that before you turn eighteen, I will sell every last one of your books in the night, starting with your autographed Neil Gaiman.

A voice cut through the blood-roar. “Watson,” Holmes shouted, at what sounded like an enormous distance, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?

Oh my God,” I said as she startled. “Oh my God. You just wanted to come here to—” “There are excellent opportunities for observation and deduction here.” “—to dance.” I was trying very hard not to laugh. “Would you like to?” “Yes,” she said, and fairly dragged me out onto the floor.