It has really put a wrench in my writing and outlining for my retelling. Because most of the story, revolves around Sherlock and his interactions with both Miss Hudson and Watson. Yet as soon as he steps on the scene, my brain seems to croak. I overthink and write and erase him, saying something simple like, no. It's really frustrating and makes me hesitant to write anything.
I know that this is a retelling and I am allowed to take liberties and make the characters my own. Not to mention this is a rough draft, and no one is going to see it. I still have this inner voice telling me, I'm not doing it right.
I want to do nothing more that a tribute to the original, I am not trying to compete or compare with the original. Not just because I think that is impossible, but because I don't think the original needs any additions.
On top of just trying to write him, I also have to think of a murder, that is a bit difficult for him to solve, easy-peasy right. Yes, trying to think of a case that would baffle The Great Sherlock Holmes is easy.
As you can see, I am dealing with all of this so well. Anyway I thought I would post a bit of what I have here and you guys could tell me what you think. Good or bad, I guess.
The tray rattles as I try to remember to keep a demur pace. A bead of tea slips out of the steaming pot. The stairs are worn down in spots and uneven, but after no less than four trips a day for the past week. I have grown accustomed to the precarious climb.
Loud thumps could be heard from behind the closed door. Goodness knows what he could be up to. It was half past ten, a decent enough time to make tea, compared to last night’s 3’o clock ring. He had a bout of insomnia that required both company and sustenance.
I knocked on the door, upsetting the tray and nearly dropping it in my efforts.
“Mr. Holmes” I spattered, exasperation with him already taking its toll on my countenance.
The clatter stopped, followed by quick steps. The door was flung inward.
“You needn’t have troubled yourself with knocking; the door is almost always open.” He said gesturing me inside with a splotchy hand.
I stepped cautiously into his room, the strong smoke from his pipe made the air clot in my lungs, I coughed it out. Looking in vain at the cluttered surfaces; there was nowhere to place the now heavy tray.
“I got it old girl.” He said lifting the tray out of my hands with ease. He set it down with a clatter over some books and paper.
He laughed at the look on my face, “My apologies, I should be more sensitive to your feelings.” He poured the tea, “and age”
“Perhaps you should remember yours.” I murmured, taking in the chaos that was his rooms.
He sipped his tea and joined me in looking around. A smug smile crossed his face,
“I have been as you can tell working.”
“Is that what you call it?” I snorted, cringing at the assortment of half used tea cups intermixed with laboratory equipment.
He wasn’t abiding me anymore; he was looking at his mess with a sense of delight.- Miss Hudson
“You know how to draw your own blood?” I asked trying to keep the awe from my voice. God knows the man has an ego.
“I happen to be quite proficient with needles as you should know.”
A small smile made an appearance at the side of his mouth. His hand went up as if to cover it, but I saw it nonetheless.
“Deplorable!” I exclaimed.
“I’m not sure as to if you are referring to me or my preferences. Either one, I am inclined to agree with you.- Miss Hudson