The Diary Of John Hamish Watson (Aged 10 Years)

25th August

25th August 1982

The day of the move. I woke up even earlier than yesterday- half past four am- and dressed in my best cord trousers, a clean blue shirt and the tidiest jumper I own- the brown one with burgundy and olive stripes. As outfits go, it’s not my favourite. But Dad insists that we dress smart to keep up with London standards so we don’t really get a choice. He’s really serious about keeping up appearances, so much that he’s bought Harry seven new posh dresses with shoes and hair ribbons to match and insists that we call her ‘Harriet’ when we’re out.

The journey to London took the best part of three hours. Traffic was a nightmare even though we left at five to avoid most of it. Harry fell asleep and squashed her pretty curls that Mum had spent so long preparing in rollers last night. She got a mouthful off Dad for that and a tut from Mum.

Eventually, though, we arrived. The house is really nice- a neat brown bricked terrace house with a post box red front door. There’s no front garden and only a strip of lawn at the back but it’s very pretty all the same and we all feel very at home here.

After lunch, I was sat reading on my bed, when I heard yelling from outside. A little dazed, I placed my bookmark between the pages of the book and put in down before wandering over to my window. I threw open the curtains and pushed it open. A boy of about my age with unruly dark hair and icy eyes of bluish-green stood on the street.

“Hello,” he called.

“Hey,” I replied, quieter than the other boy so that Dad wouldn’t hear me and scold me for talking to strangers.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he continued. “You’re new here aren’t you?”

It was more a statement than a question but I nodded regardless.

“Yes, my name’s John Watson.”

“Would you like to go on an adventure?”

I paused, “It sounds dangerous. My Dad wouldn’t approve.”

Sherlock’s face fell, “Oh, okay,” he fiddled with the cuff of his jacket. “I’ll have to go and find Molly or someone. I’ll see you around then John.”

“Wait!” I called as he began to walk away. Sherlock spun round, a spark of hope illuminating his pale face. “I’ll come, just give me a second.”

After pulling on a pair of trainers, I sped downstairs to shouts of “Don’t run in the house John!” from Dad.

“Sorry,” I panted, slowing to a jog and leaving via the front door. Sherlock was waiting outside, leaning against the wall.

“Ready?” he grinned, mischief glowing in his eyes. I nodded.

“What’s the big adventure then?”

He began walking at speed down the road, “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether Mycroft is home from school yet.”

“Mycroft?” I asked.

“My big brother. You are full of questions John.”

“Sorry,” I said. Sherlock laughed.

“Don’t worry. Now, our adventure must begin in my bedroom. Mycroft or no Mycroft- my bedroom is the epicentre of all adventures.”

We reached the end of the street and Sherlock hurried across the busy road. I followed close behind as not to get lost. Down an alleyway and two more streets we reached a row of large white houses with neat little front lawns, black iron railings and flash sports cars parked in the perfect little drive. My companion headed up the short gravel path of the second house in.

“Come on then John,” he said.

“You live here?” I gasped in disbelief, running a hand along the cool metal fencing. Sherlock nodded.

“Oh yes, always have. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just…well, it’s very impressive. You don’t seem the sort.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in question, “I am not a snob, no, if that is what you mean. Mycroft probably will seem like that to you but I prefer to stay in the less extravagant parts of the city. It’s too…precise here for my liking.”

Inside the house I was met with a very white hallway, the smell of baking drifting in from my right.

“Mummy must be baking!” Sherlock exclaimed, rushing through to the kitchen. I followed but slower, standing awkwardly in the doorway. A woman with long black curls of hair stood at a big old fashioned range, plates of cookies and cakes surrounding her, a bowl of yet more mixture in her hands. Sherlock took a handful of biscuits from behind her.

“Put those back Sherlock- they’re for everyone.”

“Mycroft will only eat all of it when he gets home- I might as well get my fair share,” he replied, taking a fairy cake and tossing it over to me. I caught it with the expert catch Dad had taught me over many childhood summers spent playing cricket. The woman whipped Sherlock lightly with her tea towel.

“Oi, you know full well that he’s on a diet now,” she glanced over at me.

“Who are you then?” she asked.

“John Watson, Miss,” I replied politely.

“He’s my new friend,” said Sherlock. The woman laughed.

“You’ve got a friend?! Don’t humour me Sherlock.”

“Honestly Mummy,” he insisted. “He’s just moved in a few streets away.”

“Really,” the woman looked at me. “Well, fair enough. Go upstairs and play then- keep out of my hair. Mycroft will be home in a minute so don’t go pestering him, understand?”

Sherlock showed me up their grand staircase and into his bedroom. It was massive and full to the brim with toys and books. He climbed up the ladder to the top bed of the bunks at one end.

“Do you share with Mycroft then?” I asked, perching on the edge of the bottom bunk.

“Oh no! God, I daren’t imagine. No, I wanted a bunk bed because it makes an easier ship to command than a single storey one.”

“What?” I asked, standing up and spinning around to face him- I had to stand on tiptoes to reach. I saw Sherlock sitting cross legged, a pirate captain’s hat perched on his curls.

“Well the top bunk’s the crow’s nest and the bottom bunk’s the deck.”

“You’re a pirate?” I asked.

“Oh yes, Captain Sherlock if you don’t mind. You can be my first mate. I think you’ll be a better one than Molly or Lestrade.”

“Thanks!” I exclaimed, tying the scarlet bandana that Sherlock passed me around my head. “Ooh Arr!”

“Indeed,” he took a telescope from its seat in his long socks and looked out of the window. “Big brother at 12 o’clock. Showtime!”

We played for hours, running through the Holmes’ household, screaming at the tops of our lungs, locking Mycroft in the broom cupboard and stealing all the money from his piggy bank. At five o’clock, panting from lack of breath, I decided to make my exit. Sherlock let me keep my bandana and made a copy of our treasure map.

“I’ve had the best day,” he said.

“Me too.”

Dad really isn’t happy. When I walked in his rage unleashed like an aggravated lion, his face turning crimson and fists white. He slapped the back of my legs and sent me to bed without any supper. I can’t see what the fuss is about- it’s not that late, way before sunset. All I know for certain is that I’m absolutely starving.