Misconceptions can be Fatal: Misconceptions can be Fatal

 

DISCLAIMER: I created everything here but the idea of Sherlock Holmes, which is public domain, originally conceived by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, to which I give credit.

Viola Montague surveyed the graves uncertainly. Her friend and secret love, Jack Reagan, was buried here yesterday, one of many victims claimed by the War in Iraq. Well, technically, Jack wasn’t even one day in combat, per se. He was killed in a freak accident at the air training corps down in Kentucky where he volunteered. Jack wasn’t a pilot in any sense of the word; he was a caterer. A runaway plane crashed and hit the cafeteria he was preparing lunch in for the trainees. That accident had been a week ago, and Violet hadn’t been able to get out of school (she was at Princeton, currently) for the funeral, due to her finals.

Viola had sincerely loved Jack. They were two that had simply been meant for each other from day one. In preschool, where they first met, a quarter of a century ago, they had become fast friends. Soon, they did everything together. It was a rare day that neither of them saw the other. Because their families lived only a block away, usually Jack was at Violet’s house, or else vice versa. Theirs was one of those few rare, special friendships that lasts a lifetime.

Once they progressed to their teens, Viola and Jack had talked about their respective crushes with each other. Continually, they denied to themselves time and time again that they, in fact, had crushes on each other. Viola smiled at the memories. Oh, if only one of them had said something back then, they might have both been so much better off!

Of course, it was impossible that they would both attend the same college. Viola went to Princeton, as mentioned before, and Jack simply went to UCLA, which was very close to their childhood homes. They stayed in contact, however, cross-country with email and telephone and such. For a time, Viola had gotten a boyfriend, and Jack had become a bit distant to her at that time, but after Viola realized that she and Travis were never meant to be, she dumped the poor bewildered boy, and Jack began to talk to her again.

Now Viola scanned over the graves once more. She couldn’t find Jack’s; where was it? It seemed as though it should be right about here, based on the diagram given to her by Jack’s mother, but it wasn’t…Viola walked quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly to be reverent to the dead, and tried to find the headstone, that she may pay her sad respects to the deceased.

It was as she wandered that a figure caught her eye suddenly. The man she noticed was tall, well-kempt, aging, dark bronzed European, and the epitome of respectable. He was leaning over an old, mossy stone that had presumably been there for decades. A black case was tucked under his arm; probably a violin case. Viola approached him from a distance.

The man was thin, she noted duly, and his thick dark brown hair, combed back immaculately, was streaked with wisps of gray. He seemed to have just come from work or such; he was donned in a dark suit and a light tie. His face was set and melancholy, and his eyes were cold, but the kind of cold that is achieved only after years of sadness and apathy. This man had (once) been happy however, this much was evident. The hooked nose that protruded from his face, eagle-like and sharp, seemed to portray the man’s determined, ambitious nature. He looked, to Viola, rather familiar. She knew she had seen him somewhere before…Suddenly, a memory flitted to the forefront of her brain—this man was an exact replica of Viola’s childhood and adolescent hero, Sherlock Holmes.

Viola and Jack had both adored and admired Sherlock Holmes immensely. They cherished every story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle regarding him, and they had memorized every line worth memorizing from them. They had created timelines, graphs, and essays on the man. Heck, they had even created fanfiction about him, despite the fact that none of them ever emulated the original books.

Viola wasn’t sure what exactly possessed her. Of course, she knew that Sherlock Holmes was a fictitious character, and never had existed. But at that moment, she could have sworn she was looking at him. And then, as she stood there, Viola did something very foolish, which she would come to regret for the rest of her life.

“Hey! Mr. Holmes!” She yelled to the man across the green. He turned to look at her, coolly staring. His features were barely touched with a sense of superior, snobbish curiosity.

“Mr. Holmes! Over here!” Viola waved frantically, lest he miss her. He raised an eyebrow at her and, reluctantly, waved back. Viola, at this, ran over to him eagerly. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say or do when she got to him, but she wasn’t really thinking too clearly.

‘Mr. Holmes,’ however, knew exactly what to do when Viola got to him. As she hurried over, he put down his violin case and threw it open, revealing its contents—a sawed-off shotgun.

There was a new grave dug that evening next to the great Don Marziliano, leader of the Italian Mafia. It was left unmarked, however, and soon Viola Montague was forgotten to the world.