I just had this inkling to write, but I don't feel like writing fan-fiction. Well, not really. I wonder when I will write a novel of original origin? I hope that I do. Someday… Anyway, I just got done watching Young Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I know that it's probably not my first choice originally, but then again, I loved it. It was a wonderful show. It inspired my sword fighting want/ desire. And my observation skills obviously need work, but then I think that I'll work on that. I think that maybe Old Sherlock is more help than I knew. Hence, here I try…

Noon was up, and shone down onto the sparkling waters down below, as they gleamed and glittered coldly back as the soft waves rose up onto a cool, sandy beach, only to leave again, receding back into the depths of their origin. Tania looked up from her writing. She loved to watch the ocean come up, and to recede back, the sound was soothing to her, and seemed to calm her.

"How can you stare at the ocean like that?"

Tania jumped. She hadn't expected anyone to be behind her. She put her pencil down and pulled her leg up, encircling it with her arms as she turned her head to see who was greeting her. She saw a tall man with white hair and a pale beige three-piece suit standing behind her. She frowned a little. She hadn't expected him to look like this. And incognito? If this was his idea of incognito, he wasn't all there.

"Sir?" she asked simply, not knowing if it was he or not. If it weren't, he would eventually leave her alone. Or so she hoped.

"I don't suppose that your Tania Crewwater, are you?"

"It depends on who's asking. Who are you?" She didn't give away the fact that even if she was Tania Crewwater, or wasn't, he would have to gain her trust or word first to be acknowledged by her as to who she was.

"Miss, I don't. . ." He appeared to straighten and clench his jaw. She smiled. "Miss Tania, I am San Coredelli."

Oh, then it was him. She nodded to the sand, and he sat on part of the towel she had left for him. It was a fairly big towel, so he wasn't likely to get too dirty or wrinkly unless his pants were linen.

"I'm Tania, yes. And I hope you are not lying about who you are, Mr. Coredelli. I'd hate to get mad at such a handsome young man." He ignored her and opened his expensive looking briefcase. Inside, there were a great many papers that had small print small enough to be unable to read without holding. She brought up her other leg now, as well, holding her legs and watching him dig through his version of a miniature paper factory in a briefcase. Finally, he pulled out several sheets of paper, and handed them to her. She took them, looking them over, and reading everything before signing each and every one, except for the last, which caused her some concern.

' . . .In the event, if there is any injury to either the body or mind for a short time, or longer, without your given permission, you are able to use any and or all evidence given to the law if you so desire to.'

Tania thought about that, but signed. It was expected, of course, that there would be such dealings, and or incidents. She gave the man the paper and he smiled brightly at her. She smiled back, but in her heart, she knew that there was something wrong with the whole thing, dimly.

Here was where her adventure would begin, here, on the sandy beaches of Florida.

Tania had her things with her in the compartment above her in the airplane she rode in now. Mr. Three piece was even in the same compartment, reading a report of some sort that he had to play tug of war with the suitcase to get at. She never had seen such a disorganized rich person before, even though she saw many of them before this particular meeting.

They were on the second plane heading for Saint Louis, but the difference, of course, was zilch. Everything was so indifferent that it was almost scary. She had almost finished the end of her chapter when the end of the chapter, she realized suddenly, contradicted the rest of the whole book. Could she change that, she wondered? Her pencil tapped thoughtfully against the paper, and she took out a fresh piece of paper and wrote everything down, and then the contradicting part on another slender slice of paper. If she did not like it later, she could always get rid of it. Unless she decided to keep it and use the idea for her book in different areas of the story, which may go largely unnoticed by any readers.

After that, it was time for the plane to land, and so she grudgingly put everything back into a backpack she had kept with her, put it under her chair, and put the "table," which was really just a thick plastic foldout, back up. She looked up at the windowed ceiling as she felt the plane being to tilt downward. The clouds came soon enough. She watched them as she passed by, and again had the feeling that she wanted to touch the soft, moist clouds and pull them against her in a comforting embrace, but no, that would never work, and she knew that, because of how clouds really were, mostly moisture and cold water, maybe even frost or ice.

She shook her head and took her things from the overhead compartment after the smooth landing came to a stop. It was going to be a long trip to where they were going, she was sure of it . . .

(Please review. Should I continue?)