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Gwyn Edwards knocked nervously on the door to 221b Baker Street. 'He' rolled his Dover cap between long pale fingers as he waited for the door to open. Gwyn looked as Welsh as he was. His hair seemed to be as black as the coal his brothers had mined, in contrast is his fair skin. Gwyn eyes were the color of roasted chestnut.

Dressed in his best tweed pants and jacket, all Gwyn need was a vest. His tie was started to come loose and his loafers were starting to look a bit to worn though. Other than the rather large sketch book tucked under one arm, Gwyn could have passed off as a young apprentice to a paper maker or some such profession. That was not the case though. He was here on Baker Street to seek employment with the respectable Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Gwyn's skills as an artist could make his drawing look like these new fangled photographs. Except with more emotion...

The short youth had all the attributes of a thief, spy and an artisan. Gwyn was sure the great detective could find a use for him. He hoped.

Gwyn gulped under the older woman's glower. He needed this job, if the housekeeper turned him away now, he was done for! The the moment passed and Gwyn seemed to be held on the higher side of the womans esteem, though not by much he surmised. "Ummm, I'd like to see Mr. Holmes, please? That is if he's at home..."

Dr. John Hamish Watson finished with his cravat, and went to greet the fine new morning with a fresh dose of Mrs. Hudson fine cooking. Striding through his hall to the common room he shared with Holmes, Watson nearly closed the door again as soon as he saw the violin. Then the good doctor noticed the instrument was not raised in music and Watson continued to enter. "Good morning Holmes!" As he waited for the wrath of his companion to come, he sat down and began to eat Mrs. Hudson delicious breakfast.

Gwyn followed Mrs. Hudson quickly and added, "Gwyn-", he stopped and decided that disguising his accent made him sound odd so he continued unencumbered, "Gwyn Edwards, mam." As the boy ascended the stairs after the matron, he tidied his dark hair. It was rather long for a male and could be tied in a small tassel at the nape of Gwyn's neck. He arrived at the top of the stairs and stood respectively behind Mrs. Hudson, though the youth did try to discretely peer around her.

Watson's eyes rolled at his friend's foul temper. "Really Holmes... Must you inflict that egregious temper of your's on any person unfortunate enough to come at the wrong time? Why, our guest could have something interesting!" Watson clucked with disapproval while he tucked his napkin up around his neck. With a few more mutters he began to devour the eggs, sausage, toast with raspberries, a black pudding and porridge. Far to many years in Her Majesty's Army had given the bull necked man an unquenchable hunger. Watson paused occasionally to clean his fine mustaches and read a page of a London Times that had gone astray.

((Do you have any idea's on how to get the case in the post's? I seem to have a small case of writers block on that point...))

Gwyn's face went astounded as the Landlady announced him as 'Master Gwyn Edwards'. Gwyn was either call Gwyn or 'Get the hell out of my way your idiot!' Master was obviously new. Part of him snickered at the fact that he could even be called Mister... But that part was completely ignored. Gwyn stepped through the threshold and greeted the darker man with, "Good morning, I assume you're Mr. Holmes?" In his voice was a conviction he did not feel.

Mrs. Hudson's words on her way out worried Gwyn far more, mainly because he had no clue what they meant... Was Holmes insane? Was he angry? Was he funny and didn't work well? These would be against what he had heard and why he sought employment here. Gwyn had caught what Mr. Holmes had said and was wandering how he had made the connections. As one of his friends had said, "Your so Welsh! Here I've shown you something amazing and all you do is find fault in it?"

Watson swallowed the remaining bite of his breakfast and rose to greet the boy. He would stay unless Holmes personally kicked him out the door. The newly announced Master Edwards would need all the protection he could get if the boy didn't have anything worthwhile. After shaking hands and whatnot the good doctor sat again and waited for Holmes or Edwards to assume the lead role in the conversation.

Gwyn sat politely and mentally rallied himself for whatever would come next. He had sat in a chair near the small table near the fireplace and placed his sketch book in front of him. This was it, this is what he had come here for.

"Mr.Holmes, as you have been told, my name is Gwyn Edwards. I will get quickly to the point, I am seeking employment with you. I have been informed that you often investigate murders and therefor go to the scene. I am an artist, please look through the book," He paused looked to Watson and then to Holmes again and continued. "I believe that I would be of some use to you at these scenes. To sketch the body and the room, maybe a map of the grounds. I have another talent. It's a bit odd... I seem to be able to draw a persons face just by the descriptions of another. You could tell me what the criminal looks like and you could circulate that to track the man."

Watson's attention darted from Gwyn to Sherlock and back to Gwyn. Watson really couldn't tell what his companion thought, but he personally believed hiring Gwyn would be a smashing idea, if Sherlock would frighten the poor boy to death. When Gwyn had finished what he had come for the was a pause, while everybody waited for someone else to speak. Many a time Watson had been slightly embarrassed when he couldn't remember a slight detail that Holmes could. Having these sketches would also give them credibility to Scotland Yard, though Homes probably didn't care about that. He sipped his then stated, "Well, I think it's a smashing idea! What about you, Holmes?"

Gwyn gave Holmes his slightly, or maybe quite shabby address and left adding curtly, "I'm sure I will be pleased to see you at a later date Mr. Holmes..." He turned to leave with only a, "Good day." To Watson and left, purposely leaving the sketchbook. Holmes slightly infuriated Gwyn, with his Holier-Than-Thou-Art attitude and manners that needed patching. Gwyn might be a simple coal miners 'son' from back-country Wales, but he at least could fake being kind while being polite.

On the street the artist he muttered some very insulting phrases under his breath. Though he did say this in Welsh because this was a respectable street after all. Gwyn turned down the street and started to regret the entire venture. He'd probably made a fool of himself and Holmes would never call on him, and Gwyn wouldn't get a job that he could stand and then e might have to go back to Wales.... That wouldn't be possible decided Gwyn before he returned to him closet that he call home and went for a vent of his anger.
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Watson waited to speak again until the boy had left. Finally finishing his second cup of tea he said appealingly, "Consider it Holmes, the boy could be useful. Think about how much easier it would be with Lestrade! You will call Edwards on the next case?" His instincts told him that something would come of hiring Gwyn and there was something else... Holmes probably already knew what was. "I say, though, did he seem a bit young?" The Doctor waited for the answer from Homes, while in a vain attempt to add order to the room he folded the newspapers on the small table.

He rose and crossed the room the seat that Gwyn had sat in and picked up the book. Flipping through it, Watson's eyebrows steadily climbed while he flipped through the sketches. The landscapes and portraits seemed to not only capture the features of the subject but also the ambiance or emotion of the setting. At one particularly good illustration Watson turned the paper toward his companion with a look that asked the question he had already asked.

((Sorry it took so long to reply, we've had some internet and power problems because of the weather *cough*blizzard*cough*))

Watson smiled slightly to himself, life was all about the small victories. He found a crumb on his cuff and brushed it off, and he then found his mind reverting back to the boys age. It seemed to bother him, but Holmes was probably right as always. Watson's mouth started to run, while not being connected brain. "Oh, I see you found the portraits! Quite good, aren't they? I find that these new photo's look quite horrid, don't you?"

He paused for a moment as his mind presented something to say. "How does this boy, who seems right off the train from Cardiff, know how to sketch so well...? Oh, it doesn't matter."