AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this story in high school when I was reading the Sherlock Holmes series, and shortly after seeing Sweeney Todd for the first time. So I guess it is a little of a cross-over but not really. If you think it should be a cross-over, review and let me know and I will change the status. Also, let me know what you think of the story. I know it's a little rudimentary but I just can't stand to change it now.
~RPP
It was a fine summer afternoon, albeit a little hot, as Sherlock Holmes and his companion, Doctor Watson, made their way together down Fleet Street. It was a fair distance from their house on Baker Street and although Holmes strode purposely down the dingy street, Watson lagged behind, wondering where exactly it was they were going.
"Yesterday I received a telegram," Holmes explained as he walked, "From a woman named Marie Roux. She bade me call on her at 5:00 this very evening."
Watson glanced at his watch to see that it was five till five, and then hurried to catch up and walk alongside Holmes.
"What does she want, Holmes?" he inquired, "Quite frankly, I'm surprised at you. Under normal circumstances, you would not be so inconvenienced."
"I haven't the faintest idea what she wants, Watson, but she has promised me money, as well as an interesting story. Thus, I feel inclined to go."
Holmes led his friend down the street, until the pair came to stop at a rather shabby old building, not unlike many on Fleet Street. This particular building, however, had once been a shop of some sort. The windows had been boarded up and it certainly didn't appear as if anyone lived there. Sherlock Homes knocked smartly on the door three times and waited. The door was opened presently by a young woman in her twenties. She wore a black skirt that looked a little worn and a plain grey sweater. In fact, the woman herself would have appeared quite plain, had the most unusual thing about her not been her fiery red hair and eyes of emerald that sparkled. Holmes observed her silently, waiting for her to speak.
"You must be Monsieur Holmes," said the woman, with a slight French accent.
"I am," Holmes said, "And this is Doctor Watson, my close and very trustworthy friend who accompanies me and is of use on many of my cases."
"Your name is not unknown to me, Doctor Watson," she said, inclining her head, "Please, come in. Both of you."
The woman stepped aside and let both men in.
The front door opened into a room that had obviously once been a restaurant of some sort. There was a counter with a few barstools at it. Behind the counter were a stove, and icebox, and several oak cabinets and drawers which contained several dishes. The floor was old and dirty. A couch, which was far from luxurious, was placed in front of one of the boarded up windows. Beside it, sat an armchair that, had it been clean, would have looked comfortable.
"This was once a shop, was it not?" Holmes said, looking around the room. Marie Roux looked startled at first, then smiled slightly.
"Yes, it was once a pie shop. You are very observant, Monsieur Holmes- that is, of course, why I sent for you," she said, "I am told that you are quite good at what you do."
"That I am," Holmes said, inclining his head, "I know, for instance, that you are not from here. You are, if I'm not mistaken, from Paris, France."
"I am."
"I also know that you are not married, nor do you have any children. While you lived in Paris, you did not live in a house, like the nice bourgeois. You were in a gang, if I am not mistaken, from which you learned many useful things, such as the knife you have hidden in your bodice. I can also tell that you spend many hours sitting at a typewriter. You spend most of your time indoors, in the dark. Also that you smoke cheap cigarettes, burn lavender incense, and have an unfortunate cocaine habit that you indulge every so often."
Watson looked in awe at Holmes, then back at the girl, trying to see what Holmes saw. Marie studied Holmes calmly, then removed the knife from her bodice and laid it on the oak coffee table in front of the couch. It was a rather large blade, complete with a sheath, designed in India.
"You are…an extremely perceptive man, Monsieur Holmes. It is true that I grew up in Paris. My parents died in a house fire when I was ten years old and I found myself out on the streets, alone. From that point, I joined a gang, so that I could stay fed, clothed, and dry. I learned many things from them, including how to handle a knife, how to pickpocket, how to pick locks…and how to read people.
"For instance," she continued, "I can tell that you, Monsieur Holmes, are not from here either. You are, I believe, from Bohemia. Money doesn't matter to you very much, but you are used to living in comfort. You are not married, nor do you have children, but you do have a maid or a servant of some sort. You smoke pipe tobacco, you don't eat or sleep as much as you should, and you indulge in the same 'habit' I myself do."
"You drink coffee," Holmes said, not to be outdone.
"You're quite adept at brushing your teeth daily."
"You didn't eat breakfast."
"You had eggs."
"You have a tattoo on your left ankle."
"You injured your right ankle when you were a child- I'm guessing a sprain that didn't properly heel, that causes you to stand with less pressure on your right foot than your left," she said promptly, "I don't suppose you know what the tattoo is of?"
"I am assuming something to do with the gang you joined as a child," Holmes said, "Though of course I have no way of knowing for certain."
"Well there you are wrong, Monsieur Holmes," Marie said, lifting her skirt a little to reveal her left ankle.
"A dolphin?" Holmes said inquiringly.
"A dolphin," she confirmed, "I used to go down to the ocean every morning to watch the dolphins swim. I had this done by gypsies- no gang affiliation whatsoever."
"Ah," Holmes said and sat down in the dirty armchair. Watson looked around a moment, then took a seat on the couch. Marie remained standing.
"Tell me, mademoiselle," Holmes said to her, "What do you make of the good doctor, here?"
Marie studied Watson for a minute, then looked back at Holmes.
"Well," she said to Holmes, "Had I not already known it, I could tell he was a doctor. Also, that his most recent patient required a surgery than involved anesthesia. I can tell that he is a writer, he is, as of yet, unmarried, he lives with you, and he, too, had eggs for breakfast, though he had orange juice and you did not."
Holmes was silent a moment, observing this woman whose powers of observation, though they did not rival his own, were admirable. Finally, he pulled out his pipe, lit it, and leaned back in the chair.
"Perhaps," said Holmes, "It will clear the air a bit if I were to know your true name."
Marie looked momentarily thrown-off, then tried to hide it.
"Marie Roux is my true name," she said, but one look at Holmes showed her he was not to be fooled, "Alright, then- my legal name, if you must know, is Alexandra Dubois, though I've hardly gone by that name in quite some time. I much prefer the name Marie Roux, and if it is all the same to you, I would prefer you call me by this name."
"Aha!" Holmes said suddenly, "Do you ever go by the name Alex Roux?"
"Only when writing," Marie said wondrously.
"That's it, then. You write for the newspaper. I have read several of your articles. They were very well-written, though until this point, I must confess, I believed the writer to be male," Holmes said to her.
Marie shook her head and smiled somewhat.
"Would either of you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?" she inquired.
"Tea, please," said Watson and Holmes inclined his head.
"I can't help but wonder," Holmes said as Marie went behind the counter to put the kettle on, "What a woman such as yourself could possibly have need of myself for?"
"Ah. You see, Monsieur Holmes- I wonder whether you know the story that goes with this shop and the room above?"
"Let us say, for the time being, that I do not," Holmes replied.
"Well, the story goes that there was a barber who plied his trade out of the room above the pie shop, which was owned by a woman named Miss Lovett. The barber's name was Sweeney Todd. Some say he was a demon. Others say he was mad. Either way, between the two of them, they killed a few dozen people and baked them into pies- the best meat pies in London, so the story goes. It went on like this for a few months- him killing the men who came for a shave and her baking them into pies. In the end, it's said that he killed her- threw her into the big oven in the basement where they cooked the pies. No one rightly knows why. When they found the charred remains of Miss Lovett, they also found the remains of Mr. Sweeney Todd. His throat had been slit. They never caught his murderer- I imagine they never tried too particularly hard."
"No," Holmes said, "Perhaps not. I am familiar with the case- it happened in the 1700s. What has any of this to do with today? That was over a century ago."
"True- however, no one has lived in the house for that entire century. No one dares. They say it's haunted. That's why I was able to get it for a quarter of the price of any other house on Fleet Street."
"So you dare?" Watson inquired.
"I haven't really a choice. It was all I could afford. Besides- I hardly believe in ghosts, Doctor Watson."
"Of course not," Watson said quickly.
"However," added Holmes, "something must have disturbed you enough to ask for my assistance. You seem like a woman who likes to do things for herself."
"I do rather detest having to ask for your assistance," she admitted, "But it remains the only choice, other than moving, and that could mean the loss of my job. If you'll be so kind as to follow me upstairs, I think I could show you better than tell you."
"Of course," said Holmes, getting to his feet. Watson stood as well. Before leaving, Marie picked up her knife and tucked it back into her bodice.
"Never leave home without my knife," she said with a shrug, "Habit from the old days. Saved me from muggers more than a few times."
She led them around the building to the stairs that led up to the second story.
"Night before last, A sound of movement from upstairs woke me at a little past 2 in the morning. I slipped out of bed and picked up my knife from my bedside table. I didn't bother with shoes, so my feet would make no noise on the stairs and I could sneak up on the intruder. By the time I made it upstairs, however, the intruder was gone. I opened the door and…well, see for yourself."
Marie stepped aside from unlocking the door and Holmes opened it.
The room was a dingy one- the pinstriped wallpaper was covered in dust. The floor hadn't been swept in years. The roof was slanted with a large window facing the streets. There was a chair even more disgusting and moldy than the one downstairs in the exact center of the room. An old painting hung on one wall, so old and dirty that it was impossible to tell what it was of. Aside from being hideously dirty, the entire room had blood on nearly every surface, including the floor.
"Did you alert the police?" Watson asked Marie as Holmes began walking around the room, avoiding stepping in blood, his brow furrowed as he observed.
"No," Marie admitted, "I am rather opposed to the idea of the police and if they were to find out who I was…well, it wouldn't be very good for me."
Holmes nodded thoughtfully, and then crouched down on the floor beside a pool of blood. With one forefinger he touched the pool of blood and brought his finger to his mouth.
"Pig's blood," Holmes deduced.
"Holmes, that's unsanitary," Watson said, "…not to mention completely disgusting."
Holmes waved his hand dismissively at his friend and stood once more and began walking again.
"It was splashed," he said as he walked, "From a bucket. The person who was doing the splashing stood…right here."
The spot indicated by Holmes was beside an old, rotted trunk which sat in one corner of the room.
"His- or her, though I am inclined to think male- footprints are quite visible, thanks to the layers of dust that have collected over the years. In fact-" Holmes said, "They appear to be the only footprints to have entered the room in quite some time."
"I don't come up here very often," Marie said, looking slightly embarrassed, "This is the room Sweeney Todd used as a barbershop…the place where he killed."
"You keep it locked?" Holmes inquired.
"Of course. When I arrived here the other night, after hearing the intruder, the door was still locked."
"I can tell by his footprints that the intruder entered through the door."
"Everyone can pick a lock," Marie said with a shrug.
"I can't," Watson piped up.
"I was being hyperbolic," Marie said, rolling her eyes, "I meant that lock picking is not that uncommon a talent."
Holmes strode over to the door and inspected the lock curiously.
"It doesn't appear to have been tampered with," he said.
"A good lock picker leaves no trace," Marie said and walked over to where Holmes stood. She inspected the lock on both sides, then straightened up and halfway grinned.
"The lock was picked with piece of metal- some sort of tool. It left a small scratch, just at the bottom of the keyhole," she said.
"I saw this at once, of course, but I wanted your input," Holmes said.
"My professional opinion, you mean?" she asked lightly.
"Well, yes, but I didn't wish to sound insulting."
"Not at all, Monsieur Holmes."
"So it was a lock-picking tool?"
"Yes. Not unlike the tool that was used at first by the gang I was with. Around the time I was 14, we discovered a better tool. Completely untraceable."
Holmes studied her thoughtfully, then refocused his attention on the room.
"So the tool that was used was not an uncommon one?" Holmes asked her.
"Not at all. The most common of thieves has a tool such as the one used."
"Have you asked your neighbors if they heard or saw anything?"
She made a face.
"I don't usually associate with my neighbors. Not one of them failed to warn me against 'the ghosts of Fleet Street' when I first moved in," she said, rolling her eyes.
"That, I think, will be my next move," Holmes said, "I will return tomorrow morning, as the good people of Fleet Street are undoubtedly settling down for dinner at this time."
"Right," Marie said and shifted from foot to foot.
"You wish to ask if you can assist in this investigation," Holmes said.
"Yes," she admitted.
"That is my answer," Holmes replied, "Watson, you have no objection?"
"Of course not," Watson said, though he looked surprised.
"Excellent," Holmes said, "We shall return here tomorrow morning, after breakfast."
"If you would consent to come a little earlier, I would be delighted to make breakfast for the pair of you," Marie said, addressing Holmes.
"I believe we shall," Holmes said, smiling, "Come, Watson- I believe Mrs. Hudson had a pig in the oven when we left. Farewell, Miss Roux-"
"Oh call me Marie, please."
"Very well. We shall see you in the morning, Marie," Holmes said and, with one last glance and smile at the lady, he left, with Watson following close behind him.
"If I didn't know you better, Holmes," said Watson a few minutes later as they walked down the street, "I'd say you had taken a fancy to Miss Roux."
His companion had seemed distracted as they left Fleet Street, though it was quite possible Holmes was merely thinking about the case.
"Nonsense, Watson, absolute nonsense," Holmes replied, "I have no interest in pursuing a companion of the female persuasion. I find such things tedious and disinteresting."
"Of course," Watson said, smiling and shaking his head slightly, "What do you make of the case so far?"
"The perpetrator is a man, I believe. Approximately 6 foot, three inches in height. Light brown hair, shoulder length. Carries a revolver. Chews tobacco."
You know I'm going to ask how you know all this, Holmes."
"You really don't know?"
"Well, the gender and the height I imagine you gathered from the size of the footprints- even I could see they were abnormally large," Watson said.
"And also from a handprint I found on the dusty old trunk," Holmes added.
"The hair- I'm assuming you found one?"
"A single strand, sitting on top of the pig blood."
"As for the last two characteristics, I am lost," Watson said.
"I know that the man carries a revolver- or at least, had one with him in the room- for I observed a spot on the trunk where he set it down when he went to splash out the blood, I assume. As for the tobacco, I noticed several places where someone had spat on the ground near the stairs…and the lady does not chew."
"I would hardly call Miss Roux a lady, Holmes. She picks locks, has a tattoo, was in a gang, smokes cigarettes, does cocaine…and keeps a knife in her bra. All these things do not define a lady. By the way, how did you know she was in a gang when she was young?"
"The knife was one observation. The tattoo and the cigarette smoking another. She also has a sort of hard set to her face, wouldn't you agree?"
"Definitely."
"Do you not like her?"
"Oh I like her well enough. She'd even be pretty if she combed her hair and didn't dress so poorly, maybe ate a little more so she wasn't so thin. She's an interesting person…but she's also a little intimidating."
Holmes just chuckled.
"I think it will be interesting working with her," Watson continued, "I'm rather looking forward to it."
Holmes nodded absently and didn't speak again until they turned onto Baker Street.
"What did you make of the crime, Watson?" Holmes asked.
"Well…Whoever did it, did it to scare Miss Roux. They obviously didn't know what they were up against. She didn't seem all that frightened."
"She was frightened, Watson, though she is very skilled at hiding it. If she wasn't frightened, she wouldn't have asked us for help."
While Sherlock Holmes and Watson returned to Baker Street, back on Fleet Street, Marie stood in the blood-splashed room for a few minutes longer, thinking. Sherlock Holmes hadn't told her anything she didn't already know, but he had intrigued her. He had seen through her immediately. She hadn't expected that. The skills of Sherlock Holmes were legendary to her and she knew he would likely be able to help her catch whoever had tried to scare her, but she hadn't expected him to quickly dissect her from her false personality- as Marie Alex Roux, everyone thought her just a semi-poor woman who wrote for the newspaper and lived in the haunted pie shop.
Holmes had quickly detected the parts of her that made her Alexander Dubois- the knife and the tattoo, which she had always thought well-hidden, and the gang. How he had made her as a gang member, she still didn't know, and that she had actually admitted it frightened her. She hadn't told anyone about the gang after she left and became Marie Roux…but she felt like she could trust Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't been at all accusing when he observed her. His friend, Watson, looked rather disturbed by her, but she wasn't concerned with him. She had friends at work who were patients of his, one of whom had told her many stories that Watson had told them during their visits.
That Sherlock Holmes did cocaine was unexpected as well. She had never met him before now and had preconceived him thought him to be rather straight edge…but he hadn't even made her report it to the police.
A roach crawled across the dusty, bloody floor and Marie quickly stepped on it. She was used to bugs- she occasionally found them crawling around the kitchen, at which point she would smash them. She looked around the disgusting room. She felt a hot surge of rage towards whomever it was that had done this. Whatever little punk had tried to scare her. It had been a long time since she had held a knife to someone's throat, but she would gladly do it again to this man.
"Let him come back," she snarled aloud, "I'll be ready for him."
Marie felt agitated and full of energy. After thinking it over a minute, she decided to unleash some energy on the disgusting room. She went downstairs and got cleaning supplies. Armed with that and cocaine, she spent the next 6 hours cleaning the upstairs room where Sweeney Todd had once murdered so many people.
At one o'clock she finally finished and returned downstairs feeling accomplished. She washed her hands good and ate a quick piece of toast; otherwise her stomach would feel bad the next day from the cocaine. She took a bath, washed her hair, and crawled into bed, exhausted. She laid her knife on the nightstand and was out like a light within seconds.
The next morning, Sherlock Holmes and Watson returned to Fleet Street. The great detective had not slept at all that night. He had been pacing the study, smoking his pipe, when Watson retired to bed at midnight and was still there the next morning when Watson awoke.
When they reached Marie's house, Holmes knocked three times on the door. She opened the door almost immediately. Today she was wearing a black dress with lace [not unlike Miss Lovett's dress in the movie, just to give you a visual] and her hair was definitely cleaner- she'd even run a brush through it this morning.
As soon as she led Holmes and Watson inside, it appeared things were not going well in kitchen. The sausage she was trying to cook was burning and so was the toast. At last, she tiredly announced that she was useless in the kitchen. Holmes found this amusing and suggested that the three of them go eat at a diner, his treat.
As they eat breakfast at a small café, Holmes asked Marie if she had any enemies. Anyone who would want to try and scare her.
"Not that I can think of," Marie said.
"No one 6 feet tall with long brown hair?" Holmes asked.
"6 feet tall with long brown hair?" she repeated. This was something he had not mentioned to her yesterday.
"Yes. I observed it from his footprints and one handprint, as well as a single strand of hair I found in the blood."
"Didn't think to mention this yesterday?"
"It didn't seem pertinent. Besides, one would think you could make the observation yourself."
A faint flush touched her cheeks.
"I don't know how to get height from footprints and a handprint. The hair I didn't notice," she admitted, "…We can't all be the Great Sherlock Holmes."
Holmes just laughed.
"So you don't know anyone matching this description?" he asked her.
"Nope," she said, shaking her head, "Not that comes to mind."
Holmes sipped coffee thoughtfully, then set the cup down delicately on the table.
"You'll understand I have to ask- were you ever involved in more serious crime that pick pocketing and breaking and entering?" Holmes asked her.
"Yeah, I robbed the Queen of England," she replied sarcastically, "No, it was never anything more serious than common thievery- we only got what we needed, nothing more. Besides, I gave up that life when I turned 18. I left Paris and settled down here in London."
…
"Why did you leave?" Holmes inquired, "And why come to London?"
Marie surveyed him silently and for a moment it seemed she wouldn't answer.
"I had no desire to remain a criminal my entire life," she replied coolly, "I hoped that, by settling down, I could finally get a little peace in my life. So much for that. I chose London because I used to come here with my parents when I was a child, to visit some Aunt or Uncle whom I can't quite remember. …I guess I held onto some miniscule hop that I'd be able to find someone, some living relative…but I found no one. I remained in London because I found the job and a place with impossibly cheap rent."
Holmes nodded thoughtfully.
When the three returned to the place on Fleet Street, it was evident that something was amiss. The desk with the mirror that had been in the room upstairs had been pushed down the stairs and lay broken in pieces on the ground. Apart from that, someone had taken an axe to the boarded up windows so that glass and splinters of wood lay on the sidewalk. Marie's face paled- then an angry fire sprang up in her green eyes and, grabbing the knife out of her shirt and throwing the sheath aside, she ran up the stairs to the old barbershop and threw open the door.
"Watson!" Holmes shouted as the two men ran up the stairs after her. The good doctor drew his revolver. When they reached the room, however, all they found was Marie pummeling the wall with her fists. The room had been splashed again- this time with red paint, which was not yet dry.
"That stupid motherfucker. That bastard! Let him bring his ass back here while I'm here, that bloody coward!" Marie shouted
Holmes and Watson exchanged alarmed looks and Holmes stepped forward to restrain Marie. Watson wasn't sure he'd ever seen Holmes touch a woman on purpose before, but the detective held Marie at arm's length until she had calmed down. Then she pulled away from him and with an angry "humph" she sat down on the floor.
"Someone cleaned," Watson observed, for Holmes still had eyes only for Marie. The detective tore his gaze away from the woman and looked around.
"That was me," Marie said sheepishly, "I stayed up until past midnight and cleaned. I was angry. I'm still angry. In fact, I'm pissed."
Holmes laughed.
"I see nothing funny," Marie growled.
"I was only laughing at your very non-feminine choice of language, Marie. True there is nothing amusing about the situation."
Holmes turned his full attention to the room and began walking around silently, much as he had done the previous day. Marie got to her feet and looked around as well, staying out of Holmes' way. Watson stayed in the doorway, observing the room from his one spot. After it became evident that there was no need for it, Watson put away his gun. Marie went downstairs to find the sheath to her knife.
Holmes stopped his observation of the room long enough to watch her go.
"That truly is a remarkable woman, Watson," Holmes said. Then he returned to his observations, leaving no room for comment.
When Marie returned upstairs, Holmes was squatting beside something on the floor. He examined it with his magnifying glass, then straightened up.
"The man in question has recently walked somewhere with shells," Holmes concluded.
"The beach?" Watson suggested. Holmes shook his head.
"I'd say more like crushed shells used in expensive driveways or gardens. I've seen it used before in Italy. It shouldn't be too difficult to find where in London uses it."
"How do you know he lives in London?" Marie inquired, "He could take a carriage."
Watson looked curiously at Holmes to see how his friend would take to being doubted.
"A good question indeed, dear woman. You see, I can tell by these as well as the former footprints that the soles of this man's shoes are worn from walking. Also, they are old shoes- the soles are quite worn, but have been mended a few places with copper."
The trio returned downstairs to assess the damage done to the pie shop and to look for more clues. Watson went through the rooms once with his revolver, but there was no trace of the intruder apart from the damage done to the windows. Marie couldn't hide her look of irritation as they looked at the windows.
"The damage was done with an axe- a rather blunt axe, at that," Holmes deduced, "I think that our next step is to continue with our plans and canvass the neighborhood."
They left the shop behind and began knocking on door. The first three slammed the door in their faces and refused to talk. Four weren't at home- or at any rate, didn't answer the door.
"People who live on Fleet Street aren't the nicest in the world," Marie said after a snippety woman told them she knew nothing and called them nosy.
The first man who opened the door to them was clearly agitated.
"Are you the police?" asked the irritated man.
"I'm an investigator. My name is Sherlock Holmes. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"
"Jonathan Andrews," replied the man with a grunt, "Did the police send you?"
"I am investigating the break-in of the property belonging to Miss Roux."
"To hell with the frenchie freak- investigate whoever stole my axe," snapped the man. Holmes had frowned at the insult to Marie and opened his mouth to retort when Watson cut him off.
"Your axe was stolen?" the doctor asked.
"Yes. I was out of town last night and only my wife was at home. She informed me this morning that last night before she went to bed, she heard a noise outside the back door."
"What did she do?" Holmes inquired.
"Nothing," replied the man with a shrug, "She was frightened. She went upstairs and locked herself in the bedroom, where I found her this morning. What do you expect from women?"
Marie rolled her eyes and Andrews glared at her.
"Perhaps," Holmes said smoothly, "We will find your axe in our investigation. If you would allow us to look at the spot where the axe was stolen?"
Andrews hesitated a moment, then nodded.
"I don't see what good it could do, but it certainly can't do any harm. It's just out back."
Holmes, Watson, and Marie followed Andrews around back of the building where there was a very poor excuse for a back yard. There were a few sparse trees and weeds took over most of the grass, but there was a place cleared where lay a few pieces of wood, some chopped.
Holmes walked around the back yard until he found a trail in the overgrown grass.
"It was most definitely our intruder who stole Mr. Andrew's axe," Holmes announced after a moment, "He came in around the left side of the house and walked around the yard a moment, then he took the axe. From there, he walked here, to this fence."
Holmes tested a few of the planks and found them loose.
"Just enough room for a man to squeeze through," Watson observed.
"Just barely," Holmes said, reaching his hand through the fence and retrieving a small piece of cloth that had been snagged on a nail.
"Would your neighbors object to me looking in their back yard?" Holmes inquired of Andrews.
"That's the church," Andrews replied, "Public property."
"Thank you, sir," Holmes said and with that incentive, he disappeared through the hole in the fence that the intruder had used. Watson studied the hole a moment, making a face.
"I'll go around, Holmes," Watson called over the fence. Marie scoffed and slipped through the whole in the fence after the detective.
The back yard of the church consisted of only a table, a solitary tree, and some planted flowers. Holmes was already hot on the trail when Marie came through the fence. Marie hastened to catch up with him, but was sure to give him his space. She studied the ground, frowning, trying to see what Holmes obviously saw. There may have been footprints in the grass, but Marie didn't see them.
Holmes stopped almost at the front of the church building, where two trashcans sat beside the front of the building. Watson caught up with them there as Holmes knelt down to inspect a patch of dirt.
"Someone sat here for an extended period of time, spitting tobacco. Something was lain in the grass here- the axe, being the most likely culprit," Holmes said after a moment, "They were watching something."
He faced the road, where the old pie shop could be seen directly across the street, into the slanted window of the room that had once belonged to Sweeney Todd.
"He sat there and watched me scrub that room for six hours, that bastard!" Marie said loudly, causing several people passing on the street to look at her and frown.
"You must learn to watch your language, Marie, if you wish to continue to assist in this investigation. I can't have you drawing unnecessary attention," Holmes said to her.
"You're going to let me help, then?" she inquired.
"Yes. You're quite skilled at reading people and I should like to have you assist."
Watson glanced at him with mild surprise. Holmes wasn't one to give compliments easily. Holmes frowned slightly and bent to examine the ground again.
After a few minutes, he stood again.
"I have several inquiries I wish to make and I think it will be best if I go alone. Watson, you may return to Baker Street. Marie, we will call on you before the day is out, if all goes well."
With that being said, the detective left the church, turning right around the corner, and disappeared.
"Is he always so…odd?" Marie asked Watson after a moment.
"Increasingly so when he's on the trail. He must have seen something in that patch of dirt that I did not," Watson replied.
While Watson returned to the house on Baker Street, Marie went back into the old pie shop. She was a little uneasy at first, but she shook off the feeling. She stood in what she considered the living room and stared at the ruined windows. She had no money to replace the windows. After some consideration, she went and found some old boxes in an alley. She taped them up over the broken, boarded up windows.
After that she swept up the broken glass and wood shards that were in the living room, and swept them onto the sidewalk outside, then swept it all of off the sidewalk into an alley. There, a gleam of something caught her eye behind a pile of trash bags thrown out of someone's back door. Further inspection revealed it to be an axe! Marie took a step backwards. She wasn't going to touch it until Holmes returned- he would probably be able to see something she couldn't, just from the way the axe was partially hidden by the trash bags.
Marie went back inside and shut the door. She walked through the rooms, thinking. The place had never been particularly homey, but never had it seemed so full of ghosts. Marie shook her head and went to the kitchen to make a quick lunch. She considered leaving the house for a while, maybe going to the market where everything didn't seem so ominous, but immediately decided against it. If the intruder returned, she wanted to be there to meet him, knife in hand. That was when she got the idea of watching the spot across the street from the window upstairs. She took a chair up and placed it in front of the window. Then she sat, knife within reach, watching the church, wondering what Holmes had seen and what he was gone to do.
It was growing late in the afternoon and Marie was still sitting at the window when she noticed an old tramp heading for the trashcan beside the church. It could be nothing, but she decided to check it out anyway.
As she approached the tramp from the sidewalk, he glanced at her, and then went back to digging in the trashcan. His face had looked familiar, however.
"You certainly make a convincing tramp, monsieur," Marie whispered quietly as she passed by on the street so she wouldn't blow his cover. She returned to her living room and less than ten minutes later Sherlock Holmes knocked on the door. He was still dressed as a tramp and his hands were filthy.
"Could I perhaps borrow your sink?" he inquired and Marie stepped aside to let him in, "And thank you for having sense enough not to blow my cover."
"It seemed the necessary thing to do," she replied as Holmes washed his hands in the sink.
"Tell me," he said, "How long have you been watching from the window?"
"Nearly all afternoon," she replied.
"Did you see anyone go near the church?"
"No one except yourself and a stray cat."
"Could you tell who I was from the window?" he asked curiously.
"No. I was just going to take a look at the tramp to see if he matched your description of the intruder."
"What gave me away?"
"Your eyes. Your face was dirty and looked older, but I recognized your eyes," she said, looking away, "The same gleam was in your eyes when you were following the footprints in the grass earlier. Did you find anything in the trash?"
Holmes was about to speak, when Marie broke him off with a cry.
"Oh! I've almost forgotten about the axe. I found it!" she exclaimed.
"Where?" Holmes asked, instantly alert.
Marie led him to the alley where the axe lay partially beneath the trash bags. Holmes walked around the alley for a long time, frowning. Finally, he turned to Marie.
"He ditched the axe in the alley, along with the paint cans, which are underneath that bag there," Holmes said, wrinkling his nose slightly. The bag to which he was pointing oozed an unidentifiably, disgusting, smelly goop. Now that he had pointed it out, Marie could see the outline of the cans. Marie held her breath and, with one hand, lifted the bag. She rolled the cans towards Holmes with her foot and dropped the bag.
"You astound me, Marie," Holmes declared, then examined the cans, "They appear to be stolen. No doubt from a shed nearby. One of them had already been opened before it was stolen."
"What do we do now?"
"I believe," Holmes said, "You should return the axe to your good neighbor Mr. Andrews."
"Why do I have to do it?" she grumbled, "He doesn't even like me."
"Because I am dressed like a tramp," he replied, "and perhaps it will encourage your neighbor to like you more."
"Not that I care if he doesn't like me," she muttered, "He's not important."
Marie returned the axe and when she returned, found Holmes sitting on her couch, smoking a pipe. He appeared lost in thought. Marie fixed herself a cup of tea, and then offered one to Holmes, who accepted it with a brief nod.
"I think," he said eventually, "That we will stake out that spot by the church tonight, though it is highly possible the intruder knows you have been watching. Still, it's worth a shot. You are, I believe, quite skilled at casting a false appearance?"
"I can be very deceiving," Marie said with a slight smile.
"Excellent. I shall fetch Watson from Baker Street and return within an hour," Holmes declared. He stowed his pipe away and stood to leave. He paused at the door and turned back to look at her.
"I could send a telegram for Watson if you're too frightened to remain here alone."
Marie scoffed.
"I'm not scared," she said, withdrawing her knife, "I want that coward to come."
"Coward or no, he has a gun," Holmes said gently, "I applaud your ability to hide it so well, but you are scared."
"I am not," she insisted, "And even if I was, what help would you be? You don't carry a gun- Watson carries the gun."
Holmes looked surprised.
"That's true," Holmes accepted, "Are you sure that you'll be alright here alone?"
"Quite sure," Marie said dryly, then added in a softer tone, "But your concern is duly noted."
He inclined his head to her and left.
When Holmes was gone, Marie began the task of disguising herself. It wasn't that difficult. When she was living on the streets, she used to disguise herself as a boy. She was still young enough to do so, if she wrapped her chest and wore a loose shirt.
When Holmes returned a short wile later with Watson in tow, they found a lad wearing baggy trousers, a too-big shirt, worn brown boots, and a hat waiting for them on the steps of the old pie shop. When they approached he stood and slipped into an alley. They followed. Holmes' keen eye potted a bit of red hair beneath the hat and a flash of green eyes which were heavily lidded and shadowed by the hat.
"Well done, Miss Roux," Holmes said with a small smile. He was still dressed in tramp's clothing, complete with a patched black cloak. Watson was dressed in normal clothes.
"Is it really?" Watson said incredulously, "Your talents are endlessly astounding, Miss Roux."
"Watson is not quite so skilled at blending in. He has offered to stay in the house, with his revolver ready should we need him," Holmes said, noticing Marie observing Watson's clothes.
Marie nodded her agreement and Watson retreated into the old pie shop.
"Where are we going to hide?" Marie inquired.
"Tramps often sleep in alleyways," Holmes replied, "The one on the other side of the pie shop gives us a clear view of the spot from which the intruder watched you."
Marie repressed a shudder and laid her hand on her knife, which was no strapped to her belt.
"Hold on a moment," Holmes said as Marie started towards the aforementioned alley. She paused and Holmes reached out and and tucked a bit of red hair underneath her hat. She pulled away quickly and muttered thanks, not looking at him.
They went on to the next alley and after observing their surroundings, they sat with their backs against the wall to watch the church.
The sun started to disappear and the traffic on the sidewalks lessened. Holmes and Marie sat silently, looking like a homeless old man and a young boy in their disguises. Suddenly, into the alley came four young boys with knives.
"Beat it, tramps. These alleys belong to the Alley Cats," said the tallest of the four, who also had the biggest knife. Holmes, for once, looked baffled. Marie stood.
"If this is Alley Cat territory, where is you mark?" Marie asked, addressing the tallest boy. The boys looked surprised.
"It's above your head," the boy said, pointing to a brick on the wall a few feet up, which had three distinct scratches on it, "But what do you know of it, then?"
"With whom am I speaking?" Marie inquired.
"They call me Crat."
"Are you High Level?"
"Well, no," Crat said, looking displeased, "I'm only Middle."
"Ah, well. I'm sure you are aware of the current peace agreement between the Alley Cats and the Sewer Rats? It does still hold within the London division, does it not?"
"It does, but what-"
"Then you must allow us free passage. We are not scavenging, peddling, stealing, begging, or attempting to claim new territory."
"How do I know you're really a Sewer Rat?"
"My knowledge is not sufficient proof enough?"
The boy crossed his arms and glared at her. Marie wrenched up the leg of her trousers and revealed her dolphin tattoo. Crat's entire demeanor changed immediately.
"It cannot be Sea Rat?" he asked incredulously, "Word was spread that you were dead. …You must be thirty years old now!"
"Twenty-three," she snapped, "Now, will you grant us leave?"
"Of course…but if you aren't planning on stealing anything, why are you watching the church?"
"A man has done wrong by me. I seek reason and revenge. He has been around that area in the past night. We are watching to see if he returns."
"I saw him!" piped one of the smaller boys, "Last night. He was lurking around the back of the church. I would've confronted him, but he had a gun…and an axe. He was really big, too, and as it was just me, I let him be. He wasn't scavenging anyway."
"Is that the only time you've seen him?" Holmes inquired, speaking for the first time since the appearance of the gang.
"Yes."
"When did he leave?"
"Sometime this morning, I guess. I didn't see him leave."
"You haven't seen him at all today?"
"Nope."
"What did he look like?" Marie implored.
"He had long hair and he was really tall."
"What kind of clothes did he wear?"
"I can't recall… something plain. Brown or grey. He wasn't homeless- he didn't look starved or anything and he wasn't too dirty."
"Thanks," Marie said with a nod.
The gang of children disappeared as quickly and quietly as they had come. Marie sat back down on the ground beside Holmes.
"Well," Holmes said, "That was unexpected."
"Was it terribly confusing?"
"I was able to deduce most of it. You lied to me- you said your tattoo had no gang affiliation."
"It doesn't, but it can be used to identify me."
Holmes raised an eyebrow and Marie made herself as comfortable as she could against the brick wall.
"I was fifteen years old. The gang I was a member of, they're called the Sewer Rats. Our territory was the sewers underneath Paris."
"Sewers? Really?" Holmes asked, surprised.
"Sure," Marie said with a shrug, "Once you grow accustomed to the smell and as long as you don't drink the water, you're fine."
"What happens if you drink the water?"
"You get Fever and die," she answered simply.
"I thought it would be something like that. Pray continue, and forgive me for interrupting."
"Nothing to forgive, Holmes. I would not have begun the tale had I not expected questions," she replied, "Anyway, I was fifteen when I found a dolphin trapped in the sewer. I love dolphins- I believe I've told you I used to go down to the beach every morning to watch them. Well naturally I was determined to this one."
"Naturally," Holmes repeated with a smile.
"I don't- well at the time I didn't know much about dolphins, so I tried to use what I did know. Dolphins can hear higher pitched noises than humans- so I whistled. By whistling, I got the dolphin to follow me through the maze of sewers until we reached the place where the sewers flow into the sea."
"So 'Sea Rat'?"
"My nickname," she replied with a brief smile.
"And the tattoo?"
"That same summer, when I was 15, gypsies came to stay for a while in Paris. I made friends. I learned from them. In exchange for my services during a well-planned break in on a bakery on Christmas, I got a tattoo."
"Is it your only tattoo?" the detective inquired.
Marie grinned mischievously.
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
The night wore on and the intruder did not show his face. Holmes seemed like he could sit there for days, smoking his pipe, staring silently off into nothingness. Marie, however, grew tired as the night wore on. She ended up with her head slumped against Holmes' shoulder.
"Marie? Are you awake?" Holmes said quietly at about 4:00 in the morning.
"Huh?" she said, starting, "Yeah, been awake."
"Forgive me. I often go for days without sleep when I'm on a case and it often slips my mind that those I work with require rest."
"Normally I would be able to stay awake longer, but I barely slept at all last night. I cleaned for six hours. I couldn't stay awake without some chemical incentive."
"Hm," Holmes said with a small smile, "That is an idea."
"I do have some…but Watson is in there."
"So? He's not going to say anything."
"He disapproves."
"So?" repeated Holmes and Marie smiled.
The two went inside of the house. Watson was sitting in the old armchair, dozing, his revolver in his lap. Holmes shut the door silently and locked it. Watson awake as Holmes walked past.
"What's going on?" he asked sleepily.
Marie retrieved a needle on a plate from a cupboard and set it on the table.
"Now Holmes, I really must protest," Watson said, "Sharing a needle is dangerous."
Marie looked at Holmes, waiting for his reaction. The detective merely rolled his eyes. Marie started to tie the tourniquet around her own arm. After a brief moment of hesitation, Holmes tied it for her, letting his hand rest lightly on her arm as he did so.
"I'm leaving," Watson said huffily.
"See you tomorrow, Watson," Holmes replied, unconcerned, "Kindly leave your revolver, if you will."
"Fine," he said irritably and tossed the gun onto the table. He dug in his bag a moment, and then tossed a fresh, unopened needle onto the table.
"Be safe," Watson said sardonically, then left.
"Doesn't it bother you?" Marie asked a short while later as she and Holmes sat on the couch.
"What?" he asked vacantly.
"Watson's…tirade."
Holmes let out a short, derisive laugh.
"No," he said after a moment, "It doesn't bother me. That's just Watson. He worries…quite unnecessarily most of the time."
"I don't get it- he's a doctor. Cocaine was invented for medical purposes, right?"
"For use in surgeries, specifically of the ears, nose, and throat," Holmes replied wryly, "There are supposed long-term effects…but frankly, I don't give a damn."
Marie chuckled.
"Aren't we supposed to be outside?" she inquired as she picked up the gun and examined it curiously.
"Have you ever fired a gun before?" Holmes asked curiously.
"Nope, and I don't plan to. I'd take my knife over this thing any day," she said, passing the gun off to Holmes. He stood and she followed him back out to the alley where they resumed their silent vigil.
"Have you ever killed anyone?" Holmes asked, his judgment obviously clouded.
"…No one innocent."
Holmes looked surprised and raised an eyebrow.
"…A rapist who had attacked several very young girls on the streets in Paris. He put his hands on my sister Reese and I put my knife in him. I was fourteen."
"Sister?"
"Not a blood sister. A gang sister. I loved her like a sister, though. She was seven then."
"What happened to her?" Holmes asked.
"Dunno," Marie replied with a shrug, "She disappeared when she was ten."
Her voice was tight and strained. She swallowed before continuing.
"I like to think she found a family to adopt her."
Marie wouldn't look at him. She could feel tears threatening to fall so she studied her fingernails, picking at them absently. Holmes reached out suddenly and covered her small, pale hand with his larger one.
"…Have you ever killed anyone?" she asked him. A moment of silence passed.
"Not directly," he said finally, "And never an innocent person."
Suddenly, their ears caught the sound of footsteps approaching on the road. They fell silent and Holmes withdrew his hand. They feigned sleep and watched the church through slits in their eyelids.
A man wearing plain clothes approached the church. He was tall and had long hair. Marie reached for her knife, but Holmes' hand stopped her.
"If we attack directly, he'll run," he breathed as quietly as possible.
"I can catch him," was her nearly silent response.
"Do you want to take the chance? Wait until he goes to leave and passes the alley again."
Marie hesitated. She wasn't used to taking orders and he could be costing her her chance at revenge.
"Trust me," Holmes said softly.
Marie looked into his eyes and nodded almost imperceptivity. He released her arm and the two continued watching the man. He sat down behind the trashcan and stared up at the window. Marie felt certain he couldn't see them- the buildings around the alley cast a dark shadow on the spot where she and Holmes sat.
After about ten minutes of watching, the man started towards the pie shop. He had only a gun with him- no bucket, so there was no mistaking his intentions this time. Holmes stood silently once the man was past their line of vision and Marie followed suit. Silently, the pair moved up the alley. Holmes had Watson's revolver in h9is hand. Marie removed her knife from the sheath without making any noise at all.
Holmes and Marie rounded the corner and found the intruder with a pick in the lock. Holmes pointed the revolver at the man and cleared his throat. The intruder froze.
"Drop the gun," Holmes said sternly, "And turn around."
The gun that was held loosely in the intruder's hand thunked to the ground. He turned around slowly. He looked considerably relieved when he saw the old tramp and the young boy.
"You ain't the police," he said.
"What do you want with Miss Roux? Why have you been taunting her?"
"What's it to you?" jeered the man.
"I'm a detective. I've been hired by Miss Roux to stop the intrusions."
"Ha! Sea Rat done got so old she hires protection. Can't face me like a man, eh?"
Infuriated, Marie threw off her hat, letting her long red hair fly free.
"I'm not a man," she snapped, pinning the intruder to the door, her knife at his throat, so fast Holmes couldn't stop her, "Idiot!"
The look of hatred in the man's black eyes was searing.
"What do you want with her?" Holmes asked the man, "And I suggest you talk fast."
"I want to kill her."
"Not the smartest answer," Holmes said as Marie pressed her knife harder against his throat, "Why?"
"She killed my brother."
"Bullshit," Marie growled, "Unless your brother was an old man who raped little girls."
"No, he was eleven years old and you killed him."
"I did no such thing and if you say it again-"
"You did! It was your knife what gave him gut rot and killed him."
"…When?"
"When the Sewer Rats fought the Alley Cats in Eastern Paris."
"I had nothing to do with your brother's gut rot."
"If you hadn't stabbed him, he wouldn't have got gut rot."
If I hadn't stabbed him, someone else would have. That's the way it was in those days. I fixed it when my time came."
"Ensuing a peace agreement that favors Sewer Rats doesn't bring my brother back."
"It is fair. Look, I'm sorry about your brother, but don't talk to me about laws and politics. Sewer Rats and Alley Cats have equal rights. They can cross each others territory, but no scavenging, peddling, begging-"
"Blah, blah, blah," the man said, rolling his eyes, "Who would want to go on Sewer Rat territory? It's disgusting."
"How dare you-? What rank are you? Lower Level? Middle?"
"Outcast," he sneered, "And that's your fault, too."
"How is that my fault? I'm not the Top Rat- er, Cat."
"They cast me out because they thought I was mad. They didn't trust me once I got the gun, but you see, this gun only has one bullet in it and it's for you, Sea Rat."
Holmes stepped forward and kicked the gun away, though the man obviously had no way of escaping the woman with the knife at his throat.
"What's your name?" Marie demanded of the man.
"Joshua Stephen Hayes," Holmes provided, "He works for the Robinsons. Started last month. He's a gardener."
The intruder and Marie both gaped at him. Holmes just smiled.
"Name's Skum, with a 'k'. Not Joshua Stephen," the man sneered.
"Yes, because 'scum' is so much more respectable," Holmes said, rolling his eyes.
"…What do you want to do with him Holmes? I have no interest in killing him. The police station?"
"I don't think they will arrest him for terrorizing," Holmes said apologetically.
"But he had a gun! He was going to kill me!"
Holmes shrugged. Marie frowned, thinking a moment, then her expression cleared.
"Holmes, I don't suppose you have cuffs? Or a length of rope?"
To her surprise, Holmes pulled rope form his inner pocket.
"You never know when you'll need rope," Holmes said with a smile, "What are you going to do?"
"Leave him for the Alley Cats we met earlier. They have a rather interesting way of dealing with Outcasts who breach their territory, if I'm not mistaken."
Skum's face paled considerably. Holmes tied his hands behind his back while Marie held the knife to his throat. Marie led him over to a lamppost and bound him to it. Then she took her knife and carved something on the lamppost above his head- a fish.
"Don't leave me," Skum wailed as they started to walk away, "Please."
"What are they going to do to him?" Holmes asked, not looking back.
"They aren't going to kill him, if that's what you're worried about," Marie assured him.
"What will they do?"
"The finer details are better left unsaid," she said dismissively, "Trust me."
Holmes nodded after a moment and followed her inside.
"I guess," he said, "I should return to Baker Street. No reason for me to stay and protect you now that we've caught him."
"I never needed protecting," Marie reminded him. Holmes chuckled and all of a sudden he reached out and pulled her to him. He gazed into her emerald eyes a moment and Marie didn't dare breathe. Then he kissed her, his soft lips pressing against hers. After a moment, she opened her mouth to him, but Holmes pulled away.
"Damn," he swore, releasing her, "I need to go."
Marie stood motionless as Holmes left, pulling the door shut behind him. After standing there a moment longer, Marie locked the door. She went to the cabinet and poured herself a glass of rum. She threw it back, then recapped the bottle, returned it to the cabinet, and went to her room. She crawled into bed, though she didn't exactly feel tired, and sighed.
"He'll be back," she murmured aloud to herself.
Holmes returned to Baker Street in a daze. To his surprise, he found Watson still awake, sitting in the study.
"You're back," Watson said, surprised, "You must've caught the intruder."
"Hm? Oh, yes. We did," Holmes replied absently.
"I say, Holmes, are you alirght? You look pale."
"I'm fine, Watson. I'm going up to bed. I'll tell you all about catching the intruder tomorrow," Holmes said wearily.
"Okay," said a puzzled Watson.
A few nights later, Watson was in the study, having a bit of supper while reading a book when Holmes emerged from his room. Watson hadn't seen much of his friend the past few days- Holmes had taken to staying in his room for long periods of time. It was clear to Watson that Holmes had been affiliating with the needle again- his face was gaunt and pale, his pupils were dialated, and he looked as if he hadn't eaten in days, which he probably hadn't.
"Hungry Holmes?" Watson inquired. The detective shook his head.
"Not hungry," Holmes said distractedly, heading downstairs. Watson said aside his book and supper and followed his friend.
"Just because you aren't hungry doesn't mean you shouldn't eat, Holmes. You could get ulcers. When's the last time you ate?"
"How long has it been since Miss Roux's case?"
"Three days- are you saying you haven't eaten since then?"
"What? No, of course not. I ate last night," Holmes said impatiently, "I just wanted to know."
Holmes put on his hat and coat.
"Where are you going?" Watson inquired.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Holmes said, opening the door.
"That's not-" Watson began, then Holmes shut the door behind himself and Watson finished quietly, "-what I asked…"
Marie was sitting upstairs in the paint-splattered room. She had tried to scrub the pain off the walls, but achieved nothing. Now, the room that she had never gone in before was even more useless.
Marie was contemplating burning the whole place down when there was a quiet knock on the door. She opened the door and was only slightly surprised to find Holmes standing there.
"Hello," he said uncertainly, "Uhm…I'm not really quite sure what I'm doing here."
Marie couldn't help but smile.
"I think I know," she said lightly, "Shall we go downstairs? I rather hate this room."
Holmes said nothing so Marie took his hand and led him down the stairs. They went through the front door and Marie closed it behind them.
"Would you like some tea?"
"I think not," Holmes replied with a faint smile. Marie took a step closer to him. Holmes opened his arms to her and she fell into his embrace. They kissed for what could have been hours or days. Time was immaterial. When they finally broke apart, Marie looked up at him.
"You're not going to run away again, are you?" she murmured.
"I don't think I could, even if I wanted to, which I don't."
She chuckled quietly and kissed him again, this time slowly pulling him as she walked backwards until her back pressed against the counter. Their kissing became more heated and Holmes ran his hands down her body and groaning.
Marie broke the passionate kiss, her hands on his chest.
"I want you to fuck me," she whispered, her breathing ragged. Holmes kissed her again, putting his hands on her waist. He lifted her on the counter and slid his hand under the skirt she was wearing. He was so surprised he broke the kiss when he found that she wore nothing underneath the skirt.
"Naughty girl," Holmes said with a smile and kissed her again, his hand resting on her bare sex. He slid one finger inside of her experimentally. Then, finding her quite wet, added another, drawing a ragged gasp from her. He played with her a moment, making her squirm, then withdrew. In a moment, Marie took control of the situation. She led a trail of kisses down his neck, biting him gently every now and then, causing him to gasp softly.
Still being the dominant one, she pinned his hands behind his back and led him into the bedroom. She pushed him down on the bed and kissed him. He wasn't resisting at all hardly…at least not until she reached down with one hand and began to unbutton his pants. He tried to free his hands in order to help her, but she wouldn't let him. She smirked as she unzipped his pants and moved lower. He groaned loudly as she gripped his hard member.
"You're mine now, Holmes," she whispered, wrapping both hands around it.
"M-marie!" he gasped loudly, and moaned loudly as she covered his penis with her mouth. Rubbing his balls she began to lick his shaft. He let out a cry as his back arched. She continued to play with him until he was ready to cum…and then backed off before he could. He groaned loudly and she smirked as she crawled up to him.
"Stop torturing me," he whimpered.
"Heh heh heh. It only gets worse, love."
She kissed him hungrily and his body relaxed, then arched again as she trailed the kisses down to his chest, biting him lightly some more. She licked his flat stomach and he chuckled. Holmes gasped again as she continued to lick down…down…down…
"Marie!" he moaned as her mouth found his hard member once again, "I need…I'm going to…AH!"
She sat back and smirked to herself as Holmes came once. He collapsed onto the bed, body glistening with sweat. She used one of the sheets to wipe away the cum. He opened his eyes as she slipped off her shirt and out of her skirt.
"What now?"
"It's my turn," she replied, grinning mischievously. She kissed him once before moving down to find him hard once again.
"Well that didn't take much persuading," she commented and began to rub his penis, still slick with his own cum. She was more than ready and so was he. She straddled him and allowed him to penetrate her. She angled her body a little bit so it went where she wanted it to, then began to ride him.
"Mm! Oh…God!" she cried loudly as he thrust upwards, hitting just the right spot, "Oh YES!"
"Marie…" he moaned and with one final thrust and a loud cry he released his seed into her as she came.
They lay there afterwards, sweaty and panting, their bodies wound together. Holmes held her close and Marie buried her face in his chest. At last, they both felt content.
It was about a week later and Watson was sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and eating breakfast. The newspaper was sitting on the table, unread. Watson could hear Holmes stirring upstairs. His friend had returned to normal- or as normal as it got for Holmes- after his unexplained disappearance that one night. Watson suspected the brief disappearance had something to do with a woman- possible Marie Roux, but he had no proof and Holmes refused to talk about it.
Holmes came into the kitchen and began to fix a cup of coffee as Watson unrolled the newspaper and began to read.
"I say, Holmes- it seems there was a fire in downtown London last night."
"Where at?" Holmes asked disinterestedly."
"Fleet Street."
The cup of coffee Holmes had been holding fell to the floor and shattered, startling Watson. Holmes ran out of the door, barely stopping to grab his coat before departing, leaving a baffled Watson to clean up his mess.
Holmes hurried to Fleet Street as fast as his feet would carry him. He arrived in a frenzy in front of the smoldering remains of the old pie shop. A few people stood around, looking at the smoldering remained and shaking their heads. One of these was a young lad in trousers and a hat pulled low over his green eyes, a duffel bag on the ground beside him. Holmes nearly fainted with relief. He walked over to her discreetly.
"What happened?" he murmured.
"I burned it down," Marie replied quietly.
"What? Why?" Holmes asked, startled.
"I think I'm going to go back to Paris."
"That's all well and good, but did you have to burn it down?"
"It felt… unfinished," she replied vaguely.
She picked up the bag off the ground and slung it over her shoulder. She started to walk away, but paused and looked back at Holmes.
"If you're ever in Paris, look me up," she said cheerfully.
"Definitely," Holmes replied, nodding his head.
With that being said, Marie turned on her heel and walked away. She looked back over her shoulder only once to smile sadly at Holmes before continuing on her way, towards Paris.
Holmes returned to Baker Street a short while later. Watson knew better than to question his friend. Holmes fixed another cup of coffee and sat down at the breakfast table as if nothing had happened.
"Truly remarkable woman indeed," Holmes murmured.
THE END