Sherlock Holmes sat in his study, perusing the latest monograph on the flesh-eating habits of beetles by the biologist A.G. Reed. Holmes was fascinated. The scientist, Reed, seem to be of a similar breed as himself: methodical, observant, and able to put together disparate pieces of information into an informative whole.
Holmes had good reason for reading work quite outside his normal pursuits: the monograph claimed to be able to tell exactly how long a cadaver had been dead by the size of the beetle larva found eating its flesh. And that is exactly how Scotland Yard how found a body not two days ago.
Watson, though married for six months now, still called him on occasion to examine a body when his medical expertise fell short of the knowledge necessary to make such determinations. Luckily, Holmes had heard of Dr. Reed's work, and they were now scheduled to meet with said doctor at 2pm.
Holmes finished the monograph, and laid it down beside him on a little table, lost in thought. But not long afterwards did Holmes begin to frown, looking around the room. The house felt empty without Watson's more vivacious presence. And Holmes did have to admit that Watson had made for an excellent study of human foibles. While Watson possessed a formidable mind (to which he ofen thought less of being next to Holmes, of which Holmes had told him time and time again was lunacy), he did display a number of commonalties of the emotional sort with the rest of humanity, for which Holmes silently cursed him for. This need to be loved, Holmes thought to himself, was a failing of the human race.
No, he stopped himself. Mary Watson nee Marston was an excellent woman, and Watson deserved such a wife. But their love was based on nothing else than that – love. While Mary herself was no simpleton, she was in no way Watson's intellectual equal. And for that, Holmes was amazed that Watson would even consider such a marriage.
And the dinner parties! The Watsons, now a blissfully happy couple, had invited him to numerous dinner parties. Holmes had consented to only a few of them, if only out of curiosity. On the second occasion, Holmes concluded that the Watsons were actively engaged in matchmaking: allowing for the social convention of each guest requiring a dinner "partner", the Watsons had gone to great pains to find a charming companion for Holmes. Of course, this was made somewhat difficult in that Dr. Watson himself, though by Holmes own admission his best friend, had no idea what type of woman would interest Holmes in more than an academic manner. The only woman Holmes had ever shown any personal interest in was Miss Irene Adler, and that relationship was more of fascination of her skills of deception than actual feelings of a softer nature.
Holmes was no lover of men. Watson knew that to be a fact by a few conversations while Holmes was under the influence of his seven-percent solution of cocaine. And yet Holmes seemed to have an aversion to displaying any of the more passionate feelings in front of a woman that John Watson knew very well his friend had in full measure. Watson had pondered this line of thought with Mary on several occasions.
"Could it be trust?" Watson asked Mary, somewhat rhetorically, the day before they were to meet with Dr. Reed. "His brother Mycroft is unmarried, and older still. Holmes has never spoken much about his family…."
"Could it not simply be that he has never met the right woman?" May said, gently. "As you've told me, he seems not to be unaware of beauty, or that women are truly people, as some men are. He pretends to find them inexplicable, as if they were of another species!"
"Quite so. I wonder if there is a woman out there that Holmes might see as a person first, and a woman second."
It was this conversation that Watson was recalling as he exited the carriage that had carried him to 221B Baker Street, and the home of his old friend. Watson was sure Mary had the right of it. Though Holmes was hardly a recluse, his life since his University years would not exactly bring him into the company of many women. And Watson was more certain than ever that Holmes needed a wife. Happily married couples always thought so. And Mrs. Hudson could hardly be stimulating company for his brilliant friend!
It was 1:30. Watson rang the bell, and Mrs. Hudson showed him into Holmes' study.
"Ah, Watson! You have left little time. Did you bring the samples?" Watson pointed to his black medical bag, which in this case held a jar of larve specimens that Inspector Lestrade had allowed him to take from the body. He looked Holmes over. "Good to see you, Holmes my friend."
"Yes, it is. Let us be off to the offices of Dr. Reed, then. I have the address here," Holmes announced, placing a piece of paper in his breast pocket and grabbing his top hat.
Holmes filled Watson in on Dr. Reed's work as the cabbie drove to the south side of London. Watson was interested, if a little put off by Holmes' description of Dr. Reed's experiments. As a medical man, Watson preferred the living to the dead. But at least his friend was in better spirits than of late. Watson had been somewhat surprised at Holmes' second and third acceptance of their dinner party invitations. Only later, after some contemplation, did Watson come to the inevitable conclusion: Sherlock Holmes was lonely.
After a little more than a half an hour, the cab finally stopped at one large brick building. Holmes gazed at the building with interest before advancing towards the enterence. He admitted to himself that he had been expecting the address to take him to an office block, the type where professionals entertained the public with their services. This building was more of the house nature, though unattached. He turned to his friend and said simply, "Come, Watson."
The door was opened by a male servant. "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson for Dr. Reed." Holmes said directly to him, as the man was nearly Holmes' height.
The doorman's eyes spoke of a controlled power that was belayed by the butler's uniform. This man, Holmes concluded, could be dangerous. "Yes, you are expected. Please, this way, gentlemen," the man said in a light Scottish accent.
As they entered, a maid stepped up to take their hats and canes. The man then led Holmes and Watson across the house and into a room whose contents nearly made Holmes and Watson gasp. With a 20 foot ceiling, the walls were lined with books. It was one of the best personal libraries Holmes had ever seen.
A woman turned in a chair as they entered. In her early thirties, Holmes estimated, and she had once been beautiful. Most would no longer see that, however, instead being put off by her blank facial expression and short cut hair. Watson even lowered his eyes at this. It seemed so immodest! Holmes' eyes twinkled, and his mouth quirked in the manner that Watson knew meant his friend was amused at his reaction.
"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, Madam," the butler stated, but made no motion to leave. Holmes noted the almost imperceptible communication between the woman and the butler, and realized that this man was no butler, but a bodyguard.
"Thank you, Roger," the woman said simply. That was obviously a signal that he could leave. He did, but not without making eye contact with Holmes once more.
"We were expecting to speak to Dr. A.G. Reed," Holmes spoke up as the door closed.
"I am A.G. Reed," she stated flatly, clearly having had to say that before. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. Hello, Doctor."
Holmes' eyebrows raised a fraction, and turned to his friend. The more familiar greeting implied that she knew the good doctor.
Watson's face changed in a flash from puzzlement to recognition. "Not Ava Grace?"
Holmes' keen eyes caught that the woman blushed slightly at her name.
"Yes, it has been awhile," she said without explanation.
"I'm sorry that I did rec- recall the name immediately," Watson caught himself from saying "recognized". "I'm very glad to see you again." He paused, as she did not continue. "I take it that it is your work we have come to utilize today?"
"Yes. I completed doctoral work in medicine and biology after….we met last. Do you have the larvae sample?"
"Yes, yes of course." Watson pulled himself together. He lifted his black bag to a table and opened it, bringing out the jar of larvae.
"I have read your monograph on cigar ash, Mr. Holmes," Ava said as she turned to place the jar on another small table, examining the larvae closely.
While her back was turned, Holmes looked at Watson quizzically. Watson shook his head sharply, implying that he would explain later, and not to mention anything more about it to Ava.
"The study of larva is somewhat similar, in that it takes time, and nothing can rush the process." She looked back at the men. "It will take several weeks for the larvae to mature, providing me with an exact time they were lain. I will contact you when that happens."
"Of course." Holmes replied crisply. To anyone else, Ava's unemotional demeanor would border on rude. But Holmes had no requirement for women to "act womanly" – while he was always a perfect gentlemen, the illogical behavior of women had always made him nervous, particularly because they just might break out and start crying or try to hug him at any moment. Ava's manner was much more straight forward, even if Holmes had no idea why she was not like others of her sex, and actually put him at ease. He turned towards the door, accepting the dismissal.
Dr. Watson, however, offered her his hand. "I am very glad to see that you are well," he said to her quietly.
Something like an emotion passed across her eyes. "I thank you, doctor. I hope to see you again when I have the results." She looked over Holmes with his hand on the doorknob. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes."
"Good afternoon, Dr. Reed." Holmes looked at her directly, a thing he vary rarely did with women. Ava Reed commanded a certain respect that Holmes was quite willing to give.
They were both silent for some time as the cabbie took them back to Baker Street. Finally, Watson asked, "Do you remember the satanic gang exposed about fifteen years ago?"
Holmes pondered for a moment. "I was consulted briefly, as I recall. One of the few cases I had no satisfactory conclusion. There was no evidence to analyze. The girl could not identify her attackers – " Holmes turned his head towards Watson sharply. "The girl-"
"Was Ava Grace Reed." Watson nodded his head heavily. "I was working the shift she was brought in. She had been left for dead. Most of her injuries, however, were – " Watson paused. "I'm afraid, Holmes, that I am uncomfortable explaining more."
Holmes' observations of Dr. Reed now coalesced. He grew deathly quiet. "I believe I understand, Watson. No need to go further."
Watson paused, looking out the cab. "The worst that I have ever seen. Ghastly, sadistic…." Watson's voice cracked with emotion. He took a breath. "Her attackers were never found. She dropped out of society, and eventually out of the news. We are unusually cruel to those that have been --- suffered such injuries."
"Yes, I understand perfectly." Holmes stopped his friend's remembrance. "And now I understand her, perhaps, somewhat unlady-like behavior. Society has told her that she is no longer truly a woman, yet it is that same society that will not allow her to act like a man. She has no place, save the one that she has carved for herself." Holmes bent his head in thought.
They mentioned Ava no further as the cab reached Baker Street, letting Sherlock Holmes off and continuing to the Watson home.