Holmes went out to Cornwall to stop Irene Adler, and came back with a case of fairies.
To be more precise, it was in fact only one fairy, but she was more than enough to utterly disrupt the rooms at 221 B Baker Street, and in between the ruckus and uproars, Watson found it all extremely amusing to find his colleague and erstwhile genius associate completely unable to cope with his newly acquired . . . . pet. If that was a fair term for her. Watson wasn't sure, since Holmes most certainly hadn't chosen her, and she didn't offer much in the way of protection, companionship or comfort.
Instead, the three-inch sprite made it her occupation to annoy, vex and otherwise disrupt Holmes' daily routines, and this she did with uncanny accuracy. Watson noted that she was a quick study, and had the added factor of being female, which gave her an instant advantage over the normally gallant Holmes, who found himself unable to actually harm anything of the feminine gender. At least, not physically—his curt tongue was still very much in evidence, and his commentary held a blend of vitriol that made Watson chuckle.
He sat, reading the paper, listening to the sounds of splashing coming from the other bedroom. Watson surmised that Holmes was shaving . . . or at least, attempting to shave, and that the fairy was swimming in the water basin, judging by the tiny tinkle squeals.
"Begone!" he heard Holmes growl. "Not only is it unseemly and unsanitary for you to paddle about in there, Miss, it's . . . damn it!"
"Holmes?" Watson called, peering over the edge of the paper in a moment of concern.
"Nothing!" came the short reply. "I've nicked my lip. Can you please call our little pest away—at least long enough for me to finish my ablutions without further bloodshed?"
Watson grinned. Puckering his lips, he whistled, a short cheery call that was rewarded by the arcing glitter of a small and delighted figure winging her way towards him. The flight was enough to dry her off, and she perched on the edge of the newspaper, coquettishly gripping it and batting her eyes at Watson.
"Good morning. You're looking lovely as usual," he murmured gallantly, and the fairy gave a coo, little chest heaving with adoration. Watson pulled the paper closer, moving slowly to let her keep her balance, and spoke again. "I think it would be best to let him alone while he's shaving, my dear; Holmes doesn't understand the little niceties you and I have worked out."
The fairy gave an annoyed glance over her shoulder towards the bedroom, then turned back to Watson and shot him a resigned sigh. Moving with care, she edge her way to the topmost right corner of the paper and perched there, waiting. Watson continued to read, but watched her out of the corner of his eye, still as charmed by her as he had been from the moment they'd met.
She was a wee thing, with silvery skin and long hair that blended copper, gold and silver in a curly mop that draped to her shoulders. When she'd first shown up she'd worn some cobweb of a garment; a sort of smock that looked like the underside of a leaf, but it had begun to fall apart, and now she wore a fragment of silk from one of Holmes' best ties, the little aubergine paisley design looking rather fetching on her.
In truth, all of her looked fetching, Watson thought to himself with masculine amusement. She certainly wasn't one for the conventions of modesty, and there was something thrilling about seeing those bare shapely legs, even if they were only two inches long.
Her wings were lacy and had the same tints of copper, gold and silver to them as her hair, and her eyes were dark little apple seeds in an elfin face; prone to twinkling, but looking mysterious and knowing at other times. Her lips were full, too, and made a sweet pout or smile, given her mood. Altogether she was a beautiful little thing, and Watson suspected that had she been a full-sized woman, Holmes would feel very differently about his . . . er, companion.
He knew *he* certainly would, if he wasn't a happily married man currently waiting for Mary to return from visiting her former employer in India.
"Now, please," Watson murmured, and obligingly the fairy gripped the corner of the newspaper, carrying it along as she flew to the left side, turning the page neatly for him.
"Thank you," he told her with another smile. She gave a happy chirp and flitted off, seeking Gladstone, who was stretched out in a patch of morning sunlight, and gently alit on his side. The bulldog gave a small twitch, but once the fairy began to vigorously scratch his ribs he sighed with doggy delight, stretching out as much as his stout frame could to give her better access.
The room was peaceful and calm, and then Holmes came out.
He looked around, spotted the fairy along Gladstone's ribs and pointed at her accusingly. "Today. We are parting company today, Miss. I have tried to be accommodating, but you are expressly aggravating me and abusing my hospitality. I didn't argue when you needed to slice up my tie for your wardrobe. I was willing to give up my favorite down pillow so you would sleep comfortably. I was even agreeable to providing you with an open window for fresh air, a bowl of water to bathe in and as much of Mrs. Hudson's good clover honey as you wanted to eat, but I will NOT put up with you making silhouette cutouts of yourself with my case notes!"
The fairy looked up from Gladstone and shot Holmes a saucy look. Watson peeped over his newspaper. Holmes unfolded a section of paper and the graceful outline of a fairy blossomed in the exact center of the page.
Watson laughed; he couldn't help it. The outline was amusing enough, but Holmes' annoyed face peeping through the middle of it was incredibly funny.
"Laugh while you can, Watson; I'm determined to lift this . . . curse, this imprinting, this mis-marriage of inconvenience as soon as possible. I cannot function with that tiny tormenting millstone around my throat."
"No need to be cruel, old chap," Watson murmured, shooting the fairy a compassionate glance. "You know she's as unhappy about it as you are."
"Ha!" Holmes interjected sourly. "That, I very much doubt. We have forfeited our comfort and home to this little interloper and that ends today. What time—"But before he could finish, the sound of footsteps out in the hallway alerted everyone in the room.
Smoothly, the fairy shot up and perched herself on the mantle, posing statue-like against the brass clock there, barely visible amid the papers, pipe dottles, broken pens and waxy pinecones.
"Come in, Clarky," Homes murmured, his voice shifting into a calmer tone. Watson brought his newspaper down a fraction and watched as the door opened, and the good constable stood there, slightly startled.
"I know when it's you because not only are you several stone heavier than Mrs. Hudson, but also you pause three and a half seconds to remove your helmet before you knock," Holmes muttered. "The observation of habit is the foundation of detection."
"Yes sir," Clark agreed, his expression still slightly impressed. "I'm here---"
"—on behalf of Lestrade, in regards to the unfortunate disappearance of Lady Hugh, otherwise known as Irene Adler, some three days ago," Holmes sighed heavily. "Yes, yes, I *am* aware that our trail grows cold, but I highly doubt she will have left the country just yet. She has too much invested in this complex deception of Lord Hugh and his investors to drop the scheme entirely."
"But we've just had a report that someone saw her board the Pride of Manchester this morning, Mr. Holmes," Clark replied. "Passport and all, heading for Ireland, sir."
Holmes didn't reply, and Watson looked to see what had his attention; on the mantle, the fairy was now nudging the clock closer to the edge.
"No!" Holmes called sharply, and turned to look at the startled Clark, his voice softening. "No, that will be a decoy; most likely an actress friend hired to carry off the masquerade."
Watson had to admire how Holmes swiftly paced to the fireplace and leaned against it, trying to look as if he was lost in thought, but in truth, glaring at the fairy and gritting his teeth. The fairy was not the least bit intimidated and stuck her tiny tongue out at him.
"So our best course of action is to figure where Miss Adler would go. Not here, in London where Lord Hugh is well-known. Certainly not in Cornwall either. My hypothesis is that she will make her way to Bristol, and mingle with some theatre company there, and go with them either to the Continent, or the Americas." So saying, Holmes slapped a hand on the clock, preventing the fairy from pushing it any further.
"Bristol?" Clark asked politely.
"Bristol, where she spent time a few years ago on the boards. Tell me, Clarky, what do you know about . . . fairies?"
"Sir?" the constable blinked, unable to follow this swift change of subject.
"Fairies. Sprites, pixies," Holmes muttered in a slightly menacing tone. On the mantle, the fairy had given up pushing the clock and was tiptoeing towards a pinecone, her intent obvious. Taking pity, Watson rose and moved over to the fireplace himself, resting an elbow on the mantle piece to block the view of her and facing the constable, who looked as if he wasn't sure what to say.
"Well, no more or less than anyone, I suppose, sir. According to my granny, they're tiny magical creatures with the power for good or mischief, depending on their mood."
"Really," Holmes nodded loftily, "And?"
"Er, and they like music, babies and animals. Oh, and you shouldn't ever get one angry at you, because they can disrupt your home, but that's all nonsense of course, because, begging pardon sir, they don't exist."
"Absolutely right," Holmes agreed, pasting a bright, false smile on his face. "Very good."
Clark looked at him uncertainly. "So, fairies aside, sir, will you be going to Bristol?"
"Yes."
Clark nodded and left; Holmes held his pose as the door closed, and when it did the soft defiant 'thump' of a pinecone hitting the back of his head made him grit his teeth once more.
*** *** ***
"She'd got to have a name," Watson murmured in a reasonable tone of voice. "It's been days now, and we can't keep calling her 'the fairy,' you know."
"Tribulation," Holmes volunteered dourly. "Annoyance. Pest. Vermin—take your pick."
Watson said nothing. They sat in one of the first class coaches of the Bristol Flyer, nearly halfway to their intended destination, and their miniscule companion was sitting on the windowsill of the first class compartment, happily chewing on a crumb of tea biscuit.
"Now, now, no need to be rude," Watson chided. "From what you've said she's still quite young yet, hatching as she did in your cuff. You should be glad you didn't get more than one, splashing about in those enchanted puddles."
"It's a pity Darwin is deceased," Holmes eyed the fairy with distain. "He would have had a time of it to properly classify her. Part insect—one of the blood-drawing ones, no doubt—part mammalian, and part avian. Homo insectus harridian. Maybe she comes from the same line as the ancient Greek Furies."
The fairy shot him a dirty look and stood, putting her hands on her tiny hips. She looked as if she'd not only understood his insult, but was also prepared to launch a few of her own.
Holmes locked gazes with her his tone cutting. "There are no such things as fairies; therefore you are some sort of evolutionary throwback. Some blind appendix where nature took a hideously wrong turn in the dark since you serve no useful purpose in the order of nature."
Watson watched with unhappy fascination as the fairy, instead of bristling at his companion's sharp words, seemed to crumple. Her small face screwed up, and she folded herself into a little purple puddle on the train windowsill, her delicate shoulders beginning to shake as the faint whistling whimpers of sobs began to rise out of her crestfallen form.
"Congratulations. Now look what you've done," Watson remarked with that bland levelness to his voice that gave away how angry he was. "That was exceedingly cruel and definitely uncalled for, Holmes."
Holmes flinched; clearly he hadn't considered the full effect of his insult, and now shifted uncomfortably on his seat, caught between the fairy's misery and Watson's cold stare. He wavered, his guilt rising in the blink of his dark eyes.
"I . . . yes, that was harsh of me," he admitted softly. "And rather more than I meant. The truth is that no matter how provoked or inconvenienced I am, our situation is clearly far more difficult for you Miss, and I very humbly extend my . . . apologies."
The silence in the compartment was chilly for long moments, but finally the fairy rose up, and tottered over to Holmes' arm resting on the sill. She leaned over his wrist, still crying, and wiped her face on his cuff in a manner reminiscent of a little girl. Uncomfortably, but with gentleness, Holmes lightly ran the index finger of his other hand along her petite back, stroking it. "There . . . there. Together, we shall manage to lift this . . . peculiar bond and return you to the open country where you . . . belong."
The fairy gave a heartfelt sigh and clambered up on his coat sleeve, making her way up until she reached his breast pocket, where she slipped inside, cocooning herself there in his handkerchief.
Once she was safely inside, Watson spoke up, his words measured. "You've been petty and unkind to the extreme during this entire situation, and I refuse to put up with it any longer, Holmes. One more rude or nasty remark, and you will regret it, do you hear me?"
Holmes arched an eyebrow, his expression settling into petulant agreement. "Very well, Watson; you may be her champion if you must, but do not deepen your fondness for Miss Nix, because she is not staying with us."
"Nix?" Watson questioned, finally relaxing. Whatever else Holmes might be, he generally kept his word; the fairy would be better treated now.
"Nix. She was born of water, and the appellation suits her," Holmes responded, and turned his face to the passing landscape through the windows.
*** *** ***
Bristol proved to be large, busy and unfortunately, full of theatres. Watson tried not to complain about the walking; at least most of the main thoroughfares were level, and Holmes was fairly proficient with his map. The day was bright, and thankfully Nix preferred to stay in her cozy pocket nest, occasionally peeping out to look and winking at Watson when he checked on her.
"That's three theatres now and no trace of our prey," Watson grumbled. "Are you absolutely sure she's here?"
"Yes," Holmes replied distractedly. "Despite her seemingly impulsive nature, she's a creature who prefers her comforts, and that means she chooses familiar places. We have two more theaters to check, however—" and here he gave Watson a kind look, "Given the distance we have already covered, it would be best to find lodgings for the night and regroup in the morning."
"Aren't you afraid she'll leave? Irene, I mean," Watson asked as they hailed a cab.
Holmes glanced over his smoked glasses and shook his head. "She wants to blend in, and that means being a reliable member of a company," came the quiet reply. "The woman's here; I can feel it."
They checked into the Seaside Inn, an older hotel with a view of the sea. The big, wood-beamed rooms adjoined by a door between them, and considerately, Holmes let Watson have the room with the fireplace, all the better to rest his leg in comfort. Dinner was a cold plate sent up, and the three of them ate before the fire.
Nix was exploring the room, flitting from chair to fireplace and back again, seemingly fascinated by everything around her. Watson watched her knock curiously on the door of the cuckoo clock and laughed. "You need to wait a minute or so," he told her while Holmes scanned the local paper.
"More than one production in progress, although we can probably discount the theatres already visited," he harrumphed. "I cannot picture Irene in Coriolanus and the one at the Vale seems to be exceedingly gory, according to the reviews."
"She may be counting on that to further obscure her trail," Watson pointed out as he played Devil's advocate.
"Possibly, but I am banking on her vanity; she'll want a bigger audience than a tragedy will bring in, particularly this far from London or Paris. Ah! This looks promising—a production of Midsummer Night's Dream is starting rehearsals at the Orpheum. Our miscreant could manage a fair Titania I suppose."
"Or Helena perhaps," Watson mused, mentally counting down the seconds, his eyes riveted to the clock. The hour struck, and so did the door; the tiny wooden portal flew open, hitting Nix and knocking her sideways.
She bobbled and gave a little cry, not of pain but of anger, then flew with the menacing speed of a wasp back to the open door and proceeded to kick at the bobbing wooden bird there, all the while babbling in a tone that made it clear she was furious.
Holmes looked up, startled. "Did she just say what I think she said?"
Watson was laughing too hard to reply, and the battered remains of the carved cuckoo toppled down to hit the floor. Nix stood triumphantly on the little wooden platform—
And disappeared with a startled squeak as it pulled back into the clock taking her with it as the door shut behind her.
Watson rose and moved over to the clock, but not before more enraged chirping erupted from the timepiece and it began to thump against the wall.
"I'd give that round to the bird," Holmes murmured, not looking up.
Watson managed to pry the door open, and Nix flew out, circled around him furiously looking for something to fight, and gradually settled down, coming to rest on his shoulder. She was still petulant, but he carried her back to his chair and spoke softly to her. "Now, now . . . you could have gotten hurt with all those gears and cogs."
"Yes, it's best not to knock on doors if you're not ready to face what's behind them," Holmes added, a little sanctimoniously. Both Watson and Nix stared at him dryly, and he glanced up, looking bewildered. "I believe my statement stands, does it not?"
"Nothing. Just thinking of several times when you've failed to take your own advice," Watson murmured knowingly. "A certain encounter with a mountainous Frenchman comes to mind, in fact."
"I was fully prepared to face him," Holmes argued. "Although the actual vanquishing took . . . a bit more time."
"And a lot more help." Watson pointed out with exasperation, and then turned to look at the tiny figure on his shoulder. "He conveniently forgets other people were a part of it all. Honestly, the number of times I've had to rescue him from certain dismemberment—"
"We don't have time for your exercise in exaggerations," Holmes snapped with wounded dignity. "Tomorrow we visit the Orpheum and see if we can find our errant confidence artist." He folded up the paper and rose, throwing a glance at the other two, "therefore, we should sleep and prepare ourselves for whatever eventualities we may face."
"You're expecting trouble—what am I saying? It's Irene, which answers my own question," Watson rolled his eyes, but his grin took the sting out. Nix patted his cheek and reluctantly flitted over to Holmes, perching on his shoulder as he turned stiffly and headed to the other bedroom, closing the adjoining door with a little more force than strictly necessary.
Once there, Holmes gave a sigh. "I know you much prefer Watson, and while I commend your taste, may I remind you that this bonding of ours wasn't open to choice, and that an occasional . . . supportive show on your part would not be remiss?"
Nix eyed him uncertainly; Holmes held out a palm and she stepped onto it as he brought her in front of him. "I have yet to exhaust my resources on how to dissolve our link, but at the moment, the matter of stopping Irene takes precedent, do you understand?"
She frowned a little but nodded, and Holmes moved to the bed, lifting her higher. "Very well; which one do you choose?"
The fairy flew and alighted on the larger down pillow, landing in the exact center with a squeal of delight, her small body making a tiny 'pfft' impact on the surface. Holmes barely held back rolling his eyes, but lifted the pillow from the bed and carried it over to the wooden chest of drawers by the window. Carefully he opened the sill a crack and peered down at Nix snuggling in the nest she had made for herself, his manner dry. "Comfortable, I trust?"
A chirp rose up, questioning, and Holmes winced.
"No. I do not have time for it tonight."
The chirp came again, slightly more plaintive this time, and Holmes glanced at the door leading to Watson's room before sighing. "Oh very well, but it will have to be a short case." He pulled over a wooden chair and dropped himself into it, murmuring, "Have I ever told you of the time in which I defeated Belaco De Valle, a notorious forger of Scottish banknotes?"
There was a questioning chirp again, and Holmes launched into his recollection, pulling details from his memory and occasionally glancing down to check on his tiny charge. When she was finally curled up, breathing evenly, he rose, yawning, and headed to bed.
*** *** ***
The morning was clear, but cold, and Watson noted that Nix seemed glad to stay deep in Holmes' pocket, out of the chill. The three of them settled for a quick breakfast of buns and tea in a shop along the way, and Watson looked ahead along the cobbled street.
"Sharing food, sharing lodgings, bickering . . . it's almost as if you were married, Holmes," he couldn't help but tease. "In many ways, you ARE her sole support, you know."
Holmes grimaced. "Bite your tongue; I'm not the sort of man to be domesticated, much less by a female scarcely longer than my thumb."
"Yes, but the question remains: is she under yours, or are you under hers?"
"Most assuredly the former," Holmes snapped. "And as for your criteria, that would apply to our own situation, Watson, and if that is the case then I am suing for bigamy."
This brought a chuckle from Watson, who shook his head. "Oh it's hardly the same, old boy—you've never tucked me in, told me bedtime stories or let me play in your bathwater."
The expression on Holmes' face was priceless; a blend of horror and embarrassment. At precisely that moment, Nix popped up from her pocket sanctuary, her expression preoccupied. Ahead, the Greek columns of the Orpheus rose in majestic dignity, giving the theater a sense of presence on the street. Glad of the diversion, Holmes stopped and looked up at it, his assessment cursory. "Side door. We'll be turned away from the front. We need a bolt of cloth."
This was procured from a shop a few streets over, and with some quick changes of jackets and hats, they headed to the side door of the theater, arms loaded up. Holmes knocked on the 'No Entrance' door with a hard rap, keeping his gaze down. It took a while, and he repeated the knock letting it get more persistent each time. Finally someone threw it open and growled, "We ain't open!"
"Yeah, and I ain't hauling this back t' shop!" Holmes snapped back, giving his words a small tang of local accent. "Someone ordered twenty yards of this bleedin' crap and I'm not gettn' any younger holdn' it out here!"
"Twenty yards—shit. Come in, let's get this sorted out then," came the ungracious invitation, and Watson followed Holmes into the dank interior of the theater. Holmes kept the bolt up to obscure their faces, and the burly stage hand seemed more interested in finding someone in the costuming department to deal with the situation than in asking questions. Holmes and Watson followed the man back through the narrow hall into a rabbit's warren of adjoining rooms behind the main stage. Despite the early hour there were workmen everywhere and a mixed company of women and men in various stages of dress and alertness moving about.
Carefully, Holmes held back until the workman rounded a corner, then ducked with Watson into a room that seemed to hold spare furniture; they waited for a while, then looked out the door, each of them peering a different direction.
"Left," Holmes murmured.
"Right," Watson nodded, and they parted, each taking their chosen direction.
*** *** ***
Watson worked his way along a string of side rooms, managing to deflect any questions along his route with a nod and a smile. He listened carefully to the snatches of music and conversations around him, trying to pick out various threads. Somewhere two girls were complaining about their shoes; a violinist was warming up on an instrument that was slightly out of tune, and nearby, someone was muttering in a low voice.
A woman's voice, Watson realized, and a familiar one at that. He pressed back against a wall, trying to stay in the shadows as the voice grew slightly louder.
"I don't know why it's green. I suppose it's because the play is to be in a forest outside Athens. Athens is a city."
Watson shifted towards the doorway. The door was ajar, and the faint light of a gas jet illuminated an inner windowless room. He could see a mirror, and at this angle it was easy to use it to look further into the space beyond it. Framed there, he could see Irene Adler sitting in an old brocade chair, perusing what looked like costume sketches.
No one else appeared to be with her, yet she spoke again. "I know it's stuffy; that's what theaters are like. Stop playing with my hair, please--"
Watson risked shifting ever so slightly to see if she had a companion deeper in the room, and blinked when a petite figure flitted from behind her, doing a lazy mid-air somersault and landing squarely in the middle of the page in Irene's hands.
"Flea! You're provoking me," she murmured with no real malice in her voice. "Don't make me bring the mouser back."
The small figure on the page seemed to shudder for a moment, then climbed to the top edge and stood swinging his arms. Watson blinked, fighting the sudden grin that crossed his face as he noted a few details.
Puck in miniature could not be more perfect: long dark curls tinted with mossy green hung down to his shoulders, and his skin glowed like buttermilk in the dim light. The tiny fellow was lean and half-naked; dressed in a kilt made from a snippet of plaid tied around his narrow hips by a chain ring, and he carried an ebony hatpin in one hand, wielding it in sword fashion.
He chirped, and his voice was lower than that of Nix, but just as melodious; Irene looked up at him and gave a long-suffering sigh. "No, we can't go back to the park. Look, I know it's boring and stuffy in here, but I've got work to do."
The fairy made a rude noise, and Watson fought a chuckle at the familiar sound. Apparently fairies the world over thought little of gainful employment, but then again, given their perspective on life it was not a surprise. What was a surprise was that Irene had clearly picked up her own little bondmate in the chase through Cornwall, and Watson began to shift away from the door hoping to inform Holmes.
His bad leg shifted a bit, and he bumped it instead.
Irene looked up.
*** *** ***
Holmes tipped his hat to the ingénue who was rehearsing her lines and turned back, but not before casting a quick, admiring glance at the girl's long legs, showcased in tights. A sudden poke in his ribs made him cough and look down accusingly at his pocket. "Jealousy does not become you."
There was no answer to this, and Holmes smirked as he looked about for Watson. He worked his way back to the room with the spare furniture, feeling slightly anxious when his partner failed to materialize. Somewhere down one of the hallways he heard an argument ("I didn't ORDER any bleedin' cloth, especially not twenty damned yards of Hessian!") and instinctively, Holmes shifted away from it.
A groan caught his ear, and he turned towards a slightly distant door that stood ajar; stepping through, he saw Watson, bound and gagged while at the same time, the pointed press of a blade against his cheek stopped him.
"Wherever the good doctor is, I can be sure you're somewhere close by," Irene sighed. "Hello Sherlock. Taking in a play, are we?"
"Irene. You're a bit too cold to pull off Lady MacBeth," Holmes chided, "you'd make a damned good Tamora though; pity nobody's doing Titus Andronicus these days."
"Revenge comes naturally to people from New Jersey," Irene agreed, unruffled. She stepped around, keeping her blade against him, arm slightly bent. "Don't even think about a grab for it—"
She didn't get to finish the words; a sparkling sizzle of speed and color shot up from Holmes' pocket, smacking Irene's wrist and sending the blade flying. Holmes spun away, trying to track the trajectory of his little Fury as she rocketed up.
Then, all hell broke loose.
A flare swooped down with a high-pitched battle cry, and crossed between Irene and Sherlock, the chittering sounding like an infuriated cicada. Both of them jumped apart, and in a twirl of light, two tiny comet trails twinkled out on opposite sides of the room.
"Flea!" Irene called in warning. "Stop it! I don't know what you think you're doing--!"
Holmes blinked and dodged in time to avoid a hatpin to the nose; he followed the arcing flight and narrowed his gaze. "It seems we have . . . ." He spun and whipped out a hand, cupping it slightly for better resistance; the returning fairy smacked into the palm, mid-dive. . . . "A common infestation. How very interesting."
He closed his fist tightly, and in his grasp, Flea squirmed, a stream of squeaky invective ringing out. Before Holmes had a chance to react, though, a thrum of wings and a streak of light brought Nix to stand on his wrist.
"Two? Oh shit," Irene muttered, all ladylike vocabulary gone for the moment.
The two fairies stared at each other for a long, charged moment, each of them taking in the other, and then Nix turned and shot Sherlock a pleading look. She bent to tug on his cuff, her implication clear.
Holmes hesitated. "He's dangerous."
"He is not," Irene countered huffily. "Just a little . . . troublesome."
Flea had stopped struggling and was gazing at Nix with an expression familiar to Watson and Irene; Holmes might have recognized it had he a mirror handy during his tête-à-têtes with the latter: fascination, fear and desire, braided with a tight twist of tension.
Holmes opened his hand and Flea dropped to the floor, uttering a chirp of annoyed pain.
"It's not my fault if you forget to fly," Holmes muttered. "You are the one with wings."
Nix laughed, her silvery squeak like a tinkle of a bell. She swooped down to Flea, and as she did so, Holmes moved to free Watson, deftly tugging the knots out of the scarf that bound him to the chair.
Irene bent down, enthralled by the two figures on the floor. "Dear God, they're so . . . beautiful!"
Flea held up the hatpin, but indecisively, and a change came over Nix. She put her hands behind her back and sauntered closer, eyes half-closed. Flea watched her, his own growing larger as she did so, his wariness at war with his clear and riveted fascination.
Nix circled around him, her gaze decidedly coquettish now. She was letting her wings flutter slowly, deliberately. Flea straightened up and took a step towards her and Nix preened before stepping back.
He dropped the pin and followed; within seconds they were airborne, dipping and circling like a pair of hummingbirds as the sparkles from their wings caught the gaslight and reflected it to dance on the walls.
"Beautiful," Irene breathed again, not noticing that Holmes had her by one arm and Watson by the other.
After a moment of this artistry, the fairies spun off, Nix swooping to Holmes and Flea to Irene. Each stopped in front of their respective host and planted tiny kisses on their noses. Irene giggled at Flea's kiss while Watson thought Holmes looked . . . sad.
Then up they rose once more, and in a magnificent spiral of hum and heat the two fairies circled each other closer and closer until they should have crashed, but instead they melded into a bright glow. . .
And vanished in a flare of light.
Watson blinked.
Holmes blinked and turned to Irene. "It is my regretful duty to inform you that you need to return to Cornwall to answer to charges of theft and deception against Lord Hugh."
"I don't suppose that for old time's sake, you might . . ." she began quietly, stopping herself at the stern look in Holmes' eyes.
Watson stared up in the air. "What happened to them?"
"To whom?" Holmes asked tersely, taking up the scarf from the chair and shooting Irene a look. She sulkily put her hands behind her back.
"The fairies!" Both Irene and Holmes stared at Watson, who glanced at them in confusion. He tried again. "The two of them; Nix, and whatever you called yours—Flea, I think it was."
"Is he all right?" Irene murmured uncertainly. "You need to make the knot tighter, by the way."
"Oh thank you, it's always good to know these things," Holmes muttered. "As to Watson I cannot say; perhaps you cut off his flow of air for a moment and disoriented him, or drugged him—you didn't drink anything she gave you, did you Watson?"
"Holmes!" Watson began in exasperation and then stopped. "You really . . . don't remember do you? Either of you?"
"I remember perfectly that we arrived at the theater with a bolt of cloth, sought out our conniving recidivist and now have her in custody with no blood loss or property damage this time. One of us—" Holmes tied off the scarf and smiled evilly at Irene, "is losing her touch."
"Come closer and I'll give you a touch . . ." Irene countered, flicking her tongue at him.
Watson trailed behind them, looking back uncertainly in the room, feeling an unexpectedly deep pang. He blinked, and sighing, turned to follow behind Irene.
*** *** ***
It was weeks later, after Irene had been transferred into proper custody, and after Mary had returned, that Watson found it.
Resting on the mantle, it stood near the clock, a small winged figurine in bronze, cunningly posed in the manner of a Degas dancer, the patina of the metal almost purple in the low light. Watson picked it up in his hands, studying the familiar features with a sudden shock of recognition. He held it up and turned slowly, holding it out.
"Holmes?"
Across the room, Holmes glanced up, taking note of the figurine. "Yes?"
"This . . ."
Holmes smiled distantly. "That once belonged to my mother. She held a whimsy about fairies; said they were created to try the patience of mortals."
"She was right—probably," Watson amended quickly. "It's rather a lovely piece."
Holmes rose and came over, taking it from Watson's hands, and held it up. For a moment—just a brief second of time--Watson saw the memory rise in his friend's eyes.
"On the tawny sand and shelves, trip the pert fairies and dapper elves," Holmes quoted, musing for a moment. Gently he set the statue back and then turned to Watson and added, "Milton always puts me in the mood for roast beef at the Acorn and Leaf. Shall we?"
Watson nodded, and when Holmes began to hunt for his coat, he smiled at the statue once more.
end