Ok this is MASQUERADES; it is set in 1894 just after Holmes returns from the dead. Ok, I warn you the most of the slash will probably be in the later sections, there won't that much in the rest. This might be considered a Mary Sue, I don't know.

Disclaimer: I own nothing apart from Lydia Winters, Martin Rison, Jason Ire, Robert Norwood, Mr Angels, Julie Watership, Frederick Rison, The Crimson Leaf Affair, The murder of George Renel, Olivia Angles, the plotline in general, Lanestreet Road, Streetroad Lane, Roadstreet lane, constable Groats, Shortleat hall and Shinwell Johnson's door, which if you think about it is rather a lot. lol.

MASQUERADES

Chapter 1; "Nothing is permanent Watson."

Tears fought to coat her eyes and trickle down her pale cheeks but she kept them back. To cry would be pointless, she still had a chance she would always have a chance. Yet an acting career had somewhat lost its appeal in her eyes. The constant smiling made her jaw ache, the makeup she wore marred her skin and she seemed to spend her entire life in the theatre, struggling on tights or shirts. Mrs Watership bustled in with a mug of soup and thrust it into Lydia's unresisting hands: "Cheer up dearie, things will get better!"

"And when they do? I'll spend a couple of weeks contented, a month even, until I fall headfirst into another dilemma!"

"Don't be so negative!"

"Nothing is permanent Julie!"

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"Nothing is permanent Watson!" stated Holmes suddenly. The doctor glanced across at his companion. He was stretched languidly athwart the sofa in a cat-like fashion, his eyes fixated upon his pipe. "Day after day we make futile attempts to climb the ladder to money, fame and friendship. But yet wealth, aristocracy and popularity once gained can slip through ones fingers like dust, leaving us to fall with them and begin from square one once more!"

Watson sighed; Holmes was utterly incorrigible in this mood. With nothing to occupy the mind which made him so singular he fell to cocaine, dangerous scientific experiments or indeed pessimistic philosophising! "You speak like one who has seen too much of the world!" commented Watson to which he simply received a grunt for an answer, "Truly," he continued, with more than a touch of irony, "the only human beings who can ascend to the peak of ecstasy are those who are un-failingly optimistic!"

Holmes chuckled, recognising the jibe: "Or of course those who can laugh when insulted!" he retorted innocently. Watson smiled despite himself an again the two relapsed into silence. The detective engrossed in his thoughts, and the doctor in a medical text.

Half an hour or so passed before their reveries were interrupted by the clang of the bell from below. Holmes turned his gaze to the door, suddenly alert. A muffled greeting floated up from the entrance hall and a pair of feet could be heard ascending the staircase. "It seems," the detective murmured, "my prediction will be proved true, redundancy is not everlasting! We have a case Watson!"

Mrs Hudson opened the door and after tutting at the state of the room handed something to Holmes; "A Mr Robert Norwood here to see you sir."

He made a cursory glance over the calling card: "Send him up!" She turned to go but he stopped her, "Oh and tell him to be careful of the Ming vase on the windowsill, a man with such large hands could do it considerable damage!" She nodded and left the room showing no surprise at his deduction, she had grown used to it long ago.

"Large hands?" frowned Watson slightly wearily. He had stopped asking out of actual curiosity long ago and now he questioned merely to please Holmes, something which more than often he succeeded in doing!

"It's simply a matter of deduction!" the detective drawled, "There is a sizable muddy imprint on one corner of this paper. If you look closely you can see a dent from a fingernail too. I could not see any such grime on our meticulously tidy landlady's hand so I assumed it must come from our visitor. As I mentioned it is of an unusually great size, ergo our Mr Norwood posses large hands, and if I'm not very much mistaken this is him now!" A flustered young man stumbled in. His rumpled mop of sandy hair hanging in a dishevelled fashion over his face; "Mr Holmes," he choked, "I am at my wits end what to do!"

"Please, take a seat!" muttered the detective, interlacing his fingers and appraising his guest over them.

"You must excuse my current appearance gentlemen! I have had the most dreadful shock, and although the police assure me that they have everything under control, (Holmes snorted in amusement) I felt that your services would be more than appreciated!"

"They very often are! Now if you would be so obliging as to give me the facts of the case it would assist me greatly!"

"Yes, yes of course!" Mr Norwood mumbled, then plunged headlong into his tale.

"You won't have heard of this particular case, I've made sure the police keep investigations as clandestine as possible due to the, err… circumstances. I suppose I'd better start with me. I spent my three years at Cambridge then after a month or so of following my whims I took a job as a secretary for a Mr Angels. He was a short-tempered man given to excessive drinking; nonetheless I worked for him happily enough for a year. You see despite being very old he was the only surviving relative of a Mrs Rison, who has recently passed away leaving her quite considerable fortune solely to him. He used to be a hermit you know, no one saw much of him and I'm afraid that the money went to his head. Well, as I was saying everything went perfectly normally until last week when, I don't know whether I can even bear to say it, he was found dead in the grounds with no mark upon him except a look of complete and absolute terror upon his features! Lestrade, the inspector from Scotland Yard, you know him? He has already explored the possibility of someone after his in-heritance, but yet no one has come forward to make a claim to the money, and it has nowhere to go! Both his and my affairs are in disarray; please for the love of god help me!"

Sherlock Holmes lent back in his chair, his features were a mask as usual but he was obviously intrigued; "Where did this… catastrophic turn of events occur?"

"Shortleat hall!"

"Yes…yes, very good!" He spoke to himself but with the chiming of the clock to mark eleven in the morning he collected himself and turned to his companions once more; "Come, come then, the day is still young let us make our way to the Kentish countryside!"

"Wait a minute!" cried Norwood, "How may I ask did you know where…"

He had not finished his sentence before Holmes cut him of; "You have a train ticket protruding from your pocket. It was purchased at Ashford, Kent. It was only natural to assume you'd come straight form Shortleat!"

Norwood smiled; "I can see what has made you so well known. However I spoke to inspector Lestrade about calling you in, he disapproved but said if I must I was to bring you to Scotland Yard first as he had some things to run over with you before you begin on the case." Holmes rolled his eyes with poignant exaggeration, but then after murmuring something about restrictions snatched up his hat from the back of his chair, "Very well, come Watson we must begin with all possible haste!"

What do you think? Please R&R. I shall update tomorrow.