I left the moviehouse satisfied plot-wise, but craving more Simza. I think she and Holmes share some characteristics, and while this may not be the basis for a relationship (a romantic one), it would be a great friendship...criticize away please (especially dialogue, I'm trying to improve that) [:

The dress was uncomfortable, her hair too tightly wound. Facial pores screamed for air under the layers of makeup and perfume. Standing next to Watson, it occurred to her this room, this event, this situation, was the furthest she could ever be from the freedom of her spirit, her nature, her people. It was all disconcerting, but as usual her features betrayed nothing of the turmoil within this puppet of herself.

Holmes finally appeared. His customarily unruly mane was combed back, his face patched up with makeup, his suit fit perfectly. This was almost a completely different man from the one she held in her lap in the boxcar, the one who fought to live after torture and extreme physical exertion. She sensed his persona fighting alongside hers in the confines of the peace conference, suppressing its true nature. At least she wasn't the only one. Watson, on the other hand, actually allowed himself to enjoy the evening. He was practically an ambassador or nobleman, acknowledging the gentry and bowing when necessary, although discreetly. His clockwork attitude aided him in the field and the ballroom, which was why, she surmised, he was such a valuable asset to Holmes. His uprightness was attractive in the way one normally feels attracted to sturdiness and strength, yet it was also suffocating; she had long ago dismissed any thoughts of feeling anything more than friendship towards him…besides, he was already taken. Holmes was a different, more difficult story to unravel. She did not particularly know, nor want to know, her feelings towards him. He was a puzzle. His arrogance and intellect were to be expected from someone of his genius, but it was the bravery and loyalty she found puzzling.

He asked her to dance; well, not so much asked as commanded. She trudged to the dance floor, her elevated heels heightening the difficulty to get her bearings. She was terrified. Not only had she never danced formally before, she was sure this deficit alone would blow their cover and ruin the operation. She tried explaining this to Holmes, but he merely smiled as if comforting a petulant child and instructed her to follow him. They started and it was odd to follow instead of lead, especially to follow this man who could barely ride a horse. She yearned for the erratic, high-spirited music of midnight campfires and drunken stomping, but alas she was trapped with a string orchestra, not a drum in sight. Then again, while this music was not rousing, it was easy to move to and she found it best to only move through the motions and let Holmes take care of everything else. There was also more quiet time to study and converse with her partner.

He was nervous, tortured, frustrated, searching to no avail. It was a wonder he could still dance.

"What do you see?"

He rapped on the door of the little room in the hotel. He had to make sure everyone looked worthy of attending the peace conference; Watson looked dapper as usual, and he did not even bother checking on Mycroft. It was the gypsies he worried about. When he first stepped into the room of the gypsy man, everything was a mess. The cummerbund was too loose, the bow tie askew, the hair too….big. Holmes managed to make him look presentable in around ten minutes before heading to Simza's room. He was unphased by the fact that she was a woman; he had helped enough women dress and undress to know how female attire and anatomy worked.

He noted a shadow from the bottom of the door. She was rightfully cautious.

"It's Holmes." The click of the lock commanded his entrance.

Stepping into the room, he noticed clothes strewn everywhere. Vests, scarves, blouses, skirts, a hat…if his memory served him correctly (which it did), he believed Sim had worn all these articles of clothing to breakfast that morning. He marveled at her ability to move so nimbly with all those layers on, when it would surely have dragged down any other Englishwoman. Dragging his eyes away from the deeply colored clothing, he found Sim sitting quietly at the vanity. She wore a red dress that exposed her neck (wrapped in a red necklace), collarbones, shoulder-line; it was so different from her normal casual attire, and he could tell she was uncomfortable in the stiff material. Her hair was up and held back with a floury headband, very pretty indeed. It looked a bit tight, but he was not about to undo the work of his brother's maid and try to redo it in a sloppier fashion. The face was set in a frown.

"Well, what's wrong with you?"

"I cannot apply this makeup correctly. I just look like a mess when I try, and I presume that is not the desired effect." She smiled sarcastically, clearly annoyed.

"Well, seeing as I have applied makeup to myself before, I think I am competent enough to put it on you." He walked over to the vanity where the sorry remains of a makeup kit were strewn about. "I see you won the battle against your kit…I thought you put this stuff on regularly."

"Yes, well…" He saw the eyeliner, noticed the dulled tip, the smudges on the desk, the towels stained with lipstick, blush, and black streaks. She had been crying.

"We will find your brother. You do not need to worry yourself with that. Now sit still while I start."

She closed her eyes. "You should become a palm reader. You always know what people want to hear."

He began with the face powder, outlining her high cheekbones and prominent jaw-line. The film of powder rested gently on the skin, muting the fiery glare of her face. Next came the blush. He thought this was unnecessary altogether, as her cheeks were already naturally colored, but still he swiped a dash on each cheek. Sim's breathing slowed as she relaxed, completely comfortable with this procedure. He was surprised by her trust in him, considering the short length of time they had known each other. It was odd that this vagabond, who should be most wary of anyone bonded to society, trusted his dodgy, unpredictable person. Considering this revelation, he found he trusted her as well, which was not something taken lightly. He barely trusted Watson with delivering telegrams for goodness' sake…

The eyeliner was trickier to handle. Not only was the tip already dulled, Sim's eyes were still a little puffy from the crying. That was probably the worst job he did, but it was better than her previous efforts. Eye-shadow added a layer of secrecy to already dark eyes. He almost wanted to ask her to open them, so that he may sooner see the effect of the shadow. Lipstick was last. He put his left hand beneath her chin to elevate her head a few degrees to provide a better angle. Her thin lips, in their natural state, frowned at him. He swept the lipstick atop them and immediately grimaced at the effect it had. It was too rich, too thick, too oppressive. He wiped it off with his thumb and selected a lighter color. This did not match either. He wiped it off again. He tried a third color. Perfect. He sat back and observed his work for a second. She really was quite attractive.

"You can open your eyes." It was similar to watching a sunrise, with all the fire and passion caught up in one competent, confident, stare.

"Alright then, be ready to leave in ten minutes!" He hurriedly left the room, marveling at how Sim could stand sleeping in a room so hot and stuffy.

"I see everything…that is my curse." Sim tried to imagine taking in every detail, every miniscule bit of information, no matter how relevant. She would go mad. Her sympathy did not extend to her face, however. She gripped his hand a tad tighter. The added pressure distracted him for a second, enough time for her to catch a glance of thanks in his eyes. They searched onward.

His head whipped around consistently as they spun, as if he were a ballerina keeping balance. It was dizzying and uncomfortable, but she knew he would eventually lead her to safety. Their dance ended without so much as a "thank you" as he took Watson up in his arms. Now it was her turn to have a bit of fun. It was almost as hilarious as watching a drunken Watson dancing around the campfire.

"It's nice to see you smile, girl." Holmes' brother looked down at her.

She nodded to the odd couple traversing the dance floor. "They really are close."

"Yes, almost as close as Holmes and me. But I foresee a strain on their relationship when Watson marries. Perhaps then will be the time for brothers to celebrate the benefits of bachelorhood together, hmm?" He grinned, a schoolboy indulging in the telling of a juicy secret. Sim did not know how to respond, hoping her silence would signal him to continue. "Anyways, what do you see in your future Miss Simza? I know Holmes read your cards prior to this point, but I don't think he is entirely capable of reading cards as much as he is at showing off. So tell me, what do you think will become of tonight?"

"Holmes will end this madness, because he is entirely capable. And my brother and I will return home, start over, get by, and live our lives how we want." She meant it.

"That is deliciously simple, Miss Simza! How I love the Romantic way of thinking…so charming. I think my dear Sherlock could have a thing or two to learn from you, regarding simplicity." He nodded her way before walking off to chat with the Swiss ambassador. Sim could not decide if she should be offended or amused by the other Holmes' assumptions of her life, deciding on the latter.

The dance ended and Moriarty was spotted. The evening's events followed. Her brother died in her arms. Sherlock died in the falls. It was all over.

It is odd what one thinks about when he has an abundance of time to only think. Falling like a stone through the air was actually enjoyable after a few seconds of getting over the flip-flopping in his stomach. His thoughts went first to his brother, then Watson, then Irene. He spent maybe ten seconds on his brother and Watson, but a good twenty on Irene. Was she scared when she fell, in the second it took her to hit the ground? Did she think of him? He would never know, so he would have to make up for her time and think and remember enough for them both. It was ten seconds before he hit the water, after the memories of his boyhood, that he thought of the gypsy camp. It was a actually a very nice place, if the dirtiness and disorganization were put out of mind…come to think of it, he was a rather dirty and disorganized person too, so he shouldn't discount those details…

Sim came to mind. He wondered what their friendship, if it extended so far, would be like if he survived the night. He also wondered if she would attend his funeral. It was all up to chance really, and he sensed she understood that. In fact, she understood many things about him, just as he understood much more about her. While she was almost too predictable at times, she had some surprises stowed up her those mismatched sleeves. It was nice to be surprised once in a while. And then he was reminded once again of Irene, and she was in his closing thoughts as he plunged into the water.

The funeral was too solemn; if it were Romani, they would be outside when night had fallen. A bonfire would crackle as it ate away all of Holmes' worldly possessions, purging the bonds of his earthly body, freeing his spirit. There would be dancing and singing. There would not be the tears and quiet mourning and the dark confines of a church. She knew Holmes would have wanted to break out of this place as much as she did. The sadness was too much. Watson seemed to understand this as well.

After the service, Sim stayed behind to say a few of her own prayers at the church's altar. She began to chant, murmur, hum, sing-whatever the English wanted to call it. She spoke her soul.

Two months later

He strode into camp, ignoring the stares and wary glances thrown his way. It was exactly the same…well there were actually four more goats, if he wanted to get technical. He reached her tent and stepped right in. A grey hat sat on her stool, and there was nothing much else to see.

"What do you see?" He smiled and looked to the corner.

"Well, I see a surprised, maybe frightened, definitely angry woman I've wanted to visit since my rebirth."

"When was this rebirth?"

"Oh, I'd say maybe one month and three weeks ago."

"Alright then. I have some stew. You talk while we eat. I'm sure you can't wait to have the best hedgehog stew in your new life."

The End?