Chapter One: prologue/Midsummer Night

They managed to reach the shelter of 221B, alighting from the hansom cab only moments before the sky opened up in full. Warm, fat raindrops and the peels of distant thunder had forewarned them that London was finally going to receive much-needed rainfall, as nearly every denizen of the city—anxious for relief from the week-long, oppressive heatwave—had been praying. Sherlock, of course, was not among those offering such desperate pleas heavenward, but he would be relieved to see the dust and grit that permeated the air, and that had settled thick upon his city, to be finally washed into the gutters, sluiced into the Thames, and carried out to sea.

He patiently guided the beleaguered woman in his charge across the threshold, the urgency of their journey having faded with distance from the scene of the crime. Tessa had spoken very little as they moved across the city, numb with shock over all that had befallen her since the curtain had dropped on her matinee performance at the Adelphi Theatre hours before. He needn't employ his extraordinary powers of deduction to be certain of that. Her stunned silence had left her pliable enough to make their trek to Baker Street-far closer at hand than her modest, tidy flat in Ealing-easier than he had anticipated.

Sherlock swept off his cloak, hanging it on its usual peg on the wall rack, following that with his deerstalker. He pressed a light hand to the small of Tessa's back, ushering her up the stairs and into his second-floor flat. "Remain here please, Miss DeMauro," he told her, "I shall see if I can rouse Mrs. Hudson to prepare us a fresh pot of tea, and perhaps something light to eat."

Tessa turned to him, where he remained in the doorway, "No, please don't disturb her, Mr. Holmes." She stripped the kid gloves from her hands, tucking them into her velvet bag, "He…he…" Her breath caught a moment, and she squeezed her eyes shut, struggling not to give in to the terror of the memory. "He gave me an old crust of bread and a bit of cheese, and god help me, I was hungry enough by that time to eat…but…" she paused again, blinking back tears, and covering her mouth as though ashamed she had accepted even that small accommodation from her captor; then regaining her poise, she continued, "I don't have much of an appetite now." 'twas so simple and plaintive a statement that, despite his nature, Sherlock's heart went out to her.

Fully, proudly, finally mastering herself, Tessa met him eye to eye. "But I do find I'm thirsty- although I think I'd prefer something," she looked down, drawing a long, calming breath before meeting his eyes again, "I think I need something a little stronger…if…if it wouldn't be too much trouble." She gave a small shrug, and a wee, almost sheepish, smile.

Sherlock couldn't help but answer with a half-smile of his own, impressed yet again that Tessa hadn't the standard timidity of so many of her sex; unchaperoned, in a man's rooms, fast approaching the midnight hour and clearly still shaken by the events of the evening—yet unafraid to ask for what she wanted. "No trouble at all," he replied, moving briskly to the neat little gentleman's bar he kept stocked with only the best of provisions, "I've a finely aged claret, if you would care for that."

Tessa cleared her throat softly as he reached for the decanter of wine. "Actually, Mr. Holmes, I'd rather a bit of that deliciously amber whiskey you seem to have there." She laughed quietly, taking a few steps closer to him, "The burn is so much more satisfying going down, don't you think?"

How delightfully audacious, he thought, and not for the first time since he'd made her acquaintance. "Oh, indeed it is, Miss DeMauro. One of the true simple pleasures in life." Sherlock filled two cut crystal tumblers and then crossed to stand before her, handing over her drink. Her bare fingertips brushed against his for only a moment—but long enough for a pleasant tingle to run along the nerves of his hand and up his arm. "Interesting," he murmured, eyes straying to that point of contact, even as Tessa withdrew her hand.

"Hmmm?" she asked, drawing his attention back to her face. Her look of confident curiosity—as though she already knew the answer-raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and brought a sudden, surprising heat to his cheeks. Disconcerting, he thought, this biological response to her close presence and bold, unwavering regard. It made him feel slightly out of control-a rare, but not unfamiliar, phenomenon—and not at all the reaction he should be having.

Smoothly, though—without so much as a second of hesitation, lest she read more in the moment than he would have her know—Sherlock raised his glass, "What shall we toast to then?"

Tessa tilted her head, giving it thought, then bit her lip against the curve of a mischievous smile. "Why—my knight in shining armour of course." She clinked her glass against his, brought it to her lips and took a deep draught, closing her eyes and giving a little shiver, relishing the burn of the rich liquid flowing down her throat.

Drinking the full contents of his glass in a single quaff, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, observing Tessa closely. She wants me to think that she's not still as shaken as she actually is, he realized; she's acting a blithe part-the image of a woman whose life had not been at hazard within this very hour. And certainly, that is what she did, her years of training and experience upon the stage enough to enable her to fool any man. Any man excepting himself, of course; a man with eyes to see the subtle, physical signs of the strain she labored under. The slight tremor in her hand as she raised her glass again, to finish her whiskey in two swallows more. Her blown pupils, enlarged beyond their need to maximize the low light in the room. The quick, steady throb of her carotid artery, pulsing more rapidly than her poised demeanor could account for. Playacting to be sure, but for his sake? And more curiously—why?

Sherlock took the glass from her, turning back to the bottle to pour them each two fingers more. Tessa nodded her thanks when he returned the glass to her hands; she seemed to have relaxed a bit as the whiskey worked its way through her bloodstream. "So what happens now, Mr. Holmes? Should I expect to be summoned to Scotland Yard? And," she hesitated a breath, considering her predicament, "…will I need to contact my solicitor?"

"Likely not, Miss DeMauro. Your part in this sad play, I believe, is finally done." He flashed her his most reassuring smile, seeking to put her further at ease. "I was quite thorough in the information I provided to the officers on the scene, so that even Scotland Yard should be able to fit the unfortunate pieces of this bizarre puzzle together without troubling you further. I've no doubt they will refer any further inquiries to me."

Tessa exhaled a huge sigh of relief, the pall of strain draining from her face, leaving behind that lovely softness—albeit, tinged with the evening's sorrow—which lived ever in his mind's eye when his thoughts turned her way. Sherlock felt a perplexing, but pleasant, swell of affection for her fill his chest. Ridiculous, he told himself; inappropriate, he chided himself. Unnecessary and entirely uncharacteristic, he concluded, and not at all the thing he should be feeling in this place, this hour, this situation. He would prefer much more the customary rush of adrenaline that hit his system at the height of the sort of danger he had rescued Tessa from just an hour or so ago-and the satisfaction that always followed in the aftermath of so successful a resolution.

He downed a third glass of whiskey, bewildered by the unfamiliar mix of emotions swirling within him-knowing there was no clarity for him in the alcohol, but seeking to numb the edges of those feelings, nonetheless. Affection. Protectiveness. Physical attraction. Sherlock ticked off the strange symptoms, denying their plausibility one by one, while watching her move across the room to study the contents of his bookcase. Noticing the gentle sway of her hips, her easy feminine grace, the raven fall of hair that had been loosed as she struggled against her abductor-all conspiring against him in the most unexpected way. Awakening feelings he'd worked half a lifetime to discipline into oblivion. He wanted her.

He longed for her—to his chagrin—to continue to look to him for safety and for succor. He craved her kind regard, her quiet admiration. And when she turned to face him from where she stood before his bookcase, a lick of lust coiled in his loins, informing him with certainty that he wanted Tessa in the same elemental way that ordinary men wanted ordinary women every single day. He nearly couldn't bear the weakness he discovered in himself.

But to act upon this impulse would surely mean disaster, professionally-and personally as well. Theresa DeMauro was, first and foremost, a paying client; and one whose life had rested in his hands this very night. She had put her trust in him—quite rightly—and he would not be enticed to violate that trust, despite the adrenaline rush following their wild adventure. Or in reaction to the way the whiskey was softening his edges after all. And certainly not for a taste of the soft pout of her lips, or to satisfy his curiosity about the texture of her lush tresses—or, god forbid, to sample the scent of the flawless skin of her neck. Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary man, and even given how extraordinary this woman had revealed herself to be, he was master of any base desires that might lurk behind a civilized face.

As heavy rain continued to lash the windows, a bright spike of lightening flashed, the crack of thunder so immediate, it could only mean the full might of the tempest was overhead. Tessa had not flinched at either the sound or the fury, instead drawing closer to the window to observe nature's violent display. Such bravery was inherent in her nature, Sherlock reflected, and was a quality he had admired from their first meeting-on another, not too distant, stormy day. One where she had stood at that same window, gazing out at the gale that had brought her to his door, calmly telling her tale-and asking for his help…