There was a sign in the window that said "Rooms to Let." I raised my fist and knocked on the green door, the taxi idling impatiently behind me. I shifted in my bare feet, which were starting to numb.

With a creak, the door opened to reveal a woman well into her seventies, gray hair pinned in absentminded curls, a dishtowel over one shoulder. She wore a white turtleneck stiffly and neatly tucked into blue jeans that ended politely just above two tan loafers. She didn't seemed surprised to see me, and took in my sweaty, flushed face, messy hair, and bare, bleeding feet with a single glance. "Help you?" she asked, curtly.

"I … I'm… He-he told me to ask you to pay the cabbie, please… I'm sorry…"

"Never mind, never mind, standard practice. Get inside and I'll clear things up." She simultaneously ushered me inside and shut the door behind her.

I found myself in a long, narrow townhouse. There was an ominous grandfather clock in one corner, and it chimed the quarter hour. The hallway was dimly lit, but a door at the far end had the bright promise of a kitchen. I inhaled deeply and was rewarded with the scent of a cake in the oven, or perhaps it was a loaf of bread cooling.

The door opened again behind me. "Now then," the woman said. "You can wait upstairs for Mr. Holmes." She brushed past me to the kitchen. "Go on, then."

I turned and put a shaking hand out to steady myself on the banister, and then began to climb. The carpet got dirtier as I went higher, which shouldn't have surprised me. There was only one door at the top of the landing, and I put a hand out to the brass knob, turned it, and went inside.

It was a large sitting room with two doors, undoubtedly opening into bedrooms beyond. I took a sharp breath at the mess. There were trays of food on the center table – old newspapers in the fireplace – Holmes' violin, carelessly tossed in an armchair. There was bookshelf after bookshelf, crammed tight with papers, binders, leather bound books, magazines. There were shoes on the mantelpiece. There was a table lamp on its side on the floor, plugged in and shining miserably in the corner, next to a desk with four different laptops surrounded by a chemistry collection that should, by all rights, have placed Holmes on a terrorist watch list. The curtains – dark red and dusty – were closed tight.

I found an armchair and emptied it of its contents: a blanket, a baseball cap, two different tubes of lipstick, a bottle of contact lens solution, several handfuls of cash, and a machete. I sat, still trembling with adrenaline, and waited.

And waited.

Downstairs the clock chimed out eleven, and then midnight. My feet hurt too much to pace, so I drew myself into a ball, closed my eyes, and slept.

I jolted awake at the sound of the door opening. The red-eyed man from the bar shot me a disapproving glance before crossing the room in three strides, opening the door on the far end, and slamming it shut behind him.

Good to see you too, Holmes. I sat up and ran a hand through my hair, pulling tangles apart and trying not to think of the mess my makeup must be in.

Ten minutes later the door opened to reveal Holmes. He was harder than I remembered. The boyish round face was replaced with the sharp angles of a very thin man. His nose, always beakish, had been accentuated by the change in weight and now it looked almost menacing. His eyes were darker than I remembered, and they had an odd shadow about them, as if they were further back than the rest of his face. His hair was the same odd brown, but now it was dark with water and slicked back carefully.

"You've a ring on your finger," he said, rolling back his shirtsleeves.

I glanced down, surprised to be reminded. I shifted the small engagement ring with the other hand. "Yes, yes I do. His name is Ryan."

Homes reached into one of the shoes on the mantelpiece and pulled out a cigar. He lit it, then studied me carefully.

"You almost ruined two years of an investigation bursting into the pub like that."

I stiffened with anger. "Sorry if it was a bad time to be murdered for you." My voice was high and tight with anger.

"What the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"Medical school."

"Where?" he barked.

"King's College."

"In London."

"Yes."

He blew a puff of cigar smoke dismissively. "Stupid."

"Oh? Why's that?"

He took a step closer. "Because everyone here remembers."

I stood out of my chair. "Remembers my father? Funny, I remember that too! I remember that YOU were the one to turn him in, that YOU were the one who – "

"You'll excuse my lack of remorse – "

Now we were both shouting, neither of us listening to the other.

"- couldn't possibly imagine what it's been like for me – "

"- killed more in a day than any other – "

"- seven years and you never bothered to - "

"You LEFT!" he shouted, and I quieted.

"I had too, Holmes, I wasn't even sixteen."

Holmes' cigar had gone out. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and gave a few quiet puffs. "No one wants the Watsons back. Most of them –" he gestured vaguely towards the window, "have no idea what really happened, and they're just as ready to hate you as your father."

"You don't think I know that?" My chin began to quiver. "They came for me at the airport."

"Who?" Holmes was quietly taught, looking like a hound on the scent.

"I don't even know." I slumped back into the armchair. Holmes sat in the one across the rug, folding his fingertips together.

"Tell me everything."

I shook my head, "I got off the plane, found my suitcases and went outside to catch a cab. One of the cabbies came up to me and offered to take me to King's College."

"How, exactly?"

"He just said, 'King's College, miss?' I was too busy with the bags to give it a second thought." I paused and tried to remember his face. "He was caucasian, with a buzz cut . Blonde hair. A scar, here, under his left eye." I pointed and Holmes opened his eyes to watch. "I got in the taxi, and he drove normally until we left the airport, at which point he floored it and took off down back roads. I tried to roll down the window, but he shot at me and then crashed the car. I managed to get out, and I took off running. Threw myself into the first business I could find."

Holmes hummed. "Of all the gin-joints in all the towns in all the world…"

"Holmes?"

He fell silent, and I could hear the clock ticking on the floor below us. "Who knew you were coming?"

"My mother. Ryan. Friends from college. The admissions staff. The housing staff."

"Your father?"

"I haven't spoken to my father in seven years, Holmes."

"Habit of yours, then."

"Go to hell."

There was another silence. "You lost your luggage."

"Yes, I suppose I should call the police."

"I doubt there's a scrap of evidence left." He paused. "There's an extra bedroom here."

I sighed and closed my eyes. "I'd rather not."

Holmes harrumphed. "So you'll sleep on the street? Have Mrs. Hudson find you some blankets." He stood, turned heel and slammed the left bedroom door behind him.

I pushed myself out of my chair, slowly, and went to find the landlady. The kitchen downstairs was empty, and I didn't have the heart to knock on her bedroom door. After some shuffling around, I found the linen closet, and helped myself to an armful of sheets, a few blankets, and a towel. I climbed the stairs again. Just as I tried to make my way through the door to the sitting room, Holmes was coming out – or rather, a shabby, droopy eyed cabby was coming out. His eyelids were puffed and bruised, his hair matted with sweat and dirt, his fingers and teeth stained yellow from tobacco. There was an awkward pause as we both tried to stand in the door. Our eyes met and I saw Holmes' face carefully stiffen.

"Holmes," I began, and then fell silent, unsure.

He pushed past me, turned up his jacket collar and left, without looking back.

I turned, carefully picked my way through the messy sitting room, and opened the right bedroom.

It was horrifically dusty, with a mattress frame, mattress, and a dresser missing one of its three drawers. I pounded on the bed a few times, kicking up swarms of dust clouds, and then pulled the sheets over it. There were no pillows.

Between the two bedrooms was a small bathroom, and I entered carefully. The sink was crusted over with stage makeup, and the mirror splattered with god knows what. At first I thought the tub was brown, but then I realized it was one large dye stain. The shower curtain was held up by three very put upon rings, and the taps were almost rusted shut. Feeling filthy, I helped myself to a rather cold and dribbly shower, dried myself as best I could, and redressed in the cleanest of my clothes.

The bed, however uninviting it had looked at first, was soft, and the blankets were warm. I lay on my back and stared at the dark ceiling, the cobwebs fluttering in some unseen air. The clock downstairs ticked relentlessly, and I could almost imagine the sound was Holmes' footsteps as he paced the streets of London, turning up his jacket against the night.