The Stage is Set

Snowflakes drifted past the window of the coach carriage as it travelled through the busy London streets, bustling with life in preparation for Christmas as Mrs Amelia Holmes sat beside her husband, Sherlock Holmes, her white gloved hands clasped in her lap, while their dear friend and self-appointed Boswell, Doctor John Watson, sat on the seat across from them, peering out through the chilly, frosty looking street outside, his very large and impressive moustache curled very slightly at the ends. They were travelling to Baker Street from the train station after having finished solving a rather gruesome, but intriguing case in the countryside and Amelia was quite looking forward to returning home, she missed her children and was quite looking forward to seeing them again, a whole week away from them and London truly was something she didn't believe she would ever grow used to, and she knew that Sherlock was eager to be in the confines of Baker Street once more. The case was over and now, it was time to find another.

"Oh, I do hope the children behaved," she sighed, glancing at Holmes beside her, making her small, rounded diamond and pearl earrings swing. She absently smoothed her gloved hand down the front of her brown and black, high necked dress, her large leg of mutton sleeves brushing against Sherlock's own shoulders before the sleeve grew tighter as it reached her elbow and down to her wrists, her waist tightly bound with a dark brown, velvet trim running around her waist, matching brown boots hidden beneath her layers of petticoats. Her hair was styled in a bun at the base of her neck, a small tortoise shell comb sitting in it, hidden beneath her brown, feathered hat. As much as she detested her small rounded glasses, she was forced to wear them when out in public, since it was quite annoying to have to squint, "I suppose that it ought to be a good sign that they have not scared off Miss Hawkins," she remarked, shaking her head, "I do like her so, she's Irish and young enough to understand that children do have personalities of their own".

"They certainly do have personality," Watson said as he continued to peer outside the window. Of course, any child of Sherlock Holmes and Amelia Moriarty was always destined to be a handful; they did take after their parents in more than just physical appearance.

"I would not concern yourself, Amelia," Holmes told her lightly, looking out through the window on his side of the coach, "The children know that if they don't behave, they will not hear the story of the case".

"Which reminds me…," Amelia brightened, looking across to Watson with a smile, "Your most recent story ought to be published today in The Strand, should it not, Watson?" Holmes gave a loud sigh beside her, earning a small nudge in his ribs from his wife. She gave him a stern look as he frowned, rubbing at his ribs, "Oh, I don't see why you moan, Holmes, he's always written you in a most flattering light".

"In a romanticised light, Amelia, the only aspects of the case that have any importance are the analytical reasoning behind my…our deductions".

"That is not a story, Holmes, that is an academic journal," Watson shook his head, looking mildly annoyed as Amelia rolled her eyes. It was the same old argument again, "The public wish to see the story, not the 'analytical reasoning,'" he exchanged a look with Amelia before shaking his head again and peering back outside his window, "You're quite right, Mrs Holmes, I would like to see how it turned out…"

"Papers!" a loud voice shouted out in the distance from out on the street, over the sound of carol singers singing 'Hark! The Herald Angel Sing,' "Papers!"

Watson raised his hand and knocked his knuckles against the coach wall behind him and the driver, "Campbell, would you please redirect us to the man selling papers, please?" he called loudly.

"Yes, sir!" Campbell said at once, and began turning the horse and coach back around, directing the hose closer to the edge of the footpath and the man selling papers.

"Papers! Papers!"

The coach slowed beside the large man who was holding an armful of papers in his arm, while Amelia and Holmes leaned further back into their seat, thankfully mostly hidden from view within the darkness of the inside of the coach. Neither of them wished to draw attention to themselves if it could be helped, Holmes because he would have to pretend to be friendly and polite, as Watson's writings seemed to have led half of London to believe he typically was, and Amelia because it likely would mean delaying their journey to Baker Street.

Watson leaned out through the open window towards the man, "Here," he gestured to the man, catching his attention as the coach came to a complete stop beside the footpath. He rested his arm against the top of the window, flecks of snow drifting passed his face, "How's 'The Blue Carbuncle' doing?"

"Very popular, Doctor Watson," the vendor replied happily, and Amelia gave her husband a pointed look, quite proud of Watson and his literacy success, even if it did come with some disadvantages, not to mention her lack of apparent involvement in any of Watson retelling of their cases. She still hadn't forgiven him for completely writing her out of his stories, "Is there gonna be a proper murder next time?" the man asked hopefully.

"I'll have a word with the criminal classes".

"If you wouldn't mind. Is that 'im?" Amelia barely contained a sigh, feeling Holmes tensing beside her, "Is 'e in there?"

"Who am I again?" Amelia muttered in annoyance. She did find it rather amusing how much the public seemed to love Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes of Watson's stories, in any case, but she did find it quite annoying that everyone seemed to believe that he was the one who solved the cases all by himself. She was there for all of it, for every case…well, almost every case, she was forced to take a step back when she was in the later stages of pregnancy. She knew that it was Watson's doing, he had been the one to write the stories and make it seem as though Holmes was all knowing and solved the cases without her aid, all because the public wouldn't take to the idea of a female detective. She still thought that was absurd, the public never would take to the idea if they were not exposed to it.

"Don't moan, Amelia," Sherlock whispered to her, making her narrow her eyes at him, but he had already turned away to kick Watson's leg in warning, causing the man to grunt, still leaning outside the window.

"No," Watson said quickly to the paper vendor, shaking his head at the man, fixing a smile onto his face, "No, no, not at all. Ah, good day to you," he lightly tapped his finger against the edge of his bowler hat, before sitting back into his seat.

"Walk on," Campbell ordered the horses, giving the reigns a shake and setting them off once more through the bustling street.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes!" the vendor called after the coach.

Holmes sighed loudly and gave Watson a withering glare, "Must you encourage them, Watson?"

"The public enjoy our stories, Holmes," Watson replied, seemingly ignoring his obvious annoyance, "Besides; it's hardly a crime for a man to wish you a Merry Christmas, is it?"

He turned his attention back onto his window, his expression still quite sour, "Perhaps it ought to be," he muttered.

Amelia shook her head tiredly, "Oh, please do cheer up, my darling," she urged him, reaching out to place her hand on his arm, making him glance back to her. She gave him a gentle smile, "Christmas time does always tend to bring out the more homicidal in all, remember? People simply can't help it; all of the stress of purchasing presents and family gatherings, another murder is surely to come up soon enough".

Holmes broke into a soft smile, suddenly looking quite happy, "Let us hope so," he said almost eagerly, giving her one last smile before returning his attention to the window beside him.

Watson sighed and shook his head as he watched the couple. Holmes truly had chosen the perfect women to marry for himself, no other woman but Amelia would ever consider murder to be something to bring cheer to her husband, just as no other woman would happily join them on their cases, even the most gruesome and awful, without bulking at the mere suggestion. Watson, even after fourteen years of working with both Holmes and Amelia, still found it quite astonishing that a woman could have the stomach to do the work that they did, but she had proven herself more than capable and he had been forced to concede that she had a place within their small group. He had thought that perhaps motherhood might soften her and cause her to sink into domestic bliss, just as most women would, but not even the birth of her children had slowed her down, she seemed to be just as passionate today solving crimes and seeking justice as she was the first morning that he had meet her.

The coach carriage continued on through the streets of London and soon enough they were turning down into Baker Street, the whole street positively buzzing with life as the footpath was crowded by men and women bustling from place to place, snow still fluttering through the air. The coach was brought to a gentle stop outside the black door of 221B and the door swung open; just as Campbell had climbed down to open the carriage door. Mrs Hudson emerged from within the house; while behind her a young, dark haired women in a black dress with a large, white apron appeared, holding the hands of a young, curly blacked haired boy and girl. The children could hardly be older than four years old; the little girl wearing a pale blue dress with a matching ribbon tied in her mess of curls, while the boy wore a sailor themed jacket and vest, with long socks that come to his knees, just beneath his knee length trousers.

Campbell opened the door of the carriage and stood aside as Holmes climbed out, holding his pipe in one hand and offering Amelia his other to help her down. Watson followed a moment behind Amelia, who instantly broke into a wide smile at the sight of her children standing on either side of their nanny, their small faces filled with excitement at the sight of their parents return.

"Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson sighed, shaking her head as she moved close to them, "I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home".

Holmes removed his pipe from his mouth, just as little Billy, the houseboy, came dashing out through the front door and moved around to the back of the coach, where Watson and Campbell were unloading the luggage.

"I hardly knew myself, Mrs Hudson," he told her, smoke swirling into the air from his lit pipe, "That's the trouble with dismembered country squires, they're notoriously difficult to schedule," he gave her a polite smile before lifting his pipe back up to his lips.

Amelia gave him a fond smile before turning back to Mrs Hudson, "Next time, we will try to send word, Mrs Hudson," she assured her, even though she knew that the chances of being able to do so would likely not be possible, but it seemed to brighten Mrs Hudson slightly, which was what counted. She turned and walked across to Nanny Hawkins, the children had been waiting so very patiently, giving them a wide smile as she crouched down to their level, not caring about dirtying her dress, "Oh, my darlings, come here…" she opened her arms wide and the children practically flew into her, snuggling into her side and wrapping their small arms around her waist.

"Mamma!"

"Careful now, children," Holmes said from just behind Amelia, sounding almost amused, "You don't want to make your mother dirty, do you?"

"Papa!" instantly, they released Amelia and practically flung themselves at their father's legs, very nearly causing him to stumble backwards half a step at the impact.

Amelia smiled at the sight, watching as Holmes, pretending to seem as though he wasn't just as happy to see their children again, lightly patting the tops of their heads. He was still trying to get used to being a father, he had spent almost the first three years of the twin's lives pretending to be dead, while Amelia had been forced to raise them as a widower under the belief that he truly was gone. She knew that he still found it a little difficult to know exactly how to engage with the twins when it came to hugging, he himself had been raised mostly by nannies and governess during his youth, spending only an hour in the evening with his parents for much of his own childhood, so the concept of physical contact was still something that didn't quite come naturally to him, but Amelia hadn't wanted her children to grow up like that. She had nannies and governesses as a girl, but her parents had also played quite an active role in raising both herself and James, allowing them freedom to express themselves in ways that other children of the same era were discouraged from doing. Perhaps it might not have helped her brother, but she had always felt very pleased and happy whenever she thought back to her own childhood and that was what she wanted for her children, to know that it was perfectly normal to have emotions and thoughts of their own, and to encourage them to explore that within themselves.

"Have the children been behaving themselves, Nanny Hawkins?" she asked as she rose from her crouch, brushing her skirt down as she did so, before looking back to the dark haired, brown eyed woman before her. Behind her, she could hear the children excitedly asking Holmes questions about the case, barely even giving him a chance to try to respond before interrupting again with another question.

"Oh, they have been quite well behaved, Mrs Homes," Nanny Hawkins nodded, her Irish accent more apparent then Amelia's own, looking over towards the twin's, "There was only two small incidents, Master William refuses to eat his peas and Miss Agatha is most displeased by the notion of wearing dresses, she was quite confused as to why she isn't allowed to dress as Master William does".

Amelia struggled to hold back a laugh, casting the twin's a fond look, her heart warming at the sight of Holmes crouching down slightly to better hear the twin's array of questions, one hand firmly clasping Agatha's while the other held his pipe, "It is nice to see that little has changed, then," she remarked to Nanny Hawkins, "William will eat beans if you smother them with butter and I will speak to Agatha. I went through a similar phase myself at her age".

"Very good, Mrs Holmes".

"What's in there?" Billy the houseboy questioned suddenly, looking curiously at the brown leather, top hat box that Watson was holding, clasped tightly in his right hand, apparently having refused to allow the boy to sit it amongst the rest of the luggage being placed on the footpath.

"Never mind," Watson told him sternly, only holding the box tighter.

Amelia cleared her throat and gave Holmes a look, she couldn't say she was overly fond of her husband's idea of bringing a body part home in order to conduct experiments on, but as long as the children or Mrs Hudson didn't stumble across it, she was more than happy to pretend as though it didn't exist.

"Come along, children," she called to the twins, "You had best come inside out of the snow".

William and Agatha hurried back over to their mother, their curls bouncing as they moved, eagerly taking her out stretched hands, their fingers already feeling like ice just from the short time spent outside. Amelia made a mental note to have Nanny Hawkins fix them both a warm drink as she turned to begin to follow Mrs Hudson inside, Hawkin's following close behind.

Just behind them, Billy picked up two of the suitcases to bring inside, "Did you catch a murderer, Mr Holmes?" he asked eagerly, looking back over his shoulder to Holmes and Watson, heading for the doorway.

"Caught the murderer, still looking for the legs," Holmes informed him, taking his pipe out of his mouth as he followed behind the boy, "Think we'll call it a draw," he stepped over the threshold, passed Mrs Hudson, who had paused by the door to hold it open for them, and into the long entrance hallway, finding Amelia in the process of slipping her hat and cape off, "Here, allow me…" he moved closer to her and reached out to take the cape off her shoulders, hanging it on a peg on the wall.

"Thank you, darling," Amelia flashed him a bright smile, hanging her hat of the same peg, "Now, let me return the favour," she reached up to remove his deer stalker hat from off his head, hanging it on one of the pegs before assisting him to remove his Inverness cape, something they tended to do when they were not in a rush.

"And I notice you've published another of your stories, Doctor Watson," Mrs Hudson's voice reached them from the doorway.

"Yes," Watson said, sounding quite pleased as Amelia hung Holmes's coat up, "Did you enjoy it".

There was a short pause, before…, "No," she turned and stepped over the threshold into the hallway, while Amelia struggled to hold back a laugh, imagining Watson's startled face.

Watson moved inside the hallway a moment later, trailing behind the older woman, "Oh?" he frowned very slightly, looking quite disappointed and surprised.

"I never enjoy them".

His frown only deepened, pausing to push the door closed behind him, while Amelia and Holmes moved to stand before the small fireplace diagonal to the bottom of the staircase where the children were already warming their hands. They watched on in amusement as Watson looked at Mrs Hudson, "Why not?" he asked.

"Well, I never say anything, do I?" she shook her head, holding her hands out on either side of her as she turned back towards Watson, who had moved further up the hallway to stand before the clothing pegs, "According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfast," she waved a hand up the stairs, looking quite disgruntled.

"Muma," William tugged on Amelia's hand, making her blink slightly and glance down at her son, his large, brown eyes staring back up at her, "Why is Hudders upset with Uncle Watson?"

"It's nothing to fret about," Amelia assured him in a whisper, lightly stroking his cheek. Out of the two, William was surprisingly the more sensitive; he was more likely to sense when someone was upset or angry, while Agatha took after her father more in the emotions, more likely to be oblivious and to say things without possibly thinking about it first, but she had grown more sensitive as she grew older. They were only four, almost five years older, after all, "Mrs Hudson is just displeased with Uncle Watson's writings of her," she explained, before straightening once more to watch Watson try to sooth Mrs Hudson.

Watson cleared his throat, pulling his coat off to hang it up on the only spare peg left, "Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking, your function," he said, reaching up to take his hat off to place it on the peg, too.

"Oh, dear…" Amelia sighed, exchanging a quick look with Holmes beside her. That was certainly not going to help matters.

Mrs Hudson stared at him, her eyes widening, "My what?" she exclaimed.

"Don't feel singled out, Mrs Hudson," Holmes told her calmly, making her look over to them, "I'm hardly in the dog one and Mrs Holmes hasn't even been mentioned once, as she often reminds me".

"'The dog one?'" Watson repeated indignantly, apparently quite offended with Holmes's lack of care recalling the correct titles of his stories. He took a few steps closer to Amelia and Holmes, still clutching the hat box.

"I'm your landlady," Mrs Hudson huffed, holding up a finger and waving it at Watson, who didn't even glance at her, busy frowning at Holmes, "Not a plot device".

"Do you mean 'The Hound of Baskervilles?'" he asked Holmes, seemingly to be completely ignoring Mrs Hudson.

"I remind you because it is quite insulting," Amelia gave her husband a small glare, looking quite annoyed, "I have no interest in fame or congratulations for my efforts, but it would be nice if I wasn't entirely erased from existence," she turned to fix Watson with her glare, placing her hands on her hips, and Holmes, perhaps seeing his chance to escape before his wife could turn her glare back onto him, crossed across to the stairs and began to walk upstairs.

Watson sighed loudly, closing his eyes briefly, as though he was suffering from a headache, "And as I have said, several times," he said warily, opening his eyes to look at Amelia, "The editor felt that the idea of a female detective was simply too much for the public to be able to believe".

"…and you make the room so drab and dingy," Mrs Hudson was still moaning.

Amelia gave Watson one last angry look before reaching out to take the twin's hands, "Come along, children," she began to lead the twin's up the stairs after Holmes, Nanny Hawkins trailing just behind them.

"You can blame the illustrator for that, Mrs Hudson," Watson said from behind Amelia, sounding quite aggravated himself now, "He's out of control. I've had to grow this moustache just so people'll recognise me".

Amelia resisted against the urge to make a remark about the fact that the moustache aged him by at least twenty years, forced to remind herself that her children were right beside her and it would hardly be wise for them to witness her being rude when she was trying so very hard to teach them to be nice to others, Agatha, for one, would see it as an excuse to be rude. Instead, she continued to make her way up the stairs as she heard Watson's footsteps on the stairs below, quickly reaching the landing to find that Holmes had already left the sitting room door open, just pulling open the thick curtains covering the window directly across from the doorway open as they stepped into the room.

As light streamed into the room, it began to illuminate some of the more odd choice in decorations that her husband had long since acquired before they had even wed. A stags head, for one, was hanging on the middle of the wall over the top of a paper littered desk, between the two windows, with an ear trumpet hanging from off one of the large antlers, and that was not even to mention the knife that was stabbed into the top of the wooden mantle piece, pinning a small pile of letters in place.

Amelia had long since grown used to the ways in which Holmes lived, so she couldn't say that she had felt any great urge to try and change anything when they had married and moved in together, she had brought with her few items from her own home, mostly books and sentimental items, the rest of her belongings had been placed in storage while her Belgravia Square home was rented out. She didn't find that she missed living in her old home, perhaps Baker Street was a little smaller then she would have liked, but they had been able to find ways to expand, Mrs Hudson had been most gracious in allowing them to also rent out the bottom, basement flat so that Nanny Hawkins would be able to live downstairs and care for the children, while the twin's nursery was in Watson's old room at the very top of the building. It would do them, for now, but the children would soon be out of the nursery and be needing to begin their proper education, of course they were already leaps and bounds ahead already, but soon enough they would need to find room for more space, if they did decide to educate them at home with governess. Sadly, Baker Street was quite limited in that regard, Amelia had even considered that they live in Belgravia but keep something of an office in Baker Street, given how the public had come to expect Holmes to reside there. It was a notion that seemed most logical to her; however, she had yet to bring it to Holmes's attention.

Amelia shook herself from her musings and instead ushered the children over towards the couch pushed up against the wallpapered wall, quite looking forward to hearing all about just what Agatha and William had done for the past week, but just as she moved to sit down on the edge of the couch beside them, Holmes opened the curtain covering the second window, exposing a figure dressed entirely in black with a thick, black veil covering their face, standing before the fireplace, having been completely hidden in the shadows. The figure was clearly a woman, but there was no other noticeable feature's about her, all hidden from view.

"Oh, my gracious…" Nanny Hawkins breathed as she stood by the living room door, looking quite startled as she stared at the figure. Amelia blinked, quite startled herself.

"Good lord!" Watson exclaimed as he stepped into the room through the large double sliding doors, having just brought the rest of the cases up.

"Mummy!" William called excitedly, tugging at the sleeve of Amelia's dress, his brown eyes lighting up in sheer delight, "There's a shadow person!"

"That's not a shadow person," Agatha cut in, rolling her pale blue eyes. She sounded and looked just like her father when she used that tone of voice, "It's a woman wearing a dress. Obviously, Willy".

"Don't use that tone with your brother, Agatha," Holmes scolded her lightly, but his eyes were fixed on the covered figure, who slowly turned around to face the room. Agatha instantly lowered her eyes, Holmes usually left the scolding to Amelia, since she was far more practiced in doing it then him, but sometimes he would do it when he was too distracted to even notice. It worked well, since he so rarely did it, the children instantly knew that they ought to listen to him.

Amelia glanced at Nanny Hawkins, "I think it would be best if you take the children up to the nursery now, Nanny," she told her quietly, slowly rising from the couch, suspecting that they might just have their latest client on their hands. The children were not allowed to be within the room when they had a client visiting, it was highly unprofessional.

Nanny Hawkins nodded silently and motioned for the children to follow her, which they did only after Amelia gave them a stern look when they appeared to be dragging their feet. She waited until they had disappeared up the stairs to the nursery before looking back across to the figure, eyeing the woman curiously. The fabric of the dress suggested a comfortable means, not great wealth but enough to be able to have a few servants, at the very least, so this woman obviously had some means. But as for anything else, she could deduce little else about the woman.

Holmes frowned and moved across the room towards the still open landing door, "Mrs Hudson!" he called loudly down the stairs, coming to a stop in the doorway, "There is a woman in my sitting room! Is it intentional?"

"She's a client!" Mrs Hudson called back up the stairs, "Said you were out, insisted on waiting".

"Oh, it sounds like our first meeting," Amelia smiled slightly, while Sherlock glanced back over to her, giving her a look, "What?" she shrugged slightly, "I'm a sentimentalist, as you so enjoy reminding me, Holmes".

Watson cleared his throat and picked up one of the dining chairs, moving to place it in front of the woman, "Would you, er, care to sit down?" he gestured to the chair, but the woman remained completely still.

Holmes turned back towards the stairs, "Didn't you ask her what she wanted?" he asked loudly.

"You ask her!" Mrs Hudson replied with annoyed tone.

Amelia moved to stand beside Watson, giving their guest a slightly apologetic smile…when she smelt something that made her pause, her eyes widening in realisation as her smile grew wider, even giving the mysterious woman a little wink when Watson wasn't looking. It was quite a clever disguise, but when one truly wished to disguise themselves, they really ought to change perfumes.

"Well, why didn't you ask her?" Holmes demanded, seeming to be growing increasingly annoyed by Mrs Hudson's lack of help.

"How could I, what with me not talking and everything?"

He sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, turning away from the door, "Oh, for God's sake…" he muttered, stepping across to stand on the other side of Watson, "Give her some lines," he hissed at him, speaking quite quickly, "She's perfectly capable of starving us".

"She wouldn't starve me," Amelia whispered, giving her husband a smug little smirk, "Nor would she ever be so cruel to the children, I'm afraid you would be quite alone, my darling, since Watson no longer even eats with us on a regular bases".

"Oh…" he paused, actually looking a little surprised, as though he had completely forgotten that John no longer lived with him. He likely had forgotten, Watson did spend most of his time at Baker Street, after all, and Amelia was quite certain that if she looked hard enough, she could still find a few of his belongings lying about. He fixed Amelia with a look, raising his eyebrows, "Are you saying that you would allow Mrs Hudson to starve me, wife?"

"My dear husband, if you had wished for a wife who could cook and clean for you, then you ought to have married someone else".

He released a long sigh, his features softening very slightly, "No, I much rather a wife who can help me solve crimes then one who can cook," he gave her a quick wink, making her smile widely at him. He turned back towards the mysterious woman, fixing a friendly smile in place, "Good afternoon," he greeted her, "I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is my wife and business partner, Amelia Holmes…" he gestured to Amelia, who had to fight the urge to laugh aloud, knowing the truth of who was beneath that veil right now, "And this is our friend and colleague, Doctor Watson," he nodded over to Watson, "You may speak freely in front of him, as he rarely understands a word".

"Holmes," Watson said with an edge of warning in his voice, while Amelia sighed and gave her husband a look that clearly said, 'behave'.

"However, before you do…" Holmes continued to speak to the woman, "Allow me to make some trifling observations," he gave her a slight smile and began to slowly circle her, while she remained completely still, "You have an impish sense of humour which currently you're deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish," he came to stand on the other side of her and crossed his arms across his chest, stepping closer to Watson, starting to circle him now, all the while still speaking to the woman, "You have recently married a man seemingly of a kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavoury companion of dubious morals and his highly unusual wife…" he caught Amelia's eye briefly and she gave him a grin, inclining her head slightly, silently telling him that she had figured it out already. He came to stand beside Amelia again, looking back to the woman, "You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible".

Watson broke in an amused smile, shaking his head, "Good lord, Holmes," he chortled, apparently finding his deductions hard to believe, no doubt because it was impossible to even see the woman beneath all the fabric covering her.

"All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume".

He blinked, eyeing the woman in confusion before glancing at Holmes, "Her perfume?"

"Yes, obviously," Amelia glanced at him, giving him an almost sympathetic look that instantly made Watson tense, "Honestly, Watson, it's all in the nose".

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, his expression quite grave. He never understood how Watson could fail to notice something so clear, he could always tell if Amelia had recently left a room just from the faint scent of vanilla in the air, "Her perfume, Watson, which brings insight to Amelia and I, and disaster to you".

Watson frowned, looking between his friends in growing confusion, "How so?" he asked, glancing back over towards the woman.

Holmes unfolded his arms and stepped closer to the woman, "Because we recognised it and you did not," he reached up to unclip the veil covering the woman's face, pulling it away and stepping back, revealing her face.

"Mary!" Watson exclaimed in shock, catching sight of his own wife looking back at him, while Amelia and Holmes exchanged a quick look, both caught between amusement and sympathy for what was surely going to be Watson needing to do a lot of talking to fix this one.

"John," Mary said lightly, giving him a smile, but there was an edge to it that made it look less friendly.

"Why, in God's name, are you pretending to be a client?"

She gave him a mocking frown, "Because I could think of no other way to see my husband," she gave him a little nod, her smile growing falsely sweet, "Husband".

Amelia glanced at Holmes again and cleared her throat, "I think I'll see about getting us some tea," she said a little overly eager, very dearly wanting an excuse to escape the living room to give the Watsons a chance to have their…domestic.

"Yes, excellent idea," Holmes nodded to her, apparently feeling the same way as she did, "I'll just…" he glanced at the Watsons and cleared his throat, not bothering to even finish his sentence before strolling off towards their bedroom.

Amelia quickly ducked down stairs to see Mrs Hudson to ask her if she would mind making them a tray of tea for four, which the older woman was delighted to do, chattering away about how fast the twins were growing up and what little troublemakers they both were when they were left alone for only a moment as the water boiled. Amelia had quite a laugh hearing about how Mrs Hudson had quite a fright thinking that Agatha had toppled down the stairs, only to learn that it was only a large, curly haired doll the twins had been tossing down the stairs, claiming that they were conducting a very important experiment that had something to do with projection and decent rates compared to impact from a staircase. Apparently, the nanny had stepped out for a brief moment and left the twins drawing in the nursery, since that day, she hadn't left them unsupervised for even a second.

Once the tea was ready, Amelia excused herself from Mrs Hudson and carefully carried the tray back upstairs, missing Gladstone in moments like this, but he had retired shortly before she had married Holmes and had returned to Ireland to live with his only remaining brother, so while she did still miss him, she was happy to know that he was happy. They still wrote to each other, Gladstone had been like a second father to her growing up, after all. By the time she had reached the landing and stepped through into the living room, it was to find that Holmes had changed his suit jacket and instead now wore a camel coloured dressing gown over his country tweeds, holding his violin in his hand, while on the other side of the room, by the fireplace, Mary and Watson seemed to be in the middle of a small argument, Watson pacing.

"Amelia…" Holmes shook his head as he caught sight of her carrying the tea tray, sitting his violin aside and moving across the room to take the tray from her, "You should have had Billy carry that up," he frowned at her, placing the tea tray down on the dining table, ignoring the papers littering the top of the table.

"I am not having a ten your old child carrying tea trays for me, Holmes," she gave him a sharp look, following behind him as she reached out to pick up the teapot, pouring tea into the four china cups, "Honestly, Mrs Hudson carries it all the time, I am perfectly capable".

Holmes sighed, "Very well," he turned away from her and picked up his violin once more, "But let it never be said that I didn't try to be a gentlemen," he gave her a look as he lifted his violin up to rest his chin on and lifting his bow, starting to play the song he had written for her as he turned his gaze outside the window.

Amelia rolled her eyes at him and his attempt to guilt her, sitting the teapot down and adding some milk and sugar to her cup, "Let the record never deny that you are a gentlemen, Holmes," she said with a mocking little toast of her teacup in his direction, taking a small sip of slightly too hot tea.

"It was an affair of international intrigue," Watson was saying angrily to Mary, turning to face her properly as he stopped pacing. Amelia raised her eyebrows as she watched the couple discreetly, lightly blowing the surface of her tea.

"It was a murdered country squire," Mary scoffed, resting her hand against the mantel piece.

"Nevertheless, matters were pressing," he told her at once, moving to stand directly in front of her and the fireplace, frowning deeply.

"I don't mind you going, my darling. I mind you leaving me behind!"

Amelia did find herself feeling for Mary, after all, she knew herself what it felt like to be ignored just simply because she was a woman within a man's world, that was one of the reasons for why she fell in love with Holmes in the first place. Not once had he ever expected her to be anything but what she was, which was an intelligent, capable woman with a passion for detective work. He had never attempted to push her into a more domesticate role, not even since they had the twins had he tried to suggest that perhaps her place ought to be at home with the children from now on. She did love Watson, he was a good man and while it might have taken him a great deal of time to grow used to the idea of working alongside her, even now he could have his moments, he had come to accept her as a part of their small group, but his wife was another story. He was just simply so old fashioned in his ideas, such a man of his time, but if he didn't realise soon that his wife was more capable of dealing with matters outside of the home, Amelia wondered about how their marriage might survive.

Watson stared at his wife, actually laughing faintly, "But what could you do?"

"Oh, what do you do," Mary waved a dismissive hand at her husband, "Except wonder around, taking notes, looking surprised…"

Holmes suddenly stopped playing with a loud, angry screech that made Amelia cringe, having grown up playing the violin and having a great deal of respect for the music, "Enough!" he snapped loudly, still not turning away from the window. Instantly, Watson and Mary fell silent, looking over towards him in surprise, while even Amelia looked at him in mild concern. He lowered the violin slowly, gazing outside, "The stage is set, and the curtain rises," he said softly, "We are ready to begin".

Amelia frowned at him, glancing over to Mary and John before turning back to her husband, "Holmes, have you forgotten to tell us something?" she questioned in confusion, placing her tea cup back down on the tray behind her.

"Sometimes," he murmured, "To solve a case, one must solve another".

"Oh, you have a case, then?" Watson raised his eyebrows, taking a few steps closer, his hands in his tweed pockets of his trousers, "A new one?"

"An old one. Very old. I shall have to go deep".

"Deep?" he blinked, puzzled as he glanced over to Amelia, but she was frowning at Holmes. She didn't appear to have any idea what Holmes was even talking about, either, which was quite a surprise since usually she would know everything that Holmes was doing. Watson turned back towards Holmes, eyeing him more carefully, "Into what?"

"Myself," Holmes breathed, still staring off through the window, his back to them, "Lestrade!" he called suddenly, almost making Amelia jump, having been so focused on him. He turned towards the landing door, back to his old self again, "Do stop loitering by the door and come in".

They all looked over to the door, just as it swung open and a rather pale and anxious looking Inspector Lestrade appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily as he looked directly at the dining table, Amelia following his gaze to the crystal decanter sitting on a silver tray, before he quickly pulled his eyes off it to look at them.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, releasing a slow breath.

Holmes walked across to his leather armchair, sitting on a slight angle towards the landing door beside the fireplace, flipping his dressing gown back as he took a seat, "The regulation tread is unmistakable," he remarked lightly, pressing his fingertips together in front of him, observing Lestrade, "Lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson".

"I-I-I just come up," Lestrade told them, stuttering slightly, making Amelia narrow her eyes as she moved to sit on the armrest of Holmes's chair. That wasn't like the Lestrade she knew, he was usually always quite calm and collected, he had been a police officer for too long to be easily disturbed, but clearly he was right now. He frowned, looking back to them, "Mrs Hudson didn't seem to be talking".

"Oh?" Amelia's eyebrows rose, smiling slightly smugly, "She was most talkative when I went to ask her to make us tea…I wonder what might have upset her so?" she looked directly at Watson, who shifted slightly beneath her knowing, pointed look.

Holmes sighed and gave his wife a quick look, before reaching for the old Turkish slipper that he had sitting on the small table beside his chair, containing his tobacco, much to Amelia's constant annoyance that he ought to place it somewhere away from the children. He took a pinch of tobacco from the slipper and pulled his pipe out of his pocket, filling it.

"I fear she's branched into literary criticism by means of satire," he said to Lestrade, "It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady," he sat back in his chair, eyeing him, "What brings you here in your off-duty hours?"

Lestrade cast the decanter another look, before frowning slightly as he returned his gaze to them, "How'd you know I'm off-duty?" he questioned, puzzled.

"The eyes truly do reveal our hidden truths," Amelia remarked lightly, giving him a knowing little smile as his eyes flickered over to her. Lestrade still struggled with the notion of a lady detective, even after all these years, but he knew that if he wished to have Holmes assist with his more difficult cases, it was the price he must pay, along with his silence on the matter, "Since you first stepped over the threshold, your eyes have barely left the decanter sitting upon the table," her smile widened as Lestrade blinked and threw said decanter another quick, slightly guilty look, "You are a man who tends to follow by the book in most matters of your work, so you would not ordinarily be drinking while working, therefore we can deduce that you are off-duty".

"Watson," Holmes said, waving his hand holding his pipe towards the tray and decanter, "Give the inspector what he so clearly wants".

Watson's eyebrows rose very slightly, glancing briefly over to Amelia, who made no move to stand to do it, as she really ought to considering that it was her household and the Inspector was technically her guest, but he had come to learn many years ago not to expect Amelia to behave in the same way of most women. While the Inspector removed his hat, Watson crossed the room to the table and removed the crystal stopper of the decanter, pouring a generous amount of amber liquid into a crystal glass sitting on the tray.

"So, Lestrade," he said as he began serving the drink, sitting the decanter back onto the tray with a small metallic chink, "What can we do for you?"

"Oh, I'm not here on business," Lestrade replied, still looking quite cautious as he walked further into the room, coming to a stop just in front of Holmes's armchair, looking over to watch Watson pick up the glass and walk back across to him, "I just thought I'd…stop by," he shrugged very slightly.

Watson glanced at Amelia and Holmes, the couple eyeing Lestrade closely, before turning back towards the man, "A social call?" he offered him the glass.

He took it, nodding, "Yeah, of course," he said, though he really wasn't fooling anyone, Amelia noting with interest that his hand shook very slightly as he grasped the glass, "Just wish you the compliments of the season," he looked around at them all, releasing a slightly shaky breathe as Holmes's removed his pipe from between his lips, neither he nor Amelia blinking. He nervously met their gazes before turning towards Mary, holding his glass up in toast, "Merry Christmas?"

"Merry Christmas," Holmes said at once, his voice flat.

"Merry Christmas," Watson and Mary said in unison.

"And a happy New Year," Amelia added, her eyes still narrowed suspiciously on Lestrade.

"Thank God that's over," Holmes continued swiftly, his expression unchanged, "Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door but embarrasses you to relate?"

Lestrde took a large gulp from his glass, closing his eyes tightly as he swallowed the mouthful, while Watson and Amelia frowned, that was not a small sip of a man who was simply trying to steady his nerves with liquid courage, Lestrade practically finished the entire glass in that one mouthful alone. He opened his eyes and shook his head, glancing back over to the detectives.

"Who said anything happened?"

"You did," he said simply, lightly waving his pipe around, "By every means short of actual speech".

He took another large drink from his glass, this time finishing what was left and sighing in relief as he lowered the glass from his lips, Amelia's eyebrows rising even further.

Watson held up his finger, dragging his eyes away from Lestrade, "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, Holmes?" he said quickly, looking at Holmes, "You have misdiagnosed".

Holmes raised his eyebrows, sitting further back into his chair as he gave Watson a very slight, amused smile, "Then correct me, Doctor".

"He didn't want a drink…" he reached out and plucked the empty glass from Lestrade's gloved hand, holding it upside down, demonstrating that not even a single drop had been left, "He needed one," he looked back to Lestrade, eyeing him closely, "He's not embarrassed, he's afraid".

Amelia smiled very faintly at Watson, her eyes flickering over to watch as Lestrade looked down at the floor, briefly covering his mouth with his gloved hand, his face still terribly anxious and very pale. Obvious, really, that the man was afraid, she should have known from the moment she caught sight of his face, but she supposed that she was simple so used to seeing Lestrade unruffled by anything, and Holmes, well, emotional detections never truly was his strongest suit.

Holmes smirked proudly, looking back to Watson, "My Boswell is learning," he commented lightly, glancing at Mary and Amelia, "They do grow up so fast".

Amelia laughed lightly, while Mary smiled, "Yes, well done, Watson," she nodded to Watson, her dark eyes glimmering behind her glasses, "Soon enough, you shall be giving us all a run for our money, but until that day, would you be so kind as to pour the Inspector another glass?" she looked around to Lestrade as Watson nodded, moving to step back over to the decanter, "Inspector, please do sit down and explain to us what has ruffled you so," she gestured her gloved hand towards one of the dining chairs as she spoke, Holmes picking up a match from the table beside him and silently passing it and the matchbox to her.

Lestrade frowned very slightly, but he still moved across to the table, picking up one of the dining table chairs, "I'm…I'm not afraid, exactly," he told them, sitting the chair down close between Watson's old armchair and Holmes's, facing the fireplace.

"Fear is wisdom in the face of danger, as Mrs Holmes so accurately said once before," Holmes said calmly, glancing briefly up at Amelia, who gave him a small, soft smile, pleased that he had taken to heart her words spoken to him during their Baskerville case. He turned back towards Lestrade, his expression growing firm, Watson clinking away with the decanter, "It is nothing to be ashamed of".

Lestrade didn't seem to be completely comforted by his words, his eyes briefly flickering over to Amelia, who gave him a small, reassuring nod, just as Watson stepped over to him with a freshly refilled glass. He took the glass gratefully, "Thank you," he nodded to him, sighing slightly as Watson took a seat in his old armchair.

"From the beginning, then," Holmes waved his pipe towards him, before holding the end of his pipe towards Amelia. Amelia slipped a match out of the box he had handed to her before and lit the match, the flame bursting into life as she lit his pipe for him, Holmes giving her a nod as he slipped his pip between his lips and refocused his attention onto Lestrade.

Lestrade lifted his glass up his mouth and took a sip, slighter smaller than before, swallowing his mouthful as he lowered the glass back down to lightly rest on his leg. He took a deep, steadying breath, looking directly at the two detectives.

"A woman dressed as a bride began firing two long-barrelled pistols into the crowd of a busy street," he began to explain, "She was standing on the balcony of her home, firing seemingly random shots into the crowd below. Witnesses all stated that she repeatedly said the word 'you' before firing at people below, causing hysteria and panic amongst onlookers".

Holmes suddenly held up his hand, lowering his pipe, "When was this?"

"Yesterday morning".

Amelia frowned, her expression thoughtful, could it be possible that this bride's intended victim had been amongst the crowd, but in order to hide the truth, she instead fired seemingly randomly? It was certainly a possibility, but why was she dressed as a bride? That aspect of Lestrade's story stood out most clearly to her, it was such a very odd thing of note but it must hold some sort of significances, otherwise why would the woman be dressed in such a manner at all? Perhaps her intended victim was her husband…but of course, surely Lestrade would have mentioned that the woman's husband had been amongst the crowd, but he had made no mention of it, no mention of anyone being killed on the street, in fact. The notion of this woman dressed as a bride puzzled her, more so then the idea that she would be firing into a crowd of strangers for seemingly no reason.

"Tell me more about this bride," she said to Lestrade, eyeing him intently, "You surely have more of a description then just simply that she was dressed as a bride, give me details on how exactly she looked".

Lestrade carefully placed his glass down on the table beside Watson's armchair and reached into the pocket of his grey coat, pulling out a small leather bound note book. He flipped it open and searched through the pages, stoping when he found what he was looking for, while Watson waited poised with his own fountain pen and notepad to take note, "'White as death…'" he read aloud, "'Mouth like a crimson wound'".

Holmes suddenly uncrossed his legs and rose from his chair, sticking his pipe in his mouth as he walked across to the other side of the room, his back to them as he stared up at the wall above the couch. Slowly, he took his pipe out of his mouth, "Poetry or truth?" he asked, Amelia still looking thoughtful.

"Many would say they're the same thing".

"Yes, idiots. Poetry or truth?"

Lestrade hesitated slightly, opening his mouth as he glanced at Amelia and then back over towards Holmes's back, "I saw her face myself," he informed them, his voice growing tighter, "Afterwards".

Amelia frowned deeply as Holmes turned back around, "What else happened?" she questioned.

He took a deep breath, looking down at his notepad in his lap, but he wasn't reading his notes, "The bride continued to fire into the crowd for a few minutes," he said grimly, "When she suddenly stopped and was heard to say 'You? Or me?' Witnesses all say that she then lifted one of the pistols into her mouth and…"

"Fired," she cut across him, her voice quiet as her eyes came to land on something over his right shoulder. It should have been a simple, open and shut suicide, but there was still something about it all that puzzled her, the manner of dress for starters. Many women liked to be buried in their wedding dresses, she knew that, it was hardly difficult to imagine that there might be those who would even consider killing themselves dressed in their wedding gown, it did send a rather clear message that perhaps it was something to do with the bride's husband or fiancé, but it still struck her as odd, considering all the rest of the details that they had heard. Why fire into the crowd? Why paint one's face in such a manner? And for what reason did this woman have for ending her life in such a very public way? None of it made sense to her.

Holmes sighed loudly in exasperation, "Really, Lestrade," he rolled his eyes, walking back over to retake his seat, "A woman blows her own brains out in public and you need help identifying the guilty party," he settled himself comfortably into his chair, looking at Amelia, "I fear Scotland Yard has reached a new low".

Amelia gave him a quick, disapproving look before looking back across to Lestrade, who was slumped slightly in his chair. He looked like a mess, still terribly pale and with his greying hair dishevelled; clutching his half-full glass still, "I imagine that you must have more to the story to tell us?" she raised her eyebrows at him, and Lestrade nodded wordlessly.

"What was her name?" Watson asked, looking up from his own notepad to Lestrade, "The bride?"

"Emelia Ricoletti," Lestrade replied, glancing over to him before focusing back onto Holmes and Amelia, "Yesterday was her wedding anniversary…" Amelia nodded to herself, well, that helped explain why she was wearing the wedding dress, but it also made her even more certain that the husband must have had some sort of involvement, "The police, of course, were called," he continued, his voice growing slightly softer, "And her body taken to the morgue," he lifted his glass up to his mouth, taking a large gulp.

"Standard procedure," Holmes snapped impatiently, frowning at Lestrade in annoyance, "Why are you telling us what maybe be presumed?"

He lowered the glass, swallowing his mouthful as he looked at them grimly, "Because of what happened next," he said darkly, "Limehouse, just a few hours later. Mr Ricoletti was leaving an opium den…"

"Sorry, what is his full name?" Watson cut in, quickly scribbling away what Lestrade was saying.

"Thomas Ricoletti," he clarified, and Watson nodded as he wrote, "Emelia Ricoletti's husband…"

Holmes shot Watson a quick look, knowing he was only getting the man's full name so that he could possibly use it for a future story, if they did take the case, "Presumably on his way to the morgue to identify her remains," he said, turning back towards Lestrade.

Lestrade took another drink from his glass, finishing the last of it as he nodded, looking down at the ground, "As it turned out, he was saved the trip," he told them quietly, earning curious looks from Holmes and Amelia. He took a deep breath and looked up to them, "Witnesses at the scene reported seeing a hansom cab arrive and a woman, dressed in a white dress and a veil, step out, holding a shotgun," Amelia sat forward on the armrest, listening intently, "They said that she appeared to be singing as she aimed the gun at Mr Ricoletti, who demanded to know who she was and why she was threatening him with a gun. Witnesses stated that the man was heard to say his wife's name and that he seemed to be very confused, just before a constable arrived at the scene. He insists that the back of the women's head was covered in blood, his description of the bride matches perfectly with other witness reports from earlier that day from the first incident. The bride was then said to have fired twice in rapid succession at Mr Ricoletti, killing him instantly".

Holmes's eyebrows rose, glancing at Amelia, "'Till death us do part," he remarked, sounding far to cheerful then what would be considered decent after hearing such a gruesome tale, but Amelia didn't even bat an eye at his poor humour, Lestrade and Watson giving him a disproving look. He smiled faintly, "Twice, in this case".

"What a truly incredible tale, Lestrade," Amelia remarked, shaking her head as she looked back over to the Inspector, her mind positively buzzing with a million different thoughts and ideas. Emelia Ricoletti had killed herself in the most public and dramatic way that she could have and yet, several hours after her apparent death, she rises once more from the grave in order to murder her husband before disappearing once more. It was impossible for someone to rise from the dead, of course, and Amelia didn't believe in ghosts, so how could it be possible?

"Extraordinary," Watson breathed, frowning down at his lap.

"Impossible!" Mary shook her head, smiling very slightly in disbelief.

"Superb!" Holmes exclaimed, standing quickly, staring off at the wall over the couch once more, his expression filled with excitement, "Suicide as street theatre, murder by corpse. Lestrade, you're spoiling us," he quickly gave the Inspector a smile before looking over to John, "Watson, your hat and coat. Amelia…" he glanced back over his shoulder to his wife, already moving towards the door, "You will be needing your hat and coat, too".

Amelia broke into a wide smile and slipped off the armrest, smoothing the skirt of her dress down absently, "I left them on the hooks downstairs," she said, stepping around Lestrade, who had climbed onto his own feet, to start towards the landing door, "Oh, and you're things are down there still, too, my darling".

Watson frowned, slowly standing as he looked between the couple, "Where are we going?" he asked in confusion, truly disliking when they got like this, as though they instantly expected that he would know what they were planning to do just because they were seemingly able to read one another so well.

"To the morgue," Holmes called back into the living room, standing just outside the open door on the landing, pulling his dressing gown off and hanging it on a small hook on the wallpapered wall outside the door, grabbing his tweed blazer from off another hook beside it, "There's not a moment to lose…" he paused with his blazer still in hand, smiling as he looked back through the doorway to them, "Which one can so rarely say of a morgue".

"Oh, you are in a good mood, aren't you?" Amelia laughed, giving him a fond look as she came to stand in the doorway.

Mary, on the other hand, looked most displeased as she watched her husband slip his notebook away inside his pocket of his blazer, "And am I just to sit here?" she questioned, disgruntled. It never made sense to her why her husband seemed to be fine with the idea of going out on cases with Amelia, when the mere suggestions that she might be able to help was instantly lost on him.

"Not at all, my dear," Watson shook his head, turning towards her, giving her a little smile that looked very condescending to Amelia's eyes, "We'll be hungry later," he lightly tapped his finger beneath Mary's chin, instantly making the small spark of hope that had crossed her face disappear, but he didn't seem to notice as he clasped his hands behind his back and turned towards the landing door, "Holmes, just one thing?" he frowned slightly, glancing down at his front, "Tweeds, in a morgue?"

Holmes's considered it briefly, finishing buttoning his blazer around his middle, "Needs must when the devil drives, Watson," he told him, before turning to head off down the stairs.

Amelia gave Watson a look, personally feeling that he really ought to be more concerned about his wife and not about whether wearing tweeds to a morgue was strictly correct…and if she wasn't worried about what clothing was right to be worn where, that said a lot. Still, she had long since come the realisation that attempting to get Watson to see how very old fashioned his ideals about women was when it came to Mary was a waste of time, he was so convinced that his wife was supposed to be a certain way that he failed to see that Mary was more capable then he realised. Just before she began to follow after Holmes, she caught Mary's eye and gave her a sympathetic look, truly wishing that Watson would open his eyes and see for himself that Mary could be of great help to their cases, regardless of her gender or the fact that she was his wife, but she wasn't sure if that would ever happen. She truly was very lucky to have such an unconventional husband.

And finally I finish this chapter, I've started my nursing course, so I'm writing between doing my homework, but I mostly had this chapter already written and the next chapter is short, so I was able to finish them both almost in the same day, so that's good news. We finally get to see these children, I kind of figured that to Sherlock's mind, Amelia would likely name her daughter Agatha based off her favourite author, but it's not necessarily what she actually would call her daughter.

I do have Amelia's outfit for this chapter, but since the next website I'm using doesn't have any Victorian clothing, I've had to be creative and find images off the web to make an outfit, but you can find it on my Tumblr and Pinterest. Next chapter, Amelia is quite protective of her friends, Watson is naïve, and Holmes's really isn't a fan of one of Amelia's friends. Tell me what you thought, please review :)

Guest reviews:

Guest: Aww, I'm so happy you liked the last chapter; I hope this one was worth the wait :)

LadyRedStar: Yep, kids, it's actually very interesting to play with, since Amelia's never been around kids before, so it's interesting to see that motherly side of her. I hope you liked it, thanks for the review :)

Waterlily91: I haven't stopped, not by a long shot. I'm so happy you're enjoying the stories, Victorian Sherlock really is quite different from modern day Sherlock, he's more of a gentlemen, I feel, then his modern counterpart. Thanks for the review :)