A/N: Just want to say the response to this story has been awesome & I am thrilled you're all enjoying it so far. I hope the rest does not disappoint.

And my sincerest thanks to Jaelijn, who provided me with more accurate German translations!


Upon re-entering, I found Holmes standing at the window, puffing out noxious rings of blue-grey smoke in the languid manner of one who hasn't a care in the world. My vexatious companion did not even appear to notice he was no longer alone until I let loose a string of most foul utterances under my breath as I fetched my hat and walking stick.

"Watson, where in blazes are you off to?" said he in genuine puzzlement as he turned towards me.

"Do not concern yourself about where I go or whether I bother to return. I dare say you can manage without me or my inferior assistance."

When he gave one of his peculiar silent laughs in response, in my complete vexation with the man, I planted my bowler with such force upon my head I fancy the brim suffered permanent damage.

"I am overjoyed to have provided you with so much amusement, but I've had my fill for one day."

"Come now, my dear fellow; you are not serious about taking your leave on so sweltering a day. Pray, set down your accoutrements and allow me to explain." Holmes' face fell in immediate understanding as to the extent of what his offence had wrought as I flung wide the door and curtly bid him a good day. "You mustn't go, Watson, wait!"

Never can I recall being so angry with Sherlock Holmes as to disallow him the opportunity to justify his behaviour, regardless how erratic it seemed, aware as I was he did nothing without some greater purpose. But what object it could have served to humiliate me so I could not fathom, and made the capital mistake of attributing this foul treatment to his recent free-handed use of that thrice-blasted drug. Yet without looking back, even as his wiry arms went round my shoulders once I reached the landing, his pleas for me to be a sensible fellow falling upon willfully deaf ears, I took my leave of baker Street and fled into a passing cab.


I am ashamed to admit that when we'd driven only so far as the tobacconist on Oxford Street, my nerves failed me, and I directed the cabbie to turn back and leave me off in Regent's Park. There was no sign of Holmes as the hansom reversed its path, yet whether I saw neither hide nor hair of him meant nothing if he had truly set out to trail me. The fellow, even when not in disguise, could blend in with his surroundings so perfectly he may as well be invisible. Such were the extent of his abilities to make a chameleon of himself that he might very well be standing at my shoulder and I should not recognise him were that not his intent. Thus, if he persisted to hound me at that juncture, I could not rightly say.

All the afternoon I strolled through the park, the freshly budded and fragrant blossoms, the cheery air of spring having no effect in lifting the weight of misery from my heart. I spent the hours vacillating between condescending to spend the night in some hotel, or, seeing as my pocketbook was not up to standing the strain, swallowing the last remnants of my pride and returning to Baker Street.

So be it if I come off as a hopeless fool, but despite my chastising of Holmes' puerile, hurtful behaviour having been well deserved, I found that I'd already forgiven him. His motives - confound the taciturn fellow! - were oft cryptic to me, but perhaps I was too slow witted to see what, in his keen mind, should have been clear. Instead, it was all smoke and fog in my eyes, blinding me.

And it is with a naked candour I say that never have I felt so stupid as I did that lovely spring afternoon, amongst all the vibrant indications of nature waking from her long winters slumber. For me, there was no interest in the warm breeze caressing my face nor of the collective joy of those young, high spirited masses around me. I found the sunshine was dreary, the merry laughter of children chasing each other in a game of tag only reminding me of my own lingering sadness.

By such time as the sun dipped below the horizon and the breeze picked up a slight chill, I was utterly foot-sore and had wallowed so long in my self-pity that the feeling waned a bit due only to absolute exhaustion. I'd come to the realization that the need to see my friend again far outweighed any continued desire to be cross with the fellow.

Upon my arrival back home, I found our rooms bereft of light, which was not so unusual an occurrence if Holmes was in a particularly contemplative mood and lost sight of all else but the problem at hand, puffing away on that infernal pipe in utter darkness. Be that as it may, a quick search revealed he was indeed gone, so I set about packing for my excursion on the morrow.

When I turned up the gas in my bedroom, I found my valise already laid out upon the bed, wide open and revealing my things were neatly packed, including an old green and white Rugby uniform, which was laid out at the top. A terse note in Holmes' sharp, hieroglyphic scrawl was ceremoniously splayed atop the uniform.

My dear Watson, (it read)

If you insist on going, at least be prepared.

Investigating Mycroft's case. Will be with you at earliest possible opportunity.

-SH

Were the day not strange enough, Sherlock Holmes had packed my luggage, departing with the most enigmatical of messages that conveniently made not the slightest acknowledgment of what had earlier transpired betwixt us. When I retired to bed, my head was awhirl with a confusion that had entirely surpassed any lingering remnants of anger, replaced only by the deepest of fears for his well being, and the words that sounded over and over again in my brain, like the monotonous beats of a drum, made more sense than the strange reality I found myself thrust into.

Curiouser and curiouser…


Rawlings was waiting on the platform early the next morning, and fairly beamed when he caught sight of me. My old college chum was in the company of a younger man of fair complexion, a mere boy of about average height but Herculean build, causing Rawlings, for all his athletic physique, to appear thin as a rail beside him. Silently, I beseeched Providence that he had not be one of the players I chanced to find myself up against during tomorrow's match, for genial as it promised to be, men such as that were forces to be reckoned with on the field.

The brawny lad was introduced to me as one Viktor Rawlings, a nephew of his, as we weaved our way through the pedestrian traffic. The boy offered me an amiable smile, but seemed almost guarded in his manner, watching me intently from the corner of his eye, and responded in English to my queries only in monosyllables, with undertones of a barely discernible German accent.

We had only just settled into a private carriage when the lad promptly locked the door and drew the curtains. After surveying me with a rather unnerving glance with those icy blue eyes, he elbowed his uncle and whispered to him in German.

"Glaubst du, er hat gerwarnt wurde?" (1) His statement was completed with a nod in my direction whose implications I did not at all care for.

Whatever was said may have been practically inaudible, with the added disadvantage of being spoken in a language incomprehensible to my ears, but Viktor was obviously studying my features for any outward signs of perception.

"Nein," Rawlings laughed heartily, patting his nephew on the knee for reassurance of his point. "Der Doktor ist zu einfaltig, um ein solches Wissen zu verbergen." (2)

This seemed to induce a faint smile in the other, who reclined back and folded his arms over his chest, eyes tightly shut, yet somehow I felt them boring straight through me.

"Pardon our rudeness, Doctor, but my nephew's mother was of Prussian extraction and he spent a substantial amount of his childhood in her country. His mastery English is somewhat feeble, so he does feel more comfortable conversing with me in his native tongue. He was only inquiring if you were an avid Rugby player, as he notices you have a slight stiffness to your gait."

"Yes, an old war injury, but nothing debilitating, I assure you."

The explanation of the nephew's discourteousness was a perfectly logical one, yet I could not quell the spark of uneasiness the incident ignited. I did make an effort to brush these intrusive thoughts aside, determined I should not allow myself to relay suspicion on every out of the ordinary event, though as the train set in motion, I was unable to focus my full attention upon my paper, my thoughts wandering back to the nephew's reaction to me.

We sat in an uncomfortable silence until the conductor collected our tickets, at which point Rawlings and his nephew began to exchange discreet glances that gave one the distinct impression of some wordless communication passing between them. Such secrecy did naught to quell the mounting anxieties roused in me by either of my travelling companions, and I could not help but feel something was amiss. My suspicions were further aroused when I noticed Rawlings fold his newspaper on his lap, a gesture which drew my eyes to the knees of his trousers, which were frayed and blotted with old stains.

I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

There was no convincing me these threadbare tweeds were befitting for even the casual attire of a gentleman banker, yet the implications of my observations were at best obscure and vague. The best course, I thought, would be to sit quietly and observe, which I did to negligible effect until we reached our destination.

With the seed of doubt rooted in my mind, even the most miniscule gesture took on a greater significance. Perhaps, this was the reason why I noticed what I may not otherwise have looked for, as we stepped off the train into Farnham Station. As I was bending to pick up my luggage, Rawlings and his nephew came up to me, and for a man who had claimed a badly sprained ankle, there were no obvious indications of an injury.

Holmes had the right idea all along. I was obtuse.

"You are not limping," I remarked with a casual smile.

"And you are not as feeble minded as I supposed, although it did take you long enough to come to that realisation. As to what the great detective sees in you, I confess to be utterly at a loss."

Whatever Rawling's game was, I did not care to tarry in his presence long enough to learn, and being that the train which had of late deposited us in the countryside had yet to depart, I'd every intention of stepping back onto it so that I might return to London and offer my apologies to Holmes. Therefore, I had stooped to lift the handle of my valise when the unmistakable cocking of a revolver sounded from inside young Viktor's coat pocket.

As I rose, three individuals savage of appearance and manner materialised on the scene. The two that at first came forward to receive us were of rather impressive stature, though both had the air of one whose channels of thought would not reach ankle deep. Their vacancy of expression was in sharp contrast to the other seedy personage in their company, the shimmer of his rapier-sharp eyes more daunting than the dagger he twirled between his fingers like some devilish plaything.

"Step right this way, Dr. Watson," Rawlings drawled with affected pleasantness as he took my arm, wrenching my bad shoulder in the process, severely enough that bit I my lip to restrain myself from crying out. I was led into a dog-cart waiting just outside the station gates, where I was blindfolded with my own cravat once we turned off the main road.


To be continued ...

(1) "Do you think he has been warned?"

(2) "No. The Doctor is too simple minded to hide such knowledge."