Well hello there, friends! What brings you all here on this fine evening?

Ahhh, you wish to read about a stag party, do you? You wish to immerse yourself into the land of pain, money, women and booze, is that it?

You should be ashamed of yourself. I'll be writing you up for this.

Nonetheless, everyone needs their fun days, so enjoy the chapter.

Just try not to enjoy yourself too much.

~G Lestrade~

~.~.~.~.~

Mrs. Hudson was far from pleased. I wasn't inside for two seconds before she interrupted my path with her fiery eyes. "Take care of him," she spat out. Angrily, she pushed a glass vial into my hands. "He has a goat that needs worming, and I don't think I can stand another second of that man's face, voice or jungle."

I struggled to find the proper response. "But… I know nothing about goats."

Her upper lip twitched in disappointment. I shrunk back as her clenched fists took the liquid away with uncharacteristic force. "It was foolish of me to even suggest it." Her sighs were loaded with burdens. "Just make him sane again, will you? Fix him in any way that you can!" She began to mutter curses beneath her breath as she headed back towards the kitchen. "I don't even care if it's legal or not."

My voice swallowed itself up inside of my throat. Mrs. Hudson had suddenly made me weary about going up the stairs; I nearly headed straight for the door to leave. But, I pressed on for both our sakes. We needed something from the other.

I needed answers.

He needed a straightjacket.

Each step creaked beneath my weight. The stairs were screaming at me to turn around. They said that I wouldn't like what I was about to see, and they were right. It was a warning for the truth; a truth that I feared.

Professor James Moriarty. My hero. A killer.

Just the thought was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Picturing James Moriarty planning to kill a roomful of people made my heart crumble into pure dust. My bottom lip was sore from biting, but I couldn't cry in front of Sherlock. I didn't even know the facts yet.

I didn't wait for him to answer the door. Swatting away at a yellow snake, I finally emerged into the sunset of the living room. Though it was full of treasures, the place felt empty. The shimmer of the orange sun cast a romantic mood, but I wasn't feeling tender. My whole body was shuddering inside of itself. I thought my bones might leap out from my very skin. "Sherlock?" I whispered softly. No response was received. "Sherlock, are you here?"

The silence that passed did not last long. I heard the plants moving behind me and turned to find Sherlock descending from the bushes. He was dressed elegantly for the party, but judging by the exhaustion written all over his face, he held little excitement. "Renadale," was his only reply.

What could I say? Whatever I said would tear my heart into two. The tears were threatening to fall once more, but I stopped them with my words. "I want proof of this claim you've made."

Sherlock only looked at me with desolation buried in his eyes. I thought he was never going to answer me, but he silently put his hand in mine and pulled me into John's office. My fingers tightened around his warm skin. I was trying to find comfort in any way possible.

We made our way around the mess and stood before the fireplace mantel. Letting go of my hand, he let me look for myself. I saw numerous articles with all of their fraying string connected to the face of the Professor. It was like the red vines were hungry for the man. He was the fly in a net of spider webs.

"I… I just don't understand…" The words barely escaped my lips. I could feel Sherlock's eyes fixated on me, but I couldn't bring myself to look back. I could see the red sun beating against his face and lighting up his dark eyes like a pit of fire. There was no menace in them. Only concern.

"It's difficult to understand why powerful people do bad things." His words were laced with honesty. "Don't take it too harshly upon yourself."

My stomach couldn't help but twist at the idea. I had been a fan of a possible murderer. Somehow it was all hitting me the more I stared into his black and white face. The red lines that rushed towards his gut reminded me of my own blood. It was swimming about my body. I was alive. There were so many people who were not.

And it could have been his fault.

The room began to spin around me. Blackness was taking over my eyesight and I felt myself tumble a bit into the fireplace. My fingers gripped the edge of the mantel, where I stayed for a minute. "Renadale, I insist that you sit down," Sherlock muttered as he gently grasped my upper arm.

I pressed my forehead into the wood and shut my eyes. There was nothing I wanted to do. There was nowhere I wanted to go. I just wanted to stay like that forever. "I'm fine," I whispered into the darkness. Behind my sealed eyes, I could see the setting sun turning my entire vision orange. It was like an endless valley of grain stretched out before me with no end. That place seemed much more peaceful.

"I think you need to take your mind off of things."

My eyes snapped open. With the back of my hands, I brushed away a single tear and looked at my speaker with puzzlement.

"With a bit of… late night… rabblerousing."

My previous concerns were forgotten. If he was suggesting what I presumed he was, I wouldn't stand for it. "I just want you to know that I am currently not in the best of moods. And, if you are recommending that I join you and John at his stag party this evening, I'm afraid you are setting yourself up for a world of disappointment."

"Mycroft will be there."

"He's charming, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

Sherlock must have guessed that would have been my answer, because he quickly jumped in with a sanative. "Yes, but you would help us a great deal if anything were to go astray. You were so very helpful at the auction. And, considering I failed to plan well for this evening, I believe things will become a bit more hectic than I had originally planned for them to."

"There were so many disappointing things in that monologue, I can't even choose where to begin."

"It's important that you go," he said with a heavy sigh. "I would very much like you to."

I could have asked him why, but it might have been better that I hadn't. Things were overwhelming that evening and a night of good fun would certainly take my mind off of things. "If I did agree to go…" A smile flickered onto his unshaven face. "Which is merely hypothetical at this moment… How could I even get in? Isn't it only for men?"

"That is not something you should concern yourself with."

My fingers drummed against my leg as I pondered over the idea. The tears were drying on my cheeks as I imagined the possibility. "Alright," I caved. "I'll go with you. But, just this once." I realized the irony in that sentence, but Holmes did not seem to care. A soft kiss was gently planted on my cheek.

"Thank you, darling." Holmes waltzed towards the front door. "You won't regret it! I promise you."

Slam.

"Darling?" I muttered to myself after the door shut. My skin tickled where he had just lingered, and I knew that I was instantly at his command. All because of a little word.

Darling. He had said the pet name to Irene so many times that I had lost count. Never once had he uttered it to me. Was it a good thing? Was it a negative thing? Was I looking far too into the situation than I should have been?

"Renadale, are you coming?" Holmes stuck his head in through a crack in the door.

"Uh… yes. Right behind you."

"Before you go, I want you to do something for me. Watson does not know that you're coming. In fact, he cannot know." Somehow, this stag party was starting to seem less enjoyable already. "You see; you'll be of service later on. If he sees you going from the very start-"

"He'll wonder what I'm doing there," I sighed with a nod. "He'll know that something isn't right. I understand. My lips are sealed."

"Perfect." The smirk on his face read more than satisfied.

"Are we taking your… vehicle?"

I didn't know what to call it. Sherlock had invented his own carriage, but it moved without a horse. He showed it to me once before, but I refused to go for a ride. It was loud, smoky and scared everyone away. Londoners looked at it as though it were a rampant bull. I was fearful of even getting near it, and having to travel inside seemed like a death wish.

"Of course!" My stomach dropped to the floor. "You'll have to sit on the back with your legs hanging over. You can hold the luggage and I'll make sure John doesn't spot you. When we reach the club, you can just hop off."

My brows furrowed together. "Then what will I do?"

A high-pitched hum escaped his lips as though he was considering telling me, but he nonchalantly waved it away as though it was of little importance. "That's nothing to concern yourself with. Come! Watson should be here bientôt."

He began to hop his way down the stairs with me closely behind. Knowing it was cold outside, I dug my fingers into my coat pockets. Something smooth inside took me by surprise, and I instantly grasped Sherlock's shoulder to stop him. "Oh, Sherlock!" I laughed, tugging out his pipe. "I nearly forgot to give this back to you."

Sherlock spun around in surprise. "I thought it had burned along with the fire!" He was like a boy who found his lost stuffed animal beneath his bed. "Renadale, what would I do without you?"

"Oh, a great many of things, I think." My cheeks were blushing profusely, but I couldn't help but be distracted. "…Sherlock? Why do you have a beard on your face?"

Beneath the fake facial hair, a delighted smile spread across his lips. "Is it attractive to you?"

"I'm not going to grace that question with an answer."

Sherlock let out a hearty laugh: a rare moment than I promised to remember. "Not too worry," he reassured. "I'll only be wearing it for the next ten minutes to make sure that we're not suspected."

"Not suspected?" I chuckled. "Won't that make you even more suspicious?"

"Not a wink. I have this theory; when things are so overt, they're –"

Rolling my eyes playfully, I pushed him out the door. "You can tell me about it later."

~.~.~.~.~.~

I could see John going up to the front door from my spot in the vehicle. Any second now they would come out, ready to go. Fake beards and all. I had to brace myself not only for hiding, but also for the absolute fear of the thing that I was sitting on. It was sputtering and making these ghastly noises; its stomach was preparing itself to swallow me whole.

My thoughts were not long dwelled upon as Watson and Holmes quickly walked my way. Sherlock was already getting stares because of his exaggerated beard. I didn't want to know what people would say when we started the… whatever it was.

Ducking my head, which thankfully blended in with the brown suitcases, I listened quietly as John got inside. "You really think no one is going to stare at us?" He mumbled, taking a firm hold of the wheel.

"Stare?" Sherlock scoffed. "Of course they're not going to stare."

"Whatever you say," Watson grumbled as the thing kicked into life. My feet were pulled up tightly to my chest and I clung onto the leather bags for dear life. Everyone around us was gawking, but the duo in the front seat tried earnestly to ignore it all. "Will your beard be with us all night?" Watson sketchily glanced at Sherlock from the opposite seat.

"I'll remove it once we're south of Trafalgar's square."

Watson angrily squeezed a strange, rubber thing on the front to warn people that they were in his way. I thought it might have been a duck, but when I peeked over the edge, it looked like a small balloon.

"If you believe Moriarty has you under observation, isn't this a bit conspicuous?" John was asking all the right questions. I silently agreed with the doctor's finely put theories.

"It's so overt…" Sherlock assured. "… it's covert."

A quiet grunt escaped my lips. There was no denying that.

As the two men continued their quiet conversations, I watched pathetically as the people pointed, shouted and drooled over the shiny thing we were riding in. No one seemed to take notice of me; it was the hunky thing itself that held all of their interest. Just as I was beginning to feel relaxed, it all almost fell to pieces.

"Mommy!" A little girl shouted, pointing her dirty finger directly towards me. "Is that girl stealing a ride on the robot? Why is she there? Why is she hiding?"

Flailing my hands about, but letting no words loose, I tried my hardest to silence her. When John started to speak, I had to freeze and hope for the best. "Did you hear that child?" He asked quizzically. "What do you think she's-"

"Oh! Look at that woman!" Sherlock gasped, grabbing Watson's face and facing it straight forward. "Does she not look exactly like Mary?" Nice cover.

"Which one?" Watson's interest was totally diverted.

"That one; over there."

"The thin one in the pink? I suppose she does a little-"

"No, no, the much more robust one in the dingy, black shawl."

There was a long silence between the friends. "For someone who observes everything so perfectly well, you really have no idea what my wife looks like, do you?"

"Wife?" Sherlock snickered. "Let's not jump to conclusions."

"Trafalgar's Square," Watson sighed heavily as we passed the manmade lions. "You must be safe by now." Sherlock pulled at his beard, but his goggles still made him look funny. I quietly peered at them as their conversation floated onwards. "Why are you looking at me with such concern?" Watson asked when he noticed Sherlock's lingering eyes.

"I'm so very worried," his friend replied. "Your vitality's been drained from you." Watson's face twisted to confusion. He was going to go to a stag party! How much more vitality did you need? "Marriage is the end, I tell you!" Holmes spat angrily.

I grunted. So that's what was on his mind. Something about the sentence seemed to put me off.

"I think of it as the beginning," Watson defended. His knuckles gripped the wheel even tighter. Sherlock was pushing his limits, but of course he didn't realize it.

"Armageddon."

That's a bit brash.

"Rebirth."

Finely put, Doctor.

"Restriction."

Sherlock Holmes, you haven't a romantic bone in your body.

"Structure."

John Watson, you are perfect.

"Answering to a woman!?"

I was going to crawl up and smack him.

"Being in a relationship. A life in matrimony; the possibility of a family." Sherlock's head was looking the other direction. I wondered what he was thinking about, but it was clear that he was disappointed at his loss in the argument. "Who wants to die alone?"

"Not me," I couldn't help but whisper in the silence.

"So, we'll have a good old fashioned romp tonight… you'll settle down and have a family, and I'll…" Sherlock struggled to get his words out. "…die alone."

I couldn't stand being the onlooker. "You don't have to die alone," I grumbled, burying my face further into a suitcase. "If only you would open your eyes and see me waiting for you. Imbecile."

"Yes," Watson muttered. "That's about it."

The rest of their conversation floated over my head as I inspected the area around me. We were in the back of the building already, and there wasn't another female to be seen. Men stared at me quizzically, but most said nothing. A few with bottles pressed against their lips laughed and pointed in my direction. Some inched closer to get a better look at me, but I swatted them away with my boot and encouraged them to keep their mouths shut.

Watson had stopped the car, but I did not move. I guessed Sherlock must have forgotten about me, because no one came to tell me my next move. Watson was desperately close, and I knew that I had to make a run for it before the whole plan fell to pieces. I didn't know where I would be going. I just knew that I had to get away.

Silently, I hopped down and skittered around to the back of the building. The moon was high in her position, and her beams helped me guide my way. No drunken men were there to greet me. I was plenty thankful for it.

I pressed my back against a stone wall and let a sigh escape my lips. Puffs of smoke surrounded the sky around me as my cold breath turned to mist. The trip had been a stressful one that I half considered ordering myself a glass of wine.

"Excuse me?" The cockney accent suddenly addressed towards me was not one that I recognized. I turned my head to spy a gaudy older woman staring at me with unforgiving eyes. Her bony arms seemed permanently glued to her hips and her gaze was an icy one. "What are you doing out here when you're up in twenty minutes?"

She was in charge of the entertainment. She was the mother hen to all of the 'chickies' who performed for the boys inside. I couldn't help but laugh aloud. Surely, she didn't mistake me for one of her youthful dolls. "I think you have the wrong person, ma'am."

"No, no. You're the one the he told me about." She stepped closer towards me, flicking my loose curls away from my face. "Curly, brown hair. Wears it in a bun. Doesn't like to smile that much, but is pretty when she does. I'm certain it's you."

Furiosity was bubbling up inside me. My fists clenched so tightly that my knuckles were whiter than the purest snowfall. "Holmes…" I spat out between clenched teeth.

"Yea," she grunted. "That's the guy. Now come on. You've got makeup to get into."

~.~.~.~.~

I never wondered what a performer's life might have been like behind the curtain, nor did I care. As Miss Hughes (this was my kidnapper's name) led me though a back door, I was thrust into a world of rushing girls, each in their own frill. Their hair was done up like a Queen's and their makeup sparkled under the candles. My breath escaped my body in no time. My eyes couldn't focus on one thing.

"You'll be over there in the back. Don't bother the other girls for help. They're all going on soon, but your costume is on the mannequin beside your table."

"My… my table?"

Her wrinkled finger pointed sharply towards the wooden vanity in a dimly lit corner. "That's where you'll get ready. Now, go." She was off just as quickly as she had come. Once again, I was left alone without a clue.

"Why didn't I just stay home?" I asked, tossing my hands into the air. It was a question that was asked many times, but never received a proper answer.

"Don't fight it, love," another cockney voice rang out in my ear. I stumbled backwards, surprised by the young girl suddenly at my side. Her rosy cheeks rose into a smile and she quickly snatched my hand. "I heard what she said, but don't worry. I can tell you're new and I'll be here to help you. I don't have to go on for another twenty minutes. We're partners tonight!" I could feel girls stomping all over the hems of my long dress, their heels rubbing dirt into the fabric, but all I could do was nod my head. She took me to the back corner and began to pull the ties on the back of my dress. "Real lovely clothes you've got here! Certainly nicer than anything I've ever worn." My clothes were not nice, but I figured a performer's life was much harder.

Though she was a woman, I couldn't help but feel flustered when she began tugging my dress down to my ankles. She put a thin blouse over my head and began to untie my corset beneath it. Her fingers flew as they pulled at the straps. She was obviously very experienced with it. "How… How often do you do this?" I couldn't help but ask. My voice was barely heard through the shouting girls and fiddle music coming from the pub area.

"Oh, every day of the week except Saturdays. Eight times a day to other girls. I have it done six times a day. I'm not nearly as important as the headline acts!" When she laughed, her small nose crinkled like a mouse. She was a very pretty girl, but I could see a tired life lingering in the bags beneath her eyes.

Once my corset was off, my hands instantly flew over my chest. My eyes snapped shut, partially from embarrassment, but partially because I didn't want to look at myself in the mirror. All I was wearing was the thin shirt she had given me along with my petticoat. "I'm not supposed to be here!" I whimpered. "I have no idea what I'm doing! My friend put me up to this, and he had no right to. No right at all." My voice grew louder with each irate word.

"Well, love… Don't you think that he did this for a reason? Surely he wouldn't send you to do this if he didn't think you could." Her face fell. "Unless he was a real cheeky bloke."

The mouse-girl was right. Sherlock wouldn't have drug me back here if he didn't really need me. Or, maybe he would have, but I tried to convince myself he was a better man than that. "No, you're right. I'm being irrational." I just wanted to get out of there. "Fix me up. We have to be on stage in sixteen minutes."

She clapped her hands excitingly and began to tug off the rest of my undergarments. "That's more like it! Just take it for what it is and make the most of it. My name's Lucy, by the way."

"Renadale Adkins. Lovely to meet you."

"Renadale?" The girl couldn't help but laugh. "What a funny name. Who was the chap that sent you here?"

"His name is Sherlock Holmes and he's-"

She instantly nodded her head as she began to tie on a different corset over my blouse. "I've heard of him! He's a detective, isn't he? You never forget a name like Sherlock Holmes." I watched her fingers twirled up my spine, the laces twisting in and out like a dance. "Not only is he good at what he does, but his name is certainly just as unique as yours."

A smile couldn't help but reach my lips. "That's true. His personality fits it even better."

Lucy spotted my smile and her faced twisted into realization. "This Sherlock… is he someone special to you? Y'know, is he your fella?"

There was no easy way of answering. I could have said yes or no, but I didn't want to lie to the girl. I didn't want to lie to myself. Quietly, I nodded my head. "Yes," I muttered. "He's very special to me. I heard him talking about marriage today and I'm afraid that he might not feel the same." I couldn't believe I was spilling my heart to a total stranger.

Lucy uncomfortably tugged at her jet-black hair with pouted, pink lips. "You might want to figure out an answer to that. I may be a showgirl, but I know a thing or two about love. My Charlie treats me better than any other guy I've met. Every girl deserves to be as happy, no matter where she comes from."

Slowly, my eyes lifted from the ground to get a better look in the mirror. I could see my reflection staring back at me. A pale girl with her hair too tightly pinned and wearing a sparkly, purple corset. "How could he even want me to begin with?"

Lucy must not have heard me, because she roughly shoved me into the chair. "Alright, love. Put these on." She tossed me a cap full of rogue and rose-colored crepe paper. I stared at them as though they were vicious animals about to swallow me whole. "You've got to put them on!" She squeaked as she began to pull my hair out of its bun. "We haven't got much time!"

I instantly put the paper between my lips. I bit down on it, taking in the vile, rubbery taste. The second I pulled it out from my teeth, a bright red smile shimmered back at me. "Oh Lord," I breathed. I looked similar to a clown, only much more frightening.

"Don't forget the rogue!" Dabbing a bit onto my lips and above my eyes, I flickered away the powder in annoyance. It began to float in the air us, and I couldn't help sputtering in its wake. Lucy paused her braiding to give me a stern look. "You really don't know anything about makeup, do you?" I gravely shook my head. "Somehow, you made it work. It looks fine. Now, put that blue stuff above your eyes.

My fingers picked up a small glass case that held a chunky azure concoction. I literally grimaced upon the smell and sight. "Are those… berries?"

Lucy only laughed. All that mattered was that I made myself look good. Makeup was not accepted in normal society, so they had to make up their own form of makeup. Apparently, berries did the tricks. In the outside world, girls often longed to be pale, but I was not back in downtown London. Things were different. It was like a new disguise waiting to be finished.

I obediently splashed on the blue ointment above my eyes. My fingers carefully traced just above my eyelids, where the sticky stuff lingered in a smooth line. Lucy smiled as she caught a glimpse of me in the mirror. "How perfect you did! You're a quick learner, aren't you?" Her little fingers snatched a long, white feather from a nearby table. "We've just got a few more steps and you'll be ready to go."

I couldn't look at myself any longer, so I shut my eyes as she stuck the final piece into my head. My head was throbbing because of how tightly my hair was pinned, but I didn't have time to complain. Lucy shoved me behind a changing board and tossed over my last pieces: white tights and frilly bottoms that came to the knee.

Oh, no, no, no. I was not going to be wearing that.

"Lucy?" I laughed to cover up my fear. "You can't seriously expect me to wear this, right?" I did not receive a reply. She was off finishing her own makeup. My eyes flickered shut. Just do it, Renadale. No one will recognize you. Sherlock must have a good reason for you to be doing this, or else you wouldn't be there.

That was enough motivation for me. I quietly pulled the tights up to my waist and tossed the bottoms over them. The lacey pants were itching away at my skin, and it was hard for me not to scratch at them. There was just one thing missing.

"Oh, here!" Lucy's voice sang from the other side of the panel. "I almost forgot!" I literally had to duck to avoid the lilac heels that were suddenly tossed over the edge. Clapping them tightly around my feet, I stumbled out from behind.

Lucy waited with a couple of other girls and I was greeted with numerous whoops and cheers. Nothing about my face matched the excitement in theirs. I felt like a doll. I was completely exposed. "I hate this," I groaned pathetically.

"Well, you don't have time to hate it." Lucy smirked. "You've got to go on with me in ten seconds."

"Ten seconds?" I nearly screamed. My fingers clasped over my mouth and when I pulled them away, red kisses were left on my palms. My heart was racing like mad. Polka music ceased to stop ringing in my ears, but I had to stay focused. I had to keep calm and act like I knew what I was doing.

Even though I didn't have a clue.

"What are you doing?" A girl's shrilly voice shouted into my head. "You're up next! It's your turn!" I could hear her complaints, but nothing was motivating me to move. I hardly ever faced society, and now that I finally was, I was going to make myself look like a fool. "Go!"

Just before she shoved me, I caught one more look at myself in a nearby mirror. I wasn't wearing any proper bottoms, only skin-hugging, white tights. My legs were thin and lean, but I wasn't exactly motivated to show them off so much. Just above them, a glitzy, purple corset that displayed even more of my bodice pinched my torso. My makeup could be seen from ten miles away, along with my ridiculous feathery hairdo.

How did I even get myself into this one? I had been in messes before, but none quite so extreme. I much preferred my newsboy cap.

I didn't have too much time to think before someone roughly shoved me from behind the curtains. The cheery faces of drunken men welcomed me with lust as I stumbled over my heels and onto the wooden stage.

Their anxious eyes were looking me over as their arms raised their glasses to the sky.

Knowing the punishments, I forced a glowing smile. With a flick of my arm above my head and a bow, I was no longer Renadale Adkins.

I was a star.

My other two companions came out shortly after me and sat on top of the long swing situated above the catwalk. Thankfully, everyone's eyes were on them. I didn't have a clue what to do. My hands were moving this way and that, as if I were some strange, gypsy dancer. It didn't match the music at all, but I was just thankful that no one was watching me.

"Hey, you! Don't forget your fans!" Someone hissed off stage. I turned to see a pile of pink feathers come flying at me. Not wanting to look stupid, I ran to catch them in my arms. My whole body was trapped in the soft fabric. What am I supposed to do with these?! I screamed to myself. They were two massive accessories, so I decided that one was to go in each hand.

And I would just wave them around.

That's what people did with fans, right?

Lucy and another girl were now swinging to amazing heights and the men were screaming and gasping in amazement. I was merely for background effect, but I did my job the best I could and waved the fans around like a wizard.

Meanwhile, my eyes never stopped searching. Sherlock, where are you? You didn't just leave me here, did you? This isn't some penniless maid shelter, is it?

Just when I was beginning to fear the worst, I spotted my friends straight ahead. I almost cried after them in excitement, but I remembered who I was. A performer. Forcing another fake smile and ignoring the calls from surrounding men, I tried to focus in on their conversation.

Sherlock was standing and his glass was raised. He was giving Watson a toast, but the receiver looked far from pleased. Sherlock's eyes were scanning the crowd for someone…

Me?

My heart dropped into my stomach. What if he was looking for me? Wanting him to get a better view, I decided to be completely idiotic. My hands tossed the fans aside and I ran forward on the platform. No one was expecting this, particularly not Lucy or the girls backstage. My heels were overbearing, so I tore them off and tossed them to a nearby onlooker. He shouted happily and raised them as though he had won pure gold. I rolled my eyes and made my way forward.

"Renadale!" Lucy shouted out to me, trying to keep her smile on the entire time. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be waving your fans!" I barely caught her words as she swung past me in a blur.

"Don't worry about it," I muttered with a fake smile. "I've got it all under control." I made my way up to the end of the platform and flicked my arms dramatically above my head. The men loved it for some reason, but all I cared about was that I was close enough now to read my friends lips.

"Who is it you're looking for?" John asked with clear aggression on his face. He had not seen me yet.

Sherlock, however, had. His eyes met mine for a brief second before they tore away. I felt a sick feeling arise in my stomach. He didn't even care that I was there. He really had tossed me to the dogs without so much as a 'thank you'.

But, then he caught my eyes for a second time. And this time, his gaze was much more intimate. He blinked slowly as though he wanted to make sure that he was actually seeing what his mind perceived. My chest was heaving from lack of air, and I knew I looked ridiculous, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. His head slowly began to fall to one shoulder, as if in wonderment. Despite his struggle, his eyes swiftly glanced from my bare feet to my feathery head. The expression on his face was at first unreadable, but it slowly morphed into a smile. It didn't hold laughter, or satisfaction. It was barely there for me to notice.

My job was done successfully. I just didn't know what my job was.

Sherlock had to go back to comforting Watson, though it seemed a struggle for him to look away from me. The news was obviously out that Watson's party had been a scam, and John was not taking it lightly. He was going on about his disappoint as Sherlock silently chugged the rest of his drink. I could tell he felt bad, but it didn't last very long. That was the way it was with Sherlock Holmes. And though John often forgave him, tonight he wasn't as considerate. I watched as he silently ripped money and a cigar away from Holmes and stomped off to the gaming tables.

"Renadale!" Lucy called from behind me. She was off of the swing now, and tugging me backstage. "Our turn is up. Let's go."

"No, that's quite alright." I pulled her off from me. "I'm going to go out into the crowds for a moment to see my friends."

"What?" She looked horrified. "But, Miss Hughes-"

"Is not my boss," I smiled. "That's my boss, and he needs me to go to him." I pointed out Sherlock in the crowd. She seemed distraught, but eventually Lucy gave me the nudge to continue on. She was a sweet girl, and I thanked her kindly for her help. Her lifestyle was just not right for me, and I hopped from the stage with plans to never return.

Sherlock hadn't noticed that I wound up right beside him. He looked dismal and grave. He may have pushed by me without recognition if I hadn't spoken up. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Renadale!" He jumped and turned to face me. His eyes didn't even meet mine; they were too drawn to my kitschy outfit. "You look…"

"I honestly don't want to know." I grabbed his sleeve in my hand. "We should go upstairs and talk."

"You see, I don't think now is the best time for-"

"No, no. It is certainly the best time." I needed more answers. I needed to get my own thoughts out to someone. It was time that Sherlock saw me as a companion and partner and not just someone who helped when she was needed.

We made our way up a rickety, wooden staircase, shoving past elegantly dressed men and their boisterous friends. A few of them tipped their hats towards me and eyed me far too closely, but I turned my face away and kept walking.

On the higher levels there were more elegant people. Some of the richer men mingled with the poorer down below, but most liked to dine and watch the entertainment above. Some even had their wives, or perhaps mistresses with them. I could see a few of them peek their heads out from their booths to send me a stare full of judgment. Why isn't she on stage swinging? Their droopy lips asked without moving. I ignored them and pulled Sherlock into an empty table.

If you wanted things to be private, there was a curtain that blockaded the view. Once we were inside, I drew back the fabric to keep us hidden. There was a circular booth beside us, but I didn't allow Sherlock to sit down. Our bodies were so close that I could feel the heat streaming off from him and smell the alcohol on his lips. "I want to know what's going on," I whispered behind my red lips. "No steering around the truth. No hiding facts from me that might put a tear in my eye. You are going to explain everything to me, right now, as it is."

Sherlock watched me speak with heated passion. It was only after my monologue that he finally spoke up, and I was grateful for the lack of interruption. "You're making my plans a bit risky by holding me up, but I'll explain this quickly." I gave him some room to breathe by sitting down. He placed his hands on the table and stared at the wall ahead; business mode. "You know that letter you took? From Irene?"

"I wouldn't forget such a thing."

"Well, that letter was a key factor in figuring out who the next target was. The letter was written by a Frenchman named Rene Heron. The note, as it still remains, is intended for his sister." Sherlock pulled the folded paper from his pocket.

"What does the letter say?" My French was still not on par with Sherlock's.

"It tells the girl to remember him as he was. It is affectionately written; the two were very close."

"If it's a letter from a brother to a sister, a mere note of affection, then what made it so important? Why did Moriarty want it taken away from her?" His name on my tongue felt like a poison. I hated it being that way. I hated it.

Sherlock smiled and shoved the note back into his pocket. "Because he didn't want her to know something was wrong. If she knew her brother was in danger, she would have gone after him. And there is a specific expression that goes without saying…"

"No loose ends," I muttered. "Yes, I know of it." Tired and drained, I rested my arms on the table and placed my chin in the crook of them. Sherlock peered down at me with a tinge of sadness; I could tell he felt bad about everything.

"I didn't mean to harbor any information. There was little time to explain."

I shook my feathery head. "You didn't need to explain. I would have followed you to the ends of the Earth if you would have asked me to." My voice was soft, but true. I would have followed him wherever he want, if he wanted me. If he didn't care for me and asked me to leave, I would have done that too. Though I was proud of myself, I was obedient to him. He had given me so much; I felt like I owed him that.

Sherlock slid into the seat across from me. He mimicked my position and stared back at me with his head on the table. We stayed like that for a while until I felt self-conscious under his chocolate gaze. "Is she here?" My face turned to the curtain. "Are you going to give her the letter?"

"Yes, and I'm going to stop her death from happening." His voice was as low as mine.

"Right," I laughed darkly. "That's important as well." The girl could have been Lucy for all I knew, but it was imperative that we saved her. She must not have known what trouble she was in if Sherlock had to come to her aid. "You should go. Time is precious and I'm wasting yours."

Sherlock sat up a bit straighter as his brow rose to the top of his forehead. "Wasting my time? No, Miss Adkins. I should have told you all of this from the beginning, but I'm terrible at thinking of how others feel. I believe I was the one who neglected your time."

All I could do was grunt in agreement.

"I'll be waiting here for you," I answered. "If something goes astray, I'll help you as much as I possibly can. Meanwhile, I'll make sure John's old gambling habits don't return."

Sherlock nodded his head slowly. That was all that could be done. I wished, for everyone's sake, that things went effortlessly. A part of me could feel that something was off balance. I could hear the drunken claps and coins spilling onto gambling tables down below. My eyes shut as I let the hum of the violins rush to my ears. There was a murder being planned that very second, and we were just sitting there. "Go," I mumbled with my eyes still shut. "Save her."

Something soft brushed against my cheek. My eyes snapped open in surprise and I watched as Sherlock slid his fingers from my ear down to my lips. His mouth didn't move. He didn't say a word as he looked at my colorful face. There was a secret lingering behind his eyes; one that he wasn't telling me. Gently, in fear of him pulling away, I kissed his fingers as they trailed over my lips. It was a brief moment, and before I knew it he had slid out from behind the booth and was gone.

Something wasn't right. I couldn't help but wonder if Irene was okay, or if Watson had truly beaten his feelings. Maybe he didn't believe that he could save this girl, whoever she was.

Yet, I knew that he could. Professor James Moriarty was nothing compared to him. I could see that now. He was Sherlock Holmes: my true hero.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Erm, okay. So, I actually didn't even get to the part that I wanted to get to in this chapter. There was too much that I didn't realize needed to happen, so I'm making this a double chapter. (: This ended up being 17 pages, the longest I've written… maybe ever. So, I hoped you enjoyed it, even though it might have been blasé.

BUT, PLEAAASSSEEE REVIEW! I REALLY want to know what you think of everything. Like, A LOT more than normal. So, if you could do me the ever-so-kind favor of leaving a message, it would bring joy into my heart and make me post the next chapter faster.

Danke.