Not Pretty

Dorset

Claire sat in the sitting room, sipping tea as Rebecca regaled her meeting Sir. Xavier to the party. She smiled but inside Claire's heart was heavy, she had been engaged once, but Jack was dead. Sir. Gerald's wife Nora who was dressed in a light green day dress, sat beside Claire. "You seem pale, Claire are you alright?" Nora was only thirty, but she seemed younger. Her blond hair was done up in a tight bun on the back of her head.

Claire sighed, "I will be alright Nora, and I am just remembering my fiancé. I would have been married for five years by now..." She trailed off, in hope that the subject would be dropped. Unfortunately, Mrs. Thornberry had heard Claire's secret and raised her voice above all those assembled.

"I remember that Miss. Jenkins told me you were engaged to a young man about five years ago. What was he chap's name?" Mrs. Thornberry's tone seemed nice but, Claire didn't like her horning in.

Claire stayed on the couch, and turned to face everyone who all looked intrigued. "His name was Jack Braceguard." Claire kept her eyes fixed on Rebecca who nodded and clasped her fiancé's hand.

"Whatever happened to the engagement? You are still unmarried, as I see you are not wearing a ring." Mrs. Thornberry's lofty tone was beginning to annoy Claire, but she ignored her.

Claire took a deep breath, "Well, we were leaving a show at the theatre and we were walking home. Jack wanted to take a shortcut to get to the cab, and I agreed. We were about halfway through when we were confronted by a gunman. The criminal wanted our purses which Jack gave him, but then the crazed man tried to grab my necklace. Jack jumped in front of me and punched the man. The mugger got angry and shot Jack in the chest, he ran off after I screamed. Jack died in my arms that night." Claire gritted her teeth through that lie, in hope that all bought it. Nora did and expressed her sympathies as did Harold Firth. Sir. Gerald took a deep whiff of his pipe before he spoke.

"Sounds like a stand up lad, he would have done well if he been in my old regiment. I am sorry you lost such a man to a mugger." Sir. Gerald sounded empathetic which surprised Claire but she thanked him none the less. Mrs. Thornberry gave a sort of huff sound, which Claire knew was all the sympathy she was going to get from that old broad. Rebecca called for a card game and they all soon forgot about Claire's old flame Jack. While she was dealing, Mrs. Thornberry began to speak to Claire.

"So, Miss. Watson have you thought about courting again? It's been long enough, and you are still a pretty young lady. I have a nephew who I should introduce you to." Mrs. Thornberry smiled thinly.

Claire looked up from her hand, "I have not had the time to even consider courting again. Jack's death was very hard for me to get past. I have my work to focus on, but thank you for thinking of me Mrs. Thornberry. When I am ready to court, I will write to you." Claire's tone was firm but polite, as a gentle way to tell the older woman to be quiet. Mrs. Thornberry nodded and continued to deal.

After cards, Claire decided to go upstairs and relax in the study. She didn't mind socializing but she was tired of having to evade Mrs. Thornberry. Gatherings like these made her uncomfortable, since she always had to put on a mask to fool those around her that she was fine. Claire's eyes scanned the many books in the study and lit up when she found a copy of Middlemarch by George Eliot and began devouring it immediately. This was her ideal way to relax, by reading a good novel by a fire. As she turned a page, in the back of her mind Claire began to wish a certain detective was there with her.

Meanwhile, in London...

Sherlock Holmes sat at his favorite table at Simpson's opposite his best friend, Dr. Watson. He looked around, it was a busy night for the restaurant and he observed the other diners. A couple to his far left were arguing about something involving money, by the state of the man's tailcoat he could tell it was the man's fault. He deduced it was either a gambling or a loss of employment. His hazel eyes focused on a solitary man that sat near the door, the man was older and was stooped over his bowl of soup. The man's eyes which were grey looked tired like his own. Yet, there they both were, dining when they wanted to be somewhere else. Watson coughed as he lit a cigar, and pushed back his empty plate. He noticed his friend's duck had been barely touched, and invited him to bring Holmes back to the real world. "Holmes, is there something wrong with the duck? You've barely had any to eat." Watson motioned to the dish, as if to entice his friend.

Holmes's attention snapped back to his well intentioned friend, "There is nothing wrong with the duck; it is always done well here. I just lack the necessary appetite my old friend. I wish to return to Baker Street and end this evening." Holmes lit a cigarette to cement his rationale. Watson nodded and called for the waiter who then came with the bill. It was Holmes's turn to pay, which he did so without ceremony. Holmes felt apart from the goings on as the two men left and headed for a cab. He hated it when his mind was uneasy like it always was when there was a lull in cases. But, for some reason his mind was focusing on his female assistant, Claire Watson. His mind was bent of figuring her out, because he thought she would be easy like her cousin but she had proven him wrong. Sherlock hid a smile at the thought of her rebellious nature, especially when it concerned law enforcement. The cab jerked, which forced him to realize they were in front of Baker Street. He departed, "Goodnight Watson, give my best to Mrs. Watson." He said hurriedly; ready to get back to his rooms.

Watson watched him leave and shook his head in defeat, Holmes was going to use the syringe at some point, and he was frightened that one day Holmes would use too much and die. He couldn't bear to think of how that would go over with him or Claire for that matter. The doctor shook his head to dismiss the thought; instead he focused on his loving wife at home. Holmes strode into the study, confidant for what he was about to do. His heart jumped at the prospect of having that cold needle caress his skin. His thin hands twitched slightly as he opened the drawer that contained the syringe.

As he tightened his belt around his forearm, his usually silent heart began to remind him of the effect this drug would have on Claire. At first, the thought stopped him in motion; Miss. Watson looked to him for his unchanging persona along with his logic. With the cocaine in his system, she would see that he was human and like all had his secrets. In a way he wanted her to see him like that, so that she would cease to praise him in her interaction with him. It confused his heart to see her laughing with him at criminals and the police force. No woman before her had been so like him, he always thought it was impossible for a woman to be that skillful. Yet, there she was a defiant woman of her generation. He smirked openly, as he looked down at the naked needle; he closed the drawer with a slam and undid his belt. It would do no harm to wait to use the drug; he picked up the violin instead. He began playing on it listlessly, letting his mind revel in its new occupation. Figuring out how his assistant worked and he knew he was going to find out no matter what. The detective began to chuckle, he knew it wasn't going to be pretty but it was going to be an investigation that he would never forget.