A/N: I'll be editing Chapter 1. Nothing major, just some tiny fixes, dialogue tags and clunky dialogue. Chapter 2 updates will be once a week.

I stood at the station, bag in hand, hat on head. The day was rather cold, the sun was already past rising but it hid behind the clouds that hung low and heavy above the London sky. I brought a heavy coat with me, for if the City weather was cold, it was sure to be worse out in the country.

The station was packed to the edge with people that milled about to and fro, dragging about trunks, boxes and children. Some were already boarding the train, and the conductor was out, speaking to a befuddled old man who seems to have misplaced his ticket.

A whistle blew, and steam rose thick and white from the train. I checked my new pocket watch and saw the long hand veering towards six. I let out an impatient sigh and looked up, picking through the onrush of passengers for that single familiar face.

There are many things that one cannot help but notice when Sherlock Holmes appears. There are of course the obvious things: the tall stature, the aquiline nose, the jutting chin and the high forehead. There are the less obvious things: the splendid way he dresses, the slicked back hair that lends an air of strange nobility, the careless smile that makes you think otherwise, the way he tilts his head upwards and puckers his lips just so when an idea has crossed his mind, the way he lowers his head and looks up when I am being purposefully obtuse, the way he bites his lower lip when he is trying to keep from laughing. The last one never fails to make me shiver.

And then there are the things that you would never notice unless you—unless you know him quite well. That no matter what the weather, the moment you see Sherlock Holmes waving at you from the crowd you feel like it is sunshine in May, and you feel bizarrely proud. You feel as though you were dropped right smack on a scene in an Oscar Wilde play at Covent Garden, and he is the handsome lord who has come to visit, all squared shoulders, wit and graceful step, and you let him have the spotlight just because he is so wonderful to watch shining beneath it.

Holmes beamed at me infectiously. "Dear Watson," said he, shaking both my hands, "it gladdens me that you have made it. Do forgive me for making you wait. Truth is, I had a rather fitful sleep and woke up late." At the mention of lack of sleep, I immediately noticed his tired eyes, and the exhaustion behind his animated effervescence. Holmes also had a thick woolen scarf wrapped about his neck, the ends of which fell right at the middle of his coat. He was sufficiently buttoned up all the way down to his dark pinstriped trousers, and his hands were warmed within glossy leather gloves. The chequered cloth cap just fell to his temple, and he smoothed the creases until it fell just before his ears, adjusting it until he was comfortable.

"It is alright, Holmes," said I, tipping my head as assurance. "But we should board now. We could run over important matters on the way to Coventry."

"Yes, yes, of course," he replied, and we got on the train, bundling ourselves into a compartment in the second car. I sat beside him, our knees barely touching as the train jostled on the tracks.

"So what business kept you up all night?" I asked, curious as to what it was that occupied him so.

"Just the case, Watson, nothing different," said he, while an anxious expression passed over his face. He was right, it wasn't anything new; I had known about my friend's abrupt changes in behaviour when he is working on a case. All of a sudden he loses all appetite for food and need for rest, and he becomes not unlike a machine that runs on steam.

Once, I mentioned to him the fact that the body and the mind are inextricably linked, and the health of one is the health of the other, and the malnourishment of one becomes the weakness of the other. He merely scoffed at me, and I would not hear any of his counter diatribes that always involved appendices and the nonsensical notion that a man is nothing but his wits. Rather clever, but ultimately meaningless. His wit never made me do a second glance the moment he strides into a room. His wit never made my mind run in vicious circles whenever he hasn't. His wit never drove me to the edge of my senses, never pulled me away from him in a flash of dread, never drew me back to his side only a few days after. It was a point where he would never be correct, and one that I feared to put to rights, the reasons for which are equally valid and horrifying.

I could not possibly dwell on these things. Striving to think of something else, I recalled something about a telegram. "Was the Inspector able to send you more information?" I asked, leaning on the seat.

Holmes put up a forefinger and paused for a moment before digging into his pocket. "Here," he said, thrusting a piece of paper upon me between his gloved fingers. It was the size of a matchbox, and I unfolded it several times until the message was revealed:

Holmes (it said):

Paul Russell found dead in day room STOP Initial exam indicated blunt force trauma as COD STOP Body brought to mortuary STOP Avery Russell came down fr London a week ago to visit STOP Will be waiting at station to accompany you & Dr Watson FULL STOP

Lestrade

I folded the paper once more and returned it to Holmes. The case obviously involved murder and the motive and the party responsible still unknown. "Where exactly at Coventry do the Russells live?" I asked.

Holmes turned his gaze from the window, placing his gloves within the confines of the pocket of his coat. "At Windethorpe Heath," he said, clasping his long, thin fingers together. "The Russells have resided in that town for eight generations, and the people there look up to them."

"And this Avery fellow?"

"Avery Russell, Lord Russell's eldest son, and one-half of Russell and Stuart Steel Co. A saint, as Lestrade has so creatively titled the man, for while he is the rightful heir of their estate, he refused it. He has made a number of successful ventures and gives away almost half of it to charity."

"A philantrophist!"

"In the truest sense of the word," Holmes nodded. "Paul Russell, the second son, was to inherit everything. Their father has a passion for horse breeding, as I have found out. He is a major participant in races around Coventry, often hosting local derbies himself. His largest annual affair is set off by a ball at their Manor, attended by the noble and the affluent, where there is extensive dissimulation and the concealment of their forked tongues between cuspid teeth."

I huffed in disbelief. I was fairly familiar with Holmes's antipathy to anything leaning towards the social. "How do you know when you haven't even met them?" I challenged.

"Oh, Watson," he replied, fixing me with his knowing eye, "the privileged hardly occupy themselves with anything else." He shrugged and smiled at me patronizingly.

I brushed off Holmes's offhanded gesture, for it was much better that he was active and springing about than lying motionless like a piece of log over his settee for the rest of the day, even if it meant taking little jibes from him occasionally. All in a day's work, and that sort.

For it also used to disturb me, seeing that sort of lethargy come over him from time to time. Once, I came home early from the Club and found him reclined fully on the rug, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes. His syringe seemed to be nowhere in sight; and he is usually awful at hiding it once the drug had taken its effect. Instead, he had a cigarette trapped between his fingers, the smoke swirling as a filmy haze that floated ever upwards. I posited myself close to him, the tips of my leather boots touching the crook of his elbow, and looked down. He seemed to be entirely uncognizant that I began to suspect catalepsia when he slowly lifted his arm and brought the cigarette between his lips, drawing a languid breath. The cigarette glowed red and burned slowly, and he moved it to the corner of his mouth and exhaled. I waved a hand over his face, but his eyelids merely flicked, the dark lashes fluttering slightly. His thin, pale lips were parted, and from within his tongue darted out and slid across; leaving a film of moisture that caused my knees to tremble. Damn, what business has he being so unconsciously licentious? I kicked him lightly twice at the elbow, and saw recognition pass between those ash gray eyes.

"Ah, Doctor," he whispered with a captivating turn of his lip, "So wonderful to see you. What are you doing hovering there?"

I sat back on my heels beside him. "I should be the one asking why you are lying on the rug," I said, "I thought you were in some catatonic state for you scarcely moved."

"Apologies for being a cause of worry, Doctor," said he contritely, placing a hand dramatically over his chest, "But no need to call the men in white. I was merely admiring our lovely ceiling."

I looked up at the wooden panels, and was thrown off when I felt a hand wrap across my wrist "Now, that is not the proper way," he pulled me down beside him, "you have to lie down to see the whole thing."

The hearth was close to our bodies, and the fire crackled merrily over the charred logs. I lay on my back, the rug rough against my clothes and skin. I looked up and swallowed nervously, "What am I supposed to see?" I asked.

"There," Holmes said, his hand still on my arm. "The map of England," he paused, "the Queen's profile," another pause, "a leaping hare, there, and way over the window, a bowler hat."

I squinted my eyes at the stains on the ceiling, but could not see a thing. They were nothing but random shapes, "I can't-" I began, but he interrupted me by running his hand down through my arm until his fingers were aligned over mine. Holmes drew his head close to mine until I felt the fine strands of his hair on my cheek. He lifted my hand together with his own and pointed at every area.

"The Queen is right there," he said, and with the tips of our forefingers he traced the outline of her face, the protrusion of her nose, the slope of the forehead, all the way up to her crown.

"Ha! It really is her," I said, smiling. I was seized with a convulsion that began from the pit of my stomach and bubbled upwards; I found myself laughing for it was just so absurd and amusing and his hand just felt so smooth and warm around mine. All my blood seemed to rush over to my head, and my mirth grew fainter until it died. Every nerve in my body was alit, and I drew a shaky breath for every inch that Holmes drew our hands nearer to ourselves. I could not wrest my gaze from the ceiling, but I saw him slowly turn his head until his nose brushed my cheek. And I could smell him, the smell of soap and water and aftershave and something that they must have in Paradise.

There are a hundred things wrong with me.

I snapped my eyes open and pulled my hand from his. "I must turn in, Holmes, good night," I said coldly, getting up and leaving him lying by himself on the rug. I strode to the safety of my bedroom and shut myself in, even though it was still early in the evening.

From then on, whenever I saw Holmes lying listlessly in the sitting room, I always sidestepped around him, taking care that he does not come to if I am within an arm's length from his sprawled form. I feared what might happen if I could not get up and away in time.

I feared how it might feel.

I felt a tap against my arm. "Watson?" Holmes said.

"Hum?"

"I will tell Lestrade to pass by the mortuary before we go to the Manor," said he. "There might be something we could glean from the body."

"Do you think-" I paused, "Do you think the inheritance could have something to do with Paul Russell's death?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he answered. "Thinking is dangerous at this point, Watson. We do not have all the facts yet. I personally did not even know that there was a second son. He should have been a grown man by now."

"Then what do we do?"

"For now," he said, untying his scarf and revealing his smooth neck, "absolutely nothing. We are empty baskets at this point. There is nothing to do except enjoy the passing view, and," he yawned, stretching his arms, "try to get a little rest." Holmes spread his scarf and with a sweep of his arm wrapped it about himself. He leaned on the back of the seat, and as he did the scarf slipped off his shoulders. I took it and tucked it securely behind him. "Thank you, Watson," he garbled, folding his arms beneath as his eyes slowly closed. He was fast asleep in a minute.

I turned my attention to the passing scenery, noting the abundance of foliage and the quaint country houses that scattered throughout. The clouds rose high and feathery at the horizon, in contrast to the low stratus ones in London. Sunlight passed through the window and it surrounded us in a yellow glow, removing the chill from our bones.