I had seen it in his eyes for days, perhaps weeks , and neither had the courage nor will to break off our relationship. I assured myself it was harmless, merely the warm affection of a platonic relationship. What a fool I was to forget that this was not my world; that a man expresses his emotions far more implicitly, with a tasteful subtleness more sincere than any gushing outpour.

All the same, I knew, with a woman's intuition, what he had came for.

If it had been any other time, my good Watson…. I thought, and not for the first time… If at this moment we were standing in my apartment , and you asked this honour of me, there would be no confusion, no doubt in my mind as to the eagerness of my answer. In my world of muddled uncertainty, with no one to understand or comprehend, I would have clung to your firm but gentle demeanour as surely as the ivy of England. Yet, as it is… I decisively refuse you.

I saw that he was the kind of man that took no vow lightly. I would be his comfort, his motivation, the object of most of his undivided attention. How could I humiliate and dishonour him, even unwittingly, by giving him less? Forever my attentions would be divided, diverted to one who was so close to him…

Or was it that, really? Was my rationalisation for refusing him so selfless and noble? Or was it my own desire to have my chances at another possibility, that I had only dreamed of since adolescence? For although the fulfilment of that possibility was highly improbable, it was too precious to dismiss altogether.

In this manner I sat on the sofa by the window, watching John Watson's even, broad step as he strode out of sight into the London fog.

I found Agnes had been standing near me for a while now, politely waiting for any sign of awareness from me. I composed myself.

"My apologies, Agnes. What did you ask?"

"I was asking, mum, if I might take leave of you tonight. There is a ladies' meeting of the local Charitable Society, near Charing Cross, and I've promised to be there."

I raised my eyebrows slightly. "Another charitable function? They certainly keep you busy as a volunteer." I said, smiling. "Yes, by all means go. "

She did not smile nor look me directly in the eye.

"I might come home rather late... we've much to discuss."

"Of course… please take your time." Said I absently.

A walk, in my opinion, is the best way to clear one's mind, and quietly reflect. And , as I needed both of these things badly, I went.

But the weather was far too cold.. and it did me no good to forever be reflecting . What's done was done; and surely it was far better to make your position known than remain on ambiguous terms? So,on that note, I returned home, having walked only a short distance.

I rounded the corner just in time to observe Agnes exit the house, dressed in rather plain, dark clothes and an oddly shaped hat with a pulled down veil. She quickly glanced around with the nervous look of a wild animal, and , failing to see anyone, called what appeared to be a taxi.

"129 George St., driver." She said with a barely audible voice, carefully climbing into the coach.

Now my attentions were somewhat more alert. My knowledge of London geography, though scarce, indicated that George St. was definitely not in the direction of Charing Cross.

Thoughts that I had pushed to the back of my mind resurfaced. Why did Agnes seem so nervously anxious, cold, and secretive? From what I understood, she had been with me since my "parents" supposedly died. Surely a relationship of several years would mature beyond such courteous formality?

129 George St…. I am not one of those who people generally categorise with clichés such as "high-spirited" or , in American terms, "spunky". In general I would always lean more towards conservative, disciplined action. But…spontaneity within reason has always appealed to me. After all, I had nothing to lose if I didn't find anything out of place.

"129 George St, driver" said I after calling a hansom.

I arrived at my destination around 9 PM. I looked around cautiously. There was nothing very suspicious about the place; it looked much like Church Street, although slightly less prosperous, with the rows of plain houses neatly arranged on either side of the street. It was considerably less crowded, however, with only the sparsely distributed street lamps to decorate its bareness.

Number 129 looked the same as any one of these, with a light in the main parlour. I chided myself for coming. Surely Agnes was merely visiting a friend or some such matter? It was no business of mine to intrude upon her private affairs.

Someone had extinguished the light in the main parlour. My curiosity persisted and I remained to see if Agnes would come out. Ten or so minutes elapsed and there was no sign of her. Slowly I made my way behind the house. A high wall with a gate enclosed the building from the back, while bushes and ivy grew all around the house itself.

My eyes strained to see any entrance to the house; there seemed to be one near an especially thick clump of bushes. I tried it; it was unlocked. I nearly stumbled and fell with my first step, however, for I found that the door led to a long staircase, descending to a sort of large cellar-like attachment.

Slowly I felt my way down with the handrail. It was abandoned and pitch black. I shivered from the damp cold despite my heavy coat. Surely this was going too far…

Somewhere I heard the sound of steps creaking heavily from another entrance. I was too far away from where I had entered to make an escape, so I quickly groped my way along the wall until I found a large stack of indiscernible objects and hid myself.

Two dim lights seemed to float down another staircase and make their way into the cellar. Straining my eyes, I saw that it was Agnes, carrying a kerosene lamp. Close behind her was a man,thick and powerfully built, with a thick black beard. He spoke roughly, disturbing the calm silence of the cellar.

"Did you unlock the entrance?"

"It was never locked." Said Agnes in a weary, rather bitter tone.

The man seemed visibly irritated as he set the lamp down on a nearby barrel and turned it up. "Remember, you're to do just as I told you. Don't get any silly feminine notions in your head and lose your calm. If you do your part, you can return home safely… and richer, for all that." He grinned, his teeth greatly contrasting with the darkness of his black beard.

I shivered from the cold and hoped they would leave soon—but no such sign of that happening .The minutes passed and they continued to talk, the man doing much of the speaking as Agnes sat by the lamp, her dark eyes expressing anxiousness and worry.

It did not take me long to discover that they were evidently waiting on someone… and not with good intentions. But what, exactly, and how was Agnes involved?

The man took out his pocket watch.

"Philip promised to bring him at a quarter til. I think we can count on their punctuality. Get back in the corner." He said, extinguishing both their lamps.

A short period of time elapsed. The door through which I had entered opened. I gingerly glanced up at the figures that entered, silhouetted against the moonlight.

A tall man with a rather youthful springy step came first, bearing a candle while edging his way down the staircase. An even taller man followed behind him, whose face was indiscernible by the dim light of the candle. The taller figure retreated into the shadows, while the young man stood rather resolutely in the darkness, his pale blue eyes illuminated by the single candle.

There were footsteps, and once again Agnes emerged from the shadows with her kerosene lamp. She had drawn the veil over her face. The scene seemed as a whole, surreal and rather melodramatic."You demand a high price, madam… too high." The young man said, his stance firm. "My sister is tired of slinking around like the lowest of criminals. Perhaps we shall tell and have done with it. "

"I took you for a smarter man than that." said Agnes in a strained tone of voice. "I am sure honour and wedded bliss is too dear to your sister to have it marred by an indiscreet dalliance."

"Truly, then… I have no alternative." Said the young man, sighing and reaching into the breast pocket of his overcoat.

Swiftly he lunged into a corner, where there was swift, blurred movement and the sound of scuffling feet. He emerged with the taller man who had accompanied him, dragging him by the collar. The lamplight illuminated his face.

It was not an unfamiliar face. From descriptions and my own imagination I would have known him by the shape of that angular jaw and his long loose limbed body. But his eyes, brightly alert and intelligent… I knew I had seen them before….

It is true that even an observer of above average perception would have failed to see the resemblance; but you must remember that I was looking for it, that I longed to see it.

So Watson spoke with truth, then, when he said that London lost its finest potential factor when Mr. Sherlock Holmes decided to become a detective. I thought of the spindly, bearded figure who had so ridiculously fidgeted with his spectacles while sitting in my parlour and, if not for the circumstances, I would have laughed out loud with both amusement and joy.

I turned my attention to the situation at hand. The pale young man had coolly pressed a revolver into Holmes' back while the rough bearded man had came out of hiding and held another a few inches from his head. Agnes stood not far away looking on with what appeared to be amazement.

The younger man smiled sardonically.

"So, Mr. Holmes… you failed to see past our little charade? I confess I was quite nervous, hearing of your scintillating talents of perception. But , then it's true that every man has his weaknesses."

Holmes eyes seemed to reflect worry. "Indeed, I scold myself for my blindness to the situation. You are in fact, working on behalf of Staunton."

The man smiled sardonically. " I am a cautious man, Mr. Holmes, and despite the fact that you will soon be silenced, you will extract no last-minute confessions from me. "

Now Holmes smiled, the corners of his mouth gently upturned, quickly glancing over the man's shoulder , than back at him. "I compliment you on your astuteness, sir. It appears I am undone, then. As you say, every man has his weakness."

There was a sharp click and a revolver was held, not three inches from the young man's temple. Watson cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

"Ever punctual, as usual Watson." Said Holmes cheerily. " I suggest you both drop your weapons. Being an avid sportsman, Dr. Watson is, as our friends over the Atlantic say, 'fast on the draw' ."

"I did manage to bring additional help." Said Watson dryly, giving a short, low whistle. Two policemen clattered down the stairs. The light streamed in from the light of their lamps.

Evidently the skirt of my violet dress, extending from out of my hiding place caught Watson's eye, for he bounded into the corner with his revolver and, grabbing, my arm, pulled me forward. Complete astonishment was written on his face when he saw who I was.

"Hullo… what's this?" said Holmes, coming to stand in front of me. Our eyes met.

"This is Miss Rebecca Eastman, a lady I know well and who is obviously one of Staunton's "connections", shall we say?" Watson spoke in a low, angry tone ,the strong grip of his hand clutching my right arm.

"Easy, my dear Watson. Though I confess I am quite at a loss to what Miss Eastman is doing here, I can assure you she is not connected to this blackmail network in any way, save that her housekeeper, Agnes Frederick, is evidently employed by Staunton." He turned to Agnes, who looked frightened and pitiful, then back to me. "So, then, I suggest you let go of the young lady's arm."

Slowly Watson released it and stared at me.

"Then, exactly what are you doing here, Miss Eastman?"

I felt like a girl of 13, standing before the two men. This was not the idyllic meeting I had envisioned. Holmes did not relieve the situation's embarrassment as he towered over me, with his cold, bright eyes amusedly searching me up and down.

"I … followed my housekeeper… her—I mean she- seemed to be acting suspiciously.. so I followed her here and hid to see what she was doing." I stared down at the floor.

Apparently my answer was satisfactory to Holmes. "I thought as much, for it is indeed the only possible explanation." Again he looked at me. "No doubt, Miss Eastman you are alarmed and confused by this whole incident, then. Allow me to introduce myself…"

I took a deep breath. Now was the time to be bold, to at least try to appear confident and intelligent. Nervously I interrupted.

"You are mistaken, Mr. Woodruff." Said I, trying to sound clever and not coy. "We are, in fact, well acquainted with each other. I give music lessons to your son, Robert, a remarkably gifted boy, every Wednesday afternoon."

Holmes' calm face reflected no surprise as I had expected. Instead, a smile of mirth played about his lips before he broke out into a hearty chuckle."I congratulate you, Watson, on an acquiring such an astute acquaintance."He said to the doctor, who now stood between us, evidently not knowing what to think. Composing himself, Holmes turned to me. "I hope, Miss Eastman, you will forgive my little masquerade. It was entirely necessary, I assure you, in order to achieve my purpose."

I nodded, though in fact not much, if anything was clear to me, except for the fact that I was standing before Sherlock Holmes.

"And now, the matter of your housekeeper, Mrs. Frederick."

Agnes stepped forward, the policeman still clutching her arm.

"I'll tell anything you want to know about Staunton, sir. But I swear to you that I knew nothing about the true purpose for my coming here. They assured me there would be no violence."

"Yet you are in fact, under Staunton's employ."

She bowed her head. " I have no defence to that sir, except for the fact that I needed money –not for myself—but for my daughter, in a boarding school far away from here. Ms. Eastman can only pay me so much… indeed her income of late is scarcely enough to live comfortably and I would not dare ask her for more. Tom, here-" She said, her eyes pointing in the direction of her "is a distant cousin of mine who set me up with Staunton nearly a year ago. My work was simple at first… sometimes I would be required to keep records or write the occasional letter. I did not even know who exactly I was working for until recently… Nevertheless, I knew what I was doing. I only ask that you be somewhat lenient with me for the sake of my daughter. Ms. Rebecca will tell you of my good , and I believe, reliable service in the past." She looked pleadingly in my direction.

Holmes glanced at me with raised eyebrows.

"Agnes has, as long as I have known her, been reliable and otherwise of good character." I said. "surely leniency can be applied?"

Holmes nodded. " Mrs. Frederick is both cooperative and I, believe, cognisant of her fault. Far be it from me to bring a judgement ; many good people may have done likewise. However sympathy does not change fact. I cannot promise anything as to the action of the courts—" Agnes lowered her head.

"I can promise a fine barrister, however. And, with such a defence, it is safe to say your sentence will be far lighter than usual." Agnes nodded.

We emerged out of the basement into the moonlight. The three of us standing on George Street. Watson remained silent, whether out of embarrassment or anger I could not be sure.

"It appears, Miss Eastman, there is no taxi you could take home to Church Street."He said, searching up and down the rather barren street. "You may take the hansom which we came in."

"No- thank you, Mr. Holmes" I said, still in a state of bewilderment. "I can walk to the nearest street."

Holmes raised his eyebrows at my rather foolish remark.. "Even on the warmest of nights it would be unwise for a woman to walk unaccompanied in London at this hour of the night. Watson and I can ride with the police cab. Please.. " he said, opening the door of the hansom for me. I obeyed.

"168 Church St, driver" he said, tipping his hat courteously to me. Watson feebly did the same.

From the window of the carriage, my eyes continued to follow Mr. Sherlock Holmes' footsteps until he was out of sight.