Once again, I apologize profusely for the delay. I assure you, I have not forgotten about this story, or your kindness and the diligence of your reviews. Over a hundred reviews, are you kidding me? I really don't think this story is worthy of a hundred reviews. But I'm touched, and honored, all the same. And now I'll stop being schmalzy. Here's the next chapter at last.

Holmes belongs to Doyle. Anyone you don't recognize belongs to me.


The Light of Pure Reason

Chapter Six, or, The World Is Full of Obvious Things

The olive green Nova cruised down Charles Street, and Maggie tried to keep a straight face as she showed her driving companion the best of what Baltimore had to offer. She knew her way around fairly well, a result of living in the city her entire life, and she weaved competently through the busy streets, unperturbed by the heavy traffic.

Holmes, however, was far from unaffected. And understandably so, she thought with no small amount of sympathy. This was a man who had grown up in a world of horse-drawn carriages rattling over cobblestoned streets. The fastest machine he had ever traveled in was a train, and those were hardly alarming. To be screaming down the road at breakneck speeds in this metal deathtrap, surrounded on all sides by other drivers — many of whom had no business behind the wheel — must have been a waking nightmare.

Still, it was hard not to be amused by the sight of the Great Detective sitting rigid as a board in the passenger seat of her car, his jaw visibly tightened and his fists clenched in his lap. He was doing his best not to appear terrified, but it was written in every line of his deceptively neutral face. Poor guy.

"So there's the Washington Monument," she said, indicating the tall column to their left, though it was pretty hard to miss. "The original Washington Monument, not the one in D.C. Actually, Mount Vernon, where we are now — the neighborhood I live in — is named after the place where George Washington was born. I think?" She laughed. "Sorry, I'm a sucky tour guide."

She braked hard to avoid a group of jaywalking teenagers, and Holmes inhaled sharply through his teeth. "I'm not sure I know what 'sucky' means, but I'll assume it has negative connotations."

"How about 'woefully inadequate'?"

"Ah, I see. In that case, I assure you, you're doing quite well. I have never seen so much of one city in so short a time."

The way he said this made it seem suspiciously like a crack about her speed, but Maggie chose to take it as a compliment. She continued by a circuitous route toward downtown Baltimore, pointing out the art museum and Druid Hill Park, where she had taken her last class on a field trip to the zoo, and where she privately believed she'd had more fun than the children did.

"Oh, there's the Lyric Opera House," she said as they passed a large, opulent structure on Mount Royal Avenue. "I'll take you there someday, if you like. I bet it's been a long time since you went to the opera."

"Indeed it has," Holmes replied. "Far too long, in fact." He looked over at her in mingled surprise and disbelief. "Would you... really take me, Maggie?" There was a faintly hopeful tone in his voice.

"Well... sure! I mean, it'll be a little weird for me to go by myself, but that's okay. At least I wouldn't have to pay for your ticket."

Holmes smiled, and his hands finally unclenched. "It is very kind of you."

"Pshaw, my dear boy," she said, smiling back, "it's the least I can do."

She glanced over at him as she drove, glad to see he was unwinding at last. As she did so, she noted that there were many things about Holmes' appearance that Watson had never mentioned; little details that a writer would never think to bother with, especially if that writer were accustomed to seeing them every day. Like the fact that Holmes' nails were bitten off almost down to the quick, a fact which by no means marred the statuesque elegance of his hands — hands any artist or musician would envy. Nor had Watson ever mentioned the small vertical crease between his dark eyebrows, a clear mark of his perpetual concentration of thought. Then, too, there was the fact that his grin, rare a sight as it was, revealed that his canine teeth were slightly on the pointy side, lending it a decidedly devilish quality.

No, it had never occurred to Watson to record these details, and perhaps they were ultimately unimportant. But to Maggie, it was these little things that made Holmes that much more real. That much more Holmes.

And she was the only one who knew. The thought saddened her.

"Crud, did we already pass Cathedral? Oh, well. Anyway, the symphony hall's back that way." She reached across him and pointed with her right hand. Holmes instinctively shot out his arm and tried to grab hers, but his grasp met with nothing solid. Maggie let out a yelp of alarm and withdrew her hand again. "Yikes! What'd you do that for?" she demanded.

"Will you kindly keep your hands at the helm?" he asked peevishly. "This is quite stressful enough without you flailing your arms about. I've no desire to careen headlong into a building."

Maggie had to laugh. "It's called a steering wheel, Holmes, not a helm. And would you relax? What do you have to be stressed about, anyway? It's not like you're going to die." Holmes cast an icy look in her direction, and she winced. "Too soon for jokes, I see."

He continued to glare severely at her. "It is not my own life, or lack thereof, which concerns me."

At this Maggie's smile faded. Everything was clearly implied by what Holmes hadn't said: 'If you were to get yourself killed driving this hellish thing, we both know what would happen to me. And I am not ready to be alone again.'

Maggie swallowed and directed her eyes straight ahead, her hands at ten and two. "Sorry," she said quietly. "I'll be more careful."

She heard him sigh beside her. "Girl..." The potentially belittling nickname he'd adopted for her was made somehow tolerable by the familiar and almost kind way he said it. "I do not wish to be harsh with you. Understand, this is all a bit much to absorb at once."

"Oh, I know," she answered reassuringly. "I'd say you're handling this extremely well. And don't worry, I don't think you're a grouch. In fact, you're a lot easier to get along with than I thought you'd be."

He smiled wryly. "And you, my child, are uncommonly honest."

"I aims to please," she said with a grin.

Suddenly her purse started singing "The Blitzkrieg Bop", and she fumbled for her cell phone. "Oh, great, now you're really going to hate my driving," she groaned.

"What the deuce is that noise?" asked Holmes, looking around him.

"My phone. Hey, now you'll get to see one being used. Get ready, it's super exciting." She pulled it out and flipped it open, holding it to her ear with her shoulder so that she could keep her hands on the wheel. "Hello?"

"Hey Maggs," came Thea's voice.

"Oh, hi!" She turned to Holmes and mouthed, 'It's Thea.'

"You must have left early this morning!" her friend exclaimed. "You probably slept too much yesterday. Where are you?"

"I, uhh..." I should have come up with an excuse already, she thought, rebuking herself. "I... went out to get coffee for us. Yay!"

"Yay! Aww, you Nicey McNicerton." Maggie found it hard to ignore the strange look Holmes was giving her. "Well, I hope you didn't already eat breakfast, because I'm making crepes."

"Ooh, c'est magnifique. All right, I'll see you in a bit."

As she returned her phone to her purse, Maggie was aware that Holmes was staring at her under knitted brows. "Yes?" she prompted.

"Am I to understand that it is no longer possible to simply brew coffee in one's own home?"

She snorted a laugh. "It's still possible. But it's recently become fashionable to pay grossly exorbitant prices for someone else to brew it for you." She pointed the car back in the direction of Mount Vernon. "I don't usually get coffee out, but I couldn't think of any other reason I'd be out this early." She sighed. "I'm no good at lying, and I'm starting to think I'm going to have to get good at it, as long as you're with me."

"I apologize in advance, then." He contemplated her silently for a moment. "Do you know," he added philosophically, "until now, I was under the impression, formed from my own experience, that women were simply born with an innate talent for dissemblance."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Oh, give it a rest, you dinosaur."


Zombie Joe's was definitely a hangout for young people, Maggie decided as she and Holmes stepped into the dimly lit coffee house. There were groups of friends in their twenties lazing around with hot cups of espresso, student types sitting in front of newspapers and notebook computers. Black lights shone on posters of spiders and skeletons drinking coffee, and popular, if spooky, music played in the background. Maggie herself had never been to Zombie Joe's, but she'd heard it mentioned more than once in the teacher's lounge, and according to general opinion, they made a good cup of coffee.

As she stood in line to order, Holmes perused the menu with a disapprobation that was almost palpable. "Well, well, inflation is certainly coming along handsomely. What's this? Nearly four dollars for something called a caramel macchiato? I shudder to think what has happened to tea prices." When Maggie shushed him, he peered imperiously down his sharp nose at her. "Forgive me, I was merely making an observation. As I recall, you only forbade me from asking you any questions."

This was true, Maggie had to concede. In fact, she had very specifically requested, before they had entered the coffee shop, that Holmes not ask her anything, lest she forget herself and reply to thin air. In hindsight, she should have just told him to zip it altogether.

She stepped up to the counter, resolved to ignore her commentator. She was greeted by a pleasant, olive-skinned young man. "Good morning! Welcome to Zombie Joe's, home of the Black Magic Mocha. What can I get for you, Red?"

She smiled. "Nothing with a hilariously macabre name today, thanks."

"Not even a Home Lobotomy Latté?" he said hopefully.

At this she burst out laughing. "Especially not that."

"Ah. Well, good, because I made that one up."

She laughed again. "You know, you're far too cheerful for someone who has to work on a Sunday."

The young man shrugged. "It's paying for culinary school, so I don't mind. Plus I get good tips, because I'm incredibly suave."

Holmes was watching this little exchange from under his heavy lids. "I assume you know this boy is besotted with you," he remarked off-hand.

Maggie cleared her throat pointedly. "Culinary school, huh?" she said. "That's cool. My friend Thea's an assistant chef at La Farfalla. You know it?"

"Yeah! I love that place!" He held out his hand. "I'm Niko, by the way. Niko Louverdes."

"Maggie Hill." She shook his hand. "So what's your specialty?"

"Greek food. I know, big surprise, right?" He chuckled. "My life's ambition is to start a classy Greek restaurant. You know, great food without the angry hairy dude taking your order."

Maggie laughed, and Holmes scoffed. "He only just learned your name, and already he is divulging his life's ambition to you. The lad must be under intense pressure to marry."

"Oh my God!" she blurted, turning toward Holmes. Niko raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I, uh..." She smiled sheepishly. "I love this song. This one, the one that's playing."

"Oh. Right." Niko looked at her oddly. "Anyway, what'll it be?"

Maggie sighed inwardly and handed over her money. "Two iced Americanos, I guess. With cream, please."

"Sweet. They'll have it ready in just a minute."

"Thanks," she said flatly as she drifted over to an empty table and sat down. As Holmes came to join her, she shot him an angry look.

"Did I ask you any questions?" She continued to glare at him. "Save that last one?" he amended. "No, I did not. I only made observations."

"Well, reserve your observations for when we're back in the car," she whispered sternly.

"Excuse me," came a sudden voice. Maggie looked up to see a man a few years older than her standing over her table. "Mind if I sit here while I wait for my latté?" he asked.

He seemed harmless, and was attractive in a neatly pressed sort of way. "No, pull up a chair," she replied, paying no heed to Holmes' disapproving frown.

The man thanked her and sat down. "I'm not usually this forward, but... well, I couldn't help but notice that you ordered two Americanos. Please say you don't have a boyfriend, and you're just a hopeless caffeine addict."

She laughed slightly. "Neither, actually. The other's for my roommate."

The man's smile was almost blinding under the ultraviolet lights. "In that case, do you think I could take you out to lunch some time?"

"For God's sake," Holmes burst out in disgust. "The man is obviously married."

Maggie shot out of her chair like she'd been sitting on a tack. "Pardon me a moment," she said in a very neutral tone. Very deliberately, she pulled out her phone and flipped it open, turning away from the man as she held it to her ear.

"What do you mean, he's married?" she hissed under her breath.

Holmes was irritatingly confident. "Oh yes. Look at the third finger of his left hand."

She turned just enough to surreptitiously examine the fingers of the accused. "So he has a tan line from a ring," she said into the phone, her eyes on Holmes. "So what? He may have gotten divorced recently."

The detective raised his eyebrows skeptically. "As recently as this morning? Dear me, he certainly does things quickly."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"His collar!" He threw up his hands in frustration. "Good heavens, girl! I'd rather you were blind than unobservant!"

That's hardly called for, she thought, a little hurt. Nevertheless, she cast a glance at the man's collar. She couldn't see anything remarkable about it, and she sighed. "I give up. What about his collar?"

"The button, my child," Holmes said patiently. "The top button has recently come off and been sewn on again, by an experienced hand. The thread, however, is of a slightly different color than that which was used on the rest — barely distinguishable, but different. Does that suggest nothing to you?"

"It suggests..." Maggie racked her brains for an explanation. "It suggests that it couldn't have been sewn on at a dry-cleaner's or a professional tailor's, because they'd almost certainly have matching thread. So it must've been done by someone who..." Her eyes widened. "Who had to do her best with what she had! He is married!" Her small hand clenched around her phone. "That... hoary marmot!"

"Good girl," said Holmes approvingly.

Maggie snapped her phone shut and whirled on the man. "I just have one question," she said hotly. "What does your wife think about you asking other women to lunch?"

The man paled visibly. "What? I'm not married."

"Right. And I'm not Irish." She pushed in her chair with a sharp crack. "Sorry, but my list of dating disqualifications rules out both married men and man-whores, and you're on the list twice."

Turning contemptuously away, she retrieved her coffees from the counter and stalked out of the shop, slamming the door behind her. "I hope Niko puts laxatives in that guy's latté," she growled.

Holmes stood at her side, not even attempting to hide his amusement. "I suppose not everything has changed, if over-zealous males are still the bane of every poor, pretty young thing," he remarked. "I must say, I am favorably impressed by how quickly you deduced the importance of that thread, Maggie. I fear it would have taken Watson considerably longer."

"I'm flattered," she replied, hoping he would connect her flushed cheeks with his compliment and not with the fact that he had actually deigned to call her pretty. "Now let's go home. Thea's probably wondering what's keeping us — I mean, me."

As she placed the coffees on the roof of her car and contemplated how she was going to let Holmes in without appearing to be opening the door for her imaginary friend, Maggie noticed the detective looking intently over her shoulder. "Holmes?" she inquired quietly. "Is there something wrong?"

His eyebrows were drawn into two hard black lines. "Yes, I believe there is," he said in a hushed tone, though there was no need to be quiet on his part. "There is a man over there pulling a large red suitcase behind him. Turn around, but do not be conspicuous."

Puzzled, Maggie looked slowly over her shoulder. A thin, pale young man was hurrying down the sidewalk, tugging an enormous piece of luggage. There was certainly nothing about him to raise her companion's hackles in such a sudden manner. "I see him," she whispered. "What about him?"

Holmes' reply was like iron in its resolve. "He has just stolen that suitcase."

"Is this sort of thing going to happen every time I take you with me?" Maggie asked exasperatedly.

Her irritation dissolved as she looked up at the detective. He seemed to be crackling with a strange new energy, until his gaunt frame was almost quivering with it. She seemed to remember a passage Watson had once written about Holmes being transformed when he was on a case, and she wondered if this was what the doctor had meant. Whatever it was, it was mildly intimidating, and utterly fascinating, to watch.

"You're sure about this, Holmes?" she asked softly. Which was of course needless; he was always sure.

"Maggie," he said in an impatient tone, his gaze never leaving its target. "Use your eyes. Can you not see that his furtive behavior and posture alone condemn him? However, if you require more substantial evidence, you need only to read the name on the identification tag. Does the man look like an Amy Hauser to you?"

His harsh, sardonic voice was beginning to grate on her. "Okay, okay. I'll trust that you're right. But what are we supposed to do about it?"

"Well, well..." He crossed his arms. "That is the question, is it not? Obviously you cannot attempt to overpower the man, as you are much smaller in stature than he. Nor would I allow you to do so. It would be far too dangerous." Maggie was touched by his unexpected concern, though she could argue that even if she took it upon herself to do such a monumentally stupid thing, Holmes would be quite unable to stop her. "And yet we cannot simply stand by while he escapes. We must act."

Maggie brainstormed for a moment, watching powerlessly as the perpetrator continued on his merry way. "Wait!" Holmes shouted, causing her to flinch. "There was a constable inside the coffee shop! He was not in uniform, but I noticed a law enforcement badge on the waistband of his trousers."

"Is there anything you don't notice?" she asked, unable to hold back a smile of pride. "All right, let's go back in. I don't know what I'm going to say to him."

Leaving her coffees on top of her car, she raced back inside, purposefully ignoring the gaze of the married man who had asked her out. Holmes pointed out a blond, broad-shouldered man in jeans and a blazer, sitting at a corner table, and she dashed over to him. He looked up at her as she cleared her throat.

"Hi," she began hesitantly. "This might sound a little strange, but there's a guy in the parking lot over there, and I think he's stolen a suitcase."

The blond man raised his eyebrows in interest. "Oh?" he said. "What makes you think so?"

She cast a pleading glance at Holmes, but the detective was standing at the window, evidently keeping a diligent eye on his quarry. "Look, it's hard to explain, but he's kind of getting away, so do you think you could just go and ask him about it? Please?" She clasped her hands in supplication.

After what seemed like an eternity passed as the man scrutinized her, he finally rose to his feet, towering over her. "All right, I'll check it out," he answered, tossing his empty cup in the trash bin. "But don't follow me. Stay here, just in case there's any trouble."

She nodded rapidly, standing to one side as he strode swiftly out of the shop. Looking out the window, Maggie mentally willed the police officer to walk faster. He hurried across the parking lot, catching up to the man with the suitcase. With a tap on the shoulder, he stopped him and said something. Though Maggie could not hear what was being said, it was clear that he was inquiring about the suitcase. At once the man broke into a sprint, abandoning the luggage on the sidewalk. The officer easily overtook him, grabbing and handcuffing him with little effort. The entire incident had taken less than a minute.

Maggie could hardly believe what she had just seen. She turned to Holmes, and he simply smiled.

As the policeman walked the man over to a squad car on the far side of the parking lot and shoved him in the back, Maggie slowly ventured outside and shut the door behind her, Holmes close at her heels. Retrieving the suitcase, the officer came back to her, a bemused look on his face.

"You were right," he said. "He'd stolen it from a cab driver who was putting it in the trunk for his fare. How did you know?"

She shrugged with a nervous laugh. "It wasn't a big deal, really," she replied. "The name on the tag was a woman's name. Plus he looked super guilty."

"You saw that from way over here?" He shook his head. "And how'd you know I was a police officer?"

"Oh, from the, uh... badge on your belt." Maggie felt more than a little deceitful for claiming Holmes' good deed.

The policeman smiled. "Well, you've got a good eye, at any rate, Miss...?"

"Hill. Maggie Hill."

"Lieutenant Justin Aldridge." He shook her hand firmly, nearly crushing it. "Nice job, Miss Hill. Ever think about detective work?" Maggie laughed awkwardly, wishing he would just go away. "Do you have a number where we can reach you in case we need an official statement?"

She handed him one of her business cards, and he tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. "Thank you very much, Miss Hill. I hope you have a wonderful day."

"You too," she said vaguely as he put the suitcase in his car and drove off. She walked to her own car and mechanically opened the door for Holmes without realizing how strange it might have looked. Then she went around to the driver's side and slid in beside him.

For a long moment she simply stared at him in unconcealed admiration. "Holmes," she finally said, "you are amazing."

If Holmes could have blushed, she truly believed he would have. He suddenly found his fingernails endlessly fascinating, and his thin mouth was twitching as if he were trying desperately not to smile. "My dear, ingenuous child, there was nothing at all impressive in it," he said. "I have merely trained myself to notice things. But I thank you all the same for humoring an old hound."

She started the car and pulled out into the street. "I'm just sorry I took all the credit for your work," she said regretfully. "I feel like a total fraud. But I didn't know what else to tell the guy, except, 'My invisible friend Sherlock Holmes is positive about this.' Somehow I don't think that would have gone well."

"No indeed," he replied dryly. "There is no reason to apologize, however. I care nothing for the credit; the work is its own reward. Particularly now, after many long years of painful inaction." He studied her for a moment out of the corner of his eye. "The young lieutenant brought up an interesting notion about detective work, did he not?"

"Well, I told you, I think it's— no, no, no," she said quickly. "I already know where you're going with this. Look, I know you've been alone for a long time, and you're all anxious to get back to work, and I really feel for you. But I can't help you with that."

Holmes leaned toward her in his intensity. "But Maggie, consider," he said earnestly. "Consider what we could accomplish if we worked together."

"Oh, Holmes..."

"We could do this city good, Maggie. Do you not want to help people?"

"Of course I do! But I already have a job. And it's far less stressful than detective work — not to mention less dangerous. The only mystery I have to solve is who forged their parent's signature on their absent slips. And I like it that way. I'd take that over being shot or blown up any day."

Holmes was silent for a long while, simply regarding her with his piercing gray eyes. At last he sat back with a resigned slump to his shoulders. "Yes," he said quietly. "You are right, of course. I could not with a clear conscience allow you to endanger yourself for my sake. It was selfish and improper of me to think of it."

Maggie sighed. "No, it wasn't. You're just restless, that's all." She smiled. "You crave brainwork."

Holmes smiled faintly. There was a short silence between them. Then: "Maggie?"

"Hmm?"

"I believe your coffee is still on the roof of your car."

"Oh, crud!" She slammed unthinkingly on the brakes, and coffee and ice cascaded spectacularly down the windshield.


Hahahah... Who saw that coming? Ah, I see. Everyone. Anyway, things are starting to pick up, finally. Or at least, some foreshadowing of things to come. Boy I loved writing this chapter! I hope you loved reading it. Please review before you go-go, and I'll get to work on chapter seven.

-Bix