Chapter VII

"And your gentleman friend will be there, of course?" Veronica Beaconsfield asked for the fifth time as we made the cold walk from the station to 221.

"I wish you would stop calling him that, Ronnie," I said irritatedly. The ridiculous dress which my friend had chosen for me, flattering as it may have been, was completely impractical for my customary long strides. "But yes, Mr. Holmes will be there."

It was the evening of my eighteenth birthday. The last week had been spent celebrating Christmas and the New Year with Ronnie and her family, it being my first chance to spend much time with her since I had made her acquaintance the previous summer on a London case. We had shopped and gossipped and been real, proper young ladies, and I was more than ready to reenter the familiar world of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and the eclectic sitting room of 221B.

On our last shopping expedition, Ronnie had come with me to the fitting of the new wardrobe I had purchased a week in advance. I had been forwarded a small sum of money from my parents' fortune for the occasion of my birthday, and I had spent most of it on the new clothes. Most were as practical as I could get away with, all broad, maneuverable skirts, high collars, and comfortable waists. The confection currently impeding my stride, however, was the epitome of grace.

It was purple velvet which draped just so to give the impression of hips where there were really only rail-thin legs, then swept the ground with an almost confidential whisper. My waist, at least, was of a fashionable size, and my corset did the rest of the shaping and padding. The collar was still high, as was practical for the January weather and to hide the scars of the accident which had killed my family. Cascading down the front was a strip of black and white lace-like pattern, which widened and shrank to give the impression of a fuller figure.

Over this glorious monstrosity was a creamy white coat, which Ronnie insisted clashed but which I loved because it reminded me of the snow and the heavy sky. My hands were tucked securely into a white muff but the tips of my ears and my nose were bright pink with the cold.

"Well, I hope that he is there, and that you haven't been leading me on this whole time," Ronnie said playfully. "This Mr. Holmes sounds rather too good to be true!"

I rolled my eyes. "Here we are, Ronnie, so please try not to embarrass me."

She winked. "I would hate to ruin your chances with your gentleman friend!" I gritted my teeth, already regretting mixing these two worlds, and knocked firmly on the door.

Mrs. Hudson opened it and smiled warmly, pulling me into a hug. "Welcome back, Miss Russell!"

The last year, I had not been officially working at Baker Street. The closet was still open for my use, I still had a key, and I still regularly helped to prepare meals, but I was also engaged with my tutelage. Besides that, my own research into various matters and my continued apprenticeship with Holmes had made any job with regular hours difficult to manage. It had been most of a month since I had been at 221 for more than a brief visit.

For this reason as much as my affection for the lady, I returned her embrace enthusiastically. When I pulled away, I gestured to my friend rather halfheartedly. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Lady Veronica Beaconsfield. Ronnie, Mrs. Hudson."

Ronnie held out a hand to shake, which Mrs. Hudson took cautiously. "Splendid to meet you at last, Ma'am! I've heard so many wonderful things about you," she gushed.

"Yes," said Mrs. Hudson delicately when she finally extricated herself. "Quite."

We were led upstairs, as the party was to take place in 221B. I grinned as we approached; lively violin music spilled from the warmly-lit doorway, and I could hear Watson laughing. I was not disappointed when the room came into view, for colorful streamers were tossed haphazardly about the place and candles and lamps sat on every surface, some in colored glass vases to throw rainbow sparks across the walls.

Holmes had his back to me, facing the fire and playing with all his attention as he had that night over two years ago. Watson stood, glass in hand, and nearly yelled "Welcome, Mary! Many happy returns!" as I crossed the threshold.

I laughed, delighted with the entire scene. "Thank you, Uncle John!" This man who was just over ten years my senior was the closest thing that I had to a father, and his kindly expression was always a welcome sight.

I could feel Ronnie tugging the coat from my shoulders so I let it slide loose and placed my muff on the table by the door. Suddenly I felt self-conscious in my strange, fashionable dress, so I took the only option available to me and patted my hair in a way that I hoped hid my face. Then, when I felt ready to face the room again, I pushed my spectacles back up my nose and looked up.

This was just in time to see Holmes turn around, his bow mid-stroke, and catch sight of me. His eyes widened and the chord ended in a startled wail as his arm froze. I looked down at myself, half expecting to see some gruesome creature sprouting from my chest to illicit that reaction, and saw only my body. The body of a woman, I suddenly realized. Tall and gangly, yes, but a woman nonetheless, and one that might even appear beautiful when softened by the candlelight.

I grinned and curtseyed, suddenly confident. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

For a few seconds, I feared that Holmes might actually faint. Indeed, he went so pale and leaned so far backwards that I had taken a step forward when he righted himself, took a steadying step, and composed his features.

"Good evening, Miss Russell," he responded formally. He looked at Ronnie, who looked as though she was trying to contain a squeal of delight. "And who might this be?"

"Ronnie, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, Lady Veronica Beaconsfield."

Holmes bowed politely and Ronnie inclined her head. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes! Mary was effusive in her praise."

I glared at my friend and Holmes looked amused. "Is that so? Well, I fear that she may have exaggerated."

A silence fell which dragged on until it became awkward. Holmes was clearly trying not to laugh at my embarrassment. After several seconds, I clapped my hands. "Is that sherry, Uncle John? It's rather cold out, I think I could do with a glass."

The conversation ground into motion and the rest of the evening passed relatively uneventfully. Ronnie found that she got along rather well with Watson, interested in nursing as she was. The five of us ate together, all crowded around the little table in 221B. Holmes especially seemed to be in his element and made a special effort to keep everyone's glass full and the anecdotes flowing just as freely.

When it came time for gifts, my friends bustled me over to a chair and all stood around me, watching excitedly as I undid the frivolous bows and paper. Mrs. Hudson gave me a lovely hatpin with a small, sparkling sapphire for decoration, which I could tell Ronnie coveted. I thanked her profusely but knew in my heart that I had no use for anything so beautiful.

As a joke, Ronnie "completed my wardrobe," as she happily announced, with a new set of male clothing. It was suitably baggy and misshapen to pass for old and dilapidated on the streets, but had no telltale holes and worn patches. It would do much more to keep me warm than my old set and looked as though it might actually fit me. The entire ensemble was complete with a worn but sturdy pair of boots that looked as though they might be passed on from a gardener. I hugged her and laughed and assured her that I would throw out my old things.

Watson, rather red-faced and embarrassed, provided a warm shawl. "I know you probably have nicer things," he said hurriedly, "but nothing will keep you warmer."

Holmes's gift came last. He handed me a small box wrapped only in white paper, and his hand lingered on it briefly as though he disliked to part with it. Carefully, almost painfully slowly, I unwrapped the object and slid open the lid.

Inside was a round silver locket with delicate vine and bird patterns engraved on the cover. It lay heavy in my hand and I could tell immediately that it was precious.

"It belonged to my mother," Holmes explained quietly. Then he cleared his throat and added, "Press the catch."

I ducked my head and examined the locket to hide the tears in my eyes. Holmes clearly valued this possession greatly, and to entrust it to me was a show of friendship greater than anything I had expected. Every time I thought that I knew the man, thought that I could define the odd relationship which was like a razor-sharp thread of glass between us, he surprised me.

I pressed the catch as instructed and the locket flew open to reveal the face of a delicate watch. The hands were shaped like the spades on a deck of playing cards, so slim and mirrored that they were almost invisible. Stately roman numerals edged the face and a gentle ticking, so warm and soft that it reminded me of a bird's heartbeat, thrummed against my hand.

My eyes met his and I knew that they were visibly brimming with tears. "Holmes. I don't know what to say." I looked at the watch again, searching for a word to describe such mechanical grace. "It's… stunning."

"Isn't it?" Holmes stepped forward and lifted the watch by its seemingly-liquid chain. "Here."

He ducked to fasten the clasp. I saw Mrs. Hudson speaking to Dr. Watson as though through a wall of rippled glass, saw Ronnie waggling her eyebrows suggestively from where she was trapped outside of this moment. I could hear her voice calling Holmes my gentleman friend, and then I realized how much I longed to lean back so that his nimble fingers would brush my neck.

Before Ronnie had made her assumptions, I had never considered Holmes as a man before, not really, and certainly not in any romantic light. But now that the idea was in my head I could feel his presence so strongly, like a magnetic pull behind me and I just wanted to lean into him, to sit in front of the fire with our shoulders touching, just to embrace him and not fear that he would pull away in surprise and disgust-

"It suits you." I startled out of the manic ramblings of my mind to see that Holmes was once again standing in front of me, a soft smile playing about his mouth. I could feel the weight of the watch and its gentle ticking against my breastbone.

I wanted to say something. The quasi-logical part of my mind wanted to just ask, to clarify the nature of our relationship, to ask Holmes to stop looking at me like I was a real person and go back to treating me like a mechanized assistant if that was how he thought of me. Then the true logic intervened before I could spoil my evening.

My hand drifted up to rest on the precious gift. "Thank you, Holmes. I will treasure it." He nodded, as if to say that he would not have given it to me if he didn't believe that I would, and suddenly the moment had passed.

Damned sherry, I thought irritable. Russell, you know more than anyone that you can't drink to save your life. You need to sleep it off.

So after less than an hour more of cheerful conversation and struggling to stay awake in front of the hypnotizing fire, I made sure that Ronnie was comfortable getting home alone and excused myself to my closet.

"It was a wonderful evening everyone," I said over and over as I made my retreat. "Thank you so much. No, Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid I don't have room for even another bite of the tart. Yes, it was delicious. Yes, I do have some nightclothes. Yes. Thank you. A wonderful evening."

Thankfully I soon escaped and nearly ran down the stairs to the cool and darkness of my closet. I only stood breathing heavily in the pitch black for a moment before feeling my way through undressing and slipping under the covers of the mattress on the floor. The drink and the internal turmoil battled for a few minutes, but I fell asleep almost immediately.


I awoke suddenly from another nightmare. They were less frequent now but just as vivid, and as I struggled to free myself from the groggy fingers of sleep the terror was very real.

Eventually, I remembered where I was and where the matches and candles were, so I lit one and breathed evenly in a few more minutes, letting the light do its work. The watch Holmes had given me was still around my neck, and its tiny heartbeat mirrored my own in an oddly comforting way.

I decided that I needed to walk for a minute, so I stood, blew out the candle, and crept out onto the landing. Here I could still see, albeit dimly, and I heard a clock downstairs chime three. Not unusually, however, I could hear violin music flowing down the stairs. I debated briefly with my better judgment and eventually tiptoed up to the door of 221B, prepared to escape at any moment.

The streamers were still strewn about the room and a few candles still guttered in their perches. The fire was barely more than embers, yet still Holmes stood in front of it, drawing that strange, thoughtful tune from the violin. I suddenly recognized it as the waltz he had played on that rainy October day before our first case together.

I leaned against the door and listened for several minutes, not belying my presence by breath nor by motion. Holmes did not dance with the tune tonight, but only stood and stared into the fire as he played.

After perhaps four minutes, the song reached its finale with a showy arpeggio and Holmes let the instrument fall from his shoulder to hang lifelessly opposite the bow. He stood like this for most of a minute while I watched, feeling that I was intruding but too nervous to move in the sudden silence. Then, all of a sudden, he lashed out with a foot to kick his soft chair. When he collided with it and the wooden frame beneath the cushions, he uttered a low cry and tossed his violin into the chair opposite before throwing himself down into the offending furniture, resting his head wearily in one hand.

I saw no more, for I withdrew stealthily, frightened for some reason by this second uncharacteristic show of emotion, and stole back to my closet to spend several more hours in wakefulness before the ticking of the watch lulled me back into an uneasy slumber.


At what point does writing fanfiction become a diagnosable problem? Send help. :-P Haha in all seriousness this story is RIDICULOUSLY fun to write, please review so I know what people like!