//Sorry for leaving you at such a cliffhanger-y part in the story! *sigh* I apologize... Yes, you're right, I'm evil... Sure, throw stuff at me if you want. Anyway, here's the next chapter to make up for it. As always, I own nothing. The rights to Sherlock Holmes are owned by a genius named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.//
Hinc Illae Lacrimae
Chapter 9: ¿Qué Si?
Oh, of course, Holmes decides to do this to me *now*.
Swearing sharply to try to keep down the tears, I rushed into the detective's room with Watson at my heels. Not caring about the possibility of Burnwell or one of his lackeys blowing my head off, I went to the window and looked out. Holmes was nowhere in sight. I didn't expect him to be anyway.
"My god," whispered Watson, shaking his head in disbelief, "I had never thought he was serious about leaving London. Although he did not sound as if he were joking, I just assumed--"
"Doc, look!" I pointed to a small, folded slip of paper on Holmes's pillow. Well, I guess when a person wants to leave everyone who cares about him in the freakin' dirt, he might as well leave a note. After all, it's tradition, right?
Watson picked the note up and unfolded it, reading it aloud. "'As much as it pains me to leave you both, I am afraid it is the only option. I know it is difficult to accept, Watson, but it is for the best. And Crewe, I am truly sorry. I beg you not to hold this against me, for I do not think I could bear it. I am glad that chance brought us together, if only for a short while, and believe me when I say that I am sincerely yours, Sherlock Holmes.' That stubborn fool! What can he be--"
"Not the best time for insults, Doc," I said, brushing past him and snatching the note from his fingers. He looked at me, badly flustered, as I strode quickly to the closet and pulled on my overcoat.
"Where on earth do you think you're going at this--"
"There's only one place he could be, Watson!" I shouted, trying to get through to him as I yanked open the front door and ran out into the wet street. Oh, rain. As if I didn't have enough problems. Yeah, thanks, I appreciate it.
"I *do* wish you would let me finish my sentences!" called Watson in frustration as raced down the steps after me, still trying to get his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. As I waved my hands frantically to hail a cab, he caught up with me. "Where do you believe Holmes to be?" he asked.
As a hansom pulled to a stop, I climbed inside and moved to the far side while Watson got in after me. "If his intent is to leave London, the fastest way out is by train, right?" I leaned forward and tapped the driver's shoulder, maybe a little hard. "To the train station, and I don't care if you whip that horse half to death(okay, so I did, I like horses), for God's sake *hurry*!"
"Are you absolutely sure it's him?" the doctor whispered. We stood together outside one of the rooms in the last car of the midnight train to Belgium, talking in hushed voices. As the train began to move, Watson sighed. "If it's not, we are in for quite a long ride, and in vain."
I shook my head. "It's him, I know it," I replied, looking through the screened window into the room. The only occupant was a tall, slender man with a black moustache, a grey trenchcoat, and round glasses, reading a newspaper with unmistakable primness on the cushioned bench. Nice disguise, dearest. No, really, I applaud you.
"How in heaven's name can you tell?" asked Watson.
I turned back to him and rolled my eyes. "You may not be able to see through his ingenious disguises, but I can tell." I smiled. "Just by looking in his eyes."
Watson smiled back. "I believe I shall look for a vacant room down the hall. You can catch up with me when you are finished if you wish."
"You're a gem, Watson," I whispered, hugging him tightly. He smiled slightly and winked, mouthing a silent "Good luck" and walked down the hall to a room on the other end of the car.
*Bless you, John Watson,* I thought, taking a deep breath. Opening the door with a soft creak, I stepped into the room and sat down opposite the bespectacled man, smiling politely. Maybe I could put a bigger guilt trip on him if I pretended I didn't know who he was. He smiled slightly back, then looked out the window. Ooh, he was good. Not as good as me, I'm afraid.
Brushing the wrinkles out of my dress, I commented, "Stormy night."
"Quite," he replied, nodding.
"I almost reconsidered going outside, if it hadn't been for the reason I had to come," I said, sighing.
I could tell he was trying to mask his curiosity. "You don't say?" he said, setting his newspaper on the seat beside him. "What made you come?"
Looking down at my feet, I shook my head. "It wasn't a 'what', but a 'who'. Maybe you've heard of Sherlock Holmes?" I cast him an innocent glance.
"I have heard the rumors," he said slowly. "His reputation is an impressive one." Oh, darling, you're a master of disguise *and* modest?
"Well," I said quietly, my fists twisting the fabric of my dress, "I'm a close friend of his. Or at least I thought I was. But now he's gone--" I bit my lip, "and I think it's because of me."
He looked at me with his attentive eyes, not bothering to conceal his concern. Poor Holmes. Why did you think you could fool me? "Pray continue, dear lady. I do not quite understand your statement. Sherlock Holmes left because of you?"
My lowered lip quivered, which made him shift in his seat. I take pleasure in plucking at the ol' heartstrings. "Yes," I said, blinking back convincing tears. "I don't think he knew how much he meant to me, because I never told him. That's why I'm on this train." I could hear my voice breaking. My, I'm a good little actress! "I have to find him again!"
The room's other occupant was clearly uncomfortable, and I suppose I had made him suffer enough. Suddenly I composed myself and drew his letter out of my coat pocket. "The game is up, Holmes," I said smugly, leaning forward to tear off his false moustache.
His mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened in disbelief. "How did you know?"
"How did I know?" I repeated angrily, standing up and folding my arms over my chest. "I should be the one asking the questions, you heartless jerk! How could you do that to Watson and to me? Did you even think about how much it would hurt us?"
"Crewe, please," he said, taking off his glasses and standing up in protest.
"Just shut up, okay? Shut up!" I snapped, real tears springing to my eyes. I hated being mad at him, but I had to tell him how much pain he had unnecessarily caused me. "You know, Holmes, you are really something. You think that you have to do things by yourself, that you can't rely on anyone. You always have to be alone." I shook my head fiercely. "But what if you weren't alone? What if you had someone who cared about you, someone who loved having you around, who would do anything for you?" I looked up at him, choking back a sob. "What if you had me?"
Seconds felt like hours as Holmes stared deep into my eyes. Neither of us spoke. It seemed like an eternity passed.
Then without a word, he stepped forward and drew me into his arms, rubbing my back soothingly. "I am so sorry, Crewe," he said softly, his voice muffled by my hair. "I did not want to leave you, but I... I'm not sure what I would do if anything were to happen to you. I would rather be torn from you forever than to see you get hurt."
"But I would rather die than be torn from you forever," I answered, feeling his lean muscles move as he tightened his hold on me.
His lips close to my ear, his low voice sent shivers down my spine. "...Amanda..." Good Lord, he actually *said my name*.
My heart started beating faster, if that was possible. "Yes... Sherlock?"
I felt his fingers slowly sink into my mass of russet curls as he whispered, "I... I l--"
"Truly sorry to interrupt this tender moment, but I am afraid we have business to discuss."
We turned in surprise to see a lean young man with dingy blonde hair smiling cheerfully at us. Holmes narrowed his eyes, pulling me behind him protectively. I might have mistaken the man for my cousin who lived in Chicago... only with a revolver in his hand. "George Burnwell, delighted to see you again, Miss Crewe," he said in a friendly voice. "A pity our last meeting did not have the results I could have hoped for."
//*dodges rotten fruit and vegetables* I PROMISE, I'll have another chapter up soon. If I have time. *steps to the side as a broken botle is thrown at her* Okay, now THAT was uncalled for! Seriously, you won't have to wait long. As if I had anything better to do than write this story. ^_^;;//
Hinc Illae Lacrimae
Chapter 9: ¿Qué Si?
Oh, of course, Holmes decides to do this to me *now*.
Swearing sharply to try to keep down the tears, I rushed into the detective's room with Watson at my heels. Not caring about the possibility of Burnwell or one of his lackeys blowing my head off, I went to the window and looked out. Holmes was nowhere in sight. I didn't expect him to be anyway.
"My god," whispered Watson, shaking his head in disbelief, "I had never thought he was serious about leaving London. Although he did not sound as if he were joking, I just assumed--"
"Doc, look!" I pointed to a small, folded slip of paper on Holmes's pillow. Well, I guess when a person wants to leave everyone who cares about him in the freakin' dirt, he might as well leave a note. After all, it's tradition, right?
Watson picked the note up and unfolded it, reading it aloud. "'As much as it pains me to leave you both, I am afraid it is the only option. I know it is difficult to accept, Watson, but it is for the best. And Crewe, I am truly sorry. I beg you not to hold this against me, for I do not think I could bear it. I am glad that chance brought us together, if only for a short while, and believe me when I say that I am sincerely yours, Sherlock Holmes.' That stubborn fool! What can he be--"
"Not the best time for insults, Doc," I said, brushing past him and snatching the note from his fingers. He looked at me, badly flustered, as I strode quickly to the closet and pulled on my overcoat.
"Where on earth do you think you're going at this--"
"There's only one place he could be, Watson!" I shouted, trying to get through to him as I yanked open the front door and ran out into the wet street. Oh, rain. As if I didn't have enough problems. Yeah, thanks, I appreciate it.
"I *do* wish you would let me finish my sentences!" called Watson in frustration as raced down the steps after me, still trying to get his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. As I waved my hands frantically to hail a cab, he caught up with me. "Where do you believe Holmes to be?" he asked.
As a hansom pulled to a stop, I climbed inside and moved to the far side while Watson got in after me. "If his intent is to leave London, the fastest way out is by train, right?" I leaned forward and tapped the driver's shoulder, maybe a little hard. "To the train station, and I don't care if you whip that horse half to death(okay, so I did, I like horses), for God's sake *hurry*!"
"Are you absolutely sure it's him?" the doctor whispered. We stood together outside one of the rooms in the last car of the midnight train to Belgium, talking in hushed voices. As the train began to move, Watson sighed. "If it's not, we are in for quite a long ride, and in vain."
I shook my head. "It's him, I know it," I replied, looking through the screened window into the room. The only occupant was a tall, slender man with a black moustache, a grey trenchcoat, and round glasses, reading a newspaper with unmistakable primness on the cushioned bench. Nice disguise, dearest. No, really, I applaud you.
"How in heaven's name can you tell?" asked Watson.
I turned back to him and rolled my eyes. "You may not be able to see through his ingenious disguises, but I can tell." I smiled. "Just by looking in his eyes."
Watson smiled back. "I believe I shall look for a vacant room down the hall. You can catch up with me when you are finished if you wish."
"You're a gem, Watson," I whispered, hugging him tightly. He smiled slightly and winked, mouthing a silent "Good luck" and walked down the hall to a room on the other end of the car.
*Bless you, John Watson,* I thought, taking a deep breath. Opening the door with a soft creak, I stepped into the room and sat down opposite the bespectacled man, smiling politely. Maybe I could put a bigger guilt trip on him if I pretended I didn't know who he was. He smiled slightly back, then looked out the window. Ooh, he was good. Not as good as me, I'm afraid.
Brushing the wrinkles out of my dress, I commented, "Stormy night."
"Quite," he replied, nodding.
"I almost reconsidered going outside, if it hadn't been for the reason I had to come," I said, sighing.
I could tell he was trying to mask his curiosity. "You don't say?" he said, setting his newspaper on the seat beside him. "What made you come?"
Looking down at my feet, I shook my head. "It wasn't a 'what', but a 'who'. Maybe you've heard of Sherlock Holmes?" I cast him an innocent glance.
"I have heard the rumors," he said slowly. "His reputation is an impressive one." Oh, darling, you're a master of disguise *and* modest?
"Well," I said quietly, my fists twisting the fabric of my dress, "I'm a close friend of his. Or at least I thought I was. But now he's gone--" I bit my lip, "and I think it's because of me."
He looked at me with his attentive eyes, not bothering to conceal his concern. Poor Holmes. Why did you think you could fool me? "Pray continue, dear lady. I do not quite understand your statement. Sherlock Holmes left because of you?"
My lowered lip quivered, which made him shift in his seat. I take pleasure in plucking at the ol' heartstrings. "Yes," I said, blinking back convincing tears. "I don't think he knew how much he meant to me, because I never told him. That's why I'm on this train." I could hear my voice breaking. My, I'm a good little actress! "I have to find him again!"
The room's other occupant was clearly uncomfortable, and I suppose I had made him suffer enough. Suddenly I composed myself and drew his letter out of my coat pocket. "The game is up, Holmes," I said smugly, leaning forward to tear off his false moustache.
His mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened in disbelief. "How did you know?"
"How did I know?" I repeated angrily, standing up and folding my arms over my chest. "I should be the one asking the questions, you heartless jerk! How could you do that to Watson and to me? Did you even think about how much it would hurt us?"
"Crewe, please," he said, taking off his glasses and standing up in protest.
"Just shut up, okay? Shut up!" I snapped, real tears springing to my eyes. I hated being mad at him, but I had to tell him how much pain he had unnecessarily caused me. "You know, Holmes, you are really something. You think that you have to do things by yourself, that you can't rely on anyone. You always have to be alone." I shook my head fiercely. "But what if you weren't alone? What if you had someone who cared about you, someone who loved having you around, who would do anything for you?" I looked up at him, choking back a sob. "What if you had me?"
Seconds felt like hours as Holmes stared deep into my eyes. Neither of us spoke. It seemed like an eternity passed.
Then without a word, he stepped forward and drew me into his arms, rubbing my back soothingly. "I am so sorry, Crewe," he said softly, his voice muffled by my hair. "I did not want to leave you, but I... I'm not sure what I would do if anything were to happen to you. I would rather be torn from you forever than to see you get hurt."
"But I would rather die than be torn from you forever," I answered, feeling his lean muscles move as he tightened his hold on me.
His lips close to my ear, his low voice sent shivers down my spine. "...Amanda..." Good Lord, he actually *said my name*.
My heart started beating faster, if that was possible. "Yes... Sherlock?"
I felt his fingers slowly sink into my mass of russet curls as he whispered, "I... I l--"
"Truly sorry to interrupt this tender moment, but I am afraid we have business to discuss."
We turned in surprise to see a lean young man with dingy blonde hair smiling cheerfully at us. Holmes narrowed his eyes, pulling me behind him protectively. I might have mistaken the man for my cousin who lived in Chicago... only with a revolver in his hand. "George Burnwell, delighted to see you again, Miss Crewe," he said in a friendly voice. "A pity our last meeting did not have the results I could have hoped for."
//*dodges rotten fruit and vegetables* I PROMISE, I'll have another chapter up soon. If I have time. *steps to the side as a broken botle is thrown at her* Okay, now THAT was uncalled for! Seriously, you won't have to wait long. As if I had anything better to do than write this story. ^_^;;//
