Anne

"So exactly what medication was he on?" Mr. Holmes asked, frowning fiercely and absent-mindedly pushing his delicious, un-eaten slice of ham and egg pie (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson) around his plate.

"Less talking, more eating," I reminded him sternly.

He gave an exaggerate scowl and stared down at his plate, obviously more interested in talking about the case. He glanced up, giving me a pleading look. "Do I have to?" he whined, mimicking the voice of a small child, evidently teasing me about my authoritative teacher mind-set.

I smiled. For some reason, I quite liked it when he behaved like a petulant child. "Yes!" I replied severely. "And I don't care what you say about not being able to spare energy for digestion, or whatever it is – if you starve yourself that brain will be no use to you at all, digestion or no digestion!"

He rolled his eyes and then gave a sudden, unexpected grin. He hacked off a small piece of the pie, regarded it for a moment with a suspicious glare and then popped it into his mouth. He chewed briskly for a moment and then swallowed with an effort.

"There," he said, sounding bored. "Can I talk again, now?"

I tried to sigh disapprovingly, but ended up smiling. "Yes, I suppose."

He beamed. "Excellent! So?"

I gave in. "I'm not sure exactly what medication he was on, to be honest. He had a heart condition – that's all I know. He was a very private man, you see."

"Hm," he said, scowling still more. "It would be useful if we knew the name of the drug."

"Sorry," I said apologetically.

"Ah, no matter…" Vaguely, he cut another piece of pie, and ate that too. I allowed myself another small smile. "Tampered with…" he said thoughtfully. "Well, at least the motive for your uncle's death is clearer than that for your mysterious letters."

"Yes," I agreed. "Money seems the obvious choice. George, Violet and Elsie each get a third of a fairly massive estate." My brow creased. It was very hard considering your family members as possible murderers.

"Do not forget the obscure cousin in Cornwall," Mr. Holmes reminded me. "Though I think they would hardly have ample opportunity to fiddle with his medication from hundreds of miles away." He paused. "The money is the obvious motive, yes. Of course, not the only one, but I think that might possibly be a presumption we could fairly reasonably rely on."

"Now, the matter of this medication is, I think, a crucial one, especially in establishing means and opportunity." He paused for a moment. "It's a shame neither of us are doctors," he mused quietly. "Though, I have to say, your bandaging is first class."

"Thank you," I said, surprised.

He frowned. "Sorry, but would you mind fetching a box of British Medical Journals under the bed in your room… I would go, except… Well… I have a feeling that running up stairs would be not a sensible course of action at the present time."

"You're right, for once," I said firmly. "Stay here."

I dashed up the stairs to what had been Watson's room and grabbed the box of magazines. I staggered down the stairs with them again and Mr. Holmes greeted me with an exclamation of delight.

"Capital! Let's have a look!"

Holmes

As she pattered up the stairs again, I pondered my state of mind. I was still shaken by the hallucination of earlier, though the horror had already dulled slightly. But what I was even more aware of was the fact that right now, I was sitting with a smile on my face, for no apparent reason.

Well, evidently there was a reason.

Even when Watson had still been with me, I had been prone to sudden bouts of depression (or my "black moods" as he called them), and I would become introspective and withdraw for days on end, particularly when I had no case to solve, and even Watson's endless cheerful cajoling failed to enliven me. Life didn't seem worth living, sometimes. Despite every criminal we removed from the streets, every day more people were stolen from, blackmailed, and murdered. Watson's task was indeed a hopeless one, and now I felt a deep tug of regret that I had never properly thanked him for looking after me when I decided that death would be preferable to life, for dragging me outside, (even in the foulest weather) to see the outside world instead of lounging in the stuffy smoke-filled atmosphere of my rooms, for just being there – a steady, loyal, reliable presence.

I missed him.

But even if Anne, in some ways, could not match up to my old friend, in other aspects she was clearly… Superior was not the correct word, but it was the only one that sprang to mind. It seemed callous to compare them in such a way, but my mind could not resist.

Anne had just something about her, an unmistakeable but indefinable joie de vivre – she brightened up the room just by being it. I reflected on how in the last hour I had smiled (continuously), laughed (often), frowned in mock disapproval, play-acted and teased (too many times to be considered entirely professional).

And I had told her about me – more than I had ever told another human being before. The sense of joyous release was exhilarating – it made me feel reckless and giddy. And I felt none of the embarrassment and shame that I had previously predicted would be the result of such a declaration (the reason I had avoided the subject so determinedly). Instead I felt liberated. Anne had accepted everything I had said – she had not judged or pestered or questioned.

Not to mention the fact that she had certainly seen my various self-inflicted wounds (whether with a cocaine needle or a clumsy pen-knife), and instead of taking the logical course of action and fleeing from such an obviously emotionally damaged individual, she had stayed with me, bandaged my injuries, and then endeavoured to look after me.

I sighed quietly. Not falling for her was becoming increasingly difficult.

She returned with the box, and I smiled. "Capital! Let's have a look!"

I picked out one of them at random and skipped through the contents page quickly, discarding it when there was no mention of heart medication. With a theatrical sigh, Anne picked it up and replaced it neatly at the end of the box.

Thirty-three issues later, I struck gold. "Aha!" I said triumphantly, flicking to the correct page, before groaning in disgust.

"What is it?" Anne asked quickly.

"It's all in some kind of indecipherable medical terms," I complained "Tachycardia… Arrhythmia… It may as well be in Hebrew." I threw the magazine aside belligerently. "We need an expert."

An idea fluttered into my head, and I dived into my desk, surfacing with a pen, envelope and piece of notepaper. Anne leaned over curiously as I scribbled the note:

Dr. Jackson,

Medical information on case essential. Come at once.

Sherlock Holmes.

"A little blunt, maybe?" Anne queried.

I shrugged. "He'll live."

I scrawled his name on the envelope, stuffed the note inside, and sealed it. "Right, then. Watch and learn."

I shifted my chair to the window, stood up carefully, flung it open, and stuck my head out.

Anne

I watched, intrigued, as he gave a sharp, piercing whistle, and a small boy lounging about aimlessly in the street below started. Mr. Holmes frowned in concentration and whistled again. The boy aimlessly looked about, looking for the source of the sound.

"Over here!" Mr. Holmes called impatiently, and the filthy, freckled face squinted up at us.

"Whatcha want, Mister Holmes?"

"Fancy earning yourself a half crown?"

"Yeah!"

"Have you got a good memory?"

The small boy's face crinkled up, obviously weighing up the benefits and potential consequences of exaggerating his powers of recollection. A moment later, he decided to risk it.

"Yeah!"

"Excellent."

Mr. Holmes dropped the envelope neatly to the street. "Right, I want you to take that to Tommy Phelps – do you know him?"

"Yeah!"

It seemed to be his catchphrase.

"Give it to him, and ask him to take it to Dr. Jackson, in Harley Street, and then report back to me. When you've done that, come back here and I'll give you your money, understand?"

"Yeah!"

"Excellent."

The boy scampered away, and Mr. Holmes moved back from the window with a triumphant grin.

"Is he one of the Baker Street Irregulars?" I asked curiously.

Mr. Holmes shook his head, and sat back down in his chair. He looked a little pale, and I wondered if he had overexerted himself. "No, but I think he's a good candidate."

"Are you sure he won't just come back and ask for the money without handing over the letter?"

Mr. Holmes smiled. "I shouldn't think so. All the street urchins know me by reputation now – I think they think I'd hand them over to Scotland Yard if they tried to double-cross me, which is fairly useful."

"And… What was his name…? Wiggins? Is Wiggins still the chief of them?" I questioned eagerly.

Mr. Holmes hesitated and glanced away. "No – he left. I think he… He grew out of the whole thing. He got fed up of taking orders from a mad old man, I suppose."

"I'm sure he didn't think that!" I said teasingly.

"I think he did," he replied drily. "He told me that himself. We had a bit of a falling out."

I must have looked very surprised, because he gave a dry laugh and half turned away again. I felt guilty for having brought up the topic at all, and tried to change the subject.

"Erm…. So who is this Dr. Jackson?" I asked quickly, and he looked grateful for the distraction.

"An old colleague of Watson's," he said absently, prodding at the pie on his plate again. "Used to look after his practice when Watson and I went off on cases…" He glanced down again, swallowing, and I realised that my attempt to divert the conversation on to a subject he felt more comfortable discussing had severely backfired.

Conversation was fairly lacking for the next half an hour or so, though I was gratified to note that he did manage a few more mouthfuls of the pie. Then, quite suddenly, there came a knock on the door.

Mr. Holmes stood up suddenly to go and open it and staggered dangerously, clutching at a table for support. I rushed to help him, uncomfortably aware of the delicate sinews beneath my hand, and lowered him back into his chair. He gave a wan smile. "Sorry – it's ridiculous… I must have walked ten miles this morning, and now…"

"Maybe it's because you walked ten miles that you're in this state!" I retorted, and went to open the door myself. A skinny, nervous-looking young man with red hair and glasses stood there, accompanied by the street urchin we had seen earlier, who also had a companion, apparently Tommy Phelps.

Mr. Holmes gave an exclamation of delight at the sight of them. "Excellent! Well done, boys!" He fumbled in his pocket and then deftly threw a coin to each of them. They scuttled away, and I showed Dr. Jackson in.

"Here… sit down… Oh…"

I attempted to clear up the pile of British Medical Journals liberally coating the third chair. "Hang on, I'll just take these back upstairs…"

I gathered them all into my hands and rose to go.

Holmes

"Shut that gawping mouth of yours, Jackson," I whispered irritably, watching him staring as Anne left the room.

"Mr. Holmes… I'd never have guessed you had such excellent taste – no offence intended, but I thought…"

"She's just a friend," I said quickly.

He raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes, really!" I hissed back angrily. "And don't talk about her like that!"

He looked shocked, but then Anne returned from her errand upstairs, and took the last seat with a reassuring smile in my direction. For a moment my brain froze, but then I remembered that I needed to pull myself together.

"Erm… Right…"

I turned to Jackson. "I… We need your help with a case."

"I guessed that from your note," he replied drily, and received a glare in return.

"There has been a suspicious death," I continued, shooting a glance at Anne. "And it is suspected that the victim's heart medication was tampered with."

"Really?" he asked eagerly. "Have you any suspects?"

"Apart from Miss Chantrey here," I said curtly. "No."

"Oh," he said, apparently bewildered.

"Anyway," I continued. "Being ignorant of all things medical, I thought you might be able to shed some light on the matter."

"I'll do my best," he said, obviously still recovering from the fact that I had named Anne as a suspect. "Um… Do you have any idea what kind of heart complaints he suffered from?"

Anne's brow was furrowed. "I'm not sure… I know that for a while he was tired and breathless a great deal of the time, and he had a bad chest – coughing and wheezing. Then the doctor put him on the medication."

Jackson frowned too. "Sounds like heart failure to me. A great variety of medication could have been prescribed… Anyway, it would be difficult for an outsider to tamper with medication – many drugs are only available through prescription… Was the victim of sound mind?"

Anne nodded, still frowning. "Yes. He was a very sharp and intelligent man, even at the end."

Jackson nodded. "Then that eliminates the possibility of the killer manipulating him into overdosing – assuring him that he had not yet taken that day's dose, for example… I fear I am going to be of limited help - I presume that you have exhausted all other paths of investigation – asking the family doctor, maybe?"

"Since my own family think I killed him, I don't think we considered that as a viable option," Anne said smoothly, and I felt like applauding her bravery. "Ah… Well…" Jackson was looking more and more awkward. "Do you know if he was taking any other form of medication…? A herbal remedy, for example?"

Anne's eyes widened. "Yes!" She turned to me. "Violet used to buy this herbal stuff from a shop in the village – she was quite into that kind of thing for a while."

My brain leapt into overdrive. "A herbal remedy…"

Jackson's eyes and mine met. "Digoxin," I suggested.

"Sorry?" Anne asked, nonplussed.

"Digoxin is a drug used to help the heart beat more strongly and regularly," Jackson explained quickly. "But it is also found in abundance in common foxgloves – which could be quite easily (accidentally or otherwise) be added without suspicion to such a remedy. It is also known as digitalis and it could quite easily cause death – nausea, vomiting, hallucinations, headache, followed by tremors, convulsions, and deadly disturbances of the heart. Especially if the victim's health was also poor, even ingesting a small amount could be fatal."

I glanced across at Anne. She looked pale and pained, but determined.

"Thank you, Dr. Jackson," she said quietly. "How long would it take for such a poison to take effect?"

He shrugged. "That would vary depending on the dosage and the health of the victim."

"Would it be possible to introduce it into the food of the victim?"

I was amazed and impressed at how calm and matter of fact Anne's questions were.

Jackson wrinkled his nose. "Possibly. But the leaves have an extremely bitter taste, which might be detected by the victim. If the murderer wished to pass the death off as natural causes, he (or she) would be much better off adding the leaves to the herbal remedy, which would most likely taste bitter anyway."

"I think we have established already that the murderer is extremely intelligent," I commented drily. "Thank you for your help, Jackson."

Jackson nodded and stood. "Nice to meet you, Miss Chantrey."

He shook her hand, nodded to me, and left; Anne showed him out and then reclaimed her seat with a sigh. "Are you all right?" I asked quietly.

She nodded, and exhaled slowly. "Digitalis. I'd never even heard of it." She gave me a sidelong glance, and smiled. "You had. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally."

I rolled my eyes. "Have you memorised every fragment of…" I swallowed, willing myself to say the name. "Dr. Watson's sensational narratives?"

She smiled again, and my eyes were suddenly and inexplicably drawn to her lips. "Not every fragment, no. But I have glanced over them."

I laughed lightly, and then winced as the pain of the familiar headache burned at my temple. Anne noticed at once. "Are you all right?" she asked quickly.

"Fine… Just a headache…" I took a long sip of water from the glass on my desk. "Anyway, what do you think of this latest development?"

She exhaled and pursed her lips. "Violet's herbal remedy… Either someone is trying to frame her (slightly unsubtly, it must be said – though they probably doubted the digitalis would be discovered), or she is behaving in an unusually stupid way, or…"

"Or it's a smart double bluff on Violet's part," I finished for her. "I favour options one or three."

"Me too."

"Not that that brings us any closer to a solution," she concluded with a sigh. "Or to why someone is sending me those letters." Absent-mindedly, she picked up a pen and inscribed herbal remedy? on it, before adding the word opportunity? I approved thoroughly of her tidy mind.

"No, the letters remain a mystery, as of yet… Although I was… wondering…" I had to stifle a yawn, and, of course, Anne noticed immediately.

"You're tired. You didn't sleep well, did you? No matter how fast a walker you are, to walk to Rybury and back (plus a little investigating) before breakfast, you must have got up pretty early."

"Yes…" I had to restrain another yawn. "I'm not exactly known for my regular sleeping habits…"

"Bad dreams?" she asked bluntly.

"Yes," I said, without thinking – she seemed to inspire unexpected honesty in me. She must have seen my embarrassed expression a second later, because she gave me a soothing smile. "Why feel awkward? We all have them from time to time."

I coughed nervously.

"You could always have a little nap," she suggested, the familiar glint in her eyes returning. "After all, you've eaten all your dinner."

I glanced down at my empty plate, rather surprised, despite myself, and then decided to call her bluff. "In fact, I think I will have a nap."

She looked a little surprised, but recovered in an instant to help me out of my chair (I hated feeling like an invalid, but I still felt too weak on my legs to be sure that I wouldn't fall over and make myself look like a complete fool). She assisted me to the sofa, upon which I sat down with a sigh of contentment. I felt more tired than I had realised.

I did not foresee her sitting on the sofa beside me, but the surprise was certainly not an unpleasant one. Seeing my startled expression, she smiled. "I've heard that going to sleep near another person can help prevent nightmares."

I flushed, but didn't feel able to refuse her invitation. "Goodnight, then," I said cheerfully, trying to hide how much her kindness meant to me. I don't think she believed that I actually would go to sleep, but I was going to prove her wrong.

I felt my head loll on to my shoulder, and my eyes close slowly. I could feel my breathing settle into a slow, steady rhythm; I could feel each muscle in my body relaxing. But most of all, I could feel the beautiful, comforting warmth of Anne's body beside me.

Holmes

I drifted slowly out of the most restful, luxurious sleep I had known for a long time. Somehow, I could tell that a significant amount of time had passed – perhaps several hours. A stupid smile had appeared on my face during that time, but I was loath to banish it.

My eyes floated open, and I turned over on the sofa, but, to my surprise, Anne was not there. Then again, she had probably gone upstairs to read or unpack, or had seven gone out.

I stretched and gave a contented sigh. I felt peaceful and happy. Finally, I forced myself to wake up properly and sat up straight, smothering another yawn.

Then I saw the note on the table. Frowning, I picked it up.

Mr. Holmes,

I am immensely sorry for my abrupt exit, but I have decided that my remaining at Baker Street is perhaps unsuitable. I did not wish to have to tell you this, but I am in fact engaged to a Mr Neville Isaacs, and I fear that your feelings for me are in danger of becoming more romantic that I believe is appropriate. I say none of this in jest, and I thank you for your help with my case. Do not attempt to follow me. I apologise for having involved you in this matter at all, though I remain,

Yours faithfully,

Miss Anne Chantrey.

I stopped dead. My first instinct was that this was some kind of bizarre joke. The second was that it was (obviously) a forgery. I lunged from the piece of paper earlier where she had written herbal remedy and opportunity and eagerly compared the two.

My heart plummeted to my feet. The writing was the same – no doubt about it. The same small elegant 'e's, the same distinctive flicks on the tails of the 'y's.

I sat down again. I felt drained and ill. Suddenly, a third (and more terrible) idea occurred to me. What if she'd been kidnapped – forced to write this note, and then snatched by the mysterious letter-writer?

"Mrs. Hudson!" I bellowed, and she opened the door a moment later with a very disgruntled expression.

"What is it now, Mr. Holmes? And do you have to shout so?"

"Miss Chantrey – have you seen her?" I asked breathlessly.

"Yes, of course. She left about an hour ago."

"Was she alone?"

"Yes, she was," Mrs. Hudson replied, clearly intrigued at my anxious curiosity. "Though a nice young man came to see her not long before she left. Good looking, he was, and ever so polite. She was in a right hurry to go and meet him."

A hot wave of jealousy smothered me, and I inhaled sharply.

"Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, of course! Erm…" I hesitated. "Did she take any luggage with her?" I inquired, attempting in vain to sound casual. My head was spinning.

"As a matter of fact, she did have a small bag with her, yes…"

"That will be all, Mrs. Hudson – thank you," I heard a voice say. It surely wasn't mine, because my mind had just frozen. Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her, but I hardly noticed.

It was hardly surprising that she would have other men interested in her – and after all, having knowing her for only a day, I had no claim on her, but the thought of this Neville Isaacs being with her made me feel sick. The bewildered despair was already giving way to cold anger. I had trusted her, told her things that I had never told another human being before, and now she was just gone. Like smoke drifting through your fingers.

I didn't know why it hurt so much, but somehow the ache was unbearable. I rose shakily and took a bottle blindly from a small cupboard beside the bookcase. I unscrewed the lid and drank straight from the bottle, feeling the fiery liquid burn down my throat, accompanied several seconds afterwards by the hot fuzzy glow of the alcohol. I didn't know where my morocco case was, and I wasn't sure I would be able to get the tight bandages Anne had swathed me in off to inject the cocaine anyway, though that was what I was really craving. The sweet, delicious, thoughtless oblivion…

No – what I was really craving was her presence, just to see that smile…

I banished the thoughts from my mind and took another massive gulp of the brandy. I wanted my mind as numb as possible.

Anne

Twelve miles from Baker Street I was crouched, shivering in the cold and the dark, roughly gagged, the ropes at my wrists viciously chafing my skin, half sobbing with fear.

Author's Note:

The normal apologies for general lateness especially as it's not a particularly long chapter… World War III is erupting between Mum and Dad at the moment and the Inspiration Fairy has taken an unscheduled (and hopefully brief) holiday, so updates might be a little thin on the ground – sorry Though hopefully the drama will encourage me to write faster…

Also, I am pretty sure all the medical stuff in this chapter is pretty accurate (thanks to the geek curse bestowed on me by my doctor father…) but if it isn't I'm sorry – like my knowledge of Victorian hansom cabs, my experience of the taste of foxglove leaves is pretty limited!

Thank you as usual for the reviews – you actually have no idea I love them or how obsessively I check the site for new ones (when I should be doing something like WRITING THE NEXT CHAPTER) - so please please please tell me how you think I'm doing! Special thanks to Raptured Night for gloriously long comments

Hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!

PS. Dr. Jackson I believe was mentioned very briefly in The Crooked Man (lunges for massive tome of all Sherlock Holmes stories…) Ah, yes…

"If you could accompany me… you might be of considerable service..."

"I should be delighted."

"Could you go as far as Aldershot tomorrow?"

"I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice."

From this I surmised (perhaps incorrectly) that Jackson was a colleague of Watson's who had some kind of understanding of his and Holmes' relationship. So that's where he sprung from