A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, Thursday didn't turn out to be that bad after all! Here's chapter 11! And happy Easter to those of you who celebrate it!
Chapter XI
"Who are you?!" Clara asked fearfully. Someone was holding her arms so that she couldn't move, and she couldn't see anything, either.
"Don't fret, my dear, I'm merely a cab driver. My employer, who is to remain anonymous – for the time being, anyway – has dispatched me with the purpose of bringing you back to him," the voice said calmly.
"Why?! " she asked.
"That, I do not know," he said.
"Who else is here? Who blindfolded me?" she questioned frantically.
"I am just another one of my employer's staff," a different voice replied. This was the person holding her, judging by the proximity of the sound.
Clara began to struggle violently against the person holding her in a desperate attempt to escape.
"Now, now, Miss, if you don't collect yourself, we were instructed to sedate you," the closer voice said. However, Clara ignored him and pounded on the carriage door with her feet. Even if she couldn't break free, perhaps someone would notice what was going on and help her. Unfortunately, she had no such luck; she felt a quick prick in her arm and her consciousness began to fade.
*
Watson was sitting anxiously in an armchair, while Holmes was pacing the room apprehensively. Both were fervently watching the clock, which had now struck midnight.
"She hasn't returned," he muttered, "Why hasn't she returned?"
"Perhaps she's just running a bit late," his friend assured him.
"Something's wrong – I knew we shouldn't have trusted that William Tress. I swear – if he did anything to her…" Holmes growled angrily.
"Relax for a minute – I mean, we shouldn't a assume the worst…" Watson was trying to be levelheaded, but, from the tone of his voice, it was apparent that he, too, was beginning to get worried. However, he was a bit surprised at Holmes' uncharacteristic protectiveness – he sounded as if he wanted to rip poor William's throat out.
"I'm going over there," Holmes said decidedly.
"Alright, I'm going with you," Watson added, finally giving up his disinterested façade.
Together and fuming, they made their way over to William Tress's building. Holmes picked the lock of the main entrance, and Watson, using his walking stick, rapped loudly on William's door. Mr. Tress opened the door and looked from Holmes to Watson fearfully.
"She's not here!" he protested immediately.
"Do you mind if we have a look inside?" Holmes asked menacingly. William shook his head eagerly, clearly intimidated by the pair of angry men in front of him.
Holmes casually stepped into the flat and carefully surveyed the area. Clara wasn't there at the moment, but she had been. He glanced to the cravat that had been carelessly thrown over the coat rack to the drink sitting on the desk; the contents of this glass were clearly alcoholic, but much of the liquid was still left. There was another, empty glass in the corner of the room. Judging by William's state, the empty glass was his and the full one had been Clara's. The condition of the cravat indicated that he had entered the room in a hurry and had been fully occupied – most likely by his female companion, if Holmes had to venture a guess. As he began to piece together his findings, he felt an unfamiliar sensation boil up in his stomach; it was similar to anger, but it wasn't quite the same.
"She was here," William explained to Watson, "but she left about an hour ago – she said she had to get back before eleven."
"Did she?" said Watson.
"Yes, she said that if she didn't get back that her aunt would send the two of you to look for her," he replied. Holmes and Watson looked at each other meaningfully; Clara had lied, which meant she needed an excuse to leave quickly.
"What were you doing before she left?" Watson asked tentatively.
William hesitantly opened his mouth to reply, but Holmes spared him.
"I think we both know what they were doing, Watson, if you catch my drift," he said. Watson raised his eyebrows and looked at William (who had since averted his gaze to a particularly intriguing patch on the carpet) uncomfortably. The situation was extremely awkward, to say the least.
"How did she get home?" Holmes questioned.
"She took a cab, I think," he said simply.
"Alright, well, thank you. Have a nice night," the detective said awkwardly, leaving the room in a hurry. Perhaps they should find Irene – maybe she knew something…
*
They located Irene in the lobby of the Grand Hotel; she was surrounded by people and had her arm around the waist of a handsome sailor who couldn't have been a day over eighteen.
"Irene!" Holmes called from across the room.
"Oh, Sherlock! Quelle surprise! What are you doing here?" she asked, gracefully abandoning her young sailor to go over to talk to him.
"I have reason to suspect that Clara's been kidnapped," he explained.
"Oh, pooh. Her again? That one's always getting into trouble," she said, tipsily waving her champagne glass at Holmes.
"Irene, seriously," he said, prying the champagne glass from her hand, "I need you to focus. Have you seen or heard anything out of the ordinary?"
She looked towards the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment, before she appeared to remember something.
"Oh, yes, actually," she said, "Someone left this at the front desk for me. I haven't read it yet; the man said it only just came." From her small purse, she procured a letter and handed it to Holmes; he hastily ripped it open.
"Dear Irene," he started, reading it aloud, "I am sorry to inform you that I've recently received some rather troubling news. It seems that you've lost my family's most prized possession and haven't had the courtesy to tell me. Thankfully, one of my dear friends (who won't be named – I'm sure you understand) took the liberty to update me himself. I have to say, I'm sorely disappointed in you. However, I've also heard that you have attempted to take care of the problem on your own, and have hired a consulting detective (a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe). In any event, I am at least glad that you have begun to address the situation. However, I must tell you that I need the necklace back immediately. It is of the utmost importance that I receive it – I don't think you understand the severity of the circumstances, so I will elaborate: my father is coming to town to check up on me, as he does periodically. He feels the need to make sure that I'm not wasting my inheritance, for whatever reason."
"If I don't have that necklace, he will surely cut me off from our family funds completely and god-knows what else. I know that you were never one to be persuaded, so I decided to strike your detective instead. Hopefully he is more easily motivated. I've taken Clarissa Barker, who I believe is of great importance to him (according to my sources) as collateral. Now, I daresay, I'm not a violent man, but this necklace is more valuable than you can ever know. If I don't get it back, my entire way of life will be compromised. Let me just say, in advance, I'm only doing this out of desperation. If I do not receive the necklace by Saturday at noon, I will have to have Miss Barker eliminated. Please leave the necklace in a box at 12 King James Street – leave it in the cubby marked number 24. I will not meet you there, for obvious reasons. Sincerely, F. Hope."
"Irene," Holmes began through gritted teeth, "how on earth did you get yourself involved with a man who is willing to kill for a mere necklace?!"
"How do you think I met him?! He hired me!" she said defensively. However, she was clearly worried and aware that the situation had gone on too far.
Watson stood silently in half-shock. His face had become quite pale and he looked extremely worried. "You do both realize that it is now Friday?" he said.
*
Clara awoke to find herself in a medium-sized bedroom. The bed she was laying on was very plush, and the furnishings indicated that the room belonged to someone quite wealthy. Immediately, she ran towards the window, only to find that it was barred. It was still dark, but, from what she could make out, they were no longer in London. However, she couldn't have been unconscious for more than a couple hours, so it was likely that they were still very close to the city. She had no idea where she was, or who had taken her there, for that matter. But, judging by the condition of the room, it had to have been someone of the upper class. Perhaps it'd been Lord Weaver – it wouldn't be the first time he'd attacked her coming out of William Tress's flat. Why is it always me? She thought to herself despairingly. She then went towards the bedroom door and attempted to open it; it was locked. She banged on the door loudly.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" she yelled.
A few moments later, someone slipped a sheet of paper under the door. It read:
You've been taken here as collateral for the diamond necklace. You will be freed once it is returned. However, I must regretfully warn you, if it is not returned by Saturday, there will be no option other than to execute you.
Clara's eyes widened considerably as she read the last line.
"What? Wait, no! Someone, please, help!" she cried to the door. There was no response. She shrunk against the door and brought her knees to her chest. How could this have happened? Why was she always the one who got kidnapped? How was Holmes supposed to solve the case without the information that she had? She couldn't just wait there and hope that he succeeded; something must be done – she had to escape.
"Please! I have information that he needs to solve the case!" she shouted woefully.
"Slide it under the door," an unfamiliar voice said coldly. She quickly did as she was told.
"Make sure he gets it!" she said, "It's very important!" Again, no response. Clara sighed unhappily and threw herself on the bed, contemplating her escape. She sincerely hoped that Holmes would take this threat seriously. Why they'd taken her was a complete mystery. She wasn't of particular importance to anyone – why hadn't they taken Irene, instead? And if her captor was, indeed, Lord Weaver, why did he want the necklace? Perhaps it wasn't Lord Weaver, after all. But who else could it be?
Then, she remembered: "Returned," she thought, the note said "returned." Which means that whoever kidnapped me was the original owner of the necklace–Lord Hope. That would also explain why he didn't take Irene hostage –she's too important to him to be expendable. However, she felt better now that she'd given away the note. She knew that Lord Hope had no incentive to prevent Holmes from getting it – it didn't seem as if he wanted to kill her, he just wanted the necklace. It didn't make sense that he would interfere with the solving of the case.
Holmes will find me, she thought resolutely, He has to find me – he will. He's the best detective the world has ever seen; he won't fail. Clara had complete faith in Holmes, despite their frequent quarrels. She knew deep down that he was absolutely trustworthy and that he would stop at nothing to solve the case. Even if the fact that her life was at stake wasn't enough to motivate him, the sheer pleasure he got out of ending a mystery would be. But she liked to think that her life would be enough to motivate him – even if he wasn't in love with her, she knew that he at least cared about her enough to want to prevent her death.
Then, suddenly, something struck her; here she was, trapped, and she was spending most of her time thinking about Holmes. Holmes – not Watson. She knew that Watson was also extremely intelligent and most likely wanted to get her back even more than Holmes did. And she had thought she loved Watson – but, if she did love him (like she was supposed to), she would have been thinking of him.
And the reason had to be that she loved Holmes; it was a fact that she had evaded recognizing for a quite a while, but it was inevitable. She couldn't avoid the truth any longer. She had tried, truly tried, to forget about him – to shield herself from the pain and disappointment that she knew this epiphany would bring – but it couldn't be done; the reality was too overwhelming. She absolutely loved him. She loved everything – she loved their matches of wit, their petty fights, their teamwork – all of it. She loved his experiments, his arrogance, his bravery, his sheer genius. It was inescapable – she loved him. She loved his faults (and she recognized that they were numerous) and she loved his attributes (which, she would admit, were also numerous). And it was an utterly horrible realization because she knew it would destroy her.
A/N: Oh, poor Clara... Please review!!!
