Author's Note: Yikes, sorry again! I wrote this last night after spending eight hours studying, and I haven't posted it until now because I spend another six hours studying today... *cries*

I just wanted to address something really fast: some of you have commented that this story is good enough to publish. First of all, THANK YOU. Those (and all!) comments make me grin helplessly. But fanfiction is what I write just to practice. I write a lot of it and don't spend too terribly long editing. I do it for fun and don't plan out the entire story in advance. This is what I do as a stress reliever and to try out different styles of writing.

My "actual" writing, my original fiction and sometimes nonfictional reflections, are the ones that I really plan out and storyboard and put lots of effort into in the hope that they'll one day be ready to publish. So while I really, really appreciate the comments, I don't think you'll ever see this published. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE this story and all my readers, but that's just not how it's intended. Besides, it's a fanfic of a fanfic! The copyright issues make me shudder...

Enjoy this chapter because who knows when the next one will be out. *sigh*


Chapter XI

"Still nothing?" I asked when I saw Holmes's discouraged expression. He only glared at me from where he was crouched on his chair, which I took as an affirmative.

It had been over two months since my kidnapping and all of our leads had led to forceful and disappointing dead ends. It was as though someone was always one step ahead of us to erase the evidence or silence a voice, and the longer we searched the more I suspected that that was the case. Now it was nearing the end of March and Holmes's other cases were taking up his time. That very morning he had received a letter telling him to expect a visitor of no small importance later in the evening. I suspected that this case might last another week at the least.

Meanwhile, the trail was growing cold. I will not bore my reader with the details, but tedious hours spent identifying a few of my captors and tracing my way back to the place where I had been held had ended in failures. Loath as Holmes was to drop the case, we were forced to wait for another lead.

I had been drifting about the flat all morning, waiting for Holmes to toss ideas at me like he occasionally did, but was met only by a blank, intense stare. Eventually I fell back into the habit of cleaning, though I could feel disapproval aimed at me as I did so. Finally, as the hours of the afternoon wore on and neither Watson nor Mrs. Hudson had returned home to supervise Holmes, I resorted to digging my way through one of the incredibly dense volumes on chemistry which littered the flat.

I was just trudging through Dalton's atomic theory when I heard Watson come in downstairs. I shut the book, startled to see that it was dark and probably long past when I should have eaten supper, but I was trapped by the jovial doctor before I could make an exit.

"Hello Mary!" he cried delightedly, and I had no choice but to smile through my fatigue and discouragement. "Do you know that no fewer than five people stopped me today to ask about my stories? Five! I must say, Doyle is doing an excellent job as an agent. You're becoming a household name, Holmes," he added to the figure in the chair, which didn't so much as grunt.

Over recent months, I had been struggling to reconcile my feelings for Holmes. He who had begun as a revered acquaintance and then reluctant friend and finally enthusiastic mentor was so difficult that I had almost given up trying to disentangle the matter. On the one hand, I could not deny that I enjoyed his intellectual company more than any person I had ever met, and I certainly found him aesthetically pleasing. But could he ever really be anything beyond a friend? Occasionally I would think that I saw some flicker of deeper warmth in his eye when I made some clever point about a case, or a flash of harsh protectiveness when I massaged my slow-healing shoulder, but then it would be gone and I would decide that I had imagined it.

I startled back to myself when I realized that both men were watching me. "Oh, I'm sorry Uncle John. That's excellent! You know that I love your stories." Apparently I wasn't convincing enough because he seemed to droop slightly. I tried harder. "In fact, I can't wait for the next one! Perhaps I could sneak a read before Doyle gets his hands on it?"

Watson's smile brightened. "I think that that might be a possibility."

Holmes groaned. "I do hope that there will be less drama in this one, my dear fellow. The way you portrayed me was quite fantastical." Watson harrumphed.

It was true that I enjoyed Watson's stories from a literary perspective, though I had to agree with Holmes that they were slightly over-romanticized. Still, when one spends one's time reading Dalton's atomic theory, a little romance now and then is welcome.

Mrs. Hudson arrived home soon after that and brought up a cold supper, which the three of us ate in companionable silence. I caught myself humming Holmes's waltz once, but at a startlingly sharp glance from the detective quieted me once more.

That waltz haunted my dreams. I never knew the name of it, and even the melody was only a half-remembered echo, but it underscored my nighttime imaginings and sprang to my lips in a wistful hum as I worked. It represented safety, somehow, and home. After hearing it only a handful of times, that association was so strong that whistling it during my captivity had brought me warmth and comfort like nothing else.

As we finished our supper, we heard steps thudding up the staircase and Mrs. Hudson following them, clearly harried. "Sir, I must protest! No one may see Mr. Holmes without an appointment-"

The cloaked and masked figure burst into the room and Holmes stood, throwing me a look so sarcastically solemn as to be comical, and I had to conceal a laugh. "It's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. Our visitor here is expected." He gestured the man to a chair, but he ignored it.

I observed Watson teetering on the edge of leaving and stood first. "Gentlemen," I announced to the room at large, "I thank you for the lovely evening, but I'm afraid I must retire." I neglected to mention that I was retiring to a closet downstairs for our guest's sake. "Good night."

Watson nodded politely and Holmes inclined his head in that odd familiar way of his. "Good night, my dear Russell."

I smiled a tired half-smile and held up the book I had been reading, questioning. He nodded again imperceptibly. I pulled the volume to my chest and curtseyed to the client; I was too exhausted to put my finger on it, but my subconscious at least had detected an air of power.

With that, I escaped to the dark of the staircase and the quiet of my closet.

"An interesting case?" I asked Holmes as I wandered back into the room the next morning and poured myself a cup from the delightful-smelling coffee on the table.

I've gone from the maid to an honorary resident, I thought to myself with amusement. I really should ask Mrs. Hudson about rent for my closet.

Holmes grunted thoughtfully from his chair: a typical response.

"You know," I said, blowing gently on the steaming cup, "we haven't worked a case together in a while."

"Really?" Holmes mused. "It was my understanding that we had been working on a very important kidnapping case since early January." There was no bite to his tone but the words were harsh enough.

I put down my cup so that I could effectively place both hands on my hips, hot anger flaring within me. "Holmes! Surely you don't think that I've lost interest in the case of my own kidnapping? Leads have been short lately; I only meant that it might be refreshing to solve someone else's problems for a change."

To my surprise, Holmes sighed wearily. "I apologize, Russell. That was unfair of me."

Anger fading, I poured another cup of coffee and gave it to him, sitting in the opposite chair with my own drink. "Apology accepted. But I do wish to hear about this case and the masked nobleman who brought it to you."

His voice almost bored, Holmes outlined a classic story of love and betrayal involving the King of Bohemia and an American actress. "However, Russell, I think that this is a one-man job. There is no intellectual challenge to it; my opponent will be quickly beaten."

"Hmm." I took a quick gulp of the scalding liquid to hide my doubt. "Very well then. I suppose I'll just go back to the scintillating works of Dalton…"

This at least brought the beginning twitch of a smile to Holmes's mouth. "Rekindling your interest in chemistry, Russell? There is a rather complex experiment which I had been hoping to conduct this afternoon, but I must observe Miss Adler today. Perhaps you could carry on in my absence."

My heart sank at the idea of carrying out such a promising activity in solitude. "You wouldn't rather wait until we can do it together? What if I confuse my variables and compromise your results?"

Now he was smiling softly. "I am entirely confident in your capability, Russell."

An unexpected glow warmed my chest, creeping up my neck in the form of a flush. Holmes's compliments always caught me by surprise with their simplicity and honesty.

Suddenly, for the second time in twelve hours, heavy steps thumped towards the door, which swung open urgently. Detective Inspector Lestrade, a man with whom I had a delicate and mistrustful (more on his side than mine) relationship, stood in the opening, breathing heavily.

Holmes was on his feet in an instant with no sign of the hot drink he had been cradling mere seconds previously. "Well man, what is it?"

"You asked me to keep a look out for that Sidney fellow you claim had something to do with Miss Russell's trouble," Lestrade began, and while I could feel Holmes bristling at the DI's intentionally irksome word choice, he didn't interrupt. "Well, he's turned up."

Holmes made an impatient gesture that might have been funny under less-urgent circumstances. "And?"

"He's dead."