Chapter Twelve.

Sherlock Holmes was still sitting in stupified silence when Mrs Hudson finally appeared with his copy of the London Evening Standard, barely registering anything that she said as she gushed about her good fortune and insisted on planting a wet kiss on his cool cheek to celebrate her win.

She prattled on as she busied herself around the living room, tidying up flutters and picking up papers that had fallen off his desk, explaining as she did so, that she hadn't set out with the intention of buying a scratch card, but after his dig, she'd got the hump and thought: "Oh sod it, it's my money!" and had gone ahead and done it in defiance, so she really had him to thank for her windfall.

Holmes did not have the energy to argue, or remind her that he was perfectly capable of looking after himself, when she insisted on making him tea and toast before she would leave him in peace.

He was happy for her. Truly, he was, but he had other things on his mind right now and he knew that he was best left alone to deal with everything that the evening had thrown at him.

The toast was still sitting on the plate, on the table where Mrs Hudson had left it for him, the bread softened to a rubbery consistency and the butter congealed.

The tea was stone cold.

After Cassia Ingram had taken her leave, barely ten minutes after, actually, Holmes had taken a phone call from Sir Frederick Penrose Gill, who explained that he didn't usually consult over the telephone but the test results were in and he had thought it prudent to let Holmes know the diagnosis straight away.

There was, he had said, bad news and good.

Yes, Holmes did have a brain tumour, but the Neurologist, Witty, was adamant that from its position and size, it was operable and that once removed, there would be no permanent impediments.

Penrose Gill had informed Holmes that he had cleared his calendar so that he could see him the next morning at his consulting room in Harley Street, so that they could discuss the diagnosis more thoroughly and make arrangements for treatment and post surgery care.

Penrose Gill had signed off with a confident and cheery: "We'll get you sorted in no time, Mr Holmes, and you'll be good as new. As right as nine pence, old man ..."

All shipshape and Bristol fashion ...

Ah, Miss Ingram, the double whammy.

How did you know?

There was no logical way to explain away the fact that she had been right on the money, that both her revelations this evening had come to pass.

Mrs Hudson's 'big win' on the scratch cards and the phone call from Penrose Gill confirming her diagnosis and prognosis of his present medical condition.

She had well and truly nailed it.

And although he was loathed to admit it, even to himself, she had been right about so many other things too.

She had him weighed up, no doubt about it.

When Sherlock Holmes finally came to his senses, he found himself sitting in the dark, tears streaming unashamedly down his face.

It had nothing to do with self pity.

Not this time, at least.

He had begun by thinking about his predicament.

Of course, he was relieved.

By all accounts he would survive, and survive with all his faculties intact.

Relief simply was not a strong enough word to cover it.

It had been his biggest fear, that whilst they might be able to remove the offending growth from his brain, he would no longer be able to function as he had before, that his intellect and intuition might be affected.

More than that, he might have been left with no speech and limited mobility, his mind as active and vibrant as ever but his body merely a shell, and for a dynamic man like Holmes, the thought was unbearable.

Under those circumstances, he would rather be dead.

He could not be more than the sum of his parts, but he refused to be anything less.

Cassia Ingram had been right about that too.

She had also been right when she had hinted that he had been feeling sorry for himself.

She was extraordinarily astute.

For a woman.

After coming to terms with the news that he was not facing his imminent demise, his thoughts had turned to his childhood, and the brief periods when he had been at his most happy and content, and the summer months he had spent across the Channel with his 'Grand-mere.'

His grandfather had been stationed in France during the Second World War, billeted in a small village in the country, where he had met a fairly well to do family, the Vernet's, who had a son, who was a struggling artist, and a daughter who was both beguiling and intelligent, and had quickly won his grandfather's heart.

They had married and produced a daughter, his mother, Lydia Mycroft Holmes, whom in turn had married Gregory C. Holmes.

His parents.

Lydia had insisted that her boys be raised as proper English gentlemen, but she had also understood the value of exposing them to other cultures and had therefore packed them off to enjoy the benefits of the French countryside with Grand-mere at every opportunity.

As a boy, running wild in the woodlands and pasturelands that surrounded his grandparent's home, Sherlock had learned much about nature, about biology, entomology and horticulture from watching his Grand-mere tend to her pretty little garden, learning the names of flowers and herbs and insects.

His Grand-mere had encouraged his interest in the sciences.

She had bought him his first chemistry set and helped him to set it up, and while he had learned the periodic table and learned to identify different chemicals and minerals, he had listened to her talk about the war and how she had met his grandfather, and he had learned to speak French fluently, if not with the perfect accent. The wretched English plum in his mouth saw to that.

As he had gotten older, and more frustrated, when he became bored more easily and turned to expressing his boredom and his frustration in more volatile ways, it was Grand-mere who had encouraged him to learn to play a musical instrument.

Listening to music had always soothed him, but playing an instrument, she had suggested would also give him something physical to do when his mind was not being stretched, and composing would be a creative outlet that would be less destructive.

And so he had learned to play the violin, mainly because he could move around whilst playing it.

He'd never been good at just sitting still, too much pent up nervous energy.

Grand-mere had understood that along with the massive intellect and curiosity about everything, there could be a darker, more self destructive side to the young Sherlock.

She also understood the rivalry between the brothers.

They were always competing, trying to see who could out do the other, who was better than whom.

Always competing for their parents' love and attention.

As a small child, whenever Mycroft had been particularly cruel, or dropped him in it after some piece of ill timed mischief, and he had incurred their parents wrath, and suffered the necessary punishment, or if he had been ill, or scared or just plain mad with the world, Grand-mere would seek him out, gather him to her ample bosom and comfort him with soothing words of love and reassurance, and when he had grown too old for such demonstrations of affection, she had used words to comfort and guide him.

"Cela passera aussi."

That had been one of her favourite reassurances.

"This too shall pass, Cherie."

She had always been right.

No matter how awful things seemed, when Grand-mere said it would pass, reassured that he would get through it, would survive whatever it was, she had always been right.

Holmes hadn't realized just how much he missed her.

She had died when he was sixteen, on the verge of manhood, and probably just when he needed her stability and reassurance, her comfort, affection and words of wisdom more than ever.

He'd never bought into the nonsense about the spirits of one's dead relatives coming back from beyond the grave to watch over one, but after Cassia Ingram's last visit, he was having to revise his opinion.

Was it possible?

Was she the real deal after all?

How else could he explain how she knew what she did about him?

He had implied bribery, but he was realistic enough to know that that was not possible.

She had said skulduggery.

Now, Holmes doubted that too.

When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad, must be the truth.

Hoisted on his own petard!

No-one knew about Grand-mere and her sage words of reassurance, not even Mycroft, for Sherlock had kept his close relationship with her to himself, protective of the one person who seemed to want to get to know him better, the one person who had offered him unconditional love, and it had been a more than satisfactory arrangement for Sherlock, because he knew that she did not have the same relationship with Mycroft.

And of course, no-one knew about his current medical condition and his fears about the repercussions it might leave him with.

So, there was a very real possibility that Cassia Ingram was indeed the real deal.

And, that being the case, he no longer had any excuse not to accept her case and take her on as a client.

And it looked as if he was going to have to eat his scarf.

Someone please pass the salt.