A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Here's chapter 12 :)
Chapter XII
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," was an accurate statement, Holmes surmised. As he found himself without Clara, he realized her importance to him (which was the quite the predictably ironic conclusion, he noted). As immature as it was, he missed her scathing invectives and longed to watch her get irrationally angry over one of his trivial comments once more. But, however many different feelings for her he had whirling around in his body (and there were many), the overriding sentiment was one of worry. He'd been thinking about it for a while (since the day of Watson's wedding, to be exact), and he had finally pinpointed what drew him to Irene and Clara; they both had strong personalities. True, they were decidedly different personalities, but neither of them were meek, subservient women, which, he had found, was surprisingly rare.
The two gossiping twits at Watson's wedding reception were what triggered this revelation. When they spoke, he realized that most women simply conformed to a sort of general view of what women should be like. They weren't supposed to exactly think for themselves or have their own opinions; they were expected to share their husbands' (or, in some cases, fathers') beliefs. Simply put, they were hollow. Even Mary had been this way, to some extent. Perhaps that was why he had found her so utterly boring. But Clara and Irene? They were a different story entirely. They were opinionated and feisty, which made them infinitely more interesting. They were harder to figure out – more challenging for him to decipher. But he couldn't decide who he found more fascinating, Clara or Irene. That was his latest personal enigma. But that didn't matter, at the moment – what mattered was saving Clara.
Holmes pondered this newfound reality as he walked back to Baker Street. He'd left Watson and Irene to clear his head – to figure out where the diamond could be. It wasn't like him to get distracted, but this particular situation had his brain flustered with worry and made it difficult for him to focus. He'd been walking very slowly, giving the sun time to peek out from the horizon before he reached his destination. The amber color of the sky quickly brought back memories of when he, Watson, and Clara caught Jack the Ripper. Holmes groaned – he hadn't slept in approximately two days and his attention span was wavering considerably. Although, he'd never encountered such problems before – he was almost always able to force himself to concentrate.
Who are the main suspects? he asked himself determinedly. Weaver, Tress, the Patels, and Blake. And what are the facts? Blake intended to steal the diamond and devised some sort of potion. Weaver attacked Clara in the alleyway for seemingly different motives. Tress – well, Tress just seemed suspicious. And lastly, the Patels. Mala was expecting. Who was the father? The father most likely had the diamond. But there was some hang up – they hadn't left. Why hadn't they left yet? He suddenly regretting not having interviewed Mala himself – if there had been a sign, any indication or clue that Irene had missed, he would never know. If he did indeed fail to rescue Clara in time (God forbid), it would haunt him forever. But he mustn't think that way – there was still time, and he would save Clara, if it was the last thing he ever did.
Three hours had passed since he read Hope's letter. No progress had been made. Holmes sat in his tattered armchair in a consuming haze of tobacco smoke. Suddenly, Watson and Irene burst through the door; both were clearly out of breath. Holmes was not surprised – in fact, he'd expected them to arrive earlier. However, Watson's expression was what caught him off guard; his face was bewildered, but he appeared to have made a new development in regard to the case.
"What've you got?" Holmes asked eagerly.
"This – just – came," Irene panted, handing Holmes a slip of paper. "The messenger said it was for you, but they brought it to the Grand because they didn't know where to find you. All it says is, 'they know,' and it's signed 'M.' Does that mean anything to you?"
"Did you recognize the messenger? Did he seem like he was in a rush?" Holmes questioned.
"I didn't recognize him, but he did seem to be in a bit of a hurry," she replied.
"It must have come from Clara…" he said, mostly to himself.
"Do you really think so?" Watson asked skeptically.
"Who else could it be from? She probably gave it to Hope, who gave it to the messenger to bring to us straight away," the detective answered. "She must have had it on her when they captured her, which means that she most likely got in from Tress. M – M must be Mala," he reasoned.
"Who are 'they'?" Watson asked.
"Well, whoever 'they' are, they know a secret of hers – and we know a secret of hers, so I think it's safe to assume that we are the they…"
"And said secret is her pregnancy?" the doctor pressed.
"Yes," Holmes said simply.
"And the fact that she is informing Tress of this situation means that…"
"He is the father," Holmes finished. The trio took a moment to absorb this information, before Irene said abruptly, "Well, then, what are we waiting for? Off to see Tress!"
When they arrived at Boundary Street, Holmes didn't knock on William's door – in his opinion, the gutter rat didn't deserve such a courtesy. He entered the flat, fully prepared to tear the young man limb from limb, only to find that the room was dreadfully empty. Clothes were strewn about and cabinet doors were hanging open; clearly, someone had left in a hurry.
"Damn it!" Holmes cussed, angrily knocking a coat rack to the floor.
"Now what?" Irene asked nervously – she wasn't used to seeing Holmes upset.
"Search the room," he commanded.
*
Clara had to escape – that was a fact. How to do so, however, was a mystery. She suddenly realized something: they hadn't given her any food. Perhaps she could use that as a diversion… they had to open the door in order to give her something to eat. But she had to plan things out first; she couldn't just run out the door without knowing the next step. She had to know where she was going, for one thing. But how could she know the floor plan of the house? She couldn't see out the window very well from the angle she was at.
An idea struck her – what if she could use a pair of mirrors to look inside the windows? But she didn't have any mirrors. She looked around the room contemplatively and excitedly spotted a vanity set. She quickly took off her shoe and smashed its heel against the mirror, sending glass shards to the floor. She pocketed a particularly sharp piece, thinking it might come in handy later.
"Oi! What're you doin' in there?" a gruff voice called from behind the door.
"Nothing," Clara began nervously, "I just dropped something." She tensed up and winced in anticipation of his reply – she knew it wasn't very believable. She let out a sigh of relief when it became apparent that he wasn't going to respond.
She picked up two of the larger glass fragments and opened the window. She angled the pieces through the bars so that she could see inside the windows along the side wall of the mansion. It still wasn't fully light out, but she was able to gather a vague picture of the hallway outside her door. It wasn't extraordinarily long, probably about forty feet. At the end of the hallway was a staircase, which presumably led to the first floor. Her room was in the back of the house, so the front door was likely to be across from the staircase.
Clara took a deep breath – she was making progress – everything would be alright. Now, she had to decide how to a) lure someone into the room, and b) prevent them from standing in her way. The person guarding her room was male, which was problematic – she wouldn't be able to overpower him. She had the fleeting idea to build some sort of trap, but she immediately doubted herself – she wasn't Holmes; she couldn't fabricate some sort of bizarre contraption using only the materials in the room, could she? But she didn't need to hold the guard for long – just long enough to escape the house. Maybe she could; either way, she had to try. It was time to put her resourcefulness to the test.
Sheets – they would be useful; she hastily ripped them off of the bed. The off-white silk fabric was soft beneath her fingers as she began to adeptly knot together the sheets and pillowcases. Then, she worked at loosening one of the hinges in the doorframe in order to get peg out. She took one of her hair pins and used it as a sort of lever. Eventually, she got it free and moved a chair so that she could reach above the doorway. Once again using her shoe, she nailed the peg into the wall. It was crude, but hopefully it would do the trick. Her eyes quickly scanned the room in search of a heavy object. She settled upon a porcelain pitcher. Even though it wasn't as heavy as she had wanted, if it broke over his head it would certainly stun him. She tied the sheets through the handle of the pitcher and ran it over the peg. The pitcher was dangling over the left side of the doorway and she was on the opposite side, holding the other end of the makeshift rope. Now, came the hard part.
"Sir," she said in her weakest, most pitiful voice, "sir, I'm dreadfully starved. Would it be horribly bothersome if I were to trouble you for a bite to eat?"
"Yes, it would," the voice on the other side said stoically.
"Please, sir, I'm begging you – show some mercy. I feel dreadfully sick – I am afraid that I might pass out," she whined, "I haven't had even a mere morsel of food for nearly three days."
There was a long pause. "I'll see what I can do," he said cautiously.
Damn, he's on to me, Clara thought worriedly. But, she heard the reassuring tromp of footsteps going down the stairs. She flexed her fingers over the end of the sheets apprehensively. A few minutes later, she heard him climbing back up the stairs. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard him begin to fiddle with the doorknob. Her heart fluttered in anticipation and a surge of adrenaline shot through her. Slowly, the door opened. Before he could do anything, Clara released the "rope," allowing the pitcher to fall directly onto the top of his head. It didn't break, but it caused an alarming thud. He seemed dazed for a moment, but he wasn't knocked out. Clara panicked – her plan had failed. Her heart nearly stopped as she tried to figure out what to do. If she waited too long, he would yell. Out of sheer instinct, she picked the pitcher up from the ground and smashed it over his head. This time, he was out cold – she was even afraid that she might have killed him.
She dodged his motionless body to get to the end of the staircase. She ran down the stairs as if her life depended on it (forgetting the fact that it actually did), oblivious to the shouts directed towards her. All she could focus on was the door – no inanimate object had ever appeared so sacred. When she opened the portal, someone was in front of her; however, she pushed past him so quickly that he didn't even register what was going on. More shouts came from behind her. When the morning air hit her, she felt a surge of relief unlike anything she had ever felt before. Unfortunately, she had to forcefully remind herself that she wasn't in the clear just yet. Her eyes darted around the front yard and she spotted the buggy that the man she ran into must have gotten out of. She took out her broken mirror shard and cut the horse free. Awkwardly, she climbed atop the horse and willed it to move. It did, and after a while she succeeded in getting it to break into a gallop. However, just when she allowed herself to relax, she heard shots ring out behind her. But, there was nothing she could do; she simply clung to the horse, hoped that she was going towards London, and prayed to God that the bullets wouldn't hit her.
A/N: OK, so I realize that this wasn't exactly the best chapter ever, but it was necessary. I spent a lot of time describing actions, but it was really the only way I could think of to write about what's going on. So yeah, I hope no one minded too much. The next chapter will definitely have a lot more dialogue. Please review!!
