A/N: SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY!!! I'm soooo sorry I haven't updated sooner - my computer was broken! There was nothing I could do, I hope you'll forgive me :( Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and I hope you will all like this one. Again, I am SO sorry.
Chapter XIV
This was the first time that Clara had ever left Britain, which was apparent from the way she was gaping at the Parisian scenery.
"Es-tu impressionnée?" (Are you impressed?) Holmes teased when he saw her fascinated expression. Her face was practically pressed against the glass of the carriage window. She turned away from the view and scowled at him in response.
"Good God, Holmes. If you speak French the entire time, I swear…" Watson complained.
"Tu jures quoi?" (You swear what?) Holmes asked innocently with a small grin. Clara couldn't help but smile slightly at how blatantly he took joy in aggravating the poor doctor. Watson shook his head futilely, not willing to humor him with a reply.
"Can't you speak French, John?" Clara teased mildly.
"No, I cannot – not very well, at least – and Holmes never hesitates to take advantage of that fact," he answered irritably.
"Perhaps you should learn. Then, I wouldn't have anything to take advantage of," Holmes suggested.
"I'm sure you will always be able to find something," his friend replied, glaring at him. Holmes smirked mischievously. Clara's heart ached at the sight of it – that smirk was truly the epitome of his personality. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to admit her feelings to him – but she knew that that wouldn't go over well. However, she also knew that she ought to make the best of her situation – Irene wasn't there, and Holmes had a soft spot for her at the moment because of the ordeal she'd just gone through.
"So," she interrupted, hoping to shake off the sentiment, "We're going to the Hôtel de Crillon?"
"Yes," Holmes said, looking out the window distractedly. He seemed rather uncomfortable, for some reason. Perhaps it was because Clara's entire being was radiating with suppressed emotion; they were so in tune that he could actually sense what she was feeling. She wouldn't be surprised if this was the case.
However, just as he answered, she looked out the window to see an elaborate sign reading "Hôtel de Crillon" in scrawled letters; they had arrived.
They stepped out of the carriage and Watson helped her down as Holmes paid the faire. For some reason, she suddenly felt nervous; they were reaching the end of the case – she could feel it. What would it mean when they were finished? What would happen? Would Irene stay? Clara hoped she wouldn't – things would be so different if she stayed. But, she shouldn't plan for that just yet – they still had to find Tress, and even then it wasn't absolutely certain that he would, indeed, have the diamond. Holmes briskly walked to the front door of the hotel with an air of complete confidence. She and Watson followed him hesitantly. Once inside the hotel, he sashayed over to the front desk of the lobby.
"Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, mais j'ai une question. Est-ce qu'il y a un homme qui s'appelle William Tress au cet hôtel ?" (Pardon me, sir, but I have a question. Is there a man by the name of William Tress at this hotel?) he asked fluently.
"Je ne peux pas vous donner cette information," (I can't give you that information) the man said disinterestedly. The man didn't even bother to look at him.
God, I hate the French, Holmes thought to himself.
"S'il vous plaît, c'est une question de vie ou de mort," (Please, it's a matter of life or death) he insisted.
"Monsieur, je ne veux pas d'avoir vous expulsé," (Sir, I don't want to have you thrown out) the man said, finally looking at Holmes. He could have sworn he heard him mutter "anglais," disparagingly under his breath. Holmes bit his lip in frustration, clearly trying to keep his temper in check.
"Merci," (Thank you) he said insincerely, turning away to walk back towards Clara and Watson. "He won't tell me whether or not they're here," he told them. Both he and Watson looked at Clara expectantly.
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, already knowing what they wanted. "Oh, fine," she said, defeated. She smoothed out the front of her dress and adjusted her hair before gliding over to the front desk.
"Bonjour, monsieur," she began, batting her eyelashes, "Je me suis demandée – est-ce qu'il y a un homme qui s'appelle William Tress au cet hôtel?" (Hello, sir. I was wondering – is there a man by the name of William Tress at this hotel ?)
"Cet homme-là juste m'a posé la même question, et je l'ai dit que je n'ai pas la permission de révéler que des informations," (That man there just asked me the same question, and I said that I'm not permitted to divulge such information) he replied. However, Clara noticed that he was less terse with her than he was with Holmes.
"Oui, je sais, mais c'est une affaire de grave importance," (Yes, I know, but it's a matter of great importance) she pleaded.
"Je voudrais savoir, qu'est-ce que ce cette 'affaire de grave importance' ?" (I would like to know, what is this 'matter of great importance' ?) he questioned curiously.
Clara bit her lip conspiratorially and looked back at Holmes and Watson as if to ensure that they could not hear her.
"Voyez-vous les hommes-là ?" she began, motioning to Holmes and Watson, " Je suis leur captive. S'ils ne trouveront pas M. Tress, ils me tueront !" (Do you see those men there? I'm their captive. If they don't find Mr. Tress, they will kill me!) she explained.
The man's mask of boredom was quickly replaced with one of concern.
"Mais, vous ne pouvez pas dire à personne," (But, you mustn't tell anyone) she added hastily. When he looked up at her, she tried to make her face appear distraught and innocent – she needed his pity.
His eyes darted around shiftily, presumably to make sure that none of his superiors were around.
"D'accord, je vous aiderai. Un moment," (Alright, I'll help you. One moment) he said, walking into a backroom.
When he came back, he appeared to be disappointed. "Je suis désolé, mademoiselle, mais il n'est pas ici," he said. (I'm sorry, miss, but he's not here)
Clara looked at him blankly. No, that couldn't be right – Holmes had said that he would be here – he was never wrong. "Vous êtes sûre?" (You're sure?) she pressed. Suddenly, a notion flashed through her mind, and she felt very clever for having thought of it. "Puis-vous vérifier s'il y a un William Weaver?" (Could you check to see if there is a William Weaver?) she asked hopefully.
He left once again. When he returned, his expression was one of triumph.
"Oui, mademoiselle, il y a un William Weaver. Il est en chambre 390," (Yes, miss, there is a William Weaver. He is in room 390) he said.
"Merci beaucoup," Clara said brightly, immediately turning to run towards Holmes and Watson.
"He's in room 390," she said excitedly as soon as she reached them.
"How did you find that out?" Watson asked curiously.
"He's staying under the name William Weaver," she replied.
"How clever of him," Holmes remarked sarcastically.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" his friend interjected, "Let's go."
"Excellent suggestion, old boy," he agreed.
With that, the three of them made their way up to the third floor. Clara was the first to reach the door of room 390, but she hesitated before knocking.
"What's the matter?" Holmes asked impatiently.
"We're just going to barge in?" she asked tentatively.
"Yes, why not?" he questioned.
"It just seems unorthodox, is all," she replied, shrugging, before daintily knocking on the door and blocking the peephole with her thumb. "Housekeeping," she added at the spur of the moment.
A rustling on the other side of the door signified that the room was, indeed, inhabited. A rush of adrenaline shot through her in anticipation. After what seemed like ages, she heard a lock unhinge and the painfully slow twist of a doorknob. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Holmes and Watson turn rigid, readying themselves for action. As soon as a crack of light shone through the doorway, the pair sprung with the speed and ferocity of a pair of wolves. A woman screamed – Mala, most likely. Once Clara was able to see their poor victim, she recognized William Tress.
"How on earth did you find me?!" he grit out once they successfully and stably pinned him against the wall. However, his question was barely audible over the hysterical chatter of his distressed companion. Clara took it upon herself to lead Mala into a chair and attempt to calm her down.
"There, there, they're not going to harm him," she assured her.
"Honestly, Tress," Holmes started, "How we found you is unimportant. If you cooperate, I won't even turn you in to the authorities, so listen closely: from the looks of it, you've already pawned the diamond. Where did you sell it?"
"Er – somewhere near Rue de Faubourg," he sputtered.
"Alright, you're leading us there. Let's go," Holmes said, forcing him towards the door.
"Come along," Clara said coolly to Mala. She pitied her, but she certainly couldn't be kind to her. But the poor girl was so foolish – she had no idea that Tress couldn't care less about her. It was an awful feeling, knowing how unfaithful he was to her but not being able to do anything about it. She had even been one of the women he cheated with, which made it even more awkward.
As they were walking down the road, Tress said, "So, Clara, you're alright. I'm glad to see that."
She smirked slightly, knowing that he was trying to manipulate her "feelings" for him – little did he know, they were inexistent.
"Don't speak, just walk," Watson grunted.
Clara would never cease to be amazed by Holmes' deductive abilities – she'd said before that he was almost inhuman in an emotional sense. However, she'd never thought how appropriate it was in an intellectual sense as well. The pawn shop was, just as he predicted, in a rundown shack near the train station. As they neared the entrance, Clara hoped with all her heart that the diamond would be there. She wanted nothing more than to be safe – to not have Hope's men pursue her – and the only way for that to happen was to retrieve the diamond.
"How long ago did you sell it?" she asked abruptly.
"Only a day ago. I can't imagine that it wouldn't be here," Tress answered.
Surprisingly, throughout this whole ordeal, Mala was silent – eerily silent.
"You're going to have to buy it back, you know. I would give you the money, but we've already spent it," Tress sniveled.
"Oh, I'm sure with the aid of my proficient persuasive skills he and I will be able to come to some sort of diplomatic agreement that doesn't involve fiscal depletion," Holmes replied smoothly.
Clara bit back an admirative smile as she watched the wheels turn in Tress's head – clearly he was having a difficult time deciphering the meaning of Holmes' words.
Once inside, the group caught their first glance of the salesclerk. He was a short, fat man with thick gray muttonchops. Yes, Holmes would have no problem "persuading" him, if the need arose.
"Bonjour," Holmes began, motioning to Clara,"Avez-vous des bijoux? Je voudrais acheter un collier pour ma fiancée." (Hello, do you have any jewelry? I would like to buy a necklace for my fiancée.)
A/N: I hope all the French is right... feel free to correct me if it's not. Please review!