Author's Note: OHMIGOD, I feel SO bad! Leaving you guys hanging for so long is completely inexcuseable, and I am really SO sorry for the wait! D: I really hope this lives up to your expectations...I wasn't 100% happy with it myself, but it wasn't an easy chapter to write, and I was hoping for some (undeserved, given the hiatus) feedback which could help me see where I could improve if necessary..? Pleeeease let me know what you think! :D Enjoy!

Irene awoke the next morning feeling inexplicably as though something momentous had occurred. She roused herself slowly, the burning Indian sun streaming in through the windows bringing with it a feeling of idleness one never experienced in cold weather.

Suddenly aware that she was naked beneath the silken bedclothes, Irene glanced hastily around the room and upon finding it empty, slid out of the bed. Holmes must have already left for breakfast or perhaps a morning stroll with Doctor Watson. In any case, his absence was not unusual. She suspected he would be back soon enough.

A basket of fresh fruit lay on the dresser. Irene spent a long time pondering over her choice before finally selecting a juicy-looking pear and taking a delicate bite. She walked slowly to the armoire and pulled out her white satin robe; it would preserve her modesty should an unannounced visitor arrive.

Something caught her eye as she passed the looking-glass – a puckered red mark on her collarbone. Closer examination would have been futile; she was already well aware of what it was. But how had it got there and who was responsible? The events of the previous night came rushing back all at once and completely without warning – the conversation she had shared with Holmes; the incredible experience they had shared; falling asleep in his arms after he had made love to her and she had submitted. Her memory was a little fuzzy about the edges; it seemed as though the preceding evening had occurred in another time, another place. Indeed, the scarlet lovebite on her collarbone was the only evidentiary factor to prove that it had not all been some sort of a fantastical dream or hallucination.

Irene could see the shirt and trousers Holmes had been wearing folded neatly over the back of his armchair. Suddenly and without initial explanation, the skin of her inside thighs began to tingle as she recalled the feeling of Holmes' lips ghosting her most intimate areas, and the incomparable pleasure she had attained from having him within her...

It had not been a dream, by now she was convinced. As her memory gradually became clearer, she reached absent-mindedly for the patch on her shoulder where Holmes' fingernails had dug into her skin as he had almost silently gasped his own release – a sound which had proved more arousing than Irene could ever have imagined.

So where was he now? Irene's stomach gave a leap of anxiety as she imagined facing him after what had passed between them. It was a moment before she realised that it did not matter in the slightest. She would be lying to herself if she'd said she hadn't wished for Sherlock Holmes to love her nearly every day since their last meeting. Since the moment they'd met, her heart had beat a little faster when he was near; her days seeming a little brighter when he was in them. Irene was well aware that one night together did not necessarily indicate that Holmes loved her in the way she knew she loved him. But still, Irene thought, it was a good place to start!

Irene set down her half-eaten pear, no longer wanting to eat. All she could do was smile.

"Holmes, would you pass me the teapot?" Watson sat with his elbows on the table and his chin resting on his hands. He'd barely slept all night.

Holmes complied, watching closely as his friend took the pot and poured himself a large mug full of tea.

"Watson, are you aware that your hands are shaking?"

The Doctor looked down at his fingers. "No they're not," he said.

"Yes they are. Observe..." Holmes snatched one of Watson's hands and examined it closely. "There is a distinct tremor in your dominant right hand."

"And the lemon please," Watson said shortly, snatching his hand back and receiving the plate from Holmes. He fumbled with the small silver tongs, cursing under his breath as the lemon slice slipped from his grasp and landed on the breakfast table with a dull 'flop'. He glanced up to find Holmes watching him, the expression on his face one of smug eloquence.

What? Is there something on my face?" Watson snapped.

"At first I thought perhaps you had been drinking," Holmes said, ignoring Watson's hiss of irritation. "But then I remembered you never drink before midday, not even at Christmastime. Thus, there must be a second definitive reason for your quavering posture; the finer details of which I have yet to deduce." He placed his hands together and brought them to rest on his lips. "Perhaps you would care to share with me what it is that troubles you..?"

"I told you," Watson said touchily, "I'm fine. Come on, let's go back upstairs."

"You'll be back with your wife and children soon," Holmes said belittlingly, his manner as brusque as it always was when dealing with matters as 'trivial' as family relationships. "I'm sure if you asked nicely, Sergeant Hawthorne would be only too happy to pass on a telegram to Mary and-"

"Holmes!" Watson whipped 'round on his heel and stuck a warning finger in Holmes' face. "I'm asking you -no, I'm telling you- drop the subject. I don't want to talk about it." With a baleful glare in Holmes' direction, he turned away and stalked out of the dining hall, oblivious to the stares of the Indian aristocracy members who had witnessed the scene. Holmes blinked once and raised an eyebrow before following him.

"Watson, where are you going?"

"To the gardens," Watson said without looking back. "And I'm going alone."

In the deep, dark and cavernous depths of the otherwise useless organ he called his heart, Holmes did feel some measure of remorse for upsetting Watson. However, he saw no need to apologise. Watson was clearly a little sensitive at present, and it would do no good to aggravate him further.

Upon arrival at the guest quarters he shared with his companions, Holmes paused and looked up at the window of his and Irene's bedroom. Though the sun was high in the sky, the thin hangings had not yet been opened, and Holmes could see the outline of the room which sat behind. He saw a faint silhouette in the centre of the window, and realised that Irene was still in the room above, dressing. With extreme unwillingness, he found himself recalling the night they had spent together...

Irene was the first woman in a long time to succeed in breaking down his defences, and certainly the only woman he had ever considered for a moment spending his life with. Her beauty and grace were undeniable, and sometimes Holmes wondered if he might love her. But knowing somewhere deep inside that he wanted to be with Irene and actually...being...with her were two very different things. He couldn't make a commitment to Irene -or to any woman for that matter- because he knew, regretfully, he would never be able to return her love. This coupled with the fact that there was not a single ounce of trust between the two of them; Holmes knew that making love to Irene had been a grave and potentially detrimental error of judgement. But one couldn't spend hours dwelling on the past, and the pressure brought on by the case meant that Holmes could not afford to lose focus. Not when he was so very close to solving it...

And so it was that Holmes chose to knock on the door of the bedroom before he entered it so as to be sure he did not catch Irene off-guard. When he entered, the lady herself was drawing the gossamer curtains aside, dressed elegantly in a dress of floating scarlet material with her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head.

As he hovered uncomfortably in the doorway, Holmes realised he was hoping desperately that he and Irene would be in the same boat; that she too would not want to address the situation which had arose between them. Unfortunately for Holmes, this illusion was shattered as Irene turned to face him, and he saw the pink blush ghost her cheekbones.

"Hello," she said softly. As a shy smile crept to her lips, Holmes could feel his temperament sinking lower and lower. Irene was not the kind of woman to act diffidently around a man she had slept with, he was certain; not unless she thought (or hoped) it was bound for something more. A relationship, perhaps, or maybe even a marriage. Marriage. The very thought of the word was enough to bring a cold sweat to the surface of Holmes' skin!

"Good morning, Miss Adler." Holmes finally found his voice, though it was pitched a slight higher than usual. "Forgive me for not staying long, but I have some important business to attend to..."

Irene sighed, and Holmes knew instinctively what was coming. "Sherlock, listen, about last night..."

"Last night?" Holmes looked up, blinking several times in the space of a few seconds. "We had fish for supper, didn't we? With seasoned vegetables and a dash of spiced sauce... Most satisfying."

"That's not what I meant," Irene said. "I just think we need to talk..."

"About last night?"

"Yes, Sherlock." Irene resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Well." Holmes shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "Well, I can't imagine what it is you would want to talk about, Miss Adler..."

"Will you stop 'Miss Adler'-ing me!" Irene exploded. Her eyes were flashing with ferocity, but inside she could feel her composure beginning to crack along with her heart. She'd never expected this to be easy, but it would be a lie to say she hadn't been hoping for a change in their relationship after the night they had spent. "Come on, Sherlock, couldn't we just try and have a sensible, mature conversation here?"

Holmes closed his eyes briefly. "Miss Adl...Irene...you have to understand..."

"No, you have to understand," Irene interrupted, her intense disappointment giving way to anger. "Sherlock, we both knew the consequences of last night, why can't you just accept that what's done is done?"

"Well you were the one who mentioned it." Holmes was fully aware he sounded like a petulant little boy, but there were more pressing issues on his mind than attitude problems, and so made no immediate resolution to correct himself.

"God, I...I..." Irene let her hands fall to her sides with a slap, totally lost for words. "What is the problem here? Why won't you just talkto me?" Holmes said nothing, but he didn't need to. Irene had already worked it out for herself. "What so you're ashamed? Was making love to me so terrible for you that you think it was a huge mistake?"

"You, you were...perfect," Holmes said with some effort. "But..."

"But it was still a mistake?" Irene shook her head. "I don't understand you. Why I ever thought I could have any sort of a...a relationship with you is way beyond me since it's clear there's no trust between us whatsoever!" She could feel the tears forming, but was determined not to let them fall. "You're never honest with anyone, are you? And it's not just me – you're not honest with Watson or with your clients. You're not even honest with yourself..."

"Now is not the time to discuss this," Holmes said firmly, turning and clearly preparing to leave the room once again. "Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Adler, I have a case to solve."

"You can't run away from the past," Irene yelled after him. "No-one can, not even you, Sherlock!" She slammed the door behind him and retreated to her chair, more angry than upset, but nevertheless devastated by Holmes' callous behaviour. She thought briefly of what her dysfunction might be – what it was which caused her to fall for his wiles time and time again. Was she a gormless fool, or simply head over heels in love? As the sun outside rose further and further into the cloudless azure sky, Irene wondered if there was really any difference at all between those two possibilities...

Since she had no idea when Holmes would be returning (and since she didn't particularly care anyway at present), Irene was in the process of ordering a private luncheon for herself to be brought to the room when there was a brisk knock on the door and Watson entered the threshold.

"Afternoon, doctor," Irene said with her easy smile. "Can I get you something for lunch? The attendant will be up in a minute or so..."

"No thank you." Watson managed to return her smile before collapsing backwards into Holmes' unoccupied armchair.

Watson had been lean and slender for as long as Irene had known him, but today he looked positively gaunt. Though his face was still coloured from sunburn, his skin was pale and drawn. What's more, Watson's eyes seemed to have sunk inward into his skull as if he hadn't had a decent meal nor slept a wink in days.

Despite the doctor's decline of food, Irene ordered a portion of bread and fruit big enough for the two of them to share with a large pitcher of a delicious cordial she'd become particularly fond of since their arrival.

When the food arrived and Irene had served a sizeable amount onto Watson's plate, she handed him a glass and watched approvingly as he drained its contents. When some of the colour had returned to the doctor's sallow cheeks, Irene pulled her own armchair around so it was adjacent to his and put a kindly hand on his arm.

"If you need to talk, you know where I am..."

Watson smiled slightly. "Perhaps later," he said. "We could go for a walk after lunch..."

When Irene had eaten her fill (Watson had barely touched the fruit she offered him), they donned their hats and set off together into the palace gardens. Watson had come to love the gardens since their arrival in India. It was so peaceful -to find oneself beneath the shaded canopy of such enormous trees; hear exotic birds singing from high in the branches; be tantalised by the sweet aromas of plants and flowers which lined the pathway.

They came to rest by the fountain near which they had met with Holmes ten days previously to discuss the particulars of the case. Irene sat down on the marble edge of the water bowl, but Watson remained standing. His voice far away as if he were talking only to himself, the doctor began his tale. When he had finished, Irene made to speak, but Watson stopped her.

"It's alright," he said, "You don't have to say anything. I know you'll be thinking of me, but I don't need your sympathy, I need to work."

"Doctor..."

"The sooner this case is over, the sooner I can be home," Watson said stubbornly. "Now you know the truth, but if I'm honest, I would rather not talk about it..."

"Then I won't mention it," said Irene. She looked up at the late afternoon sky where the sun was already beginning its decent. "Shall we go back?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so." Watson readjusted his hat and led the way back down the narrow pathway towards the palace. As they walked, Irene wished she could tell Watson of her own predicament, but found that she didn't quite have the words. Perhaps it was for the best; she reasoned that he might even be shocked or offended by tales of her lewd behaviour. She was still pondering whether or not to come clean when they arrived back at their rooms.

"Join me in a cup of tea?" Watson asked as they entered the hallway. "Perhaps something stronger? It's been a long day... Holmes can adhere when he gets back."

Watson threw open the door of his room and froze to the spot. Irene, just behind him, looked through the doorway and gasped in shock. The room had been ransacked – drawers opened and their contents strewn all over the floor; bed sheets in disarray; pillows torn open at the seams, feathers littering every surface. Paintings and decorations had been torn from the walls and thrown to the floor. Even Watson's leather portmanteau had been emptied and his emergency medical supplies tipped out onto the bed. From his position near the door, Watson finally found his voice.

"Wha...What in God's name?"

"Oh, hello," said a voice behind Irene, "You're back." It was Holmes, appearing coolly unconcerned by the fact that the doctor's room had been turned upside down in his absence.

"Holmes," Watson spluttered. "What happened here? Did you see anyone?"

"Well I think it's fairly obvious what has happened, Watson, your room has been scoured."

"And yours too?"

"And ours too."

"What?" It was Irene who spoke, all colour draining from her cheeks.

"Turned over in much the same way as this," Holmes replied, indicating the chaos around them. Without another word, Irene turned and set off to hers and Holmes' room to inspect the damage within.

"I thought we'd seen it all when those shots were fired at the window, but this really takes the biscuit!" Watson was pacing angrily around the room, collecting up his medical items and cramming them back into their bag. He scooped an unravelled bandage off the bed and began to roll it up again. "Look at this – the mattress has been slashed open!"

"Of course it has," Holmes said. "I'd wager whoever is responsible wanted to ensure they performed a thorough and highly methodical search of the premises, hence the slashing of the mattress. I would have done the same myself..."

"Did you just say 'search'?" Watson asked. "What on Earth were they looking for?"

"I'm not sure," Holmes said thoughtfully. "Though as to the identity of the assailant, I believe I have some idea..."

But just who Holmes was thinking of, Watson did not find out, for Irene re-entered the room and cut the detective off mid-stream.

"Nothing's been taken," she said. "Money; our train tickets; personal possessions...Everything's exactly where I left it."

"But how did they get in?" Watson said, as though thinking aloud. "I'm sure we locked the door before we left..."

"That you did, Watson," Holmes said, his eyes noticeably gleaming with the sense of excitement a sharp twist in a case brought him. "The door was indeed locked, which makes the method in which our guests entered our quarters all the more elusive."

A pregnant pause followed, during which both Watson and Irene remembered their respective arguments with Holmes and mulled over whether or not to forget them for the time being. It was Watson who finally condescended to break the silence, realising that nobody else was prepared to do so.

"Well why we ponder over that tricky little detail, why don't we try and get this place straightened out?"

While Irene bustled about in hers and Holmes' room, Watson set about fixing his own. Holmes strolled nonchalantly between the two rooms, making no effort at all to help the cleanup. In fact, Watson would have sworn blind he was going out of his way to create yet more mess for them to sort out.

"Would it be too much to ask you to help out?" Watson asked waspishly, dropping his portmanteau on the newly-made bed and placing his hands on his hips.

Holmes was bent at the knee, examining a stall which had been dragged over to the East wall as if to help the assailant reach the paintings which were pinned too high up to reach. At Watson's words, he looked up, but didn't speak.

"Oh, of course, you're working on the case." Watson ran a hand over his sweating forehead, his words dripping with disdain.

"Indeed."

"What were you doing this morning anyway?" Watson asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"I was invited to an audience with the Maharaja." Holmes straightened up with a slight wince. "He respectfully requested I share with him any information I might have concerning his son's murder investigation."

"What did you tell him?"

"Your question should be – 'What did he tell me'," Holmes said thoughtfully. "A great deal was said; though of course only marginal amounts will prove to be useful to the investigation..." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his tobacco box, grimacing at its distinct lack of contents. When he spoke again, it was with an air of disinterest.

"The Maharaja's Queen -that is, Jamal and Jhasmine's mother- passed away not a year before our arrival. His Majesty said he has yet to recover completely from the loss."

Watson's face had drained unceremoniously of colour (apparently unnoticed by Holmes), but he managed to nod.

"Well naturally," he said. "And the death of Jamal so soon afterward only exacerbated his feelings, I should imagine..."

"You imagine correctly, although I find it highly nonsensical he should still be upset," Holmes said, putting away his tobacco and holding a match to his freshly-stuffed pipe. "A whole year has passed, after all."

Watson shook his head in frank disbelief. "His wife died," he said, surprising even himself with the level of hostility in his voice. "She died, Holmes. Now I shouldn't imagine you can possibly comprehend that, but could you at least try..." He took a deep breath, aware of the fact that his voice was trembling with unforeseen emotion. "...Try and be a little more sensitive, please! For my sake if for no-one else's..."

Holmes studied Watson carefully, taking in the still-present tremor in his hand which seemed to have spread so that now his whole body was trembling; the glassy sheen to his eyes, and the slight heaving of his chest. Not even Holmes could overlook the fact that his friend was in great emotional distress, but what could have happened?

"Watson, I..."

"How did the Queen die?"

"I merely wanted to ask..."

"Tell me, Holmes, how did she die?" Watson gritted his teeth, determined to continue their conversation.

"The Queen was taking the morning air in the village when she was knocked down by a cart of local hooligans," Holmes said. "An accidental collision, of course, but the Maharaja confesses he blames himself for her death entirely."

Watson nodded, unsure of whether the truth had led to his feeling better or worse. "Survivor's Guilt, I suppose...?"

"Not at all," Holmes answered, "Common sense. I see no viable reason why the Maharaja should not blame himself for his wife's death!"

"Sherlock..." Irene had re-entered the room and had apparently heard the last few moments of Holmes and Watson's conversation. Her gaze now flicked from Holmes to Watson and back again, as if she were shooting concerned glances towards the latter, and a non-verbal warning to the former. "Sherlock," she said again with intent, her eyes flashing meaningfully.

"Had he been there, he could easily have saved her life – they say there was more than time for the Queen to move out of harm's way, but she simply did not notice the cart coming until it was too late." Holmes bit down on his pipe as if this settled the matter.

He glanced towards Watson. The doctor seemed to be having some trouble taking in the finer details of Holmes' story – his eyes were fixed resolutely on the floor, still shaking hands fumbling and fiddling with a glass bottle half-full of cod liver oil for want of a distraction. But for all his skills of observation and superior deduction, Holmes did not make the connection between Watson's clear discomfort and the tale he himself was recounting. That said, Sherlock Holmes had never been one for imagining the effect his words could have emotionally on those around him...

"I feel we could all learn from the manner in which the Queen died." Holmes continued his rather sanctimonious speech with no consideration for the imploring and frankly horrified expression on Irene's face. "Those among us who are unmarried –in particular the women present..." he shot a quick glance in Irene's direction, "-Should take greater care when crossing the road!" Next he turned to Watson. "And those who are married should take greater care of their wives!"

"Sherlock, let's go out," Irene strode into the room, momentarily forgetting her quarrel with Holmes in her haste to end this conversation before it could proceed any further. "I feel like a walk... Would you care to join me? Now..."

Watson, however, held up a hand to silence her. He fixed Holmes with his most virulent glare, still holding the glass bottle in one hand.

"Holmes, you are an intelligent man..."

"Only 'intelligent'?" Holmes mocked an affronted expression. "Watson, you insult me!"

"You are an intelligent man," Watson repeated, "Therefore you shouldn't have any difficulty grasping the meaning behind the words – 'Leave The Subject Be'. Do you understand me?"

"I was merely trying to ensure that nothing similar to the predicament of the Maharaja and his Queen should befall you and Mary," Holmes said. He had no idea of why he was talking back to his friend when it was quite clear this was not the time to argue. Indeed, a tiny voice inside Holmes' head was screaming blue murder; imploring him to stop tormenting Watson and to, like the doctor himself had said, leave the subject well alone. But there was no reason Holmes could see to follow such a request – not from Watson, nor from his conscience. And so he returned his pipe to his mouth and prepared to deliver a final, admittedly antagonistic, observation.

"But I'm sure you don't require my advice, Watson," he said with a complimentary smile. "After all, one would hope you are able to take better care of your wife than the Maharaja apparently has of his!"

There was an ear-splitting 'SMASH' as the glass bottle which had previously been in Watson's hand hit the wall behind Holmes' head and smashed into dozens of tiny pieces. Holmes ducked the projectile, but no amount of reflex or foresight could have prepared him for the expression on the countenance of his best friend – the doctor's entire face was contorted with unspeakable, burning hatred from the grey irises of his eyes to the tip of his nose and point of his chin. For the first time in his life, Holmes felt quite taken-aback. This expression had not been present when Holmes had offended Mary at their first meeting; nor had it appeared when Holmes had caused Watson to miss his supper with the in-laws by landing him in a detention cell, awaiting bail. But before Holmes could comment or even begin to comprehend what he might have said to enrage Watson so, the anger melted away as the doctor's face creased over with uncontainable emotion. And then, quite overcome with the effort of suppressing the tears which always threatened, Watson clamped a hand over his mouth and dashed from the room.

No sooner had he left, Irene rounded on Holmes.

"You couldn't just leave well enough alone, could you? And after all he's been through, too!"

"Miss Adler, I confess myself to be at a loss," Holmes said slowly, his eyes fixed on the door through which Watson had just made his dramatic exit. "You appear to know far more than I, so I shall ask you -What is the matter with Watson?"

Irene stared at him incredulously. The wind had apparently been taken from her sails with the realisation that Holmes truthfully did not know why Watson had taken such great offence to his comments.

"Has he not told you?" Irene said finally, dumbfounded.

"Evidently not."

"Oh God..." Irene whispered. "Oh God, that poor man...he suffered in silence this whole time. I thought he'd have told you first!"

"Told me what, exactly?"

"Holmes, it's Mary..." Irene took a deep breath, realising now that she was breaking Watson's confidence, but at the same time knowing that the deed was already done. "She's ill...really ill. It's Tuberculosis – Watson got a telegram just after her diagnosis, but there's nothing he can do for her. There's not much anyone can do for her..."

Holmes stared at Irene, unblinking, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. Mary was dying? The very thought seemed impossible, unreal. Could Watson be about to lose the woman he loved forever? The feeling of something thoroughly unpleasant began to stir within Holmes' stomach – guilt, he now realised, for the way he had treated Watson.

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but found that there were no words on his tongue. There was no way he could excuse or explain the way he had behaved, and he knew it.

Irene stared expectantly at Holmes, willing him to say something, anything, to make everything alright again. But Holmes said nothing. Without a word or a backward glance, he turned away from Irene and strode from the room.

Irene watched him go. She waited until the door at the bottom of the stairs clicked shut to indicate Holmes' departure before leaving the room herself and heading off to find Watson.