Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

Inspired by: "Who Knows Where the Time Goes" by Fairport Convention.

May 9th, 1893

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently against the floorboards. He'd closed up the bookshop early today, in the hopes that Madeline may arrive unhindered by nosy customers. Still, the opportunity to be alone was not totally unsavory; he was, after all, somewhat a creature of habit and it still was jarring to share space with a female after all the years he'd been on his own.

Four months passed since he'd revealed his existence to her, four months since they…reconnected. Even in his own mind he tried to spin their clandestine meeting off in his own words. And since then, they'd been meeting with regular irregularity. Thankfully his old hiding places around the city had remained untouched, and so with a letter dropped in her window, or a simple twist of paper stuck into her dress pocket, Holmes would give her the address of one of the places, with instructions about what time to be there and how to disguise herself.

Soon enough, she was able to see on her own who was trailing her, and how often they did so. She was getting better at slipping out the back door, dressed like an elderly woman or a street moppet, just to elude the idiots. More than once she commented on how it made her sick to think she was being that closely watched for the past year and a half.

Once they were together, they proceeded to spend their time nearly the same way as they did before Holmes' supposed death. Theoretical discussion, information on Watson and his growing family, comments on the Empire's methods of expansion, nothing went untouched. The only difference between the past and the present was that little something between them was being acknowledged, and to both their pleasures, it was being expounded upon.

Not during every meeting did they make love. It wasn't a constant, pressing urge, like the first time, but they both knew when the fires had reached a fever pitch and when they were both too cold to be inclined towards that. Many times they would sit, her reading some novel and nestled up against him while he would draw figures in the air and ask her opinion every now and again about crimes he'd read about in the paper. But when they did come together, it was an explosion, a mad rush of blood and feeling, and it left them both mildly shocked and incredibly satisfied.

Madeline was his link to the outside world, as Watson was still unaware of his return from the grave. Sherlock was obdurate on the subject of his old partner, claiming that it was unnecessary to endanger both their lives, and that if Madeline were ever caught she would probably be allowed to go, being a woman and all. He wasn't fooling her; departing from his profession also meant departing from his best friend, and as of yet he was unwilling to go back to either. Coming back from the dead professionally would be tough, and explaining once more how he had tricked the world for a year would most likely not go over well with John. Besides, the doctor had his wife, and his son, and the practice. Sherlock Holmes didn't need to be a part of the equation (no matter how many times Madeline objected to the situation.)

Today was the first time he invited Madeline to come to the bookstore directly. Early on he'd made her promise not to set foot in the shop, for fear of blowing both their covers. She fought him on it every other time she stole away to his hidey-holes, claiming that they would be in no more danger than at that moment.

The only way to ensure that, Sherlock had argued would be for her to spend the night at some other place, and then sneak out to the bookshop. He should've known better than divulge that idea; the gleam she got in her eye afterward made his stomach drop in a strange combination of anxiety and admiration.

So now one convoluted scheme later, she had supposedly boarded a train to go into the country, and she would be dropping by within the hour. And speak of the highly attractive devil, there she was coming through the unlocked back door.

"Hullo?" Madeline whispered, harried after her small adventure across the city. Losing the two idiots practically assigned to follow her was a challenge, and it was even harder to do so jumping off a train just about to leave the station. Throw a dress with several layers and a faux suitcase into the mix, and it spelled for an escapee disaster. Somehow she'd managed, and so tiptoed up the back staircase into Holmes' apartments above the bookstore.

"Welcome to my home away from home," Holmes remarked idly, nodding over at her from his position by the window. He was taking in the view of his old flat which was literally glaring at him from across the road. He never thought he could miss a building so much in his life…

Madeline crossed over quickly and dropped a quick kiss on his lips, smiling as she rose up again.

Well, if one could miss a woman one saw only three days ago, perhaps it was plausible to miss the old rooms. Glancing up at her, he read her expression easily. God help him, he was endeared to a woman he could skim over like a book and still have her make him feel as though his heart was turning over in his chest.

Pounding at the muscle beneath the pectoral, Holmes continued, "I take it the endeavor was not as simple as you first thought. I imagine the seven o'clock train must be carrying away a piece of your hem, and the hansom you hired obviously was unable to avoid the massive puddle on Brereton Street and splattered you with mud."

"So you're happy to see me then?"

He shrugged. "Moderately, I suppose."

She raised an eyebrow, and did not deign to comment. Instead she dropped onto his lap and laid her head on his shoulder. Her entire body sagged with exhaustion, and with the repressed emotions she'd been locking down for the past several weeks. She didn't know how much longer she could keep Holmes in the dark.

"…No improvement in Mary's condition, then?"

Her green eyes flashed, and her jaw dropped. "How did you…? I haven't said a word about Watson or Mary being sick."

"Madeline, I would be remiss if I let my skills as a detective fall out of use," he responded, a smirk on his face but no real amusement in it. So he had seen, and he had heard in some way, that Mary had developed a hacking cough, and growing weaker as the days passed. That Watson was cradling his boy ever closer in fear of his infection, and fearing the worst. That Cavendish Place was constantly in darkness, and even the locals dodged the place as if death had already occurred.

"No change," Madeline said, staring into space. "I went to see them yesterday, but Mary was barely able to acknowledge my presence, let alone speak."

The arms encircling her tightened, belying Holmes' very real grief at his friend's dilemma. His face however, was quite blank.

Her voice dropped lower as she went on. "And as I went to leave, I saw her…I saw her cough up…blood."

Holmes rubbed his eyes, trying to not let the horror in his female companion bleed into him.

"Consumption."

"I can see no other alternative. I asked Watson about it, but he was firm in saying she did not protract the illness," she told him, fidgeting now with the folds of her dress. It was like childhood all over, a little brother succumbing to bloody death, and a mother spraying her fluids across the bedding in an attempt to breathe. She rather hoped she'd never know someone else who'd fall prey to the evil disease, and now Mary was fighting for her very life. At the rate she was progressing, if she lived (and that was a very small chance of happening), she'd be so weak that the next time she'd be ill she would die from that instead.

"He's denying the truth to cope," the detective stated, lifting the lady off his lap and deciding to pace the room. For all he'd ever put Watson through during the years of partnership, and for all that he'd heard of the doctor's exploits in the army, he couldn't imagine the pain of truly losing someone you cared for. At least, he only had an inkling. It was one of the things Sherlock actually never wanted to know.

"Sherlock, perhaps…"

"No." He knew she would try to argue that he should come back now, and go to his best friend. It was simply out of the question, in his mind at least. And it had nothing to do with Mary herself; they had, after their initial dislike of one another, become decent friends. She had become a sort of mothering figure whenever he visited the doctor's home, and to lose a mother for the second time was awful, but bearable. "It's not the proper time."

What he couldn't bear would be the shock in John's eyes. The denial. The feelings of fury and betrayal. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he found a measure of hate in his friend's countenance.

"It's been a year, longer than that! And his wife is dying," Madeline choked, staring him down. When he wouldn't look at her, she jumped up and stood in his path. Her hands gripped Holmes' forearms tightly, forcing him to feel something. "He needs a friend."

"He has you. You are, after all, not deceased," Sherlock pointed out feebly. "There is much work to be done before I can even contemplate reclaiming my name and my life."

Jabbing a finger into his chest, she snarled, "Then you best start working, Mister Holmes. There won't be much of a Boswell to come back to if you leave it too long."

This was why he liked her. The spirit and the maddening ability to keep him on his toes were some of her better features. However, at the moment it was a tad irritating.

"I understand that, madam," he growled, his gaze becoming hard as flint. She, for one, was not wholly intimidated by that look. Still, she did back away and give him some ground. The sadness in her face grew, and she shook her head.

"I hope you do, sir. I really hope you do."

Ah, the pitiful woman routine. He'd seen it thousands of times on many cases. The downcast eyes, the slumping shoulders, the entire ensemble screaming for someone to hold them and promise everything would turn out alright.

And damn him, it was starting to work. Womanly charms were supposed to have absolutely no bearing on him. He supposed, as he gathered her into a tight embrace, that was the trade-off for letting any female into your life. No man would be utterly immune, not even him (he still had trouble dealing with the crying, though, and had walked out of the room to avoid it on a few occasions).

She squeezed him back as well, and the unsaid message was clear: this was more for his support than hers, and she wanted him to know it.

Perhaps it would be best for the great Sherlock Holmes to rise from the ashes, for all their sakes.

xXxXxXx

May 19th, 1893

"And so, today we bury Mary Elizabeth Watson…"

The priest's words bounced into her ears, but were barely registered. It was all Madeline could do just to hold on to little Willy and somehow hold John's hand at the same time. Three days after discussing with Sherlock a plan to resurrect him, Mary finally gave in and died from the illness. Watson, numb with grief, refused to speak of it, refused to do anything but cling to his boy and woodenly prepare for the burial service.

Offering up silent prayers for the woman trapped in the casket, for the family left behind, and for her own family to meet Mary in Heaven, Madeline had to wonder if prayers were doing her friend any good at the moment. To anyone who has borne grief before, it was not a thing to get used to. If anything, losing yet another person you truly cared about cut you even deeper, knowing that they are gone and better yet knowing there was not a damn thing you could do about it.

Which was why she offered no empty placations to Watson on the way to the church. She just held his hand, and kept an eye out for the shadow following them down the streets to the cemetery.

Holmes was there throughout the service, hiding first in the eves of the church, and then far away in a grove of trees at the burial plot. As the final prayer was said and the casket lowered, a branch cracked underneath his weight, the only incident that dared betray his presence. The mourners began to disperse, and John bustled ahead with William draped in his arms to herd them all to Cavendish Place. Madeline tarried, saying she'd be along soon enough, but that she had more good-byes to make. It was the first time she'd ever used her dead relative as an excuse to meet with Holmes, and the guilt of both lying to John and about her family slid heavily down her throat as she swallowed.

Darting over to the grove, she barely had time to flatten herself against a tree trunk before the sleuth dropped down from the nearest oak. Uncomfortably they just shifted on their feet, avoiding looking at the fresh plot several yards away, or the curious glance the stragglers threw in their direction before going home.

A few token tears crept out of Madeline's eyes, and her black skirts rumpled as she crushed her body against Sherlock's. He held her close, allowing his forehead to rest against hers and closing his eyes. The plans were set, the traps baited…he only wished he hadn't been too late. He'd made a mistake, leaving Watson without his closest friend to help him through the trauma. It was rare, but he would admit to this one after the fact. Pressing a kiss to his lady's head, he whispered one word before melting into the background yet again. The one word, though, buoyed her hope, and let her know that things were going to be set right.

"Soon…"

Author's note: I killed Mary! I am SUCH a horrible person…although she did die in the books, so I'm not too upset with myself. I don't remember if Doyle ever declared how Mary died; it seemed like more of an afterthought, a way to just get her out of the picture and allow Watson to fully engage in Holmes' life again, so perhaps it really doesn't matter how she died.

Anyway…yes, Madeline and Sherlock are officially a couple. They fight, they make up, they hang out. Voila! Yay…sadly, I must inform you all that we are actually getting close to the end of this story, but we're not there yet! I still have stuff to tie up, and so I shall see you all next week. And the update WILL be late this time, as a huge camp is coming in and I will be working a ton next week. Sorry, but please enjoy this chapter, review, and I will see you soon!