Sorry again for the shitty update schedule. I ACTUALLY GOT IT IN ON SUNDAY GOD FUCKING DAMN. But I'm completely done with theater now so I won't be leaving again until it's finished. (Or at least I won't have any more excuses.)

I wanted to address a few notes I received during the break.

The first was about my use of crutch/cane? I was under the impression that the Brit word for "cane" was "crutch", sort of like "jumper" and "sweater", but I guess I'm wrong? Oops. I tried Googling it without luck, but if anyone with knowledge of the fact could correct or affirm me, that would be awesome. I'm always open to lessons in proper British English. For this chapter, I'll use cane.

The second was for my mention of Xanax versus Prozac. I actually realized that mistake about halfway through, but I didn't have the time to correct it. Turns out my friend had been taking Xanax as a fast-action treatment, and she and I had a discussion about it that helped me fully understand how it worked. (For those not briefed in anxiety medication, Xanax is a pill taken for panic attacks which acts immediately, while Prozac is taken for depression and typically takes a few months or so to work properly.) When I go through to re-edit the fic I'll fix that, and possibly add in the separate uses of both pills. I hope it didn't bother anyone else, haha. Thanks for calling me out on it.

Also, someone mentioned the letter, and I just wanted to let you know that it'll get explained shortly, so don't worry.

Thanks for the feedback, all of you.


The party began at eight-thirty, sharp, when the sky was dark and white snowflakes fell slowly, illuminated by the bright lights of the lawn. The estate we were visiting was owned by a friend of my father, and seemed almost twice the size of my parents', with high vaulted ceilings and near-golden marble floors. Guests were entertained in a wide ballroom, where a string band played off to the right ("Pachelbel," you noted), and the vast middle was cleared of furniture to allow for dancing. Expensive suits and floor-length dresses sparkled underneath crystal chandeliers. I felt slightly underdressed, even in my brand-new suit, and suddenly Mum's shimmering peach dress didn't seem so grossly extravagant.

People around us gave me strange looks, no doubt from the state of my face, but you had told me not to worry about passing glances. We weren't there to impress anyone, and we didn't need to worry about our appearance. We were there to finish the case, and finish the case we would.

Mum stepped close to me and wrapped her arm in mine, tugging my head low to hear her whisper. "There are many prominent people here. Mr. Schwann, a Swiss banker, very influential inside the European Union, there he is with his two daughters. Mrs. Adeline Ross is over near the strings, she's the wife of the French dignitary, and her son Abel is beside her. There near the door is Dr. Westel Haren, he's spent most the last few years working with Russian scientists outside Volgograd."

"Are there always so many political figures?" I asked, hushedly. "I thought Dad sold medicine."

"He does. But medicine needs money, and where there's money, there's politics." She stretched her neck to look around. "I don't see Wilhem. But you'll know him when you see him. And I'm sure he'll know you."

I nodded.

The crowd made it a little difficult for you to survey the room, and you gave an exasperated huff. "I need a better look." You spun around offered your hand to Mum. "If Dr. Watson doesn't mind, may I have a dance?"

Mum grinned, then glanced at my father, who waved them both off.

You led Mum gently toward the dance, leaving my father and I standing there quietly, surrounded by bustling people. I watched them with a little anxiety, preparing myself and timing my breaths, while Dad polished the bulb of his pipe, regarding whether or not to save his tobacco for later.

"It's best if you stay within arm's reach of either Holmes or myself," He mentioned, not bothering to look at me. "We don't want anything unexpected to happen."

"I will."

"And keep him on a short leash when you can. There are plenty of people here who he does not want to make angry."

"Yes, sir."

He glanced at me then, giving me a once-over with a disapproving squint before raising his pipe to his lips. "You look too tense."

"Sorry."

He turned on his heel and walked toward the seating. I lost sight of you in the crowd as I tried to keep on my father's heels. It was a bit helpless, being confined to a guard, and it didn't suit me at all. I pushed around on my cane, trying not to step on toes or make too much noise.

Endless people brushed by, some of them taking the time to say hello to my father, but none quite concerned enough to bother with me. The room moved around us, not as if we were invisible, but as if we were moving targets. I saw my father's wary glance as he walked, letting smoke rise through his nose. He was nervous, too. Not my kind of nervous, hands-shaking and stomach-curling nervous. He was jaw-clenching, smoking-three-clumps-of-tobacco nervous.

A man cut through the crowd in our direction, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up straight. I knew it was him from the second I saw him, his brown hair neatly combed, his face smooth-shaven, his teeth white, his suit crisp, his tie sparkling gold, and the bushel of holly that was pinned to his breast definitely smelling quite unpleasant.

"Dr. Watson. You're looking well."

I froze. Momentarily I forgot that I was not the only Dr. Watson facing him. My father shook his outstretched hand. "Good evening, Wilhem."

"This must be your son." The man's eyes roamed. "I'm so glad I have the privilege to meet you in person."

"Thank you," I replied.

"John, this is Wilhem Lecuyér." My father motioned.

"I'm sure he already knows who I am."

He smiled. Lips long and thin, his French accent rolled from his mouth like mucus. That holly gnawed at my nose. Maybe, I suspected, he had worn it on purpose. He knew my senses were hyperactive. He was the one who had made them that way. I curled my nose and quickly rubbed at it, avoiding direct eye contact with the man and instead watching the crowd for you.

But he dragged me back in with a click of his tongue. "I've kept up with your blog, doctor. You write very well."

"Thank you." I pulled my cane closer to myself.

"And should I be looking forward to a meeting with the detective this evening?" He asked. "I have been looking forward to finding out just how fantastic his gifts of perception really are."

I flashed him a smile. "He won't disappoint you."

"I do hope not."

For just a moment, his smile morphed into a snarl. His lips curled like a lion, eyes bright with interest, watching me like slab of meat. My throat went dry as he combed his claws through his hair.

You were beside me, suddenly. Wilhem's gaze averted up to you.

"Good evening," He nodded.

"Hello." You thrust out your hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

He touched you. "Wilhem Lecuyér."

The two of you gazed at each other a moment, your eyes flickering over him and his slithering over you. It only lasted for a fraction of a second, but I recognized it, and my father recognized it, pulling Mum's looped arm closer to his waist.

"Are you enjoying the party, Wilhem?" She asked, smiling, and a little out-of-breath.

"Quite well, yes." He nodded to her. "And yourself?"

"Well, we've only just arrived, but Sherlock here is- ah," She panted. "Very fine at dancing. I'm a bit tired. Would you go get me a glass of that punch, John?"

I stretched around. "Where?"

You placed your hand on the small of my back. "I'll show you."

With a short swat you moved me toward the left, and I fell behind my father before Wilhem could make an interjection. You led me away, cutting through the crowd with your hands hovering near my shoulders, my hands finally starting to shake. I knew that I wasn't in danger, but something about that scent of holly made my skin crawl. You seemed just as bothered.

"Did you get anything?" I asked, moving closer as we walked.

"History of violence. Abusive father, absent mother. No siblings. Widower. Divorced, twice." You glanced back, just before Lecuyér disappeared behind the crowd. "Three times. Two children, one girl and one boy. Underdeveloped morally, but cunning mentally. Devious. He's dressed up extraordinarily well tonight, he's looking forward to something. He's consciously preparing himself, grooming himself to be at the top of his game."

"Or maybe he groomed himself because it's a party," I retorted.

"No. He got his hair cut, expensive cut. Maybe he cut it for the holiday? No. Fingers, manicured. Teeth freshly whitened. Eyebrows waxed. Also, massage. He was tense. Looking forward to something. Thinking about it, constantly." You scowled as we reached the bar and poured a glass of the punch. "Rehearsed, too. He's rehearsed this, over and over. Meeting you. Meeting me. Gotten information on you, looked into your blog. Looking forward to you, then."

I turned back to look. "Can we take him?"

"I hope so." You sipped.

I caught a look at your glass. "I thought you said not to ingest anything."

"I told you not to ingest anything." You rolled the drink around on your tongue and then paused to pour Mum a glass. "Seems alright. Too sweet."

A soft brush pulled my attention away from you and toward the young woman approaching from the right. Her eyes passed quickly over you and I, a small smile playing on her lips as she approached the table, a glass of dark red wine in her hand.

"Hello," She said, eyes locking with yours.

You looked over her. "Hello."

"I don't think I've ever seen you here before," She chirped.

You shrugged and took another drink.

I watched the dialogue with my lips in a flat line. It wasn't unusual for you to attract flirts, but with everything else going on tonight it seemed like overkill on my nerves. I stepped a little closer to you, but her eyes were fixed, filled with amber and gold. She extended her hand to you.

"Elouise," She smiled.

Wait. I recognized that voice. Her eyes met mine with a glint.

"My, John, you're not looking well. Do you need to sit down?"

I glanced at you and back at her, unsure of what to do. I angled myself away. My hands stopped shaking.

You examined her for a long moment, then, with a small grin on your face, took her hand. "I've heard a lot of things about you."

"Oh, I'd doubt it." Elouise bent her neck to the side, letting some of her hair spill out from around her ear. Her lips parted, just slightly, as you brought her hand to your mouth and gently kissed the gemstone of her silver ring. "Though, I have been looking forward to meeting you."

You brushed your thumb against her knuckles. "You're more beautiful than I'd expected."

"As are you. Such gorgeous cheekbones."

You let go of her hand, and the two of you exchanged a familiar glance. It was as if the two of you had stepped up onto an entirely different plane that made it impossible for me to follow. I touched your elbow, but you felt cold. Elouise's aura turned my stomach, and her out-of-reach expression didn't help.

She stood like a cat, her shoulders back and chest forward, neck bent gracefully. Her eyes sparkled with a keen I didn't see in her father; even looking closely, I didn't see much resemblance, but there was something about the way her gaze slipped across your figure. Her blonde hair was the color of wheat-fields, her skin smooth and jaw thin, her lips the color of her wine, and her eyes the color of the sun.

"Do you dance, Mr. Holmes?" She asked.

"I do." You extended you arm. "May I have the privilege?"

"A gentleman, too." She smiled. "Take my glass, would you, John?"

She held her wine out to me, and I took it, biting the inside of my cheek. "Don't let me interrupt you, by all means."

You cast me a glance before striding off, side-by side with Elouise.

I muttered a curse at the two of you and turned back toward my parents. The crowd had swallowed them up, and I spent a minute or two stretching my neck and trying to spot them. The people around me ignored me, which was good, but it gave Mum an opportunity to catch me completely off-guard when she tapped me on the arm from behind. I nearly spilt Elouise's wine all over her dress.

"No need to jump," She giggled, turning to the bar. "I asked for punch, sweetheart, not wine."

"I didn't-" I stopped, looking down at the glass. "Nevermind. Where's Dad?"

"That's why I came over here." Mum poured herself a glass and stepped closer to me. "They've gone up to the west library."

"Alone?"

"Yes. Gone up for a smoke; at least, that's what Wilhem said. There wasn't much from for him to say no, you should've heard his tone. Almost sinister." She sipped. "It really is too bad that his daughter's been brought up under that kind of man. She really is quite beautiful. A very charming young woman."

I nodded, trying to find you in the dance, but the crowd had swallowed you, too.

"Well, John, you keep an eye out, alright?" Mum patted my arm again. "Oh, look, there's Laura by the window. Do you remember Laura?"

"But, Mum, I mean, I'm not supposed to be alone." I strained.

"Then go after your father." She whispered, then picked up her neck. "I'm going to say hello. Don't drink too much now, John, it'll upset your stomach."

With that, she strode off, leaving me with a cane and a wineglass, my fingers cold by both Elouise's appearance and my own sudden isolation. Everyone around me now became a threat, and I could feel the alarms ringing with every passing. I had two options. I could drag you out from the dancing, or at least move to stay within your eyesight; or, I could follow my father and his threatenee into an unfamiliar house and hope for the best.

"Bollocks," I muttered. If only to be rebellious, I sniffed Elouise's wine and took a long swig, beginning to maneuver my way toward the doors of the west wing.


Crack my head and break my reviews.

Starting to look a bit like a chess game, is it?

I SWEAR ON GOD THAT I WILL UPDATE ON THURSDAY. Only two left to go. See you then.