And introducing Benedict Cumberbatch as the Count! Well, I think he would be perfect in this role. -Sef

xxx

Joan's notes, London, 1895

Well, our country visit was a bust. Freezing cold, sticky mud and hours on draughty trains, and it turns out that the count was at his hotel in London. So back we came, and Holmes made an appointment to visit the count at his London hotel.

"We must dress well," Holmes had told me as we readied ourselves for the visit. "The Count is most particular and his people will not allow us through the door unless we seem the sort of person he is accustomed to."

"What's he the count of?" I asked as Holmes held out my bonnet. It was clear that Holmes expected me to be the most likely one to let the side down with dress.

"A very ancient region in Europe. But he has lived in England a long time, secluded, almost hermitic. It is a rare thing that he grants an audience."

"Yes, how did you persuade him?"

Holmes indicated the draft of his telegram. "I sent this to his residence."

I read the pencil scrawl. "Your demons are becoming unruly. Let us discuss a solution. Holmes."

Holmes inspected me now, his eyes on my deep ruby dress and black high frill collar jacket. My hat was red too, and my boots were polished. "You are a jewel, if a little ... rough cut." He tidied my collar as if he had the perfect right to adjust my dress. I don't know what it is that gives him this freedom. He is certainly not as free and easy with other woman. Is it because I am not from this time and he imagines I have a different sense of personal space? Or is it just his own arrogant possessiveness toward someone within his own household? I can't see Mrs Hudson being amended the way I am. "Now you are perfect," Holmes said, still frowning. "However it is cold. Take my coat, I will wear the grey."

He lifted a woollen coat from the stand and flung it around my shoulders. Again he took the opportunity to adjust me within the coat, settling it around me like a cape. You're enjoying this, I thought, but it was such a weird idea that I didn't say anything. From any other man this might be flirting, or at any rate, inappropriate touching, but I could not believe it of Holmes.

He hailed a cab and helped me into it and we rattled off through the streets of the West End until we reached Paddington. Beyond the great station was a great hotel, a massive edifice with many floors and many windows decorated with carved stone surrounds. A rack of electric lights illuminated the front door and the sign announced that this was the Hotel Metropolitain.

Holmes and I entered the lobby and approached the desk manager. "The Count," Holmes said, handing in his card. "He is expecting me."

"That is his private lift," said the man, pointing to a single brass door separated from the other lifts. "You will have to go p alone, I'm afraid sir. None of the staff will attend him."

"Weird," I said as the inner lift cage closed to Holmes' tug. He pressed the single button.

"The Count is a dangerous man," Holmes said. "It is as well that you are beautiful, for this will distract him., but do not let him touch you, even for a moment. Once he has you in his grasp there is no escape."

"You're not reassuring me, Holmes," I told him as the bell dinged.

"I do not mean to," Holmes said. We stepped out into a tiny lobby.

He knocked on the larger of two doors in the silent lobby. Here our feet sank into the carpet, which was dark blood-red and the walls painted deep brown. The smaller door looked like all the others we'd since at the Metropolitain - gilt-edged, ornate. The larger door was very stout and plain, as if not part of the original design of the hotel.

The door opened and a small woman stood there. She was wizened and old but clearly had once been very beautiful. She had large eyes and a mouth stained red with rouge. Her gray hair was piled on her head in an extravagant style which its limpness could not quite sustain.

She scowled when she saw me, and sniffed at my gown and my hat and my face in general. Then she let us in.

The Count's rooms were spacious and opulent. Gas lights threw a glow over everything, which was lucky because the red velvet curtains were drawn. Leather studded armchairs were placed next to a fire, and many bookcases, vases of palms, and tiny dark paintings adorned the space.

The Count sat in one of the armchairs. "Excuse me if I do not get up," he said in a faint voice, his head bowed. He extended a hand, a pale, shrunken hand, and indicated that we should sit.

He had white hair and was wrapped in a thick robe, although he sat right next to the fire and the room was warm, stiflingly warm.

"Sherlock Holmes," said Holmes briskly, "and my associate and client, Miss Watson." He did not offer his hand.

"So, so," said the Count in his delicate foreign accent. He still had not raised his head. "Sit. Sit."

I sat in the chair nearest him. As his eyes caught my shoes he suddenly jerked ip his head to look at me.

I was captured by his gaze.

He was pale, very pale, white skin which had not seen sunlight for years. His eyes were almost clear, they were such a light blue colour – but they were sharp and bright, the eyes of a young man.

And as he rose, casting off the robe, and extended his hand to me, his hair seemed no longer white, but only grey, and as he took a strong quick step towards me, it seemed black.

"Miss Watson!" he exclaimed in a rounded baritone, and smiled, a smile of great charm and gallantry.

I remembered Holmes' advice but it was awkward not to rise too and shake the Count's hand.

Holmes moved to place himself between us. "It is of great interest to meet you after so many years," Holmes said.

The Count's eyes flashed as I was shifted aside by Holmes, but he nodded and moved around the room. His eyes were always on me, and with every glace he seemed younger more vigorous, a man of action and strength, not a frail old dignitary.

"What of demons?" he asked, walking near to the window. He peeped between the drawn curtains, very cautiously. He winced at whatever he saw and drew back.

"Perhaps I should ask you," Holmes said.

"I think not," said the Count. He pursed his lips, and flicked his long white fingers. "And so goodbye, unless you bring something to my advantage." He glanced at me, and there was summer in the blue of his eyes.

"We do have something," I said, and the Count blinked, presumably startled to hear this interruption from a lady.

"Watson," said Holmes warningly.

I ignored him and approached the Count. "We have knowledge which concerns the Hungry Jewel."