Hullo, everyone! I'm back again with another chapter. I know I promised that it would be uploaded on Saturday, but I decided that I needed a little more time to write it out and make sure everything was in order before I uploaded it to the great world of fanfictions. To be honest with you all, I am putting all of my faith into this story and I hope it will turn out right. We are finally getting into all the action, and I hope I haven't bored you because I am really excited about the next few chapters!
Wrapped up in the coat I've been entrusted with, and deep inside the boots, suitable for trudging through the rain and mud, we exit the flat, saying a quick goodbye to Mrs. Hudson on the way out. The first step I take outside after the cozy ride is a chilly one as a gust of wind sweeps past us and nips at my nose. A sigh seeps past my lips and I tug at his sleeve in my hand. Our friends are in danger and there is no time to waste! The mariah will help us get to the station as quickly as possible, but coming up with a plan and then putting it into action is another matter entirely.
Of course, it would be even better if I actually knew what the plan was, since I don't appreciate being kept in the dark about these things, I want to know my place in the plan so I can better help him. I know it's his method, but it's certainly not mine. I don't like surprises.
It has just occurred to me that I may look like a boy and smell like a boy, but I don't walk like one, so I try to imitate the men passing me, taking larger strides and walking with my legs farther apart. It feels a little unnatural for me, this is just temporary, however, so I can put up with it for a little while longer. Sherlock looks at me, confused at my lame attempt to imitate his manly air and I can tell he's on the verge of smiling.
"May I ask what you're doing?"
"I'm trying to walk like a man, what's it look like? If I am given a part to play, I want to make sure I put my whole heart into it."
"And are you enjoying the role, Miss Adler."
Getting in, I give a shiver and then sit all the way back, making sure I slump. "That's Mister Adler to you, Mister Holmes, and yes, I am finding it rather amusing; only, I'm a little self-conscious about how I smell. I don't know any man who wears Parisian perfume, but I could have at least bathed. Do all men have such terrible hygiene?"
"Are you saying I smell?" He laughs, not taking offense to my comment as he sits across from me.
"Not at all, I'm just saying a nice, warm bath will do you some good, not only does it keep you clean but it helps relax your muscles."
"Did you bring your perfume?"
"No, I thought it would be a bad idea considering the fact that Moriarty will probably recognize me by my scent."
Withdrawing into my coat a little, I lapse into an almost comfortable silence and keep my eyes trained on an elderly couple strolling on the sidewalk alongside us. A smile comes to my face. Sherlock glances at his watch and notes that it is only another eight minutes until we reach our destination; the rest of the ride is as quiet as the grave. My stomach is twisting inside of itself, but I am able to hide the panic in my face beneath the newsboy cap.
Sherlock is sitting directly beside me, though what made him do so to begin with, I'm not quite sure. It's only when my hands started shaking that I understand. He is a little bit inexperienced when it comes to providing physical reassurance, and even verbal comfort was difficult to master at first. He quietly takes my head and presses it to his shoulder.
"I'm just so worried about everything: John and Mary, myself, you."
The station on the other hand is packed; the noise and commotion quickly puts me out of my previous state of mind; it's overwhelming how many people want to travel at this time, then again, it is a Friday and so a lot of people wish to visit family for the weekend. Sherlock doesn't do anything less than look at me; his pace is as quick as his mind and it's hard to keep up with him. Once he has his mind focused on a case, he erases everything else going on around him.
Running is a lot easier than usual thanks to these boots. When I wear heels, I always end up tripping over my own feet or slipping on the ice or other sleek surfaces. The only thing I really need to ensure is that the laces are properly tied and that my hair doesn't fall out from underneath the cap; though with the amount of pins I put into it, there's little chance that it will.
It seems that the lineup is long, there are at least ten people ahead of us and he bounces on his heels impatiently, like he's tempted to cut to the front of the line. He closes his eyes, trying to drown out all the sounds and smells; sometimes, it's like he can identify every single voice and pick up the tiniest sound; I wonder what that must be like, having so much going on around you that you can't think straight. It's like a sensory overload and the frustration is written on his face. I want to at least calm him because he's on edge and people are starting to notice, so I step out from behind him and then when I'm close enough, I discreetly slip his hand through mine, squeezing it reassuringly. He appears to appreciate the gesture for he returns the friendly gesture and opens his eyes again. With my other hand, I bring his face to look at me and I take a deep breath; he copies me and the crinkles on his forehead go away and his face softens.
Everyone goes back to minding their own business, but I don't think the first class citizens will take nicely to a pauper among them, much less a woman pretending to be a man, but no one seems to see through my disguise. This time, I was more prepared and put on my corset to at least aid in covering up my womanly chest parts. Maybe I accidentally made it too tight; I've only just noticed how constricting it is; Once I get on the train, I will see if I can loosen it a bit so I can breathe, but at this point, it feels like it's taking forever, now I'm starting to get a little impatient.
Slowly, but surely, we make our way to the counter. "Two tickets to Brighton. First class." He slams money down on the counter, taking both me and the ticket boy by surprise. He quickly shuffles around behind the desk and presents us with what we need. Sherlock gratefully tips his hat and begins to rush straight forward to the platform. Men in sharp red uniforms load bags in towards the back and I should have realized it sooner. He is going to be in a uniform and see if he can get access to John and Mary's compartment. It's a positively perfect idea.
"You know, I've always been attracted to a man in uniform."
"Then you'll love me in this look." He grins, but it disappears so quickly, that it's like I only imagined it. "Now, you wait in there until I am finished with my disguise." He says quietly and I think he knows that I've picked up on the hint. "By the way, you look good in my clothes."
Before I can say anything more, he leaves. I watch after him before shrugging and stepping into my compartment. I'd ridden second class before, and first when my aunt and I would go on tour. I'm actually more terrified of what his possible plan is, than the act of following through with it.
Boarding the train is easy, no one seems to recognize me now that I'm dressed up and my face is covered in soot from the chimney. I will spare you the details of how that happened. Sitting down on the seat, I watch the other people boarding and then as soon as I'm in the clear, I quickly loosen my corset. Taking a big breath of air, I feel my whole body relaxing, and sitting down again, I open the book I brought along with me.
Sherlock has taken quite a while to change and I'm starting to get anxious, I try not to worry about it too much, but what if he's gotten into trouble and he needs my help? It certainly wouldn't be the first time he's asked for my help when dealing with a case; I let out a sigh of relief when he eventually finds his way back into the compartment and the relief turns into bewilderment; the bitterness etched over each of his sun-caused wrinkles makes me tilt my head to one side in puzzlement.
"What happened?" My smile is glued to my face as he angrily tries to relieve his large skirts from the clutches of the heavy door; he tugs so hard that I'm afraid it's going to rip. Finally, he gets them free and they flutter out beneath him as he walks and takes a seat across from me. We are quite the odd couple, I think to myself, a slim man and a muscular woman aboard a train to help prevent a disaster, but luckily no one is around to speculate.
He just grumbles something unintelligible and I bite down on my lower lip to keep from laughing right then and there. "You know what, I can help you fix things up." I step over to my bag and then pull out my cosmetics. Gasping, he sends me a look of horror as I sit on the seat beside him and then turn so that I'm sitting cross-legged on the seat.
"After I just saved your life, this is how you repay me?"
"Yes." Tapping his nose lightly, I open the bag and set everything out onto the seat for easier access. "You are a master of disguise. Sherlock, What is one streak of lipstick and a bit of blush going to do to you? Think of this as a way to help Watson."
"Very well, but don't you dare mention this to anyone at Scotland Yard, or else-"
"Who cares what they think anyways? Stay still and stop talking until I'm done. I don't want to make a mess of things." I order softly, I quietly take his chin in one of my hands, pulling it towards me. As my hand begins to apply the makeup onto his face, I feel myself becoming completely focused as if I'm an artist working on a canvas. "In all honesty, you don't look that bad, not anything like the women in the stories, mind you, but there's a certain charm of your own."
Another long silence slips over us, that seems to be the pattern; short conversations followed by long gaps of silence in between; the only sounds I can make out clearly, is the beating of both of our hearts. I wonder if he can hear mine as well as I can hear his. Though I assume he is embarrassed, his eyes are focused on my face the entire time. I must be blushing, considering I am not wearing an ounce of powder and we are so close to one another that we can feel each other's breath.
"You hardly need any of this." Slowly, my eyes lift to meet his and my cheeks are coated with their own blush. Inching even closer towards him, I can feel his leg against mine and for one second, I am tempted to pull him into a kiss, but since we are on a mission, I don't want the moment to be rudely interrupted.
"Actually, I do need it. This beautiful face doesn't happen naturally, you know." I imagine I look a lot different without my makeup on my face, I haven't had a good chance to look yet; and honestly, I have no intention on finding out. Refocusing myself on the task at hand, I begin to apply a blue powder above his eyes, and then whisk the pink blush across his cheeks. We are definitely going to great lengths to ensure our friends' safety, and I doubt they won't be surprised by the state of our dress.
"Irene, look at me," He takes my wrist, stopping me from doing anything else. "I don't know what you mean by that, I think you're as beautiful as they come. I told you last night that you were perfect, and I meant it."
No, I didn't hear him correctly. Sherlock did not just call me beautiful, did he? Not in the way I find him.
He is the love I have always wanted, but never gotten.
"Shh. You're getting all sentimental. Stop talking before you hurt yourself and let me finish. Oh, one more thing," I grin, finding plenty of reasons to laugh despite the incoming danger. I pull a large, blonde wig from the trunk and toss it lazily on top of his head.
"Irene, I swear one day you will be the death of me!" He can't keep back his smile, either.
Something loud coming from one of the compartments startles me while I'm trying to apply the lipstick and it smudges. My hand fumbles for a handkerchief and I mutter a string of complaints under my breath, before fixing it up and in seconds, I am finished with my piece.
"There you are, Sherly." Laughing, I put everything back into my bag and then sit like a proper - err.. gentleman once more. Silence surrounds us, for a while, and he isn't afraid of looking exasperated when I move to sit across from him once more. His eyes are wild beneath their blue shadow and for a second I think he's going to scream out in frustration.
"They're taking too long! I don't know how Moriarty's men are going to trick Watson and Mary, or with what, but so far no one has even knocked on their door. I'm fearing that I got into these hose for nothing."
"The Watsons, you mean. They're married." I point out, not daring to tease him about the dress anymore.
"For now, anyway." He flaps a hand and freezes as another high-pitched whistle from the train blows; it seems we both read the same idea in the other's face and stumble towards the door to peek our heads out. A man cladded in red begins to walk down the hallway with a bottle of glitzy champagne perfectly placed in his hand. He doesn't stop until he was at Platform 7, precisely where John and Mary are sitting.
Our heads fly back behind the door in fear of catching his eye. "Is that him?"
"Wait for it." His slim finger rises to his lips. It's difficult to hear over the thumping of the train, but we can see exactly what's going on; the concierge is giving John and Mary a bottle of booze. My thoughts are cut off by the squeaking of a train whistle. Above us, the electrical lamp flickers for a moment before bursting back into life. Mary's scream is clear from the thin walls between us and that's when Sherlock begins to tug me towards the cabin on the opposite side and I let him lock me in the darkness. The light bulb never regains its glow after the power shut off in that cabin; the only thing I can make out clearly was his astoundingly blue eye powder.
"Someone else is coming down the hallway. I'm going to take care of things." Despite the tension, his voice was reasonably calm.
"You are?"
"Yes." He pauses. "If I need your help, you will give it. Is that understood?" Without even a small warning, Sherlock throws back the door and sends a punch with his elbow to a man in the corridor and turns to send a bullet whizzing down the hall and I spot two more men heading our way.
"Duck!" His voice is firm as he lifts the gun towards my head. With another shriek, I get down and two more bullets are sent whirling over my newsboy cap. It's a peculiar sight; I notice how tall he is and how muscular his arms are compared to that of an average lady, as well as his broad shoulders. And his movements are slightly less graceful. He grabs the gun from the soldier and shoots at two soldiers that are coming down the other side. They duck and run away as another soldier comes up behind the Sherlock and grabs him, but he hits him in the back of the neck.
An amused smile crosses my face as metal continues to soar through the air, we back up until the cocking of a gun catches us off guard. John holds it firmly beneath Sherlock's chin, even after the horrible shock flickers onto his face. I was unsure whether to blame the disbelief on his unexpected appearance, or the lipstick tumbling down his face.
"I agree it's not my best disguise, but I had to make do." Sherlock's long lashes slowly flicker towards me. "We had to make do." Pathetically, I give John a small wave before his face turns to one of repulsion. Before he has a chance to get a word in, Sherlock shoves John inside of his compartment, and I quickly stumble into the doorway as well. "They'll be back."
Mary wears the same look that John did. "My God!"
"John!" Mary's voice was weak as she struggled to grasp the situation. "Shut the door!"
"They'll only shoot through it, my love," her fiancée responds bitterly, but not towards her, of course.
Sherlock tries to console her, but nothing seems to work. "He's right, you know. You probably wonder about our crazy adventures. Now you at least get to say that you've been in one!" Her eyes match the color of her hair. "I understand."
Mary leans in a bit closer, narrowing her eyes into threatening slits. "Do you?"
"Terribly inconvenient!" Sherlock rises from his seat and things go straight back to business. "We don't have much time." I watch as he peeks his torso out of the train.
"How many are we expecting?" asks John.
"Half a dozen!" Sherlock replies with his head still outside.
"Who are they?" John nearly laughs as he speaks the question. He just wanted to go to Brighton with Mary. Is it really that much to ask? Little does he know, he is actually going to Paris.
"A wedding present," Sherlock snickers. "From Moriarty. Lovely wedding ceremony, by the way! Many a tear shed in joy!"
Mary's head snaps towards me in fear and I take her arms in mine for some form of support; she sighs and turns away from Sherlock. What does Sherlock have in store for Mary? Is she to go to Paris as well? She cries out for John and before any of us can get another word in, he is firing at more men down the hallway.
"Just a minute, darling!" Standing up again, I join him, seeing the passion and fury in his eyes as he blasts them with everything he's got; turning around, I notice Sherlock holding Mary tightly in his grasp.
"Do you trust me?"
Her voice is as firm as the gun in John's hand. "No!"
"Well then I shall…" Sherlock's eyes glance towards John who's obviously too preoccupied to be focusing on anyone else but his targets. "… have to do something about that." And he throws her out the door. I shriek and my stomach lurched as I hear Mary scream out and land in the water with a loud splash, and I push past him and look down, seeing a lifeboat being rowed by Mycroft, making its way toward her. I put a hand to my chest, greatly relieved that Mary hadn't fallen to her death at the bottom of the cliff. "Trust me, I wouldn't have done it if I didn't know what I was doing; John, do shut the door," he orders as the doctor looks around cautiously then shuts the door. He turns around and just sees the two of us.
"It had to be done." He raises his hands up. His eyes widen in fear and he runs to the open door and looked out. "She's safe now, Watson."
"Did you just kill my new wife?!" John shouts at him with anger. Sherlock starts to explain but John charges at him and grabs him by the neck and pushes him down on the seats; I go over and try to separate the two grown men who are fighting like schoolboys on the courtyard.
"Of course not!" Sherlock shouts back, but he is responded to with a punch across the face and he tries to shove John off of him.
"How can you know when you just threw her off a train?!"
"I told you, I timed it perfectly!"
"What does that mean?!" He accidentally tears off part of Sherlock's shirt, exposing his chest and I turn to the window, wondering how this could get any more awkward.
"Calm down! By the time we explain the three of us will be dead!" I exclaim; the boys look up as the door opens and another soldier comes up and aims a gun at us. The soldier looks at them oddly, before he takes aim and fires, but instead of shooting a bullet, the gun backfires and caught the soldiers on fire. John and I stare in horror.
"That was no accident. It was by design," Sherlock hands John some sort of chain and some knobs from what I can only assume was a from toilet and sink. He takes one end of the chain, which has a grenade at the end, and puts it on one of the bars of the luggage rack then takes the white oval knob and wraps it around the handle of the door. John gets off of him and looks down to the water where Mary is safe and sound in a lifeboat with two gentlemen and a lantern. "Now do you need me to elaborate? Or can we just crack on?" Then he walks out of the open door, grabs on the edges and shimmies along.
"We've got to be out of our minds!" I say, following suit. The wind slashes at our faces and at the speed the train is going, we could very well be blown right off and that would make for an interesting story, or a newspaper article, "A Girl, A Doctor and A Detective Fall To Their Untimely Deaths While Walking Along The Sides of A Train." I can imagine Scotland Yard having to tell my dear auntie the tragic news and the look of sheer terror written on her face as I look up to the sky so that I wouldn't have to look down at the ground so far down below us. One misstep and we could die, well, I don't know about that actually, Mary landed safely in the water, but will it still be there when we fall?
I cannot help but think that this could possibly be the last day of my life, and that's a shame. My thoughts are drowned out by the sound of the whistle blowing so loudly that it nearly deafens me and for one second, I am convinced that it had damaged my eardrums. It wasn't that loud when we were inside the train, then again, we had windows to block out the noise. Gripping the sides of the train harder, I concentrate on where to place my feet, praying that gravity and God are on our side. After a while, I am able to get a rhythm and I keep to it.
Meanwhile, Sherlock and John are having their own discussion, though it was more of an argument. From the look on the latter's face, he looked like he wanted to toss him off a train.
"Don't worry, Watson, she's as safe as houses, she's with my brother," Sherlock shouts to John, speaking of Mary.
"I'm on my honeymoon!" John shouts angrily back at him, trying to land a kick, but that's a dangerous idea. "Why did you lead them here? Why did you involve us?"
"They're not here, for him. They're here for you!" I yell back, and he looks at me, confused; one of the soldiers sticks his head out of the carriage we just vacated. The grenade goes off and the soldier is flung out of the train. We hang on to the sides tighter as the shock waves go through the train. Sherlock opens another door and walks into another carriage occupied by an elderly couple.
"Good evening," he says, calmly, and walks over to the other side of the carriage and opens the door.
The elderly woman gasps as her husband runs over to her and holds her close to him, neither of them sure what to make of the scene in front of them. "I think you'll find second class is more comfortable, coast is clear," he says as he moves out of the way of the door and gestures to the door for the couple. They don't move, or maybe they're too shocked to do so. "To the South! Quick, march!" He urges and the couple run out of the compartment as we climb in. Sherlock closes the one door while John and I close the other, and then two of us turned around to see him on the floor on his back. "Lie down with me," he orders.
"Why?" asks John, annoyed and exasperated.
"I insist," he says and I gasp as he takes my arm and roughly brings me down to the floor and then pulls out his pipe and a match and starts to light it. John rolls his eyes and lays on the other side of him.
"What are we doing down here?" I demand, terrified and annoyed.
"We are waiting. I am smoking," he replies, nonchalantly. Just a few seconds later, bullets begin to fly everywhere. We curl up on our sides, close to each other; and through all of this, he's still smoking his pipe. "Patiently waiting," he adds, reaching into his pocket and pulls out a small gun.
"For what?" John shouts over the gunfire and then looks at the gun in Sherlock's hand.
"Your window of opportunity. Make it count!" Then the gunfire stops and John gets up and aims the gun through the hole the gunfire has made and sees the gunman. He fires the gun and the bullet hits the man in the arm, who happens to drop an active grenade. Then another gunman comes up to the machine gun and continues to shoot at us, debris of wood fly across our faces and we cover our heads to protect ourselves. A few minutes later, it all stops which could only mean that there are less of them now, or they're all dead; at least we're all alive, that's what really matters.
"Who'd have known that honeymooning in Brighton was such a dangerous notion?" Sherlock asks John, who a=isn't even looking at or acknowledging him, but instead, fiddles with one of the frayed edges of his blue and brown striped scarf, the one that Mary made for him, twirling it between his fingers. I can hear the clacking of the wheels moving beneath my seat, the familiar humming is a pleasant sound to my ears and calms my rattling mind. I am sure how long the machine has been moving, but we are out into the English countryside and it shouldn't be long until we reach the ferry to take us to France.
"Is that what this is about?"
"By you admission, you'd never enjoyed it there."
"I never been to Brighton!"
"Or...your just too fragile to remember at present."
"Oh, shut up! Tell me that my wife's safe!" John demands.
"I promise. As I said I timed it perfectly," Sherlock replies firmly.
"Why were Mary and I targeted at all?"
"Excellent question. The answer is two fold."
"He's after us because of you, Holmes."
"I'm afraid you must bear half the responsibility."
"Here it comes."
"Had you and Mary had not not been so hellbent on your wedding, we could've solved this case."
"There it is...it's my fault now." John mutters.
"But it does seem that our partnership has not yet run its course. Watson, if you could be bothered to see this through to the end, I will never again ask you to assist me." he says to John, softly and his friend stares out in front of him for a second before he turns to look at him, staring into his pleading brown eyes.
"Once more unto the bridge." John knows that he doesn't have any other choice in the matter and gives a resigned sigh, raising his pointer finger in the air.
"That's the spirit! Now to the question...it is so deliciously complicated. You maybe asking yourself? What does a criminal mastermind want with a simple gypsy fortune teller? It's about her brother, I tell you. When we find him and we must-"
"Wait...where is it we're going?" John asks.
"Paris, the most sensible honeymoon destination of all," Sherlock replies, dramatically and I actually find myself smiling at these words.
After the coach drops us off, we pay our fares and head off quickly towards a sign leading in the right direction. The sight of a dock is not exactly a pleasant one. Men are bustling about, smoke is wafting through the air, the smell of fish and sweat fill my nose even when I put my handkerchief over it.
First, my legs begin to feel as wobbly as I board the ship, then, the nervousness travels straight to the bottom of my stomach. I know that I am just excited, or more like nervous, but all my nerves pile on top of each other.
"Miss Adler?" Sherlock says and I look up. His warm hand reaches out for my upper arm, sending it a slap of reassurance. "You'll be alright. There will be plenty of women on board for you to talk to, and the men will be there with steady arms to guide you."
"Paris?" John laughs behind a cloud of smoke as we find a place to sit. "Surely you're not taking me on a honeymoon, are you? Pushing Mary off of a train…" John chuckles, but it is not without a sour edge.
Sherlock pauses thoughtfully before he finally speaks. "It was not something that I wanted to do, but rather had to do. You know I did it for her own safety."
"So why Paris, then?"
"Peaches," Holmes replies. "Outside the city at Montlicon, there's a gypsy camp famous for its dried fruit, especially peaches." He pulls out a pouch from his suitcase and shows a dried up peach to John.
The sound of the boat's horn is released, and as it jolts into motion, I find that my stomach does the same. Next thing I know, my torso flings itself over the edge. I can feel all of the weakness inside of me pouring right out into the water.
It takes several minutes before the wave passes and I slowly lift my head. This is the worst part of traveling, let me tell you. Trains I can deal with, but boats, not so much.
John joins me, his hand rests on my back. "That's it, stay where you are. Let your stomach relax." His rough hands gently run through my hair to pull it away from my face. My eyes flicker shut as the heat on my face rises and I slowly and clumsily make my way back to the bench in silence, breathing in the smells of the sea, a mixture of salt and a small dose of fish.
One of my side interests has always been astrology; when I was a little girl, my mind was filled to the brim with wonderful and beautiful ideas about what the twilight hour might bring, and I would lay on the grass outside the mansion and often staying up until midnight to see if I could find any of the constellations or planets that I read about in the science books that Sherlock would occasionally let me borrow.
Here, away from the busy and noisy city, the stars appear to be clearer and brighter and the odd nocturnal animal shuffles around in the shadows of trees hunting for food, bats soar into the darkened sky. Eventually, I grew out of such fantasies in which fairies played in the fields and danced around the firelight, and reached the age where things like that were beyond me, but that doesn't mean that it feels any less magical.
Inch by inch, I begin to make my way closer towards Sherlock. I think he may have noticed after a while, but I do not stop my movements, admittedly, this dress is not quite appropriate for this sort of weather, although in a few months time, it will be summer. As soon as I'm close enough, I do not hesitate to place my head onto his shoulder. My side is pushed against his, our body heat rebounding off of one another.
My eyelids are beginning to drop and sleep wraps me in her embrace. I feel something soft upon my hair. At first it's a hand: soft, gentle, almost hesitant; the next feeling is a pair of lips, gently kissing my curls. Slowly, my fingers curl around his, feeling his cold skin gradually warming.
Groggily, I find the blanket and put it around us, then smile to myself. Who knows how many more moments like this we have left? Things will undoubtedly change very soon, but right now, I will let the future unfold as it may, and only focus on the fingers tangled up in mine. For the first time in ten years, I can sleep peacefully.
If only for a little while.