Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes; the honour belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as Warner Bros. and Village Road Show. The following story occurs after the second film (SHaGoS) and won't take the third or the next films into account.

June 1st, 1901
a week before the meeting to Mrs. Hudson
Savoy Hotel, 05:15 a.m.

Insomnia was one of the closest friends I had: especially when I am all alone in an unknown place, save to say I was in London, save to say I was in the heart of the most committing crimes capital, a wonderful decision, truly. Being unable to sleep was an unfortunate habit I developed during my stay in the finishing school, a land far away from home far away from family. I had the constant feeling of being in danger, perchance the unpleasant detail my late paternal aunt - rest her soul, was found murdered two years before I was born, in the very land I was required to live for an important amount of years of my early life to become a proper catholic lady.

Mother's face keeps haunting me: she hid me in the henhouse, told me to not get out until she allowed me to, ordered me to be silent and not drop a single breath. At the age of thirteen most could believe I would disobey my mother's quest, I did not. Mother had only my six siblings and me, Father died in the First Boer War, and she had only us, and that's why we left Longtown, Cumbria and moved to Wanlockhead, Dumfies and Galloway. While my mother hid me, Auntie Sophia and Grandmother - my maternal family, took a walk with my little siblings in the village or perhaps they went to the mines, I do not recall this detail. In all honesty, I hate chicken, I hate that smell, and how these fat plumed creatures would cluck bleeding my eardrums would claw and even pinch me: I was a trespasser in their territory.

What I hated the most was Mother and Aunt Petunia yelling at each other right before the henhouse. An ungrateful Scottish dancer acted childishly hiding her late husband's firstborn not allowing her a proper schooling to spread her wings in the upper society. A selfish profiteer Irishwoman wanted to threw a child to the wolves, in the place her own niece was brutally killed. Swearings were coming and going, ingrate mad Scottish witch, haggard Irish crone, and other lovely adorning epithets to bedeck these two women.

I groaned improperly breaking my thoughts.

Or should I say when my hotel room was breaking.

Perchance the exact phrase should be: when Sherlock Holmes tried to break in my room at five in the morning.

Instantly I wore the blue robe which sat on the nearest chair, opened widely the white door spatting, "what do you want?"

Sherlock Holmes sat down on the floor holding in his hand a tool which would be possibly used for breaking into my room. Was he mad? I am certain the answer's positive! The half-mad half-sane detective was dressed what I presume to be in one of his camouflage costumes, I could tell he was a concierge with a mouse grey coloured double breasted stand up collar jacket and matching gendarme hat. As I yelled at him that, a sardonic smile ghosted his freshly shaven face, standing tall and powerful he tucked in his trousers' pocket the tool which was meant to burglarise my hotel room.

I was terribly crossed.

"What on Earth are you doing here?" Standing aside I let him get in and then closed the door behind us, "you invade my personal space!" Holmes inspected my room to find perhaps something to spot me as guilty for unknown reason - as if I wasn't there at all, his hands behind his back, "you cannot just enter someone's room whenever you feel like it! This is burglary! What if I was sleeping? Would you wake me up?"

Turning his heel, "if I had to, of course I would, Miss Fairchild," our eyes met and his dark soulful brown eyes captured my very being. His eyes, gorgeous brown eyes the likeness I had never seen before, held me stealing every breath and every heartbeat. I could hear my own heart beating directly in my ears; feel my own blood thundering in my veins. Those gorgeous brown eyes penetrated my very soul seeing inside of me as no one, not even me, has ever seen, as who I am truly. Warmth spread on my lower belly and somehow I felt more alive than ever. Life bloomed in every fibre of my body. Adrenaline rushed inside my every cell, my heart raced like thousands racing horses. Everything in the room were faded into greyish darkness, their existence did not matter at all except his and mine.

That was the second time that he had such an affect over me.

Casting my gaze elsewhere but him, elsewhere but those chocolate hooded eyes, placing an unkempt wave behind my ear, I muttered few swears, "you truly are a madman."

Clearing his throat, "that I am, madam."

"Is there any particular reason why you broke into the room and stopped my internal monologue, Mr. Holmes?"

"Speaking to one's self is a first sign of insanity."

"Thank you for caring for me but I don't believe you plan to burglarise my room to make sure I won't grow insane." Putting my hands on my hips, "I'd very much like to know what are you up to in such an improper hour?"

"It's a quarter past five in the morning," said after checking the time. "If you still want the position as my assistant, you better get used to work in these hours."

"I don't want to be the assistant of a dead man."

A wry smirk ghosted on his face, "perhaps you won't need to be the assistant of a dead man anymore," would at last Sherlock Blasted Holmes arise from the Dead? "We don't have much time, madam! Get dressed! We need to go!"

"Where?"

"Trust me, Miss Fairchild," he inhaled, "now get dressed immediately."

"Do I have to pack anything?"

"No, madam." Holmes grew weary of me, "you simply need to right away get dressed."

I blinked for several moments, surely for solid whole seconds and Holmes did not understand: how can they claim he is the cleverest man alive? I will never know, "I have to get dressed!" Breaking the awkward silence between us, he just nodded sitting down on the very chair my robe was earlier sat, his pompous arse. I groaned, "get out, Holmes! I have to get dressed!"

"I do not see any problem why you can't get ready now."

My face flushed reddening my colourless cheeks, "I cannot do it when you are in this room!"

"You act ridiculously, madam," he huffed and shut his eyelids. "I will close my eyes and you'll get ready quickly."

"No!" One eye opened looking at me, I presume I looked funny: a short woman being frustrated with a hot temper, a hilarious caricature. "I will not get undressed. I will not be naked. I will not get dressed. In front of you. Not in this life. Not ever," did I see a twinkle on those dark brown eyes? "Go. Out," opening widely the white door looking at him impatiently, tapping my foot on the marble floor. Did Holmes enjoy it? Did it burst his pompous ego? Did he find amusing my reaction? Madman... "I won't repeat myself again, Sherlock Holmes. Sod off!"

The mad consulting detective stood with a sardonic smile and with delicate movements he walked towards the door, "in half an hour you should be ready." I nodded closing the door behind him.

My back being pressed against the door, one dramatic inhale followed, a rough drawling voice on the other side yelled at me "we don't have much time," and I yelled back "I will" - walking away towards the wooden closet. The ritual of dressing up was a ceremony I performed alone mechanically: chemise, stocking, drawers, corset, bustle, petticoats, hairpin, ribbons, boots. My own instrument of torture held my posture straight and my shoulders did not drop. A corset restricts and stabilizes: controls. A black dress with a-lined skirt hanged delicately over my body. My tight long sleeves and the rest of my neckline - which hugged my throat, were black gauzy and embroidered. Thankfully, my wrists were hidden. A pair of delicate red gemstones with two drops of pearl decorated my ears. Atop my upswept chocolate hair was a black hat with veil. The coat was made of pomegranate red silk with black frog closures on the left and a braid applique on the right, with high-neck opened collar.

Holding my black purse, I opened the door.

And that moment I gasped at the sight of him - when he changed his attire entirely? Holmes was dressed as... was dressed as a pastor... very odd and peculiar... everything on his outfit was coloured black with only the white clerical collar breaking the gloomy sullenness. The madman sat unperturbed on the floor, legs tangled and a book in his hand with a false cover saying Bible, hiding the actual cover, I put all my money on the notion that's a book about physics. Did he wear a false nose? It was more aquiline than before, had a pair of eye spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose. Hair... oh... those luscious ebony locks were hidden beneath a bald cap on the top of his head while white hair decorated the rest of what was supposed to remain on his head for hair.

A terrible image I do not to wish to witness ever again.

"It's very unbecoming to stare," in a welsh accent. My little cousin Olga is half-Welsh and I am certain, Uncle Thomas doesn't sound like that.

"I apologize," casting my gaze away. "Honestly, your Welsh accent is horrible, Mr. Holmes."

In bloody Welsh accent again, "I never asked your opinion, Miss Roxanne Fairchild."

"Madman," beneath my breath, "will you sit down here or are we going to the important appointment?" He did not bother to move even his pinkie finger, "alright. Looks like your boredom for the past six months, has been unbearable and you decided to walk around and bother me." Irritation got the best of me, "unlike you, Mr. Holmes, I need sleep. Goodnight, sir!" Banging the door behind me, I turned my heel to go deeper in my room.

"First," freezing me in place, "do not call me Mr. Holmes again, madam. Simple Holmes is fine. Second, you cannot say goodnight in such an hour, it's ten past six, a good morning would be rather appreciated. Third, you were wide awake before I broke into your room - you said yourself you were talking to your own self. Fourth, we have an essential appointment we cannot lose!"

Opening once again I required, "tell me kindly where are we going," earning a frown. "Keeping your plans to yourself won't be beneficial for both. I am still trying to figure this out; I've never done something like that in my life before. It's my first real job; I want to do it perfectly. Do not shut me out," hissing.

"Chichester," I blinked. Wow, he actually did answer me, "we take the train of 07:15 a.m. and if you keep rambling, madam, we will lose the train and the appointment."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, woman," sounded he weary with my attitude. It wasn't my fault! Becoming the consulting detective's assistant doesn't come with an instruction manual! "No we must go."

"Excuse me," I walked outside and locked my room's door, then dropped the key inside my purse.

"Aha!" Holmes spoke in his Welsh voice, "we do not wish anyone to know we are going together in that trip," as we walked close to one another down the corridor he slipped a ticket, which I believe it meant to be mine, inside my purse. Walking quickly with shoulders not dropped and hands opening the book and nose deep dived inside the pages, "three to four feet distance. Two carriages are waiting outside for us; one is meant for you of course. Unfortunately our tickets are for second class, half and two hours journey until we reach Chichester's Train Station, and also changing our train at Horsham. A carriage will wait for us and, after twenty minutes the most we will find our wanted destination. Do you have another question, Miss Fairchild, or are we clear and able to continue with this task?"

"Clear, sir," answering the same as a soldier would to my late father - rest in peace.

"Good. Now three feet distance, madam!"

SHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRF

07:21 a.m.
six minutes after boarding from London Victoria Station

Everything happened according to Sherlock Holmes' plan. The carriage delivered me to the Station, the fog and overcast betrayed a sudden moodiness which I also felt, and the upcoming rain which would later catch us up. Was this a sign from the Divinity? Taking my seat near the window of the second class coupé I waited patiently for a tiresome clergy to sit beside who was no one else but Sherlock Holmes. The other passengers did not care of my existence at all. Others looked at me suspicious, perchance it was my cold demeanour of not greeting them and my red coat had a dreadful spirit, as well as the fact red symbolizes passion, sexuality and danger. I was either of these hidden meanings – simply fancy the colour. Thoroughly, everything happened to be according to the plan until a drunkard decided to sit beside me. And I was certain the half-mad half-rational detective hadn't decided to change his camouflage costume the last minute. Buggery! That disgusting lecherous man smelled: alcohol, cigarette, and sweat. His teeth were yellowish and hygiene was not his friend. Not to mention he placed his own hand on my thigh! - rubbing softly the fabric and then squeezing my knee, I was losing my mind.

And where was Holmes?

Repeating once again the emetic gesture, he looked at me with foggy brown eyes and gulped on the flask he held on his other hand. He seemed to rather enjoy it, and none else bothered to stop him. Not even me. My instinct told me to grab his arm and snap it, or even punch him in the face – but everything I was taught in the finishing board school disapproved these actions. My revolver had I unfortunately forgotten on the bedside table due to my haze. So deep in my thoughts was I consumed that I hadn't realized the drunkard talking to me.

"Hullo, poppet!" Speaking in cockney, "wai'in' for someone, love? Or do ya wan' company?" Squeezing my knee once again.

"Sir!" I spat in boiling anger, "do not touch me."

"Don't ge' mad, love…" stroking my cheek once again, "relax and 'ave fun."

"Please…" my brothers would laugh at me.

"Aye, aint gonna lie, you se' me loins on fire."

Sod every good manner I learned in finishing school!

"Touch me one more sodding time and I will make sure to break you blood hand in a single snap!"

And the mad detective, I mean the lunatic old pastor, decided to appear, "My son," said he, "I'm afraid this is my own seat."

He did not move nor flinch – hand squeezing my knee, "or else w'at, old geezer? I'll go to 'ell anyway!"

"Stand aside, my child, or else your wife will know about getting drunk taking random trains and meeting up with prostitutes and spending all her dear dead daddy's money on alcohol and these!" My jaw dropped, and then closed aching. The drunkard left us in peace, while the rest of the passengers in the second class did not bother to glance towards us. The conductor with few assistants entered the coupé taking via force the lecherous meisce.

The cogwheels of my brain worked quickly and before Holmes would take the seat, "do tell me this was your idea of meeting me, Father."

Keeping the Welsh accent, "have faith and doubt not." Matthew 21:21

"I do have faith, Father. Doubting Thomas changed his mind the moment he could see and feel Jesus' wounds from the Cross."

"What will I do with you?" He muttered and a scarlet blush stained my colourless cheeks, "in my honour this was out of the plan." How could I be sure of it? "You only have my word, child."

Seating beside me, I glared at him before rolling my eyes, and shaking my head, "what gave him away?"

"Woman's perfume and lipstick on the nape," calculated in a tone betraying tedium.

"Thank you," a good St. Finbar College alumna always has good manners, says please and thank-you, "for saving," giving him a tight smile, "that sodding man from me." Dark soulful eyes looked at me puzzled. "I would literally break his wrist."

Always smile, Roxanne!

"Very unbecoming for a young lady," his Welsh accent was horrible, "what kind of woman knows how to break a man's bones instead of practicing embroidery?"

"Me," said proudly. "I have six siblings, of which only one is a girl, Father…?"

"Renfrew, my child," I nodded, "and you, my dear?"

"Roxanne Fairchild, pater Renfrew," smirking deviously, "and who are you visiting, pater, in Chichester?"

"An old friend," a sardonic smile plastered on his features, "are you visiting a lover, my dear child?"

Mad bastard, "social work. I'm helping a very old grumpy lady, Father Renfrew, just like all good Catholic women should." Breaking character, "I assume you will keep a secret whom we will meet in Chichester…"

"Outside Chichester," never breaking character and still speaking in horrible Welsh accent, "and yes, you have to wait, my dear, as a good Catholic woman you are," madman.

One of my many borderless weaknesses involved my suffering from mal de mer, also known as travel sickness. My throat felt dry as if I was walking in the desert for hours under the burning Saharan sun. My insides began twisting and maiming in collywobbles as if the ship Pequot was fighting in the angry sea waves under storm and thunder hunting down the Devil Whale. My nose became sensitive at the aromas surrounding us, awful human odours and heavy perfumes fogging my respiratory system. My wobbly legs started shaking, feeling heavier than ever. Dizziness and tiredness overpowered me, leaning my head on the window, one hand wrapping around my waist while the other's index and middle tucking in my high-necked bodice in attempt to breathe. It was queer on my behalf; this kind of torment had never struck me during my travelling on the land, via train, rather only during my voyages via ship.

Putting my money on the notion, Sherlock Holmes either mocked my misery or found my state fascinating. Because he dared to chortle. Bastard.

Before I would comment a narky comeback, the nausea crawled from the abyss of my stomach to the back of my throat, "buggery!" I believe that was my exact words, because I ran towards the ladies' room to upchuck everything I had eaten, my poor unfortunate lunch had just bade me farewell. And spent the whole journey in the toilet swearing like a trooper and whining like a rugrat, praying to finally reach our destination and end my ordeal.

SHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRFSHRF

waiting in the Chichester Railway Station for ten minutes

"You forgot to bring an umbrella," Holmes commented as heavy summer droplets poured down on us.

Glaring at him, "am I the one, who forgot to bring an umbrella?" Crossing my arms over my bosom, "I believe, pater, you abducting me from my quiet hotel room, are the one who would think of bringing an umbrella along the way."

"And you, madam, are my assistant; you are supposed to fetch me things."

"I'm your assistant! Not your governess!"

A black Clarence arrived to deliver us, a little bit late dare I say, and a tall man with a moustache in lighter shade than my hair approaching us holding an umbrella. "I do apologize, Mr. Holmes, Miss Fairchild" I curtsied kindly, "for arriving late."

"Do not worry, Carruthers," finally in his well-known usual drawling gruff voice in his perfect southern English accent, "we have plenty of time," shooting him a deadly glare. "My brother will be so delighted to meet you."

My eyes went wider than teapots, "did you just say your brother?"

"Yes," Carruthers replied while a complacent smirk graced Holmes' face, "Mr. Mycroft Holmes is looking forward to meet you, Miss Fairchild."

Authoress Note:

Hello, my lovely readers!

You read the first chapter of MaBS, I'm so happy! Do you think Holmes' in character or out of character? It's very important to, at least in some degree, be faithful at this amazing character [which cannot completely happen from the moment this is a Sherlock Holmes x Roxanne Fairchild (OFC) Fic.]. The cliff is nerve-wracking, huh?

I do hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it and pretty please, support my work!

Stay Safe,

H.D.