A/N: I am totally evil. *sighs* Anyway, on to this chapter. Be aware, this chapter has two flashbacks that occur in two different time frames. All this stuff has already come to pass, Watson is just telling us about it.

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Ch. 8-Baskerville Hall

My hotel room overlooks a busy thoroughfare. Any other traveler might be thrilled with such an excellent view afforded to them of this illustrious city, but I am not. The sounds are too familiar and if I were to shut my eyes I can just imagine my dearest friend seated in the chair opposite my own, clay pipe between his teeth, violin haphazardly thrown over one knee as he idly plucked at the strings, mind clearly occupied with a pretty problem. This is the picture that I so desperately cling to, for it quiets that part of me that would simply break down and weep continuously for what I have lost. But I cannot. All my tears seem to have abandoned me and except for a constant ache centered over my heart, I am utterly numb. The change of scenery that I made from Dartmoor to Paris seems to have not made one wit of difference. In truth, I am uncertain that I gained anything from my visit to Sir Henry except the notion to come here and one who, next to Lestrade and Mycroft, I might count as the staunchest of allies.

On my journey to Grimpen, Dartmoor, I switched trains no less than six times and was obliged to reside at a local inn twice. At last I witnessed the land giving away to small patches of bog and rock that told me I had entered Dartmoor. Even as the train rolled to a stop in the station, I began to doubt my course of action. Was it wise to revisit a place that held such terrifying memories for me? Nothing could ever match those of Reichenbach, but the events of this case were certainly enough to induce nightmares, especially those hellish minutes with the hound.

It was as I stood upon the platform with my trunk at my feet contemplating exactly what I should do, when Fate decided for me. I had heard the bark of a dog as I passed through the cars of the train, and again when exiting it, but so lost in my worries was I, that I failed to register it was coming closer until the creature was pawing at my trouser leg.

"Spencer! Down boy!" A voice cut through the crowd of disembarking passengers and I glanced from the spaniel to see his master hastening to make his way to us. "I am terribly sorry," the man said as he reached to scoop up the whining beast. "I don't know what has gotten into him. He usually remains at my side." His head came up and I was presented with the wide grey eyes of Dr. James Mortimer.

"It's quite all right. There was no harm done, young sir." I replied, reminding myself that I must retain my new character.

Wrapping the leash tightly around one hand, he held out the other to me. "Still…oh no! He has ripped your trousers!"

Indeed, a quick glance down revealed the small imperfection. "It is a mere trifle, young one, I assure you."

But it seemed that my reassurances were of little use as the man was somewhat distressed. "Please, sir, I should pay to have that fixed."

I pointed at him with my cane. "You shall do nothing of the kind! It was an accident, young one! Your little fellow here was just a bit enthusiastic, that's all. He could have been inclined to snap at my heels, but he did not, so I see no cause for worry."

My firmness and general air of good humor finally filtered to the young medical officer and he held out his hand once more. "Dr. James Mortimer, sir, at your service. If you will not allow me to have that repaired, perhaps you will allow me to drive you to your next destination. I have a dog cart waiting for me at the inn."

"Godric Jameson, young Mortimer, and how do you know that the inn is not my destination?" Seeing the others crestfallen expression, I could not help a small chuckle. "Worry not, I am only teasing you, lad. I will be happy to accept a ride if it will appease you. Lead on!"

Silence fell between us as we turned in the direction of the inn. Perhaps it is here that I should explain what I had done to myself as far as becoming Mr. Godric Jameson. The first night I laid over in the inn, I began my transformation by shaving my mustache and cutting my hair much closer to my scalp. Despite my slowly receding hairline, my hair has always been exceptionally thick so it was that, despite its shortness, my scalp did not shine through. I darkened what remained till it retained the color of pitch. I was dismayed to discover that little was needed to age my face (should that be contributed to recent events, as well as not so recent, I am uncertain), nevertheless, I whitened my complexion with a powder and with another darkened the bags under my eyes. Thinning my eyebrows and brushing color into them followed. Another powder, applied with the thinnest of brushes, deepened several of the wrinkles that had sprung up at the corners of my eyes. My light grey trousers and waistcoat were traded for a dark tweed suit and lush pine green scarf. The last two items to complete my deception were a sturdy walking stick and tinted glasses. My eyes, I have been told, are a very distinguished shade of green. But what most would consider a remarkable feature, I regarded as no more than a nuisance, and so in the building of this identity had acquired several pairs of tinted glasses. If asked, I would merely remark upon my sensitivity to light which had become so severe that I was required to wear them at all times. The walking stick was one I had, thankfully, purchased during Holmes's absence, though as Godric I had used other in the past. This one was my favorite, a deep mahogany in color, it was twisted in shape, but thick enough to conceal a sword within. I will admit that at the price I paid, I stole it out from underneath the pawnbroker's nose, but the man simply did not know the treasure that he possessed. A simple band of silver rounded of the separation of the wood as well as concealing it. To glance at it, no one would suspect that a sword lay within its misshapen depths. With a bit of practice I was once more able to use my uninjured arm to support me. As myself, I had always used my left arm, despite my war wound, as a means of support for my left leg. It was not the correct way one should use a cane, but I always felt more comfortable having my uninjured side unhindered. Perhaps I offered a spectacle to others for my choice, but I cared not. Now, thanks to Holmes, I no longer had that option, at least, not at present. It was just as well I had made certain I could walk both ways, for despite his absentmindedness, Mortimer had a trained medical eye and would have spotted a fake at once.

But he suspected nothing, I discovered, as he assisted me into the trap after loading my trunk aboard. "And so now, Mr. Jameson, where would you like me to take you?"

"To Baskerville Hall."

I must have shocked the man quite badly for the reins nearly slipped from his fingers. It was only at the last moment that he was able to catch them. "Baskerville Hall? But that is my destination! Do you know Sir Henry then?"

"We travelled together in America for a time before he received news of his inheritance. Just before his departure, he bade me to visit when I happened upon England once more. It wasn't until I decided to take an extended holiday that I remembered his invitation and thought to drop in on him as a surprise. But tell me, young Mortimer, is it far from here?" My question seemed to snap the man from his thoughts and he soon whipped up the horse, setting a fast pace along the road to our destination.

I was in a bit of a panic, for I had not taken into account that Baskerville Hall might also be Mortimer's destination. I could only pray that Sir Henry's memory did not fail him and he recognized his most unusual visitor. Despite his initial shock, Mortimer recovered quite well and began a discourse on the area, pointing out various locations and landmarks upon our route. Thanks to the practice I have had with Holmes, and various insufferable colleagues of my acquaintance, I had developed the skill of appearing to be totally engaged while in truth only lending half an ear. As it stood, I was familiar with most of this information, so I did not feel entirely guilty. Instead, my mind drifted to that time in '87 when I first met Sir Henry and was embroiled in the case that I oft refer to in my mind as The Hound of the Baskervilles.

I was rather shocked, at first, that Holmes would not immediately wish to pursue the case. It offered all of the particulars that he would be unable to resist. Citing a case of importance that required his full attention in London was an obvious ruse to me. Since Diana's death, I had been involved in nearly every case that arrived at our shared doorstep, and, if I was not, then I was aware of it. We had only wrapped up our latest case the day before when Mortimer arrived and entangled us in this horror tale. For whatever reason, he could not be seen in Grimpen, Dartmoor, but by having me accompany Sir Henry, availed upon me that he knew there was danger in this business. He was trusting me with not only Sir Henry's safety but the task of maintaining his ruse. Oh, no doubt, he was in London at one time or another, but I could not bring myself to believe that it was there he remained. If I knew Holmes's methods, he would use my presence to enforce the illusion of his absence for what reason would I have to lie over his location? Then, after a bit of research in London, he would follow us to Dartmoor. It was where he would choose to conceal himself that most concerned me for the most logical place would be upon the moor.

I had so convinced myself of this fact that when we learned of the escaped convict, I grew very concerned for his safety and wished that he would not venture from London until the fellow was caught. A foolish wish, but heartfelt. Even though I was aware that I was slowly working myself into a case of nervous agitation, I could not stop myself. I had hoped that I was concealing my state well, but that was utterly dashed by Sir Henry.

The room I had been given to occupy during my stay was luxurious and, I must confess, far grander than those I occupied in Baker Street, but it was too lonely for my tastes. Baker Street was home and, despite my marriage, always had been. It was because Holmes was present. He was home and being separated from him as I was, was enough to blacken my mood considerably. It were those thoughts that so distracted me that when a glass of whiskey appeared suddenly before my eyes, I started rather badly.

"Easy, old boy, it's just me," Sir Henry assured as he dropped into the chair opposite mine and sipped his drink. "Considering how you've been moping about lately, I debated between a brisk walk and getting stinking drunk." He gestured to the large decanter at his elbow and offered a small smirk. "Getting drunk won out."

I raised my glass in salute and emptied its contents in two large gulps, relishing the burn. Sir Henry silently refilled my glass and watched as I gave it the same treatment as the previous. "So…do you wish to let it out?" he wondered aloud as he refilled my glass a third time. "Or do you simply want to drown it?"

I peered down into my glass, unwilling to meet his gaze. "It would be best to drown it, I assure you."

The American cocked his head to the side. "If you say so, Doctor, but I can't see why you would want to."

I felt my lips turn downwards and my grip tightened around my glass before I gave into the urge and downed it as well. At this rate I would likely slide right out of the chair. "Oh, and why is that?" Really, I could almost hear Holmes's sarcastic snarl seeping through my own voice.

The look of exasperation that was bestowed upon me was so great I was certain the man believed I was being an overly dense imbecile. "You have just as much right to miss your lover as any other, old man !"

My breath froze within my chest and I was inflicted with a horrible sense of déjà vu. Though audible, my voice did not rise above a croak. "And who is my lover, sir?"

Sir Henry slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. "What the hell is wrong with you? Who is your lover? Well who else but Mr. Holmes?"

My glass hit the carpet and despite my less than sober state (three glasses of whiskey on an empty stomach was never a wise idea) I managed to stagger to the window. Fumbling with the latch, I was eventually able to throw it open and take in deep gulps of cold air, preventing myself from being sick right then and there. Still, I hung my head out and gagged once or twice for good measure. Sir Henry was not long in coming to my side.

"Watson? Good God, man, are you all right? What did I say?"

Once I was certain my stomach would remain in its place, I allowed Sir Henry to guide me back to my seat. When I bent to retrieve my glass he knocked my hand away and glared. I acquiesced and sat back. Soon enough the mess was cleared away and a cool glass of water was shoved into my hands.

"Now," he continued, once more placing himself across from me, "care to explain that display? I had thought you were made of sterner stuff."

"If I were made of anything else you would be nursing a broken nose for insinuating such a thing!" I shot back.

His dark brow furrowed. "Then you are ashamed of it?" he ventured.

"I would never be ashamed of it! I would consider it the highest honor to be his lover. But I am not." What began as a shout, ended in a whisper and I rubbed my temple where already the beginnings of a headache were building.

The look of honest bewilderment that Sir Henry gave me was nearly comical. "But, why not? I mean…" he coughed, a blush rising in those still tanned cheeks. "Aren't your interested?"

"There is a reason I was married."

A curious habit of the American's I had observed during my brief stay was his tendency to flush completely red when angry or extremely embarrassed. Where it had only been a faint stain before, it now blossomed blood red. "I—I am sorry, Doctor, I…that is to say I…"

I waved his apologies aside and directed him back to his seat from which he had arisen, no doubt to depart hastily in an attempt to save face. "No, my apologies, but the subject is a very delicate one," I hesitated just a fraction before adding, "and painful."

"I don't understand."

"I am not sure if you are aware, Sir Henry, but inversion is considered a crime. If you were to be suspected of it, even if nothing could be proven, you would find yourself suddenly dearth of all those you might have considered friends, your reputation in ruins and very possibly your freedom in jeopardy. Any enemy you may have acquired, however inadvertently, will step forward to speak against you. There shall be no one whom you can turn to, for they will either be disgusted or in fear of their own safety." My eyes were fixed upon the portrait above his head as I spoke, unwilling to meet the others no doubt horrified expression.

"If you did not perish during your two year sentence at Reading, then the best you might hope for after your release is to simply disappear for none will welcome your return. This is why it is a delicate subject." I lowered my gaze and locked eyes with my captive audience. "It is a painful one because despite the danger and humiliation, I would gladly risk it all for him."

Silence followed my proclamation and I could see, by his inward gaze, that Sir Henry was contemplating all that I had imparted.

"Is Mr. Holmes unwilling to risk it then?" he finally asked after some minutes.

I shook my head and turned away once more. "Holmes has always shown great disdain for the 'softer' emotions. To him, they are not but a hindrance and distraction to a finely-tuned mind such as his. No, Sir Henry, it is I who hold back. While I am willing to risk my reputation and freedom for him, I would not risk losing Holmes should my feeling not be returned. I have watched and waited, hoping for some sign or signal—anything that would give me cause to believe my feelings were returned. I have waited, but I despair that I shall ever see one. So I left to marry in the hopes that my ardor would cool. But there is truth in the saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder. The longer I was away from his side, the more I ached." I closed my eyes and rubbed fiercely at my forehead in the hopes of stemming the rising throb behind my eyes.

"Then Mr. Holmes is either blind or a total fool!" The American declared, jumping from his seat to pace in a tight circle around it.

"And why is that, sir?" My voice was low, but translated how vexed I was by his slander.

Sir Henry either did not notice or did not care, for he threw up his hands with a cry of disgust. "If he cannot deduce the obvious devotion and love that you have for him then he is blind, sir! As blind as a mole! And if I may be so bold—if he cannot love a man such as yourself, then he is a fool." He marched till he stood before my chair and looked me square in the eye. "I would be proud, Dr. John Watson, to have a man like you at my side." He reached out and gently captured one of my hands in his own, kneeling down on one knee. "I know that at present your heart belongs to him, but if you will let me, I would like to try and win it for myself."

I was quite speechless after he fell silent. He wished to win my heart? Was it even mine to give any more? Where had this come from? It was true, we had become good friends in the weeks that I had resided with him at Baskerville Hall, but such a dramatic move in so short a time? I warred with myself, for while I was fond of Sir Henry, I did not know him that well. Was it even possible for him to turn my heart away from Holmes when it had belonged to him for so long? Did I want him to? My existence was a lonely one, true, but could I abandon my dear friend once the case was complete and remain behind? The American struck me as a man who would covet his beloved, but would he also treat me as an equal? He was a passionate man, if only in a different manner than Holmes. All the questions that circled through me only served to plunge me into a deeper depression. I could not do this; I could not make a decision, not when I felt so utterly wr etched.

I squeezed the ha nd that held my own. "All me some t ime to think? This is rather sudde n and I do n ot wish to be too hasty in my de cision." The other nodded and rose to his feet. As he we nt to release my hand, I suddenly clasped it tight. "I cann ot pr omise, Sir He nry, that shold I say yes to your p rop osed courtship, that you wi ll succeed. My heart ha b elonged to him for so long, I scarcely emember anothrstate of being and, trutfully, I'm not certainthatI want to. Just, please, kep that in m ind."

But the American seemed unper—per—perturbed by my w arning and bestowd upo n me a most wins ome smile. "I'mot worried, Doctor, not ata ll."

If ever I were to co co compose this case fo r t publick and thought has oc curred, I wou ld have to conceal----conceal one ve e eery imporant detail: Sir Henry's cortship offff me. It would be safe----------------

To the reader, I must apologize. In my transcribing, I have attempted to be wholly faithful to this account as befitting these two men. What you see above is as near as I can achieve from reading the doctor's journal. I would explain, but he shall do it for me.

End Ch.8

A/N: All that spacing and misspelling is DELIBERATE! It is not an accident it is part of the story! Oh dear, what did I do to Watson now? *cackles* And so sudden too…Guess you'll find out next time he's up! Hopefully I didn't overdo it. I wanted free spaces but wouldn't let me. *sad face*

WARNING: Be aware that this chapter looks back to two different times. The first flashback is to his escape to Baskerville Hall and the second occurs during the actual case which I have placed in 1887.

Reviews are always appreciated! And loved, definitely loved! The more the merrier. I feel all warm and fuzzy, even if you tell me what an evil witch I am.