Sherrinford Holmes, fresh from an evening of self-indulgence and feeling a bit tipsy, shuffled up to the dim rear servant's entry of his parent's home. He flicked the brim of his top hat and smirked at Mathers, his father's valet, as the servant puffed on a pipe near the kitchens. Mathers nodded but then shook his head. The valet could probably guess where the young master had been. Sherrinford chuckled as he reminisced about that night's card game at the Peony Club and the expression on Lord Hedland's ruddy face when he laid his final hand. The arrogant fop had been apoplectic in his loss, but with all the witnesses to their high-stakes game, his accusations of cheating fell flat.

Sherrinford felt his smile fade and then sighed as the night's events replayed in his mind. He had cheated, of course, just not in any provable way. He could count cards like fingers; a skill he used to win many of his contests. Unfortunately, the bit of drama with Lord Hedland had been the only entertaining part of the night. The game itself had barely provided a distraction, let alone alleviated his incessant boredom. He paused and cast his eyes skyward for a few seconds. One or two stars winked down at him through the haze. Then, someone bumped into him, jostling his shoulder.

"Oy," he called after the figure hurrying past him to the back entry, "what is the rush this time of night?"

The figure turned. He was a young lad no more than fifteen. The whites of his eyes darted back and forth.

"I have an urgent letter to deliver . . . oh, ahem, sorry, s-sir!"

Wide, glistening eyes blinked at Sherrinford in the darkness and the boy stood more erect. No doubt, he was apprehensive at encountering an upper class man in the back lane. Sherrinford squared his shoulders and rolled around his poshest accent in his mouth before he spoke.

"What could possibly be so urgent at this hour?" he demanded with a dramatic tenor.

The boy shrugged and swallowed. "I cannot say, sir, I-I am just a courier."

Sherrinford's curiosity spiked. He stretched his neck and held out a hand. He could not see a package so the courier must have some form of communicae.

"Best hand over the letter then, son." he commanded as he wiggled his fingers.

The boy's lips pulled down apprehensively. "I-I was instructed to deliver it directly to Mrs. Winifred Holmes-"

Sherrinford feigned indignation with a gruff curse. "My mother is asleep at this hour. Give the letter to me and I will ensure she gets it first thing in the morning."

"B-But-"

"Just give him the letter, boy," Mathers called from where he leaned against the house, "I will not have you insult a member of my household."

The boy gulped and jammed his hand in his pocket. He pulled out two letters in his haste. One of them fluttered to the cobblestones.

"Whoop!"

The boy scooped the missive before he shakily handed Sherrinford the first letter. Sherrinford eyed the second letter and quickly deduced by its similar appearance that it had come from the same source. Curiosity piqued within him.

"Another late delivery, have you?"

The boy dipped his head. "Y-yes, sir."

"For whom?"

The boy licked his lips. "Erm, also a Holmes, though not at this address. One on Baker Street."

"Sherlock Holmes?"

The lad scratched his temple beneath the brim of his cap. "Y-Yes, sir."

Sherrinford grinned but quickly suppressed his smile. He did not want to seem too keen to get his hands on the second letter.

"Aw, well, you are in luck, my good lad. Sherlock Holmes is staying here at present due to renovations at his home so you may also leave that with me and I will take it in to him. That will save you a trip, hmm?"

"B-But . . . . I was told-"

Sherrinford sighed and produced a coin from his pocket. The boy's eyes bugged.

"For your trouble, son," he rubbed the pittance between his fingers, "now go on home and get some sleep."

The boy snatched the coin quickly and thrust the second letter into Sherrinford's hand. The lad's face lit with the largest smile as he eyed the generous tip.

"Thank-you, sir!"

Sherrinford nodded and the courier sprinted off. Sherrinford then looked over at Mathers who had resumed puffing his pipe. The valet's lips curved into a sardonic smile, but he only shrugged and turned slightly to indicate his disinterest in the matter. Sherrinford ducked into the back staff passages and made his way towards the steps leading up to his room. Once he found his way upstairs and slipped into his chambers, he flipped off his hat, kicked free from his shoes and sat down at his writing desk. He flicked on his electric lamp and fished out the first letter as the bulb warmed up and the light went from orange to pale yellow. His mouth practically watered at what could be contained within as he carefully teased it open. With baited breath, he gorged on the jaunty script written with a shaking hand.

"Dearest Mrs. Winifred Holmes,

I regret to inform you that I will not be marrying your son. He is a most admirable and worthy gentleman but alas, I have become convinced we will not suit. Please accept my sincerest regrets for any pain I may have caused your family in breaking our engagement.

Yours, Molly Hooper."

"Oh, dear me, Miss Molly," Sherrinford drawled as he scanned the words again, "tsk, tsk, what brought this about?"

Never had a few simple sentences intrigued him so much. Miss Molly Hooper had decided to break up with his brother Sherlock, how delightfully unexpected! Sherrinford leaned back on his chair, blinked at the brief note and reread it several times. Then he laughed softly and opened the second letter intended for Sherlock.

It read:

"Holmes,

I would like to convey my gratitude for your having considered me as a potential marriage partner. However, I no longer believe we are a good match and do not wish to marry you. Best of luck in your future endeavors.

Regards, Hooper."

"So cold! Ah, my dear Molly, you are a gem," Sherrinford practically sang, "oh, this is going to be very amusing."

He just managed to fold the letters back up when he heard a voice.

"Sherry!"

Sherrinford's breath seized and he shot up in his seat.

"Mother," he swallowed and turned.

Mummy Holmes stood at his doorway with a vexed expression upon her face. "What have I told you about sneaking into my house?"

Sherrinford frowned and gingerly pushed aside the letters. "Ah . . . do it . . . quietly?"

His mother huffed and adjusted her lavender dressing gown. "Yes, you troublesome boy! Quietly or not at all. Your father's hound roused me from quite a pleasant dream when he heard you come up the back stairs."

Sherrinford grimaced. "Sorry, mum."

She tapped her fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes briefly. "That infernal creature and his baying will be the death of me."

"Sorry, Mum," he repeated.

Mummy Holmes swept over to the armchair near his writing desk and sat down. Her blue eyes burned like the stem of a gas flame as she regarded him intently.

"What were you up to this evening?" she asked as she settled into her seat. "I am a bit perturbed you did not show up to dinner. I had hoped you would help me convince your father that we should throw an engagement ball for Sherlock and Miss Hooper."

Sherrinford's lips tugged into a wide smile as he processed her words. A ball! Sherlock would hate every minute of a ball.

"Oh that . . . that is a glorious idea, Mother."

His mother lifted her chin a moment and continued to regard him warily. "Do you really think so?"

He nodded so enthusiastically he felt his brain jiggle in his skull. Wicked glee made his skin goose-pimple.

"I find that Miss Hooper rather delightful. We should definitely give her a proper welcome to the family."

Mummy Holmes began to beam. "Yes, yes, that is just what I was thinking. Though, I am uncertain about Miss Hooper. She may not want the attention-"

Sherrinford scooted forward in his chair. He was anxious to encourage the idea.

"She is simply shy, Mother. All women secretly want to be the Belle of a ball once in their lives and, poor thing, this will probably be her only opportunity. Also, their marriage is nearly upon us. We would not want anyone to question the circumstances of their union, would we . . .?"

Mummy Holmes eyes lit with understanding. She nodded in determination and clucked her tongue.

"You are absolutely right, Sherry. Ooh, I have been far too indulgent with Sherlock on this. Of course they must have a ball! It would be scandalous otherwise! See, this is exactly the kind of argument I need to convince your father to let the purse strings."

Sherrinford grinned and glanced at the letters on his desk. It was as if someone had delivered him an early Christmas gift. Miss Molly needed to change her mind about breaking off her engagement, though, or he wouldn't have nearly as much fun.

"You are not going anywhere, Molly Hooper," Sherrinford thought to himself as a giddiness bubbled in his chest, "not before you help vivisect my brother."


The next morning found the middle Holmes brother sitting across from an entirely too-smug looking Sherrinford. Sherlock drew in a steadying breath and steeled his features. His younger brother had been regarding him with amusement during the whole breakfast at his parents' home which made him think there was more to the last-minute invite than just his mother wanting to discuss his impending wedding. He made a mental note to corner Sherrinford at his first opportunity and suss out whatever his most infuriating sibling schemed.

"Excuse me . . . what?" Sherlock's head snapped up as his attention was diverted. "Did you say, 'ball'?"

His mother folded her hands together and rested them under her chin. His father lifted his paper and hid behind its pages.

"Yes, an engagement ball, this Friday. I will arrange everything. All you need to do is attend."

Sherlock was at a loss for words for several seconds. His face twisted in a deep grimace.

"I-I told you ages ago we did not need a ball-"

"You told me you did not want a ball. Frankly, my boy, it is not for you, it is for Molly. Every girl deserves her own special celebration-"

Sherlock's bile rose in his throat. "She is not every girl."

Sherrinford clucked his tongue. "Why the resistance, brother? Are you ashamed of Miss Hooper?"

His mother gasped theatrically and clutched her chest. "Oh, Sherlock!"

Sherlock shook his head. His eyes narrowed. The pair of them were too much alike. He was being played and he did not appreciate it.

"No! No! Do not put words into my mouth," he ground out.

Sherlock looked to his father but, as usual, he was no help. Sherrinford chuckled under his breath. Their mother pressed her lips together but Sherlock saw the signs of a burgeoning smile. Sherlock felt the hairs on his neck bristle. His stomach turned. He felt off-kilter as if rising waters were threatening to drown him. He pushed thoughts of his duplicitous little brother's motivations aside and concentrated on his more immediate problem. Molly had yet to respond to a note he had sent that morning and her silence weighed on him. He doubted very much that she wanted to feign his besotted fiancé at an engagement ball after what he had said to her at Baker Street. However, the more the idea rolled around in his skull, the more it appealed to him. They would at least get to dance, he thought. His blood rushed as he imagined the evening. He would have the opportunity to hold her close and maybe even rebuild some sort of connection, to remind her that, if nothing else, they shared an attraction that could not be denied.

Still, he hated a spectacle . . .

A spectacle.

His eyes rounded as an idea flashed in his mind like gunpowder. He was in need to make a scene! His heart started racing.

"What was that, Mum?" he mumbled as his mother's voice cut through his thoughts.

"I said, I will not allow you to worm your way out of this, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and shot a hard look towards his little brother.

"I would not think of it," Sherlock replied unblinkingly at Sherrinford, "in fact, I have seen the light. I think a ball is an excellent notion."

Sherrinford gazed back with a skeptical lift to his brow. His grin faltered momentarily but then he smiled again and took a sip of his tea. Once more, Sherlock reminded himself to be wary of Sherrinford's involvement in the event but his thoughts were quickly overtaken with other plans he needed to set into motion. He only had a few days and much to prepare. Even though the ball was rushed by every metric, there wasn't a family in town who would turn down an invite to a Holmes' ball - an event as rare as it was prestigious.

"Mother, have you sent any invitations yet?" he inquired.

She raised her brows. She too appeared somewhat surprised by his enthusiasm. He was glad to salvage some pride, at least.

"No, my boy, not yet. They go out this afternoon."

Sherlock smiled. "Wonderful, then may I add some names? There are a few guests I am particularly keen should attend."

His mother finally perked up, buoyed by his apparent cooperation. "Of course, darling! It is your engagement ball, after all."

Sherlock looked sideways at Sherrinford with a warning in his eyes. "Yes, yes, it is, hummm?"


Holmes doffed his hate as he stepped into Dr. Watson's modest town home. He glanced at the sun high in the sky and let out a long breath. His apprehensiveness had not waned as the day went on, in fact, with every passing moment he felt more and more like he was sinking in a murky lake. His own words kept coming back to haunt him.

"I do not want your love. I do not want its demands . . ."

When the words skittered through his thoughts, Molly's face immediately loomed, pale and . . . in pain? Every time he saw her visage, in fact, her face came into sharper focus as if his mind had taken a photo and was slowly developing it over time. This instance he saw the quiver of her lip and the crinkle at the corner of her eyes as she winced.

"What is this?"

Holmes shook his head stared down his nose at Watson as he sipped at his afternoon tea. He could not recall the moments between when he had arrived and subsequently made his way to the doctor's parlor, yet there he found himself. He swallowed and searched his mind for a response.

"It is your latest story."

Dr. Watson shook his head and set his tea down before wiping his mouth and snatching the latest edition of 'The Strand Magazine' from Holmes' hand.

"B-But I didn't submit a case for publishing this week."

With a furrowed forehead, he fluffed out the pages of the newsprint and opened them to where his stories were usually found. His eyes rounded like saucers when he scanned the page.

"The . . . 'The Abominable Bride'?" he gasped. "Wh- Th-This is not one of my stories. Who wrote this?"

Holmes scooped a biscuit from Watson's tea tray and sauntered to the matching rose-print covered wing chair in Watson's parlor. He pushed the specter of Molly deep, deep down inside him. With a twitch of his brows, he sat down and took a bite of the biscuit.

"I penned it."

Dr. Watson's mustache nearly jumped from his face as he sat forward. He blinked several times at Holmes then yanked the magazine up again. He furiously consumed the words beneath the peculiar title with baited breath. As he did, his orbs grew until they appeared as if they would tumble from his sockets.

"'Miss Sally Donovan' . . . 'medium extraordinaire' . . . 'found dead' . . . 'suicide'!?" he sputtered.

Dr. Watson dropped the magazine to his lap and leaned back in his chair. He wiped a hand over his face and cursed. He attempted to put together a coherent sentence but his syllables came out as unintelligible huffs and gurgles. Holmes watched him with a quizzical expression for a few seconds while he finished his ill-gained biscuit.

"Focus, Watson," he finally responded. "One thought at a time. What are you having the most difficulty reconciling at this very moment?"

Watson dragged in a breath and poked pointedly at the paper. "This is a complete fabrication. I do not recall any of this happening as you described-"

A wry smile curved Holmes' lips. "How is that different from your usual stories? Next!"

Watson's mouth gaped, then he closed his lips and glowered at his friend. "I . . . I do take some literary license with some details but the . . . the general gist of the story is the truth. G-Good God, Holmes, is this part of some sort of plan?"

Holmes shrugged. "What did you think our meeting with Miss Donovan was all about? Come on, now Watson, you know my methods. What really has you so disturbed?"

Watson's eyes flicked down to the story and back up to Holmes. His nose wrinkled.

"This reads like something I would have written. It is uncanny-"

Holmes' chin drifted up and his eyes narrowed. "And? Oh, frailty thy name is John Hamish Watson! Do you really believe your writing style is difficult to mimic? All one needs to do is pay attention to the composition and they can easily copy your tone and rhythm. You are also partial to certain words and punctuation-"

"Writing is an art inherent to the individual!"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "If you insist."

Dr. Watson grumbled something and whacked the magazine down his side table, causing the lace runner to flutter and his tea cup to rattle on its saucer. He glanced at his unfinished refreshment with a wrinkle between his brow. Silence followed for several moments as Holmes leaned forward and plucked another biscuit from the tray. The men regarded one another with stone faces. Finally, Holmes let out a long breath.

"Are you quite finished being offended?"

Watson shook his head. "No."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Really, Watson, my story substitution was a one-time occurrence-"

The doctor snorted. "It is not that. Well, it does not constitute the greatest measure of my offense. It is just the hilt of the sword impinging on my ribs."

The detective frowned. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His expression twisted in confusion. Watson plucked at his mustache absentmindedly. Discomfort skittered through his features. His unoccupied fingers drummed nervously on his knee.

"Holmes, I have been your stalwart friend and ally for nearly a decade yet I feel as if I sit with a stranger. Wh-When did I lose your confidence?"

Holmes swallowed and shifted in his seat. "What do you mean?"

"Why did you not request that I write this story? You know I would have done so if you had only asked. God, but it is not just this, ever since you became involved with Miss Hooper-"

Holmes inhaled a sharp breath. "Take care with your next words, Watson."

The good doctor's face twitched as if he'd experienced the prick of a barbed hook. "You think I would speak ill of your fiancé?"

Dr. Watson sighed and dropped his eyes. He expunged a breath.

"Perhaps it is I who has become the stranger to you, then," he grumbled and lifted his gaze again, "though, I am at a loss to speculate when this may have occurred."

The larger man fiddled with the remainder of his biscuit; crumbs fell to his trousers. He glowered down at them for a few moments, then brushed them off and glanced back up. It took him longer than he expected to formulate a response.

"I am . . . sorry, my dear Watson," he replied in a tremulous tone, "if I have distanced myself lately, it is only because you have long served as my conscience and well, lately, my behavior has been . . . unconscionable, to say the least."

Watson shook his head. His eyes rounded in earnest.

"Then let me put you at ease, my friend, as I do not think your behavior has been unconscionable. In fact, it has been exactly what I might expected of someone in your predicament."

Holmes' brow shot up. "Predicament? What predicament?"

Watson barked a short laugh. "The last one you thought you would ever find yourself in, oh great consulting detective who hath forsworn to avoid all emotional attachments."

When Watson did not immediately follow up and continued to chuckle, Holmes cursed.

"Dear, God! What predicament already?"

"Love, Sherlock Holmes. You are in love."