A/N: What took me so long, you say? Well, it seems that even though I have a whole lot of free time on my hands, my mind always reminds me about the other stories I've been neglecting. But here I am, eager to continue my most promising story. Lucky for you, no? *readers: No!* Hahahah... yeah. So anyway, I guess everyone likes my dynamic duo so far. I don't like to think of Rhodes as being exactly like Sherlock Holmes. Rhodes is a bit more compassionate than his nineteenth-century equivalent, and more sensitive to people's feelings. Of course, he's arrogant. He has to be. Bridges, on the other hand, is pure Watson. They're both caring and emotional, and appreciative of simple beauty. I think that both Nadia Bridges and her counterpart, John Watson, are the kind of friend everyone needs, and everyone takes for granted. But there I go, blabbering away again. Here's the latest chapter.

Disclaimer: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the man who created the legend, is the one who takes the credit for my story. Without the idea to go on, it would be nothing.



A Perfect World
a Sherlock Holmes pastiche
by Wakizashi

Chapter Four: In the Late Hours





"So to release that tension built up right there, you want to apply pressure here, below the latissimus dorsi, and... Nadia? Nadia, are you listening?"

I snapped out of my trance and looked up sharply at my instructor's irritated face. "Yeah. I was listening. Sorry, Thomas."

He rolled his eyes and went on to the next student, leaving me to continue working on my patient... or maybe I should say "guinea pig". In truth, I hadn't been listening at all. Ever since that Saturday, two days before, when Rhodes' client had been murdured, my mind could not focus on anything else. Though the man had been killed evidently for revenge, the murderer - or murderers - had so far gotten away with it, and they were still out there; most likely still somewhere in San Francisco. Until Rhodes figured out who had done it, no one was safe.

I kept thinking about the ring that was found on Chan's body; the old, scratched wedding band. It obviously hadn't belonged to him, because judging from the size of the other one, he had been a man possessed of considerably large fingers, and besides, what kind of guy wears women's rings anyway? Perhaps it belonged to his wife. But no, that didn't make any more sense than the first hypothesis; the ring was far too worn for any self-respecting woman to wear in public. For some reason, I had a feeling it didn't belong to his wife either.

*Damn that Rhodes,* I thought in frustration as I kneaded my patient's tightened muscles. *My life was normal before I met him.*

Our class concluded with the directions to read chapters ten and eleven in our study volume, which was not an easy task, considering how thick the book was. I prepared myself for a splitting headache as I called my goodnights to my instructor and fellow students and headed out the door onto the cold, dark street.

During every instance in which my father had called me since I moved to San Francisco, he had included in his flurry of anecdotes, news of neighbors, and affirmations of paternal love some form of warning not to wander alone through the city at night. And, after each instance, I assured him that I had not even considered doing so. In fact, until tonight, my reassurances were actually true; during the rare occasions in which Rhodes had not accompanied me, I had taken a cab to my apartment complex, even though the number of blocks between it and the massage school could be counted on two hands.

But on this particular night, when for once it wasn't raining buckets on the dark city, I was too anxious to get home to bother spending money on a taxi. Wrapping my coat tighter around myself, I started off down the street, my boots squelching on the sidewalk, which was still wet from the afternoon showers. I didn't feel especially apprehensive; it wasn't as if I was completely defenseless in the event that someone tried to mug me. In high school, after much begging, I had convinced my father to let me learn tae kwon do, and if it was absolutely necessary, I was at least capable of breaking the arm of a man twice my size.

Not quite the helpless little small-town girl you thought I was, eh?

In any case, it was not until my apartment building was within sight that I began to feel uneasy. That prickly, back-of-the-neck feeling that someone was watching me flooded my senses against my will, making me increasingly irrational. I tried to shake it off, but since I had unconsciously picked up my pace, it was obvious that I failed to get rid of the feeling. Memories of Martin Chan and his gruesome death swirled through my head, and the idea of being shot and dismembered after my father's warnings made me wish I had spent the dough on a damned taxi.

The sudden sound of a shoe scuffing on the concrete nearly sent me sprinting toward my apartment in a terrified frenzy. I might have done so, too, if I hadn't sworn that the sound had come from an alley in front of me. Abruptly I stopped walking, pressing myself against the concrete wall of a building. Breathing through my nose to reduce any sound I might be making, I edged forward, making my way toward the alley. If there was anyone waiting for me to pass by, I certainly wasn't going to waltz merrily down the sidewalk right in front of them. I had to, at the least, find out how many of them were back there. Swallowing hard at the final moment, I decided to act before I lost my nerve and leaned forward, peering around the corner of the building.

Immediately a hand clamped over my mouth, and I lashed out with all my limbs. My right fist swung around and came into contact with solid flesh, and to my anger and embarrassment, I heard a familiar male voice grunt in pain. "Good Lord, Bridges," it hissed, "are you trying to blind me?"

My eyes widened in disbelief. "Rhodes? What the hell are you doing back here?" I yelled at the silhouetted figure, demanding an explanation. "Are you insane!?"

"Keep it down," he said under his breath. Taking me by the arm, he led me further into the alley, and as my eyes began to adjust to the darkness, I saw Rhodes more clearly. He was dressed in black from head to toe: black coat, black turtleneck, black pants, black boots. And, I noticed with mortification, a rapidly forming black eye. "I can see that accompanying you back home from your massage classes was hardly necessary," he observed dryly.

Though I felt horrible for hurting the young detective, I was still furious at him for lying in wait for me. "You scared the bejesus out of me," I whispered harshly, remembering what he had said about being quiet.

"I'm sorry, Bridges, I suppose I can understand your anger." He *supposed*? "But I can assure you, it was necessary. I was waiting for one of Martin Chan's murder suspects to appear, and I needed complete silence."

"One of Chan's murderers?" I repeated nervously, barely repressing a shiver.

"Murder *suspects*, Bridges. There is a difference." He reached up with one hand to rub his shoulder absently. Yeah, that's what you get for slouching. "There's a nightclub two blocks away that draws in a large number of Triad members. It's far too risky to keep watch near the place, but I was hoping one of them would take this route on their way home. If I could find out where he lived, it would make solving this maddening case much easier. Of course, I highly doubt he's coming, if he heard that deafening outburst of yours," he added regretfully.

I stared at him, offended. "Oh, excuse me for thinking that someone was attacking me. Chalk it up to the senility I must be getting in my twenty-two years of age." Rhodes glared at me, and I sighed, regretting my sarcasm. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm still a little freaked out. Well, as long as your bloodthirsty friend isn't going to pass by this way, you might as well come back to my apartment and put some ice on that eye."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"I'm not sure this persona you created for me, Bridges, is the kind of boost I wanted for my reputation as a private detective."

I made a face at Rhodes as I opened the door of the freezer and pulled out a pack of blue ice. "Technically, you brought this on yourself," I replied, walking to the linen closet and finding the softest towel I owned. "Besides, since when do you care what other people think of you?"

He shrugged and leaned back, sinking into my beige sofa. "I don't, anymore," he said quietly, closing his eyes. "But you have to admit, a bad image can be detrimental to one's career. How can I expect anyone to take me seriously as a professional, if no one has any faith in my work?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I hadn't known him for very long, but even I could tell that Rhodes was very good at what he did; shockingly good. Why should he have any reason for low self-esteem? "Well, what about the FBI?" I asked casually as I wrapped the towel around the ice pack. "The Bureau seems to put a lot of trust in you."

"Ah. The Bureau." He scrunched up his nose with distaste. "Their so-called 'talent' for finding the most important factors in a case is certainly nothing to write home about. Solomon usually calls me when a problem of his has him running in circles. This last time was different, because Chan was my client, but..." He trailed off and sighed wearily. "Bad publicity is not the Bureau's forte. Which is why, more often than not, they claim total credit. That's not to say that I want notoriety," he hastened to add. "I'm only interesting in seeing cases through, and giving criminals what they deserve."

I smiled at him. "Thus bringing peace and justice to the world once again?" I suggested.

One brilliant green eye opened, and he grinned back at me. "Something like that."

I collapsed on the couch next to him and held out the ice pack as a peace offering. "I'm sorry I punched you, Rhodes," I said with a repentant smile.

"Think nothing of it," he replied, taking the pack from my hand and pressing carefully against his right eye. He showed no signs of discomfort, to my relief, and for a while we just sat in an easy silence. I marvelled at that fact that we had only met the week before, and I felt like I had known him forever.

Inevitably, my mind drifted back to the incident with the blonde girl on the pier. Rhodes had literally been paralyzed with shock and pain at the mere sight of her, and when he had confessed that she bore a striking resemblance to his sister, there had undeniably been guilt in his voice.

*How did she die, Rhodes?* I thought, watching him as he reclined sleepily on my couch. *Why does the memory cause you such torture? And why can't I get up the nerve to ask you?*

His voice interrupted my musings: "Did your instructor assign you any homework?"

"Gah!" I exclaimed articulately, remembering the thick tome I had abandoned next to my purse by the front door. "Thanks for reminding me," I said, retrieving the book off the floor and bringing it to my much-used desk across the living room. As I opened the monstrous volume and flipped to the assigned chapters, I was thankful that I was a fairly fast reader, since I probably wouldn't have enough time to finish after work. Quickly assimilating various pressure points, I was lost in my studies until I heard Rhodes's low, precise voice utter my name. I twisted around until I faced the couch and met his questioning gaze.

"If you are occupied, I can leave," he offered, raising a jet-black eyebrow. "It is almost midnight, after all."

Abruptly an emotion akin to sheepishness surged through me, and I laughed apologetically. It hadn't even occurred to me that I might be making Rhodes feel a bit unwelcome. It was certainly not intentional - and if this narration requires I must tell the truth, I had absolutely no desire to make him go. After all, I supposed I could find time to study before my shift at the coffee house started. "Really, it's all right," I assured him, almost closing the book on my fingers. "I need to give my brain a rest anyway."

He nodded, and I knew he understood fully what I meant. As an aspiring detective, he was, no doubt, constantly faced with tangles in his orderly webs of deduction. I wondered if he ever wished he could just take a break.

I sat down beside him once again, requesting that he lower the ice pack from his injured eye. He obeyed, and I scrutinized the damage I had wreaked upon his poor, pretty face. "It looks like the swelling's gone down," I decided, noting that the purple tint had faded a bit as well. I told him as much, and he appeared greatly relieved that my fist o' fury had not disfigured him permanently.

As I settled back in the couch once again, pleased to see there were no broken blood vessels in the eye itself, Rhodes spoke up. "What made you want to become a masseuse, if I may ask?"

"You may," I replied as he regarded me with the rapt attention he gave to everything around him. "You were right, on the first day we met, about me being raised on a farm. My father and I lived on a big, beautiful farm a few miles from Olympia. Why do I say 'my father and I', you ask? Well, my mother died during childbirth, so it was always just me and mah pa. Of course, we had a couple farmhands around, but you know what I mean. We were in it together." I sighed, not really sure why I was telling my life story to this young, charming, and extremely mysterious man. Maybe I felt some sort of connection to him, because we had both experienced loss in our lives. At any rate, I continued.

"You'd be surprised how many unseasonably warm days we get up in western Washington. Dad and I would usually drive into town, or maybe to the beach if we were feeling particularly daring. But sometimes we would just go horse-back riding together. God, I loved those days. Dad always rode that old nag that he just couldn't bring himself to sell, and I rode my sweet Appaloosa mare, Haydee. We would race across the fields, even though I knew I would win every time, and I always did. The last time we ever did was on a spring day, eight years ago.

"We were on our way back home from a long day of riding, and our asses were so sore, you wouldn't even believe it. We were way too beat to gallop home, so we just let Haydee and the nag walk at whatever pace they wanted to. On the way back it started to drizzle, and then pretty soon it turned into a downpour. Before long, we were drenched to the bone. The horses were no more happy about it than we were, so they started to pick up speed." I closed my eyes, aware that my sentences were becoming more like fragments. "The ground was wet... from the rain... Dad's horse slipped - her old legs started to give way ...She was down before I knew what was going on; down on her side, with Dad under her.

"It was amazing - how calm I was, I mean. Looking back, I don't know how I did it. The nag was whinnying in pain, thunder was booming in my ears. I jumped off Haydee and grabbed the fallen horse's reins, trying to pull her back onto her feet. She wouldn't budge, so I told Dad to grab Haydee's reins, and she would pull him out." I took a deep, unsteady breath, not wanting to continue, but unable to stop. "He told me... He said he couldn't feel anything, he couldn't move his arms or even his fingers. His voice was all... thick and distorted. I willed him to move, to do *something*, but he couldn't. So I climbed onto Haydee again and galloped back to the farm for help. Robbie, the stable boy, saw me outside and ran out to meet me. He got his father, and we all rode back and managed to pull the old horse off my dad. It was too late for her; Robbie's dad had to shoot her. And Dad... I could tell he sometimes wished he could find an easy way out, too." Unable to hold it back, a lone tear spilled down my cheek, even with my eyes still closed. "He was paralyzed from the neck down."

I fell silent, and the only sounds in the apartment were the faint *whoosh* of a passing car on the street below, and the sound of our quiet breathing. Rhodes made no attempt at a sympathetic word, only because he knew I had heard so many in my life that it no longer meant anything.

Finally I broke the silence, my voice still shaky. "We had to sell the farm; had to sell my sweet Haydee, because Dad couldn't work anymore. We moved to Olympia, and we lived on Dad's disability and the money I made waiting tables - God, I swore I would never serve another cup of coffee! Dad's doctors said that without regular movement, his muscles would atrophy, so I became his appointed physical therapist. I guess I understood; was *forced* to understand how hard it was, and still is for him. That's why I want to be a massage therapist. I want to help people get through their pain. No one should have to suffer, even if it's just a little bit."

Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks, remembering the nightmares, the phantom limbs, the false hopes. My body shook with silent sobs, and as the couch cushions shifted beside me, I nearly gasped in surprise when I felt a cool hand cover my own. I opened my eyes to see Rhodes sitting close to me, his knees nearly touching mine. The understanding in his green eyes surpassed any simple-minded empathy of the many people who pretended to know what I had gone through; this was true commiseration, as though he could see into my mind, and comprehend my pain, and share it with me. There was something in his gaze that suggested a pain as old and deep as mine - perhaps even deeper.

Reaching up with his other hand, he wiped the tears off my cheeks with his steady, reassuring fingertips. When he spoke, his voice - with all its proper Southern genteelism - was the verbal embodiment of compassion. "You're right, Bridges," he said softly. "No one should have to suffer."

Before I even realized I had freed my hand of his, I leaned into him and squeezed my eyes shut, seeking comfort in his lean, gaunt presence. I found it, although comfort wasn't the only thing I found as his long arms drew protectively around me. I had found in this man; this man I wouldn't have touched with a thirty-foot pole on the first day of our meeting - this kind, brilliant, impossibly deep and enigmatic man - a true friend.








A/N: Good night nurse, that only took about a thousand years to write. I'm pretty sure I might have ruptured my brain trying to get it right. Bridges's tragic story alone took me three days to finish. But don't worry, the muse has seized me once again, and you can bet by the time you read this, I'll be working on the next chapter. More to the point, though: how did you like THIS chapter? Too depressing? Not enough mystery? Well, I'll agree with you on both accounts. But not only did I want to deepen Bridges's character a bit, but I also wanted to save the mystery and suspense for the next chapter. I hope everyone can wait! In the meantime, review and give me your honest opinion: Are you please with the way the story is going so far?

Might you, possibly, welcome more stories featuring my Southern detective and his masseuse-in-training friend?

-Wakizashi
tricksparrow@hotmail.com