Author's Note: Well, FINALLY, I have finished chapter 2! It is rather hefty though, and much happens, so there's at least some pathetic excuse for the remarkable amount of time it took me to write it. But, you can thank my new Raffles prt. 2 DVDs (!!!) for inspiring me to unthinkable degrees. I highly recommend it.Now for some business:

The following is a list of all the characters from Raffles that I will be using/mentioning, and their counterparts if they have one, for those who have not read the stories:
Lady Camilla Belzise- A women's rights advocate from the novel "Mr. Justice Raffles" who helps Raffles to bring down a nefarious moneylender who gives crime a bad name. She is about as close to Irene Adler as you get without making her an actress.

Inspector Mackenzie- The Scottish Inspector bent on proving to Scotland Yard that Raffles is the Cracksman. And yes, he is pretty much Lestrade's counterpart.

Beckett- The doorman at Raffle's flat building. Kind of like a male Mrs. Hudson.

Netja- I may or may not include her. She is from the story A Bad Night. She's a Dutch woman who's a good shot with a revolver, a cricket obsession, and sporadic insomnia. Her character was far more illuminated in the DVDs, which is the reason I'm itching to include her.

Raffles was more than a little unsettled by now. What had started as a relaxing little robbery had turned into a poorly thought out confrontation and had now drastically become a tense (and very awkward) stalemate. Holmes and him were both seated on the couch, confused into a dead silence even though both had the distinct feeling they weren't going to get anywhere that way. Still, neither could straighten their thoughts out enough to put one together and form it into a cohesive spoken statement. Raffles hoped Holmes would say something soon, because right now he was stuck in a never-ending cycle: try to think, do something out of distraction like run a hand through his hair, then look over and see Holmes doing the exact same thing with him, and be stunned for another ten seconds.

And then, at length, Holmes did speak.

"Were you, by any chance… in some sort of danger, about a week ago?" he asked, warily.

With a sinking feeling, Raffles replied, "I believe that would be the time I escaped capture in Palace Gardens."

"Ah."

"And you knew it."
"Yes."
"Right, then… about a month ago, were you…?"
"I was fighting a deadly snake."
"I see."

There was a pause. Then Raffles stood and started pacing with a distressed look on his face.

"What is the matter?" Holmes asked, somewhat disturbed at his reflection's fidgety behavior

"Is it really so hard to divine?" he replied, raising an eyebrow. He stopped abruptly, crossed his arms, and stared at the ground. He had the answer to this very odd dilemma screeching at him from the back of his mind, but his own reluctance to believe as well as the cloud of confusion in his mind were preventing him from reaching it. Finally, he said, quite subconsciously, "You were raised with no father, is this correct?"

"I can't quite see what that has to do-"

"Were you?" Raffles asked more urgently. That brilliant thought was coming to the surface.

"Yes…"

Like a bomb, the answer exploded in Raffles's mind.

"Oh, no…" he said in disbelief. He suddenly looked very downtrodden and began to back away from Holmes in what almost seemed like fear (not that this would be a highly unnatural action for a man such as Raffles).

"For God's sake, will you just tell me what's happening, since you seem to have all the answers?" Holmes asked sharply, losing patience he never had in the first place.

"There's, um…" Raffles cleared his throat. "Something you should see."

"What?" Poor Holmes, he hated it terribly when he was kept in the dark.

"I can't tell you yet," Raffles replied a little cautiously.

"And why not?" Holmes was almost seething now. Raffles was already afraid of him.

"In the case that I happen to be wrong in my hypothesis, it would be quite imprudent for me to divulge anything at this moment," Raffles said with a very practiced blank expression, delivering the statement as if reciting it from a textbook.

Holmes might, and most likely would have, debated this point, but it was at this unfortunate moment that the homeowners chose to arrive. In shock, they both stood there for a second, and in the very confusing seconds that passed, it somehow followed that Holmes was hidden from sight while Raffles was still out in the open. So it was that when the esteemed lord and lady of the house lighted upon the sitting room, they immediately saw Raffles, looking as frightened as a rabbit, and no one else.

Raffles might have voiced some very logical reason why he was currently in their parlor, but the man spoke first.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, did that scoundrel ever turn up?" he raised an eyebrow challengingly, quite clearly announcing that he held little stock in Holmes's opinion.

Raffles first reaction to this statement was: Mr. Holmes?

His second reaction was: scoundrel?

His third reaction was a giant burst of inner laughter.

Raffles cleared his throat and said, quite authoritatively, "Why yes, Lord Elliot, he did happen to 'turn up' as you put it so eloquently, and if it weren't for the incompetence of that damned officer I called in to assist me, I would have had him behind bars tonight!"

Raffles thought he played the part of the detective quite nicely, and the convincing anger in his tone quieted the impudent aristocrat in seconds. He even had the decency to look apologetic on behalf of the fabricated officer. Raffles decided to continue the assault to provide an opportunity for himself to leave the house as Sherlock Holmes and Holmes an opportunity to sneak out a window.

"In any event," Raffles said, glaring at Lord Elliot, "your precious belongings are safe for one more night, and you can rest assured that you'll hear no more from me. Now if you do excuse me, it's about time I rested myself," he finished sharply, and with a flourish turned and stalked out of the house quite happily.

He knew that neither of them would dream of entering the parlor to affirm anything that he'd said; it would be humiliating for them. He also knew that they would not be watching him as he left the house, so he took the liberty of turning into an alcove directly next to the house and waited. A few minutes later, when the lights on the second floor of the house were turned on, Holmes landed with a slight grunt next to him.

"Hulloa again!" Raffles said cheerfully, unfazed by the antagonism that seethed from every pore of Holmes.

"I fail to see any shred of humor in this situation, so if you don't mind revealing this precious secret which is so delicate that it could not be unveiled earlier," he practically growled. Raffles cleared his throat and sobered; Holmes was beginning to notice this odd habit of his.

"Well, first order of business… I wonder, though you weren't raised with your father, do you have any idea what he looked like, or at least have in your possession a photograph?" he asked, his eyebrow raised.

"Are you suggesting…" Holmes trailed off, too stunned to even finish the thought.

"Well I told you that I really ought to have kept it a secret until it could be proven true," Raffles admonished softly.

"And I suppose you actually thought-" Holmes stopped mid-sentence and started as if a thought struck him. "Wait just a minute…" he said quietly, and then his voice took on a low, dangerous tone, "Mycroft would know."

"Excuse me?"

"My brother," Holmes answered, looking Raffles straight in the eye. Raffles caught on immediately.

"Your older brother," he said in what would quite unarguably be called a statement. Holmes nodded in confirmation. Raffles sighed and muttered, "Oh dear."

They made the trip to Pall Mall in record time, especially considering the unusual circumstances; it would, after all, be highly irregular if they were seen together by someone that either of them knew. Once directed to the proper flat by a doorman who fought them nearly kicking and screaming, Holmes banged rather loudly on the door several times. Raffles was standing slightly apart from him; he fancied he could see flames coming off of the irate detective. He wasn't quite sure he would be as angry as Holmes was if this situation had been his, but he sagely thought it wise not to question Holmes's course of action.

And then, nearly a minute later, Mycroft opened the door to see two Sherlocks, one of them glaring furiously at him, and the other gaping in fascination.

Needless to say, he was at a slight loss for words. Holmes decided to take the liberty of dragging Raffles along with him inside the flat, slamming the door, turning to Mycroft, and all but shouted at him, "What, may I ask, is the meaning of this?" he pointed furiously at Raffles, who was still gawking rather uncharacteristically at Mycroft.

Mycroft, never a man to be stunned for very long, very quickly pulled himself together and looked at Holmes with a look of stern protestation.

"Sherlock, if you have the slightest idea that I have any notion of exactly what is happening, you are very much mistaken," he told his brother in that matter-of-fact way he had so expertly mastered.

"My God…" Raffles now interjected quietly. Sherlock and Mycroft turned to him in confusion, the anger in them diffused temporarily.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You look… just like him," Raffles told Mycroft, in a voice of very acute disbelief.

"Just like whom?" Mycroft asked sharply, picking up Sherlock's irritation rather quickly.

Raffles looked around at both of them before answering, seemingly worried that what he would say next wouldn't be wise against such oddly hot-tempered fellows.

"Well… my father," he answered, tilting his chin up to accentuate his truthfulness.

No one said anything for a few moments; all of them were silently going over the facts in their minds, and even after they all reached the same conclusion, none of them felt comfortable enough to voice it out loud. Finally, Raffles, feeling he had started this mess, stood and bravely took on the part of the composed logician once more. Absently, Sherlock noted that whenever Raffles was stating something official, or taking on a part which required some authority, he would stand with one leg slightly slanted, and his torso tilted ever so slightly to one side, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other hanging loosely. It almost gave the impression that he was leaning on some invisible cane.

"There is one very simple method of verifying what I'm sure is on all of our minds right now," Raffles said in a stately manner.

"What would that be, now?" Sherlock asked him, a little challengingly. Raffles cocked his head to the side slightly.

"I have a photograph of my father, and I would find it hard to believe that one of you is not in possession of a photograph of your father," Raffles said, carefully emphasizing the 'your' for as long as possible.

Mycroft wordlessly left the room, and came back moments later with a small photograph, which he gave just as silently to Raffles. Raffles glimpsed at it, and then quite noticeably pretended to look at it longer, and then cleared his throat. Holmes groaned.

"Well, are you going to take my word for it, or do I have to show you the identical photo I have?" he asked, looking at the pair rather apologetically, and definitely a little frightened.

Holmes stood and walked closer to Raffles, and for a while they stared straight at each other, and Mycroft was damned if he didn't imagine a mirror standing between them.

"It's late, this affair has been very confusing to both of us, and as much as I can try to deny it in my mind…" Holmes began, and now looked away and continued very reluctantly in a low grunt, "I can feel that you are telling the truth." He was very clear in making the distinction between knowing and feeling.

Raffles all but collapsed on the couch that was most thankfully near him and shut his eyes.

"This is probably the worst, most unfortunate chain of events ever to occur in my entire life," Raffles muttered, with almost complete resignation to his fate.

"You have absolutely no idea," Holmes grumbled darkly, sitting with equal misery next to him.

Mycroft let a decent interval of silence pass before he decided to shake both of these rather melodramatic young men out of their black moods.

"May I inquire," he began with a raised eyebrow at the man he recognized as not Sherlock, "as to your name, sir?"

Raffles looked up, glanced at Holmes, and sighed.

"Well, I suppose you'll have to call me Arthur," he said, with the ghost of a smile on his face.

Nearly five seconds later…

"Right then, um… what happens now?" Raffles asked, a little nervously, seeing as how he did seem to be in a rather unfavorable position.

"Well I can't arrest you now," Holmes said, sounding almost disappointed.

"Ohh, err… right, of course you can't," Raffles said, clearing his throat, inwardly sighing in relief. As long as he was out of danger, any of Holmes's personal opinions of him were all right by him. "In that case, then, I think I really ought to be arriving back at my flat; you see, my friend is waiting there for me, and is probably very worried…"

"You are not going anywhere for the time being," Holmes told him sharply, crossing his arms and leering at him authoritatively.

"Why not?" Raffles asked desperately, looking to the heavens that had so cruelly decided to punish him most unfairly this evening.

"Yes, Sherlock, why not?" Mycroft asked his brother calmly, giving him a look of cautionary interest.

"Mycroft!" Holmes replied, appalled that Mycroft would not agree with his own kin, and seemingly overlooking the fact that ultimately that was exactly who Mycroft was agreeing with.

"Yes, Sherlock?" he replied, raising an eyebrow.

"He's…. a thief!"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake…" Raffles mumbled under his breath, rolling his eyes; however, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were paying attention, so he got away with the remark quite nicely.

"Sherlock, you seem to be overlooking the more important factor in this scenario," Mycroft told his younger brother bluntly.

"And that would be…?" Holmes challenged.

"That is nearing two in the morning, and I am in the most desperate need for rest. Therefore, I'm afraid both of you will have to return to your own residences or take your business elsewhere," Mycroft said, clearly exercising his authority as older brother.

Holmes gave Mycroft a look with so much disbelief that it practically spoke to him.

"I would have to say that is the most intelligent idea I've heard this entire, exhausting night," Raffles said cheerily, nonchalantly starting to stroll out the door, his body language clearly showing infinite appreciation towards Mycroft.

"Where are you going?" Holmes asked him fiercely, still very upset at losing what would have been one of the most important captures of his career. Raffles, now at the door, turned around and gave Holmes a weary look.

"Oh, if it will make you feel any more dutiful, you can chase me, but I won't be a very good sport about it," Raffles told him frankly, and without another word, left.

Holmes turned to his older brother and scowled.

"Mycroft, how on earth could you allow that to happen?"

"Sherlock…" Mycroft began, sighing and shaking his head.

"What?"

"Go to bed."

The next day

"Raffles…" Bunny Manders ventured to his friend. He was sitting across from his rather silent companion in the small sitting room of Raffle's flat at the Albany, and as usual, he was in the dark. His pale hair, fairly long, fair complexion, and short, slender build made him seem almost like a child, especially at moments like this. Between them lay a chessboard which portrayed quite a vicious battle, but Bunny was hardly paying attention to the game; he was far too immersed in other puzzlements. Though, Raffles would admit, he had right to be confused.

Raffles looked up at Bunny blankly for a few moments, then, once he acknowledged in his mind that Bunny had spoken, asked absently, "Yes?"

"You never did tell me what happened last night," Bunny reminded him. He'd been nearly in a panic, thinking Raffles had been caught, or even worse, injured or killed.

"Ah. And you feel you are entitled to an explanation, which you most assuredly are," Raffles added reassuringly, moving one of his pieces and relieving Bunny of one of his.

"Well… yes," Bunny replied, staring forlornly at his lost bishop.

"Bunny, you must trust me when I say that I would absolutely enjoy recounting the events of last night to you," Raffles began. "However, it's only logical that to be able to retell them properly, I must first ascertain that they actually happened."

"So…" Bunny struggled with Raffles's words as he slid a rook forward. This was a usual communication problem between them; it really was a matter of language. While Raffles had a passion for poetic speech, Bunny preferred to speak like ordinary people, because, he reasoned, it was, understandably, ordinary. Raffles sighed in mild irritation at his friend's stupidity.

"What I mean, Bunny," he began through clenched teeth, a usual practice of his when forced to speak plainly. Moving a pawn forward, he continued, "is that the events of last night were so bizarre in their circumstances that I am struggling to comprehend them myself."

"Ah."

"You understand?" Raffles asked, watching Bunny carefully.

"I think so."

"Good."

A brief pause. Bunny used his other bishop to take one of Raffles's pawns.

"But you never actually stole anything last night, or if you have, you haven't told me," Bunny pursued.

"Trust me, Bunny, I most certainly did not steal anything last night," Raffles answered, slightly irritated.

"Then, there must be some reason," Bunny pleaded.

"And I'm afraid that I can't tell you what it is," Raffles replied, sounding genuinely apologetic. "However, you needn't have any concerns about our safety."

Bunny nodded, still looking slightly disappointed, and inexpertly returned to reading the paper. After pondering the chessboard for a few minutes in silence, he looked up as if suddenly remembered something and took out a paper. He fumbled inexpertly with the pages, nearly obliterating Raffles's concentration on the game, until finally he abruptly looked up and, with a triumphant look on his face, proclaimed, "I've got it!"

Raffles, disturbed out of his planning, looked across the coffee table at his friend who was smiling so widely it nearly rearranged the structure of his entire face.

"Hm? Got it? Got what?" Raffles asked, brow furrowed in confusion. He absently moved his queen.

"Lady Belzaire!" Bunny declared.

The sudden shock and surprise evident in Raffles's face was the most unexpected reaction Bunny had ever seen from his friend.

"I beg your pardon?" Raffles asked, staring with some incredulity and a great deal of confusion at his friend.

"Well, you can't hide everything from me, Raffles," Bunny said, quite proudly. "I knew since the business with that moneylender that had a great deal of affection for her," he continued, putting quite the emphasis on the word.

For a moment Raffles couldn't even begin to think of a suitable reply. Then, he decided to fall back on a classic line of defense, and asked sharply, "And what does that have anything to do with last night?"

"You went to see her!" Bunny answered, smirking.

"I- Bunny, she is a married woman!" Raffles answered harshly, completely taken aback at that ridiculous accusation.

"You can't fool me with the one, Raffles; I've read the papers," Bunny replied wryly.

"You…" he froze mid sentence and stared at his friend. "What was that, Bunny?"

"Oh…." Bunny replied, as if he'd just realized he'd made a huge mistake. "Then I suppose you haven't heard…"

"Haven't heard what, Bunny?"

"Well, um…" Bunny cleared his throat and prepared for the worst. "Lady Belzaire has divorced."

"What?" Raffles asked rather loudly. Bunny winced.

Stunned, Raffles leaned back in his chair.

"Oh, and, erm… Raffles?" Bunny began carefully.

"What else, Bunny?"

"Um… checkmate."

That afternoon, not terribly far away, Dr. John Watson arrived at an empty 221b Baker Street flat. Mrs. Hudson informed him that Sherlock Holmes was out on business, but that he was expected back soon, if he wanted to wait. Watson accepted graciously and went straight to the sitting room, where, five minutes later, Mrs. Hudson entered.

"I'm terribly sorry, Dr., but there's a young lady here demanding to see Mr. Holmes, and seeing as how you're here, I thought maybe perhaps you could talk to her until he arrives. She absolutely refuses to leave," she explained rather apologetically.

"Oh, no, it's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson," Watson replied warmly, smiling. "Send her in."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and left to retrieve the woman. Moments later, she arrived, and if Watson had expected anything of this young lady, it was the complete opposite of what he saw before him.

She was a slender, prim, and unusually small lady with fine, silk-like blond hair and vibrant, intelligent looking green eyes. She had on her face a seemingly constant look of ascendancy, and stood in a manner which could not be called rigid, but which was also not lacking in posture. Upon seeing Watson, she entered smoothly, and allowed him no chance to speak before she began.

"I have very little time to waste, and as this is a matter of the utmost importance that must be dealt with immediately, I must speak with Mr. Holmes as soon as possible. I assume you are his friend, Dr. Watson?" she asked, looking directly at him for the first time, inquisitively.

"Yes, indeed," Watson answered, a little bewildered. He may have asked her what her trouble was, had she not proceeded to tell him without prompting.

"Well, I have other business today, but as you are a man to be trusted, I shall state my case to you and ask you to stress to Mr. Holmes the importance that I need to speak with him as soon as he is able. My name is Camilla Belzaire, and though I fancy there are few in London who have not heard of me, I am the recently divorced wife of Theodore Carlyle. Before that event, however, I may have been known for my work on women's rights around London, and that is the reason I divorced my husband; I discovered he did not share the same opinions as me, and while in some cases different views do not affect marriage, this one altered it drastically. Ever since the divorce, I have noted, several times, that one or two men have occasionally been shadowing me across London.

"I do not mean to implicate anyone in saying this, but I do find it a very odd coincidence that I first noticed these men right after my divorce. I'm afraid it isn't possible that they have been following me longer than that; it would have been quite impossible for me not to have noticed them. So far, neither of these men have attempted even the slightest communication with me, but they are learning my routines with frightening accuracy. So you see, as I have not even the slightest indication of their intentions or plans, it is quite imperative that I speak to Mr. Holmes."

This speech was delivered in such a stark, businesslike manner, that Watson could not believe she was being truthful; how could she have such an uncanny ability to speak so dispassionately about such a problem? He might have replied, but for Lady Belzaire interrupting once again.

"Well, that is, I'm afraid, all the time I have to speak with you. It took a great deal of trouble to throw those men off my trail, and by now they'll have suspected my coming here, so I must depart before they see me here. Remember to tell Mr. Holmes, and notify him that if he wishes to take my case, he may see firsthand the men following me tonight; I shall be attending a party on 74 Connaught Street," she said, and without a word, she briskly left, leaving a very speechless Watson.

She was a remarkable woman. Her aura bore such a sense of authority and control that Watson had a very difficult time trying to speak to her. And she showed nearly no signs of weakness usually found in the contemporary London woman.

Why, she almost reminded him of Irene Adler.