I woke up that morning in a strange bed, fully clothed, with a red rose
clutched in my fingers. It did not take long for me to realize the event
that had led to my awakening: Sherlock Holmes, greatest detective in
history, was standing above my bed; and at that moment, I was the happiest
woman in history, for he was smiling. "I decided inot/i to wait for you
to arrive at Baker Street, so I came here to wait for you to wake up," he
stated simply. The sun streaming through the opened window told me that it
must be late morning: nine-ish at least, and the wind brought in the sounds
of London: horseshoes on cobblestone streets, street vendors hawking their
wares, and that faint, almost imperceptable hiss; the sound of air flowing
through millions of mouths, of the wind whispering through millions of
trees, and the sound of millions of voices. However, at that moment, there
was only one voice I cared to hear: the voice of the man standing before
me, looking like the devil's own cousin, and oh, how I loved him.
From first glance, it was obvious he had not slept a wink that night. I doubted I would have either, had. . . ahem. . . certain circumstances not intervened on my behalf. His clothes were wrinkled from not being pressed, and his bloodshot eyes had dark circles under them. I doubted he had slept the night I had spent in the warehouse, either, having found me missing the moment he returned from Watson's.
That thought line lead to another: What was his purpose for that fateful late-night sojourn? I thought over it for a moment, then decided not to put voice to my question; it undoubtedly had something to do with his somewhat unexpected, though not unhoped for, proposing the night before. I would leave that be until such time as he decided I needed to know.
It was at that point that I remembered the rose in my hand. The stem was still wet from a vase of water somewhere, and someone had gone through the trouble to remove all the thorns, and all the leaves excepting the two bunches closest to the bloom. I had little doubt where it had come from, having seen Holmes hastily set down a small glass vase filled with water and eleven akin to my rose when I unexpectedly woke up. The simple thought of him walking in to a flower parlor brought a smile to my face, and it widened to a grin when I idea of what Watson and Mary had thought when he had knocked on their door encumbered so. Delicately bringing it up to my face, I inhaled the sweet fragrance that had made it a symbol of love for as long as the word had existed.
Suddenly and without any warning, Holmes' face broke out in to a wide grin, such as I rarely saw, and never when he wasn't on a case.
"What are you smiling at?" I asked him, suspicions of what he could find so entertaining.
"I was just remembering how I first met you, and somewhat hoping it had been a little less... unorthodox, so we might be able to reminisce on it enjoyably." I blushed as I remembered that night when I had first come to London, and Holmes had barged in to the bathroom where I was then taking a bath, forgetting to knock, of course. I tried furiously to hold down the blush rising in my face, but to no avail. I finally settled on just hoping it would go away soon.
I do not know how long we stood like that, he with that sort-of smile that could capture my heart and hold it for all the ages; and I gazing in to his gray eyes that could hold all eternity in them, but I wished it would last forever.
Much to my dismay, however, after what seemed like less than a second, Mary passed by the open door and told us that breakfast was ready.
I reluctantly broke eye contact with Holmes, and slid off the bed. A quick glance at the mirror in a corner showed that the state of my person was atrocious: my dress was wrinkled from being wet and then slept in, my hair was unkempt, looking much more like a birds nest than I was prepared to admit, there was a large bruise across my face from where Edwards' man had backhanded me, and my eyes had dark circles under them from the stress of last night. Then, to my surprise, Holmes looked at me, slid his hand in to mine, and declared for all the world to hear, "You're beautiful." Then, oh wonder of wonders, he pulled me to him and stopped my heart and my mouth with a kiss.
That, too, was unfortunately short-lived. Unexpectedly, Holmes pulled back, and held me at arms' length before reaching to his jacket pocket. He took something out, and carefully placed it in my hand.
"I do not know how Edwards got hold of this," he said, "But I imagine you would like it back." I opened my hand, and there was the necklace he had given me for my birthday last year, none the worse for the wear.
I was so overjoyed to see it that I was afraid my heart might burst when Holmes again took it from my grasp and tied it around my neck. For a moment I suspected that this little diversion was just another excuse to get his arms around me, but in this case, I decided he had a just cause. He was in love, and so was victim of many of the classic blunders, but I was not one to judge, as I was no less guilty at for the accused crimes. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I moved closer for another kiss.
Right on time, Mary walked in and informed us that our breakfast was getting cold. I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that I had not eaten for nearly two days, so with some kind of giddy regret, I followed Holmes downstairs.
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When I got downstairs, I found a surprise waiting for me, and instantly decided that, aside from Holmes, it was the greatest sight I had ever seen. A mound of pancakes deeper than the fork, scrambled eggs, blueberry muffins, maple syrup, and bacon were laid out on the table. I instantly turned and hugged Mary, who had obviously gone through such trouble. She insisted that the greatest thanks she could have was my eating, and assuring her that I was not about to pass out again, so I sat down and heaped my plate with scrambled eggs. Much to my joy, Holmes sat down next to me and seized my hand with his. Although I will admit that it was a bit difficult for a person so right-handed that she could barely type with her left to go through breakfast with her right hand clasped tightly under the table, I would not have let go for anything in the world.
Breakfast passed with companionable silence, with many small things cumulating to make it one of the happiest meals I had ever encountered; passing Holmes the sugar bowl, remembering the way he had gotten back at Mycroft for his stunt in the catacombs, and he in turn pouring me coffee, the greatest drink in the world. Of course, Holmes insisted he would never get used to some of my queer tastes, as he stated while I liberally poured maple syrup on to my scrambled eggs and dipped my bacon in the tea. My dad had always done the same thing, and as he poured syrup on the eggs while cooking them, we had better learn to like it or we wouldn't eat. I was always hungry, so I got to like syruped eggs quite a bit.
Our happiness was, like many other good things that morning, short-lived.
We had barely set down our forks when Símone, the Watson's housekeeper, came in to announce in a strong French accent that there was a man here to see a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. She was obviously confused as to why the man was calling here, but I suspected that Mrs. Hudson had told him where we were. Damn. *Any client who would call at 10:00 in the morning on a Sunday must have something urgent,* I thought. "Send him in," I said to the maid. She cleared away the breakfast dishes, and I looked ruefully at the coffee pot as it disappeared through the swinging door.
When Símone returned, she was accompanied by the client, who announced himself as one David Woodworth of Boston.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The case that this Woodworth presented us with, who was also a premiere member of high society, as well as the owner of a prominent shipyard, was fairly straight forward: a suspicious letter, a missing Tibetan artifact, followed closely by a disappearance of the one of his brothers and his business partner, a Mr. Donald Mitchel.
The case was so commonplace that, at first, I didn't think Holmes would take it. However, after asking a few standard questions, Holmes agreed to take it on. Damn again. Now we would have to leave our secluded sanctuary that was the parlor. *Oh well,* I thought. It was what made Holmes happy, and for that I loved detective work, no matter what pleasant business it interrupted.
While I was lost in this train of thought, Holmes had gotten up and reclaimed his hat from the rack by the door. Looking over at me with another one of those much-loved, heart-stopping, love-of-my-life-that-he- was smiles, he stated that we would be stopping at Baker Street to get our disguises, then off to the local tavern to investigate this artifact of ours.
It took me a few seconds to comprehend what he had just said, for, loath though I was to admit, I really wasn't listing to a word. I was staring at the cute way his nose wrinkled when he said the letter "b." Bad Nona. Bad. After repeating my mental tape-recorder a few times, I remembered where I had stored Bernie Flynn; under the loose floorboard under my bed. That was also where I had my violin. I agreed to go undercover with Holmes (AN: To all Sherlock fangirls, I meant the pun there, but it's the Victorian age: not until they're married, lol) to assist with the investigation, even though I knew perfectly well he did not need my help.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Well, I was right about the case being commonplace. After a very reasonable train of his brilliant analytical reasoning he was so famous for, the artifact was located, the letter explained, and the traitorous brother and cheating business partner arrested. But that wasn't the best part. The best part was seeing Holmes' face after he had locked his handcuffs on Mitchel; the look of triumph, of accomplishing what nobody else could have. That, I knew, was what had made me fall in love with him: that determination, that resolve, that sheer passion that he had in everything he did.
But I'm getting off the subject at hand.
The important thing to remember is that Bernie Flynn and Holmes' latest persona were walking down one of the sidewalks in the nicer part of London, and receiving very dirty looks from the members of high society who happened to be passing along the same way. Not that I blame them: here we have some random Irish fiddler with unwashed and uncared-for clothes and a short man, maybe in his early 60's with an enormous handlebar moustache, walking down the street and peering in to the windows of a fine jewelry store like they contemplated buying something! The audacity!
In actuality, on our way home Holmes had breached the subject of a ring, and we were deciding whether we should get a diamond, as done in my time, or a plain gold band as, among those of our income at least, was common in his time. He seemed to want to give me a wedding more like the one I might have had were I to have stayed in my own time, plus all but insisting on getting me a diamond.
We finally saw something that might just fit the purpose: It was really just a plain gold band, but it had a really tiny diagonal of princess-cut diamonds set in to the metal; just enough to give it a little sparkle, nothing too flashy. We decided to go home to change in to clothes more appropriate to jewelry-shopping, and return to the store after dinner. We were on the case at lunch and tea times, so those meals had been neglected.
On the subject of meals, I had found that my appetite had disappeared after breakfast that morning. This was rather annoying; not because I wanted to eat, but because foremost in Holmes' mind seemed to be to get food in to me to assure him that I would not pass out again in the near future. Much to my dismay, he had already been informed of my little display the previous night before I could warn Mary not to tell him. I had no doubt that he had meant to urge more breakfast on me that morning, but as I was doing the Victorian-day equivalent of shoveling scrambled eggs in to my mouth at top speed, I doubt his urging could have made me eat faster. Now, however, his constant badgering was beginning to be somewhat annoying.
"Honestly, Nona, you haven't eaten more than a single breakfast in the past forty-eight hours, and that wasn't even what constitutes a meal - *HA! I thought.* - Won't you just come back to Baker Street with me, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson has laid out a splendid supper - Or perhaps a restaurant I know of, it's just a few blocks from here, and they make the most spectacular pasta..." And he continued on like that. Not that I minded, of course. It was surely an improvement to the mornings where he would do no more than grunt to acknowledge my presence and push the coffee pot in my general direction, his eyes never leaving the morning Times.
I sighed remorsefully, remembering all that lost time from in between the night at the opera and now. Bad move. Holmes, being the now concerned over my health to the point of smothering, instantly wrapped his arm around my waist to reassure himself that I would not collapse. Another action I felt no objection to... This day was getting better and better.
Finally consenting to his rather persistent requests, I agreed to go to the restaurant he had suggested, then return to the jewelry store for my ring. Also, at my suggestion, he agreed to go to the concert hall with me after getting my ring. I thought that he could use a little music after the unpleasantness of the past few days; besides, this was probably the closest I would ever get to a full-fledged, 21st century, dinner-and-a-movie date. Of course, all of this required us going back to Baker Street to change, as I did not think it would make a favorable impression on the waiters if I were to show up in my present state, so we called a hansom cab and started there.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When we got back to Baker Street, Holmes regretfully let go of my hand (which he had not let go of since we finished the case) and walked upstairs to change. I briefly considered following him, but Mrs. Hudson's reprimand after the last time I tried something like that was still fresh in my mind, so I thought the better of it.
Turning the corner in to my room, I found a note sitting on my bed:
Dearest Nona-Bird,
Congratulations. I always knew you and Holmes would get together. I have gone out to the market. If you are reading this, you have come back to get your clothes for your stay at Mr. Watson's. I took the liberty of sending some of your things you might need ahead - thought it might be easier. I left it up to you to pick your clothes, though. I'll be back late, so you can go ahead to Watson's after you've packed; don't bother waiting for me.
Love always,
Mrs. Hudson
Well, that explained where my brush had gone. I noticed it was missing when I walked in to the room. But, back to the matter at hand: dressing for dinner. I looked to my closet to decide what to wear tonight; these ruddy Victorians had all these big things over etiquette, you know, what kind of things to wear where, how expensive the jewelry was, etc. *Oh dear!* I thought, *Now I'm beginning to THINK like him!* Before that little rant just now, I had never said "Ruddy" in my life.
I fingered the fringe on one dark green dress, but I felt something softer behind it. I pushed the green dress aside, I saw the red crushed velvet opera dress Holmes had gotten me. It seemed that my thoughts just kept going back to that night... I stroked an arm lovingly, but it was far too nice to wear tonight. I settled on the dark green; besides, the black trim would make it look good with my necklace Holmes had returned to my care that morning, which I was determined to never leave the house without again, unless it was absolutely necessary.
After bending my will against that of the corset, I managed to get in to the green dress without the help of Mrs. Hudson. Now came the hard part: I was required to drag a comb through that congealed mat that had become my hair. No easy task, as it now fell well past the middle of my back. I don't know how I ever managed it. I am certain that I broke two of my combs, at the very least. But it did achieve the desired effect: my hair was now in perfect Victorian style on my head, or as close as I would ever get without Mrs. Hudson. I saw something move in my mirror and turned around, only to find Holmes staring at me like he had never seen me before.
"How long have you been there?" I said, or tried to. Before I got the third word out, he had crossed the room in two steps and taken me in his arms.
"I must be blind," he whispered in to my hair, "for going so long, with you living not fifteen feet from me, and never seeing how beautiful you are."
Well, that was it. My heart having melted long ago, I was content to gaze in to his gray eyes again, swimming in them like they were the ocean. For those few seconds, Holmes' eyes were the entire world, and that world was on fire. The few but memorable times I had been able to look in to those great windows in to the soul that we now called eyes unchecked by Holmes himself, I had spied something like a spark, bright and burning, something I couldn't identify. Now I knew what it was: Love. And it was no longer a spark; there was a full-fledged fire burning in Holmes' eyes. And I knew without a doubt that the same flame was mirrored in my own eyes.
Not being able to resist myself, I pulled myself in to Holmes' embrace, reveling in the joy of being able to do that. It really was true what they said, that Absence makes the Heart grow Fonder. I leaned in closer to his ear, and whispered for only him to hear:
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I will spend the rest of my life with you."
For some reason, this made Holmes held me at arms length for the second time today, but now he had an odd expression on his face: somewhere between anxious and concerned, with a little bit of excited mixed in. I had no idea what would make him look like this, but my question was soon answered.
"Nona," He asked, looking genuinely worried. "Where is Mrs. Hudson?"
I laughed out loud at this. Obviously, her stern reprimanding had made just as much of an impression on him as it had on me.
"Don't worry, Holmes. She has gone to the market, and won't be back 'till late." My eyes glanced over at the note on my bed. He made a noise that I guessed meant he understood, and drew me back in to his embrace. But in this brief lapse of my I'm-so-madly-in-love-I-can-no-longer-think-straight mindset brought me crashing back to reality. I knew that, much as I wanted to, we could not simply stand here for the rest of eternity with our arms around each other. Regretfully, I stepped back from Holmes and said to him
"Come on now, we should get going, or we'll miss our reservation!" I said, wagging my finger at him in a mock-stern fashion. He had apparently followed my train of thought, for he then sighed, took my hand in his, and led me downstairs to call a cab.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dinner was spectacular, the concert was superb, and Sherlock Holmes was walking me back to Watson's. My life couldn't get any better. We had also just stopped by to get my ring. I still can't believe that Holmes insisted on getting me a diamond, the plain band would have been so much cheaper... Plus, this may be the one time his logic was faulty; he had explained to me that if we got the gold band, we would just have to get it redone when I decided I wanted a diamond (which he was firmly convinced that I one day would,) and that the cost of getting it redone would more than make up the difference between the ring with and without diamonds. Of course, that's what he *said.* What he meant was that he wanted to spoil me rotten, and didn't care how much money it took to do that. But he would never say that.
We were just walking out of the jewelry store when a gunshot rang out from the inside of the store. I heard a shout, a crash of breaking glass, and suddenly, I was being pushed aside by a man who looked suspiciously like Edwards carrying a large rope of pearls. I was pushed a second time in to a stand of trash bins on one side of an alley; they all cascaded down, only a quick jump on my part being squashed by a barrel of garbage.
When I got up, I found my way back was barred by trash bags... Bags? I took a closer look at them, and saw that they were plastic... What were Glad bags doing in Victorian London? Unfortunately, that thought was driven out of my mind when I saw that, except for a taxi or two, the street in front of me was empty. Taxi... It took a moment for my mind to comprehend the terrible position I had found myself in. The road that just a few seconds ago had been filled with spectators to a jewelry heist was empty, there were taxis in the road, and most importantly, it was all illuminated by the unmistakable light of electric street lamps. I collapsed on to my knees, wailing, as my position slowly dawned on me: I had been sent back to Manhattan.
Oh, and check this out: I found it at Sherlockian.net. I like it!
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From first glance, it was obvious he had not slept a wink that night. I doubted I would have either, had. . . ahem. . . certain circumstances not intervened on my behalf. His clothes were wrinkled from not being pressed, and his bloodshot eyes had dark circles under them. I doubted he had slept the night I had spent in the warehouse, either, having found me missing the moment he returned from Watson's.
That thought line lead to another: What was his purpose for that fateful late-night sojourn? I thought over it for a moment, then decided not to put voice to my question; it undoubtedly had something to do with his somewhat unexpected, though not unhoped for, proposing the night before. I would leave that be until such time as he decided I needed to know.
It was at that point that I remembered the rose in my hand. The stem was still wet from a vase of water somewhere, and someone had gone through the trouble to remove all the thorns, and all the leaves excepting the two bunches closest to the bloom. I had little doubt where it had come from, having seen Holmes hastily set down a small glass vase filled with water and eleven akin to my rose when I unexpectedly woke up. The simple thought of him walking in to a flower parlor brought a smile to my face, and it widened to a grin when I idea of what Watson and Mary had thought when he had knocked on their door encumbered so. Delicately bringing it up to my face, I inhaled the sweet fragrance that had made it a symbol of love for as long as the word had existed.
Suddenly and without any warning, Holmes' face broke out in to a wide grin, such as I rarely saw, and never when he wasn't on a case.
"What are you smiling at?" I asked him, suspicions of what he could find so entertaining.
"I was just remembering how I first met you, and somewhat hoping it had been a little less... unorthodox, so we might be able to reminisce on it enjoyably." I blushed as I remembered that night when I had first come to London, and Holmes had barged in to the bathroom where I was then taking a bath, forgetting to knock, of course. I tried furiously to hold down the blush rising in my face, but to no avail. I finally settled on just hoping it would go away soon.
I do not know how long we stood like that, he with that sort-of smile that could capture my heart and hold it for all the ages; and I gazing in to his gray eyes that could hold all eternity in them, but I wished it would last forever.
Much to my dismay, however, after what seemed like less than a second, Mary passed by the open door and told us that breakfast was ready.
I reluctantly broke eye contact with Holmes, and slid off the bed. A quick glance at the mirror in a corner showed that the state of my person was atrocious: my dress was wrinkled from being wet and then slept in, my hair was unkempt, looking much more like a birds nest than I was prepared to admit, there was a large bruise across my face from where Edwards' man had backhanded me, and my eyes had dark circles under them from the stress of last night. Then, to my surprise, Holmes looked at me, slid his hand in to mine, and declared for all the world to hear, "You're beautiful." Then, oh wonder of wonders, he pulled me to him and stopped my heart and my mouth with a kiss.
That, too, was unfortunately short-lived. Unexpectedly, Holmes pulled back, and held me at arms' length before reaching to his jacket pocket. He took something out, and carefully placed it in my hand.
"I do not know how Edwards got hold of this," he said, "But I imagine you would like it back." I opened my hand, and there was the necklace he had given me for my birthday last year, none the worse for the wear.
I was so overjoyed to see it that I was afraid my heart might burst when Holmes again took it from my grasp and tied it around my neck. For a moment I suspected that this little diversion was just another excuse to get his arms around me, but in this case, I decided he had a just cause. He was in love, and so was victim of many of the classic blunders, but I was not one to judge, as I was no less guilty at for the accused crimes. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I moved closer for another kiss.
Right on time, Mary walked in and informed us that our breakfast was getting cold. I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that I had not eaten for nearly two days, so with some kind of giddy regret, I followed Holmes downstairs.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When I got downstairs, I found a surprise waiting for me, and instantly decided that, aside from Holmes, it was the greatest sight I had ever seen. A mound of pancakes deeper than the fork, scrambled eggs, blueberry muffins, maple syrup, and bacon were laid out on the table. I instantly turned and hugged Mary, who had obviously gone through such trouble. She insisted that the greatest thanks she could have was my eating, and assuring her that I was not about to pass out again, so I sat down and heaped my plate with scrambled eggs. Much to my joy, Holmes sat down next to me and seized my hand with his. Although I will admit that it was a bit difficult for a person so right-handed that she could barely type with her left to go through breakfast with her right hand clasped tightly under the table, I would not have let go for anything in the world.
Breakfast passed with companionable silence, with many small things cumulating to make it one of the happiest meals I had ever encountered; passing Holmes the sugar bowl, remembering the way he had gotten back at Mycroft for his stunt in the catacombs, and he in turn pouring me coffee, the greatest drink in the world. Of course, Holmes insisted he would never get used to some of my queer tastes, as he stated while I liberally poured maple syrup on to my scrambled eggs and dipped my bacon in the tea. My dad had always done the same thing, and as he poured syrup on the eggs while cooking them, we had better learn to like it or we wouldn't eat. I was always hungry, so I got to like syruped eggs quite a bit.
Our happiness was, like many other good things that morning, short-lived.
We had barely set down our forks when Símone, the Watson's housekeeper, came in to announce in a strong French accent that there was a man here to see a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. She was obviously confused as to why the man was calling here, but I suspected that Mrs. Hudson had told him where we were. Damn. *Any client who would call at 10:00 in the morning on a Sunday must have something urgent,* I thought. "Send him in," I said to the maid. She cleared away the breakfast dishes, and I looked ruefully at the coffee pot as it disappeared through the swinging door.
When Símone returned, she was accompanied by the client, who announced himself as one David Woodworth of Boston.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The case that this Woodworth presented us with, who was also a premiere member of high society, as well as the owner of a prominent shipyard, was fairly straight forward: a suspicious letter, a missing Tibetan artifact, followed closely by a disappearance of the one of his brothers and his business partner, a Mr. Donald Mitchel.
The case was so commonplace that, at first, I didn't think Holmes would take it. However, after asking a few standard questions, Holmes agreed to take it on. Damn again. Now we would have to leave our secluded sanctuary that was the parlor. *Oh well,* I thought. It was what made Holmes happy, and for that I loved detective work, no matter what pleasant business it interrupted.
While I was lost in this train of thought, Holmes had gotten up and reclaimed his hat from the rack by the door. Looking over at me with another one of those much-loved, heart-stopping, love-of-my-life-that-he- was smiles, he stated that we would be stopping at Baker Street to get our disguises, then off to the local tavern to investigate this artifact of ours.
It took me a few seconds to comprehend what he had just said, for, loath though I was to admit, I really wasn't listing to a word. I was staring at the cute way his nose wrinkled when he said the letter "b." Bad Nona. Bad. After repeating my mental tape-recorder a few times, I remembered where I had stored Bernie Flynn; under the loose floorboard under my bed. That was also where I had my violin. I agreed to go undercover with Holmes (AN: To all Sherlock fangirls, I meant the pun there, but it's the Victorian age: not until they're married, lol) to assist with the investigation, even though I knew perfectly well he did not need my help.
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Well, I was right about the case being commonplace. After a very reasonable train of his brilliant analytical reasoning he was so famous for, the artifact was located, the letter explained, and the traitorous brother and cheating business partner arrested. But that wasn't the best part. The best part was seeing Holmes' face after he had locked his handcuffs on Mitchel; the look of triumph, of accomplishing what nobody else could have. That, I knew, was what had made me fall in love with him: that determination, that resolve, that sheer passion that he had in everything he did.
But I'm getting off the subject at hand.
The important thing to remember is that Bernie Flynn and Holmes' latest persona were walking down one of the sidewalks in the nicer part of London, and receiving very dirty looks from the members of high society who happened to be passing along the same way. Not that I blame them: here we have some random Irish fiddler with unwashed and uncared-for clothes and a short man, maybe in his early 60's with an enormous handlebar moustache, walking down the street and peering in to the windows of a fine jewelry store like they contemplated buying something! The audacity!
In actuality, on our way home Holmes had breached the subject of a ring, and we were deciding whether we should get a diamond, as done in my time, or a plain gold band as, among those of our income at least, was common in his time. He seemed to want to give me a wedding more like the one I might have had were I to have stayed in my own time, plus all but insisting on getting me a diamond.
We finally saw something that might just fit the purpose: It was really just a plain gold band, but it had a really tiny diagonal of princess-cut diamonds set in to the metal; just enough to give it a little sparkle, nothing too flashy. We decided to go home to change in to clothes more appropriate to jewelry-shopping, and return to the store after dinner. We were on the case at lunch and tea times, so those meals had been neglected.
On the subject of meals, I had found that my appetite had disappeared after breakfast that morning. This was rather annoying; not because I wanted to eat, but because foremost in Holmes' mind seemed to be to get food in to me to assure him that I would not pass out again in the near future. Much to my dismay, he had already been informed of my little display the previous night before I could warn Mary not to tell him. I had no doubt that he had meant to urge more breakfast on me that morning, but as I was doing the Victorian-day equivalent of shoveling scrambled eggs in to my mouth at top speed, I doubt his urging could have made me eat faster. Now, however, his constant badgering was beginning to be somewhat annoying.
"Honestly, Nona, you haven't eaten more than a single breakfast in the past forty-eight hours, and that wasn't even what constitutes a meal - *HA! I thought.* - Won't you just come back to Baker Street with me, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson has laid out a splendid supper - Or perhaps a restaurant I know of, it's just a few blocks from here, and they make the most spectacular pasta..." And he continued on like that. Not that I minded, of course. It was surely an improvement to the mornings where he would do no more than grunt to acknowledge my presence and push the coffee pot in my general direction, his eyes never leaving the morning Times.
I sighed remorsefully, remembering all that lost time from in between the night at the opera and now. Bad move. Holmes, being the now concerned over my health to the point of smothering, instantly wrapped his arm around my waist to reassure himself that I would not collapse. Another action I felt no objection to... This day was getting better and better.
Finally consenting to his rather persistent requests, I agreed to go to the restaurant he had suggested, then return to the jewelry store for my ring. Also, at my suggestion, he agreed to go to the concert hall with me after getting my ring. I thought that he could use a little music after the unpleasantness of the past few days; besides, this was probably the closest I would ever get to a full-fledged, 21st century, dinner-and-a-movie date. Of course, all of this required us going back to Baker Street to change, as I did not think it would make a favorable impression on the waiters if I were to show up in my present state, so we called a hansom cab and started there.
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When we got back to Baker Street, Holmes regretfully let go of my hand (which he had not let go of since we finished the case) and walked upstairs to change. I briefly considered following him, but Mrs. Hudson's reprimand after the last time I tried something like that was still fresh in my mind, so I thought the better of it.
Turning the corner in to my room, I found a note sitting on my bed:
Dearest Nona-Bird,
Congratulations. I always knew you and Holmes would get together. I have gone out to the market. If you are reading this, you have come back to get your clothes for your stay at Mr. Watson's. I took the liberty of sending some of your things you might need ahead - thought it might be easier. I left it up to you to pick your clothes, though. I'll be back late, so you can go ahead to Watson's after you've packed; don't bother waiting for me.
Love always,
Mrs. Hudson
Well, that explained where my brush had gone. I noticed it was missing when I walked in to the room. But, back to the matter at hand: dressing for dinner. I looked to my closet to decide what to wear tonight; these ruddy Victorians had all these big things over etiquette, you know, what kind of things to wear where, how expensive the jewelry was, etc. *Oh dear!* I thought, *Now I'm beginning to THINK like him!* Before that little rant just now, I had never said "Ruddy" in my life.
I fingered the fringe on one dark green dress, but I felt something softer behind it. I pushed the green dress aside, I saw the red crushed velvet opera dress Holmes had gotten me. It seemed that my thoughts just kept going back to that night... I stroked an arm lovingly, but it was far too nice to wear tonight. I settled on the dark green; besides, the black trim would make it look good with my necklace Holmes had returned to my care that morning, which I was determined to never leave the house without again, unless it was absolutely necessary.
After bending my will against that of the corset, I managed to get in to the green dress without the help of Mrs. Hudson. Now came the hard part: I was required to drag a comb through that congealed mat that had become my hair. No easy task, as it now fell well past the middle of my back. I don't know how I ever managed it. I am certain that I broke two of my combs, at the very least. But it did achieve the desired effect: my hair was now in perfect Victorian style on my head, or as close as I would ever get without Mrs. Hudson. I saw something move in my mirror and turned around, only to find Holmes staring at me like he had never seen me before.
"How long have you been there?" I said, or tried to. Before I got the third word out, he had crossed the room in two steps and taken me in his arms.
"I must be blind," he whispered in to my hair, "for going so long, with you living not fifteen feet from me, and never seeing how beautiful you are."
Well, that was it. My heart having melted long ago, I was content to gaze in to his gray eyes again, swimming in them like they were the ocean. For those few seconds, Holmes' eyes were the entire world, and that world was on fire. The few but memorable times I had been able to look in to those great windows in to the soul that we now called eyes unchecked by Holmes himself, I had spied something like a spark, bright and burning, something I couldn't identify. Now I knew what it was: Love. And it was no longer a spark; there was a full-fledged fire burning in Holmes' eyes. And I knew without a doubt that the same flame was mirrored in my own eyes.
Not being able to resist myself, I pulled myself in to Holmes' embrace, reveling in the joy of being able to do that. It really was true what they said, that Absence makes the Heart grow Fonder. I leaned in closer to his ear, and whispered for only him to hear:
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I will spend the rest of my life with you."
For some reason, this made Holmes held me at arms length for the second time today, but now he had an odd expression on his face: somewhere between anxious and concerned, with a little bit of excited mixed in. I had no idea what would make him look like this, but my question was soon answered.
"Nona," He asked, looking genuinely worried. "Where is Mrs. Hudson?"
I laughed out loud at this. Obviously, her stern reprimanding had made just as much of an impression on him as it had on me.
"Don't worry, Holmes. She has gone to the market, and won't be back 'till late." My eyes glanced over at the note on my bed. He made a noise that I guessed meant he understood, and drew me back in to his embrace. But in this brief lapse of my I'm-so-madly-in-love-I-can-no-longer-think-straight mindset brought me crashing back to reality. I knew that, much as I wanted to, we could not simply stand here for the rest of eternity with our arms around each other. Regretfully, I stepped back from Holmes and said to him
"Come on now, we should get going, or we'll miss our reservation!" I said, wagging my finger at him in a mock-stern fashion. He had apparently followed my train of thought, for he then sighed, took my hand in his, and led me downstairs to call a cab.
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Dinner was spectacular, the concert was superb, and Sherlock Holmes was walking me back to Watson's. My life couldn't get any better. We had also just stopped by to get my ring. I still can't believe that Holmes insisted on getting me a diamond, the plain band would have been so much cheaper... Plus, this may be the one time his logic was faulty; he had explained to me that if we got the gold band, we would just have to get it redone when I decided I wanted a diamond (which he was firmly convinced that I one day would,) and that the cost of getting it redone would more than make up the difference between the ring with and without diamonds. Of course, that's what he *said.* What he meant was that he wanted to spoil me rotten, and didn't care how much money it took to do that. But he would never say that.
We were just walking out of the jewelry store when a gunshot rang out from the inside of the store. I heard a shout, a crash of breaking glass, and suddenly, I was being pushed aside by a man who looked suspiciously like Edwards carrying a large rope of pearls. I was pushed a second time in to a stand of trash bins on one side of an alley; they all cascaded down, only a quick jump on my part being squashed by a barrel of garbage.
When I got up, I found my way back was barred by trash bags... Bags? I took a closer look at them, and saw that they were plastic... What were Glad bags doing in Victorian London? Unfortunately, that thought was driven out of my mind when I saw that, except for a taxi or two, the street in front of me was empty. Taxi... It took a moment for my mind to comprehend the terrible position I had found myself in. The road that just a few seconds ago had been filled with spectators to a jewelry heist was empty, there were taxis in the road, and most importantly, it was all illuminated by the unmistakable light of electric street lamps. I collapsed on to my knees, wailing, as my position slowly dawned on me: I had been sent back to Manhattan.
Oh, and check this out: I found it at Sherlockian.net. I like it!
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