This is a v. short chapter, but I wanted to get this up before I forgot about it. It's been sitting in a folder for a year now, so I figured that something was better than nothing.

Thanks to all who reviewed!

Oh yeah, and I need a Beta reader-person.

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Journal 1889:

I'm a horrible housekeeper, and my lack of talent doesn't end there. I'm a wretched cook and my stitching is crooked; I am neither ladylike nor graceful (my clumsiness has led many of pieces of china to their fateful end) and my smart mouth has gotten me more trouble than good. I don't belong in this position in the least, but what is a girl going to do? I know very well that this is where a woman ought to be until she gets married. Then, she can make connections in the snooty hierarchy of her clique and host parties for the sole purpose of climbing the social ladder; sitting around all day talking with the ladies. Marriage is not high on my list of priorities, even if it means being a housekeeper for the rest of my life. THEN AGAIN, I'm willing to do close to anything after all the embarrassment I've been through.

It was during my first couple of days on the job at 221 Baker Street and I was staying with my Aunt Marie in A. Two of the strangest people to ever live stay above us in B - one man is handsome by most people's standards; a military doctor with a limp and a very kind personality. The other man is an odd one - 6 ft tall and deeply concentrated on something people probably don't pretend to understand (though, I wouldn't know, it being my first days). He is thin and angular in a good way, his gray eyes take in everything while looking down his thin, pointed nose. He is quiet and prim, with his black hair always slicked back. I like to watch him whenever I can. There is something so intriguing and mysterious about him. When I am able to look him in the eye, I see this spark, something that drives him to the brink of self- destruction sometimes. I wish I knew what he did for a living, but Auntie refuses to talk with me about it. She tells me to ignore him and the strange comings and goings of his "clients". I determined that I would find out, whether she likes it or not.

I crept upstairs and put a glass to the wall to better hear the conversation between the men.

"Watson," I recognized this voice as belonging to the tall one. "I trust that you have your revolver prepared for tonight."

"It's inside my jacket pocket as we speak."

"Very good." I heard a wrinkling of paper. "We will catch a cab and ride to here, where we will walk to the Pudgy Seagull." What was he going to do at a pub? "It is there that we shall find our man. It is 8:30 right now, so we have one hour."

I took that as my opening to find out what the man opposite Watson did for a living. I made an excuse to Auntie about my feeling ill and for her to not bother me until morning. I locked my door and changed into the darkest clothing I owned. At the appointed time, I crept out my window and onto the cobblestones, and kept myself concealed in the shadows until I heard the voices of Watson and the other one. They called a cab and once they got in, I ran and caught a ride in the back - out of sight.

We arrived in someplace unfamiliar to me. I tailed the men as they walked to the river front. It was obvious that whatever this man did, it was less than reputable. There were drunkards laying in the gutters or stumbling around while talking to a friend that no one but themselves could see, men dealing in the shadows, women dressed in little more than their undergarments calling out to the sailors to indulge their fancies. Not a place I SHOULD be in. Not that I would NORMALLY want to. The air stank of fish guts, stale smoke and liquor, and its cold dampness touched your bones. The establishments were in various states of dilapidation, with pieces of roof missing, windows broken in, and doors hanging on one hinge. It seemed to me that this was the perfect place for something criminal to happen. I logged this thought away, in case it was useful.

As I followed the two, I memorized everything about them. The tall one was dressed in a pea coat and sailor's pants, his dark hair hidden under a black stocking cap. He was made up to look like a race of a darker skin tone, and being a woman, I could JUST spot his make- up line. Watson was also dressed as a sailor and his normally pristine hair was mussed up. There was a scar across his cheek now and he was made to look gruff. He was clenching a cigar between his teeth.

"Holmes," (so that was his name!) Watson spoke in a harsh Cockney accent around his cigar. "Do owi look awright?"

"The accent is coming along brilliantly! You get into character well."

"Owi learned from the best of 'em."

So Holmes and Watson are con artists? They seem to go through their routine naturally, as though they have done it many times before. The two entered the Pudgy Seagull and I hid among barrels along the side of the building.

I was watching the men so intently that everything around me seemed to fade away - tunnel vision, I think the term is. They were just standing around, but I didn't want to miss anything. I was brought away from the scene when I heard a click from behind me.

"What the...?" I felt something hard press against my skull.

A voice whispered in my ear. "Don't make a sound or I'll blow yer bleedin' 'ead off."