Chapter Eight

Meg: Basil is not usually dramatic. I made him that way in the last chapter because Meg was dying. He was desperate. He did not want her to die.

Lizz: We all knew that! But it was so cute anyway!

Leigh: And dramatic. Meg, you are such a drama queen! Just turn this whole story into a soap opera, why don't you?

Meg: Wait till you see the next chapters. By the way, I have 22 reviews! That is so cool! "Sing Sweetly" only has three. I guess I have gone a long way since December 2002 when I first began to write these stories.

Sarah: True. I still like the GMD movie better.

Leigh: I like Ratigan! He was such a sped in the movie!

Sarah: He was not!

Meg: Yeah! Vincent Price is one cool dude!

Sarah: Whatever. Moving on now...

By the time the typhoid was under control October had passed and November had come. Ironically, the first day I was allowed solid food once again was the anniversary of the day, two years earlier, when I had stolen a music box from Basil's mantle and first met Professor Ratigan.

I knew who had spoken to me, whose voice had prevented me from letting go of my life. Dawson did not speak like that. Liang, Igor and Rahle all had accents. Not that I had expected any of them to be in love with me.

I watched him work at his chemistry set or pace the parlour from the open bedroom door. Sometimes he came in and cheered me up by playing his violin. He seemed happier than I had ever known him to be.

Every time I saw him, my heart practically jumped out of my chest. I suppose I had known it for a long time, but I loved him too. I wanted to tell him, but I could not shake off the feeling that the words I had heard had really been just a nice dream. How unreal it all seemed now. No, I would wait for him to make the first move. I could wait.

One day when both Basil and Dawson had gone out to investigate a query brought to them by a potential client, there was a knock on the window. I saw the top of someone's head quickly disappear, and an envelope leaning against the closed window.

I crawled out of bed and, wrapping a blanket around me, went over to the window. I slowly lifted the window a few millimeters so the letter would not fall. Grasping it with my fingertips, I brought the letter into the room and closed the window.

I peered at the name on the letter: Miss Sarentis. The handwriting was curvy and splotched, and a plain green colored wax sealed it on the other side. I felt uneasy about the nondescript nature of the envelope and the fact that I was addressed as my maiden name. I took a deep breath, broke the seal and opened the letter.

Oh, what I would give to have never read that letter!

The writer said that he knew that Basil was in love with me, and that Basil would soon confess his love to me. But joy soon turned into horror: "If you ever pursue a romantic relationship with your 'dear' detective, only expect a visit from the angel of death."

My mind became numb. I barely read the threats of what would happen to Basil if I ever courted him. All I could feel was hatred toward the author of this black-hearted letter.

When Basil came back that afternoon he sat and chatted with me for a while. He seemed so upbeat, as if he had solved a great mystery. I pretended to be cheerful, hoping to disguise the sickness I felt in my stomach. It felt as if I was 'leading him on,' as Isabelle had said of coquettish girls who did not care a wit for a man but still attempted to ensnare them with their charms.

Joy radiated in the rooms of Lower 221 B Baker Street that evening. Everyone appeared happy except me. It was unbearable. What was I to do?

I was on edge for a few days, jumping at every noise and movement. Nothing happened. I was able to eat normal food again, and gradually began to go out for short periods of time. I tried to spend time around Isabelle or Mrs. Judson whenever Basil was in the flat, and went out with Mrs. Judson whenever she went out to run errands. This tactic worked for some time, as it prevented Basil from approaching me when I was in the flat, and took me away from him when he could have spoken to me in private.

The stress made me feel weak and spent. I must have gotten a bit ill from the constant anxiety I was in, because then Dawson noticed that I was getting paler and sleepier. After a third day of going out with Mrs. Judson, Dawson gave me a strict order to not go out for more than an hour a day because I had not fully recovered from my sickness.

I went to bed early to escape Basil's company and any possible confrontation.

Then one day, it happened. I was alone in the flat with Basil. Mrs. Judson had gone to an evening church service, and Isabelle and Dawson had gone to a restaurant. I had tried to go to the church service with Mrs. Judson, but she would not hear of it. "You don't look very well, dear," she had said.

"I'm fine. I just need a little fresh air."

"I'm not sure that is a very good idea. Is it all right with Dr. Dawson?"

"But I really feel a need to go to church this evening, Mrs. Judson!" I said, trying to sound spiritually deprived.

"Meg, God's house is anywhere you look to find it. Even right in your bedroom here at Baker Street."

I inwardly groaned, asking God why He caused such women to be great obstacles to people looking for a way out.

"Why don't you come with me next week?" Mrs. Judson suggested kindly. "I'm sure we can sway Dr. Dawson with his favorite cheesecake."

My lips turned upward into the position of a smile. Mrs. Judson returned my fake expression with a genuine one; she patted my arm, put on her mantle and left the flat.

No sooner did Mrs. Judson leave that Basil appeared from his bedroom. The blood rushed to my face, and I slowly began to move toward the stairs.

"Hello Meg," he said.

"Hi," I replied weakly. I picked up my pace, reaching the foot of the stairs.

"Meg? Could I have a word with you?"

I froze. So this was it. "All right," I said softly. I came back and stood near the fire.

"Sit down," Basil said, offering me a seat.

I sat down, feeling like I was about to be reprimanded for something I did not do.

"Meg, I've wanted to speak with you a long time."

"About what?" I began cautiously.

"Well, it's like this... erm... I've wanted to tell you... I don't want to shock you, because your feelings are your feelings... and, well, what I've wanted to say is... that..."

I had never seen him stumble over words before. My heart physically ached in anticipation of his words. Part of me wanted to scream out: "I love you!" But I partially convinced myself that he was going to say something else instead. So I blurted out:

"All right, fire me!"

Basil gave a start. "What did you say? Fire you? Why would I fire you?"

It was my turn to fumble with words. "Well, I am such a lousy secretary... I mean, you and Dawson only took me on as a charity case, and I am quite insufferable... sloppy... disorganized... clumsy... I mean, I... I barely know anything about anything... and I really need to move on now."

"Madame, you are certainly not a charity case!"

"I still think I need to start making my own way in the world," I continued, suddenly inspired. "It would make me feel so fulfilled, knowing that I am my own master."

Basil folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. "With Ratigan at large? Meg, this isn't the time to be breaking off from us. We need each other now more than ever."

"I... I don't need anyone. I need... I need..."

Basil took my hand in his, obliterating all thoughts from my mind except panic. "Meg, I need you," he said quietly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Meg, I have been meaning to tell you this for so long. I love you. I have been in love with you for quiet some time, but I waited for the right time to tell you. The typhoid, however, made me realize that there was no right time." He looked steadily at me, but I felt his hand slightly tremor.

"Basil... I.... No! You don't love me!" I squeaked.

The detective looked as if I had just slapped him. "But I do! Meg, I have never loved anyone as I love you."

"Basil... I don't love you. I can't. You're... just a friend. A good friend," I offered, feeling so mean and stupid inside.

Basil smiled sadly, as if to say to himself, See? I was right all along. And now I look like a buffoon.

"Basil, I am so sorry."

"No, that's quite all right. I am the one who should apologize. I did not mean to put you in such an awkward position."

His comment was followed by an uncomfortable silence. I stared at my hands, as if suddenly interested in the lines and creases in my palms.

Basil reached over for his violin. "Would you like to hear some music?" he asked, tuning the instrument.

Later that night, I wrote in my diary:

"So many times I've tried to say

Exactly how I feel,

But in my face you see no trace

That any of it is real.

You don't seem to realize

The pow'r you have over me,

Is it possible to care so much

For one living being?

You make me want to cry sometimes,

You make me want to scream,

You've turned my world upside down,

You're haunting my dreams."

Sarah: That was sad.

Leigh: IT IS ALL SO FAKE! LIKE SOAP OPERAS!

RAEB: My whole life is a soap opera.

Sarah: Yeah, we know all too well.

Lizz: Meg owns the poem. She wrote it.

Meg: Yeah. Inspiration for the rest of the story (this chapter included) came from washing the floors of our workout room and watching a dramatic WWI movie.

RAEB: And we're supposed to care?

Meg: Hey, I get inspiration from really weird situations.