Note: All Sherlock Holmes elements belong to the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle. All Alice in Wonderland elements belong to the estate of Lewis Carroll.

Note: Half-sick and tired...the perfect elements for writing a feverish story.

The Adventure of the White Rabbit
Chapter 3: Protocol for the Sinful
by ArchFaith

Alice lay face down on her bed, her head cradled in her arms. Her school uniform had been discarded and now lay on the hardwood floor, on top of the old rug Mrs. Hudson had brought up for her in the weeks past. She now again donned that familiar blue play dress and pinafore, and her hair, though rather ruffled and messy, still retained its wavy appearance.

She looked up as the knob on the door turned, her eyes reddish and swollen, her face pale against the fading light of the sun, which stretched in through the windows, red and forbidding.

Sherlock appeared, his face seemingly neutral. Of course, it had been that way ever since he had arrived at her former school that very afternoon; it had been that way as he listened to the Madame's story and saw Rebecca being escorted to the hospital with her concerned parents; it had stayed that way even as he took her hand and led her home, amidst the looks of the crowds that worked and played along the avenues leading to Baker Street.

She turned over and sat up, rubbing her eyes. He swiftly crossed the room, and in the next instant planted himself onto her bed. From closer inspection he now looked tired; the circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced, and his lips were almost white. Even his clothes, which usually fit well on his lanky body, seemed too large for him.

"Shelley," she began, gasping out words. "She didn't believe me, Shelley...you must understand—"

Her plea was interrupted by a sharp slap that hit her hard on her right cheek. Crying in pain, she immediately looked away as she brought her hand up to her cheek.

"I would give you more if I could; but as I do not advocate punishing children as such, I cannot," was his calm explanation. His voice was dangerously low and threatening; it seemed almost spectral, so subtly hostile it seemed as though he were a ghost.

The force of the slap had automatically caused her to start crying again; her eyes turned the same shade of red as her cheek as she turned away from him. "She didn't believe," she stated again.

"As I do not," he retorted. He sighed deeply as he brought his hand up to his face, stretching his fingers over his eyes and forehead. "I am ruined. Utterly and totally...and there is no chance of gaining back what I have lost."

Alice sat watching him for a few minutes. He was as still and silent as something inanimate; the only indication he was alive was from his labored, stressful breathing. After a while she drew up her legs and sat up.

"Then may I infer, my dear cousin...that you really were...a prostitute?"

Sherlock looked up at her, his face a mixture of distaste and civility. He cleared his throat and stretched both arms behind him on the bed, leaning back for support. "Hahaha," he laughed softly. "Yes...yes, you have guessed right. I am not totally without blame."

"But why, Shelley? Why...why would you do such a thing? If our family ever knew of this..."

"Oh they will know of it. Some time or other they will hear it through rumors and stories; and when I disappear they shall know it is true. And as to your question, my darling...I suppose...I suppose it started when I left Mycroft's care. I needed money to start up the agency and for various other activities. And I found that the life of a prostitute afforded me the greatest freedom—to be able to earn money and work anonymously with unnamed clientele. I was only going to keep it up for a few months until I earned enough to keep myself stable...and then I received word that you were to be sent to me. I needed to give you a good home and a good education. I knew we could not live in the small flat I was renting at the time; so I moved here, to Baker Street. And I managed to locate a suitable academy for you...or I thought it was suitable, at least." At this he drew his legs up onto the bed, and grasped his knees tightly to his chest.

"So, Alice...it is for you that I have exerted myself. I am sure that I would have been able to support myself if you had not arrived...but as they say, children are quite expensive to maintain."

Alice looked back at him with surprise. If not for her...if not for her...

"I...I am sorry, Shelley," she whispered, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. "I...I really..."

"Mmmm," he answered, closing his eyes. "And because of you I am doubly ruined; for now my reputation as an honest gentleman is dissolved; and I can never work as a detective again."

"I...I am sorry...but it's real...it is."

His eyes turned in their sockets until they were fixed upon her; in their depths she could sense loathing, pain, and a small amount of pity. He rose wordlessly and strode to the doorway. Without turning around he said, "As it is close to Christmas Mrs. Hudson has agreed to let us stay until that time. But when it is over...we shall leave."

With that he closed the door.

(-)

Things were quiet in the household for the next two weeks. Sherlock and Alice hardly spoke to one another, even though they were always at home. Having been expelled from the academy, Alice spent her days writing stories on scraps of paper and drawing in front of the parlor fire. Sherlock seemed to be drifting more and more into himself; needles lay strewn about in his room, and the noises of his violin were scratchy and muffled.

Mrs. Hudson did not appear to them any longer; she had let them stay at the townhouse out of the goodness of her heart,and did not wish to be involved with them. The only food they ate was canned meats and vegetables, and even after this became tired they did not complain.

How could they live now? Both of them. Alice was now completely submerged in her Wonderland world, amidst the garden of the Mad Hatter and the March Hare, raising her tea cup in a fond salute. She drew crude images on the walls of her room, trying to simulate the brilliant hues of the garden maze of the Queen of Hearts. She dreamt about it, thought about it, talked to herself about it. It was her life now. Her colorful, insane life.

Sherlock's store of cocaine and morphine was quickly being used; every day he had at least three shots of both or either drug. He was either lying motionless in bed or slumped in his armchair, playing his mournful violin with unnatural, perfected ease. Ashamed, he no longer went out to work; and no new clients were to be found among his respectable neighbors.

And so life continued for days and days. Always the same; the monotone stillness of the house when Alice awoke from her sweet reverie; the grey afternoons seen by Sherlock, when, in a daze, he would lean against the back of his chair and bemoan the day he ever left Mycroft's care; the cold, despicable nights, where both would huddle in the warmth of their beds, rubbing their legs together, seeing their breath materialize in the air.

Alice awoke one morning to cold rush of air; the frost on the windows sparkled in the wintry sun, casting patterns on her face as she sat up, her eyes immediately drawn toward the pane. She sat up and swiftly threw the heavy sheets back; her lacy nightgown bunched around her as she ran to the window and leaned her arms up against the sill.

Only a few were out and about at this early time. The newsboys proudly swung their sacks, bulging with papers, as they wrapped their malnourished heads about with old fabrics; drivers with mostly-beaten down horses trotted up and down the lane with their hansoms, smoking cigars; and a lady of the night—one or two or three—darted about, furtively glancing about, looking for customers.

It was an ordinary morning; and yet not so ordinary.

In an instant she had pried open the creaky door. Her bare feet stung with cold as she almost danced down the hallway in an attempt to keep from freezing; no fires had crackled in their house for long.

The door to Sherlock's room was ajar; she rushed in to witness him reaching for a drawer on his nightstand. He was still in bed, his eyes fuzzy from sleep.

His hand dropped as she entered, and his brows furrowed.

"What...what is it?" he asked, drawing himself into an almost sitting position.

She coyly tucked her hands behind her back, taking in the sight of him. "Ahh," she began simply, unsure of what exactly to say. She hadn't spoken to him for ages.

"Shelley," she finally faltered out, "to-day...to-day is Christmas Eve, isn't it?"

Sherlock pulled himself up with seeming difficulty and throw the blankets off his legs. "It is," he said as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing the floor to see how cold it had become. "And if it took you that long to figure out such a simple thing, you must not be very intelligent at all."

"Are we going to church today?" she continued, ignoring his last remark.

His eyes grew narrower and even more malevolent. "Really, my dear," he said mockingly, "do you really think that we—both of us—would be allowed in such a place after all the incidents we have stirred up?" He stood up shakily and proceeded to the other side of the room, to eye himself in a large cracked mirror that hung on the wall.

"I was just asking," she answered, clasping her hands together. "Well...I suppose it's too late for us to decorate then...isn't it?"

He sighed. "Get out of my room. The very sight of you makes sickens me."

She remained for a few seconds before exiting. Closing the door behind her, she tramped down the hallway to her own room. Upon arriving she flung herself on her bed in a very un-ladylike manner, lying flat on her stomach with her feet up, her arms cradling her pillow.

It was Christmas Eve.

Had she been at home in Christchurch, it was highly probable she would have been waking with joy, hoping in childlike anticipation for the shower of presents that was to be bestowed on her. And before that, the sacred mass and annual family banquet. Feelings of joy, contentedness, warmth...all things she valued in her heart, though it had been beating only seven years.

And now...Christmas here. With Shelley.

Well, it was their fault, wasn't it? If they had believed her stories, her visions, her exquisite retellings of Wonderland, they would still have her with them...she would be in Christchurch with her family. But no, they had chosen not to believe, not to take her seriously. And all because Eliza had gotten a little wet...

She closed her eyes and drifted away. To the sea, to dance with the lobsters...surely they knew nothing about Christmas...and if they did, they should dread it, for Christmas lobster was a greatly prized course...

On the shores of Wonderland, she was dancing the thirteenth figure with a rather clumsy lobster when heard the knob turn. She turned her face away from the door, wishing to be in solitude for just a little while longer.

"Alice," a dull voice called. "If you're hungry I have some breakfast for you...it's not too much, mind you..."

She closed her mind and pretended not to hear him.

She heard him tap his foot patiently at the door of her room for a few more seconds; then quit and proceed down the staircase, a certain unfamiliar heaviness in his footsteps. She heard the clatter of the dishes and the silverware and the pouring of some kind of liquid—tea, likely. At this she ceased to listen—the very act of lying on her bed had suddenly made her very sleepy and tired, and she inadvertently drifted again.

A knock sounded upon her door in what seemed like an eternity later. "Alice...it's nearly eleven o'clock, you knew...do get up, you're becoming lazier as the days wear on."

"Mmmm," was the only response he received. Rolling his eyes he knocked again.

"Alice."

No answer.

Annoyed, he opened the door to see her lying still in bed, half- asleep. But...but was there something different about her? He crossed the threshold and advanced to her bed, where she lay, dormant, in deep reverie.

"Are you..." he began inquisitively. "Really, Alice..."

"Leave me alone," she snapped sleepily. "I'm dancing the Quadrille...and I really don't wish to be interrupted...I shall eat later."

She turned fully onto her side, her arms brought protectively up to her chest.

He settled down on her bed, leaning back as he continued studying her. "You're a rather interesting girl, you know. Troublesome, but very interesting."

"And why is that?" she asked, dully intrigued.

She felt him shift onto her bed, felt his hand come to rest on her shoulder, his head hovering above hers. "Unless those are tears of joy, child...I believe you're crying."

Her hands flew up to her face. Crying? What had she been doing? She had been dreaming of dancing the Quadrille, not crying!

"Ohhh." She quickly sat up, brushing the previously unnoticed tears from her face. "I didn't mean to cry, I assure you. And I'm quite ashamed that you witnessed me do it as well." She looked up at him, the remnants of liquid still dripping down her face. "What are you doing here, anyway?" she asked in a more gentle tone. "I thought...I thought the sight of me sickened you."

"Mostly it does," he answered, with a contradictory smile forming on his face. "I supposed it is because I felt sorry for you."

"Sorry? For me? And why is that?"

"Well...when you asked me about church, I remembered that it was your custom—our family's custom—to attend church every Christmas Eve. And that your house was positively bedecked during Advent...So I surmised that was why you asked me as such—that you missed it all, the joy this wretched holiday usually brings. Do you?"

Alice brought her knees up her chest, her eyes downward. "I suppose, just a tiny bit. But," she continued, her face brightening, "I have Wonderland. And as long as I have that, nothing can make me too sad."

Sherlock sighed. "I see...I see." He stood up. "After all, why be sad when you can be content." He crossed over the thin rug adorning the floor and swung open the door. He paused as he turned sideways, towards the figure huddled on the bed. He parted his lips, as if to tell her one more thing; but thinking better of it, he turned and exited.

(-)

It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening when Alice finally emerged from her room. She had spent almost the entire day writing down all the poems she had heard or learned in Wonderland on some coarse brown papers she had found in her closet; clutching them close to her, she trotted down the stairs, the banner sliding between her small fingers as she hurried down.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair by the fire, and to her surprise she noted that he hadn't taken any drugs the entire day. He sat slumped, his hands folded on his lap as he stared blankly into the crackling fire, the only source of warmth in the house that day.

"Good evening, Shelley," Alice said carefully, coming to stand in front of him.

Sherlock barely acknowledged her; a mere sideways glance indicated that he was aware of her presence.

"If you don't mind, I should like to recite a poem for you," she continued. "It's from Wonderland. A mouse I met while I was swimming around in a pool recited it first...and as curious as it is, even though I didn't attend much to it, I do remember it...very distinctly."

Sherlock blinked.

Alice cleared her throat.

"Fury said to a mouse, That he met in a house
Let us both go to law: I will prosecute YOU.
Come, I'll take no denial; we must have a trial:
For really this morning I've nothing—"

"Alice," Sherlock interrupted suddenly. He was now sitting up in his seat, his eyes focused on her intently.

She looked up from her papers. "That's rather rude; interrupting me, you know."

He rose from his seat. "Get dressed. Now." He turned and started towards the stairs, his feet striding forward with a mixture of caution and confidence.

"Dressed? But...why? And what for?" she called after him, the papers wrinkling in her hands.

"Your best clothes, my dear...we would have to consider ourselves heathens if we did not attend church tonight."

"We shall?" she hurried to the bottom of the stairs and looked up; he was already on the first landing. "What brought this about?"

He looked back at her. "Do not ask, my dear cousin. Just do as I tell you. It will be good for you to go." He turned and swiftly hurried up the stairs.

Puzzled, the child followed him, still silently reading from the mouse's poem.

(-)

They stood there, bundled up like cultured Eskimos awaiting the dead of winter in an urban Arctic, as cold and unforgiving as the original. Sherlock closed the door to the house; Alice watched as his white gloved hand clutched the knob, pulled in firmly outwards, and gave it a few good turns to make sure the house was safeguarded.

She looked down the street. The snow was falling so thickly that she could only see twenty feet in both directions; lamplight cut through the darkness as best it could, and its best was not really very good at all. No people wandered these streets tonight; no, it was a wasteland, a cold, unmoving parade of black iron fences and stained glass windowed doors. Beautiful and terrible, and so isolated she almost couldn't stand it.

Presently she became aware of hands pulling at her collar; he was tightening her bonnet around her head, squeezing her curls so much she was sure they would uncurl before the end of the night. She half-heartedly slapped his hand away, still staring fixedly down the street, trying to see if any of her Wonderland friends might suddenly invite her to tea. Surely the White Rabbit would be well-camouflaged...

"Come, Alice." His hand tugged at hers.

A mild realization hit her. "Shelley...oh, I must have forgotten them...my winter boots. I...I didn't bring them with me at all." She looked all around them. The snow was piling up higher and higher, and the wind whistled eerily among the branches of the few trees that littered their block. "I'm terribly sorry, but...I cannot walk in all this."

He sighed softly.

She barely had time to think before she was caught up in his embrace. "What are you...?" her voice faltered as she realized she had never really embraced him before. Even with her cold, pale cheek against his frosted scarf, it was still an embrace.

"I shall have to carry you," he said, his voice muffled. "Hold still."

She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. "You musn't drop me, now..."

"I shan't. You shall be alright."

He was rather warm, now that she thought better of it; even through his heavy black overcoat she could feel his warmth. This wasn't so bad after all.

He swung her legs over his arms, his wrists brushing gently against the soft lacy lining of her flannel petticoat, which gathered gracefully at her knees. Her mittened hands were clasped tightly around his neck as he shifted her slightly in his arms, into a more comfortable position for both of them. Her cheek was pressed against what would've been his heart; and she swore, silently, that if she had listened closely, she could hear the beating of the stressed organ.

"Can you hear my heart beating?" he asked suddenly, as if he had seen into her child-like thoughts.

She smiled gently. "I haven't gotten a chance to listen," she answered. She pressed her curly head against his chest, listening for any tell-tale noises through all the layers of fabrics. "I think so...perhaps. Ah, wait...yes. Yes, I can hear it." One arm slowly let go of his neck, trailed down his breastbone, and came to rest over where she could hear the pulsing noise of his heart. Sighing deeply, she left it there.

"Well...let's walk then." He began to stride swiftly up the snowy lane, aware of the sudden protective feeling that had suddenly welled up in him as soon as he had realized Alice had been listening for his heartbeat. So he was alive to her, after all—not just some poor puppet required to be her guardian for a time. And to him, it seemed as though she had been searching for his soul, almost—looking to see whether her cousin still retained one after the grime of his work. And he kept it—and she found it.

He tightened his grip on her as he trudged onwards, his boots plowing their way through the thickening layers of white. Torrents of wind gusted up and tried to force them back, but he steadily moved onward, his eyes squinting to see into the foggy light that obscured the street signs and lamplights. Alice burrowed into his side, her eyes closing momentarily now and then, for the cold made the child quite sleepy; but in a few minutes she'd open them once more, to look questioningly up at her cousin and wonder at all the trouble she had set unto him.

It was about a twenty minutes' walk from Baker Street to St. Charles, the local church. But for the two of them it might have been twenty miles; the snow, the wind, the foggy light never ended.

And yet it did end.

Alice found herself being set down at the steps of the old church, her small feet lightly tapping against the patches of ice that remained on the cold stones. Sherlock brushed the snow off his coat in annoyance. "That was quite a walk," he commented. "You really should watch what you eat, child."

Alice looked up at him in mock anger. "Very well, Shelley, I shall!" she declared. Senses dulled by the chilly journey, she found herself forgetting that she and her cousin were not really supposed to be communicating. She tugged at his overcoat. "Are...shall we really go inside?"

Sherlock knelt down so that he was face to face with the small entity, looking straight into the sky blue orbs framed with beautifulgolden lashes. Well, she was nervous; that much he could tell. She knew who exactly would be sitting inside that church—her classmates, their parents, Rebecca, even. All those who knew about her outburst and her insane condition; not just those connected to the academy, but all of the community.

Doubly sinning, he thought glumly as he remembered his own mistakes. Well, then, both of them—two unworthy worshippers of a higher power—would proceed in, and suffer under the eyes of the decent. Neither of them would be spared the surprised looks, the gasps of nerve, the angry expressions. Both knew that they would be mentally roasted alive as soon as they set foot inside the holy place.

Sherlock blinked. It had to be done.

He had to cure her.

"Come Alice," he urged as he grasped her hand. He pulled open the heavy oak door and guided the child inside.

TBC

Note: Hey ya'll! It's been a while, hasn't it? Well, this chapter was originally going to be longer, but I really didn't wanna leave anyone hanging anymore.
Now...I want to continue this story, but I need some encouragement. Everyone needs some now and then so give me lots!