Chapter 6!

The girls I was to tutor in English spoke both that language and the language of their birth flawlessly. When I pointed this out to my employer, he looked surprised that I had commented. When I pressed the issue, he looked at me with cold black eyes and a smile and said,

"I advertised for a governess. It was mearly a benefit that you spoke both languages." That shut me up. This Mr. Brown guy was really starting to scare me. He was so…cold. I felt bad for the girls; growing up with a cold father myself (although he was a lot more than cold when he had enough to drink), I knew how these kids must've felt.

Their names were Marie and Sophie, and they were overjoyed that they had a new "playmate". I was taken by the hands and lead to a pink playroom. There was an incredible amount of artifacts that should have been in a museum littering various flat surfaces in the halls that I passed through on the way to the room the girls played in. I saw a golden box on a table that looked distinctly Renaissance, much like the box that was recently reported missing from the BM. Interesting. I would have to remember to let Holmes know about that when I got home.

Sophie, Marie, and I spent the morning playing with dolls, the afternoon in the park, and in the early evening, they insisted that they read me their favorite book. They took turns on the pages, alternating from English to French, just to prove they could do it. They were very bright girls, but they had way too much energy for my peace of mind. I would really have to watch them.

I was driven home at seven in the same carriage that had brought me there that morning, and went strait to the kitchen to see about dinner.

By the time Holmes and Watson got back, I had resolved to tell them about the box, but nothing else. They could solve the case on their own, and I only remembered bits and pieces of the case that I had written anyway. And, it was entirely possible that it would turn out differently than I had written it.

Before I got the chance to break my news, Holmes had proven himself to be in a horrible mood. He'd callously shot down both Watson and myself, leaving us to retreat, licking our wounds. Then, remembering the contents of the bag that had come with me to the nineteenth century, I had a brilliant idea: a practical joke on Holmes. This would be fun. All I had to do was convince Watson to go along with it.

Holmes was lurking out in the street in disguise trying his best to scare the passersby (and probably doing something important too) when I broached the subject of a practical joke to Watson.

"Hey Doc? How come you let Holmes boss you around like that?" I asked him, trying to sound as innocent as I could, with mediocre results. He raised an eyebrow at me, but answered my question seriously.

"Because he needs to let out his energy. If he chooses to vent upon me, that is what will happen. I can hardly stop him. And he usually apologizes." That last was added as an afterthought. Wow, I thought. Watson must really like Holmes if he lets him beat on him like that. He was so loyal, and a lot smarter that he painted himself in his writings. At dinner, he'd shared a very intelligent and valid theory about the case that Holmes was working on. Holmes, being the nice man he was, cut the legs out from under him in three short sentences. Watson has been silent for the rest of the meal. Revenge would be sweet.

"Have you ever thought of giving him a taste of his own medicine?" I had obviously piqued his interest, and moved to settle in front of him. "Here's what I had in mind…"

The front door slammed open in response to Watson's 'yell of pain'. He winked conspiratorially at me just before the sitting room door slammed open. Watson, by the way, was just as good an actor as Holmes was. He just failed to mention that in any of his writings. Holmes took in the 'bloody' sight: Watson, holding his wrist as 'blood' oozed around the letter opener that was imbedded in the back of his hand. Or looked like it was, at any rate. I was standing to one side with a hand over my mouth trying not to giggle and give the game away, and Holmes probably thought I was trying not to be sick, which was just as well. Holmes, it seemed, was frozen in place, staring at Watson's injured appendage. Suddenly, he leapt into action, without a word to either of us. Holmes grabbed Watson's hand, then stopped short when the sheered off letter opener fell off his hand, leaving it well and whole. Holmes froze again as a giggle slipped out.

"What is going on here?" his soft voice positively dripped acid.

Running the risk of a lashing from the sharp side of his tongue, I said the first thing that came into my mind.

"You, my friend, have been punk'd." Watson, to my never-ending surprise, started laughing then, and Holmes' face relaxed ever so slightly.

"Then you are unharmed?" he asked his friend softly. Watson nodded at him, unable to speak. "This, I presume, is redress for my ghastly behavior at dinner?" another nod. "And, " his head swiveled so he could look at me. I was suddenly very nervous under his piercing gaze, remembering the incident in the bathroom this morning. Holmes, it seemed, was having similar thoughts; he flushed and broke eye contact. "And, I deduce that the means were brought from the future."

I grinned, nerves dissipating as I stepped into more familiar territory. "You deduce correctly. It's liquid latex, and a very good brand of stage blood. I was minoring in theater at university. Stage makeup was my specialty. And more specifically, wounds. I'll show you the stuff, if your interested…" I trailed off, uncomfortable again under the light in his eyes.

Needless to say, he was interested, and the rest of the evening was spent in debate over which century's make up was more believable. I, of course, won. Latex won out over grease paint any day of the week. I demonstrated the method of applying the stuff, (which smelled really really bad by the way,) waiting for it to dry, covering over the area with a base that matched the skin, applying the eye-shadow that made just the faintest hit of a bruise, and finally, the application of the fake blood. He watched as I put it on my own hand, making a huge gash from palm to wrist. Rolled up cotton gave it a three-dimensional look, and the red corn starch-and-water mixture dribbled down my arm. Holmes looked at me in ill-concealed wonderment; murmuring, "You never cease to surprise me" so softly I am not sure to this day that I really heard it.

Late that night, after Watson had gone to bed, Holmes and I were alone in front of the fire in the sitting room sitting side by side on the sofa, too close for personal comfort. I stood up to go to bed myself, and crossed in front of him. I felt his fingers on my wrist, keeping me in the room. He stood as I turned, and I gasped at the close proximity. Before I could say a word, before I could even draw my next breath, he leaned down and brushed his lips across my forehead.

When I opened eyes that I hadn't realized that I'd closed, Holmes was gone. I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. I would have to talk to him about this. Just not tonight. With a smile I couldn't get rid of, I took myself to bed for a night I was sure held pleasant dreams.

Sleep alluded me that night, although I had more than enough fodder for dreams. I spent the time between midnight and dawn thinking about what would happen if I couldn't get back home before the conclusion of this case. My main character had died, been shot by the man that Holmes and Watson were trying to catch. Everything that I had written about my character had happened to me, and Mr. Brown evoked a feeling of déjà vu much like everything else that had happened to me in the last several days. He was just so…I didn't even know how to describe him. Creepy was as close as I could come. His kids, however, were the cutest things ever to be born, so I would just have to stick it out, for them, and hope that their father wouldn't shoot me.