Chapter 7

Author's Note: I still don't own Mr. Holmes or his world, although I feel quite justified in taking him for a stroll though a time Conan Doyle did not describe for us. As per the previous chapter, Chiantishire was the nickname of Florence in the Gilded Age, owing to the large number of British ex-patriates (the Anglobeceri) who took up residence in its villas. As we shall see, Miss Bassano is one of them. As always, I enjoy receiving reviews; I have made the fatal error of starting this fanfic from the beginning, and I find I am nearing the end of my own ideas for the action – I would love to hear your opinions as to what Holmes does during his hiatus. (I make no guarantees as to whether I will include them, but I will give you credit if one of your comments sparks my muse into action!)

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When Holmes opened his eyes, the sunlight streaming into the room made it clear that it was morning, and that he had slept the better part of twenty-four hours since the day prior. As he blinked into wakefulness, he was relieved to find that the embroidered creatures on the antique bed-hangings no longer moved of their own accord. Even more pleasant was the realisation that his appetite had returned. Indeed, when the maid entered with his breakfast tray, his mind was uncharacteristically filled with gastronomical fantasies far removed from his usually sparse diet.

As he ate, intentionally slowly, so as not to upset his as yet delicate system, he pondered his surroundings. The little woman in whom he had confided yesterday had transformed the vast room into a sick room. Although most of the furnishings remained covered in linen drapes, a small gilded writing desk, a chaise, and a table were returned to life as usable furniture. The bed in which he lay faced the fireplace, yawning cavernously under a marble mantle-piece. The head of the giant four-poster blocked his view of the windows, but he expected the room faced north or west from the sunshine that filled it at this early hour. Nothing of the ancient ostentatious surroundings gave him any clues as to the identity of his hostess.

She had, it was true, told him something about herself. She was Miss Bassano, young and alone in Italy, with relations in Whitehall. She had had a husband, so he could not really call her "Miss". But she was not dressed in widow's weeds, so what was she? She had not answered his question about Mycroft, not really. It was all quite mysterious and obscure, and inconsistent with her manner, so frank and unmediated by social convention. Holmes' logical nature bristled at the paradox. Women, he thought again, with some frustration.

The lady in question appeared through the doors at that very moment. Her attire was again simple, but Holmes no longer considered it modest. He was instead frustrated by what he saw as the deliberate obfuscation of her inner character. There was simply nothing of importance to be deduced from the unadorned gown she was wearing. Certainly, she was moderately wealthy, and not unaware of the current mode in fashion, but there was nothing to answer to the mysteries of her situation. Increasingly peevish, despite the admittedly delicious breakfast he had just eaten, Holmes eyed the woman with suspicion as she walked into the room.

She did not comment on his returned appetite as she noted his empty tray. She did not check his pulse, or examine his pupils, as had been her custom. She did not even arrange his pillows or make comments about the weather. It seemed she did not have to.

"I trust you will not be continuing your vile habit of consuming cocaine, Mr. Holmes?" The question, if one could call it a question, was posed while she lingered with her back towards him over the little heap of his belongings on the table.

"I have heard many times of its evil properties, madam, but I am yet to be convinced."

"Indeed?" She turned around to face him. "I can assure you that your symptoms of the last few days were owed more to the effects of abandoning the drug than they were to the weeks of hunger, sleeplessness, and fear with which you abused your body."

"I repeat, madam, that I have been made aware of the poisonous effects of cocaine, yet I am certain that it has saved my life more than once." Holmes' voice now had an edge to it.

She scoffed at that. "If it has truly saved your life, you would be the first to have experienced such a miracle." She paused and shook her head, frowning. "I really must apologise for my harsh words just then. My husband overindulged in cocaine shortly after our marriage. He died soon after..." She shrugged. "So you see, I have been touched quite personally..."

Holmes, placated somewhat by this unexpected confession, replied generously. "I am indeed sorry to hear of your loss, Mrs. Bassano." At this, she winced, but allowed him to continue. "I turn to cocaine as a protest against the monotony of existence. My mind rebels at stagnation. But, when there is a trail to follow, I have no need of chemical substitutes."

She smiled sadly in response. "We shall have to keep you busy, then." Changing her tone, she walked to the writing desk. "I have been in contact with your brother. He assures me that he will send you anything you may need."

But Holmes could not again attempt to divine how she knew his brother, for the maid walked in, carrying a large package wrapped in brown paper. Miss Bassano's face brightened as she took the package and dismissed the maid.

"You will not need to write about new clothes. See, they have arrived from the tailor."

"They will know I am here!" exclaimed Holmes, his voice edged with uncharacteristic panic.

She looked confused for a moment, and then seemed to understand. "I can assure you that the tailor does not know one Anglobeceri maid from another. You are quite anonymous." She handed him the package. "If you will get dressed, you can accompany me for a little excursion into town." And then, noting his expression, she added amiably, "We can take the carriage."

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Tune in next week, when Holmes finds a new purpose in life. In the meantime, REVIEW!!!