Chapter 20

Author's Notes: Thank you mierin-lanfear, Haley MacRae, L'Wren and ashley for reviewing; it's ironic that you commend me for not writing fluff, and then I write this chapter, which is considerably more fluffy than the rest. Well, you might not think so. In any case, I have about 5 or 6 more episodes in the plot that I would like to write about, though how many chapters that will take, I don't know.

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

Jerusalem glowed rose-gold, even in the midday sun. The ancient houses cast blue shadows over the narrow streets. Miss Bassano stood at her window, fingering the fringe on her lace shawl, and observed as figures clad in black approached her own house. As they neared, she perceived that the first was a young priest, secretary to the Bishop who had so kindly lent her the flat for her stay. A second priest, frock coat flaring behind him, carried bags of luggage. She may have let this pass unnoticed, but then she saw the third man, striding behind. He was tall and gaunt, his profile hawk-like, his gaze no less determined. A thrill of recognition made Miss Bassano's heart leap, and she rushed to the small settee in the middle of the room. Sitting down and smoothing her skirt, she heard the sound of the bell below.

The young priest entered first, his face flushed from taking the stairs. He bowed courteously,

"Your husband, madam." The young clergyman coughed softly, and bowed again, exiting with diplomatic grace.

At last, Holmes entered the room. He was again clean-shaven, and his face was set with anticipation. Miss Bassano rose, a trifle too quickly and crossed to embrace her 'husband.' She grasped his hands and made to kiss his cheek, which resulted in an uncomfortable exchange as Holmes brought his face down to her level. Holmes, who had not seen a European woman in some 22 months, was struck by the absurdity of her attire – the columnar skirt, the billowing sleeves, and the pinched waist. Although she wore a gown of an attractive shade of turquoise, the peculiar interior light cast shadows on her face, lending it an unhealthy pallor.

"Please, sit down," she gestured, and they were seated; Holmes in a chair with its back to the window, she on the settee.

"I trust your journey was comfortable?" he inquired at length.

"Yes, the trip to Jaffa was by sea, and then it was an uneventful journey to Jerusalem," she answered.

"And your accommodations are suitable?

"Yes, the Patriarch has been most generous." She paused, and gave a nervous laugh. "For so long, I have wanted to visit Palestine – yet when I arrived, it seemed to me devoid of all loveliness, for I was so filled with concern for you."

"I am sorry to have so biased you judgement," Holmes replied solemnly.

"You look well," she said after a short pause.

"I am well," he agreed.

"The monastic life suited you, then?" she prompted further.

"Yes, I was able to occupy my mind and body with the regime prescribed to me by the monks." He shifted uncomfortably. "I was obliged to leave your camera in Tibet. The Dalai Lama could not be persuaded to part with it, and it cannot be of much use to me here. I hope you do not mind."

She raised her eyebrows a little at that, but shrugged. "May it bring him pleasure. You have no desire to photograph the shrines of the holy land?" she asked, somewhat facetiously.

"I have not come here on a pilgrimage. This is merely a central location in the region where I hope to apprehend a certain criminal."

"On what charge?"

"I believe it will be a charge of no less than treason," Holmes answered affably.

"Ah, yes, of course, so you said. But surely treason is a harsh word?"

"Moran is every bit a traitor," Holmes insisted.

"Moran? Not Sebastian Moran?"

"No, Sir Augustus." He turned and eyed her suspiciously. "Why did you ask about Sebastian Moran?"

"I met him briefly at Calcutta. He paid a visit to Government House."

"And you did not write to me immediately about it?" Holmes spoke through gritted teeth.

"I did not think much of it," she shrugged. "It was a mercifully short visit. He spoke of nothing but tigers and wars. Lord Lansdowne said that he was nothing like a gentleman should be, and asked him to leave. I expect they quarrelled over money or some such thing."

Holmes leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "They may well have. In certain circles, Moran is well known, even notorious for being a cheat at cards. It seems that his father is also less than honourable." Holmes snorted. "He used to be the minister to Persia, you know."

"Perhaps my uncle knew him. Although, it seemed to me that the Colonel was perhaps 20 years your senior, so my uncle could not have been more than a junior clerk at the elder Moran's retirement."

"I expect Sir Augustus is nearing eighty. Yet it appears that he is still dangerous." Holmes stood and paced silently around the room as Miss Bassano toyed with her shawl, watching him surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. Suddenly, Holmes sat himself at her side on the sofa and fixed her with an earnest stare.

"I want you to know that I will apprehend him."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," she smiled warmly. "Uncle will be pleased that you have bagged a traitor," she laughed.

"No," Holmes said quietly. "I do not mean Sir Augustus Moran. I mean his son."

"The Colonel? For such a trifle as a few pounds lost at cards?" She looked at him, confused.

"He is guilty of far worse things. It was he who dislodged the boulders at Reichenbach in an attempt to kill me. It was he who tracked me to Il Tatti, and it was his orders that nearly cost you your life."

Miss Bassano shuddered. After a lengthy pause of silent contemplation, she turned to Holmes.

"But if the Colonel is an expert marksman like he claimed, surely he could have merely shot you outright?"

Holmes laughed, a cold, hollow laugh. "With a revolver? No, that would have been vulgar. Moran may not be a gentleman, but Professor Moriarty was. And I believe that neither of them considered that he would need a second for our duel."

"But why wouldn't he have shot at you at Il Tatti, then?" she pressed.

"I have spent hours, nay, months, considering just that. Without evidence, I am loathed to conclude from conjecture." Seeing her querying face, Holmes continued. "I expect that he had to secret himself somewhere during the trials of the Moriarty gang. His activities would have been too closely monitored for him to have attempted something of that audacity." He paused again and smiled a wry smile. "The English policeman has patience, if nothing else. Under the scrutiny of Scotland Yard, Moran had to rely on an inexperienced accomplice. But I have no doubt that it was he who ordered the attack." Holmes' eyes glittered. "He has, after all, the mind of a soldier, and the heart of a hunter. Tracking the movements of enemy prey is what he excels at. No doubt, he would have made an admirable detective." The humour of this impossible proposition made the corners of his mouth turn up in mirth. He waved his hand dismissively. "The note I found on the person of your assailant was proof of what I already knew."

"You found a note?" She looked at him in surprise.

"Yes, it was written on English letterhead from a very reputable hotel."

"What did it say?" Shock was clearly registered on Miss Bassano's face, and her breathing had quickened.

"It was in code, and that bungling inspector threw it in the fire before I could work it out." He looked at her and noticed that she was shivering, despite the warmth of the room. "But I have wearied you," he exclaimed. "We will not speak of it again," he said reassuringly, as he wrapped her flimsy shawl around her shoulders.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me," she stammered, and furtively wiped a tear that threatened to fall down her cheek. "That day was so... horrible."

Holmes, who had made for the tea service on the sideboard returned to her side and offered her a cup.

"It is I who should apologise," he said, his expression solemn. Miss Bassano nodded in gratitude and understanding, taking the teacup from him.

A/N: I hope that explains those lingering plot points...