Authors Note:
It has almost (as it was pointed out to me) been a year since a chapter was added to this piece of fanfiction.I should have waited; it could have been a one-year-anniversary gift. Last week I updated chapter one to include a disclaimer. That disclaimer still stands. To review the disclaimer view the first chapter. With a not-so-subtle reminder from Lapin de la Flouve to update, I have, as you can see, updated. Lapin apparently enjoys this work of fanfiction. I hope other readers do as well. Oh, Lapin, just so you don't think I typed this all out this afternoon, I actually did most of it when I added the disclaimer. I had just not attached it yet. Thanks for your strained patience---voice activated computers are pricey. Enjoy everyone and, if you so desire, review. :)
"Twisting Time"
Chapter Seven
Real or a fraud?
As much time as I spent examining the lives and reactions of others--- I needed to think about how to deal with Holmes' reactions. A reaction in anger or disbelief should be avoided I decided.
Holmes, as long as I had known him, had the unique quality of being able to detach himself from a variety of issues. Emotions and, I can now say, love is sometimes not one that one may easily detach from. The Great Detective had indeed a heart. During the case which concerned my math tutor at Oxford (who was the daughter of a particular nemesis of Holmes') Holmes had shown obvious concern in his actions for me. Coming to my flat strait after being injured from a beehive (a bomb was inside) was something he may not have done had he not felt something for me. Distancing myself from my own situation was difficult. It was difficult to think about as well.
The only concern I had at this point, in this rather strange turn of events, was if the Holmes (the one I knew) was yet present. I was here--earlier in his life. Did MY Holmes think alone the same paths in his Baker Street life as he did in mine? In his past…or rather his present…. how terribly confusing! How anybody would react to such statements as, "I am not from this time," would be an intriguing character test. So far he had tried to test me, to see if I believed myself. That was another line of thought I needed to examine. Certainly I believed this, this, this situation! As impossible as it seemed everything around me, the sounds, scents, the feelings were as true as life.
Those thoughts, naturally, took up brief moments, and I was just about to reply to Holmes with, "The future is always in motion," or something equally vague, when I realized that the idea of replying with that statement was just foolish.
He wouldn't stand for it.
I wouldn't.
His lip twinged. He was impatient for a response. He no longer had a face of control.
"Fine," he spat out impatiently, "How is it that you knew about my bolt hole?"
Oh dear, I thought softly. An effect I had not anticipated. I searched quickly for an appropriate answer.
As I sat starring up into the not-quite-as hawk-like features of Holmes, I was ready to burst with the truth. The entire truth. The bolthole question had finally done it. To hell with him thinking me mad! Maybe I was. But I needed his help nonetheless. I then heard something, a cry--- fierce shout. Were we ever to have a conversation? "Damn it!"
Holmes lifted two eyebrows at my outcry of frustration but quickly pushed that aside for later. He too apparently heard the shout (from the street) for his eyes jumped from mine to a window. He stood and quickly peered out the window searching the cobbled streets for something. As one we had moved, a flicker of something showed in his eye--he was surprised, dare I say pleased, at my action.
No words were exchanged between us as we scanned the street. I looked about, my eyes trailing the movements of a group of particularly wild street urchins. The irregulars? One of them, a particularly dirty one, waved up his hand. It was a sign of greeting and not distress. Holmes answered back with a flop of the hand (I believe he was waving) and continued to look about. I felt his breath of the back of my neck….good heavens…unconsciously, I leaned into the faint touch.
Was it immoral of me, to do this? He was my husband, even if he did not know it. I felt my cheeks redden and was reminded of his actions in the bolthole. He had returned the embrace…if I dare venture to call it that…momentarily, before turning away at having "hugged" a married woman. I continued to feel his breath…. he must know that I felt something for him. Why was he not moving away, did he not realize what he was doing to me?
With a shudder, I mentally berated myself for the foolish thoughts. Think Russell! Think! Now is not the time. We were just getting somewhere in conversation! It is important that it is discovered why you are here…very important. You are not a maiden that is prone to romantic swoons or encounters. This is important!
Important.
Important.
Repeating the word did not help.
He was the Holmes I knew, and yet he was not. He did not know of our past…rather our future…he did not know me. Even as I thought this, he moved my shoulders, turning me to face him. He could not know me.
The disasters of time travel interference were speculated by many scholars.
One action affects another and so on.
This action, this sudden movement of his thumb to my face…
One action affects another…
And so on…
This needed to be stopped. My words rang out at me. Yet the noise merely tormented my mind. My body had no qualms to its ringing words. Neither did Holmes.
He looked at me, as he would any specimen under a microscope with deepest scrutiny, though I like to think he studied me differently…. I stared in turn at him.
"What is damned?" He asked regarding my earlier statement. He shifted forward so that I in turn was pressed gently against a cluttered bookcase. I lent back, and he loomed above me. His voice was soft. It had a tone I had never heard from him. Not even when he was covered in oil and filth and proposing with distinct heart-felt desperation…not even on our wedding night.
Oh god.
One hand continued to trace my cheek, the other dropped down to my waist. Through the thin fabric of the maid's attire, I felt his hand at my side. Ever the Victorian gentlemen? His bold actions drifted through my mind. Yet they were not bold. Not really. His hand at my waist moved slightly, his fingers spreading while his mouth lingered above mine.
Holmes peered into my bespeckled eyes and leaned forward, my lips rose slightly.
A bright flash of pain zipped through my being.
My vision blared, while I tried to breath in quickly. My eyes watered, and my throat tightened. I distantly felt him move back, eyes widened.
His hand had come upon my belly. The soft force he had used at my waist with the tips of his fingers had found the odd markings upon my abdomen.
Never had I felt such pain. Not even when I had been struck with a bullet.
He had used no pressure, yet I felt as though my life were to end. Still I tried to breathe, yet for some reason the marks upon my stomach continued to throb in pain. What was this? I felt hands at my shoulders. And the sensation, of being guided down to the floor of the flat.
Everything was spinning. The colors. I couldn't see. Holmes!
Holmes! Where was he?
"Holmes! I am your wife!" Did I say it? I couldn't tell. My throat….I couldn't see him…What was happening?
"Watson!" I heard a cry. Was it Holmes? Did I shout? No. My throat was too tight. Tighter still.
Holmes?
I couldn't feel the wood against my back anymore.
I couldn't feel Holmes' breath against my cheek.
Holmes?
The sensations continued. And then, I could no longer feel anything.