Chapter Nine: Great Expectations

3rd December, 1889

"Holmes? Holmes!"

The detective turned somewhat quizzically from where he stood by the window nearest his desk to look towards his roommate, friend, and colleague. Arms folded, he had been watching over the comings and goings on the street below on this crisp, clear early afternoon, and there was a decidedly distracted air about him, for he seemed almost surprised to see Watson sitting there.

At the table, jotting down notes, the doctor put his pen down and sat back with a slightly troubled frown. "You were miles away, my dear chap. Concerned about our little venture to Hampstead tonight, are you?"

"What?" came the vague reply before Holmes seemed to draw himself up. "Ah no. No…quite the contrary. I am more than convinced our Mr. Fleeton will disclose himself as the high level counterfeiter he is. Thanks to your most excellently crafted series of blackmailing letters, Watson, I have no doubt that we have placed sufficient qualms in his mind regarding the danger of his being exposed. Which in turn will lead us to his hasty reclamation of the purloined Deutsche Bank plates. The whereabouts of which he will reveal to us tonight. Inspector Gregson's presence alongside us this evening will see to the rest."

"I see." Watson smiled grimly, having rather enjoyed the task of drafting the vague but threatening missives to the notable businessman. Still though, his curiosity as to his friend's preoccupied state was unabated. "So then, what were you thinking on? Some devilish minutiae regarding the case?" His eyes widened slightly. "Or Fleeton's being part of a wider network? An international gang?"

Seating himself by his desk and stretching his legs out towards the fire warming the room this winter's day, Holmes made absolutely no attempt to hide his amusement at his friend's acute imaginings. "Sometimes, my dear, dear Watson, it is perfectly clear to me why your writings turn out as they do." He chuckled. "However, seeing as their meretricious stylings have proven so useful to us on this occasion, I really should not quibble. No…no international gang…in fact, my thoughts were not even on this case but another."

Watson let out a long sigh and sat back shaking his head. "Another? Already? I know you like to keep things bubbling, Holmes, but it's unlike you to let your mind wander forward when you already have a case still on the boil."

"Actually, it was not forward but back," Holmes replied with a slight snip in his voice at being questioned. The moment he did, however, he frowned slightly at having worked himself into a corner regarding his friend's inquisitiveness. "I was thinking on the Becker Case," he replied, rising to his feet to fetch his clay pipe, and then laying it down in favour of his violin, which he took upon his lap.

"The Becker Case?" Watson repeated with some surprise, eying the instrument warily. "Why?"

Holmes ran his fingers along the highly polished and perfectly shaped wood. "The case has been listed for trial. I will undoubtedly be called upon to give testimony, and in doing so I am presented with some unusual difficulties."

Raising his chin slowly, Watson nodded. "Of course. Miss Thurlow."

"Quite so," came the reply, with more than a tinge of asperity attached to it.

"Yes…" Watson gave him a mildly inquisitive look before he picked up his pen once more and let it dance idly through his fingers. "One would not want to raise her name in such a sordid affair if one can help it."

"I shall have to speak to Lestrade on it." Holmes deliberated. "Neither Becker nor Hughes know Miss Thurlow's identity…but the police do. I will ask to have her name stricken from the prosecution case. Have it replaced with some vague allusion to a female accomplice before I give testimony. Perhaps indicate she was a female officer from the 'bad house.'"

"I am sure Lestrade will readily comply…as will the prosecuting council," Watson said confidently. "No gentleman would wish to see a reputable lady's name dragged into such proceedings. Especially not after she had done such a good…if imprudent…deed."

"Still…" Holmes's fingers began to pluck absently at the strings of the violin. "I may have to insist upon it."

Watson blinked. "Refuse to give evidence, you mean? But might not that risk the case, Holmes?"

"Doubtful," Holmes answered. "The children were recovered on Mrs. Becker's premises. They identified her, the police have their testimony and the ledgers of their 'white-slave' activities, and no doubt, one or two of her employees are willing to turn Crown's evidence in order to have their own sentences reduced."

"Yes…but still." The doctor frowned. "The defence could claim circumstance, and children's testimony can often be discounted as unreliable. The police are all very well, but the court will need to hear how you pieced things together. As loathe as I am to have her involved, I am quite sure Miss Thurlow would not wish you to risk the case…especially the removal of two such hideous creatures as Becker and Hughes…on her account."

"I am quite sure," Holmes agreed with surprising vehemence. "But what Miss Thurlow wishes is not uppermost in my mind."

Watson stared at him, slightly taken aback at the other man's words, as Holmes's brow creased and he turned his head away to reach for the violin bow. "I am merely taking a stance on this, Watson," he explained in a far less strident tone. "A bargaining position. As you say, I'm sure Lestrade and the prosecuting Council will acquiesce. It is not vital that her testimony or even her name be mentioned. And defence will only be too glad to have no further prosecution witnesses." His lips thinned as he turned back, tightening the hairs of the bow. "Still, it is a further lesson, as if one was required, as to how problematic it is to allow a woman to become involved in one's affairs."

Watching him silently, the doctor found himself perplexed once more by his friend's behaviour…just as he had been three nights previously at Sir Nicholas and Lady Margaret Sotherby's masquerade ball.

"Yes…well…" he replied softly, "it was just that one time."

"Yes." Holmes began to tune the violin. "Just once. It will not happen again."

Watson frowned, partially at what was obviously to follow musically and partially at the nagging sense that whatever Holmes was referring to, it was not necessarily the case. Standing up and taking his notebook and pen with him, he crossed to the seat opposite by the fire and sat down again. "I hear she is much recovered, by the way," he said quietly.

"Recovered?" The dark head across from him did not look up.

"Miss Thurlow…from her sick headache. The one that took her away from the masquerade ball, while we were absent?" Watson ventured, watching his friend closely and his mind now firmly on the detective's behaviour that night.

"Her sudden…indisposition…yes." Holmes nodded and glanced at him. "No real surprise."

Watson's eyes widened slightly, and his tone was disapproving. "That seems a rather blasé attitude to have towards a friend's health, old man."

"Nothing blasé about it, Watson. A sudden illness, a sudden recovery." Holmes shrugged. "It was only a headache, you will recall…hardly serious."

There was silence for a moment as the doctor's eyes narrowed.

"Holmes, has Miss Thurlow done something to aggravate you?" came the sudden question. Its only answer was the rather mystified expression from the detective as he raised his head to look at his friend. Watson leaned back in his chair as he continued, "I ask, because quite frankly I can't make neither head nor tail of your attitude towards Helen of late."

"Attitude?" Holmes replied with a smile that indicated he was building towards a derisive dismissal of his friend's perceptions. His friend, however, was not inclined towards giving him the opportunity.

"Yes," the doctor replied firmly. "Attitude. Quite frankly, Holmes, your behaviour over the last week or two has been, even for you…odd!"

"Odd?" Holmes began, only to be cut off once more.

"Yes, odd!" Watson's tone grew more forceful. "I could understand your being aggrieved with her in the aftermath of the Becker case…she certainly deserved to be admonished for taking such matters into her own hands….but you and she parted on peaceable terms that morning. In fact, you even complimented her on her 'performance.' Everything seemed perfectly pleasant to me.

"But then…even under my increasingly intense questioning about the actual goings on prior to my joining you both, regardless of your compliments, you barely mention her role at all. And despite the momentous reports in the papers in the aftermath of smashing the Becker/Hughes ring, you did not mention her name in any capacity until you saw each other again at the Sotherbys' ball. A ball…" Watson sat forward, tapping his pen on his notebook. "I might remind you, that you gave me to understand you would not be attending! And yet…come that evening…there you are!"

Holmes sighed. "I hardly see how failing to babble on about a friend involved in a case I do not wish to stand amongst your published works…and changing my mind about attending a ball constitutes 'odd' behaviour, Watson."

His friend's gaze was level and direct, silently dismissing the tall man's response as simplistic in the extreme. There was something going on with Holmes…he could feel it, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed it. "And what of your dance with her, Holmes?" he asked quietly.

"My single solitary waltz?" Holmes replied almost wearily. "Watson, what has that fanciful vision of yours perceived now?"

"Nothing more than what was there," Watson returned, his voice still soft but resolute. "I saw you dancing with her…looking at her with an aspect I have only ever seen upon your face when applied to the most perturbing and complex of problems. It was as intense a gaze as I have ever seen you give a woman…at least one not under suspicion.

"And lest you think it is just my fanciful visions at work, let me assure you I have witnesses aplenty to call upon who saw it also." He paused, realising he was taking an unprecedented and possibly imprudent step of his own in raising the matter, but there was nothing for it if he was to get to the bottom of this increasingly strange pattern of behaviour. "I could not make it out. It was almost as if you were worried….whether for or about her, I cannot say. Whatever the reason behind it, Holmes, it was…not to put too fine a point upon it…too intense a look to give to a woman in public and in polite society. Even for one as laissez faire regarding such matters as you! And especially when that woman is keeping company with another man.

"In many ways, you are the most astute man I have ever known, Holmes. Admittedly you are too often blinded to others' emotional states when you are caught up in your own thoughts. But still…" he said with a degree of incredulousness, "you cannot tell me you did not sense the discomfort in our previously garrulous group when you returned her to our company? And then…confounding me further…as soon as her hand left your arm…she went from the focus of your undivided attention to as if she no longer existed. You gave not a word to her, nor even a glance, and prevailed upon me instead to join you for a cigarette. And upon our return, on finding her taken ill, you took your leave well before supper without so much as leaving an enquiry for her good health!

"You seem determined to ignore her…and when her name is mentioned, you snipe at her in absentia as if she has done something wrong!" the doctor exclaimed in frustration. "And yet…should she arrive at your door this very minute, I would not venture to say but that you would turn yet again and this time be the very soul of gentlemanly courtesy! Holmes, just what is going on?"

Holmes placed the bow alongside the violin in his lap and folded his hands in front of him. "I really have no idea what you are talking about, Watson. My behaviour to Miss Thurlow has been no different than ever it was."

"I beg to differ," Watson retorted with more than a little irritation in his voice. "With all due respect, Holmes, if anything you are blowing hot and cold. If I didn't know you better and know your mindset inside and out regarding such matters, I'd say you remind me of nothing more than a schoolboy trying desperately not to let on to himself and others that he likes a girl!"

Holmes's eyes narrowed as he rose to his feet, violin and bow in hand. "How often must I reiterate my position on this, Watson? Women are too much of a distraction for me to ever allow one into my life. In two hours, you and I are to embark upon the resolution of a case and instead of discussing it, we are seated here debating the so-called effects of a woman upon my behaviour! If that does not illustrate my point clearly and concisely, I give up on your ever seeing sense."

There was a long pause as Watson gazed up at him, taking in what his friend was saying before finally nodding a little. "Of course, Holmes, I understand clearly what you are saying, and I take your point completely. However," he stressed softly, "I cannot help but notice that you have failed to deny that you…rather like that schoolboy I mentioned…care for her."

The sound that emerged from the throat of Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not pure guttural exasperation. Aimed loudly at his friend, it reverberated off the walls of 221b Baker Street and was joined, a moment later, by the bang and shuddering of the walls as the door to Holmes's adjoining bedroom slammed shut.

A fraction of a second later, the sound of the violin took up, the bow moving over the strings at a furious pace…the improvised music almost discordant in parts. For once though, the occasional scratch or screech of bow and tortured notes combined with the sure knowledge that Holmes's humour had degenerated didn't weigh too heavily upon Watson's mind as he stood and turned to look at the closed door. How could it, when there was a concept of far greater import for him to wrangle with?

Watson stared at the door, finding the motive behind his friend's response hard to believe still. He'd come to the wrong conclusions before, he knew…and not so long ago either. But Holmes's behaviour, his reactions, and his words -- they all led to the same indisputable crux. No matter how much the detective tried to deflect it, his unfamiliarity with dealing with such situations was giving him away and indicating that somehow, somewhere along the way, the unthinkable had happened.

A woman had wormed her way into Holmes's affections.

And the great man was at a loss about how to handle it.

William Edwards, clad in his heavy army great coat with shining new additions to the insignia on his epaulettes, sat on a bench near the statue of the young Queen on her accession. A recent addition to the surrounds and placed there in celebration of Victoria's Golden Jubilee year, the statue stood proudly in front of her childhood residence, the palace behind her overlooking the public gardens which bore its name.

Kensington Gardens, separated from their neighbour Hyde Park by the famed Serpentine, were, even on this chilly late December afternoon, still well populated. They were a favoured place for courting couples, and William, occasionally taking passing enlisted men's salutes, watched with a slight smile as those couples ambled arm in arm close together for warmth.

He had placed himself midway between the Palace and Black Lion Gates as he waited for a similar happy meeting himself. But as the minutes passed, he gazed out, more and more entranced as the winter world painted another uniquely colourful masterpiece across the firmament, the watery December sun streaking the sky with a blaze of glorious purples, pinks, and oranges as it sank rapidly through the clear blue sky. The icy earth around him was bathed in a golden glow that would not last long, but while it did, it gave a warmth far beyond its reality.

Returning the smart, crisp salute of a Household Cavalry colour sergeant out walking with his lady friend, William turned his blue eyes once again towards the great monument off to his right. Catching the glow of the descending sun, the gold leaf-covered top of the giant gothic style edifice and the similarly gilded statue of the man it was dedicated to was like a beacon across this part of London.

A memorial -- but in a strange way, what it stood for gave him hope for his coming endeavour.

His black leather gloved hands retrieved his pocket watch from just inside his great coat, and he checked the time. Almost four. The gardens would be closed soon…but there was still enough time, providing she hadn't been held up at her meeting.

Numbers around the area dwindled as people headed to the myriad of gates that led from the Gardens to the Bayswater Road and Paddington on one side and to Kensington Road, Knightsbridge, and the Royal Albert Hall, which was to be William and his lady's first destination this evening. There was plenty of time for the concert...it was not till five, more than enough time for a hot cocoa to help ease the chill should she feel it. And dinner…dinner was booked for the Savoy at eight. Everything was planned.

But as his eyes lingered upon the monument, he found himself hoping she arrived soon so they could tarry here together for a few minutes at least. This he wanted her to see.

Helen watched the streets flash by as the cab hurried through the winding roads of London, her promise of an extravagant tip still warming the cabby's ears. His passenger's thoughts, however, were miles away, and her gaze did not even register the sights or sounds around her.

Instead, her mind was still fixed on the conundrum that she had been wrestling fiercely with for the last handful of nights. And truth be told, as she hurried to another assignation with William, she was no closer to making a decision than she had been the night she had spoken with Maggie.

Her increasingly beleaguered heart was starting to tell her to walk away...perhaps take a long holiday somewhere and put both men out of her mind. That she should come to grips with the all too painful fact that when it came to simple romance and easy happily ever after endings, she was quite obviously doomed.

But, even though Sherlock Holmes was beyond her, she could not forget that she had a good man in William. That he deserved better than to be cut loose…that in truth she hated the idea of losing his affections and friendship, no matter how selfish a stance that was. Everything she loved about him and ever wanted in a husband was being presented to her in its entirety, and she should jump at the chance of a warm, comfortable, respectable, and caring future with him. Possibly with a family of their own. Not that he'd asked her to share his future. Something which, given the problem at hand, she was immensely grateful for.

Arriving at Black Lion Gate, the cab slowed and the driver called back to her. Climbing out, she paid the man, including the generous extra she'd promised before moving swiftly into the gardens, her watch indicating it was ten to four, though her calm and sure steps hid her still distracted mind.

As she hurried along the direct path to the gates of Kensington Palace where William had asked to meet her, her confused feelings nagged at her once more.

She'd even tried making lists on the pros and cons of either remaining with the captain or ending it with him. The result of which was that each time, she was presented with enough evidence that life with William would be an excellent and highly sensible choice. And each time she had folded her hands in satisfaction at the obviousness of the decision…only to drift to slumber at night with images of Mr. Holmes's face above her as they danced.

Looking up, she repressed an audible sigh at spying her escort for the evening precisely where he said he would be, stopping for a moment to watch him, the gentle, slightly absent smile on his face indicating his thoughts were off in flight somewhere. A soldier he may be, but he had the soul of a poet with the confidence and zest to express those thoughts without fear of what his fellows might think. He was without artifice. A warm and true man. Perhaps, she prayed, this night would convince her traitorous mind to finally expel those impossible desires and focus on someone who was good for her...who loved her.

Brushing a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, she took a deep breath and moved to meet him. It sounded as though he had a most enjoyable evening planned, according to the letter she had received yesterday. And, with another firm inward nod to herself, she was going to enjoy it...to give this a fair chance...and not think of consulting detectives from Baker Street.

"William!" she called, her gown and heavy overcoat rustling as she hurried to his side. "I hope I am not too late," she apologised, extending her kidskin gloved hand.

Rising up from his seat, he took her hand in both of his and smiled, his cheeks underneath his officer's cap ruddy from the cold. "No...not at all. We have ten minutes yet before the park closes for the evening…just enough time for a leisurely stroll towards Prince's Gate. That is, if you're not too cold?" he enquired solicitously.

She gave him a quick smile and shook her head. "No...I think I must have nearly run here from where the cab dropped me off...so I am still quite warm. A leisurely stroll sounds wonderful."

"Excellent...for there is something you must see." Slipping her arm through his, he drew her in against him, turning her so they faced the glimmering gold of the Prince Consort Memorial -- Victoria's lament for her lost Albert.

Moving them towards both it and Prince's Gate which lay beyond, he drew her eyes to the structure. "London is a city of sights...but few are as affecting, I think, as this."

"Indeed," she replied, taking in the monument and marvelling how the setting sun seemed to set it ablaze.

His gloved hand covered hers naturally as they moved towards it, his features thoughtful. "It's strange. Sad but uplifting, too, to think that worlds away from each other, different faiths, different cultures and times...simple human emotion can produce such similar results." On seeing her quizzical expression, he smiled.

"As I once told your brothers, I have stood as well in front of the Taj Mahal -- Shah Jahan's elegy for his beloved wife. An Emperor keening for his love. And here an Empress bereft of her adored husband. Everything, all the power, the pomp and ceremony, stripped away but the man and woman…the husband and wife beneath.

"And what I find strange, too, is to think that such powerful emotion could have come from such matches. Men and women who had hardly met before their wedding days. Nothing more perhaps than a mutual admiration, if that, before they took their vows. To see what can grow from such matches amazes me."

Her eyes still on the monument, she nodded slightly. "Indeed..." she murmured, finding herself caught and affected by his words more intensely than he had any idea of. "Love can grow and put down deep roots even in unpromising soil."

"True enough. Sometimes, it strikes quickly and friendships develop as the two grow closer." He squeezed her hand softly. "And sometimes nurtured over time, it flowers deep and passionate from the seeds of friendship and affection." He drew a quiet breath, not noticing her shy glance at him at his last words. "Either way, that, I think, is something devoutly to be wished for. To be friend and lover. Therein, if such monuments are any indication, lay the roots of the deepest attachments...and the greatest losses. But even in the loss, there is something gained from it...something no one else can ever touch or take away. I would hope that I would always be friend and confidant as well as husband to my wife," he said quietly.

As his speech turned more and more to talk of husbands and wives, the tension that had partially dissipated, as it always seemed to do on joining him, started to grow and to an extent it had not achieved before. Her mind swam -- partly confused why he was speaking of this and partly fearful that she knew precisely why. Keeping her face controlled, she inclined her head. "That is something we all wish and hope for in our prospective spouses, I think."

"No doubt," he replied before stopping suddenly and turning to look down at her. "Well..." He sighed. "I have to say I am rather disappointed in you."

Her brow furrowed, and this time her confusion was plain to see. "Disappointed?"

"In your perceptiveness." He smiled softly. "A woman of your keen wit and intellect?" he tutted.

She blinked and appeared even more perplexed, the unexpectedly rapid change of direction worthy of… "William...what is going on?"

Reaching up, one black gloved finger touched the new insignia on his epaulettes, his eyes dancing.

Her eyes widened in understanding. "Oh! Oh my!" she exclaimed, truly pleased for him, her hand rising up to her mouth. "You got your promotion! How wonderful! When?"

"Yesterday," he answered, his grin lighting up his face. "As soon as the Austro-Hungarians left after the meeting. The General called me into his office and puffed out his chest..." Doing the same, William affected an imitation of the rather portly, blustering man. "William, my boy, he said...I dare say you've lived up to your end of the bargain...been a good help 'n what not around the place...so here you are, young fellow me lad...live up to it! And he tossed me the new insignia and my papers of promotion!"

"Oh...William, that's so wonderful!" she exclaimed again with a wide smile and sparkling eyes, forgetting her own troubles in the delight of his news before she paused. "Tossed them?"

The officer laughed again. "Yes...just lobbed them right to me...casual as you like! Before...I might add...asking me to make him his reservation for lunch at Simpson's and ensure I had a carriage booked for him and his wife for the opera tonight! Not much time to get a swelled head around Phineas Cadwalader, as you can plainly tell."

"So I see!" she agreed with a wry shake of her head. "That is really wonderful news, William."

"Exactly my feelings on the matter," he teased. "I had a quiet celebration at home last night with my family, but decided I wanted to share the news with you a little more privately...part of the reason I asked you out tonight."

"And I thought you simply wanted to hear Mr. Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony! Indeed, a celebration is most certainly in order. And I am sure your mother and sisters are thrilled," she agreed with a smile, taking his arm again.

"Yes..." He commenced to walk with her again. "They are. Though there was a touch of melancholy towards the end of the evening, I must confess."

Her brow furrowed a little as she glanced up at him. "Melancholy? Whatever for?" she enquired. "I hope everyone is well."

He gazed down at her, a more serious expression on his face. "You've forgotten what this means, haven't you?"

She looked down for a moment, her expression showing her uncertainty before it cleared, and realisation set in. "You are going back, aren't you...to India," she breathed.

"The General put my name forward for a command position this morning," he confirmed with a nod, stopping again to turn to her. "It won't be immediate...but not too long after Christmas, I'd say." He waited, gauging her reaction.

"I see," she murmured, not entirely sure what to think or how to react and looking sufficiently stunned by a turn of events she had completely forgotten was entirely probable. Her mind finally folded quietly under the pressure of simply having too much to process and went blank.

"I see," he repeated her words, unsure of what to make of her response, and exhaled slowly, his breath turning to steam upon the air. "I must say I had hoped for something a little more...demonstrative...a business-like handshake and bon voyage, perhaps?" he teased lightly.

Her cheeks flushed. "I...I apologise," she said with a cringe at her own behaviour. "I'm just a little surprised...I shouldn't be, we've been talking about this for some time...but now it's here..."

"Now it's here?" he pressed quietly, holding her hands.

"I'm extremely pleased for you...proud...and a little taken aback," she admitted with a smile, though her stomach was now clenching in tight knots.

"And of my leaving?" He straightened, watching her intently.

Her brow furrowed and she bit her lip, her gaze dropping from him "I would be...I would miss you quite a bit," she replied, her tone sad, knowing that was true no matter what decision she had planned on making. "You have become a dear friend and one I have come to care for a great deal."

There was a long pause before leather gloved fingertips touched her cheek.

"You don't have to miss me, you know?" Taking her chin in between his index finger and thumb, he drew her eyes to him and held them there. "You know I love you, don't you, Helen?"

Her breath caught in her throat at his final voicing of something he'd only really hinted at previously, and squashing the very real guilt that gnawed inside her, she nodded slowly, his blue eyes on her grey ones.

Nodding in echo to her and with a small smile on his lips, he spoke again, his voice even softer than before. "Do you love me?"

Swallowing, her mind dreading where this had to be leading, she nodded. "Yes," she admitted, her voice equally soft.

The breath that escaped him was long, as a wave of happy relief washed over him, and his hands moved to her shoulders and gripped them lightly.

"Then marry me, Helen," he asked her earnestly and joyously as they stood in front of the Memorial. He winced slightly before rushing on happily. "I know this is sudden...well perhaps not sudden...but it is not the way I planned it. I had planned to ask you over dinner at the Savoy tonight...but it suddenly seemed so prosaic…especially after seeing this." He glanced up at the memorial.

"Marry me...marry me and come with me to India. For a few years at least. Your brothers, your mother...all of you! You know I adore the boys, and I like to think they favour me. We could raise them together. They'll need a man about the place and they would love India! The colour, the vibrancy, the adventure! And your mother...well, the heat is always pleasant and there is a serenity to India that would suit her admirably." He paused just long enough to take a breath. "I know you have your business to run...but India is a hub of that business. It is where your father started. It would not be hard to set up office there...keep things running from one of the major cities...and I can ask for a posting there."

She stared at him, not entirely sure whether this was the final act that would reduce her to outright fainting or whether she should simply allow herself to become swept up in his joy.

For it truly was a tempting offer...and everything he said was true. The boys loved him and he them. India to them would be a massive adventure. Her mother, too, might benefit from the travel…she had hardly ever left England after all. And the business…well, other great business had many offices located in the cities of India. With improving communications, it would not be hard to be kept appraised of what is happening with her father's company here in England, and there were men on the board whom she trusted now to represent her family's best interests.

And she would be free...free and far away from London. No consulting detectives to plague her thoughts or distract her...she would be simply free to love William and devote herself to him and her…their…family's needs. Oh, it was tempting...and the sensible side of her, once the gears starting turning again, told her to take his offer. Marry him...she would have everything she'd ever wanted and needed.

And yet...there was just that small quiet little voice beckoning her like a siren's song in the back of her brain and reminding her that life…her life…was never really that simple, nor did the choices one makes in it always unfurl as one hopes.

Blinking back tears of confusion and hoping he'd simply mistake them for tears of joy, she gave him a smile. "William...that is...this is the kindest offer I have ever been given. And...as much as I would love to give you an answer now...I can't. There is simply too much to consider...besides love. Give me a few days? Please? I must discuss this with my mother and brothers...and you know I never wish to make such choices...and this is the grandest one of them all, unless I have considered it in its entirety." She touched his face with her fingers. "You would expect no less from me."

He gazed at her, reining himself in with an effort of will, and nodded. "Of course...of course. You are right. It is exactly what I would expect of you. It is a huge thing to ask of you, no matter what reasons I throw in your path. You must discuss it with your mother and the boys...and you must consider it yourself." He reached up and placed her hand more firmly against his cheek, his eyes alive with the deep abiding love he had for her.

"But as you dwell on it, consider this. I have come to love and admire you as I have no other in my life. The kind of love I have waited for for a long time...I know there are decisions you must make, vast changes…and even formalities to be observed...one can't be seen to be too keen to accept a man's offer, after all.

"But should you accept me as your fiancé…your husband to be...know that when the time comes, I will endeavour to be the best husband I can -- loving, patient, gentle...annoying." He grinned happily for a moment, his zeal getting the better of him momentarily before he drew himself back again.

"I love you so, Helen. You are the kindest, sweetest, cleverest girl, and when I'm with you there's a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. Your presence warms me...your eyes, wise and soft, beguile me." He turned his head and kissed her gloved palm, his eyes soft as he gazed at her. "You have my heart for as long as I live, and there is nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my life walking the world with you."

Once again, Helen was not the least bit sure what to say...or feel.

She was deeply touched, his words filling her with warmth and tears of happiness that anyone should feel so about her, but at the same time she was almost sick with guilt. That this sweet, bright, funny, kind man was in love with her, but even now, he did not inspire her to the deep, strong, passionate love that Mr. Holmes did.

But still…the chance was there…William had said as much, even though he did not know it applied to him. Friendship and love often deepened and developed over time; the proof of that was standing beside them. And she knew too that everything he had just told her was and would be the absolute truth.

He would love her, be true to her, never treat her harshly...he would always be open and honest with her. He would love and give her his entire being. And the urge to simply say yes and marry him was more tempting than ever. And so was the urge to lock that still nagging little voice in the back of her mind in a box and chuck it in the Thames.

"I know," she said softly, her eyes warm, though she still held back a little for both propriety and her own sanity's sake. "I shall consider your offer most thoroughly and carefully, I promise."

He nodded as the park keepers' voices echoed around them, urging all those remaining like them to make haste towards the exits as all gates were about to close.

"That is all I can ask for," William replied, lowering her hand and wrapping it around his arm. "I would ask only one thing of you if at all possible...and that is...for tonight at least, you dwell on it no further. Put it to the back of your mind, and let us enjoy the music and dinner as I had intended before I lost the run of myself…again." He gave her a rather sheepish smile. "For now...let us be as we were...tomorrow is soon enough to start any deliberations." He touched her cheek with his other hand. "Agreed?"

Taking a deep breath, the chill of the air refreshing her and his words helping to still her frazzled nerves a little, she nodded. "Agreed."

6th December, 1889

Another burst of men's laughter emanated from the games room on the upper floor of the comfortable gentleman's club. Across the corridor in the more sedate cards room, Gerald Thurston looked up from his group's game of three card brag and huffed in mild annoyance at the younger men ensconced in the billiards room.

"It has always been my impression that a games room was meant for games…not celebrations," he groused, picking up his cigar and puffing on it to add liberally to the pall of cigar smoke that, along with the scent of brandy, permeated the air.

"Concentrate on your game, Thurston," snapped Lieutenant Colonel Giles Deboutte, the near skeletally thin, moustachioed army officer staring at his cards. "If a young man isn't entitled to a few quaffs with his pals at his own club to celebrate his good fortune, then I don't know what the world is coming to. If you want peace and quiet, go on back downstairs. If you want to play brag…then play brag!"

"What I would like, Colonel," the moonfaced Thurston replied with sudden equanimity, "is to partake of a game or two of billiards…once I am finished removing your cash from the table, that is." A slow smug smile broke out on the forty-one year old man's face as he laid down his triple king 'prial' to take the pot.

With a grunt of disgust, the Colonel tossed his cards to the pile and folded his arms. "Don't know why you'd bother…you have the devil's own luck with the cards tonight."

To the side of his friend, Watson sighed and laid down his own losing hand. "The Colonel's right, Gerald. You are doing remarkably well tonight. So well, in fact, that I believe I shall beat a hasty retreat before you denude my pocket book entirely."

A rumble of friendly protest rose up as Watson got to his feet, the four men he was playing with unhappy to see him leave.

"But it's only just eleven, John!" Roger Eades pointed out.

"Quite so…and high time that my wife caught sight of me." Watson stretched a little, having been gaming for the past three hours. "Preferably with some money left to my name!"

"Mary is an understanding soul, she won't mind," Thurston wheedled him, trying to get him to remain. "Stay and have a few more hands. Maybe a game or two of billiards with me if we can get the younger men to move out to the Holborn or some such haunt for their celebrations," he added, eying the Colonel.

Watson laughed quietly and shook his head, tapping his own cigar upon the ashtray. "No, thank you. Mary may be the most patient and understanding woman in the world…but no wife appreciates empty pockets in a husband. And you…gentlemen…have been steadily diminishing my cash flow with all the aplomb of master pickpockets," he accused lightly, garnering grins and low chuckles from his fellows.

"Will we see you again next Saturday, John?" Ernest McMillan, the fourth member of the group, asked on finishing his brandy. "If you're not off thwarting crime with Holmes, that is."

Watson smiled as he stepped away from the table. "Holmes and wife depending, you may count on me, gentleman."

"Are we ever going to see Holmes around here again?" the Colonel enquired in his usual brusque fashion, shuffling the deck. "Dashed if I can remember the last time he graced us with his presence."

"He's been busy, Colonel," Watson replied, disinclined to mention the fact that at that particular moment Holmes was sitting at home in a foul mood, staring into space. A mood that had lasted for nearly four days now and which no amount of talk about 'a good meal out and evening at the club' on his part could draw his friend out of.

"All the more reason for the man to get some relaxation," the army man pointed out as he began to deal.

The doctor gave him a small tight smile. "Holmes deals with relaxation as he does most everything he faces, Colonel. On his own terms."

"Yes," the Colonel snorted. "Even if it is to his social detriment. Very well, give him my best regards and inform him that this 'sober, solid, dependable but utterly predictable army brain' of mine is willing to engage him at cards again any time he wishes."

"You may depend upon it, Colonel." Watson's smile grew a little as he remembered the banter between the two men from prior encounters. "Gentlemen." He bade them farewell with a nod. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

With quiet good wishes behind him, the doctor moved towards the open door and out into the hallway, stopping to take a final draft of his cigar. On finishing it, he stepped towards the ashtray on the small table by the door of the billiards room.

"So…any idea on when you're departing, Will?" came the voice of young Anderson Smythe-Royce, his father one of the most senior members of the club.

Tossing his cigar stub in the ashtray, Watson turned to move away, only to be stopped by the sound of an even more familiar voice.

"Not yet," William replied, the smile evident in his voice to any listener. "Had it just been myself, I thought after Christmas…but if, God willing, it is not just me, by the time we get it all organised it could be more than a month or two beyond that. The General has been very good about it…even cracked a smile at me the other day when I told him."

"Never!" came an incredulous reply. "The old man's face will ache for days!"

Laughter rolled around the room again as outside, Watson's brow creased a little. From the sound of it, William was going somewhere. His mind caught hold of the Colonel's words…celebration…and William Edwards was apparently the focus of it. He smiled a little on realising that, of course, this meant he was now Major Edwards…and the journey he spoke of was his return to India.

He went to take the few steps that would lead him inside to offer his congratulations to the pleasant young officer he had come to like exceedingly well, only to be halted again.

"So is your fiancée the sort who will enjoy India, do you think?"

Watson blinked, frozen in his tracks by a single word and the resounding connotations it carried with it.

William's sigh was audible. "As I've already said, Monty, she is not my fiancée yet. She has yet to let me know that she has come to a decision. And I refuse to discuss a fine lady's personal likes and dislikes in front of a crowd of men…especially with such a bunch of reprobates as is gathered in this room," he jibed at them, a few chuckles and 'Here, here's!' rising up as a result.

"Well, best of luck, old chap," an older, gruffer voice addressed him. "Hope she doesn't keep you dangling much longer. Took me three attempts to convince my Amelia to throw her lot in with me!"

A number of voices rose up in sympathy, more than a few with similar stories, it seemed. "A fellow really does get the thin edge of the wedge with this romance lark. You chase them around until they catch you, and then they make you work and work to convince them to marry you. I know one lad from Edinburgh who had to ask his lady love nine times before she'd say yes!"

"Well, what do you expect? He was a Scotsman, after all," came the dry riposte and another round of laughter.

"But…" came the rather confused voice of the youthful Anderson again, "if they loved a chap, why would they say no?"

Humorous snorts could be heard here and there. "Why?" replied that gruff voice. "Because of the heady control it gives them… they'd know all their lives that their husbands came to them on bended knee not once but several times…putting aside pride and everything else in pursuit of their hand."

"Though in your case, Anderson, it might just be because they are waiting for your whiskers to grow in!"

The laughter was loud and sustained this time as Watson remained stock still outside. Helen. William had proposed to Helen. Was making plans to return to India…putting extra time aside to take her and probably her family with him!

"Leave him be." William chuckled. "I dare say Anderson will end up fluttering a fair few hearts along the way before he ever bends the knee."

"Yes…that visage would give you palpitations, wouldn't it?" The wit struck again and this time, as the laughter rumbled behind him, Watson turned from the door and somewhat stunned, made for the staircase.

For three days, he had pondered over what to do about Holmes and how to address the issue of his friend's internal struggles with himself. There was little doubt in his mind that the detective's foul mood was in response to nothing more than his attempts to convince himself that even if he felt something for Helen Thurlow, it meant nothing.

As Watson descended the stairs, he was struck at the irony of watching his friend struggling mightily to put aside all thoughts of her in a manner he had long wished Holmes would apply to the taking of narcotic substances. The more he thought on it, the more it irked him that Holmes was endeavouring to cut something positive out of his life on the grounds that it would be 'distracting' while cleaving doggedly to something wholly negative in order to distract him when he grew uneasy and discontent.

How much more logical would it be to fill that emptiness with something other than drugs…to find contentment for once by focusing outwards on another, rather than constantly inwards on himself. He had yet to see Holmes bored or uneasy in her company…it was as if something about her seemed to still the restlessness inside of his friend.

It was his life, of course. His choice. But what a waste it would be. All those years without anyone slipping beyond those defences of his, and now that someone finally had…

Watson paused. It was foolishness. That was what it was.

All his instincts were to run to his friend at once and share with him this news...to talk to him and have him confront those fears he had long suspected had been rationalised into reasons for avoiding emotional intimacy. To talk to him before this rare…almost unique…chance slipped through his friend's fingers forever.

But to merely rush over would do very little good...in fact, it would counterproductive. Most certainly in the mood Holmes had been in when he left. Better they both sleep on this…there was a little time yet…Helen hadn't given William her answer. There was still time.

Moving down the stairs, his features set in a look of determination. He would go home and discuss this with Mary, formulate a plan of campaign with her…and one way or another tomorrow, Holmes would hear him out.

Authors' Notes: Welcome back, mes amis! I hope everyone has had a great week! We here at aerynfire hope you have enjoyed this latest chapter and are ready for the final two. I know we are...heheheheh...

Now to address some points...

1. Baskerville Beauty - we are giggling madly at your comment...well, considering it took us three stories to get to this point...wrapping up quite a bit of this is a major sigh of relief. And who knows...maybe there will be more...

2. Holmes's motivations for going to the ball will be answered next chapter...as well as what else has been going through his head about Miss Thurlow.

3. Helen can't ask Holmes what he is feeling towards her...major faux pas for a lady to do such a thing...kinda crappy for her really because now she's in a right pickle.

4. We are both glad everyone liked the costume choices...yes, Watson as Henry VIII was a right hoot to do...and he quite enjoyed the part. (giggle)

Thank you all so much for reading and/or reviewing! And stay tuned for next week...Chapter Ten: Nevermore. And ten points to the reviewer who correctly guesses where that came from previously in our works... (snicker) And as always, feel free to let us know what you think! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)