A/N: Hello, fellow hounds! Waki here, but of course you already knew that. In the ennui following the completion of "Down the Rabbit-Hole", I've started to feel a bit like Holmes; just as his mind rebels at stagnation, my creative juices scream for something to occupy them in the boredom. So I thought I'd write a little something in the lull. Some of you may remember a not-so-great story I wrote called "Hinc Illae Lacrimae", in which Amanda Crewe gets sucked into the world of Victorian London and meets our dear, smart-ass detective. Well, this is a short diversion that takes place during the timeline of the story. I thought it would be fun. Maybe not. You be the judge. And don't be too freaked out when you read it.

This is dedicated to my dear, not-forgotten friend, March Hare. Now that she's a dyed-in-the-wool official author, she probably doesn't have much time for fanfiction. But I appreciate her work greatly, and I hope I don't sound like a sap when I say I miss her. So Hare, this is for you.

A/N: Wow, I own nothing. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle gets all the credit. But I'm content to borrow.

----

The Reluctant Romeo

a Sherlock Holmes/HIL vignette

by Wakizashi

----

Stretching her white arms above her head, Amanda Crewe sat up straight in bed, yawning luxuriantly. After a moment she sniffed the air and sighed. She had been living in London for a few weeks, and she was used to the various smells of the city, pleasant and otherwise. But this was one aroma that her olfactory senses just couldn't tolerate.

Swinging her legs over the bed, Amanda stood up in her nightdress and paced around her room, which had kindly been converted from a study by her generous fellow lodgers. Trying to delay the inevitable was getting harder and harder. Finally she groaned and began pulling garments out of her wardrobe. She couldn't stay in her room forever.

Dressed in a Victorian-style maroon dress, Amanda stood in front of the looking-glass, combed out her hair, and shoved a few barrettes into the mass of auburn curls. As satisfied as she could be in her stuffy attire, she turned away and opened the door. Immediately she squinted her violet eyes as a blue cloud of tobacco smoke enveloped her, but she suppressed a cough and stepped out into the hallway.

"Good morning, Crewe," called a cheerful male voice with a dry British accent as Amanda padded into the sitting-room. A tall, thin young man of about twenty-nine or thirty sat reading the newspaper in an armchair, clad in a dressing-gown, his long legs stretched toward the crackling fireplace. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a long-stemmed pipe in the other, and even as he spoke, wisps of smoke curled from his lips up to the ceiling.

Despite the difficulty of her breathing, Amanda couldn't help but smile at the perfect image of Sherlock Holmes. "Good morning to you, too, Holmes," she replied, pleased that he was not in one of his black humors. Whenever Holmes sank into a depression, it was indeed a sinister remedy with which he treated himself. Though Amanda would never admit it to him, it made her physically ill to even think about his cocaine addiction.

She sat down in the opposite armchair, accepted the cup of coffee he offered her, and took a sip. "Watson's not awake yet?" she asked.

"Yes, but he has gone to Kent for the day," said Holmes, draining his cup and balancing it precariously on his bony knee. Amanda watched it with visible apprehension. "It seems one of his old school fellows has come down with a cold or a 'flu or a... plague, or some such thing." Amanda laughed. "In any case, he probably won't be back until this evening."

Which leaves me alone with you all day, Amanda thought, fighting a blush. Holmes was irritating at times, but she knew from the stories she had read and the time she had spent with him that when the mood seized him, he could be quite charming. Blessed with eloquent speech and an extremely sharp wit, it was no small wonder that Sherlock Holmes never ended up as an actor.

No small wonder at all, she thought to herself.

"Forgive me, where are my manners?" he suddenly exclaimed. "Crewe, you'll find some very fine tobacco in the Persian slipper over there. Please help yourself."

Amanda stared at him aghast. "I most certainly will not help--" She stopped as she watched an amused grin light up his normally stern face. "Oh, you're a riot, Holmes," she muttered, sitting back and crossing her legs.

His gaunt shoulders shook with silent laughter. "Really, Crewe, can you not tell when a man is being jocular?" he said, puffing at his pipe.

"No, but I can tell when a man is being an ass," she replied in her most scholarly voice. Holmes chuckled again. "What I can't figure out is why you never die of lung cancer or emphysema, Holmes. You smoke way more than my grandfather did, and he only lived to be sixty-two."

"Fate has a decidedly odd way of choosing its victims," he remarked airily. Then, out of rebellion, the detective smiled and blew out smoke from his nostrils like a contented dragon.

Amanda frowned, annoyed by his attitude toward death. "You really shouldn't be so nonchalant, Holmes. Smoking kills millions of people every year in my time. Besides, it's pathetic, the idea of being dependent on a drug." She looked at Holmes deliberately as she spoke the last word. "Not to mention, it keeps you from making friends."

The detective arched a black eyebrow. "Indeed? How so?"

"Well, I don't mean to hurt your feelings," she said, "but your breath... is not so pleasant." She smiled painfully.

Holmes had no response for this. Looking at her curiously, he cupped a long white hand over his mouth, exhaled into it, and sniffed deeply.

Barely able to restrain her laughter, she added, "You know the grandfather I was talking about?" He nodded wordlessly. "Toward the final years of his life, his breathing was so difficult that they needed to perform a tracheotomy. He had to smoke his cigarettes through a hole in his throat."

His questioning look slowly faded, and for a moment his face became strangely devoid of any expression whatsoever. Finally he shook his head with a self-deprecating smile and lowered his pipe. "'Self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco'," he said in an ironic voice. He caught a stick of chewing gum that she tossed to him and looked at it. "Watson once added that little tid-bit to his list of observations about me." He smiled wryly at Amanda and popped the gum in his mouth. "But I have a sneaking suspicion you already knew that."

She smiled back at him. "Possibly."

A short, awkward silence settled between them as they sat gazing at each other. Holmes plucked at his sleeve, while Amanda took a sip of her coffee and found it ice-cold. At last the former cleared his throat. "But I must say, Crewe," he said, smacking his gum loudly, "I really don't think you played quite fairly at our little deducing game when we first met."

"Oh?"

"Yes, you see, when you proposed that I should... How did you phrase it? 'Tell you all about you'?" She nodded with a grin. "I used my observational skills to deduce all that I could from your appearance and attire, but when I suggested you do the same for me, you simply relied on bits and pieces from Watson's memoirs." He shook his head in disapproval. "Bad form, Crewe. Very bad form."

Amanda laughed. "Yeah, I guess you're right." She caught his pained look at the word "guess" and quickly corrected herself. "I mean, I perceive that you're right. I did kind of cheat."

"You did cheat, Crewe, and I think it only fair that you should atone for your transgression and tell me something about me that you did not read in the good doctor's annals." He raised his eyebrows appraisingly. "You've already studied my methods. I know you have the capacity to do this."

Though she was strangely flattered, she brushed off his comment with a laugh. "Your confidence warms my heart," she said dryly. "But I'm afraid Watson didn't really leave me very much to deduce."

Amanda knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left her lips. Setting his empty cup carefully on the little table beside him, Holmes rose up to his full, commanding height of six feet and stared at her imperiously. "I beg your pardon, Miss Crewe," he said hotly, "but although you and Watson may sincerely believe you know absolutely everything about me, I can assure you that there is a good deal left to discover."

"Yes, sir," she answered in a small voice.

He took a deep, calming breath. "Now then, if you would be so kind as to indulge me, it is time to redeem yourself. Astound me with your powers of deduction."

With a grudging sigh, Amanda set down her own cup and stood up. In an examination parallel to the way in which he had studied her, she circled Holmes like a shark. He stood motionless, save for his jaw, which slowly worked as he chewed his gum, and his gray eyes, which followed her every movement dubiously. She took in every detail of his appearance, closely scrutinizing the stitching of his dressing-gown and inspecting the minute frays on his shirt cuffs - not to mention surreptitiously admiring his bum. Finally she shrugged. "I got nothing," she declared.

"Crewe!"

"I'm just kidding," she said, giving his arm a shove. "Okay, observation and deduction. Let's see. Well, I can see small black smudges on the bridge of your nose and near your left temple. I'm not really sure how advanced your cosmetics are in this era, but I might venture to say... burnt cork?" Holmes nodded, looking somewhat impressed. "It was probably used to give your face an unwashed look, so I'd say you were recently disguised as a laborer."

"A dock worker, to be precise," he replied. "But pray go on."

"Obviously you were on a case, but for the life of me I can't remember any instances in this particular year in which you were compelled to dress as a dock worker. So either you decided not to tell Watson - and me, I might add - about this latest case of yours, or he felt it wasn't impressive enough to record. Am I wrong in assuming this?"

"On the contrary; your latter hypothesis is correct. The problem was quite commonplace, and the solution was so absurdly simple that it could have easily been handed over to Lestrade or Gregson."

"So far so good," Amanda said with a grin. "And now for my next act." Reaching out and taking his left hand in hers, she held it up to her eye level. "I hope you don't mind?"

Though Holmes appeared as cool as a cucumber, his voice was slightly tense. "No, not at all."

Smothering a smile, Amanda turned his hand back and forth under her scrutiny, admittedly enjoying the feel of his long, slender fingers against hers. "It looks like you've been busy at your chemical table," she observed. "Fairly recently, I might add; the acid burns on your index finger and on the web of your thumb look fresh. And being the stubborn man that you are, you didn't put any ointment on them, so if it gets infected and your hand falls off, don't come crying to me. I might also mention," she added as he chuckled to himself, "that the calluses on your fingertips are a little more pronounced than most violinists'. That could only come from pressing down on strings that are too far above the fingerboard. Therefore your bridge is too high."

"Yes, I've been meaning to get it repaired for some time." As she reluctantly restored his hand to him, he nodded approvingly. "Very good, Crewe. I daresay somewhere inside you, there are the makings of a promising detective."

It was an abstruse compliment, but Amanda would cherish it always. "Thank you, Holmes," she said.

"But surely that is not all you can deduce, girl!" She blinked at him, surprised by his vehemence. "I admit your abilities are much more prodigious than Watson's, but these are all mere trifles. You must have another one left in you. 'Hit me with a really shocking one,' as you would say."

"All right, if you're going to push me..." Amanda took a deep breath. A sudden thought occurred to her, and she began to open her mouth. Then she thought better of it and snapped it shut. No, what am I thinking? she thought, staring wide-eyed at her feet. It isn't any of my business.

"Crewe?" She jumped slightly. "What is it? Have you thought of something?"

Amanda shook her head violently. "No, no, it's... nothing, never mind," she said quickly, carefully avoiding his eyes.

"Oh, but now you must tell me," he replied, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, "for you have piqued my curiosity."

"No, Holmes," she almost shouted. "I mean, I really can't say it. It wouldn't be my place."

The detective's eyebrows drew together as he studied her. "Crewe..." He moved into her field of vision and ducked his head down until his eyes were level with hers. "I would like to think that we have come to a point in our friendship which allows you to feel that you can speak freely with me. Within a reasonable limit," he added at her doubtful look. "If there is something you wish to say, then simply say it."

She almost protested, but she was caught defenseless in his keen gray gaze. "You'll be angry with me," she said quietly.

"I will not," he insisted.

A silence followed, which seemed to Amanda to last hours. Finally she was aware that she had been holding her breath, and she slowly let it out. All right, she thought, he asked for it.

"I was just wondering," she said, as casually as she could, "why you decided to stop pursuing a career as an actor."

Sherlock Holmes was not a man easily shocked, but at this revelation he took an involuntary step back, as if he had been inflicted a physical blow. His face lost what little color it had, and he stared at Amanda with a shaken, hunted look in his eyes. "H-how... how in God's name do you know that?" he hissed.

Instantly kicking herself for letting him drag it out of her, Amanda swallowed nervously. "I didn't know, Holmes," she said, her voice trembling, "not for sure. I just always wondered--"

"No!" he suddenly shouted, causing her to flinch. "No, you must have known! You cannot have possibly figured it out by yourself, and therefore you must have already known it."

"Holmes, come on--"

"How did you find out?" he demanded, ignoring her pleas to calm himself. "Tell me, girl, was it Watson? Does he know? Oh, dear God, he's not going to publish it in one of those damned chronicles of his, is he? Out with it!"

"Holmes, shut up for a second!" This was enough to silence the raging detective, though he glared at Amanda venomously. "I didn't know, okay?" she said, a desperate edge to her voice. "Nobody told me, and Watson never found out. But I thought that, maybe, it was conceivable that you might have been an actor. Let me finish!" she protested as he shook his head in disbelief. "There are a lot of things about you that would make anyone start to wonder. You know? Your talent for disguises, your... your flair for being dramatic, the way you always quote from Shakespeare and, and Goethe. I'm not as clueless as you think I am, Holmes. You make it as obvious as the nose on your..." She realized her blunder a second too late. "Face," she ended weakly.

Holmes let out a bitter laugh that hurt her ears to listen to. "Indeed? Obvious, is it?" He inched slowly toward her, until he was so close she could smell his breath, tobacco mingled with spearmint. "You lie through your teeth," he said accusingly.

Amanda was aware of tears stinging the corners of her eyes, but all she felt was burning anger. If there was one thing she couldn't stand, it was being accused of lying. And now, to her utter indignation, the man whom she had always called a hero was charging her with the ultimate insult. She could barely keep herself from slapping him.

"You must think me naïve indeed, Crewe," Holmes continued, oblivious to the rage simmering inside her, "if you expect me to believe this stuff and nonsense about your 'powers of reasoning'. I will concede to say that you are not quite so obtuse as Watson, but there is no way on Earth that you could simply deduce something like this. Now tell me the truth, girl. Who told you?"

Taking a deep breath to clear her head, Amanda craned her neck to stare into his steely gray eyes. "Now you listen to me, Sherlock Holmes," she said in a quiet, dangerous voice. He took an unconscious step back. "I can put up with a great deal, and I have. But I will not stand here and let you call me a liar. And you have a lot of nerve forcing me to tell you something I didn't want to tell you. I warned you that you would get upset, but you didn't care. So don't you dare accuse me of lying when you're the one who said you wouldn't be angry! If anyone is the liar here, it's you!"

With that last blow, she shoved roughly past him and stormed into her room, the slam of her door echoing like a gunshot in the apartment.

----

Feeling a strange mixture of fury, pain, and guilt, Sherlock Holmes stood in the middle of the sitting-room, his fists clenching and unclenching, scarcely knowing what to do with himself.

How could she have known? He had never told Watson little more than shreds of his past and, in turn, the doctor had never asked. And unless there was to be some form of deathbed confession later on in his life, he didn't plan on telling anyone else. So how had Amanda Crewe known that he had once been an aspiring actor?

"Damn her, she was telling the truth," he whispered to himself.

With a rueful sigh, Holmes collapsed into his armchair, staring into the fire without really seeing it. What an ass he had been. How could he have lost his temper and shouted at the poor girl? If anything, he should have congratulated her for discovering what even Watson - his closest friend - had not even the slightest suspicions of. She did indeed have the makings of a detective.

In retrospect, he supposed it must have been quite obvious to a clever mind like hers. He did, after all, use disguises quite a bit in his work, and he could never resist an opportunity to employ his natural histrionic talents. There was also his extensive use of dramatic quotes in his everyday repertoire to be considered. The longer he thought about it, he really had been very careless. Amanda must have suspected it long ago.

He passed a thin white hand across his brow. He certainly had been a tyrant. It was as Amanda had said: he had coerced her to tell him, even though she had been clearly reluctant to do so. Worse than a tyrant, he reminded himself; a hypocrite as well. He had accused her of lying - something he detested being accused of himself - when in actual fact, he was the one who had lied. He had assured her that he would not be upset, and he had become positively volcanic. In his mind, he could still hear Amanda's tremulous voice as she had attempted to calm him.

How could he possibly make things right again?

Determined to remedy the situation but unsure how to do so, Holmes stood up and padded softly into the hallway, coming to a stop outside Amanda's door. He raised his hand to the wood, but froze in mid-knock. What did he think he was doing? She didn't want to speak to him. Very likely, she didn't even want to look at him. If he tried to apologize, moments after tearing into her like a beast, she would simply think of him as some sort of insane split-personality.

Still, he definitely did not want her to remain angry at him. Despite all her infuriating habits and idiosyncrasies, she was a stimulating companion; even more so than Watson, though he would never tell either of them. And, he had to admit, he enjoyed her smile.

He cleared his throat. "Am--" He quickly caught himself. Good Lord, he had almost called her by her Christian name! "Crewe?"

"Go away, Holmes," was the deadpan response.

He felt a brief wave of annoyance, but he forced it down. "Crewe, will you open the door? Please?" he added hastily, barely remembering his manners.

She snorted. "Why? You already bit my head off. Did you come to chow down on the rest of me?" The door opened slightly, and she thrust out one of her small white hands. "Here, the right one looks less stringy than the left."

"Crewe, for God's sake, stop acting like this!"

He knew it was the wrong thing to say even as the words formed in his mind. Amanda withdrew her hand, and there was a long silence. Then: "Holmes, I don't think you can blame me for not wanting to see you."

"Yes, I understand, but--"

"Come back later, when I'm less furious with you."

And the door slammed shut.

Sighing silently to himself, Holmes let his long, thin fingers slide down the cool surface of the door. He wished he knew how to speak to Amanda. Of course, he had some idea of how a man must conduct himself with a woman. But she was unlike any woman he had ever met. So brazen, so audacious... so captivating. He felt a peculiar tightness somewhere in his left ribcage whenever she smiled at him.

Damnation.

"Crewe, I'm going out," he said decisively.

There was no answer, but he did not expect one.

----

Amanda felt sorry for Holmes. He would clearly benefit from stepping outside of his comfort zone and allowing others to draw closer to him, but from what she had read about his father and the coldness with which he had raised him, it was no wonder that Holmes found it difficult to make friends.

But she was still angry at him. There was absolutely no excuse for the way he had treated her. And calling her a liar--! She felt her ears burn just thinking about it.

Blowing an irate breath out through her nose, she stood up and walked to the open window of her room. Sunlight was breaking through the layer of clouds, and for once the London air wasn't tainted by that sick yellow fog. It was a day to be outside, strolling through the great city, not to be holed up in her room, silently fuming at the most brilliant detective the world had ever known.

Of course, she knew that Holmes regretted it. He had tried to apologize, after all. She wondered why she hadn't just let him.

Or why she had allowed him to persuade her into telling him she knew about his former acting career, for that matter. She had known it would only upset him; he obviously didn't want anyone knowing about it. But those eyes of his - those intense gray eyes that seemed to gaze past hers and straight into her mind - had been so disarming that before she could stop herself, she was blurting out his secret.

"Why didn't I just keep my big mouth shut?" she muttered to herself.

"She speaks!" cried a theatrical voice in the sunlit alley below, surprisingly close. "Oh, speak again, bright angel!"

Startled, Amanda leaned out the window to find Holmes quite literally clinging to the side of the building, near the window ledge. "Holmes!" she exclaimed. "What on earth do you think you're doing? Have you gone completely insane?"

The detective's response was a mischievous grin. "Not at all, Crewe," he replied jauntily, though his taut limbs betrayed the effort required to keep him from losing his grip. "I am merely demonstrating the histrionic abilities that you were clever enough to perceive." He cleared his throat. "May I come up for a spell?"

For the moment Amanda was too surprised to do anything but stare at him.

"Pray decide quickly, my dear girl, for I fear that Watson may yet have another patient on his hands if I fall from such an imposing height."

This was enough to shake her from her stupor. "Yes! Get inside, please, before you kill yourself!"

With Amanda's assistance, Holmes was able to pull himself onto the ledge and through the window, with no injuries save a scrape on his right cheek where he had found a thorny adversary in the climbing moss-rose bush. His suit was rumpled and his usually impeccable black hair preposterously disheveled, but somehow he managed, as always, to maintain his dignity.

"I swear, Holmes," Amanda said, fishing in a drawer for a handkerchief, "just when I think you can't get any crazier, you do something like this. Here, hold still. You're bleeding."

"Crewe, I really don't think that's necess-- oh, very well," he assented as she reached up and dabbed at the abrasion on his high cheekbone. "I can assure you, however, that I am quite sound in mind. I simply wished to get your attention and, having failed in my first attempt, I decided for a more... thespian approach."

"Well, you certainly did get my attention," Amanda replied. In more than one way, she added mentally, unconsciously slowing in her ministrations as she thought of the way her heart had raced when she had heard Holmes' voice.

'Speak again, bright angel!...'

Clearing her throat, she quickly folded the handkerchief and set it aside. "So what was it that possessed you to climb my wall like some demented Romeo?" she asked evenly.

Was it her imagination, or did he look just a trifle disappointed when her hand fell away? "Surely you can deduce that, Crewe," he said in a low voice. "I wanted to apologize for my rotten behavior. I was so shocked and dismayed that you had discovered the very thing I have been trying to hide that I... I concentrated my anger on you. I realize that it is no excuse, but..." He shrugged slightly. "I am very sorry."

Amanda had to smile. It took a lot for Sherlock Holmes to say he was sorry. "Consider yourself forgiven," she replied.

He smiled slightly in return. Then he reached into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a small, folded piece of cream-colored paper. "The other reason for my foolish display," he said, "was to give you this."

She took it from him, her auburn eyebrows drawing together as she read the title aloud. "'Brighton and Windigate's Traveling Acting Company presents William Shakespeare's classic "Romeo and Juliet".'"

"The playbill from the very first play I ever acted in," Holmes told her. "Look at the cast list."

She looked at him dubiously. "Don't tell me you played Romeo."

He chuckled. "No, no, of course not; just look."

Amanda obeyed, opening the playbill to the list of cast members. There, a few lines from the top, beside the role of Tybalt, was the detective's name. "William Holmes?" she read with a raised eyebrow.

Holmes looked suddenly embarrassed. "I was young. I feared that Sherlock was not likely to inspire admiration in my audience."

"Oh, I don't know," she said with a smile, "I kind of like the name Sherlock. It's very... unique."

He snorted. "She jests at scars that never felt a wound," he replied dryly. But she could see that he was flattered.

Amanda closed the playbill and held it out to Holmes, but he pushed it back into her hands. "Keep it," he said, kind but insistent. "Consider a gift for your worthy powers of deduction."

She knew from his expression that there would be no arguing with him. Instead, she simply nodded.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, turning the playbill carefully over in her hands. Hiding a smile, she watched as Holmes started to sit beside her, then reconsidered and chose the velvet chair in the corner. They sat for a while in silence. "You must have been an amazing actor," she finally said. "You're so poised, and you have such perfect control over your voice and your posture." She looked at him, aware that he was busily studying his shoes. "Sorry if I'm embarrassing you, but it's true."

"Yes, well..." Holmes was still leaning forward, staring at the floor. "Stage presence is something that is acquired only after years of practice."

"Then why did you give it up?" she asked, careful to keep her voice mild.

He sighed, shook his head. To Amanda, it seemed that he was experiencing some inner conflict. Finally he straightened and settled his eyes on her. "Yes, I suppose I can tell you," he said, almost to himself. "You know so much already, after all." He paused. "There were, in fact, multiple reasons why I decided to end my acting career. Most prominent is the fact that I could not make a living from it. I was rather unsuccessful in securing high-paying roles, and after my decision to quit school and turn thespian, my father promptly disinherited me from his will."

Amanda saw a pained look briefly cross his features. She felt an instinctive desire to reach out and cover his hand with hers, but she decided against it.

"Another reason was that contentions arose between myself and my fellow actors in the repertory company. I was quite young when I started out, but - and I don't mean to boast, Crewe - I was already possessed of a good deal more talent than some of the others. This caused a bit of professional jealousy among them, and indeed made for a tense working environment. I must confess, too, that I was eager to play more challenging roles, and became disillusioned when they were given to actors with more seniority.

"In any case, I decided I was only fooling myself and returned to school. I was soon after introduced to a student named Victor Trevor, whose father suggested that I make good use of my knack for observation and deduction." He smiled wanly. "And the rest, as they say, is history."

Amanda nodded. For a long time she was silent, staring down at the playbill in her hand. Finally she looked up at Holmes. "Maybe there's another reason why you stopped acting that you didn't consider," she said quietly. He raised his eyebrows. "Maybe it wasn't challenging enough for you, and you needed to find a more stimulating channel to direct your brilliant mind." She smiled slightly. "Maybe you were meant to be a detective."

Holmes said nothing, but it was obvious that he hadn't considered this.

She stood up and stretched. "Anyway," she continued, placing the playbill reverently on the table beside her bed, "I think you made the right choice. I mean, just think: if you had become an actor, you wouldn't have met Watson, and he would never have written all the stories that the world will come to love."

He inclined his head. "I might have still become famous," he pointed out.

"You know that doesn't matter to you," Amanda argued. "You play the game for the game's sake, remember? Besides, actors come and go all the time. But how many people over a hundred years from now will be known as the Great Detective?" Kneeling down beside his chair, she laid a hand on his arm. For once, he didn't stiffen at her touch. "This was clearly what you were born to do. So why fight it?" She paused thoughtfully. "Striving to better, oft we mar what's well."

Holmes cocked his head to the side, puzzled. Amanda grinned and explained, "'King Lear', act one." And she stood up and ruffled his already mussed hair. "Your hair's a mess, William," she said as she left the room.

Fighting a blush that was threatening to creep up his neck, Holmes stood up indignantly. "I knew it was from 'King Lear'," he replied, following her out the door.

----

A/N: Well, there you go. Before you say anything, I'm not the only one who has the crazy notion that Holmes might have been an actor before his detective days. For more information, read "The Histrionic Holmes", an essay by Marvin Kaye. It's very instructive, I assure you. Anyway, thank you much for reading, and do leave a comment before you go! Thanks again, hounds!

-Waki