Chapter Thirteen: I Find Myself in Confusion

"Miss Sterling, Miss Sterling, can you hear me?"

I felt a stinging sensation in my throat and slowly opened my eyes to see Dr. Watson leaning over me. He brought a flask to my mouth and I gulped and sputtered reflexively.

I blinked a few times so Watson's face would focus more clearly. "Wh-"

"Don't speak," Watson said putting a finger on my lips to silence me. "Just try to relax."

I was dully aware of an intense pain on my right side as well pain from my left ankle. I took a deep breath, only to find it extremely painful.

"Where's Becky?" I muttered.

"In the sitting room with Holmes," Watson said with a slight smile. "You gave them both quite a fright."

"How did I scare Mr. Holmes?"

"When you and your friend didn't return from the opera house, we started getting worried. We went to the opera house to see if you were still there. Holmes and I were speaking with one of the workmen in the auditorium when we heard a loud crash from the cellar. Wanting to see what the noise was, Holmes headed down the stairs to find Becky, running toward him.

'She led him to you and he said you were barely conscious and barely breathing…he and Becky thought you were dead. When Holmes carried you upstairs, I was worried sick, mostly because your color was unnatural and you weren't breathing..."

Without thinking, I reached to my side to grab my inhaler, because my chest was still very tight. Much to my chagrin, it wasn't there. "Hey Doc," I said interrupting his speech, "can you ask Becky if she saw my inhaler."

Watson raised his eyebrows in curiosity. "You want me to ask her what?"

I was starting to wheeze again and was in no mood for ignorance. "Please, Doc, just ask her. She'll know what you're talking about."

He seemed reluctant to leave me alone, but did as I asked him. He returned a few moments later carrying my 'puffer' in his hand, like he was afraid of it.

"Here," he said handing it to me.

I took it and shook it. I took a few deep breaths, or rather as deep as I could without causing myself pain, and took the medication. In a few moments, I had relief.

"I daresay I do not know if I approve of such a device," Watson said eyeing the inhaler skeptically.

"Welcome to twenty-first century medicine. This gives you relief from the worst asthma attacks."

"How does it work?"

My body ached and I suddenly felt really tired. "Hey Doc, can I tell you later? I'm kinda beat."

"Good, that shot of landum, mixed with a small does or Morphine, I gave you is beginning to work." He got up from the edge of the bed and gently slid me under the covers. "Get some rest," he instructed. "You should feel somewhat better when you awake."

"Thanks a lot Doc," I said.

He smiled and left the room.

When I was alone, I closed my eyes and surrendered myself to the arms of Morpheous.

"Hey dude, you feeling better?" Becky's voice brought me into wakefulness.

"Yeah, thanks man," I replied, my voice thick from drugs and sleep.

"You scared the shit out of me, you do realize that right?"

"Sorry dude."

"Yeah you should be. Doctor Watson said you managed to crack two ribs and sprain your ankle badly."

"Nice," I muttered. I blinked a few times and refocused on Becky's face. "Dude, thanks for the quick thinking with the inhaler. You know you saved my life."

"Hey that's what 'sisters' are for right?"

"Yeah. Hey what time is it?"

"Oh I don't know, around six o'clock I guess."

"How long have I been out?"

"A few hours. I wanted to come in earlier, but Doctor Watson wouldn't let me."

"Good," I said with a forced smile. "I needed sleep anyway."

Becky laughed and messed my hair affectionately. "Look I'm gonna go, I know Mr. Holmes wants to talk to you."

I groaned. Great, now he's either going to chastise me for being stupid and never let me help him again, or he's just gonna laugh, saying I acted rashly. Neither one is very appealing at the moment.

"I thought you'd be happy to see him," Becky said with a mock innocent smile.

"Thrilled," I muttered.

Becky left the room and a few minutes later, the door was opened by a pale, visibly shaken Sherlock Holmes.

"Hey," I said quietly.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm in pain, but I'll survive," I forced another smile, this one I know was less convincing. "Look, I wanted to thank you. You saved my life."

He said nothing, he just stood staring at me.

Well at least he's not going to start laughing.

"I'm afraid I was slightly out of character," he said gently.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, by saving your life, you could say that I'm not a complete misogynist."

It took me a moment to realize what he was alluding to. When I did realize he was throwing my words from the night before into my face, I chuckled, but stopped when searing pain filled my body.

"I guess I proved that I was totally in character," I said glumly. "I mean, you're right, I am dense, how else could you explain the stupid stunt I pulled?"
"You could call it an act of egotism," he volunteered.

"That doesn't sound much better."

There was something in his attitude that I found slightly unnerving. Despite the fact that he was extremely gentle and courteous, treating me with the utmost respect, there was something in his eyes that I could not read.

"There something on your mind?" I asked, trying to figure out what the suppressed emotion was.

My question seemed to take him aback. He seemed more fidgety after I asked him than before. "If it makes you uncomfortable you don't have to tell me."

"I daresay you are not very observant when it comes to recognizing emotions," he said quickly.

"Somehow I think you are just as dense as I in that field."

"On the contrary, although I may not express emotions and feelings very often, I can recognize them instantly."

"All right, so maybe I'm not perceptive. Is that a crime?"

"No, but it is vital to detective work."

My ribs were beginning to throb and I was quickly loosing patience with him. "Look, I simply asked you a question. Now you can deign to answer it or you can leave it left as if it were never said. At this point I really don't care which option you choose."

He said nothing for several moments and I once again felt like a specimen on a slide under a microscope. He then favored me with a rare, genuine smile. The smile lit up his entire face and my heart pounded again my wounded ribs.

Suddenly, for reasons I could not understand, I wished I was prettier, less sarcastic, more open to emotion, smarter…I suddenly wished I was one of those girls in my class who got pleasure in making fun of me, because my nose was always stuck in a book. Those girls that were beautiful and always got their man; the same girls I always scorned.

What is wrong with me? Why am I suddenly wishing I was someone else? Why am I suddenly wishing to be like Amber? It must be the morphine.

"I think I should perhaps satisfy your curiosity," Holmes said, thankfully interrupting my thoughts.

"That'd be nice of you," I responded.

He took a deep breath and strode closer to the bed. Once we were only a few feet from each other, he lowered his voice.

"Your friend, told me what you said when you were going down to the third cellar of the opera house."

What's he talking about? I wracked my brain to remember, but I could think of nothing that would cause Sherlock Holmes some distress.

"I'm confused Mr. Holmes," I admitted. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

Once again he smiled, only this time I can only describe it as a Jeremy Brett half smile. "She told me that you said you wanted to show me that you were worthy of my confidence and that you were intelligent. What made you say that?"

"Heat of the moment I guess, and the fact that I wanted you to know that you can count on and trust me. Why do you ask?"

He was silent for a few moments and then admitted something that nearly made my heart stop. "I feel slightly guilty, like I caused your injuries. I know it is illogical but I cannot shake that feeling."

"Hey, look, don't worry about it. It was an accident and nothing more. You did save me, after all. You got a minute?"

"Yes," he said, returning to his former cold, calculating personality.

"Before I fell through the staircase, I did speak with Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Very good," he replied.

"This so-called ghost also seemed to know I spoke with her. When Becky and I descended into the cellars, this mysterious voice welcomed us to a world of night and mentioned my conversation with the singer."

I then proceeded to describe to Sherlock Holmes my conversation with Christine Daaé as well as my adventures down in the cellars. When I concluded, Holmes closed his eyes and leaned against one of the walls of the room.

"Interesting. What do you make of Mademoiselle Daaé's description of the voice she hears?"

"To be honest sir, I make nothing of it," I replied.

"I'm surprised," the detective said.

"Why?"

"Because you seemed so good at putting together chains of events."

"And what's that suppose to mean?" I couldn't hide my growing irritation.

"Allow me to make a connection, a connection that you should have seen."

"Go right ahead."

"The description from Mademoiselle Daaé mirrors the description given to you by the Bellemontes. So--"

"So the voice that belongs to Christine's Angel of Music also belongs to the manager's opera ghost!" I said excitedly, picking up on his train of thought.

"Correct."

"What did you do today?"

"Spoke with Raoul de Chagny."

"How did your interview with Monsieur de Chagny go?"

Sherlock Holmes gave a snort of contempt. "The young vicomte is intolerable! He merely pined about how much he loves Christine Daaé and how she is courting another man instead of him. Then he told me that Mademoiselle Daaé is leaving for Perros in two days and he has every intention of following her in order to make her fall madly in love with him.

'And Watson wonders why I have no use for love. It reduces men to blithering idiots and drives them to unspeakable acts. Humph!"

Well you certainly have fixed opinions don't you? For some strange reason I could not understand why I felt hurt at his dismissal of love. It was completely irrational and illogical. Must be the morphine.

"Monsieur Holmes?"

"What?" He asked irritably.

"I have an idea."

"Good Lord, a woman thinking! A dangerous pastime for someone of your sex."

"Misogynist," I mumbled. "Anyway, as I was saying, I have a really good idea. Are you willing to listen to it?"

"I don't seem to have any other alternative."

I ignored his sarcasm. "You said that this Angel of Music and the opera ghost are one and the same right?"

The detective nodded. "Yes but--"

"Shut up for a minute and let me finish. I have a way we can learn more about this angel/ghost. You said Christine is leaving for Perros in two days and that Raoul is following her, correct?"

"Yes, please stop reiterating what I already know and state your case," he said irritably.

"Here's my plan. We accompany the lovebirds to Perros, incognito of course, and follow them to the graveyard. We listen to their conversation, and I'm certain, from what you tell me about Raoul de Chagny, he will bring up the matter of the voice heard in the bedroom. What do you think?"

The detective was silent for several minutes, considering my plan. Finally, he reopened his eyes and stared at me. "Perhaps…perhaps we should accompany them. Yes, undoubtedly Monsieur le vicomte will mention the voices."

"Where ever did you get that idea?" I asked caustically.

He ignored me. "We will have to go in disguise."

"Yeah I know," I replied. "So you think it is a good idea?"

He nodded. "Quite," he replied.

"Thanks," I muttered. I felt a blush rise from my chest to my cheeks at his compliment. I couldn't figure out why I was acting the way I was around him. I passed it off as the morphine and then decided it best to change the subject. "So, what's the game plan for tomorrow?"

"Excuse me?" He asked, not knowing what I meant.

"What do you plan on doing tomorrow?"

"I am going to the opera house. I arraigned for the management to give me a tour of the building, including the cellars. You," he said putting extra emphasis on the pronoun, "are going to stay here and rest."

I gently shook my head, causing it to swim. "Negative," I said forcefully. "I'm your associate and therefore I go where you go."

"Yes, but you're hurt and Watson thinks its best if--"

"Listen buddy," I said lowering my voice. "I'm not known to follow doctor's instructions to the letter, so don't expect me to sit here quietly while you go investigating, 'cause it aint gonna happen."

"We'll see," he replied. He suddenly moved toward the door. "You should rest," he said gently. His tone was once again gentle. "Watson, I'm sure is anxious to examine you."

I suddenly found myself wishing he would stay longer. I didn't want him to leave, I wanted to remain as close to him as possible. The feelings were totally illogical and I was struggling to hide them from the detective. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Uh, look, I might need help getting to my room. Would you mind?"

He once again favored me with the Jeremy Brett half-smile. "I will not go very far," he said exiting the room.

I was alone for several minutes, reflecting on the conversation I had just had with the great detective. I felt a range of emotions for the detective, from complete irritation to total hero worship. It was nuts! My thoughts however were interrupted by the sound of a distinct rap on the bedroom door.