I just want to thank you all for reading my story once again. I forgot how much fun this was. Please leave more reviews and tell me what you guys think. Thanks!

It is amazing how quickly and irrevocably one's life can change. For me, it all started with a fever.

It was late August of the previous year; I woke up one morning and felt as if I had been dunked in a bucket of ice water. My mother had placed her hand against my burning forehead and declared that I was quite sick and needed to stay in bed. She summoned Josephine to bring up some hot soup for me as she plumped up my pillows.

"Serves you right for sleeping with your windows open," she teased me as she tucked a stray hair behind my ear. "Some rest shall do you some good. Now drink your soup."

I followed her advice and stayed in bed; I spent much of the time with my nose in a book and drank more soup than I ever want to drink again. The fever dissipated almost a week later and life returned to some normalcy. However, all was not normal; I started to notice that my neck and back soon felt as if they had been replaced with wooden boards. It was not painful, it merely felt uncomfortable. I later reported my discomfort to my father during dinnertime. He thoughtfully chewed his food as I told him.

"Well," he said as he took a drink of wine. "Perhaps your sleeping positions are causing your stiffness. Try sleeping in another fashion and we shall see if the stiffness goes away."

The next day, I felt an odd tingly feeling in my left leg. I merely summed it up to my father's hypothesis again and continued on with my activities. Later the same day, however, I was trying to open the door to my room with my left hand but for some odd reason, it felt weak. I rubbed my left arm and tried again but I could not open it. Unlike the fever and my leg, this could not be explained as easily as the others. A trickle of fear shot through my body as I realized that everything was happening within days of each other. However, I decided to suppress these feelings. It could just be a mere coincidence...

Denial could only last for so long.

I was walking downstairs when I took a tumble. Fortunately, I was close enough to the bottom that I did not injure myself. That was the only optimistic part of this moment. I slapped my left leg in a teasing way as if to punish my own clumsiness but I did not feel the sting of the slap. I tried getting up and when I put my weight on my left leg, I fell back down. Back on the floor, I slapped my leg again. Nothing. I pulled up my skirt and pinched as hard as I can. No pain. Something was seriously wrong. I became hysterical, continually slapping my leg harder and harder and pinching it. I started to hear someone scream as I tried scratching my leg. Tears began to blur my vision when I was hoisted onto my feet by a pair of strong arms.

"Charlotte!" James yelled and promptly smacked me. It was only then that I realized that it was me who had been screaming.

Seeing that I could not stand without his support, he allowed me to place my full weight on him. I managed to tell him through blubbering sobs what had occured as we hobbled up the stairs together. He placed me in my bed just as Mum ran into my room, wondering what was the matter. James calmy reported what had happened, fetched his medical bag, and started to determine what was happening to me. Mum began to fuss, which only heightened my already frayed nerves.

"Mum," James evenly said through gritted teeth. He removed the stethoscope from his bag and placed each end in his ears. "You are only aggravating Charlotte with your fussing. I understand your concern but she is already terrified. Send for Dad, he should be here right now. He needs to be here right now...and if you could send for the family doctor as well. I need a second opinion."

Later that night, the family doctor conferred with James about what they both had found. I do not think that James needed a second opinion; he just wanted someone to possibly disprove him. Mum sat at the foot of the bed and bit her nails to the quick while Dad held onto my left hand, it too now robbed of any feeling. My eyes were listlessly staring at the ceiling when James gently broke the news.

I was diagnosed with polio.

My limbs were no longer paralyzed but a part of me still remained in that state. I sat by the River Isis and watched the punts cross the murky waters. The sound of the river and the green of the grass managed to calm me down, but I was still stung at the abrasiveness and unconcern that Holmes displayed as he pried my life open for people to see.

A sniffle escaped me as I drew up my knees to my chin. I regained the feeling in my leg but my mobility on that side was now limited. It was the same with my left arm. I now walked with a limp. It was not these conditions that disheartened me; it was the way the disease wreaked havoc on my life. The limping and the diminished capacity for my left arm I could tolerate. It was the constant stares and whispers about my delicate condition that pierced my heart. It was the knowledge that no one would marry a crippled young woman that stung.

The rustling of grass from behind me caused me to whip my head around. Two figures stood there.

"Who's there?" I asked while I attempted to wipe the tears from my eyes.

"Charlotte, it's Aidan. Are you all right?"

I did not answer as I stood up and approached them. Upon closer inspection, I saw that his companion was Holmes. Damn him, he was the last person I wanted to see. Aidan quickly began to talk in a calming manner; he saw my eyes staring daggers at Holmes and Aidan clearly did not want another argument to occur.

"We've been looking everywhere for you. It was your father that suggested you would be here. Says it's one of your favorite places."

"It is," I replied in a cold voice. My eyes slid towards the stationary figure of Sherlock Holmes. "What brings you here, Holmes? Still want to finish your dissection?"

"My dear Miss Andrewes," He began to say in a somewhat patronizing tone. "I would just like to say that you are the one who challenged me to deduce more about you." There was not even a hint of an apology in his voice.

"Are you suggesting that I would be stupid enough to allow myself to get into a situation that would be harmful to me?" I said as my voice rose in anger. "Pardon my language, but damn you!"

"Holmes, can't you just apologize?" Aidan pleaded as he grabbed my arm and stopped me from walking away.

"I apologize for my abrasiveness," he promptly stated at Aidan's request. "Though…the way you're acting, however, suggests that I am correct"

I could not believe it; my mouth hung agape in furious disbelief. "You really want to know if you're correct? Fine, you're right. I was sick with polio last year. Are you happy?"

Holmes merely buried his chin into his chest while Aidan looked at me with that ever so familiar look of pity. No matter the different people who I came across, the expression of pity always looked the same.

"That is all I needed to know," Holmes finally said. "I must say that I am honestly sorry. I have a rather nasty habit of disregarding other's feelings in the midst of my deductions."

I sighed, exhausted by my emotions and from the distance I had walked from Christ Church to the Isis. "My father's probably looking for me. I should be going."

Aidan offered me his arm. "Take my arm."

I looked at his arm for a moment and was about to speak when Holmes supplied the sentiments I was about to voice.

"She is not going to take your arm, Keating. She will want to walk on her own."

"I'll be fine, Aidan." I assured him, politely declining as I began to walk.

However, Aidan still insisted until I became quite incensed and finally cried, "Don't you dare pity me!" I began to walk at an even faster pace to prove that I could do without his arm.

"I told you, Keating," Holmes smirked.

"Don't think that just because you apologized that everything will be all right, Holmes." I said over my shoulder.

"No, not at all," Holmes retorted lightly. "Why would I ever think of such a thing?"

I stopped and looked back at him. His face was impassive and those grey eyes gave me nothing. He merely walked past me and we continued to make our way back to Christ Church.

"Firecrackers, Charlotte! I nearly had a heart attack trying to find you."

Though still upset, I could not help but laugh at my father's strongest curse word. It was clearly a remaining vestige of his childhood. I quickly stopped laughing when I saw the look on his face.

"Sorry, father," I timidly mumbled, feeling as if I were only nine years old.

"Well, lads, I thank you for finding Charlotte and escorting her home." He turned to Holmes and uttered in a low voice, "Mr. Holmes, I do hope you consider what you say before you actually speak the next time."

Holmes bowed his head and apologized. "Pray, forgive me, sir. I will certainly take you up on that advice."

"Until the next lecture then. Have yourselves a good weekend." And with that, he led the boys outside. I waited in the parlor and waited for my father to come and lecture me about my thoughtlessness. I heard the front door close and saw my father's tall figure walk into the parlor.

"Sorry, Dad, my temper got the best of me. I shouldn't have run off."

He took a seat beside me and sighed. "Charlie, my dear, I know that you certainly did not want to have the private matters of your life aired for all to see. However, it does not excuse you of what you did. I was quite worried. "

"I know, I am so sorry. My emotions overpowered me." I said in an apologetic tone. I could not help but feel agitated when he said 'disability'.

"Now, if you've learned your lesson, let's wash up and get ready for dinner." He tapped me on the shoulder, stood up, and extended his hand towards me.

I sneered at his hand and remarked, "I can stand up on my own."

"I didn't say you couldn't," he replied as he withdrew his hand. He then started to sort through the post laying on the table.

I went over to give him a hug when I saw one of the letters in the pile was something interesting. I pulled it out and examined it.

"Look, Dad, it's from America."

"America, huh?" He nonchalantly replied as he glanced over the letter in my hand. "What does the postmark say?"

I glanced at the postmark. "It's from Boston. Probably from Nana or Uncle Ben."

"Hmm, Boston. That's interesting," he cheerily tapped my nose and added, "Now my dear, go ahead and wash up."

"All right," I answered with a nod and began to walk upstairs. I was about to say something more when I saw my father bend over the parlor fireplace and deposit the letter from Boston into the fire. Unopened.