A quick correction: The beginning of the story actually occurs during Michaelmas term (October--December) instead of Hilary term (January--March) like I wrote before.

Thank you, H.M. Chandler, for your wonderful advice. I will certainly keep that in mind.

And I also hope it's clear that the reason Holmes struck the bargain in the previous chapter was because there were other young women asides from Emily that were after his attentions. His courting with Charlotte would detract from those attentions. I wrote a line about it in that chapter but perhaps it wasn't as clear as I thought it was.

Anyways, enough of my chattering and let's get to the chapter...oh and please keep reading and reviewing.

"Firecrackers, James! That's cold!"

It was expected after the holiday season and it had an extraordinarily sobering effect knowing that after New Year's celebrations, I would be sitting in the clinic. I had been sent to London for my annual torture session—I mean check-up—under my brother, the eminent Dr. James Andrewes. It still felt odd hearing that this rascal who used to chop the heads off of my rag dolls when I was a little girl being referred to as formally as Dr. Andrewes. He took away the glacial stethoscope and breathed on it, attempting to warm it up. He set about to put it back, I recoiled away from the instrument.

"It has your germs on it now." I reasoned as he looked at me strangely.

"Stop being such a baby, Charlotte." He scolded, sounding very much like Dad at this point. I sighed and acquiesced. He placed the stethoscope on my chest and listened to the sounds within me. After a minute, he took off the stethoscope and placed it on the cabinet.

He shook his head with a large grin on his face as he turned back around. "'Firecrackers'? Blimey, Charlie, I think you've been tagging along with Dad too much."

"This coming from the boy that is a spitting image of him," I retorted as he began to check my reflexes. I lifted my skirts so that he could check them and noted the difference between my healthy right and withered left leg. I remember when he had first seen me after I was healthy; he winced visibly at the disjointed image of my legs. Now he did no more than blink. After he was done, he jotted some things down.

"All right, Charlotte, you seem physically fine." He proclaimed as he adjusted his spectacles. "Now, just to make sure, let me ask a few questions. Have you felt any different lately? Muscle weakness in your arms or legs? Breathing problems? Have you felt exhausted?"

"Exhausted but it's most likely from me staying up until three finishing a book and then the train trip here." I explained. "Otherwise, I don't feel any different. Are we done here?"

"Almost done, Charlotte, don't be so impatient. Now, I remember I told you that exercise would help get some more mobility in your limbs. I know Dad bought you the bicycle, is it working at all for you?"

"Honestly, I still limp." I said as I stood up and took my walking staff that was leaning on the opposite wall. "The leg is still as withered as I've ever seen."

He looked down at my words and cleared his throat. "It's to be expected from what I know. Same with your left arm, it will still look…look like that. It's just best to exercise, gain more mobility in your limbs. Does your leg feel stronger at least?"

"It's better than the last time you checked on me." I said in all honesty. Last year, I could barely walk while now I could limp along at a comfortable pace.

"What about your arm?"

"I still can't write with it. It's not as strong as my leg. Any suggestions to what I should do to exercise it? I do hope it's nothing strenuous." I said with a sheepish smile which James reciprocated. James knew how lazy I was.

He scratched his head, thinking. "Try out archery."

"Yeah, I could imagine Mum letting me try out archery in the backyard." I said sardonically as he began to usher me out of his office. "Would have to ask Dad…so archery?"

"I think it's perfect for you. It focuses on your arms and well, you're a bit of a perfectionist so I'm sure that you'll enjoy trying to get bull's-eye upon bull's-eye." As he opened the door, I felt the light drizzle of rain. Pulling out my parasol, we stood on the corner waiting for a hansom to pass by. "I hope you're getting sleep at Anne's house. I hear the baby keeps crying all night."

"Oh, she's a cute little thing, their daughter. Veronica looks just like Anne but with Geoff's eyes." I said, remembering Anne and Geoff's month old daughter.

"How about you, Charlotte? Are you and Mr. Holmes going to have a visit from the stork anytime soon?" James said impishly.

Giving him a look of utter shock, I elbowed him sharply. "James! First of all, we would have to get married, which is still unthinkable at this point. I mean, we've only courted for two months or so. Secondly—"

"A moment, James, may I ask?"

James and I turned at the voice, which came from a male. The owner's voice was a young man with wavy light brown hair and the beginnings of a moustache on his face. When he came up to us, James practically towered over him while I was a slight inch taller. From the look on his face, he seemed like a friendly man.

"James, I briefly wanted to consult something with you but seeing as you're occupied at the moment…"

"Oh, no not at all, John," James said warmly as he clasped the other doctor's shoulder. "I was just seeing my sister off."

"Oh so this must be the sister you've been speaking of." John said, his eyes twinkling warmly as he extended his hand. I accepted it kindly for I could not help but smile at the young man's friendly demeanor. "The name's Watson, my dear lady. Dr. John H. Watson."

"Charlotte Andrewes, Dr. Watson." I introduced myself just as a hansom stopped right in front of us. "Well, it appears time has aspired against me. I bid you adieu and hope to meet you again. Good-bye, James."

"Bye, Charlie," he waved as I departed and went back inside with Dr. Watson to consult.

"Your doctor's appointment, did it go well?" Holmes asked from the bench he sat in a week after my brief trip to London.

"Went as it normally should—a lot of prodding and examining that ended up with nothing." I said, pulling the string back as far as I could. "Unnecessary but I am lucky that James is my doctor and he tries to make the entire affair as quick and painless as possible." With that statement, I released the tension and the arrow went straight…to the right side of the target. "Damn it."

"Your brother suggested archery for your arm?"

"Yes," I replied while I set another arrow in the bow. I closed my right eye, tried to aim for the bull's-eye, and released. However, as I released the string, the tension whipped against my arm and left an angry burn against my arm. Despite the pain in my arm, the arrow managed to get onto the actual target. I dropped the bow in dismay and began to rub my arm. "Damn it!"

"Let me see," he said getting up from his seat. Reluctantly, I extended my arm towards him. He pulled up my sleeve and examined it. "You're not holding it properly, that's why you're getting this burn on your arm." He picked up the bow and handed it back to me. "I should warn you that you'll also acquire burns on your finger as well in the future. Would you like me to show you the proper technique?"

"No," I automatically answered and snatched the bow back from him. "It's better that I learn by myself, Holmes. But thank you anyways."

He did not return to the bench but simply stood by my side and watched with those ever vigilant eyes of his. I began to draw my bow once again when Holmes stopped me and approached me.

"You are still holding the bow so you are still learning by yourself. I'm just going to redirect the way you're holding it." He gingerly took hold of my left arm and held it out straight. "You have been bending your arm every time you release it. Hold it out straight every time so you do not burn yourself. And try to widen your stance a little as well."

"All right, now back off, Holmes." I said and he took a couple of steps back. I released the string. It ended up near the previous arrow and I sighed grumpily. Stupid James, it was his idea of a joke to make me take up archery. He was probably laughing himself silly at the moment, I ruminated. "Holmes, would you care to fetch me the arrows on the target?"

From the look on his face, I thought he would say no but after a moment, he walked to the target and retrieved all of the arrows. He placed them back in the quiver, which was by my feet instead of on my back. I thanked him, placed an arrow on the bow and was aiming when Holmes stopped me again.

"Do you mind if I stop you again?"

"What am I doing wrong this time, Holmes?" I sighed in frustration. This was much harder than I thought it was going to be. "Let me learn on my own. You already helped me and I thank you for assisting me."

"Very well," he said as he stretched out and looked around the yard. The rain had stopped for the moment and the weather decided to behave benevolently, settling into a grey, cloudy sky with a light wind. Apollo was perched on the windowsill watching the entire sad scene.

After a few minutes, I looked over at Holmes and grudgingly said, "Oh, all right, come here so you can teach me and gloat your ever superior knowledge of archery over my feminine mind."

"I will let you know that you are the one that talked of my superior knowledge, not I." He said with a sardonic smile on his thin lips as he stepped behind me. "Place it close to the edge of your mouth like so. When you release it, follow through with your hand across your cheek." He repositioned the hand that was holding the bowstring and held it there. For some odd reason, the thoughts concerning my target faded and were replaced by the sensations of his hand against my skin. I quickly shook myself and focused on the target ahead. "Try not to rush yourself and focus on the target. Take a deep breath," I did and I also felt his breath on my neck. "And release!"

The arrow sailed towards the target and it hit the blue inner circle, much closer than I ever hit. A smile slowly blossomed on my face at my minor accomplishment.

"Oh, finally…" I murmured as I looked at that arrow. "Next time, it'll be the bull's-eye."

Holmes placed a hand on my shoulder. "Bravo, bravo,"

"Who taught you how to use a bow and arrow, Holmes? You seem to be quite skilled."

I could not see the look on his face since he was still behind me but there was a tense quality in his voice when he spoke. "I learned when I was a boy going on hunting trips with my father." There was a sense of finality in his voice that told me not to ask any further about the subject. He pressed on in another vein. "The weather is getting rather chilly so let us head back inside the house and get a warm cup of tea after that exercise."

"Thanks, Holmes, for helping despite my insistent stubborn streak."

"I did not help you, Charlotte," he had taken to calling me by my first name now that we were courting. "I gave you advice. That is an entirely different scenario entirely. As to your stubborn streak…well, I am afraid I cannot refute that point."

"I ought to slap you for that...or perhaps shoot you." I laughed. I then realized something that caused me to abruptly turn the conversation to another subject. "Holmes, why are you still behind me?"

He did not answer but swiftly stepped away from his previous position. Luckily he was not looking at me since the hue on my cheeks probably matched my hair. When I turned to look at him, he seemed to be inspecting the sky and its clouds.

He decided to continue the conversation as if nothing had occurred. Actually, nothing had happened really. "Judging by your aim, you'll hit your cat instead." He said, laughing with that high voice of his.

"Go ahead inside, I need to gather up my equipment." He nodded and proceeded inside leaving me with Apollo and my own confusing thoughts.

After a brief cup of tea, Holmes and I decided to venture outside for a walk and of course, to keep appearances up so that Oxford society could see that we were quite a couple. We talked about his upcoming finals while I listened. There were times when we had to stop as several of Holmes' acquaintances—not friends, I had learned that 'friend' was only reserved for special people—and some of my friends—the few that I had—who greeted us and asked about our relationship and whatnot. Of course, by now, Holmes and I had a performance locked down where he would play the adoring gentleman and I was the simpering young lady. Once the crowds were gone we would go back to conversing normally.

"Something's troubling you."

I looked at the cobblestones beneath my feet but did not answer. We continued walking for a continued length in silence aside from the clacking of my walking stick. After waving hello to another of Holmes' acquaintances, I decided to speak up.

"Is that all you're going to say? Something's troubling me?"

"You seem quite detached today. I just wanted to say so and maybe perhaps I could ease your mind." He answered simply.

I laughed, which sounded surprisingly brittle. "You? Ease my mind? Honestly, Holmes, you usually have the reverse effect on me."

We resumed our walking in silence. He put his hands into his pockets and glanced in my general direction. "I've noticed during your father's lectures that there is an unfamiliar face within our ranks."

"Oh?"

"About a fortnight ago, I heard you and your father having a mild discussion in his study."

I winced, remembering the altercation I had, which was essentially the same as our previous argument but much more vocal and forceful than I intended it to be. Holmes had been invited to dinner that night from what I recalled. Despite my instincts, I relayed the entire affair with my father from his furtive meetings with supposed colleagues, late night epistolary sessions, and the encounter between the Bodleian bookshelves. Holmes did not act as I thought he would: biting, condescending, and overbearing. Instead, he simply bent his head down as we spoke and nodded every few minutes, his index finger resting along his mouth. After my tale was finished, he did not say anything at all.

"Do you think it's something that I should worry about?"

"Concerned," he said. "Not worried yet but his behavior is something of concern."

"Is there a difference?" I asked sardonically, glancing sideways at him. "Blimey, Holmes, can there be an actual moment where we can agree?"

He merely smiled in a derisive manner then pulled the watch out of his coat pocket. "Just watch your father, I think. Tell me if anything new develops in this affair of his. I suggest we head back home before your mother begins to suspect something."

"Oh, and what are you going to do about it? Pretend to be Scotland Yard?" I said drolly.

For the second time today, I seem to have hit something in Holmes…by accident, of course. A tension set along his jaw and a sigh escaped him. There was a brooding look of introspection in those grey eyes and I wondered what I possibly struck in him. After a moment, he cleared his throat and glanced in my direction, a genial look settling on his face.

"Better than Scotland Yard," He said with a light voice that was normal of him yet this time, there was an undertone of gravity there. Holmes peered over in my direction then said, "I can see that look in those eyes. Never mind me, Charlotte."

"What look?" I inquired innocently.

"You know what look I'm speaking of," he said with a humorous tone in his voice. I nodded in silent agreement and he nodded as well, reaching an unspoken agreement to not speak of it. "How did you get so perceptive?"

"How did you?" I retorted.

"Are you always this aggressive?" He said as he laughed dismissively.

"Sorry, Holmes, you know how I am," I said with a smile then let out a sigh. "Well, when you are stuck in a room for six months, your senses tends to be the only connection to outside world." I was unaware at the time but I had stopped on the pavement at that point.

"Lying in that bed, opening the window, I knew that it was raining outside or it had just rained by the smell. I could tell Mum had been in the garden since I saw the mud on her boots and in her fingernails. Dad would come into my room and I would see ink stains on his hands and knew he had just been writing something. When you are trapped in a room, you memorize every single detail of this space and I knew if the room had been cleaned or if someone had come in while I was sleeping. I could hear when the laborers went to work in the morning and I could hear it when they went home in the evenings…"

I let out a shallow breath and I felt a burning sensation in the back of my eyes. However I attributed to the fact that it had started to rain very hard and it was starting to get in my eyes. I glanced over at Holmes, who looked at me with an unreadable expression on his face…perhaps understanding? I could not tell. As the drops began to plummet and barrage us, Holmes immediately opened the umbrella he had brought with him. He took my arm and tucked it in his and we hurriedly ran back to my house.

I came home and after a brief chat with Mum, Holmes bid us farewell. After dinner, I excused myself and asked when Dad would come home (He had business to take care of in London). She replied that he would be home tomorrow night. I spent the rest of the night practicing scales on the piano and then reading in my room.

In my room, I examined the burn on my arm and decided to rub some cream on it and then wrapped it in bandages for the night. Hopefully that would help me learn not to hurt myself anymore when I practice in the future. I placed the walking stick in a bin with the other canes, which were covered in a layer of dust. I took Leaves of Grass from the bookshelf and dived into the bedcovers to read. I flipped randomly through the pages and landed on one poem…

WHEN I read the book, the biography famous,

And is this, then, (said I,) what the author calls a man's life?

And so will some one, when I am dead and gone, write my life?

(As if any man really knew aught of my life;

Why, even I myself, I often think, know little or nothing of my real life;

Only a few hints—a few diffused, faint clues and indirections,

I seek, for my own use, to trace out here.)

And with that in my mind, I turned down my lamp, lay my cool head on the pillow, and went to sleep.

The following day passed by in a normal and routine fashion. We received a telegram from Dad telling us that he would be home around half past seven. I managed to fill my day by practicing more archery and meeting with Katie for tea. She talked about her beau for the majority of the time and often prodded me about my relationship with Holmes. Of course, I skillfully parried those questions and deflected them back towards her, which she willingly (almost too much) talked about.

Half past seven came and went without any sign of Dad. Of course, considering the winter weather and the notorious train delays on the railways, there was no need to worry.

However, when I looked at the grandfather clock in the hallway after playing some pieces on the piano, it read quarter to eleven. No weather or railway delay would make him this late. Dad would have sent a telegram or word that he would be this late and there was not a squeak out of him.

Mum seemed to have the same idea as me as I saw her pacing in the parlor and wringing her hands. I sat with her in the parlor, waiting for the clicking of the keys and the squeaking of the door opening…but there was nothing. When the clock hit half past eleven, she turned to me with a frightened look in her dark eyes and told me to tell Josephine to get the police. I went and did so, rousing Josephine and telling her to summon the police. When I finished with that, I immediately felt ill remaining in the house and I needed to get out despite my mother's feelings. I told her that I needed fresh air and would be out for a quick stroll. I snatched a coat from the stand, the walking stick from my room, and instead of the stroll I had told Mum I ran out the door.

I sprinted for some length, not knowing where I was going but I just needed to run. A variety of thoughts ran through my head from morbid to delusional, hoping that the one thing that gnawed at the back of my mind had not occurred. I ran until my left leg gave out on me. I tumbled onto the cobblestones and cursed myself, the burning sensation in my eyes returning along with the newfound pain in my knees from the fall. I surveyed my surroundings and found that I was on High Street amongst the ragamuffin students and drunks of the night. I was disoriented and vexed about what was happening with Dad.

A pair of legs stood in front of me and I looked up to see a hand reaching for me followed by a face that was quite familiar.

"Need a hand, lady?" Holmes asked with a gentleness that I had only heard from him when he was speaking with Mum.

I would have gotten up by myself in any other instance but I intuitively placed my hand in his and allowed him to pull me up. Without words, he picked up my walking stick and gave it back to me. Surprisingly, he did not say a word or asked me what I was doing running like a madwoman at midnight. He merely escorted me back home in silence…a surprisingly reassuring and silent source of stability for the moment.