I'd like to announce that I have a new beta reader that is willing to slog through my grammar and help me write this lovely story. MeGoobie is a great writer who pens interesting and entertaining stories to offer the world so I suggest you read them! There's a link to her profile provided in my profile.

I don't like to complain but I was slightly disappointed that I did not get too many reviews for my last chapter. I saw that I got quite a lot of hits on my last chapter but I would have loved to see more reviews. So please please please review! I love to hear what you guys are thinking! And onto the chapter...

I slid the arrow's nock onto the bowstring and pulled the string back. Focusing my eyes on the target ahead of me, I took a deep breath through my chest, exhaled it through my nose, and released the string. The arrow sailed through the air and landed with a thunk, into the target and pierced the outer yellow circle of the bulls-eye. My archery skills considerably developed during my months of mournful solitude in the past months; reading any novel I can get my hands on was the only other activity I allowed myself. I was about to put in another arrow when Josephine, who was standing by the doorway, caught my eye.

"Hello, Josephine," I warmly greeted while I slid another arrow into the bowstring.

"Hello, Miss Charlotte," she warily returned my greeting and eyed the bow in my hands. "I have a telegram for you. Would you like me to leave it in the parlor?"

I placed the arrow back into the quiver as I sensed her discomfort caused by the grasped weapon. "No, that's all right. I'm quite done here so I'll take it."

She handed me the telegram and went inside. I cleaned up the equipment that lay scattered throughout the yard and then followed her. As soon as the door closed behind me, my mother's voice cried out.

"Charlotte, is that you?"

"Yes, Mum," was my standard reply to her whenever I returned home. I found her in the dining room having breakfast; I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek then went up the stairs and into my room. Ever since the ransacking of my father's study, Mum visibly shook at every foreign sound and would inquire the identity of anyone entering or leaving the house. A more disconcerting effect of the burglary was that I was no longer allowed to go outside. It was ironic really; my mother was the one that constantly prodded me to go outside for the past two months and now I could not venture outside now that it was necessary.

Once in my room, I opened up the telegram and began to read it:

CHARLOTTE READ LONDON TIMES. ARTICLE CONCERNS DEATH OF T. HEPBURN. MUST SPEAK IN PERSON. MAY I COME FOR DINNER QUERY.

HOLMES

Communications between Holmes and me now consisted of telegrams and the few times he managed to come over to the house between his rigorous studies. Admittedly, I did miss his company which tended to warm the dim atmosphere. Our house had transformed into since Dad's death and the speed of Holmes' mind kindled a warmth in me. While that man always managed to annoy me, our intellectual clashes left my mind feeling quite invigorated. I sat down at my desk and briefly scrawled out a reply for Holmes. As soon as I was done writing, I called Josephine to send the reply to the telegram office. By this time, Mum had finished her lunch and retired to the parlor with her knitting.

"He's a nice young man, isn't he?" Mum asked.

I thought that Holmes was about as nice as an annoyed bear being bothered during hibernation. I allowed a smile to curl my lips in response.

"Your father thought very highly of your Mr. Holmes." She added as she returned to her knitting. I did not know what to say in response to that so I decided to change the subject.

I cleared my throat. "How are you, Mum?"

"That is such an odd question to ask...that inquiry has been made ever since your father passed on. Everyone seems to expect me to become hysterical with grief." She shook her head in disgust. "Honestly, Charlotte, you should be the last person asking me how I am." She sighed and gazed into the fire before turning to me with a small smile that made her look much older than she actually was. "I am as good as a widow can possibly be. Try not to worry about me, my dear. It makes me feel terribly old."

"I'll try not to," I replied as I sat down next to her. She resumed her knitting and I was simply content to watch her skill. I remembered every teddy bear that James decapitated was taken with alacrity to Mum, which was quite often as James had constructed a miniature guillotine and took my bears as its victims. Of course with my weak arms and my own preference, I could and did not knit. A young woman not skilled in the domestic arts is such a hopeless marriage candidate; I could, however, cook.

"Oh, Mum, do we still get The Times?" I asked after some time remembering Holmes' telegram.

"We still do, I believe Josephine has placed it on the table by your father's study." She said without looking up from her stitches.

"Thanks Mum," I briefly leaned on her shoulder then went to fetch the newspaper.

The large bundle of newspaper that was The Times sat on the miniscule table. I tucked it under my arm and I was determined to pass my father's study without a single glance. However, fate in the name of Apollo intervened, sprinting out of the study and nearly causing me to trip.

"I swear you'll kill me one of these days!" I cursed under my breath. Apollo haughtily meowed in response, licked his paws, and then dashed back into the study. The ginger cat proceeded to scale the bookshelves, jumped down from the lofty height of the shelves, and settled in Dad's armchair.

I leaned against the door framing of his study, still hesitant to come inside the room. The room had been cleaned up and looked as if nothing had happened. Yet from my position, I saw that the books had been haphazardly placed in their shelves and not in the chronological order that my history professor father kept them in. The wooden floor was still fresh with scratches from the tumbled bookcases. The papers on his desk were arranged a bit too orderly for my father's tastes. And of course, that ebony and ivory box with its secretive contents was missing.

Apollo reminded me of his presence with a low meow. My eyes reverted back to his armchair and saw Apollo circling the armchair's cushion with his tail raised in the air. When I saw his tail, I knew this could be trouble for he only does that right before he relieves himself. I certainly did not want my Dad's favorite chair littered with cat excrement and began to call that dumb cat.

"Apollo, no! Not on the chair, you stupid cat!" I exclaimed from the doorway.

In response to my commands, all he did was stare back at me with those amber eyes. The only course of action left was to pick him up and put him outside to take care of his business. The only obstacle was that the room Apollo had chosen as his water closet was my father's study.

It would be easy enough to grab the paper and leave but…it was not. There was something inside of me that prevented me from entering the study even though I had already entered two days before. However, the foolish feline was about to desecrate my father's chair. If Holmes were watching me at this very moment, he would be glaring at me with those hawk-like grey eyes, smirking with those thin lips on his angular face, laughing internally at my seemingly ludicrous actions. I sheepishly laughed at myself and took a step into the room.

Immediately upon stepping inside, I raced towards the armchair, seized Apollo, and fled from the room as if there was a ghost pursuing me. I took Apollo to the yard and watched him meander towards his earthy water closet. As I watched that ginger blur's progress through the grass, I thought to myself that perhaps there was a specter chasing me.

The article Holmes referred to in his telegram was a filler article and was clearly not too important in the minds of the London journalists. It seems that T. Hepburn was a Mr. Thaddeus Hepburn, a sixty-six year old retired bookseller and manuscript collector. According to the article, Mr. Hepburn and his rooms had been consumed in a fire during the night. The likely cause of the fire was negligence; perhaps a lit and unattended cigar ignited a curtain or something equally flammable. I quickly finished the article and wondered why Holmes had sent me this article and why he needed to talk to me about it. I quickly dismissed it from my mind and decided to immerse myself into the macabre pages of Edgar Allan Poe.

It was not until a few minutes later that the article fell into place. I stopped reading mid-stanza of Poe's Annabel Lee and smacked my head, cursing my stupidity.

Thaddeus Hepburn was the man my father had visited in London before his death.

And now, Mr. Hepburn was dead as well.

With those ghastly thoughts in my mind, no thanks to Edgar Allan, and a glance at the clock on the wall, I decided to get myself ready for dinner. I sat in front of my rarely used vanity and fixed my hair after changing into a light blue long-sleeved blouse and a thin, black skirt. I took my hair down from the tight bun and decided to put it in a French braid. Just as I finished braiding my hair, I heard Mum holler for me downstairs. With a final look in the mirror, I realized how long my hair had become then went off to meet her.

I found Holmes downstairs in the parlor making polite chat with my mother. His lean figure was seated on the settee opposite from Mum's armchair. His arms were crossed against his chest and his head cocked at an angle as he listened to Mum's conversation. His dark brown hair was slightly messier than was ordinary and there were definite bags underneath his grey eyes; all were customary symptoms of the haggard Oxford scholar. Part of me could see why some girls found him attractive. There was a certain handsome quality in those aquiline features; the man could be quite the charmer when he wanted to.

The latter thought brought me to wonder about Holmes and his peculiar proclivity towards what he called the "fairer sex." Holmes possessed qualities that would make him very marketable for marriage; he was fairly handsome, well-educated, wealthy, as could be deduced by his ability to pay for such an excellent education, and in possession of many other good qualities. Yet something in this young man had clearly veered him away from any sort of female companionship asides from me. However, I was the exception rather than the rule. He was the last student in class mixing chemicals while the others rushed outside to fill the pubs; he was in the Bodleian hunting down some odd fact while his fellow scholars were chasing the pretty young things from Lady Margaret Hall. What had happened to Holmes that created a misogynistic streak in his person?

I could not stay on the staircase in this reverie forever and clambered down the remaining steps to the parlor. Holmes' gaze shifted from Mum to me and he pasted a polite smile on his face.

"Hello, Miss Andrewes." He said as he stood up.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes." I said with a nod, noting the odd formality of our greeting.

"Ah, Charlotte, there you are. I am going to quickly check on our dinner." Mum stood up from her seat, gave me an indiscreet nudge, and then left us in the parlor.

Holmes watched as my mother walked away. "I wonder what it is that she thinks we will do."

I grinned. "Mum told me stories of how her and my father carried on with each other during their courtship."

A wry smirk curled his lips but he said nothing more than, "I see,"

"I read the article, Holmes." I started, broaching the subject upon him. "Thaddeus Hepburn was the man my father visited in London before his death."

"Yes, I know," he said before adding, in response to my raised eyebrows, "I know someone who works at the local police department. Now, before your mother comes back," he leaned towards me. "Come with me to London."

I could not help but smile at the humor of the situation. If it were any other man in this situation, a trip to London would be some romantic getaway where we would get lost within the mad whirl of the city. But of course, this was Holmes who had proposed to travel with me and with that greyhound of a man who stood inches in front of me, pragmatism was the main reason behind everything.

"I am serious, Charlotte." He snapped, mistaking my smile for an expression of sarcasm. "You must leave Oxford if you wish to find out more."

"I know, Holmes, and I absolutely understand why I need to go to London. The moment I read that article I wanted to run out the door and get on a train to the city." I remarked seriously though a laugh tainted my voice. "I was merely thinking if it were any other man besides you asking me to come to London…well, you know what Oxford's young men are like." I added with a shrug. Luckily I did not need to explain my comment any further. He simply nodded in understanding; he knew about the intellectual idiocy of the young male. "I just find the circumstances humorous."

"Indeed…it is almost ironic." He agreed. "Yet you did not give me an answer to my proposal." He repeated, "Come with me to London."

I shook my head as a sigh escaped me. Mum emerged from the dining room and announced that dinner was ready before Holmes could inquire the reason for my silent refusal.

"We'll discuss this later," I whispered as we made our way toward the dining room.

Holmes acknowledged this nothing more than a slight nod.

Dinner was a stilted and demure affair. I told Holmes about my improvement in archery and the Poe readings I had started to study. Holmes talked about some of his experiments in class and a funny anecdote about one student that had taken placed during Michaelmas term's final exams. Mum asked after Holmes' studies and, in turn, related tales of her own youth in Oxford and of her own courtship; apparently, my mother had been quite the eligible beauty in town. We had just scraped off the last of a treacle tart when Mum steered the conversation into uncharted waters.

"Mr. Holmes," my mother said as she wiped herself with a cloth napkin. "Most of the students are not from around here. Is it safe to assume that you are not a local as well?"

"Yes, I am not an Oxonian. My parents hail from Yorkshire. However, I was raised mostly in Sussex." Holmes replied in a tone that seemed to suggest that this was the standard answer he gave to everyone who asked.

"Oh, Sussex!" My mother cried out. "My grandmother lived in Dover and we would often venture across the South Downs. Lovely weather down there."

Holmes took a sip of wine. "Yes, the conditions are always pleasant there."

"And what of your family, Mr. Holmes?" Mum asked. "Any siblings? You've already acquainted yourself with our brood."

"I have an elder brother, Mycroft, who is seven years my senior. He was also an Oxford graduate and I believe that he had Professor Andrewes during his tenure at the university." Holmes answered in clipped tones. I began to notice that his jaw had become taut during the conversation. "Would you like me to ask him?"

Holmes was seated across from me and I saw his hands open and close as they lay on the table. It was a subtle gesture that I would have missed if I had not been paying attention. His face revealed nothing yet his hands spoke volumes; the tightness of the grip and the sudden release revealed that Holmes clearly did not like this conversation.

"Oh, Mum, did I tell you that Katherine and George are planning to get married?" I asked, changing the subject.

The switch in subjects seemed to effectively divert my mother's attentions; she began to press for more details about their engagement. I was never much of a gossiper, but I felt that this was the best way to distract my mother; just as I suspected, the subject matter interested her and we exhausted the topic for a good ten minutes.

"Well, Cook makes an absolutely delicious treacle tart." Mum happily announced to the entirety of the table. "Perhaps a cup of tea in the parlor will finish this evening grandly. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes had been inspecting the landscape painting that hung on the wall behind me during the gossip session between Mum and me. He tore his grey eyes away from the azure-painted Isis. "Yes, a cup of tea sounds suitable after that satisfying treacle tart."

We retreated to the parlor where Josephine laid out a spectacular tray of scones alongside the requisite chamomile tea. Holmes asked after my father's Stradivarius and if he could borrow some sheet music. Mum told Holmes that my father had also composed several pieces himself and asked if Holmes would like to borrow those compositions as well. He replied that he would be honored while Mum obliged and rifled through the sheet music in the piano bench.

"It would bring Thomas great joy to know that someone as talented as you could play his music," she said as she handed him the papers. "Oh, Charlotte, do you remember any of your father's compositions?"

"Yes, my father wrote one for me during my…convalescence."

"I shall return it to you as soon as possible." Holmes assured us as he placed the notes on the table.

Mum poured some cream into her tea. "Yorkshire and Sussex…will you be going back to Sussex between terms?"

"No," Holmes simply replied. "I have research that will keep me here."

"Won't your parents miss you?"

Again I saw his jaw become taut and his hands open and shut. He refused to look at either of us and, instead, examined the fireplace as though he was absorbed in an interesting discussion with the flames. He finally spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

"My father has taken residence in Yorkshire…since my mother's death."

All my mother could say was a simple, "Oh, I'm sorry. I did not realize." Holmes simply went back to gazing into the fire.

"Sherlock," I said gently placing a hand on his left arm. He quickly winced as though in pain then turned towards me. "It's becoming rather late and you have been exhausting yourself with your studies."

"I believe your daughter is right," Holmes said with a seemingly forced smile. "I shall be taking my leave, Mrs. Andrewes."

"Of course," Mum agreed. "Charlotte, wait outside with Mr. Holmes until he gets a hansom."

I nodded in agreement and we headed out the door. I closed the door behind me and we walked to the edge of the pavement. Holmes looked at the streetlights and then at me.

"Why can't you come to London?"

"You know very well my mother won't let me out of the house." I answered as I buried my hands in cozy tweed pockets. "If you really want me to come, figure out a way to make my Mum acquiesce."

I shall think of something," said Holmes as he took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it; the flame briefly illuminated his sharp features. He held in the smoke for a little longer than usual before exhaling through his nose. "I will send a telegram to let you know when the arrangements have been made."

Holmes and I stood in the clear and cold Oxford night, engulfed in the sound of silence and the acrid scent of tobacco. It was apparent that Mum's seemingly harmless inquiry into Holmes' family life had disturbed him. To the casual observer, he appeared as usual; he was a cool and detached mixture of arrogance and intellect. After five months in close contact with the man, however, I noticed and understood the meaning of the stiffness of his fingers and jaw combined with the distant look in his gray eyes. Holmes flicked the spent cigarette onto the street after he had exhausted it.

His unforeseen show of tenderness when I had seen the hauntingly horrid image of my father on that night now made some sense. I did not know what I could do or if I had anything to tell him. I stood beside him wondering if I should even speak; perhaps there were no words that could be said.

Without a sound, I turned towards Holmes' and leaned my head upon his shoulder. He neither reacted nor made any acknowledgment of my gesture at first. I was beginning to decide that my decision was folly when he finally reacted. His arm went around my own shoulder and he rested his head on top of mine. Needless to say, I was shocked by his reciprocity. The familiar clop and bustle of the hansom fell upon our ears after a few minutes. Holmes almost immediately pulled away and cleared his throat. He hailed the hansom and when it pulled up, brushed the horse and boarded the vehicle.

"Good night, Holmes."

"Good night, Charlotte."

He then told the cabbie his destination and faded away into the night.

It was not until a week later that I received a telegram from Holmes. It simply said:

CHARLOTTE LONDON BE READY TO LEAVE TODAY.

HOLMES

Mum's voice sailed into my ears a mere moment after I finished reading the telegram.

"Charlotte, where are you?"

"In my room, Mum!" I replied to her inquiry.

She soon made herself present in my open doorway and cheerily proclaimed, "Charlotte, I have a surprise for you!"

"Oh?" I innocently asked while discreetly crumpling the piece of paper in my hand.

"Your dear Mr. Holmes has decided to take you to the Sussex Downs with him to visit his great aunt. I know that this is rather short notice, but I think that you deserve a little time away from Oxford. Rest and recuperation will do you good."

"When will he be coming to take me away?" I asked as I surreptitiously placed the crumpled telegram into my pocket.

"He said that he should be arriving at half past two. He will take you to the train station and you will leave on the 3:35 train. Charlotte, you haven't yet said a word."

"Well, I'm just speechless that you would do all this for me!" I said as I rose and gave her a hug. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

She returned the embrace warmly. "Now go on and pack!"

I followed her instructions and packed my suitcase with several changes of clothing, various unmentionables, toiletry necessities, and, of course, a couple of good books. It was very difficult to make a decision as I had to choose between a volume of Poe's poetry and an anthology of Dylan Thomas. Ultimately, Poe prevailed over Thomas and, packing Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass as its traveling companion, I shut the suitcase, grabbed my walking stick, and waited for Holmes in the parlor

He arrived at exactly half past two. He engaged in some idle conversation with Mum and then introduced us to his aunt. His aunt was quite a sight to behold. Unlike the lean frame that was Holmes, his aunt was rather large and her voluminous skirts only enhanced her hefty figure.Yet, from her strong jaw and the introspective grey eyes, I could tell that she was clearly Holmes' kin.

"Charlotte, this is my Aunt Violet." Holmes introduced me to his relation. "Aunt Violet, this is Charlotte Andrewes. She was the young lady I was telling you about."

Aunt Violent bent toward me to very closely inspect my person; after a few minutes, she finally declared, "You seem like a suitable young lady for my nephew."

Holmes pulled out his pocket watch and then said, "We need to head for the station to make the train on time."

"Well, you two have fun and enjoy yourselves." Mum declared and brought me into a tight embrace. She then added in a whisper, "Not too much fun though, mind you."

"Oh, Mum!" I groaned and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. I pulled away and followed Holmes and his large aunt out the door. "Bye!"

She blew me a kiss and waved good-bye from the doorway. I could not help but feel a slight pang of guilt and loneliness from seeing her petite frame behind the door. She would be all alone in that house and it did not feel right leaving her on her own. I nearly rushed back to Mum's side when I felt a hand rest on my shoulder.

"She will be all right," Holmes gently assured me.

I looked back at him and he nodded. Holmes opened the brougham's door and allowed his aunt to step inside. He extended his hand to assist me. I chuckled softly and instead gave him my walking stick and boarded on my own. Holmes followed and shut the door. The brougham began to move and I looked back at Mum until we rounded the corner. I faced towards the front of the brougham where I saw Aunt Violet looking through the window. Holmes was inspecting the walking stick he had given me on my birthday from the seat opposite me. He smiled as though the walking stick had told him a private joke and then returned it to me. I met Holmes' eyes and returned his earlier nod.

We arrived at the train station and it was then that it occurred to me that Holmes and I were supposed to go to London. Sussex, our supposed destination, was quite far from the city.

"Holmes," I called him as he returned from the ticket booth. "You told my mother that we would be traveling to Sussex."

"A well-executed excuse," he replied as a proud smirk emerged on his face. His normal arrogance was surfacing again. "Come, let us board the train for London."

"But your aunt…" I began to reason out, pointing towards the matronly woman sitting on the bench.

"Everything will be explained when we find ourselves a private compartment on board." Holmes answered with asperity. He went over to his aunt and said, "Dear Aunt Violet, the train has arrived."

"Thank you, Sherlock," she spoke in a shrill tone as she took Holmes' arm. They walked past me and boarded. I turned around and took one final look at my Oxford. I breathed a sigh, spun around at the sound of the train whistle, and quickly boarded. I found the compartment, hastily entered, and sat down in the seat opposite Holmes and his aunt. I watched the flickering landscape for awhile and then turned my attentions back to the Holmes and his Aunt Violet.

"Sherlock, what is this?" I queried with forced patience as I glanced at his aunt, who seemed to be quite interested in the depths of her purse. I took advantage of her distraction and yanked on his tie causing him to jerk forward in his seat. I edgily whispered, "Are you taking me on some sort of family reunion? I swear, I already tend to lose my patience with you. I certainly do not need an entire family probing me."

Holmes slowly pried my fingers away from his tie then fixed his jacket with a shrug. He then turned to his aunt and said in a light voice, "There is no need for this silly charade any longer."

"Finally," an incongruous deep voice emerged from the large woman. "This is a practically disgraceful situation you have me involved in, Sherlock. I have no idea why I even agreed to this."

"Because," Holmes replied testily. "You owed me a favor and I decided to take you up on that offer. Tit for tat." Holmes then turned back to me and seemed wholeheartedly amused by the perplexed look on my face. "Now, Charlotte, that look will twist your pretty face."

I gawped at Holmes and his aunt for a moment. Holmes reached out and pushed my chin up to close my mouth.

"What the deuce is going on, Holmes? Is this some sort of early April Fool's practical joke?"

"Be polite, you wouldn't want to upset my dear Aunt Violet now, would you?" Holmes said mildly as his grey eyes danced with amusement. He wanted to continue this little game but when he saw my hands gripping the walking stick tighter than usual, Holmes finally relented. "Very well, yes, Charlotte, we are going to London. This entire charade with my dear Aunt Violet was merely a plot to get you out of your house." I was about to argue when he spoke over me. "And I assure you that this is not an early April Fool's joke."

"And your dear Aunt Violet?" I asked as I leaned back in the seat and crossing my arms across my chest.

"I've mentioned him a couple of times but you have never been formally introduced. Charlotte, meet my older brother, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft pulled the bonnet and wig off of his head and extended his hand towards me. "An infinite pleasure, Miss Andrewes."