The true Mycroft Holmes finally appeared after he peeled away the layers of lace and taffeta. Like the faux Aunt Violet, he was a corpulent person who seemed to move about in a slow and deliberate fashion. Both brothers possessed those meditative eyes and towering statures but, like many siblings, retained different traits. Lean and angular Sherlock was a bundle of nerves and energy; though seated with his legs extended in front of him, his mind was sprinting at a pace that was faster than the train. Mycroft, on the other hand, was the complete opposite; he had fallen asleep after an hour of traveling.

We arrived at the opulent Charing Cross Station just as twilight hit London. We briskly exited the station along with the other passengers and passed by the most romantic structure I had ever seen, an Eleanor cross. I used the time of waiting for the brougham to observe the edifice; it was an intricately-carved marble spire with the Eleanor of Castile's, the wife of King Edward I, likeness. I could not help but sigh at the sheer beauty of its gothic arches which stretched toward the heavens.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I declared more to myself than the others. Holmes took his eyes off of the busy streets and merely glanced at the cross.

"A bleak Gothic eyesore," Holmes sneered then returned to his vigil.

"Have you no taste?" I exclaimed causing several passers-by to give me an odd, appraising look. I quickly remedied my voice to a lower volume. "It's a prime example of the beauty of medieval architecture and the romanticism of the period. There were several of these majestic monuments built throughout London and only a handful of them are left, Holmes! They're practically priceless works of art."

Holmes returned my tirade with a raised eyebrow and sighed. He then gazed at the marble cross for a moment and said, "I agree that the cross is beautiful in its construction. It showcases some of the finer aspects of Gothic detail such as the chevron molding and vaulted arches. However, do you not find it odd that the cross looks more like a headstone instead of a romantic monument? I just think that the overall look of the piece is dreary and perhaps slightly morbid when it is supposed to be an adoring tribute to a woman he loved. Do you agree? Oh, and Charlotte, just because something is old does not essentially make it a work of art."

My jaw essentially dropped in shock. I would never understand this man's limits. I felt I could not say anything else and Holmes seemed to feel the same way. He returned to watching the streets while whistling a jaunty tune.

I was about to argue once more when Mycroft turned to his brother and amusingly inquired, "Is this natural between the both of you?"

"Yes," we answered in unison.

Mycroft laughed in a low rumble just as a brougham rolled up. We poured ourselves into the brougham with the Holmes brothers occupying one side and I on the opposite seat, with my suitcase on the seat next to me. Mycroft turned around to face the driver.

" Pall Mall , please," said Mycroft.

"Right-o, sir!" The cabbie cried out and with the snap of a whip, the brougham began to cruise along with the rest of the London traffic. The brothers began to converse amongst themselves as the brougham moved through the streets. I stopped paying attention and shifted my focus to the streets outside. Night was approaching fast and so was that yellow tinged, acrid murkiness known as the London particular. Many pedestrians walked at a brisk pace as if it were in a race with the impending fog. We passed The Strand, the hub of London nightlife and the theatre experience, where my eyes briefly caught the glittering gaslights of the theatres. As usual, Trafalgar Square was smothered with swarms of pigeons; Nelson's Column wore the pigeons perched on his hat as if they were decoration. We turned onto Pall Mall and I belatedly realized that two pairs of grey eyes were currently staring at me.

"Sorry, I wasn't paying attention," I apologized as I wrenched my eyes away from the window.

"Clearly," Holmes sardonically agreed. "I was just telling Mycroft the entire story beginning with your father's murder."

"I see." I nodded and then turned to Mycroft. "Mr. Holmes, what do you think about the entire situation?"

"Well," he unhurriedly drawled as he crossed his arms across his wide chest. "The entire affair is quite troubling. Now, Miss Andrewes, you told my brother that the person who grabbed you on Folly Bridge sounded familiar. Perhaps you could describe the tone of his voice for us and perhaps we can assist your memory retrieval."

"It was a man's voice. He sounded flat and nasal," I said after pondering for a moment.

Holmes made a dismissive noise. "That could practically describe everything from a person who has a cold to a Northerner—"

"Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted with a warning tone. Holmes silenced himself and scowled. Mycroft added, "I saw that." He noisily cleared his throat and continued. "Was this voice you heard Northern sounding or perhaps from other places around the country?"

I sharply exhaled through my mouth which caused my bangs to flutter in the air. Biting my lip in thought, I tried to recreate that moment on Folly Bridge; Iremembered the pain of his vise-like grip, his breath blowing in my ear, and the fear trickling down my spine.

"He sounded like my father, come to think about it," I mused aloud and almost immediately after I muttered those words, I felt as if I had been slapped across the face. "Idiot," I thought to myself. "It was staring at me right in the face!" I should have known all along. "I know why that voice is familiar now." I turned to Holmes as my skin tingled in expectation. "Remember I told you about the argument I had between Dad and I in the Bodleian? The man he was talking to, that's who it was that grabbed me on Folly Bridge."

Holmes nodded with his index finger pressed tightly against his mouth. "At that time, you said that the man who was speaking with your father sounded similar. How did it sound similar?"

"My father had a really flat delivery when it came to speaking. I'm sure you remember, Mycroft, if you were a student of his."

Mycroft smiled wanly. "Yes, I found his lectures were often quite fascinating."

"I think, though," I began to say when a cough racked me. Holmes had started smoking during some point of the conversation and the brougham was practically consumed with the scent of tobacco. "Holmes, kindly toss out your cigarette. I'd rather not die of asphyxiation."

He grumbled as he took one final puff and proceeded to toss it into the streets. I thanked him and continued what I was supposed to say.

"As I was saying, my father's voice while flat is a tad softer in its tone. He immigrated to England when he was younger; after two decades residing in the country, his voice softened to include the tones of Oxford residents."

"Where was your father originally from?" Mycroft inquired just as the brougham began to slow down.

"Born and raised in Boston," I replied.

"Then, we can deduce that the man who grabbed you at Folly Bridge and the man in the library are the same person…" Holmes stated as he straightened his tie.

"And that this man is a Boston native." Mycroft finished for his brother. The brothers gravely nodded as the brougham pulled to a stop. He looked up at his flat as he exited the brougham. Holmes and I followed in his wake. "It seems that we have come to a conclusion in more ways than one. Now, come inside. My housekeeper has cooked a nice pheasant for dinner."

We were greeted by a musical Scouse accent drifting in from the kitchen following the clanging of several pots and pans. After a couple of minutes, a plump, middle-aged woman emerged from the kitchen with a welcoming grin on her face. Her cheery brown eyes fell upon me and she practically shrieked with glee.

"Cor blimey, I never thought I'd see Master Mycroft come home with a lady!" she cried out as she approached me and shook my hand. Mycroft grumbled in response to the housekeeper's proclamations while Holmes snickered and began to tease him. "My name is Mrs. Costello and if you need anything, my dear, then I'm the one to holler at. Oh, how silly of me to dither on and on when I haven't caught your name."

I could not help but grin at her effervescence. "It's Charlotte, Mrs. Costello."

"Charlotte ! What a lovely name! I knew a girl named Charlotte once but she wasn't as beautiful as you are. Now, why don't we get you settled in the guest room…" She grasped my arm tightly and started to steer me through the house. I looked back at Holmes; he shifted his teasing from Mycroft to teasing me. I managed to stick out my tongue at him before being wrenched down the hallway.

The guest room was at the end of the hallway; it was a small room with a large bed and adequately-sized armoire. I placed my suitcase next to the bed and peered through the window. The pea soup fog had completely taken over Pall Mall.

"Is there anything else you need, luv?" Mrs. Costello asked while she fluffed up one of the pillows. Her eyes fell on my walking stick and I felt my cheeks burn red. She must have noticed for she began to make tut-tut sounds. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, dear. Everyone needs some help from time to time and besides, it's such a lovely cane. Now, enough of that and let's go back into the sitting room. I don't think it's wise to leave those lads by themselves for too long."

Holmes and Mycroft were seated in opposite chairs in front of the fireplace when I resurfaced from the guest room. Mycroft was gesturing at the front page of The Times and was talking about India's politics when his eyes fell on me. He immediately silenced himself as I took my seat on the sofa.

"Sorry, did I come into the conversation at the wrong time?"

"Mycroft takes great care in not discussing his occupation with complete strangers," Holmes informed me as he tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. "Mrs. Costello will have dinner ready by quarter-past-six ."

"I see." I nodded and then something occurred to me. "Er… Mr. Holmes, do you only have one guest room?"

"Yes," he replied as he opened up the cigar box on the table. "Do you mind if I smoke, Miss Andrewes?"

I shook my head. "No, I don't mind." I then turned towards Holmes. "I like your brother. At least he asks my permission when he smokes." I processed the information that Mycroft told me and then burst out, "I am not sleeping in the same bed with you, Holmes!"

Holmes responded by blowing a steady stream of smoke in my direction. "Charlotte, I assure you that we will not be sleeping in the same bed. I will be sleeping on the sofa for the duration of our stay." He mischievously smirked and added, "Sorry to disappoint you."

"You're right, I'm terribly disappointed... disappointed that you won't be sleeping on the pavement, you--"

"Dinner is ready!" Mrs. Costello declared with a theatrical flourish of her hands.

"Perhaps a decent supper will sooth our senses," Mycroft said in a hopeful tone as he took a puff off of his cigar. Holmes and I both snorted in response to Mycroft's statement. The elder brother shook his head and chortled to himself. "I honestly cannot see how people think that you are courting each other."

Mrs. Costello cooked a fine meal and I actually ate more than I intended, though I think that was more because of the fact that the good housekeeper piled so much food on my plate and watched me eat with a hawk-like stare. Mycroft tore into his pheasant with gusto and it was not until much later until we began to discuss.

"Mycroft, when you have finished devouring the oxygen around you, could we please start discussing the matter of Mr. Thaddeus Hepburn?"

Mycroft glared at his younger sibling as he wiped himself with the napkin. "How childish of you, Sherlock. I think that those university boys are bringing it out in you." He took a sip of red wine and then proceeded. "Mr. Thaddeus Hepburn died the seventeenth of March, which was approximately two weeks ago. According to eyewitnesses, neither did anyone go in or out of the house nor did anything strange happen."

"Considering that he lives in Kensington, I'm sure that Mr. Hepburn has a garden where anyone can just jump over the fence unnoticed," Holmes added with a grave nod.

"I am sure that is the case," Mycroft agreed and added, "I must admit though that I have not yet traveled to Mr. Hepburn's home to see it for myself."

I was seated next to Holmes and heard him mumble, "I am not surprised."

It seemed that Mycroft heard him as well. "Did you say something, Sherlock?"

"No, nothing at all. Please continue," Holmes said, giving me a sidelong glance as if to warn me not to mention what he had originally said. As much as I wanted to snitch, I could not since my mouth was currently filled with a large spoonful of Mrs. Costello's chocolate pudding.

"By the time the fire brigade came, the fire had spread through the entire house. The fire was extinguished more than an hour later and soon after entering the structure, they discovered Mr. Hepburn's charred remains." I had just swallowed some chocolate pudding when he said that and I immediately lost my appetite. I pushed my plate away from me and took a large swig of wine.

"Has the Yard said whether they think he was dead before the fire or whether he was burned alive?" Holmes asked as he ignored my apparent disgust at topic. Honestly, if this is what constituted as normal conversation in the Holmes household… well, not even Mrs. Costello could make me eat more.

Mycroft was about to answer when I interrupted. "I'm sorry, but how is that you know all of this information?"

"Mycroft's place of employment is in Whitehall," Holmes simply stated. I immediately took the hint; Whitehall housed the administrative buildings of the government. It explained why a man who had just entered his thirties owned such an attractive home in one of London 's most affluent neighborhoods. Mycroft harrumphed rather noisily at his younger brother.

"As I was saying," Mycroft said as he returned to the subject. "I have no information concerning the Yard's investigation. I suggest that you make a visit in the morning." Mycroft began to dig through his coat pockets before pulling out a small card. "See this man and tell him that I sent you. Otherwise, as the youth say, he'll 'get his knickers into a twist.'"

"Duly noted," replied Holmes. He then reached over to receive the card, briefly glanced at it and pocketed it. He shook his head and muttered, "Damn, if only we had arrived in London earlier. By now people's perceptions have settled into normal, misleading notions and it will be much harder to filter through what is truth and perception."

"You do know that you could have gone alone," I said with asperity. I certainly did not want to be blamed for our late arrival.

"Yes, I know that I could have gone alone. It is just that… well…"

Mycroft finished his sentence in a humorous fashion. "He did not want to leave his lady love back in Oxford; he would miss her far too much."

Holmes directly pounced on Mycroft while his face turned a ruddy color resulted from either anger or embarrassment. "Don't interrupt me, Mycroft! And it certainly is not because of any emotional reasons." He then became aware of his outburst, cleared his throat, and took a sip of wine before continuing. "I just thought that since this affair drastically affected her life, it would be best to follow this case through in her presence. It would also be nice to have another pair of eyes to observe and possibly assist me."

Mycroft smiled then said in a voice dripping with disbelief, "Are you sure that it has nothing to do with the fact that she's a fairly attractive young lady?"

"You do know that I'm still sitting amongst you, gentlemen!" I cried out, almost waving my hands in the air to show that I was still here.

"Well," Holmes said as he savagely took a swig of wine, "I'm finished with dinner so if you'll excuse me."

As Holmes departed from the table, Mycroft looked at me with humor in his eyes and said, "Sherlock has always been so sensitive."

After dinner, the Holmes brothers returned to the sitting room and talked amongst themselves for awhile. I did not feel like listening to their verbal volleys at the moment and, instead, sat on the window seat with my knees tucked under my chin, looking out the large bay window. This particular London fog had started to fade into the night and slowly revealed the street below. The gaslights glowed golden against the night as it illuminated several pedestrians along the street. A majority of the passers-by below were finely dressed upper-class men fresh from their ventures in the many gentlemen's clubs around Pall Mall. In their wake, a cluster of young women were giggling and nearly falling over the young men. They faded away into the night just as the reliable English constable emerged from the fog for his nightly watch. I watched his stalwart progress along the pavement for awhile and wondered if he had a family. What did his wife think about her husband putting himself in danger every night? Did he ever get frightened every time he set foot onto the streets? My mind soon became as foggy as it was outside and I fell into a deep sleep.

It was most likely the combination of travel and a hearty meal that allowed me to sleep so well. My last pleasant slumbers were before my father's death. After some time had passed, I felt someone hold my emaciated left arm and I simultaneously wrenched my arm away and snapped awake. My eyes adjusted to the low glow of the gas lamps and I saw that it was Holmes.

"I don't like people touching my arm, Holmes," I remarked as I rubbed my eyes.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I only wanted to take you to your room instead of leaving you sleeping in a curled up position like that."

"That's fine, but please don't touch my arm," I sleepily reminded him as he helped me get up and took me to my room.

"I will take care to remember that."

He took me to my room and leaned against the doorway. "Your mother would be quite happy to know that you actually slept."

"I sleep," I retorted as I took my hair out of its tight bun and shook it loose. "My mother means that I sleep poorly. Now, I need to change into my nightgown, so I'm shutting the door in your face."

I shut the door then changed into my nightgown and my comfortable yet threadbare dressing gown. I opened the door again and Holmes returned to his position by the doorway. I pilfered through my suitcase and pulled out my hairbrush. I walked over to the mirror and began running the brush through my hair. Holmes came into the room and stood by the wall looking at my reflection with an appraising sort of look. I stopped then turned around.

"What's wrong?"

He appeared to be choosing his words wisely. "It's nothing… I just… I have never seen your hair that way."

"Oh," was all I could say in response to his statement. I returned to brushing my hair and attempted to act normally. Nothing has happened, Charlotte, so why would you have to act? I asked myself. I tried being normal but I still noticed that my face turned a slight shade of pink. I loosely tied my hair with a spare ribbon, put my hairbrush on the nightstand, and then turned back to Holmes. "Is it safe to guess that tomorrow will be a long day?"

He winced as though he had been punched in the gut. "Never guess. Guessing is a degenerative force on one's mind."

I sighed and then repeated my question for his benefit. "Is it safe to deduce that tomorrow will be a long day?"

"It will definitely be most productive," he said, his voice becoming distorted by a yawn. He stretched out his long limbs.

"Are you sure you will be fine on the sofa?" I asked as I got underneath the bedcovers.

"Yes, I will be fine," Holmes wearily replied. "Unless you want to switch places."

"Absolutely not!" I cried out. "It is not right for a woman to sleep on a sofa."

"You only use your femininity when it suits you," he quipped. "And, besides, it was only a joke for my amusement. You are honestly making too much out of the situation."

"Oh, hush!" I exclaimed as I threw my pillow in his direction. He closed the door and the pillow harmlessly bounced off the door. He opened it and poked his head in.

"That last action has only solidified my claims that you are overreacting." He said with a sly smile on his pale face. "Good night, Charlotte." He then closed the door and left me alone.

I turned off the gas lamp and turned to my side in a huff. Damn Holmes, I thought to myself. I sat up to fluff my pillow and then lay back down. I was still uncomfortable and I realized that I needed another pillow. Unfortunately, the spare pillow was on the floor and I was too lazy to get back up.

I called for Holmes. "Holmes? Can you get my pillow?"

I was greeted by utter silence.

"Holmes?"

"Good night, Charlotte," he repeated.

"Damn him," I groaned as I buried my head under the solitary pillow.

I woke up just as the sun was breaking through the sheer curtains. I sat on my bed and lifted up my nightgown to my thighs. I extended my left leg into the air and massaged the muscles. Memories of my convalescence slowly and unwillingly unfolded in my mind's eye as I kneaded my leg. I pushed those thoughts out of my mind, pushed down my gown, and proceeded to massage my arm.

Holmes had said that today was to be a productive day, which meant that it would also be an exhaustive day as well. I reached for my walking stick, towel, and bathrobe and subsequently walked down the hallway towards the bathroom. The hallway was quiet except for the sonorous snores emerging from Mycroft's bedroom. I reached the bathroom and opened the door.

Holmes was inside and I immediately turned my head in the other direction. "Sorry, should've knocked," I mumbled and began to close the door when my eyes caught something odd.

What I saw was a small instrument case similar to something that I had seen in James' medical offices. I opened the door and took a good look. Holmes' appearance was disheveled and he looked as if he had just woken up; his dark hair fell over his forehead and he was only dressed in a sleeveless undershirt and pants. A handkerchief was tightly tied on his left arm; in his right hand, he held a hypodermic needle dripping with its contents. I finally looked up at Holmes' face and met his steely gaze. My eyes then returned to his left arm and I saw a number of puncture marks dotting the flesh. It then occurred to me what he was doing and why he winced when I touched his left arm.

"Is that… is that morphine?" I queried with a hoarse and horrified voice.

He answered in a tone better suited for polite conversation instead of the present serious circumstances. "Actually, it is a seven-per-cent solution of cocaine."