Sorry for the delay. I was on spring break in San Francisco with no real time for computer access and I wanted to give my poor wrists a rest. Oh, and this chapter was so HARD to write and I am extremely thankful to MeGoobie for her help. I would have gone insane without her assistance. This one's my favorite so far...hope you guys enjoy it!
"Now that you know of my habits, my dear Charlotte, would you please shut the door behind you as you depart?" His question was polite, yet it was clear that this was a stern demand for me to leave.
"You know me better than that, Holmes," I stated softly; the initial shock had begun to erode and was slowly being replaced by resentment and hurt.
He sighed and his lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Ah, well, one can hope. Nonetheless, I am still going to take this injection." He lowered the needle towards his skin. He would have injected himself if my hand had not reached out and grabbed his wrist. Holmes quietly chuckled as though the entire situation was humorous. However, his voice was entirely serious and had a rather dangerous edge to it. "If you intended to stop me, you should not have seized me with your weak arm."
The intention of the last comment was to sting and to ultimately cause me to abandon this argument. While he did manage to sting me, I could not leave this subject alone; we could not very well continue our partnership with this dark cloud hanging over our heads.
I stood my ground. "If you intended me not to come in, you should have locked the door."
Holmes winced at his indiscretion and realized that I was correct; after all, he had woken up at the break of dawn to avoid a scene like this from happening. It was a trivial matter of locking the door; yet, he had not. I looked at the incensed appearance of his face; perhaps in his arrogance he had thought he could get away without locking the door. I felt a savage pleasure at that thought. It was about time that his overconfidence got the best of him.
He wrenched himself from my grasp and then acidly retorted, "Your grip is pitiful. It is a miracle that you can manage to hold onto anything." He placed the needle on the counter and then sat down on the rim of the bathtub. I shut the door behind me, crossed my arms, and leaned on the door.
I took this moment to further inspect this person before me. The normally fastidious Holmes sat immediately in front of me, his dark brown hair messily hanging over his brow and a day's worth of stubble along his jaw. What struck me most was the almost feral look in those otherwise cultivated and civilized grey eyes. He resembled an animal trapped in a corner with nowhere else to run; an animal in this situation was bound to strike.
"I suppose that you will tell me of the dangers of cocaine and make other various arguments that will undoubtedly convince me to stop." Holmes inspected his nails and then looked back at me with what appeared to be bored eyes; yet, I could already see the glimmer of annoyance blooming therein. He sighed and then declared, "Let us make things easier for both of us, shall we? I am not like the other intoxicated idiots who inject dose after dose into themselves until they die of overdoses. I only give myself the optimum dosage that will give me the best effects and not kill me."
"Oh, and that makes you smarter then?" I questioned in an even voice as I attempted to mimic Holmes' cool tone. "As I can see, Holmes, you are quite the seasoned cocaine user. Is it safe to assume that you are fully aware of the indications of cocaine use?" He did not answer. "Anxiety burgeoning on the brink of paranoia is among those symptoms, am I right?" There was still no answer, though I took his silence as an agreement. "How am I to trust you when you make decisions when you are intoxicated? I refuse to place my life in the hands of a drug addict, no matter how capable he may be when sober."
"Your loss," he simply replied.
I wanted to wring this man's neck for his sheer arrogance and was about to do so. What stopped me was an extremely subtle movement on his part; his hands tightly closed around the edge of the bathtub and then released their grip. Holmes' gaze shifted down to his punctured arm and he began to shift the arm away from my view. It then occurred to me that his arrogance and casual, bland attitude shielded the much more vulnerable emotion of shame. This was confirmed by the realization that he had not looked me in the eye since the beginning of this episode.
He cleared his throat and continued in that unconcerned tone, "While I appreciate your concern, I have said that I have heard all of these arguments before. Honestly, they begin to bore me."
"I know that it is the fashion among certain circles to take cocaine. Yet, you are hardly the type of person to keep up with the trends or even care about following what is de rigueur." He still would not look at me and it made me absolutely furious that he would not. I approached him until my face was within an inch of his. "So, tell me, Holmes, what void are you trying to fill?"
We stared at each other for a good moment, my green eyes looking into his grey. I wholeheartedly regret my next actions, for not only was it conducted out of sheer malice, but it also deeply wounded me and, perhaps, Holmes as well.
"I am terribly saddened by my father's death. However, I have more productive channels to express my grief. I do not resort to the temporary pleasure of drugs to drown my sorrows." The implication of my words rendered his face both astonished and livid. My mouth opened to say more but then I was stopped by a tight and almost painful grip on my left shoulder. His eyes smoldered and, though he spoke in the same light tone, there was now a savage bite in his words.
"Don't you dare…" he began to say before changing his mind; instead, he coldly stated, "Never assume that you know who I am. A weak, naïve, spoiled, and crippled female has absolutely no right to tell me how I think or what motivates me." He let go of my shoulder and slammed the door behind him.
Now that he had stormed off, the blunt force of his verbal blows resonated through me. Tears began to uncontrollably flow and I cursed myself for crying. After all, it is often said that "sticks and stones may break one's bones but words will never hurt one." Despite this knowledge, my crying continued as steadily as the waters of the Cherwell. I blackly mused that I was lucky I had chosen to cry now instead of in his presence; Holmes' words would have attacked me with an even greater ferocity if the man had seen the tears currently trailing down my face. I locked the door behind me and then proceeded to turn on the bath.
Holmes and I had gotten into many arguments over the course of our association. Our squabbles would often end some conversation with a sarcastic yet humorous comment from one of us and the white flag would be raised. Holmes had once mused after one such argument that we were the "friendliest of enemies." Our conversations were buried with razor-sharp barbs aimed at each other. It was normal and utterly routine.
This was definitely not one of those habitual rows. His statements concerning my disability were not the sarcastic jocularities that I had become accustomed to hearing; his remarks were intended to harm and to wound. I shed my clothing and gingerly stepped into the warm, soapy water once the bath was full. The words remained with me no matter how hard I tried to rinse them from my mind. I submerged my head in the warm water as a horrible thought sunk into my mind.
Was that all I was to was to him? A weak, naïve, spoiled and crippled female?
I barricaded myself in my room for the duration of the morning. Unlike Holmes, I locked the door so that no one would disturb me. The fragrant aromas of the solid English breakfast being prepared downstairs drifted into my nostrils while I dressed. I was sorely tempted to venture out to the dining room and dine on some of Mrs. Costello's delicious cooking. Yet, I could not; to go out of my rooms would mean to subject myself to the brooding grey gazes of the Holmes brethren. I attempted to ignore my grumbling stomach and instead turned to packing my suitcase.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the empty hallway and I stiffened. The footsteps stopped at the sound of a familiar voice.
"Mycroft, I shall save you the trouble and tell you that Miss Andrewes will not be dining with us this morning."
I pressed my ear against the door to listen to the rest of the conversation. Silence briefly greeted my ears. I was about to continue packing when I heard the low rumble of Mycroft Holmes.
"What happened, Sherlock? What did you—"
"Nothing," Holmes slashed through his brother's question. "It is none of your concern."
"But Sherlock—"
Quick footsteps lightly treaded away from earshot. "I will be out."
I heard the front door slam shut followed by an exasperated sigh. "I do hope you are in a better mood when you return, you oversized bird of prey."
A smile managed to form despite the black mood I was in. The heavy footsteps tramped away after some time.
My hair had sufficiently dried by this time and decided to fix it. However, it decided not to cooperate today. After some struggling, I finally managed to arrange my hair into a severe bun and then finished by angrily jabbing several pins into it with more force than I had intended.
A knock on the door wrenched my attentions away from my troublesome hair. Reluctance stopped me from opening the door even though I already knew that Holmes had left. Get yourself together, Charlotte, I mentally shook myself. I opened the door and tentatively poked my head through the opening.
No one was in the hallway. Odd, I mused. I began to close the door when my eyes fell upon a tray with a plate full of Mrs. Costello's wares complete with a steaming cup of cocoa. I doubted that cocoa was a regular order in Mycroft's household, but that was the least of my concerns. I quickly snatched the tray and, before taking it inside my room, called out into the hallway, "Thank you, dear Mycroft."
I heard the rustle of a newspaper as I closed the door.
The rain began to pour down from the heavens around noon. From what I could hear through the guestroom door, Holmes had not yet returned from his outing. Hopefully, he returns to the flat practically drenched, I maliciously ruminated. I found my Edgar Allan Poe poetry book underneath the bed and tossed it into my luggage.
I balled up my dressing gown and flung it into the suitcase with the rest of my things. I looked around the room to check if I had forgotten anything; when I was satisfied that I had packed everything, I went to shut my suitcase. Unfortunately, my suitcase would not close due to the haphazard nature in which I had thrown all of my belongings. I was much too lazy to refold and organize everything properly; hence, I sat on top of my luggage and finally managed to shut it.
I placed the suitcase near the door and then turned to the mirror. Upon further inspection, I realized that my eyes were puffy and red. I cursed myself for my obviously distressed appearance; the Holmes brethren would be able to see everything. Well,I thought to myself, If I managed to keep my head down and my face out of sight, perhaps they will not notice. I morosely laughed at that thought, retrieved my suitcase, and briskly walked out the door.
I had not walked very far when I bumped into something solid and bony. I attempted to walk around it, but the body in front of me managed to block my every move. I threw my suitcase onto the floor in contempt.
"Move." I addressed the pair of gleaming black leather shoes.
"No," the shoes' owner answered.
"Please move," I pleaded and immediately regretted the whiny quality my voice had taken on.
"No," was the answer once again. Long, thin fingers reached out for my arms, but I evaded them as though they were the hands of the devil. "Charlotte, I—"
"There is no need to apologize, Holmes," I interrupted in a brisk manner; my eyes now focused on the aged wooden floor. How curious, I randomly mused, He did not feel the least damp. My eyes traveled to the coat rack where a dripping umbrella hung. Ah, I see. "I merely thought that if I am holding you back, I have no other purpose than to go back home. After all, what use is a naïve and crippled woman like me?" I released a shaky breath and then attempted to push him out of the way.
He barely budged. Perhaps, if I use my other side instead of my weaker side, I could push him away, I sullenly pondered. We silently stood facing each other in the hallway; clearly, we stood at a stalemate. Holmes reached out with his hand again and gingerly lifted my chin; my face was suddenly exposed. He saw the stillborn tears wavering in my eyes. My eyes locked on his for a moment and I briefly saw regret in them. No, I firmly thought to myself as I shoved his hand away, I refuse to feel sorry for him. I sniffled as I picked up my suitcase.
"I would like to leave, if you please."
"You are only polite to me when you are miserable."
"I am miserable. Don't you understand? I did not come to London to be harassed by a damned drug addict!"
The vitriol in my words caused Holmes to flinch. He scratched the back of his neck and said in a low whisper, "For what it is worth, Charlotte, I deeply regret what I said. I was extremely ashamed that you had found me in such a compromising position. That in turn caused me to lash out on you when I clearly should not." He sighed and added in an even lower whisper, "I do not want you to leave."
My eyes slowly and finally met those of the man standing in front of me. It was clear that he was as uncomfortable as I was. I felt not only distrust concerning his drug abuse, but also hurt; as much as I hated to admit it, Holmes had become my sole support after my father's death and his hiding of his addiction hurt me more so than the actual usage. If he was hiding this, what else was he hiding? On the other hand, Holmes was clearly uncomfortable, not only due to his emotional outburst in the bathroom, but also due to this recent admission; the discomfort was all over his person. His jaw was tight, his hands were behind his back, and his foot tapped the floor in a staccato fashion.
He did not want me to leave. Did that mean…?
"Why?" I managed to ask through the lump rising in my throat.
Silence greeted my simple question. I finally managed to push my way past Holmes and started to walk away; at that moment, a voice abruptly sounded through the tangible silence.
"I need you," he said in a voice so low that I almost did not hear it. I turned around at that uncomplicated yet complicated statement. "It seems that our constant arguing has an unforeseen advantage; your arguments sometimes reveal an insight that I have failed to see. I will be the first to admit to you that I can do this by myself. However, when I set out to investigate the deceased Mr. Hepburn's residence in Kensington, I could not help but think that I had missed some important perspective or detail… perhaps if you were there, you may have seen…"
His voice trailed off into silence. It was completely jarring to hear these kinds of things coming from a man of his conduct. This was a man known for his fierce independent streak and for his solitary and almost misanthropic behavior. This was a man who had very few friends if he had them at all; a man who only sought companionship to suit his practical needs.
This very man was telling me that he needed me.
He found his voice and started to speak once more. "I once told you that I do not use the word 'friend' in a cavalier manner. Hence, believe me when I tell you that you have become a friend to me."
I let his words soak through my mind for a moment and then said, "Well, Holmes, you said that you can do this by yourself. However, I cannot simply forget what you have said to me. It would be foolish on my part to simply go on as if none of this had happened. You see, Holmes, not only did you hurt me but you hid from me. How can I trust someone that hides from me? I appreciate your sincerity in your apology but I cannot stay."
"Yes, I thought this would be so," Holmes said in a wistful imitation of his normally sardonic voice. "However, Charlotte, I must insist that you leave in the morning. As you may have noticed, the rain is pouring outside and I refuse to have you leave under such inclement conditions. I will be more than willing to escort you back to Oxford when the rain has passed."
I nodded in agreement. He then took my suitcase out of my hands and placed it next to the guest room door.
"Very well, Holmes," I replied as I started to walk to the dining room.
By three in the afternoon, the torrential rain had steadied to a steady patter. The colors of the twilight had painted the London skies by the time the rain stopped. I knew the train schedules by heart and was sure that there were still several trains I could catch. Yet, as I sat by the bay window in the sitting room, I knew that I did not want to leave tonight. I certainly did not want to show up at Oxford at some godforsaken hour. I would have to remain here for another night.
Holmes sat in the large, winged armchair by the fire with a smoldering cigarette between his lips. He, too, knew that I would be staying the night but did not speak of it. This hypothesis was confirmed when I saw that the table had been set for three instead of two. We ate our dinner mostly in silence, excluding brief conversations between the brothers. There were times that I felt their thoughtful gazes fall upon me, but not a word passed between us. Mrs. Costello's dinner was as delicious as usual despite the unusually reserved atmosphere at the table.
I swallowed the last of my wine and then excused myself from the table. I took my empty plate to the kitchen to give the chef my compliments. Mrs. Costello was scrubbing a large pot when I entered the kitchen. She saw my reflection in the window before her, submerged the pot into the filled sink, and greeted me with an effervescent grin.
"Let me get that for ya, my dear." Mrs. Costello's keen eyes spotted the plate in my hand and instantly took it in her capable hands; the plate and silverware went into the sink with a clatter. She turned her attentions back to me. "Anythin' I can do for ya, Miss Charlotte?"
"Oh, Mrs. Costello, I just wanted to thank you for the delicious meal. If it were possible, I wish you could come home with me."
She positively beamed with pleasure. "Well, thank you for bein' so nice, Miss Charlotte. But, I'm afraid that Master Mycroft needs me more. He needs a woman's touch and all with him bein' the way he is."
Her loyalty to Mycroft was rather touching and I could not help but smile. An excited gasp escaped from her plump body.
"Why, Miss Charlotte, I believe that is the first time I've seen you smile all day."
"And it is about time as well," said a familiar voice.
"Evening, Holmes," I greeted in a solemn and civil tone. My smile faded slightly at the sound of his voice.
"Evening, Charlotte." He returned my greeting and then turned to Mrs. Costello. "I merely wanted to send my compliments to the chef on a satisfying dinner. My brother fails to realize what a gem he has in his possession."
"Oh, Master Sherlock, you're too much!" She shrieked in delight and playfully swatted him before she returned to her scrubbing.
A genial smile brightened Holmes' face; her glow even managed to infect him. He then turned towards me and said, "Yes, well… Charlotte, I wanted to ask if you would like to join me for a walk."
"What for?" I inquired.
"A mere whim," he lightly answered. "I know you will depart for Oxford in the morning and that you will end our partnership as soon as you arrive." Was it just me or was there a wistful quality to his voice? "Treat this as a last request on my part… for old time's sake."
I noticed Mrs. Costello's scrubbing had slowed down in the midst of our conversation. I smiled and it brought back memories of Josephine doing the exact same thing whenever Holmes was around. A sudden pang of longing hit me; Oxford was calling me back into her arms.
Holmes also took notice of Mrs. Costello's obvious eavesdropping. A sly smile curved his lips. He loudly cleared his throat, causing her to jump in the air.
"Mrs. Costello, I believe that my brother may need some assistance in the dining room," Holmes firmly stated. Mrs. Costello understood the connotation of his comment and bowed out of the kitchen. Holmes chuckled when she had left the room. "Your Josephine is also guilty of the same behavior."
"Yes, she is," I agreed in muted amusement. I then sighed and said, "Very well, Holmes, I shall go out for an evening stroll on your arm for one last time. Give me a couple of minutes to rummage for a coat and my walking stick."
"Already got it," he said as he revealed my walking stick from behind his back. "Go grab your coat."
I sputtered, "How… how did you know I would agree?"
"My dear lady, I have known you for five months," he provided as an answer. He then repeated, "Go grab your coat."
"All right, you win," I surrendered with an exaggerated sigh. I snatched my walking stick from his open hands and exited the kitchen.
I secretly thanked Mrs. Costello for her contagious effervescence as I went to retrieve my coat. She had single-handedly managed to make my day slightly better… and perhaps Holmes' as well.
St. James's Park was mere minutes away from Mycroft's flat in Pall Mall. While I was thoroughly loyal to my Oxford, I had to admit that St. James was among the loveliest of places that I had ever been to. The lush green trees dipped their branches into the blue waters of the lake. Greenery dominated our fields of vision but shades of pinks, violets, and yellows dotted across the landscape in the form of flowers. We arrived just as the oranges and pinks of sunset were slowly fading into the inky blues and violets of early evening.
"What's the reason for this stroll, Holmes?" I asked again.
"I did not think you would believe me when I stated that this was a mere whim." he replied. "Would you like to know the truth?" I nodded and he proceeded to tell me the real reason. "Activity tends to lessen my want for cocaine; the blood pumps on its own volition rather than by the artificial means of the drug."
"Oh," was the only reply I could muster.
"I also thought it would be better spent time if you came along rather than if I was brooding on my own," he added.
"I see that even you yourself admit that you can be quite the stick in the mud," I teased.
Holmes glowered at me in such a fierce manner that I muttered a quick apology and felt almost a decade younger than I was supposed to be.
Holmes and I circled the path along the park's lake and encountered very little in the way of disturbances; the only sounds that interrupted our serene stroll were the squawking and honking of the lake's several web-footed residents.
We passed by an elderly lady selling bread crumbs to feed the ducks. The ducks and geese in this park were quite smart and had gathered around the old woman's bench; they stood in a large flock as sentinels waiting for those golden morsels. A few of the bigger and fatter geese impatiently and hungrily squawked at the old lady. I laughed as the flock flapped their wings and screeched. These birds were nothing like the ill-tempered swans in the Isis.
I decided that I would cease their complaining for the moment and feed them. Unfortunately, the pockets of my coats carried nothing of monetary value. My spirits faded a bit; I certainly did not want to ask Holmes for money. We started to walk past when Holmes stopped.
"A bag of crumbs please." He pulled out a twopence from his pocket and placed it into the old lady's wrinkled palm.
She took the coin from her palm and carefully inspected it. She then took the coin to her mouth and bit it. Her wizened face turned to Holmes and nodded as though satisfied with the coin's authentication. The woman gave Holmes her paper bag. "Bless you, young man."
Holmes nodded, kindly smiled, and passed the paper bag to me without a word. We said "good-bye" to old woman and walked until we found a desirable spot by the lake.
I opened up the bag and tossed a few crumbs into a swimming cluster of ducks. "When I was a child, I used to be frightened of ducks." Holmes snorted as he dug inside the paper bag and scattered them into the water. "I would cry every time I saw a duck or a goose."
"Pray tell, what caused such a phobia?" He inquired with traces of laughter swimming into his voice.
"Don't mock me, Holmes. I did say I was a child." I cleared my throat and told him my reasons. "I was four or five years old. My parents took my siblings and me to the shores of the Isis for a picnic. My mother gave me some crumbs to feed the swans there. James and one of his friends were off running pell-mell as boys are wont to do. They were wrestling, pushing, and shoving each other when their adventures came a little too close; I was pushed in. Luckily, I was close to shore and the waters were shallow. However, the crumbs fell in with me and were floating around next to me. They enticed the swans and they crowded around me.
"Mind you, I was quite young when this happened; the flapping of wings and their horrible cries frightened me. I woke up many nights after that from nightmares of ducks and geese chasing after me."
Holmes nodded with the remnants of a smile upon his face. "I see." I passed the bag to him and he took another scoopful. "Why did you relate this amusing story to me?"
The bread sailed into the air and landed in the water. A speedy mallard cruised through the water and quickly took them into his beak. I sneaked some of the bread morsels into my mouth. I then said in a serious tone, "Well, Holmes, I now know what you are ashamed of; it is only fair that you know what I am ashamed of."
The occasional splash and the honking water fowls were the only sounds between us. Then a familiar yet unfamiliar sound shattered the silence. I turned to Holmes. His head was thrown back, his thin body shook, his arms tightly crossed over his chest, and the most delightful and humanitarian noise exuded from his mouth. He was helplessly drowning in laughter.
A smile was all that I initially allowed myself, but his laughter was so contagious that I could not help but join him. He finally calmed down and wiped his eyes. "I would not compare a phobia of water fowl with a cocaine addiction. Nevertheless…" Laughter prevented him from finishing the sentence. He soon settled himself and returned to his normally cool demeanor. We tossed a few more scraps into the water in silence.
Fingers brushed the insides of my left arm and wrapped loosely around my wrist. I would have ordinarily jerked my arm away, but there was something about it that felt… nice.
"Thank you, Charlotte," Holmes softly murmured. He promptly let go of my arm and crossed his arms across his chest. He cleared his throat and said in a clearer tone, "I needed a good laugh."
The last scoops went into the dark blue waters. I threw the bag away and we proceeded down the path once more.
"Do you miss Oxford?" he asked.
"Yes," I immediately answered. "It is the only home that I know." My walking stick inadvertently became stuck into a mud puddle. I had to stop and use both of my hands to pull it out. The walking stick came out with a discernable pop and we continued our progress. I, in turn asked, "Do you miss Sussex?"
A palpable silence greeted my question. I was so absorbed in taking in the scenery that I belatedly noticed that there was only one set of footsteps and that they were mine. I turned around and saw Holmes a few paces behind me; his body turned toward the lake and his eyes took on that vague, pensive look.
Idiot, I silently cursed myself. I of all people knew how uncomfortable he was when it came to discussing his past.
"Holmes?"
"I do sometimes," he answered in a voice that I could barely hear. He rummaged through his pockets and fished out a cigarette. Instead of immediately placing it between his lips, he held it in his hand and asked, "Do you mind if I smoke?"
One of my eyebrows shot up in response. "You're really asking me? I never thought that would ever happen."
"That did not answer my question," he retorted; the familiar condescension and sarcasm returning to him. "May I smoke?"
"Better that than the cocaine," I blandly replied.
He flinched at my reply but did not rebuke. He placed the cigarette between his lips, pulled out his lighter, and lit it. Smoke trailed through his nostrils and he caught up with me. We continued our walk through the park.
It was during our fourth cycle around the park that I heard the unexpected sound of childish laughter; most children should be at home by this hour. Speedy footsteps sounded on the path behind us. A small body slammed into my legs without warning. I turned around and saw two young boys barely a decade old; one was sprawled on the ground while the other stood next to him.
"Sorry, Missus," a ragged young boy squeaked from behind me. "My lil' brother's right clumsy at times. We'll be outta your hair soon enough." He turned to his equally ragged brother and yelled, "Come on, Oliver, you ninny, up with you!" Oliver stood up, gave me a toothy grin, and began to run away.
"Oi!" A shout rented the air. The young ragamuffins froze mid-step and timidly turned around to face Holmes.
"'Oi?'" I repeated in disbelief. The colloquial nature of his shout combined with the crisp suit he wore was an extremely jarring mixture.
Holmes replied with a shrug. "Well, it certainly got their attention." He beckoned the lads over to him. "Young men, could you please come forward? I believe you have something that belongs to my friend."
My brow furrowed at his last statement. "They did what?"
"If you please, young sirs." Holmes beckoned once more. Whether it was the firmness in his voice or the menacing look in his eyes, I could not tell, but the young rascals inched forward with guilt written all over their cute faces. "Now, what are your names?"
The eldest brother spoke once again in a much gloomier voice than before. It was a voice that I was familiar with; the guilty voice one speaks in when one has been caught red-handed. "This is my lil' brother, Oliver. I'm Billy."
"Well, young Billy," Holmes began. "I would very much appreciate it if you return what you both stole from Miss Andrewes."
"Steal?" Oliver asked in a would-be innocent tone. "We didn't steal nothing!"
Billy harshly elbowed his brother in the stomach. "Belt up, Ollie; the bloke's onto us already. Just give it back."
"Oh, all right," Oliver whined and pulled out a familiar silver chain. He dropped it into Holmes' outstretched hand.
"My bracelet!" I cried as Holmes fastened the chain back on my wrist. Oliver and Billy guiltily looked at their feet. Holmes went on his knees and placed a hand on the lads' shoulders.
"Boys, I thank you for your honesty and I'm sure that Miss Andrewes appreciates it as well." He then fished out some shillings from his coat pocket. The brothers' eyes practically popped out of their heads as Holmes deposited two shillings each into the young boys' palms.
"Wow, sir! Thanks a lot!" Billy exclaimed in childish glee. Oliver stood awestruck at the gleaming shiny in his hands; he constantly turned it over and over as though he could not believe his luck. Their celebrations were abruptly stopped by another presence.
A constable joined the scene. His beady eyes suspiciously moved from Billy to Oliver. "Are these young lads bothering you?"
"We weren't doin' anythin', Constable Jones. Honest!" Oliver wheedled in a shrill tone.
"Yeah, sir, nothin' happened!" Billy asserted. The boys' voices mixed together as they repeated their pleas of innocence.
Constable Jones gruffly barked, "Quiet, you lot! I was not talking to you troublemakers." Holmes stood up from his crouched position but still kept the boys close to him. The constable tipped his hat towards me in a patronizing manner and then focused his attentions on Holmes. "Now, sir, were these mischievous rogues causing trouble for you and your wife?"
My face burned and turned a deep shade of crimson. "Sir, actually I—"
"No," Holmes cleanly interrupted. "The children were not bothering us. Were they, darling?" Holmes firmly stomped on my foot and whispered, "Play along."
I quickly answered, "No, sweetheart, they were not bothering us." I tucked my arm into Holmes' for believability's sake. I added, "They're darling little children, as a matter of fact." It was lucky that Constable Jones was not looking in my direction; if he were, he would have seen me staring daggers at my husband.
Constable Jones harrumphed in disbelief. "Well, sir, these children are known to cause trouble, picking pockets and what-not. If these lads aren't bothering you, I'd be willing to escort them home."
"Yes, Constable, I suppose that will be most sufficient," Holmes agreed. He gently pushed the lads towards Constable Jones. Of course, the boys were reluctant. "Take care of them and treat them well."
"Of course," Constable Jones replied out of habit. He placed his large hands on the boys' shoulders in an almost convincing manner.
Billy and Oliver looked at Holmes with pleading eyes that seemed to say, Save me! Holmes gave them the smallest of winks as reassurance. He tipped his hat at the Constable. "Good evening, lads, Constable."
"Thank you for your cooperation, sir," Constable Jones said with a civil smile and gently took the boys down the path. I was about to admonish him for his claim that we were married when I was silenced.
"Hush," he whispered and then I heard what Holmes wanted to hear.
"I swear, you lot, next time I see your skin in this territory again, I'll have your hides."
"Ouch, Constable! You're gonna yank my ears off!"
"Mine too!"
"Quiet down, the pair of you, lest you want me to bash your heads in!"
Holmes shook his head in dismay. "Those boys…"
I inspected my bracelet in the fading light. "They have some really quick fingers."
"Yes, they do," Holmes agreed. He sighed and looked once more in the direction that the boys had left. "However, it is a rather predictable technique. I pity those boys. They always start out small, pick-pocketing and other petty crimes, and they'll slowly progress to more malicious crimes. Their lifetime will be spent evading Scotland Yard and braving the streets of this great cesspool."
"It cannot be helped," I gently argued. "They want to survive and if that means they have to resort to crimes such as stealing, then so be it. Desperation is a great motivator."
"It is unfortunate, I agree. Men such as Constable Jones are of no help either. Honestly, Scotland Yard needs better men than that buffoon, Jones, patrolling these streets." He sniffed in disgust and then said to himself, "I wish there was something I could do." Holmes' eyes were far off in thought as he said this; he soon came back to his senses with a bland smile upon his face. He tapped my shoulder distractedly and then said, "It is getting dark. Mrs. Costello may send the hounds after us if we do not return soon."
We walked further down the path in silence and dodged several ill-tempered geese on our way. I had just shooed away a particularly stubborn goose with my walking stick when a niggling question entered my mind.
"Holmes, why did you say I was your wife?"
"Pragmatism, Charlotte," he crisply answered. "It would be much easier to say that we were married instead of explaining that we were both single and why we do not have a chaperone. By the way, I applaud your quick wit for managing to improvise so quickly."
"Thank you."
"You are quite welcome."
A faint steam whistle drifted in the air. "The 5:44 at Charing Cross, I presume. Will you be leaving on the first train?"
"I…"
I bit my lip as I pondered this dilemma. This morning I had wanted to leave more than anything. But now… now, I did not want to. This man infuriated me like no other could with his haughtiness, sardonic wit, and almost mechanic tendencies. Yes, we often clashed; there were times when I wanted to kill him and I am more than positive that there were times when he wanted to wring my neck. Yet, I could not leave. Leaving meant that I would give up on my father and I certainly could not do that. The partnership between Holmes and I would be over the moment I boarded that train for Oxford. No, that would not do at all; I needed Holmes' intellect to aid me.
This morning, Holmes had insulted and verbally wounded me. By the day's end, he had pretended to be my husband. My mind reeled; predictability would be the last word to describe this unconventional relationship. In the end, I decided to follow Holmes' own edict of pragmatism. I let go of his arm and walked a few paces ahead.
"Are you really sorry about what occurred this morning?"
"I am."
"Did you really mean what you said… you needing me and all that?"
"I did."
"Really?"
"I do not take such declarations lightly."
I nervously rubbed my left arm. Holmes turned his gaze towards the lake. I walked back to him. "I would like to let you know that the issue of your cocaine habit is not over."
A regretful look appeared on his face. "I thought so."
I sighed in a resigned fashion and then instructed, "Tell me what you found out at the Hepburn residence."
He grinned.