I have created some pictures of some of my characters and certain scenes so if anyone is curious to see what Charlotte or any other character looks like, then head on over to my profile and click on the indicated link.

By the by, Chapter 16 has been slightly edited--nothing too drastic but it would be wise to read once again just to make sure you're on the right tracks.

Oh, and thanks for the reviews everyone and please continue to voice your love...or possible disliking...of this story. :D

After a half of an hour of battling our way through the London streets, we finally arrived in front of the banking institution, Barclays. Holmes leaped out of the hansom as soon as it stopped moving and ran inside the doors; it was almost as if my indiscretion had caused him to move at such a fast and furious pace. I was reminded of one of those circus acts in which the performer attempts to catch porcelain china and the like before he or she crashes onto the floor beneath him or her. I exhaustedly hobbled through the glass doors and found that Holmes had, for the third time today, disappeared before my very eyes.

"Now, where did that oversized bird of prey run off to this time?" I mumbled to myself as my eyes surveyed the area before me.

The marble beneath my feet brightly gleamed due to the extravagant chandelier over my head and also, no doubt, to the hours of drudgery needed to maintain such grand floors. My knees ached just thinking of the time spent polishing it. A waving hand in the distance caught my attention and I saw Holmes sitting by one of the many desks where tellers sat patiently waiting for customers.

"Did you get lost?" Holmes chided in a barely audible voice as I took a seat next to him.

"I was, but then I saw your huge beak of a nose and all was well," I lowly quipped and extended my hand toward the teller seated in front of us. "How do you do, sir?"

The teller politely accepted my hand and gently shook it. "Very well, Madam, I thank you." He quickly polished his spectacles before speaking once more. "My name is Andrew Taylor. I was just speaking with your husband before your arrival." I repressed a sigh; it was getting rather annoying to hear myself referred to as Holmes' wife. "You have a certain key in your possession, I believe."

"Yes, I do," I answered and pulled the key from my pocket. I deposited it into the teller's open palm and he briefly examined it.

"Ah, I see," was all he said for a moment and then he waved his hand to one of his associates. "Reginald, this is Mr. Holmes and his wife and they would like to get the contents of Mr. Hepburn's safe."

The mustachioed Reginald turned his beady eyes toward Holmes. Of course, I was thoroughly ignored save for a glance in my general direction. "Ah, I see," he repeated his colleague's words, much to my chagrin. "The name is Mr. Samuel Reginald, sir. How do you do?" he asked as he vigorously shook Holmes' hand and thoroughly ignored me. "Exactly what is your relationship to Mr. Hepburn, Mr. Holmes?"

"My… wife, sir," Holmes tentatively began as he glanced at me. I gave him the smallest of shrugs and he continued, "Her uncle was Mr. Hepburn and he entrusted the key into her possession shortly before he died." He explained, "It would mean the world to her to have any sort of memento of her dear uncle."

I pulled my face into its most convincing mournful frown and pouted my lips for extra measure. Reginald simply nodded at this information as though it were some trivial tidbit in a piteous conversation. He then cleared his throat and declared, "My sympathies, Madam. I shall say, on behalf of everyone at Barclays, that our prayers are with your family during this tough time."

Holmes gently nudged me; I turned and saw a handkerchief in his hand. I took it from his hand and he gave me the smallest wink. My lips slightly curved up in a minute smile, but I quickly repressed it and began to sob. I buried my face into the handkerchief and started to sniffle. The two bankers looked at each other in discomfort at my show of emotion; Taylor shuffled uncomfortably in his seat while Reginald suddenly became fascinated by his shoes.

"Thank you for your kindness, gentlemen. My uncle was certainly correct in trusting you to handle his affairs," I said in a trembling voice that turned into a large sob. I surreptitiously gave Holmes a sidelong glance; his hands sat in his lap and they made a decisive slicing motion. Stop drawing further attention to yourself, those quick and slightly skeletal fingers seemed to say. I subsided from the dramatic and simply dabbed my eyes.

"Yes… well, Madam, Mr. Reginald will fetch the contents from your uncle's safe." Mr. Taylor succinctly stated as he drummed his fingers upon the desk. He politely smiled at us and then excused himself to attend to other customers.

Holmes immediately assaulted me upon Taylor's leave. "What the deuce was that?"

"What?" I dumbly asked as I threw his handkerchief back at him.

"That whole show of maudlin tears and exaggerated sobs!" he fumed. "Did anyone ever tell you that less is more?"

Holmes had torn me to his shreds once again. I retorted, "Holmes, I am no Sarah Bernhardt. I only did what I thought would get the desired effect."

He crossed his arms across his chest. "There are probably dozens of people who come into this bank daily due to deceased relations. The last thing we need is you calling attention to us when we are clearly being followed. I only wanted you to sufficiently distract those men so they would not ask too many questions. I certainly did not need you to cry your heart out." There was still a residual vehemence in his eyes over my blunder as he said this. He cleared his throat, shut his eyes as though staving off his ire, and muttered to himself, "Such a mawkish display."

I rolled my eyes and sighed. I curiously inquired after a few minutes of silence, "Was I really that terrible?"

He quickly considered the notion and then replied with a resounding, "Yes!"

I had the greatest temptation to swing my cane and hit a certain gentleman, but luckily for Holmes, Reginald returned with a package in tow. I noticed that Holmes had sat up in his seat at the package's appearance. I, too, sat straighter in my seat so that I would be able to see what was in his hands.

"These are the contents of your uncle's safe." Reginald placed the package on the desk in front of us with a thump.

I had never laid my eyes on something that seemed so trivial and, yet, was so imperative. It was a file folder filled haphazardly with old and crumpled pages. I reached out to open it when Holmes' hand slammed it shut; I recoiled and nearly cried out in shock. Holmes looked as uninterested as I had ever seen him. He shook Reginald's hand and then took the package into his arms.

"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Reginald," Holmes thanked him as he stood up.

"'Tis nothing at all, Mr. Holmes." Reginald vigorously shook Holmes' hand in return. He then turned to me and bowed. "Mrs. Holmes, once again, our institution has the deepest sympathies for you and your family."

My head nodded out of polite obligation. Holmes, who looked at least satisfied by my answer, tucked the papers under his elbow and we proceeded to walk outside the doors and back into the enveloping darkness of the city.

The flat tones of the Boston born man on Folly Bridge had told me that the papers were in London. Indeed, there were papers in London; the man was honest in that regard. However, Holmes and I were not expecting the haphazard, disheveled mess we received from Barclays.

We briefly stopped at the tobacconist's shop. I chose to remain with the hansom instead of venturing inside with Holmes; the smell of tobacco was certainly a great determent. He emerged from the shop after a few minutes as he pocketed a small paper bag into his coat pocket. He bounded towards the hansom and we resumed our ride.

Much to my impatience, Holmes refused to show me the papers until we reached Mycroft's flat. I was further incensed by the seemingly exorbitant amount of time we spent trying to get back. What was initially supposed to be half an hour turned into an hour and a half circling London; Holmes wanted to make quite sure that we were not being followed. Once satisfied, we returned to Mycroft's flat just as Big Ben struck half past five.

Delicious aromas wafted in the air and sounds of silverware greeted our ears when we entered Mycroft's flat. Holmes swept out of his coat, walked into the dining room, and dropped the package onto the table with a large thud. I peeled off my coat and slowly tottered after Holmes.

"Mycroft, stop stuffing yourself!" Holmes ordered as he took a seat in the dining room. Mycroft looked mildly interested but unfazed at the new arrival and continued to mop up his food. Holmes sighed in exasperation and said, "I think we may have something that may interest you."

"Well then, my dear brother, show me what you have found," Mycroft blandly remarked as he tidily wiped his mouth with a napkin. The elder brother's eyes fell upon me and he promptly stood up from his seat to pull out mine. I nodded my thanks as I sat down; Holmes did not seem to care at all and proceeded to open the file.

"That's my father's handwriting," I mumbled as I glanced at the bundles of papers. I knew those familiarly messy scrawls as well as my own penmanship. Suddenly, Mycroft's dining room transformed into my father's study. I could see my father bent over his desk as he graded papers while I sat in my father's oversized armchair in the corner. He placed his pen down, sighed, and cracked his knuckles as he turned towards me with that familiarly benevolent smile.

"Yes, that is quite odd," Mycroft said. The vivid vision shattered around me and jerked me back into Mycroft Holmes' dining room.

I jumped in shock; the mirage-like vision in my eyes had seemed so realistic. A sudden tightness in my chest arose and I bit my lip to prevent my emotions from spilling out. My fingernails tightly ground into my palms and the salty taste of blood filled my mouth. Damn, I had bit my lip too hard, I silently chided myself. A hand on my shoulder clenched mine and a whimper managed to escape.

"I apologize, Holmes," I began as I turned towards him and mustered a smile. "I must be exhausted. After all, we did traverse London. It is nothing, I assure you. Please resume your inspection of the manuscripts."

He did not, however, and his eyes looked at me with their familiar surgical gaze; I felt them peel away layer after layer of my defenses. I found that I could no longer meet his gaze; I roughly shrugged his hand off my shoulder, folded my hands on the table, and turned to Mycroft.

"Pray tell, what is so odd about it?" I asked while I deliberately avoided Holmes' gaze.

Mycroft looked over the top of the manuscript. "Take a look and you shall see for yourself," he stated as he passed the first page of the manuscript to Holmes, who decided to keep it in his hands for further inspection. I grumbled in disdain as I tried to peek over at the paper; but he raised it in the air out of my sight. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest. Mycroft started to speak once more. "Your father is a rather interesting man, Miss Andrewes. His handwriting tells me that he was an emotional man, an intellectual, and yet he was not a great communicator and a rather reserved individual who seemed to trust a few people. What do you think, Sherlock?"

Holmes' chair scraped against the wooden floor and moved towards me; I could smell the scent of his aftershave. His fingers nimbly turned the paper over in his hands. He brought the page to his face and sniffed it; he clearly ignored the confused look I had acquired on my face. Finally, he inspected the page with his eyes. "The lower ends of the letter 'y' are straight, which seem to indicate that the writer was self-sufficient. Did you also take note of the way the letter 't' is written, Mycroft? We can also conclude that he has a quick mind but also a man of practicalities."

Mycroft and Holmes continued to volley their deductions and observations over my head. The entirety of the conversation carried an air of dispassionate coldness that caused me to wince. I loudly cleared my throat and interrupted them. "How is it that you can derive all these characteristics from my father's handwriting?"

"Graphology," Holmes provided as an answer. "I am sure you know enough Latin to derive its meaning."

"The study of writing… or handwriting, in this case. But, Holmes, from what little I have heard, graphology is not really considered a true science."

"Yes, however, the study does have its merits; it provides us with a unique insight into a person's character. Anyway, the oddity that my dear brother has pointed out is this." Holmes finally relinquished the paper to me and I examined the first written lines.

DyrrmalcjramstilwamakXskjmjgiekxtxjdywi
Mixmjrehsnexxkaavpexpalcfkimixtehrems
Jscgtcxvwwjyaocjeitathewnue

The rest of the page followed in a similarly intriguing fashion. I turned to the brothers Holmes with bewilderment written all over my face. The two men also had puzzlement upon their twin features as well. There was, too, an intense curiosity contorting their faces that I had seen numerous times in the past. Holmes turned to his brother; they both looked at each other for a long time in utter silence and then turned their full attentions to the document.

I was the one who had to break the brooding silence. "For God's sake, what does this all mean? Does it continue on like this through the rest of the papers?"

"Yes," the brothers dismissively answered in unison as they surveyed the other pages of the document.

"Well, then," I began to say in an overly patient voice. "How do you propose we discover what all of those papers mean?"

Holmes shook his head in frustration. "Too much," he muttered to himself. His piercing eyes fell upon me. "There are a variety of ways for something to be encrypted."

"Your father has left us with quite a pretty problem," Mycroft ruminated in a voice mixed with amusement and annoyance. "My brother is right; there are unlimited possibilities in the ways that he could have encoded this. Caesar boxes, the Atbash cipher, various polyalphabetical ciphers…"

"We may have a clue to what he used." Holmes interrupted his brother's list of several processes of cryptography. "Mrs. Campbell mentioned that your father and Thaddeus Hepburn were talking about manuscripts and wheels." His hand slammed on the dining table in excitement and his eyes danced. "Yes, everything fits together neatly." It seemed that his mind would not allow him to remain stationary; he practically leapt out of his seat and began to pace the length of the dining room. He muttered to himself, "Your father's favorite historical figure was Thomas Jefferson, if I am correct?"

"Yes," I hesitantly replied as my brow furrowed in confusion. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything!" he exclaimed. "Do you not see? Thomas Jefferson, the missing box, the papers, the wheel… they are all connected." His lithe form whirled around to face his brother, whose face was glowing with comprehension. I, on the other hand, remained in the dark and felt extraordinarily stupid. He pointed at Mycroft and said, "Yes, you see it too, Mycroft!" A cheerful voice greeted my ears as Holmes returned to his seat next to me. "Thomas Jefferson was a modern day Renaissance man. Scientist, architect, botanist, politician… and cryptologist." My thoughts began to snap into place. "To ensure the privacy of his letters from the prying eyes of his opponents, he created a device which is now called a Jefferson disk.

"The Jefferson disk uses twenty-six wooden wheels that were threaded onto a spindle. The edge of the wheels would have the letters etched in various random orders." He took a pause in his monologue and turned to Mycroft. "May I get a pen and paper to illustrate an example for Charlotte?" Mycroft called for Mrs. Costello to provide the supplies. A pen and a couple of sheets of paper emerged and Holmes began to draw an example of the wheel. "You see, the letters are written in a random fashion such as this:

N K Y N S A V O P Q X Z I U D N L

M K Y Q N B A I X C Y E M L C F O

B Z T D S G H L J Y X A P O U I J T

"Do you see it?" The tip of his pen ran down the seventeen columns. "This is on a much smaller scale, but it will suit our purposes. When one wanted to encode a message, one would turn the disks to form the message they so desire. For example, let us pretend that we have a wheel with us and that we are encoding a message. I shall use your name:

P I U Y R W M B Z C G K L T Q X N

C H A R L O T T E A N D R E W E S

K U C X Z Y I L M A W R E Q P M A

"We have figuratively spun the wheels to make your name. Now, in order to encrypt our message, we would look at any other rows of text. Here, since we only have two other rows to choose from, I shall choose the line of text on top of our message. Hence, your name encrypted on a Jefferson disk would be this:

P I U Y R W M B Z C G K L T Q X N

"That's quite complicated," I said as Holmes finished his little lecture. My mind seemed to slowly catch up with the feverish pace of the Holmes'. "The little ebony and ivory box on my father's desk… that was a Jefferson disk?" Holmes nodded in satisfaction. Yet, there was still one fact my mind could not wrap around. "Why did they need to steal that box? I am sure that something like that could be easily reproduced."

Mycroft shook his doughy head. "The letters are placed in a random fashion. Whoever wants to decrypt the message would need an exact copy of the disk your father used."

"And we need that disk as well," Holmes stated as he began to pull out his cigarette case. "I need to meditate upon our next course of action. If you do not care to smell the emissions of my nicotinic meditation, I suggest you leave now."

"Oh, Holmes, what about the cigar? Was there anything provocative about it?"

Disappointment marred the exuberant expression on his face. "It was a common and cheap brand of cigar. The only information I could acquire from it was that whoever has been following us is not paid enough to buy of the finer brands of tobacco." He flipped open his cigarette case and placed one between his lips. The snapping sound of a match being lit crackled in my ears. "Now," he stated as he lit the cigarette and extinguished the flame by shaking the match. "Perhaps you may take this opportunity to rest as I could see that you are leaning much more heavily on your walking stick than is usual." Smoke billowed from his open mouth and nostrils.

I left the brothers to their thoughts and went into my room. My eyes shut the moment my head landed on the feathery softness of the pillows.

The air was thick with a swirling, dark mist. The hairs on the back of my neck seemed to stand at attention; my body became aware before my mind that there was something clearly amiss. Vision failed me, yet my other senses compensated for my blindness; an icy wind howled and moaned in my ears, a prickling sensation of grass emerged underneath my feet, and a most putrid and horrid scent filled my nostrils.

That scent... I had smelled it once and only once in my entire lifetime. Suddenly, I felt as if I had been pushed into the waters of the Isis during winter. The thick mist started to fade away and I could now see the silhouettes of gravestones. There was now something else there, however, and that was the most terrible thing of all.

Terror had chilled my bones. I attempted to run but I fell to the ground as I took my first step. I pinched my left leg and felt nothing... I then leaned upon a nearby gravestone to help myself stand up, but found that my right leg was paralyzed as well. In fact, all of my limbs were numb and limp. The heat of panic rushed to combat the chill of terror and I flailed in a vain attempt to run away from the vision that was coming ever closer towards me.

The decaying smell became stronger and stronger as the figure approached. The elements were against me; the wind in my ears was deafening, the grass underneath my feet was slippery with dew, and the reek was stunning my senses into paralysis. Then, without warning, the gust ceased its moan and everything became still.

A tall shadowy figure stood behind me. My breath caught in my throat and my heartbeat seemed to stop.

"Charlie..." a decrepit, rotten-smelling voice whispered.

"No, please, don't..." I childishly mumbled.

Slithery and slimy hands grabbed my shoulders and whirled me around to face their owner. A swollen and bruised face stared at me as white bubbling foam tinged with crimson poured out of every orifice. That cloying, rotting aroma filled my lungs and bitter acid tingled in the back of my throat.

"Save me, Charlie..." the ancient voice pressed me. How could such a familiar and loving voice turn into something so terrible?

"No, no, no, let me go!"

"CHARLIE!"

"NO!"

This time, I felt the imprints of agile fingers digging into my shoulders instead of the slimy hands of the dead. My eyes flew open and I abruptly sat up to find myself in the dark of Mycroft Holmes' guest room. Cold sweat trickled down my back and dampened my clothes. My body was fighting to return back to its state of homeostasis when I felt a blanket wrap around my shoulders. I tensed and let out a frightened whimper.

"It's all right, Charlotte," a soothing voice whispered in the darkness.

"Holmes?" I questioned the room in between panting breaths.

"You were having a nightmare," he said as I felt the bed shift downwards due to the added weight.

My senses started to return to me and I hastily replaced my armor. I scathingly retorted, "Of course, I was having a nightmare. I would not have been screaming otherwise." I wrapped the blanket around me even tighter. Without looking directly at Holmes, I said in rather clipped tones, "Well, I am awake now. I think I will just read and then go back to sleep. Thank you, Holmes."

The weight on the bed remained, much to my annoyance.

"I am fine, Holmes," I repeated in a firm and clearly annoyed voice.

Silence once again greeted my ears. I was about to literally push him off of my bed when he abruptly spoke. "I will be in the parlor." I acknowledged his statement with a weak mumble and fumbled around for the clock on the nightstand. "It is approximately one in the morning, if you are wondering," he added as he sat up from the bed and walked over to the door. I grimaced at his annoying tendencies to be correct. He left the room but did not close the door behind him... much to my discontent.

I groaned and dropped back onto the bed. I then belatedly realized that I was still in the clothes that I had been wearing all afternoon and quickly changed into my nightgown. I brushed through the bush that was my hair, tied it with a ribbon, and pulled myself underneath the bedcovers. Yet, after about thirty minutes of tossing and turning, I discovered that I could not go to sleep.

Actually, I was afraid to go to sleep.

I had raised my pillow into the air and was about to smother myself in desperation when I heard the sound of a violin skittering to life. Holmes had brought two things with him to London; one was a Gladstone bag and the other was his violin case. Maybe if he played something soothing or calming I could go to sleep again, I ruminated in bed. Then, for the second time that night, I felt as if my heart had stopped beating and my breath stuck in my throat.

I whirled out of bed, rushed down the hallway, and skidded into the parlor. The violin possessed Holmes' undivided attentions; his fingers firmly caressed the neck whilst his other hand expertly scraped the strings. He did not seem to notice my abrupt entrance into this serene setting. It was not Holmes' playing, however, that incited such a violent reaction on my part. It was the tune that he seemed to carelessly play on his old violin. The last time I had heard that tune was during that last summer…

"Do you need anything, Charlotte?"

"That song… How did you-? What are you-?" I mentally slapped myself and gathered my senses. "My father used to play that to me when I was sick."

"Your mother allowed me to borrow some of your father's sheet music," he distractedly stated as he stopped to turn the pegs. "You were there, you remember." His fingers stopped turning the pegs as he abruptly realized the haphazard nature of his playing and the possible effects that it had on me. "Would you like me to stop playing?"

My mouth opened to say "yes", but something in my mind prevented me from forming the word. Instead, I sat on the sofa and looked at Holmes. "You called me 'Charlie' when you were trying to wake me up."

The sitting room was dark as it was only minimally lit by dim gaslights. Hence, I could not see what Holmes's reaction to my statement. I noticed, however, that his silhouette seemed to stiffen; yet, my eyes may be mistaken as it was almost too dark to make out anything more. A moment passed between us until he loudly cleared his throat and explained himself.

"I heard sounds coming from your room and then you started to raise your voice. I attempted to wake you up as gently as possible by shaking you, but you were so engrossed in your dreams that I used your former epithet to get your attention. The latter technique worked; there is no other reason for me to use your name—"

"I did not say that there was no other motive for you to use my nickname, Holmes. You needn't be too defensive about it," I interrupted him as I fluffed up one of the sofa cushions and started to lie down. I paused and looked at Holmes, who was now looking out the window, and asked out of curiosity, "Was there any reason—"

"No!" Holmes sliced through my last statement with slightly more irritation than was needed. "It only served as a mental jolt to draw you away from your dream state. Nothing more and nothing less!" The bow scraped against the strings and started playing some Mozart piece.

Perhaps now would be the opportune time to switch subjects, I mused to myself as I tried to repress the awkward implications of this situation. Instead, as the intelligent person that I am, I broached onto another sensitive subject.

"Holmes, when did you start injecting yourself with cocaine?" I blurted out without thinking. My hand automatically flew over my mouth like a reflex resulted from my stupidity. The music abruptly stopped; my mind imagined the icy gaze that was currently fixated on me. Darkness has its benefits, I blackly thought as I slapped myself on the forehead. Surprisingly, I was not eaten alive on the spot.

"I was introduced to it in my second year," Holmes uttered with such finality that the words in my mouth seemed to drop dead. He waited for any other impetuous questions on my part and then proceeded to pluck at one of the strings. He ruminated aloud, "Damn, it's out of tune." Various notes were plucked until it produced the right note. "Now, Charlotte, if you are only here to annoy me with trivialities, then I would like you to leave me alone to my thoughts."

"Oh, I won't bother you any longer, Holmes," I said as a yawn punctuated my words. My body settled into the cushions of the sofa. "I promise to not annoy you with my trivialities if you allow me to relax here whilst you play."

He did not say anything, but the melancholic sound of the violin reached my ears; it managed to ease my troubled mind enough to put me to sleep. Yet, my slumbers were not too deep and I soon became aware that the violin had stopped playing. The state between dreaming and consciousness is extremely deceiving as one does not know whether an event is true or the mind's fabrication. With my mind in this state, I felt an arm wrap around my waist in order to lift me up into a standing position. Nevertheless, the next morning, I awoke to find that I had slept in my bed.

"Holmes, we have been in London for three days," I informed him the next afternoon as my hand lazily turned the page of my thoroughly thumbed-through edition of Walt Whitman poetry. I looked over the top of my book and saw Holmes's form seated on the window bench.

He turned his head in my direction. "Yes, Charlotte, I know how to count," he derisively answered and turned his attentions back to the window.

I snapped my book shut and reluctantly sat up from my seat on the spongy sofa. It is no wonder that Mycroft is known to be such a sloth-like person, I mused as I took a seat next to Holmes.I drew my knees up to my chin and wrapped my arms around my legs. About five minutes passed before Holmes stopped his watch and mirrored my actions, pulling his lean legs up to his chin.

"What are you concerned about?" he inquired.

"I am supposed to be in Sussex with your dear Aunt Violet and meeting your other relatives." I briefly examined my nails before I continued. "In other words, Holmes, we cannot stay here in London for an unsubstantiated amount of time. If we remain here for more than a week, my mother will become suspicious."

"Hmm..." Holmes nodded in response and leaned on the wall behind him. He opened his mouth to say something more but seemed to reconsider and shut his mouth. No word passed between us for quite some time, but I was quite used to these episodic silences. Finally, he spoke. "There is nothing more we can accomplish here. We will return to Oxford tomorrow morning."

"Why not tonight?"

One of his eyebrows rose in a questioning gaze. "Are you really that anxious to return home?"

"No," I immediately retorted in defense, though Holmes's words were true.

"Besides, we would not want that man over there following us home, now would we?" he said in a light voice as he subtly jerked his head towards the window. Hesitation resulted from the fear of failure prevented me from looking at the man; yesterday's events played in my head. Vacillation must have been plainly written on my face, for a gentle yet slightly mocking smile fell upon Holmes's features. "You may look, but try not to be so obvious to deter our friend down there. Come closer so that you may see." I slowly stood up from my curled position and allowed my eyes to follow Holmes's beckoning hand. "Stay behind me and try not to make yourself too visible."

I followed his instructions and stood behind him, but all I could see was the usual pedestrian traffic along Pall Mall with the usual suit-clad gentlemen, dainty-footed ladies, and few maids accomplishing their daily duties. Embarrassment began to seep through my senses; what seemed so obvious to Holmes was quite invisible to me. I could not see our follower and decided that something was wrong with my eyes.

My long silence seemed to confirm my opacity and Holmes grasped my wrist and pulled me closer to the window instead of scolding me as he was wont to do. "Get on your knees," he distractedly ordered without realizing the difficulty for me to assume such a position. I hunched over my walking stick and very slowly managed to crouch. "Can you see him now?"

"All I can see is the shoulder of your suit and a partial view of the buildings ahead of me," I joked.

A small smile appeared in the window's reflection. "Place your hands on my shoulder and rest your chin upon them so that you may see better." I readjusted my position as Holmes had ordered.

"There. Now, can you see our curious gentleman down there?"

My eyes scanned the crowd and I finally saw the figure Holmes had dubbed our "curious" gentleman. Our last follower had been a handsome and bespectacled youth, but this was a different gentleman; he was middle-aged and burly, with shades of grey peppering his dark hair.

"How can you tell that he is following us?" I queried.

Holmes rubbed the underside of his jaw in a distracted manner. "I saw him several times last night standing at that very same street corner. He is obviously an amateur for this type of work."

"So, there are two gentlemen following us?" I commented more to myself than to Holmes.

"So it seems, though I think it is very likely that there are only those two men involved." His seated position suddenly shifted and he abruptly turned around to face me. I would have fallen forward onto him if he had not steadied me by grabbing my shoulders. "We will head back to Oxford in the morning. We may have to steal away, however, before dawn breaks."

A groan tumbled from my mouth. He knew how I hated being roused at inopportune times. If waking up at the crack of dawn resulted in returning to Oxford, however, I would be more than happy to stay awake the entire night. My Walt Whitman book seemed to call out for me; I got up from the floor and returned to the soft cushions of Mycroft's comfortable sofa. I opened the book to where I left off and started to read once again. Holmes, meanwhile, continued his vigil watching our watcher.

A considerable amount of time passed before we spoke; I had finished reading the book and had started to twirl my walking stick in my right hand in boredom. Mrs. Costello dropped in with a tray of tea and we politely chatted for a few minutes before she resumed her other duties. Holmes, naturally, did not touch a single thing on the tray and remained in his seat by the window. I, on the other hand, practically destroyed the assortment of muffins and biscuits and guzzled about half of the tea pot in one sitting. The walking stick went back into my hand and began to twirl.

"Charlotte," Holmes abruptly spoke after about an hour and a half of silence.

The walking stick flew out of my hand and fell to the floor with a large clatter. I exclaimed, "Damn it, Holmes!"

The patter of Mrs. Costello's footsteps sounded on the wooden floor followed by the concerned sound of her voice. "What happened? Is there anyone hurt?"

"No, not at all," Holmes replied in a casual fashion. "It appears that I frightened Miss Andrewes and she reacted badly."

Mrs. Costello nodded and then stated, "I should tell you that Master Mycroft will be coming home from the club soon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Costello," Holmes and I spoke in unison and she bowed out of the sitting room. Finally, after almost two hours of remaining seated, Holmes stood up and stretched his limbs. He went over to stoke the flames in the fireplace and leaned against the mantle. "Honestly, Charlotte, don't you think that your reaction was a tad melodramatic?"

"Of all the people to scold me about theatrics," I muttered and playfully threw my book towards Holmes. His quick hands adeptly caught the book and he flipped through the pages before placing it atop the mantle. "Why did you call for me?"

"Oh, it was merely a simple inquiry." I could not help but to roll my eyes, for a simple inquiry from Holmes was never simple. He ignored my expression and continued, "Did your father ever tell you why he left Boston?"

"Yes. He met my mother and decided to stay here with her," I explained in a bored fashion. "My father actually met my mother when he was touring through St. James's Park. He saw her from far away, felt compelled to talk to her, and essentially spent the rest of his vacation getting to know her."

Holmes's eyes narrowed as though something horrid had been shoved underneath his nose. "Is that all he told you?"

"Why, Holmes?" The look on his face was enough to make me sit up in my chair. "What's in your head, Holmes?"

"It does not seem normal that your father would move to England to marry your mother. A man would usually have his wife relocate to his home instead and, in your father's case, to live in Boston. However, that is exactly what he did not do. The thought that is currently running through my mind is that I believe that there was something that your father wanted to leave behind in Boston and, while your parents loved each other, I think that your father took this as an opportunity to get away from his problems."

The theory that my father ran away from home by marrying my mother stung despite Holmes's caveat. I did not utter a word against his hypothesis, but the distaste that I felt seemed must have been evident in my appearance.

"I am not saying that your father married your mother only for those pragmatic reasons—"

"No, that is something you would do," I muttered in what I thought to be an inaudible voice. It was not until I felt a freezing cold stare that I realized that I had spoken louder than I had intended.

"That was uncalled for, Charlotte," Holmes reprimanded in an uncharacteristically soft voice. He straightened the lapels of his coat and then continued with his previous train of thought as though nothing happened. "It was quite obvious that your father loved your mother; anyone can deduce that on their own without me telling them so." A wry smile briefly curled his lips in self-deprecation. "However, he chose to stay in England and had extremely limited communications with his family while he was still alive. That sounds rather intriguing, don't you think?"

"It is rather intriguing, I have to admit." I reluctantly conceded. "You know, Holmes, the only relative he actually corresponded with was his brother, my Uncle Ben."

"The unopened letter that your father burned was from Boston, the figure on Folly Bridge spoke in a Northeastern accent… everything points to Boston, it seems," Holmes ruminated to himself as he glanced at the mirror hanging above the mantle.

My mind immediately heard the implications of his last statement. I vigorously shook my head as I spoke. "Holmes, my mother may have let me accompany you on a faux voyage to Sussex, but I hardly think that she would allow me to travel to Boston."

He eyed me through the mirror's reflection with a mock surprised look on his face. "Why, Charlotte, whatever would make you think such a thing?"

I crossed my arms over my chest and gazed back at him with a disbelieving look. A click sounded from the door behind me and Mycroft entered the room with his fleshy face flushed red by the breeze outside. Mrs. Costello emerged from the kitchen and quickly helped her employer out of his coat and stowed away his briefcase.

"Do you know when dinner will be ready, Mrs. Costello?" Mycroft inquired as he opened up his cigar box and pulled out a cigar.

"The usual time, Master Mycroft," she primly answered as her keen eyes spotted the half-empty tea tray. She took the tray back into her capable hands and bustled back into the kitchen.

"Do you mind if I smoke, Miss Andrewes?" Mycroft politely inquired after he finished clipping his cigar. I gave the obligatory nod and he opened the windows a little to allow the noxious fumes to escape.

"Mycroft, I shall tell you that you will be rid of us very soon as we will leave for Oxford at the break of dawn tomorrow… with your help, of course. We certainly do not want to be followed."

"By the way, did you notice the gentleman standing in the corner, Sherlock?" Mycroft said in between a puff of his cigar. Holmes silently acknowledged that he had with a short nod. "He is rather obvious, I am afraid. I will be more than willing to assist you from your flight."

"Thank you, Mycroft. Oh, and I have something else that I must consult with you." Holmes informed him in an off-handed manner. Mycroft walked over to his brother, stood at the opposite end of the mantle, and waited for Holmes to consult with him. However, Holmes did not speak what was on his mind at that moment. His grey eyes quickly flashed in my direction and then returned to Mycroft. "I will talk to you at another time this evening."

"Talk about what?" I asked, though I already knew the answer I would receive.

Holmes's hand waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "It is nothing you should be concerned with for the time being."

I grudgingly nodded in resigned acceptance and, yet, in the back of my mind, a niggling thought wormed its way into my head and refused to go away.

Just what should I not be concerned with for the time being and when will I become concerned about it?