I entered a brief state of catatonia in reaction to Holmes' utterance. After what seemed an eternity, I managed to swallow the last of my pint, stand up from my seat, and bolt out of the Bird and Baby. I understood that I had just been talking about the fact that I wanted marriage, but I certainly did not expect a proposal at that very moment. I also did not want to be asked for my hand when I was slightly inebriated and most in a public house. Shame on Holmes, I silently admonished.

My footsteps instinctively led me to Folly Bridge, where I sat on the bridge's railings with my head turned up to the stars. I was attempting to find the North Star when I heard the one voice that I dreaded.

"You left your cane behind in your haste," Holmes stated as he inspected it in his hands. "I attempted to anticipate what your reaction would be to this proposal. I certainly did not expect you to run away."

"First of all, it is a walking stick," I testily corrected as I stood up and snatched the object from his hands. "A cane is something that doddering old people use to walk, hit people in the shins, and brandish in the air if you happen to get too close to their begonias. May I please have my walking stick back? By the way, what exactly did you think I would do?"

A sly smile skewed his face. "Oh, I thought that you would overact, start yelling, and, mostly, cause a scene."

I swung my walking stick at him in partial annoyance and partial jocularity. He snatched it out of my hands as it came towards him with the ease of a London pickpocket. I charged forward and managed to grasp it in my right hand; his own grip was ironclad, though, and I could not wrench it out of his hand.

"Let go," I said through gritted teeth.

"No."

"Please let go!" I exclaimed as I pulled harder on the walking stick.

The sly smile appeared once more and I immediately knew that something terrible would occur. "Well, since you said 'please'…" He instantly let go of the walking stick, which caused a disastrous chain reaction on my part; I stumbled backwards and conveniently fell into a rather large puddle the very moment Holmes let go. I do believe that Holmes had not perceived that this particular argument would reach a soggy conclusion and his resulting delight proved my belief justified; he threw his head back and collapsed into laughter.

Sobriety started to seep back into my body as the puddle water started to seep into my boots. I crossed my arms against my chest to show my indignation but remained in the puddle out of foolish pride. Holmes wiped away a tear shed from his laughter and offered me his hand once he managed to breathe once again. Naturally, I refused.

"I am not going to take your hand," I huffed as I used my walking stick to stand on my own. "Whether it is in marriage or as a polite gesture, I will never ever accept your hand." I vainly attempted to tidy myself but I only succeeded in making myself appear more disheveled. I gave Holmes a clipped nod and bade him good day as I walked past him. A smooth yet callused hand from behind grasped my hand and gently prevented me from moving forward.

"I must say in my own defense that a shock like that is sometimes required to render a person sober again—"

"I wasn't drunk!" I exclaimed as I broke my own word and turned around to face him.

An arched eyebrow and a snort was his only response to my outburst. Perhaps he felt the sensitivity of the current subject and deftly switched to another topic. "I would like to compensate for my mistakes and invite you to my rooms. I do suggest that you accept it unless you would be willing to offer an explanation to your mother as to why you smell like a combination of a wet dog and alcohol."

The heavy weight of resignation outweighed my pride. "Very well, Holmes. Consider this a temporary armistice. You do know that I will get you back for what you did to me."

He heaved a theatrical sigh as he looped my arm through his. "Yes, I shall forevermore watch my back for your petty vengeance. Now, you never did give me your answer to my proposal, Charlotte."

"Patience is a virtue," I primly replied.

"And that is one virtue that you hardly practice," Holmes jested. "I would like an answer by the end of the day, if that is possible."

I shrugged in a noncommittal fashion. "Engagement is a weighty issue that should not be decided upon in the span of a few hours, yet I will try my best to come to a decision. You know how much I hate having things like this hanging over my head."

"If it weren't for the fact that you are of the feminine persuasion, you would have been an adequately decent diplomat. Ah, Mycroft could use a mind like yours in his... ah, services."

A smile curled my lips despite myself. "My father used to tell me that I could have given Disraeli a run for his money and that I actually had a slight advantage."

"And what exactly was that advantage?"

"That I am actually much prettier to look at than Disraeli ever was."

A barking laugh surfaced from Holmes. "Yes, I happen to agree with your father on that note."

Holmes kindly allowed me to wear his mouse-colored dressing gown after he instructed me to change in his room. The robe was so long that I had to pick the ends off the floor so that I would not trip. I properly examined the state of my clothing in the gaslight; the blouse had a couple of water spots while the entire skirt was drenched. That will certainly take some time to dry, I thought to myself. I neatly folded up my clothes and then examined the bedroom of Sherlock Holmes.

The room was sparingly furnished with a bed and a fairly large armoire as the only major pieces of furniture. The bed looked positively pristine, almost as if nobody lied in it every night. Perhaps nobody ever lied in this bed; I had heard that Holmes was the kind of man who did not let the cycle of day and night affect his sleep.

A mere acquaintance of the man would not even know that this was Holmes' own private quarters. There was not a shred of sentimentality; there were neither framed pictures of family or friends nor an emblem of his alma mater. There were small signs, however, that Sherlock Holmes did indeed lived here; the entire room smelled of that particular brand of his cigarette tobacco, pages of violin music were scattered on top of his nightstand, and the place emanated the same pristine and catlike neatness of its resident.

Holmes had borrowed some of my father's compositions, a small voice in my head reminded me. Perhaps you should look for them while you are in here. I agreed with the voice and promptly opened one of the drawers to see if they were there. What I instead found was something I never expected: a Bible.

My hands ran over the leather cover and I instinctively knew that there was something significant about this Bible. Holmes was not a religious man by any means; hence, there had to be another reason that he kept this in his possession. I randomly opened the book to a certain section and found some enlightening information.

I opened it to the section between the Old and New Testaments and found an extensive depiction of the Holmes family tree. Sherlock's name was near the bottom of the tree alongside his brother Mycroft. Next to Sherlock, there was another name: Iris. I did not know that he had a sister and soon saw why he never mentioned that fact. Little Iris had passed away three months after her birth on the fourteenth of September. My eyes drifted up to the parents and saw that his father was one Siger Holmes and his mother was named Violet Chevalier.

I knew that his mother, Violet Chevalier Holmes, had passed away some time ago, but he had never shared any of the details with me. The family tree, however, provided me a clue as to the cause of her untimely death; the date of her death, which was written underneath her name, as the seventeenth of September of Iris' birth year.

"Charlotte, are you all right?" A voice called out from the other side of the bedroom door.

I quickly shoved the Bible back into the drawer and hoped no signs of guilt were evident on my face. After all, I had done nothing wrong… well, nothing criminal, at least. "Ah… yes, I'm fine. I am just examining the state of my clothes and estimating the amount that you will pay for the cleaning bill."

"I would have a lot of explaining to do if I bring your clothes to the launderette," Holmes reproved. There was, however, a note of amusement evident in his voice. "It is only puddle water, Charlotte, and a simple drying would suffice for the time being."

"Oh, very well," I reluctantly complied as I quickly checked the drawer for any obvious signs of snooping; the drawer looked as much as it had when I had opened it in my own eyes. I just hoped that it would look the same to Holmes. I headed out of the bedroom and into the sitting room.

I found Holmes stooped over his makeshift laboratory in the corner of the room. He greeted me with that usual sardonic smile and continued mixing the contents of a beaker over a Bunsen burner. The beaker's concoction soon revealed itself as the lovely smell of coffee wafted into my nostrils. He poured the newly made coffee into two chipped cups and handed one to me. I thanked him and was about to take a sip when an unsavory thought popped into my mind.

"Holmes, I do hope you cleaned that beaker before you used it for coffee. Lord knows, you may have quicksilver in it or something or other." I took a quick whiff of the coffee to ascertain whether any poisonous chemicals had infiltrated this seemingly innocent cup of coffee.

"I assure you that the beaker did not contain any dangerous chemicals that would make one ill or cause death," Holmes promised while he took a swig of the coffee as a sign of good faith; I took a tentative sip after I saw that he had not abruptly keeled over and died. He looked down at his cup and sighed. "If only I could make a decent cup of French coffee." He took another sip of coffee and then placed the cup on the lab table. "Besides, there would be no use killing what could be my fiancée after proposing marriage." He then added in a grim voice, "And if I did want to kill you, there are better ways than poisoning."

"You know, Holmes, you have the tendency to frighten me sometimes." I placed my wet clothing over the grate close to the fire. My body collapsed into the lumpy sofa across from the fire as my ears were greeted by a humorless chuckle.

"So I have been told by numerous people throughout the course of my life," Holmes replied as he swiveled his stool to face me. "Now, could you please tell me whether or not you accept my proposal?"

I chuckled as I deftly side-stepped his question. "So, you have always been like this?" I turned on my side and cradled my cheek in my hand.

"This? What exactly do you mean by that question?" Holmes asked with a hint of offense in his tone.

"So gravely serious and grim, that is what I mean," I simply answered.

"People are like diamonds. They have many facets; some constantly shine while others shine at rare intervals of time. There may come a time when a rarely seen facet of mine actually shows itself."

I shifted my position to face the room's ceiling and stated in a would-be solemn voice, "Holmes, I swear there are many times I do think you are so terribly full of hot air. That hot air must go into your head and make it grow bigger and bigger and big—"

Holmes sliced through my current diatribe. "While I do admit that there may be some truth to your words, I feel you are grossly exaggerating—"

Of course, the stubborn streak in me continued to chatter on. I turned towards the window with my back facing Holmes. "—I mean the way you act. You act as though you're a curmudgeonly old man and not a twenty-three year old young man—"

"This is a pointless argument. Now, could you please tell me your answer to my proposal?" he commanded in a cross tone.

I met his order with an arched eyebrow and a smirk. "Make me."

He rolled his eyes as he shook his head in dismay. "Stop being so childish."

I stuck out my tongue at him and declared, "I am going to raid your pantry for sugar and crème for my coffee. I will talk to you when I feel like I'm actually talking to someone my own age." I started to walk away when something hit me in the middle of my shoulders. I turned around and saw one of the cushions from the sofa on the floor. My eyes slowly shifted toward the sofa where I saw Holmes leisurely reclined.

"You seriously just didn't—"

Holmes interrupted with a thoughtful explanation. "When a person is acting like a child, sometimes one has to act like a child to get their attention. Now, if you could please…"

It was a notable tactic to say the least, but it was the wrong one to use in this scenario. Small remnants of alcohol still circulated in my bloodstream; I was not able to seriously talk about that marriage proposal. Neither was I willing to talk about it, drunk or sober. I automatically picked up the pillow and threw it with all my might. Unfortunately, I had not taken Holmes' fencing skills into account and he swiftly dodged the cushiony missile and tossed another one at me. This time, it hit me squarely in the mouth.

"You are the one declaring that I am acting in an immature fashion tonight, yet, let us look at the facts, shall we? First, you make me fall into a puddle after engaging in a game of tug-of-war with my walking stick. Now, you are tossing sofa cushions at me. So, Holmes, tell me who is being the immature twit here?"

"The only twit I see in this room is standing right in front of me," Holmes smugly declared.

I picked up the pillow he had thrown at me. "Oh, you do know this means war, don't you?" And without any other word, I rushed at Holmes and started to fiercely swat it at him.

Unfortunately for me, he dodged most of the blows and managed to swipe the pillow out of my hands. I vainly tried to regain my weapon, but Holmes pushed me against the wall and propped his arms on either side of me to prevent me from escaping. Not a single word passed between us as we were both quite out of breath. My breathing had slowed to its natural rhythms when I suddenly realized how terribly close Holmes was to me; I could actually see my silvery reflection in his eyes. His breath warmly grazed against my neck with each exhale.

His head leaned to the left as his fingers gently grasped my chin. "You have a scar on your chin."

I attempted to ignore the feeling of his fingers on my face. "Scar? What scar? Oh, yes, that one." My mind, instead, turned its focus to the fact that his face was a mere inch away from mine. That certainly did not help me. "You see, James and I were skipping rocks and, and, he…well, he got a bit cross at me and threw a rock in my direction. The jagged edge of the stone hit me in the jaw and cut my chin and gave me the scar that you are currently inspecting."

"Did I honestly have to resort to this to get you an answer to my proposal, Charlotte?" Holmes abruptly switched subjects.

"You forget, Holmes. I have not given you an answer," I blithely replied with a self-satisfied smile.

He seemed to still for a moment before acknowledging my comment. He sighed and then said, "Well, Charlotte, perhaps there is a certain way to persuade you to answer…"

I had no idea what kind of persuasion Holmes was talking about. Then again, he still had me pressed against the wall even though we both knew that I was not going to launch another pillow offensive. Before I could figure out his method of persuasion, the door was barraged by a series of loud knocks. Both our heads snapped toward the door. We briefly looked at each other and then he walked to the door and slowly opened it, careful to keep his hand on the knob.

I could not see who the person was, but I heard his voice. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, I am," Holmes replied. "And, pray tell, who might you be?"

The man ignored the question and proceeded to ask his own question in a ragged and oddly familiar voice. "The papers…"

Holmes' grip on the knob tightened while my chest did the same. "Exactly who are you and what concern do you have with those papers?"

However, Holmes did not receive his answer. A heavy thud vibrated the floorboards, which only added to my own perplexed emotions as to what exactly was happening. Holmes pushed the door open wide as he quickly bent down to examine the mysterious visitor. He pried away the man's left hand away from his abdomen and slightly recoiled. I tentatively walked towards Holmes and saw what had caused his reaction; there was blood and it looked like there was quite a lot.

My hand involuntarily flew towards my mouth. Holmes turned towards me. "Charlotte, this man is injured. There are some bandages and disinfectant in the left nightstand in my bedroom. Please fetch them quickly."

I made to get them, but curiosity got the better of me and stopped me in my tracks. "Holmes, do you know who this man is?"

Holmes managed to pull the man from the doorway to the chaise by the fireplace with what seemed like preternatural strength. His eyes shifted from our visitor to me. "I believe that he may be your man from Folly Bridge."

Our strange visitor fit Holmes' earlier description. The man's size was most conspicuous; he would have towered over Holmes at a height of about six feet and seven inches. His hands resembled large, leathery mitts and I could see how easy it must have been for him to ensnare my withered left arm inside them.

Holmes had found that the blood had come from a large, superficial wound in his side. "I think the blood can be attributed to another party," Holmes declared as he finished dressing the wound with bandages. "You see, Charlotte, there is too much blood for this kind of wound. The cause of his fainting can be attributed to something a bit more innocuous."

I was about to ask what that reason was when Holmes pressed a finger to his lips to signal silence. We quietly sat for a few seconds, but I did not hear anything more than haggard breathing. My confusion must have been evident because Holmes rolled his eyes and shook his head in dismay.

"Asthma, my dear child," Holmes stated. "He may have suffered an asthma attack, which may have rendered him lightheaded and caused him to faint."

Well, that was all fine and dandy, but there were more pressing issues on my mind. I nervously wrung my hands. "Why did he come here? What if his intentions are…malicious? I mean, the blood on his shirt, if it's not his… then whose is it?"

"That is a question that we shall ask in due time. However, I assure you that he will do us no harm. This is the one absolute fact I know at the moment." I started to dispute such a claim, but Holmes' biting voice sailed above my protests. "He came here in a powerless position. He is injured and obviously malnourished. He is unable to exert his full energy on us in the unlikely event that he turns out to be a horrible character." Holmes walked to the front door and held it ajar. "There is only enough gauze for one redressing. I need to go and get more gauze and bandages, perhaps some hydrogen peroxide as well. I shall return momentarily." I protested when he started to close the door behind him.

"Are you mad? You are leaving me alone with this stranger? Holmes, what if something happens? What if he wakes up?"

"Behave as courteously as you can. If he turns out to possess malicious intentions, run out the door and inform the landlord downstairs to call the constable." Holmes quickly replied and closed the door before I could say another word.

The first thing I decided to do was to regulate my breathing. Hyperventilation was not a pleasing prospect at the moment. I then considered whether I should hide in Holmes' bedroom or stay in the room to keep watch on our visitor. Dying with courage seemed the better alternative to waiting to die in a corner and waiting to die; I, hence, stayed in the sitting room and sat in the farthest corner from the man.

Time seemed to stand still as I stood watch and waited for Holmes' return. I was sure that the mantle clock was wrong as it seemed longer than fifteen minutes since Holmes had deserted me. A low groan from the chaise caused me to jump almost a foot in the air. I recovered after a good minute and tentatively approached the man.

"Er… sir? Are you all right?" I asked.

The only response I received was an incomprehensible mumble. I had to walk a bit closer to be able to hear what he was trying to say.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch what you were trying to say."

He lifted his large hands and went through the motions of trying to drink something. "Water," he said in a deep, rumbling voice.

"Oh, right, er, one moment, please." I fetched him a glass of water and he guzzled it down in one gulp. He held the glass out towards me when he had finished and I accepted it. His large brown eyes gazed at me as I took it.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said. His voice was rumbling and slow like a summer thunderstorm. My ears caught the nasal intonations that I had once heard in my father's voice. "I probably scared you, you know, me coming in and falling over the way I did." He paused as he shifted from his position; the slight movement caused him to wince. You look suspicious of me, ma'am, but I wanna let you know that I am not going to hurt you or your gentleman friend."

"How can I trust that?" The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them.

An understanding smile appeared on his tan face. "You're smart, too. I don't know if I can make you trust me but maybe this'll help." He started to rummage through his trouser pockets, taking great care not to move around too much. He then pulled out his pocketbook, opened it up, and held it up for me to see its contents. A badge glinted in the gaslight and I read the engraved inscription: Police Department. His other hand was extended towards me.

"Patrolman Langston Westfield of the Boston Police Department at your service." He introduced himself. All of my fears seemed to soar out the window as I readily accepted his hand and shook it as vigorously as I could without injuring him. A police officer! Oh, this man was not going to murder me, skin me alive, or carry out any other macabre scenarios that had been running through my mind.

The door clicked open and Holmes appeared with a couple of packages in his hands. His eyes instantly spotted his awakened patient. "Ah, Patrolman Westfield, I see that you have regained your consciousness." The looks of confusion that Westfield and I both wore caused Holmes to add, "I saw your badge as I was looking for any means of identification while I was tending to your wounds." Holmes placed the packages on the small dining table and then pulled one of the dining chairs toward us. "Now, if you could kindly tell me—tell us, actually—how you received those wounds and perhaps your purpose here as well. I can hardly believe that it is police business that has brought you this far from Boston and if it were, I doubt a patrolman would be involved."

The condescension in Holmes' voice caused me to wince. Westfield may have been incapacitated due to his injury, but I still believed he could strangle Holmes with those gargantuan hands. Our guest attempted to sit up but found it painful and remained in his position.

"You are a sharp one, Mr. Holmes," Westfield declared with flat humor. "Those eyes of yours, you've probably known that I've been here for quite some time."

"I saw you in Professor Andrewes' lectures beginning early November," Holmes replied as he inspected his fingernails. "What is your relation to the late Thomas Andrewes? I am sure that his daughter," Holmes gestured towards me with his hands. "His daughter would like to know as well."

"I thought you were his daughter; ya got the same eyes and smile." Westfield then sighed as though some heavy weight were upon his shoulders. "The information that I got is something that you probably aren't going to want to hear, Miss Andrewes." He paused to look at me and saw that I was not going to shrink away from this information. "Well, you see, Thomas Andrewes is—well, was—wanted for murder."

There are a variety of words in the English lexicon that can incite extreme reactions and Westfield had just uttered one of them. I started to stand up to slap Westfield across the cheek for making such an accusation. Holmes, however, saw the smoldering anger in my eyes and the tightness of my hands and anticipated my move. Holmes seized my wrists in a tight grip the moment I stood from my seat.

"Charlotte, I implore you to stop. We must hear what the gentleman has to say."

"How can he say such a thing? My father was a saint and probably a better man than he is!" I hissed as I struggled against his vice-like grip.

Holmes then let go of my wrists and placed his hands on my face, cupping my cheeks into both of his hands as he gazed at me with those silvery eyes. "I understand that a statement such as that may sound like libel and slander to your ears but you must stay calm… please, Charlotte."

It is such a simple word, "please", yet when used properly it can move mountains. I briefly placed my hands on top of his and gave a quick nod. He dropped his hands from my face and together we resumed our seats. Holmes then continued as if nothing had occurred between us.

"Could you please elaborate on that statement, Patrolman Westfield?"

Westfield nodded, cleared his throat, and began to tell his tale.