"Watson, where are you going?"

Shrugging into his coat, Watson regarded Holmes coldly. "You're the infamous detective - you already know."

Sherlock stared at Watson for a brief moment, eyes flickering slightly. "Off to see Mary, I presume."

"Presume! Listen to yourself, Holmes!" Watson shook his head fiercely and grabbed his hat off the table. "Presume, ha! Holmes you never 'presume' - you know."

"You can't leave just yet!" Sherlock began to succumb to his pacing again, messing with his wild hair in an attempt to tame it. "Jane hasn't arrived yet! We must wait for her!"

"We! You were the one who invited her! You must wait." Watson opened the door to leave. "Mary waits for me, and you are doing no good by stalling me. The best of luck to you."

"Luck?" Sherlock winced as the door slammed shut in Watson's wake. "Watson knows there is no luck to things."

As Watson made his way to the street, he came across Jane. Catching sight of him, Jane offered a weak smile and greeted, "Good day to you, Dr. Watson. Off to some pressing engagement, I presume?"

"Presume," Watson muttered under his breath, shaking his head to himself. "Yes. I have someone to meet. A good day to you, Miss Heathrow."

"Please, it's Jane." Jane smiled at him again and continued up the stairs, leaving Watson alone. He gazed after her for a moment before descending the rest of the stairs.

"An odd woman," he said to himself, and he waved down a hansom as quickly as he could, realizing he would be late.

When the expected knock came on Sherlock's door, Holmes tripped over his own feet, startled. Picking himself up from the floor as quickly as he could, he stopped the nanny in her tracks with, "I shall answer," and approached the door, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes. As to why, he knew not. He found his breath slightly labored, and his palms had grown cold and damp. He wiped them on the front of his pants. Taking in a deep breath, he opened the door.

Jane looked up at him sharply and smiled hesitantly, nervously. She held in her hands a surprisingly small satchel. Setting it at her feet, she extended her hand for a handshake. "Good day, Sherlock."

Sherlock, on impulse, grabbed her hand delicately and pressed the back of it to his lips in a small, chaste kiss. His heart fluttered lightly. "Good day to you, too, Jane."

A slight flush crept up Jane's neck and into her cheeks. She drew her hand away and tugged at the bottom of her coat. "I expected a handshake, but I suppose that'll suffice."

They stood there in awkward silence. A thought struck Holmes, and he blurted, "Oh, please, come inside."

Stepping over the threshold, Jane said, "I have some things still below. If I could - "

"I shall send someone to fetch them," Sherlock immediately said. He made for the door, but Jane's hand stayed him. The light pressure against his chest from her touch kept him rooted to the spot.

"There's no need." Jane regarded him with a level gaze. "I shall fetch them myself."

"Jane, it would be of no trouble for - "

"Let it be, Mr. Holmes."

The use of his name formally made Sherlock quiet. He sensed that he would not win the conversation. He nodded his head, unable to speak. Jane dropped her hand from his chest.

"Thank you." She set her satchel down at her feet again and stepped out of the room.

In the few agonizing minutes that she was gone, Sherlock still stood in the same spot, a statue made of flesh. He took a few deep breaths, trying to collect his wits about him and keep a level head. For once in his lifetime, he felt confused - at least to some extent. He passed a hand over his face and ran both hands through his hair, patting his head in another vain attempt to tame his chaotic hairstyle. Jane was back moments later.

Light footsteps, Sherlock noted as Jane appeared at the head of the stairs.

The bag she now carried in her arms was considerably large satchel. Upon seeing it, Holmes leapt forward and took it from her hands. Jane smiled at him gratefully - nervously, again - and shut the door gently behind her. Sherlock, with the satchel weighing heavy in his arms, merely stared at her. Jane moistened her lips.

"Where shall I be staying?" she asked, reaching down to pick up the smaller satchel.

"Oh, yes. Over here."

Sherlock led Jane to the room next to his and opened the door with a push of his foot. It swung open silently on lubricated hinges. Sherlock stepped aside to allow Jane to enter the room and followed after her. As he set down the large satchel in the middle of the room, he felt the sudden urge to speak.

"It's bland," he said, referring to the room, "but I hope it shall suffice to your needs."

"Yes, I think it shall," Jane said, running her right hand over the piano that Holmes had pushed into the corner. She caressed the top of the piano as though it were a delicate object, her fingers lingering on the wood before she recovered herself and turned to face Sherlock. "I appreciate all that you have done, Sherlock. If there is any way to properly express my gratitude, then - "

"A simple 'Thank You' shall work just fine." Sherlock swallowed thickly and managed a lopsided grin.

Jane returned the smile, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome."

Jane turned from Holmes and began to walk around the room, setting her satchel on the small bed tucked in the other corner. The nanny had been considerate enough to pull aside the curtains from across the window. Hazy light - whatever sunlight that passed through the dense cloud and fog of the early morning - pushed through the glass and tumbled to the floor. Jane pressed her fingers to the glass momentarily, her breath fogging it ever so slightly. To Holmes, she seemed pensive, almost nostalgic. With a fluttering sigh of what Sherlock sensed was relief, she closed her eyes and stepped away from the window. When she opened her eyes, a small flame of contentment, laced with nervousness, danced in her pupils.

Realizing that he was staring again, Sherlock looked away and made to leave. A thought crossed his mind, however, and he stopped underneath the doorframe.

"Is that all you brought?" he asked, gesturing to the two satchels; Jane nodded. "What is in the one I carried?"

"My books and notes."

"And your clothing?"

"In the small satchel."

"That is all?"

"I never said I came to London as a wealthy woman," Jane said pointedly, pulling off her coat. She tossed it onto the bed, along with her hat. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to unpack."

"Yes, yes. Of course." Sherlock bowed out of the room, allowing the door to click shut softly behind him. "She brought so little," he murmured to himself, circling his own room restlessly. As he walked, he picked up his violin and bow deftly from one of the chairs.

Sitting down in a chair closer to the window that connected his room to Jane's, Sherlock plucked away at the strings of the violin, thoughts racing. He was appalled by how little Jane seemed to have, aside from her books. He could only imagine a few more pairs of pants and shirts in the bag she had brought. Could she have a dress tucked away in the same satchel, or even one article of feminine clothing? Though dressed in masculine attire, she did not seem to be of high class, though the clothing was nice. Perhaps she was of high middle-class.

It was these things that Sherlock pondered as he sat in his chair. He eventually transitioned into playing snippets of music on his violin, chin propped on the chin rest of the instrument. The bow, an extension of his arm rather than just an object in his hand, slid through the air gracefully, beautifully, as his thoughts continued to click away as questions and assumptions. At one point, a sprightly, flamboyant tune came from the violin, Holmes's arm darting back and forth rapidly in the event that such a piece was to be played that way.

An hour later, the door connecting the two rooms opened. Holmes cut off the music abruptly and was on his feet in an instant, violin and bow hanging at his side. Jane emerged slowly, tentatively, as though afraid that she was intruding. Long, brown, curly hair cascaded down her shoulders and her back. She wore only pants that had been rolled up to her knees and an unruly white, long-sleeve shirt, cuffs undone and rolled up to her elbow lazily.

"Oh, I hope I did not interrupt you," she said quietly.

"No, I assure you." Sherlock loosened his grip on his violin, not at all remembering when he had gripped it so tight. Moistening his lips, he asked, "Are you hungry? Shall I call the nanny?"

"I am fine," Jane answered. "No need to bother the nanny." She took a seat near to Holmes, one hand running through her hair briefly. The tension and nervousness that Sherlock had noticed earlier had diminished, though they were still present.

Sherlock sat back down, violin and bow lying across his lap. Silence descended around the two like a stifling blanket. Jane fiddled with the bottom of her pants. Holmes did his best to keep from staring too long at Jane, in an effort to keep her from becoming uncomfortable. He, himself, felt awkward. A part of him wished Watson was there, just because Watson also seemed to be able to demolish such awkward silences and keep everyone entertained - a woman, at least.

"Please," Jane began quietly, looking up at Sherlock, "continue playing. I shall go back into my room if you wish.

"Oh, no, no. Stay, if you'd like." Sherlock swallowed thickly and picked up his violin again. The bow skittered across the strings of the violin. Holmes shook his head and did his best to calm his erratic nerves.

"My presence makes you nervous," Jane stated, chin propped up on her hand.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, sensing that feeling of being exposed again. He finally nodded his head slowly. "Perhaps," he said, "perhaps not. I have slept very little in the past few da - week." He picked up his bow again.

He began to play, still aware of Jane's eyes on him. He felt himself, however, slipping into the lull of the music, and he allowed the bow to play whatever his mind commanded it to. The music was sweet, transitioning from lullaby's to serenades without Sherlock's conscious awareness. He started to play the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, a beautiful but slightly melancholy piece.

The bow finally stopped, and Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, gaze darting over to Jane. He found her sprawled out on the chair, eyes closed, feet hanging over the armrest. His eyes were immediately drawn to the curve of her calf. His gaze traveled down her leg to the end of her feet. He was startled to see them wrapped lightly in bandages.

What happened to her feet? he thought, looking at her face. It looked so serene, so peaceful, so...beautiful. Her brown locks of hair framed her cheek, lying across her chest. In this state, Holmes truly saw Jane's age, and, perhaps, her minute fragility. He wanted to reach out and touch her face, or even run his fingers lightly down her bare leg. He bit his lip, so unaccustomed to having such thoughts and impulses.

Jane's eyes fluttered open, and she propped herself up on her elbows. "Tired?" she asked, glancing at his bow arm.

"No," Sherlock murmured. However, he set the violin aside and turned his chair to face Jane better. Jane shifted in her seat, sitting up straighter, though her legs still hung freely over the armrest. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and regarded Holmes with a warm gaze. The hair on Sherlock's arms prickled.

"So, tell me," Jane began in soft tones, "who was it that Dr. Watson was so eager to see? A woman, no less?"

"His fiancé, Mary," Sherlock answered.

Jane was silent. Then, "This bothers you."

So perceptive! Sherlock propped his head in his right hand. "Yes."

Another small silence.

"Dr. Watson has been your companion for nearly a year, I am assuming. Being a bachelor yourself, you do not want Watson to be tied down. You enjoy the adventures the two of you embark on, and you are afraid you will lose that once he is married." Jane's eyes bored deeply into Sherlock's. "I see that anger boils in you, though it is slight. You are angry that a woman has taken Watson away from you. He is like a brother to you, a part of you that you cannot bear to lose." Jane's eyes fluttered abruptly, and she shook her head as though she were just waking from a daze. "Oh, I am sorry - I was rambling."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "You are correct, though. I...do not want to lose Watson. He has been the only companion I have ever truly had, the only one I've been able to trust wholeheartedly."

"You are fortunate," Jane said, "to have a companion such as Dr. Watson. I have never had such a companion. And now...well, I am not exactly accompanied by anyone, am I?" Jane chuckled lightly, but Holmes quickly noticed the regretful note in her voice. "No such luck," Jane continued, "for me to be able to entertain any one's attention for more than a few days."

"There are very few companions like Watson in the world," Sherlock said quietly. "To find someone like him is to find an investment of a lifetime."

Jane gave Sherlock a small smile and tapped her fingers on the armrest in quick succession. "Well, that is true enough." She tapped her fingers again and reached out, her fingers curling around a few papers on the table near them. "What," she asked, "are these about?"

Sherlock smiled. "Well..."

When Watson came home two hours later, he found Sherlock and Jane talking avidly, excitedly. He stood in the doorway and watched them as they darted around the room, Sherlock picking up stacks of papers, Jane scribbling things down. They lapsed into pensive thought, and Sherlock plucked at his violin as his thoughts raced. Both of them had their hair in a mess, flurried by their hard thinking. Holmes stopped in mid-melody and exclaimed some word quite loudly, to which Jane cried, "Of course!", and wrote some more in hurried script.

"What the devil is going on in here!" Watson exclaimed.

Sherlock and Jane looked up sharply, looking at Watson with the same wide-eyed stare. Sherlock straightened and attempted to explain, but Watson cut him off and walked further into the room, the door shutting loudly behind him.

"Look at the two of you!" Watson pointed at them sharply. "You look like slobs!"

Sherlock and Jane threw a glance at each other. Hair awry, eyes wild, the arm-sleeves of their shirts unevenly folded, one rolling down to the wrist, the other beginning to unfurl lopsidedly. Jane's shirt was untucked on her left side, and Sherlock's shirt, as always, was rumpled, have in his pants, the other half not. Holmes turned back to Watson.

"We were simply in the midst of a discussion," he explained, setting his violin down. "How was your time with Mary?"

"Fine." Watson answered sharply, curtly. He doffed his hat and looked at Jane. "Miss Heathrow, why are you in such a state?"

Looking down at herself for a brief moment, Jane answered timidly, "This is how I often am, Dr. Watson. As Sherlock said, we were in the midst of a deep, profound conversation."

Watson shook his head. "You are safe here from the outside world, Miss Heathrow, though I am not sure that it is the outside world you should be so concerned about." He shot Holmes a lethal glare. "I do not see the use of you wearing male attire any longer."

Jane plucked at her shoulder, realized it was untucked, and stuffed the exposed shirt back into the waist of her pants in a manner unlike a female. "I own no feminine clothing," she told Watson as she worked on rolling up the unrolled arm sleeve. "And, I prefer the male attire. It is so much more unrestrained and not at all confining like female attire."

"I can't imagine what you would look like otherwise," Sherlock piped up, hands clasped behind his back. He performed a small, mock bow in her direction. "I doubt female attire would bode well with you."

At this, both Holmes and Jane spluttered into laughter, Jane especially so. Watson rolled his eyes and planted his hat back on his head, heading once more for the door so he could adjourn to his room. He looked back over his shoulder at Jane.

"I can't believe you would enjoy this man's company!" Watson cried, jabbing an accusing finger in Sherlock's direction. The laughter died, and a hurt expression - hidden well - crept into Sherlock's eyes.

Jane frowned and curled her hands together tightly. Picking up the notebook she had been writing in, she said, "I suppose I should go now," and hurried into her room, head bowed. Sherlock watched her go with a forlorn gaze. When the door shut behind her, he turned to Watson sharply.

"Look what you've done, Watson!" Sherlock marched over to Watson, a scowl on his face.

"No, look what you've done!" Watson's voice rose a notch. "This is ridiculous, Holmes! You've spent only a few hours with this woman, and already you've influenced her to be just as bad as you!"

"I have done no such thing!" Sherlock's tone was harsh. "She was like that all on her own!"

Watson, flabbergasted, shook his head and yanked open the door. "I wish you keep a tighter reign on yourself and clean up your act!" he yelled. "Good day!"

Sherlock winced as Watson slammed the door loudly. Sighing, he rubbed his face wearily with his right hand and ran it through his hair, feeling utterly weary. His eyes grew forlorn again as he stared at the door, and he turned to look at the door of Jane's room, his eyes just as gloomy. The door, to his surprise, opened, and Jane stepped halfway out, her eyes seeking Sherlock's.

"I hope I haven't come between you and Dr. Watson," she said quietly. "I am sorry."

"It wasn't your fault, Jane," Sherlock said quickly. "Watson and I are like this now and again."

Jane bit her lip and nodded hesitantly before slipping back into her room, leaving Sherlock alone and in silence.