"Have you got your things, Holmes?"
"Yes, yes, just wait a moment." Holmes stuffed the last of his clean clothes into his satchel and hurried from his room.
"The landau won't wait forever," Jane said, smirking as she stood by the door, excitement weaving itself into her features. "Come, now, let's be off. I can't wait any longer!"
"Sometimes," he said, shutting the door behind him as he followed the girl down the stairs, "you are worse than Watson."
"Worse than Watson?" Jane glanced at Holmes over her shoulder. "Whatever do you mean? Watson is your best friend! What does that make me?"
Holmes was startled to find that he couldn't reply. An odd look crossed Jane's face, and she rushed down the rest of the stairs, her considerably light satchel slung across her shoulders in an extremely unladylike fashion. She handed her bag to the driver of the carriage, practically threw herself into the front seat of the landau. She beckoned impatiently for Sherlock, the deploring look in her eyes driving Holmes forward. After informing the driver of the destination, Holmes slid in across from Jane and settled into the seat, the space so tightly cramped that his knees touched Jane's.
The carriage lurched into motion, the horse straining at its reins to carrying on across the cobblestone. Jane shifted into a better position, preferring the seat adjacent to the window so as to watch the passersby. The two lapsed into silence for a while, Jane studying the outside world, Holmes studying Jane. Her excitement, contagious as it was, did not have a complete effect on Holmes. Enrapt by her profile silhouetted against the window pane, Holmes wondered for the umpteenth time whether or not being all alone with Jane in the middle of nowhere was a good idea.
"Sherlock," Jane murmured, "did you inform Watson of our whereabouts?"
"Of course I did," Holmes answered.
"I see…" Jane drew her attention away from the window and fixed Holmes with a penetrating glare. "You want to cause a commotion, don't you? When Watson finds out that the both of us are missing, and that we haven't left a note or informed him of anything, he will panic. Do you think he'll call Lestrade?"
"Lestrade wouldn't give a damn. He'd be glad to be rid of me."
"So you think."
"No. The real question I have been looking for an answer to is what do you think?"
Silence descended like the veil on a bride-to-be moments before the beginning of the wedding. Jane looked away from Sherlock, focused her attention outside again. Holmes sought information from her posture, from the lines that deepened in her face. He found few answers, none of which resolved his question.
"Does it truly matter what I think?" Jane finally asked, still gazing out the window.
"Yes. It would certainly clear up some things."
"The great sleuth, the one who can determine some of the most obscure information just by using deduction and paying attention to details, doesn't know everything about me?" Jane's eyebrow rose incredulously. "Pity. Are you falling out of practice?"
"Me? Never."
"You haven't had a case in ages."
"No matter."
"And yet you, of all people, ask me 'what are you thinking?'"
"Yes."
Jane sighed, shook her head. "Nothing, Holmes. I am thinking nothing."
"You lie."
"I am looking forward to the countryside."
"But you are thinking of other things."
"Don't we all?" Jane looked away, glanced down at their touching knees.
"What brought you to London?" Holmes persisted.
"I believe we had this discussion the day we met."
"Nevertheless," Holmes said, "I still don't understand. You have the whole world open to you."
"Do I, Holmes? Honestly? I am but a mere sixteen year old." Jane frowned. "Just a sixteen year old who is pressured by all to marry. I have few opportunities open to me, Sherlock, and should I marry, my opportunities drop from little to nothing in a matter of seconds, the moment I say, 'I do.'" Jane shuddered. "I hate to be stifled, Holmes. I have been stifled too much in my life by my family and by those I considered friends. I had no choice but to escape, to seek refuge elsewhere. London was the closest city that I could think of."
Holmes said nothing and let Jane ramble. He watched her fists tighten as she mentioned family; he sought clues from the way she knit her brow, from how she frowned as she talked about her lack of opportunities.
The landau bounced over a nasty rut, jostling Jane and Holmes. The horse guided the carriage right, and soon the cobblestone gave way to the dirt road that led to the country, and, ultimately, Holmes's brother's home. Jane pressed her finger against the glass, watching her body heat spread a thin layer of condensation against the cool window.
"To support myself," Jane continued, "I brought enough money for a few weeks. I placed bids on myself in the fights and dressed myself as a man so that no one would know I was a girl, let alone such a young one. I did well, although I have suffered from wounds here and there."
"You sought medical assistance, right?"
Jane shook her head. "And risk exposing myself? Hardly ideal, Sherlock. I treated myself, although I haven't done as good a job as I could have. Hence the array of bandages I carry."
"But your feet…I assumed those wounds were made from running barefoot on gravel."
"I suppose deceiving you is futile," Jane muttered, passing a hand over her face. "There have been a few who have discovered my true gender. Having deduced that I was all alone, they pursued me, as though I were some whore seeking work outside the whorehouse." Jane shrugged. "But, I need not worry about them now, do I?" She offered Holmes a grateful smile. "Had I not been assaulted only days before running into you, my dear Holmes, I would never have even considered accepting your offer of residence."
Holmes's breath caught in his throat. He struggled to clear it, a vivid image of grotesque men clutching at Jane's clothes, trying to tear them from her body, rising in his mind. Nausea rolled in his stomach, but Holmes was overcome with the odd fluttering sensation in his stomach when he realized that Jane had called him 'my dear.'
"However did you escape their clutches?" Holmes finally asked, staring over Jane's shoulder with the familiar far-off expression his widened eyes took when he was trying to avoid revealing anything.
"Knives are a woman's best friend," Jane stated, shrugging as she turned her attention back to the window. "Yes, indeed."
"Knives?"
"Of course. What else does a woman working in a household have to defend herself? The nearest thing, more often than not, is the kitchen knife."
"I see." Holmes rubbed his eyes, feeling strained. "And are you particularly good with a knife?"
"It depends on your definition of good," Jane said. "Hopefully, you will never have to know just how good I am with a knife."
"Do you have a knife?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"On my person."
Holmes forced himself not to gape. "On your person?"
"Yes, Holmes. Just as Watson carries a blade in his cane, so do I carry a knife within easy reach." Jane shrugged again. "It is nothing, really. A simple blade for a simple girl."
"I would hardly define you as simple, Jane."
"But, Holmes," Jane said, facing Holmes, gaze unreadable, "you don't know me very well, do you?"
Holmes had nothing to say. Jane returned to her window, and Holmes struggled to stay seated as the carriage bounced over some obstruction. He stared down at his hands, wishing Watson were there to say something very suave-like and break the silence.
Mycroft Holmes's country home loomed ahead.