(A/N: Yeah, I know, it's long overdue, but school's been a bitch. Anyway, this chapter will pick up where TNAOSH left off, and the story will go from there. Any questions, comments, ideas you'd like to pitch, will all be appreciated.Please Read & Review.)

The big day had finally come. Jane was packed and ready for her and Marty to retreat to Crystal Mountain, and was now sitting on the front porch with her bags, watching the sun rise.

The next house over, Holmes was doing the same, eating a light breakfast.

"Ah, Watson," he said cheerily, "Come, join me. I have veal collops and fresh fruit compote." Jane just frowned at him and turned her head away.

"Oh come now, Watson," said Holmes, "You cannot remain angry at me forever."

"Oh can't I?" she shot back scathingly, "After some of the things you said to me last night, you're lucky I'm even talking to you."

"Very well," replied Holmes evenly, "I shan't ask you to do anything that is against your inclination." He turned back to his breakfast and said nothing more.

It was then that Marty pulled up. Holmes watched in silence as Jane kissed him, put her bags in his car, and turned back to the house to say goodbye to her parents. He concentrated more carefully to get the gist of their dialogue.

"Now, I don't want any hanky-panky," said Jane's mother.

"'Hanky-panky?'" said Marty, jokingly.

"You know what I mean," said Mrs. Watson.

"If we were living in the 1930's I might know," said Marty, grinning rakishly.

"Nice lip," she said, "Look, I want you kids to behave while you're gone."

"And no hanky-panky," said Jane, rolling her eyes.

"Are we allowed to have hanky without the panky?" asked Marty.

"Or just panky?"

"I think the panky gets us into the trouble area, Jane."

"If I can't have the panky, what's the point of the hanky?"

"Well, what about shenanigans?"

"Good point, Marty. Are we allowed to be up to shenanigans, Mom?"

"Ha-ha," said Mrs. Watson, "Don't quit your day jobs." She kissed Jane once on the forehead and watched as they drove off.

A few hours later, they arrived at the resort. Marty had already made reservations at a small hotel, and Jane was impressed by how comfortable it was for such a small place.

"Wow," said Jane, bouncing slightly on the bed's mattress, "I think this is one of those Tempur-Pedic things."

"All the better news for us," said Marty slyly.

"Down, boy," said Jane, "let's go hit the slopes first. The fresh powder is calling my name."

"Is that why you were so quiet the whole trip?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Jane, "that's why."

Marty went into another room so they could change into their respective gear. While Jane suited up, she wondered why she'd lied to Marty. She'd been distracted by the things Sherlock had said the other night, not by the prospect of good skiing conditions. No, that wasn't quite accurate. Holmes' harsh words had simply added to the confusion she was already feeling.

"Jane?" called Marty from the hallway, "Let's go! The chairlift awaits!"

"I'm coming!" said Jane, hurrying after him. Maybe an afternoon of skiing would clear her head.

Later that night, Jane and Marty returned to the ski lodge thoroughly exhausted.

"That is the last time I ever do aerial freestyle," said Marty, sinking down into a couch by the fireplace.

"I told you not to use a snowboard," said Jane, "they're not like skis; they don't automatically detach during a bad fall."

"You're just jealous that I got more air than you," said Marty.

"And you're so cute when you pout," said Jane, pressing her lips to his. All conversation was put on hold as they made out for several minutes.

"Well," said Marty with an exaggerated yawn a short time later, "I think I'm almost ready for bed."

"It's only six o'clock," said Jane.

"Who said anything about going to sleep?" whispered Marty, blowing slightly in her ear.

"You go on ahead," said Jane, "I'm going to try out that karaoke machine in the lounge."

"Whatever floats your boat, baby," said Marty, kissing her cheek, "I'll see you later."

Back in Seattle, it was dark out, and at Lestrade's gym, the Irregulars had gathered for a no-holds-barred, bare-knuckled brawl. The Dubliners' Whiskey in the Jar blared over the speakers as Holmes and Wiggins fought in the octagon.

Head cocked to the left, thought Holmes as he analyzed Wiggins' condition, Partial deafness in ear. First point of attack. Two: throat; paralyze vocal chords, stop breath. Three: floating rib to the liver. Four: finally, drag in left leg, fist to patella. Summary prognosis: unconscious in ninety seconds, partial efficacy quarter of an hour at best.

"What's the matter, Holmes?" said Wiggins, "Lost yer taste for the fight, boyo?" He then threw a reverse roundhouse kick to Holmes' head.

Holmes ducked and sprang into action, slamming his fist into Wiggins' ear and following with attacks to the throat, stomach, and kneecap, dropping the Irishman like a stone.

"Good match, Holmes," said Xavier, handing him a bottle of water as he walked by. Holmes grabbed it from his hand, but said nothing as he left the Fight Den.

Jane was pleased with herself. She'd won the karaoke contest with her tear-jerking rendition of ABBA's Chiquitita, beating a former Russian prima donna, a Ghanaian oboist, and a Swede from Malmö. Still caught up in her victory, she wasn't watching where she was going and ran into someone.

"I'm so sorry," said Jane, "I didn't see . . ." she trailed off when she looked up at him. The man was enormous, almost seven feet tall, and probably on the heavy side of 23 stone.

"Buonas noches," said the man, deep-voiced with a Castilian accent. He continued on his way without giving her a second glance.

Jane shrugged and headed back to her room. When she opened the door, the room was dark, save for a number of burning, scented candles that gave the area around the bed a romantic glow. Marty was lying under the sheets, his hands behind his head, and his clothes conspicuously piled at the foot of the bed. Rose petals were scattered about the floor.

"Marty," said Jane softly, "what's this?"

"Shh," he said, rising from the bed to place a finger to her lips, "We've been playing cat and mouse for long enough, Jane. Let's just stop talking and do what we came here to do."

"Marty," said Jane, her breathing becoming more and more ragged as his kisses went lower and lower, "Marty, wait, we seriously need to - Omigod."

Marty had gotten down to his knees and undid her belt. She could feel his hot breath against her erogenous zone as he gently began to pull her panties down with his teeth.

"Marty, stop," said Jane, stepping back and pulling up her jeans.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"Well first, please put some pants on. It's hard to talk when you're naked."

Marty frowned, but pulled on his underwear.

Jane took a deep breath and said, "Okay, Marty, you better sit down, because you're REALLY not going to love what I'm about to say."

She sat next to him on the edge of the bed.

"Marty, you are the first boy I've ever loved. We have a good relationship, one that I would REALLY like to take to the next level."

"Then why – " Marty started to interject, but it was Jane's turn to quiet him with a fingertip.

"But," she said, continuing, "I'm not sure if THIS is the level we should be taking it to, yet. I mean, sex carries a lot of emotional baggage, and neither of us needs those kinds of problems right now. I'm getting ready for medical school. You're working on a football scholarship. And what if, God forbid, I get pregnant? Neither of us is ready to take care of a baby."

"I have condoms," said Marty, rather weakly.

"Condoms can break," said Jane, "and you're missing the point. What if there are other things in our relationship that we haven't done yet, things that we need to do before we have sex? I don't want to be one of those people who just does what she wants, never minding the consequences."

"You sound a lot like Holmes when you put it like that," said Marty.

"Yeah," said Jane with a smile, "I guess I do."

"Fine," said Marty, pulling on a T-shirt and digging through his duffel bag.

"What are you doing?" asked Jane.

"I have a date," said Marty, withdrawing a magazine, "with a lady named Rosie Palms." He then headed for the bathroom and shut the door.

Meanwhile, back at 221B Baker Street, Holmes sat quietly in his attic, plucking at his viola as he stared deeply into the light of a candle. He heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, but he did not turn around to greet his brother, Mycroft.

"Sherlock," said the elder Holmes quietly, "what are you doing here?"

Holmes simply shifted his position, revealing to Mycroft a glass jar filled with flies.

"If I play a chromatic scale," said Holmes softly, "there is no discernable difference. However, when I switch to atonal clusters, they fly in synchronized, counterclockwise, concentric circles, as if a regimented flock. It's extraordinary, Mycroft. I, using musical theory, have created order . . . out of chaos."

Mycroft walked over to the jar, lifted it to let the flies out, and said, "You have neglected to take your medicine, Sherlock. I think you might be benefitted by a night's rest."

Sherlock looked at his brother with cold, passionless eyes, and finally nodded his concordance. He rose slowly and allowed Mycroft to lead him to his room.

Once Holmes had laid down and covered himself with a blanket. Mycroft sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, neither speaking a word.

"You know," said Mycroft finally, rising to leave, "She will forgive you, in time."

Sherlock did not respond, so Mycroft turned off the light and left.

(A/N: Yeah yeah, I'm a procrastinator, I know. Please Review.)

TO BE CONTINUED.