A thousand apologies for the long delay. *meep* Rest assured that three months won't pass before the next update! I swear! Expect a new chapter in a couple of weeks, and if we're all lucky maybe a little sooner. As always big thanks to all my reviewers, readers, subscribers, and favoriters :) Ya'll keep me going! Enjoy!

Chapter Four – That Bloody Violin

How someone…anyone, in their right mind, could stand to put up with this petulant child of a man was far beyond Caroline's realm of comprehension. Mrs. Hudson, she thought, deserved sainthood. The interim landlady opened her eyes, cursing the sun that shone through. Normally, she rose with the sun, but after the last two nights she was willing to start a new habit just to spite that man on the other side of her wall.

First it had been the cleaning. Mr. Holmes had made it rather clear that he didn't welcome her cleaning beyond his door. But the God awful smells were just too much to bear after finishing up with the second floor wash room. He'd been quite upset with her once he'd gotten home, but she could only bring a small part of herself to feel sorry for it. The man was either purposefully trying to get on her nerves or was, in fact, incredibly obtuse about general cleanliness.

The fact of the matter was that she had been hired to do a job, one that was starting to become more difficult every day. But she refused to back down just because she was a woman and a housekeeper. If he could live like such a bohemian, flouting Victorian society like he did in his own flat, then she certainly shouldn't have to fall back on such propriety to earn her wages. She would just have to become more creative.

Then there had been the strange noises. Sometimes they would be soft thuds. Sometimes they would be sharp shatterings of some sort of glass or pottery. Other times they would be loud gunshots, echoing from this house to the houses down on the corner of the street now that it was warm enough to keep the windows open. She marveled at how the Yard hadn't come running when that had happened, because she had only spared a second of shock before running up the stairs herself, fearing the worst.

What greeted her when she burst into the room, however, was not a corpse, just a man lost in his own little world…musing away while she stood in the doorway in disbelief. He only turned around and regarded her with confusion when she remembered to have the decency to knock. But that had only lasted a second before he turned around and fired again at the poor wall, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. She covered her ears and fled back down the stairs, and for the rest of the day, she decidedly ignored the rest of the loud noises. Her nerves were frayed by dinnertime.

And then…then it had been that bloody violin. The odd hours that man kept had been one thing, but the run around that they had with that stupid instrument had nearly made her tear her hair out in frustration. The first night she thought something had been wrong. No one in their right mind would be up at two in the morning playing the violin of all things. So she shrugged on her housecoat and trudged down to that man's room and knocked, loud enough to be sure that it was heard. The violin stopped, but she didn't hear anyone coming to answer the door. Perhaps she had made her point? She was tired. So she turned back to her room.

And the chords started again. As had happened in the fisher's shop, she acted upon her sudden compulsions and whipped around, throwing decency aside and the door wide open. But there was no one there. The fire was ablaze and there was no Sherlock Holmes in sight. She contemplated for a moment that she had imagined the whole thing, seeing the door to his bedroom shut, but once she had retreated to her own room in defeat and settled herself in, the innocent plucking that her ears picked up made her reconsider a great many things…especially when those disjointed chords turned into sharp melodious songs that couldn't be ignored.

Holmes peeked out from behind the back of the door that his landlady just closed, violin and bow clutched to his chest with a bewildered look. This girl was certainly bold when she chose to be. It made him wonder whether part of his job would be easier than he thought. It was certainly a possibility. Best to test it now and make plans for how to proceed and succeed at his task. Revenge along the way, for moving and rearranging some of his things, was purely coincidental. He smirked and brought the instrument up to his chin once more, with a picture of her in his mind, just as bewildered when she overheard a mixture of his earlier and brief bout of boredom.

Without knowing it, and Caroline was sure that he didn't know, Sherlock Holmes had done the worst thing possible. He inspired her. He inspired her to plotting sweet revenge, something she hadn't been stirred into doing since her younger years with her poor unfortunate and unsuspecting brothers. They had, after all, taught her their best. Lucky for Mr. Holmes, she had thought, that he knew nothing of what she was capable of. This could work to her advantage very well.

When he had left in the morning, she had snuck into his flat after resorting to picking the lock. Somehow her skeleton key had gone missing, and though she knew who the likely culprit was she just couldn't let herself take his retribution for a little cleaning lying down. So she bypassed all the cleaning and keeping she had done the previous day and settled for taking the violin and its bow from their sanctuary. It had only taken her about an hour to find the instrument, and then it took her another to decide on a good hiding place.

Once she had finished her task she returned to lock his door from the inside as it had been before. As she pulled the door shut she came face to face with Mr. Holmes on the stairs, but she betrayed no surprise. Instead, she calmly descended the stairs, signing a 'Good morning' to him as she passed. She tried to hide an infectious smirk at his confused face and subsequent looks of annoyance and suspicion, but if he happened to see her trying and failing to hide it…well, all the more for her to reap from.

If truth be told, he had been hoping for some kind of reaction. But did he imagine that she'd know how to pick locks? If he had then he wouldn't have bothered taking her key. What remained, however, in light of recent developments, was something far more serious. Sherlock Holmes missed nothing, especially in his own home. And it didn't even take a moments glance around his flat to know what was missing. It had been obvious when that girl waltzed by him on the staircase with a poorly concealed smile. He wasn't quite sure what infuriated him more at the moment, his own miscalculations or the fact that she had dared to do such a thing in the first place.

Caroline had only gotten half way through preparing lunch when she turned and nearly ran into that man in the kitchen. He caught the plate she dropped with ease, but continued to stare at her with what could only be described as restrained indifference. She carefully schooled her face and took the plate back, nodding her head in thanks.

"Stealing a man's instrument is more than petty larceny, Ms. Collins," he began. "It nearly borders, if not crosses said border, on injustice, now what have you done with it?"

Caroline cocked her head to the side, feigning innocence. 'Stealing?'

"It would not be wise to play the fool with a consulting detective, my dear. Where is it?"

Caroline quirked a brow, slightly surprised at the hint of annoyance she thought she heard. She knew that Mr. Holmes had been searching for the instrument for hours. The incessant running back and forth across the floor above nearly made her throw the instrument back at him, but she restrained herself and tuned it all out as she cleaned and prepared for the midday meal. Was it really that easy to get a rise out of him?

She didn't expect it to be that easy, given the treatment he must have given Mrs. Hudson. Had she gotten lucky and pulled at the appropriate heartstring? But Mrs. Hudson had to have thought of it before her. The woman had a bedroom on the first floor and these floors were not, by any means, impenetrable by sound. She could remember her older brother, Richard, lasting nearly an entire day before coming to find out what she had done with his rugby ball. So why was Sherlock Holmes giving up over a few hours search for a violin?

'I don't know what you are talking about-'

"Clearly," Holmes interrupted. "You don't understand the gravity of what you've done. Lives will suffer in it's absence-"

'Because of a violin?-'

"I need it to think!" he exclaimed.

'I need it to sleep,' she signed, emphatically, eyes wide and chest puffing up with indignation. But then she stopped to think of what she had just said and tried to backtrack. 'Rather, to-to keep you from playing it so I can sleep!'

A gleam settled into Holmes's eyes, one that frightened Caroline when he started walking towards her. She stumbled backwards, bumping into the ledge of the counter as he continued to advance. "What I do, my dear, is entirely dependent on a specific muscle in our craniums that I am starting to suspect you've neglected in yourself recently. That instrument-"

A spark of fear burst in her chest, but she remembered that this was her eccentric tenant, not…him. But that realization didn't make her any more comfortable. While Mr. Holmes ranted on about the importance of the instrument, her eyes shot to the floor and she refused to look up. It was childish and submissive, but she didn't want the trembling to grow worse. And it certainly didn't help when Mr. Holmes stopped his rant and his feet. He knows. He sees. You're weak. He won't listen to you now. Whatever hopes you had-

A finger forced her chin up, but not her eyes. He wouldn't speak. Why wouldn't he speak? Well neither would she.

…Was he just going to wait there for her to say something? Certainly he didn't expect her to give in?

…He was trying to scare her. All she wanted was one thing-why couldn't he compromise like a normal human being?

…Something's going to burn soon and it won't be her fault. All she wanted to do was her job. Without sleep, no normal person can function! Why can't she just do her job, what she was being paid for?

Anger started building in her chest, giving her the courage to finally look at him. 'Can you promise me that you won't play it at nights anymore?' she signed with quick hands.

"I don't make promises that are impossible," he said, softer. "Let alone impractical."

'Then, lunch will be ready sooner if you would leave me to my work.'

She pushed past him and made it just in time to save the biscuits from the hot oven. But even when she placed the sheet on the stove she didn't turn around to acknowledge the man staring at her back. She had work to do. A few minutes later, she heard Mr. Holmes sigh and retreat to his rooms. A small victory.

"After all the hours you kept me awake I'm obliged to say you deserve it," Watson said, sipping his strong tea while he made a valiant attempt at trying to stoke the fire back to life.

On the other side of the room Holmes burrowed further into the comforts of his tiger rug, choosing to aim his heated glares at the wall instead of his poor colleague. "There's no reasoning with that Irish girl," he grumbled.

"So her heritage is cause for concern now?"

"They're notoriously stubborn and cunning. Two traits necessary for evil and wicked people-"

"Holmes," Watson protested. "Listen to yourself!"

"AND, she's a woman. That's the worst of it, old boy. Stubborn, cunning, and illogical. One would think that she would use it towards her own gains but she chooses to keep it from me when I am perfectly willing to negotiate a truce. After midday I offered certain hours and she declined. There is no logic behind it. None to be found, Watson. It's infuriating!"

Watson chuckled to himself, and not quietly.

Holmes poked his affronted head up at that. "This is not even remotely laughable-"

"Oh yes it is. And I am milking it for all it's worth."

"My Stradivarius is the victim of some diabolical plot and you laugh at my expense? You wound me-"

"Unnecessarily? No, Holmes, I don't think I do," he said, resorting to stabbing the charred remains that created a thick nest rather than a metal web for any future instances of a fire. "Lydia is no Adler, so stop complaining. I doubt she even has that kind of woman in her. But if I can't be here to exact my rightful revenges when we were younger then I can at least gloat from afar with someone who clearly has more pluck than I ever did with you in that regard."

Holmes sniffed and turned back around as he reminisced. "You never had it in you to plot. It's not entirely your fault that you could never outwit me, though I never blamed you for not trying-"

Watson sighed, throwing the poker down onto the messy hearth. "You do know you're supposed to clean this out occasionally."

"Nanny used to."

"Well with the mess you've been burning in there, I'd have to say that duty falls to you, not to that poor girl downstairs. If she couldn't make headway with it I don't know why you'd think I could."

"Worked out the aggression you had with Mrs. Watson whence you came by, didn't it?"

Watson glared at the window for a moment, but eventually took a breath and replied with an "I don't know what you're talking about," which meant 'don't start unless you want to walk away with a bloody nose.'

To which Holmes answered with a mumbled "Hrmph," as he adjusted his position on the floor. Silence followed, and for a moment, Watson basked in it. His argument with Mary was forgotten. Then the detective shifted around on the tiger rug again.

"Do light a fire, Watson. The room's grown cold."

"It's April."

"And raining."

Watson shook his head. "I don't dare light a fire after unearthing that charred mess, Holmes."

"It's merely collected soot, Watson. Completely harmless-"

"It's pink, Holmes. Bright pink."

"Oh," he said turning around. "Is it now? And only after four hours? Interesting."

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to go off on a rant about the chemicals or processes used to create such a mess in the first place, Watson intervened to spare himself the torture that was sure to last for another hour of nonsense. "Ah," the doctor exclaimed, holding a hand for silence in the air between them. "I don't want to know."

"You're no fun today," he said with a pout.

"Want me to pester it out of her for you? Unless you've got something worth a bribe-"

Holmes gave him a pointed look, but Watson paid it no mind as he started collecting his things. "Do give me some credit before you go leaping to my rescue."

"You're sulking."

"And you're bouncing about looking for something to do after the amount of caffeine you've just consumed. You won't go back home because you're not ready to admit your wrongs-"

"Holmes," Watson warned. A calming pause. Then, a realization. "You're deflecting the issue. Perhaps I should-"

"Although you, my dear Boswell, are more versed in their ways than I, I am obliged to say that I appreciate your concern. However, I must decline."

"Off on one of your moods then?"

"One can only hope not."

Footsteps toward the door. Fabric rustling. A coat. Umbrella left downstairs by the door. "Get some air, experiment on something, just…don't go for the case. I'm sure your violin will turn up soon, old boy."

The door clicked shut behind Watson as he left. Holmes' eyes brightened for a second, as he recalled Watson's parting words. Work to be done…but not the kind of work he needed at the moment. "Women," Holmes seethed.

Caroline dried the last dish, put it with the others in the top cabinet, closed the door and paused to stretch out her worn muscles. Her heels clicked on the floor in the darkness as she double-checked that the front door was locked. Then, after putting out the oil lamps on the first floor she ascended the stairs. Dinner had been a quiet affair, both spent in separate rooms, Mr. Holmes in his and hers in the kitchen. There would certainly be plenty to write about tonight.

Once she was done washing and dressing for bed she opened her trunk and pulled out a worn journal, mentally reminding herself that she would be in need of a new one soon. She sat down at the desk that in the corner of her room and opened to the last few pages, feeling excitement begin to thrill her itching fingers. Then she reached for her pen…and found that it wasn't there.

She looked under the desk to see if it had rolled off, but found nothing. She looked in the drawers and her trunk to see if she had mistakenly put it away somewhere, but found nothing. She checked the pockets of her clothes, her bag, under her bed, but found nothing. Giving up she put on her housecoat and descended the stairs to find another. And where the pens usually were, for messages and other non-descript business that Mrs. Hudson had shown her, was nothing. That man took all the bloody pens in the house!

The anger she felt from earlier in the day came back tenfold as she stormed back upstairs. She didn't knock, but stopped when she noticed the detective snoring lightly in a chair by the fire. Some of her rebuke dissipated when she saw him sleeping so peacefully. He almost looked…innocent. Shame she knew the cold truth.

…But surely they would be up here somewhere. There had to be a pen in here, of all places in the house. Why hide them from himself? So she tiptoed across the room, glancing back a couple of times to make sure he hadn't woken. Once she reached his desk she wasted no time in starting her search.

"You won't find them in there."

A soft little yelp of surprise escaped her. Caroline whipped her head around and gazed, wide-eyed into a fully awake and alert Sherlock Holmes. Then it dawned on her…he hadn't been asleep at all. He had been waiting for her to come up here. She felt her eyes narrow into a heated glare. But he merely leaned forward with a knowing smile.

"As I stated before, you have no idea of the gravity of your actions."

'It's a bloody violin!' she signed, with flailing arms.

"And this," he said, pulling something out of his trouser pocket. "Is a pen."

She made to lunge for it, but he made a noise of disapproval.

"A few nights is perhaps too soon for some," he said, twirling the pen between his fingers. "But plenty of time for me to determine what you truly value in life. Every night you pull out a journal and sit at the desk in the corner of your room. You write for approximately an hour and twenty minutes before retiring for the night, before you replace the journal in the top pocket of your trunk, out of sight from prying eyes during the day."

He paused, rising from his chair and walking over to her in the dim light. She watched, partially entranced and partially scared out of her wits. Had he been watching her? How could he know those things? Was this turning into something more-

"This writing instrument is far more than what it is on the literal level of existence. To you, Ms. Collins, it is an arm, a hand to make up for what you lack. This is your voice."

Her eyes stung but she refused to show anymore weakness. She had taken a violin. He had taken away a part of her livelihood. The exchange was far from fair. 'I have a voice, Mr. Holmes,' she signed with tense determination.

"Prove it to me, literally, and you'll get this back. Not only that but I shall acquiesce to your request concerning the Stradivarius, granted that it is returned in the condition in which it was taken."

Her mouth popped open in surprise. He wanted her to…He wanted her to speak? After what he had done for her a few nights ago he wanted her to…to what? What did he want her to say? What could she say-if anything at all? Her voice wasn't something she could call upon at any second of the day. And when she had tried over the past few years it came out as a horrible-no. She was not going to humiliate herself in front of him just to prove a point.

He regarded her for a moment more before pocketing the pen and turning his back on her. He walked towards his bedroom to retire for the night. "I will only wait one week, my dear. I think you'll agree with me when I say that that is quite generous. Have a good evening." He said it with a smile and closed the door after himself, leaving her in the quiet of the sitting room.

Shocked. Offended. Surprised. Frustrated. Angry. And, oddly enough, relieved. Relieved that he had requested that outrageous thing with respect. All of what he said was true, but it hadn't been said with prejudice…just truth. It made her feel confused, but not in a bad way, not about herself or their circumstances, just about him, about who the man was that she was housing with. But she didn't dwell on that thought. Caroline shook her head of Sherlock Holmes and his ridiculous proposition.

It was only after she went back to her own room for the night that she realized something was strange. She knew he was good at reading people, and had even wanted to be read, to be known when he had first taken a real look at her in the kitchen a few nights ago. But how did he know that she wasn't completely mute?

Two days later…

The sun still hadn't made an appearance. It was overcast, damp, and growing colder by the second. Spring, it seemed, didn't mind that it was late this year. Sherlock Holmes, unbeknownst to everyone he past ducked deeper into the comforts of his coat as he walked. It didn't take him long to get to his destination. And once he did cross the threshold of the bookstore, he allowed himself a second to pause and take in the occupants of the agreed meeting place. None of the boy's men were here, and that was a good thing. That meant he didn't know Holmes was on to him yet.

He winked at the shopkeeper at the other end and he nodded back. Then Sherlock walked down an aisle to the back of the store and waited. While he did he picked up a volume of poetry and paged through for old-time's sake. Once his employer arrived he replaced the volume and casually picked up another one.

"Shame isn't it," the employer asked. "That Keats fellow?"

"Quite," Holmes replied. "Seventy years, such a shame."

"Do speak up, Mr. Holmes. I don't think the couple at the front could hear your sarcasm."

"None of the other patrons will hear us, I assure you."

The employer pursed his lips and laid his cane aside to sit on the nearby stool. "Has she spoken yet?"

"No, and I don't expect her to anytime soon. Quite the stubborn one you have."

"Getting to you is she?"

"You would be proud. I see little likeness to the girl you described when you hired me."

"Good. That is quite good," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just ensure that things stay that way. I won't have your occupation stand in the way of her recovery. And to the other business I hired you for?"

"This is a clever fellow but I promise you that I will-"

"I don't need your promises Mr. Holmes. I need cold hard assurance that this will be resolved. And soon. The stakes for us are high enough as it is."

"I am aware. But in order for me to find this man you must give me time and your complete trust. These meetings will do you nor I any real service, not until this man is behind bars in Scotland Yard."

"How can you possibly expect me to do that when that man's-"

"Speak to her. Visit her, get her out of the house in fact."

"You mean away from you? What has she done, spilt ink in your tea?"

"She is far more than the delicate flower you paint her as," Holmes groused. He replaced his book on the shelf but turned around at the sudden thought. "She wouldn't, would she?"

The employer smirked. "Expect me within the next day or so." Then he left, leaving Holmes a minuscule amount more vigilant...or nervous when he returned home half an hour later. As if two days weren't bad enough, the next five were bound to be hellish.

Moral of the chapter…don't mess with the violin or Holmes will get you. Nah, not really. Everything happens for a reason! Who was the mysterious employer at the end of the chapter? Any guesses? And can Holmes go a week without his violin? Or did he dig himself into a deeper hole with this one? Think Caroline will get him back big time? We shall see.

Had a block, but I FINALLY found my way into this chapter. I apologize again and profusely for the wait, but I think from here on out things will go a little smoother…and more often! I was a little worried with the amount of narrative in the beginning. Hope that wasn't too much of a bore. Review and let me know what you think of the new chapter!

-Rainsaber