The morning of August 21st dawned bright and sunny. There was a pleasant breeze blowing across London, and it ruffled the trees outside Victoria station like it would the fur of an animal or the hair on one's head.
Holmes, Watson and Mary had made their way across the city at first light; anxious not to miss their ten o'clock train. Holmes disliked crowds because it made it rather difficult for one to survey and properly analyse the surroundings. People kept themselves to themselves in the city; walking with heads pointed to the ground, not wanting to draw unwanted attention. This in itself frustrated Holmes as he could not observe the passers-by as he normally would like to.
Holmes led the way into the station while Watson and Mary walked arm-in-arm behind him. A porter had collected their luggage upon their arrival at the station, and now nothing remained but to find the right train and await departure.
"That must be our train over there." Watson called out to Holmes, pointing past the detective to a lustrous steam-engine of iron and red paint.
"It's beautiful," Mary said admiringly. She turned to her husband. "You know I've never ridden the train before?" There was a distinct longing in her eyes, and Watson smiled sympathetically.
"Your place is here with the girls, my love."
"You will write to me, won't you, John? As soon as you get to the province..?"
"A letter every day," Watson promised, cupping her cheek with his hand. "You have my word."
"And I shall write back to you," Mary said. "Send me the address and I shall write with news of the girls."
"I know you'll look after them in my absence."
"Of course I will." Mary leaned in and let Watson kiss her. There were tears in her eyes as she hugged him close.
"Your worries are futile, Mary," Holmes told her. "I shall return your husband to you in the exact same state you see him now. There is no need to be anxious."
"I don't doubt that, Mr Holmes." Mary smiled, but inclined to whisper in Watson's ear. "Please, John, don't do anything reckless..."
"Shouldn't you be saying that to Holmes rather than me?"
"Perhaps," Mary whispered, "But I don't love him like I do you..."
Holmes turned his back courteously as Watson took Mary in his arms and kissed her again. Bystanders were beginning to notice, and when Watson finally emerged for air, a great number of people were watching disapprovingly.
Watson cleared his throat and examined his pocket watch as a rather flustered Mary patted her hair back into submission.
"It's twenty minutes to ten, Holmes," Watson said, "Shouldn't Miss Adler be here by now?"
Holmes did not answer. Instead, he was scanning the crowd for any whisper of Irene that was visible. A curl of cocoa hair concealed under a hat? The ruffle from a pink dress against the unembellished multitude of a Victorian crowd? Holmes was neither surprised nor alarmed to see now such signs amongst the throng of people in the station. Irene had ways of concealing herself; tricks she would play, sometimes for no reason other than her own amusement.
"Perhaps Miss Adler is anticipating that we will come to her." Holmes examined the train that was waiting at the platform and the ticket in his hand. Having waved a final farewell to Mary, Watson came to stand next to him.
"Holmes, I need a ticket to be allowed onto the train."
"Then we shall wait here a few minutes more."
A theory was forming in Holmes' mind. Irene had one of the greatest forecasting minds Holmes had ever seen, and she knew just as much about Holmes as Holmes in turn knew about her. Strange, then, that Irene had not thought to leave an extra ticket for Watson...
"Perhaps we should go to the ticket office," Holmes said, the logistics of his theory whirring around his brain like mayflies over a pond. "It may not be too late to purchase a third ticket..."
Fighting against the crowds that hurried in the opposite direction, Holmes and Watson approached the ticket office and addressed the man who sat behind the desk.
"The ten o'clock train to Portsmouth," Holmes said. "Tell me, are there any more tickets available for immediate purchase?"
The man was young, light-haired and sat on a wooden chair with an uninterested expression on his already dour face.
"I am sorry, sirs, there are no more tickets for that train."
"Right. Thank you." Watson nodded and turned away from the booth, cursing his luck. Holmes, however, stayed where he was.
"Is there something else I can help you with, sir?"
"The train journey across Europe takes some days and nights, does it not?" Holmes was studying the young man in front of him with a peculiar expression on his face. Watson saw his companion's face reflected in the glass of the ticket booth, and immediately recognised the look of calculation in Holmes' eyes.
"Yes, sir."
"Then the train that leaves this evening from the north coast of France and travels to the Kashmir province in India has been equipped with compartments for each passenger to spend the night..?"
"Yes, sir, I believe so." The steward clearly found Holmes' questions peculiar, but he answered them anyhow with the utmost sincerity.
"Are those compartments booked beforehand in a particular name or under a reference?"
"Yes, sir. A name is taken with the booking."
Holmes smiled triumphantly. Watson, who had been listening closely to the conversation, realised where Holmes was going and continued the questioning himself.
"Is that train from France on the same booking system as the ones going from this station?"
The man considered. "The journey to India is a long and expensive one, sir. There is a discount on the overall price if one purchases an indirect ticket from the office. The said ticket will provide you with a train from London to Portsmouth; a ship from Portsmouth to France; and another train from the north of France to India."
"Would you then be able to tell me the name of any person who had booked an indirect ticket from London Victoria station to the Kashmir province, India?"
"Yes, sir, I would."
Watson glanced at Holmes, and delivered the clinching question. "Has a ticket booking been made recently in the name of Irene Adler?"
Holmes nodded admiringly like a master to his most worthy apprentice as the steward rummaged through the records and checked his books for Irene's name.
"No, sir, I'm sorry. No tickets booked under that name and none for collection."
Watson's face fell. He was visibly deflated, but Holmes was not ready to give up the fight and he looked up sharply as another brainwave hit him.
"What about under the name of D.B Cambell?"
Watson looked at him bemusedly, but Holmes was quietly confident as the man checked through the records yet again.
"D.B Cambell, you say?" The man nodded as he held a booking slip to the light for easier reading. "Yes, sir, I have the record right here. D.B Cambell; three indirect tickets to Kashmir province, India, leaving on August the 21st." He scratched at the back of his neck with one hand. "Two of the tickets were sent to the given address by post."
"Excellent." Holmes smiled, satisfied. Three tickets... "And is the third ticket here in the office awaiting collection?"
"I believe so, sir, yes." The man nodded again.
"In that case, I would like to collect the said ticket."
"Very good, sir." The man placed a paper form and a fountain pen on the ledge in front of Holmes. "If you would sign on the dotted line, Mr Cambell?"
Watson very nearly groaned out loud. The office would need identification, of course, and they had none. Watson was not even sure if D.B Cambell was a real person. If it wasn't enough that Irene had abandoned them with one ticket still to collect, she had left them no means to get hold of it. Holmes, however, seemed undeterred.
"Of course." He took up the pen and scribbled a signature. Watson glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Holmes had signed the paper 'D.B Cambell'.
"Forgive me," Watson said with a touch of amusement, "But how is taking a man's signature for his word a legitimate form of security in these matters?"
"We take a copy of the customer's signature when the tickets are booked," the man explained as he took the form from Holmes. "When the customer arrives to collect the tickets from the office, we take another copy of the signature and compare it to the first." He shook his head. "It's not an infallible method, sir, but it has proved to be extremely effective."
"I see." Watson's worries were stirred yet again at the steward's words. Surely not even the great Sherlock Holmes could hope to imitate a signature to perfection without even casting eye on the original..? And so it was with bated breath that Watson watched the steward draw the form back behind the glass and compare it to a second form he kept on the desk inside.
"Very good, sir." It took a great deal of self-control for Watson to keep his jaw clamped shut when he heard the steward's words. If one thing was true about Holmes, it was that Watson never ceased to be amazed by him.
"Thank you." Holmes took the gold-edged ticket that the steward passed through the gap in the glass. As they walked back towards the platform and the awaiting train, Holmes handed the ticket to Watson.
"Holmes," Watson said slowly. "Are you going to explain to me how you managed to forge the correct signature on that document? I assume D.B Cambell is a pseudonym of Irene Adler's?"
"Correct," Holmes said, "A pseudonym that seems to be connected to this case in particular. I have never heard of her using it before..."
"But how on Earth did you imitate her signature to such an accurate degree?"
"Elementary." Watson was maddened by the brevity of Holmes' answers to his questioning. "Before I learned the details of the case, Irene sent me a letter under the alias of D.B Cambell with no specified gender. When I first discovered the real person behind the name, I thought it was nothing more than a false identity to throw me off track. Now I believe the continued use of the same name is a message of sorts...A signal, perhaps?"
"A trigger?" Watson suggested.
"Exactly. Irene deliberately used this name again with the tickets rather than another because she knew that I and only I would recognise it to be her."
"And the signature?" Watson prompted. They were nearing the train now, Watson glancing up at the station clock as the hands slid forwards to show ten minutes to ten.
"Irene signed the letter as D.B Cambell using a personalised signature. It was all too simple for one to memorise its form and practice signing the name should its use be required in future."
Watson shook his head, wondering why he was not surprised. Indeed, there was no time to be surprised as they had reached the open door of the first carriage where a concierge in was waiting to view their tickets.
"Thank you very much, sirs, enjoy your journey." He tipped his hat and stepped back to allow them entry. Holmes sauntered off at once, turning a right into a long corridor. Watson just stood and watched him. Within thirty seconds, Holmes was back again. He refused to meet Watson's eye, and the latter smiled triumphantly as he faced the concierge again.
"Would you be able to direct us to our seats?"
"Certainly, sir." The concierge examined their tickets and pointed along the carriage. "Second carriage from the end; that's two doors down. The fourth row of seats is yours."
Struggling not to laugh at the disgruntled expression on the face of his companion, Watson opened the door at the end of the carriage. Before long, he couldn't help himself any longer and started to laugh.
"You know, there is no shame in asking for directions, Holmes..."
"I am quite able to direct myself."
"Clearly." Watson rolled his eyes. "I read in the Sunday paper once, a statement from a young woman who was completely overcome when 'Scotland Yard Luminary' Inspector Lestrade stopped simply to ask her for directions."
"Your point being?"
"Whether you like it or not, Holmes, Lestrade is one of the most commended officers the Yard has ever seen," said Watson. "And even he has swallowed his pride on at least one occasion and asked for directions from a passer-by."
Holmes snorted. "And I say that if Lestrade took the time to trust his own sense of direction, perhaps he would arrive at just one crime scene before the press have had a chance to intervene..."
Watson pulled open the second door and stepped first into the carriage the concierge had directed them to. At the far end, the vision that was Irene Adler stood up to greet them.
"Hello, boys!" Watson was struck first by the jovial tone of her American accent, and second by how very little material had been used to make up her dress. Although he did his best to quash the thoughts before they properly entered his mind, Watson found himself wondering what Mary would look like if she were to wear such a dress. He shook his head and focussed instead on the gold band that Irene wore on the ring-finger of her left hand; identical to the one on Holmes'.
"I have to say, I'm impressed." Irene flicked her loose hair over her shoulder and gestured for the men to sit down. "I was fully-prepared to come out and retrieve your ticket myself if you hadn't been able to figure it out..."
"D.B Cambell is not a name easily forgotten," Holmes said, examining his surroundings as he always did when entering an unfamiliar environment.
The carriage was finely painted on the inside with intricate pattern-work across the curved ceiling and down the walls. The floor was polished; the windows framed with red curtains and shiny brass girders. The seat on which Irene reclined was cased in red velvet. An identical seat, big enough for two people, was positioned opposite with a table in-between. Three glasses and an unopened bottle of wine sat on the table.
"I shan't pretend I know why you ordered an extra ticket." Watson broke the silence that had descended upon the group by directing his speech at Irene. "That really is extraordinary assumption, Miss Adler."
"I'm glad you think so, Doctor." Irene smiled. "'The Great Detective' never goes anywhere without his loyal sidekick. Believe me, it was logic; not guesswork."
Irene took up the bottle of wine and held it out to Holmes. "Would you, Sherlock?"
Never taking his eyes off Irene, Holmes removed the stopper from the bottle and poured three glasses. Once full, the glasses sat on the table between them; Holmes and Watson staring with conviction at Irene.
"Shall we drink, gentlemen?" Irene said finally, taking up her glass.
"You first." Holmes and Watson spoke simultaneously.
Irene's laugh was a merry tinkle matched with her most charming smile. She raised the glass to her lips and drank. "You know, this is never going to work if you two don't trust me..."
"I think you'll find trust has to be earned." Despite his cold demeanour, Watson was the next to drink. Holmes sat still, unmoving.
The truth of the matter was that Holmes' heightened senses were picking up the tension in the threesome in ways Watson was not. The ghost of that almost-kiss he and Irene had shared the previous week was staring him in the face every time he looked her way. Even when he averted his eyes, the scent of her perfume was strong enough to make him turn around again. He tried to focus on other things; less attractive things. But ultimately, it was Irene who dominated his thoughts that day. In a brief moment of madness, Holmes wondered if he would ever think of anything or anyone again...
"So...Shall we spend some time getting to know one another?" Watson smiled genially at Irene, sensing Holmes' discomfort but not even touching on the reason behind it.
Irene returned the smile as she sipped her wine. "After you, Doctor."
"Ladies first." Watson entwined his fingers and laid his hands on the table. "Where were you born?"
"New Jersey," Irene told him. "But I travelled for a few years after leaving school..."
Irene began to tell her tale, and Holmes lost concentration. It was not that he didn't find what Irene had to say interesting, but rather the fact that he knew her whole life-story as well (if not better) than he knew his own. He let his eyes wander out of the window as the train began to move and the station disappeared into the distance. He wasn't sure exactly how or why, but something about Irene Adler had really gotten under his skin. It was a sudden, new feeling; one Holmes was not used to experiencing, but one he always seemed to associate with Irene.
Sitting next to Holmes, Watson wondered what it was that seemed to bother his companion. At that moment, Irene tossed her hair again, and Watson caught the aroma of her perfume mixed with the feminine scent of her own skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Holmes shiver as the smell reached him too. Watson smiled amusedly, gleefully, to himself as the revelation hit. Could it be that Sherlock Holmes had a weakness? Could it be that that weakness was a woman? Watson's skills of deduction were nothing compared to Holmes', but he was a man very much in love and he recognised the signs. Though Holmes tried to conceal it, there was no mistaking the effect that Irene's presence had on him. Watson had always noticed the small signs of interest, but nothing of this calibre. It would appear that Holmes was suffering from an internal fight of epic proportions: a fight against himself and against his feelings.
Watson turned back to Irene, taking another sip of wine as he listened to her story, and making up his mind to keep a very close eye on both Holmes and Irene as the weeks went past.