Author's Note: Apologies...this chapter is rather long. I'm hoping I won't have too many complaints! =) Enjoy!
"No weapons inside the walls," Irene murmured. "That's a new one..." She shook back a curl of hair which had fallen -damp with sweat- in front of her eyes.
"The British settlers are concerned," Holmes observed. He walked half a pace ahead of Irene and Watson, hands behind his back. He always moved faster when he was deep in thought. "They fear rebellion. They want to make sure that any weaponry that enters the province is held in their capable hands." He slicked his own hair back and glanced at Irene. "I'd wager they have already searched the village and removed anything that could prove dangerous to their stronghold of power." He slowed his pace til he stood level with Watson who was leaning heavily on his stick as he walked. "Although I am very much assured to see we still have one weapon to our ranks."
Watson snorted and adjusted his grip on the cane that held the slim, deadly blade. "No weaponry...not on your life!" He looked around him, squinting through the darkness. "Shouldn't there be a guide or a butler to show us the way?"
"I daresay one will make himself known before long," Holmes answered.
They were walking through a garden brimming with ferns and flowers in startling shades of cerise and orange. In the daylight, it would be beautiful, Watson thought. Under the cover of darkness, it was just like any other garden. Save for the almost unbearable humidity, there was nothing to set it apart by night from Hyde Park in the summertime. But in the day, Watson knew it would come to life like a Christmas tree decked in candles or a baby from its mother's womb. This analogy made him pine suddenly for his family, and wondered just how long it would be until he could have Mary and the girls back in his arms.
Artificial light was shining down from a window above and in the pool of illumination, it was possible to see the shape and detail of the great palace before them. Though the British settlers had left their mark upon the land, their presence had done nothing to tarnish the beauty of what lay inside these walls. Smooth clay in a shade of brick red made up the walls of the palace; leading up to a dome-shaped roof.
The only way into the palace was through a towering arch in the brickwork, and beyond it was nothing but darkness. Holmes smiled to himself as they stepped through, sorely tempted to close his eyes. He didn't need his eyes in the dark, and chose instead to navigate using his other senses. But to close his eyes now would be out of nothing but arrogance. He suppressed the urge.
They had barely stepped inside the arch when there was a movement in the shadows. Instinctively, and before either Watson or Irene could react, Holmes struck out with an arm and grabbed at something in the darkness. There was a grunt and the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.
"What did you do?" Irene demanded. Beside her in the dark, she could visualise Watson rolling his eyes in despair.
"Simple arm-lock and fist to the carotid artery," Holmes said. "Instantaneous unconsciousness lasting for a minute or more. That should give us more than enough time to find out who he is..."
With Watson's help, Holmes dragged the unconscious man back through the archway and into the pool of light spilling from the upper window. He was dressed in robes of red with a delicate gold trim which told Holmes immediately (and with a sinking heart) that this man was a member of the palace staff. His skin was dark, as was his hair. The man was a local villager; it was obvious to all present. Beside Holmes, Watson let out a sigh.
"Well congratulations, Holmes," he said, "You've just incapacitated our guide!"
"You must never let your guard down, Watson, not even for a second." Holmes was (and always had been) an expert at talking his way out of an unpleasant situation. "An innocent guide he may have been, but next time it could be a real assailant and it could be your family he is after. Remember that."
"What shall we do with him?" Irene asked, trying to put an end to Holmes and Watson's words before it escalated into a row.
"What are the options?" asked Holmes.
"Drag him behind a wall and leave him there, or wait until he wakes up," put in Watson.
"Fascinating. Allow me to consider..."
"You know that was the coward's way out?" Watson commented as they walked briskly through the darkness, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the man who Holmes had knocked unconscious.
"Perhaps," Holmes said, "But when he wakes up, that guide will be a most unhappy man, and it would be in everyone's best interests if he woke up alone."
"And what's he going to tell the Maharaja?" Irene asked.
"Considering their current predicament, my vote would be towards blaming the British settlers," Holmes answered, slowing finally to an ordinary pace. "When there is no obvious perpetrator, human nature dictates we use our most insufferable adversaries as a scapegoat; in this case, the British soldiers who have ripped their land apart."
Watson was breathless, but managed a sardonic laugh nonetheless. "We're British too, Holmes...I love you how keep forgetting that!"
A crack of light had appeared ahead of them, as if somebody had opened a door. When they reached its source, there was indeed an open door with two expressionless footmen awaiting their arrival. With a peculiar pang of guilt and amusement, Watson noticed they wore the same red and gold robes of the unconscious man they had left at the opposite end of the passage.
Inside the palace, the floors were made from marble tiles and the walls lined with tiles made from the same smooth stone. At the far end of a long corridor lay another door with another two footmen on either side.
"You've got two choices," Irene whispered to Holmes as they approached the door. "When we get inside you have to behave yourself, or shut up and let me do the talking." Holmes did not answer, and it was more than clear to Irene that he planned on doing neither one.
"Should we be nervous?" Watson asked Irene.
"Of course not." She smiled sweetly. "The Maharaja is incredibly welcoming."
Holmes saw straight through Irene's smile. In fact, he could practically hear her heart hammering out of synch in her chest.
"Calm yourself, Watson," he said. "We have nothing to fear..."
Before Irene could deliver a retort, the footmen swung the doors open and revealed the room behind. It was a banqueting hall, and by far the most luxurious Holmes or Watson had ever seen. The floor, like the hallways, was marble and the walls were painted illustriously with intricate golden patterns. Upon closer observation, Watson saw they were paintings of the Gods of Hinduism; stretched out like an enormous mural.
Casting a swift glace around the occupants of the hall, Holmes counted close to twenty people gathered around a great gold throne. And astride the gold throne sat the Maharaja.
To Watson's mind, the Royal Court of the Maharaja of Kashmir was like something out of a dream or perhaps one of Mary's continental novels. The Maharaja himself was a stout man with a bushy black beard. He was clad in robes of fine gold silk with an exquisite headscarf wrapped around his head. A large and expensive ruby sat on the peak of the scarf right above his forehead; casting a pleasant light upon two kindly brown eyes.
There were well-dressed people on all sides- Lords and Ladies of sorts, Watson assumed. On either side of the Maharaja stood three women in the same red robes as the footmen. They held enormous fans made of bamboo canes and crepe. They all fell silent from their conversations and looked up as Holmes, Irene and Watson approached the throne.
Though Holmes had entered the room a step ahead of Watson and Irene and enjoyed the consequential assumption that he was the one in charge of the group. However, the balance of power shifted almost immediately as they came to a halt before the Maharaja's throne. Without saying a word, Irene stepped forward and Holmes let her take position ahead of him. This was Irene's territory. She knew the ropes and Holmes knew it would be unwise to step on her toes over this one.
Irene looked behind her first at Watson, and then over the opposite shoulder at Holmes.
"Do as I do. No arguments." Dropping her head low, she sank to one knee and bowed before the Maharaja's throne. Watson and Holmes copied her; suddenly nervous about the way their homage would be received.
The silence was interminable as the Maharaja rose from his throne and approached them. His mind overflowing with worries that the Maharaja would be less than welcoming to two Englishmen and an American who stole his sapphire, Watson found himself clutching his cane so tightly that his knuckles began to turn white.
The Maharaja reached Irene first and looked down upon her from his greater height. He put a hand on each side of her face and lifted her to her feet. Watson made to move, but Holmes grabbed his arm and stopped him. When Watson looked at him, he merely shook his head; denying him any further movement.
When Irene was standing straight, the Maharaja tilted her head towards him. Breaking into an unexpected smile, he kissed her forehead in greeting.
"Welcome back, Miss Irene." He spoke English, but with an accent; subjugated, no doubt, by the controlling British settlers. The Maharaja turned his gaze on Holmes and Watson. "And you bring guest this time, yes?"
"Your Highness, allow me to present my husband- Sherlock Holmes, and his trusted confidante- Dr John Watson."
The Maharaja approached Watson and greeted him in the same way he had Irene. Watson felt his nerves evaporating as he looked into the Maharaja's eyes and saw a peculiar kind of gratitude.
"You are doctor...?"
"I am." Watson thought it proper to answer the Maharaja's questions. "Your Highness," he added quickly.
"I have heard already of you," the Maharaja said with a smile. "You help children in the village..."
Watson thought of the little girl he had helped while passing through the village earlier. He was surprised news of his actions had reached the Maharaja so quickly.
"Yes, I did help her," Watson answered. "It aggrieves me, Your Highness, to see the conditions the people are living in down in the village."
"It saddens me also." The Maharaja frowned. "We had good doctor here," he said, "But he was killed by British settlers." He looked thoughtfully at Watson. "You helped the girl," he said slowly, "Perhaps...you could help others...?"
"Of course." Watson nodded assertively. "If there's anything I can do to help..."
"We are not used to compassion," the Maharaja said with a wry smile. "You are good man, Doctor Watson, to consider helping us."
"Nothing more than my duty, Your Highness."
"You have a kind heart," The Maharaja said. "You will be rewarded one day..."
With a final smile, he turned his scrutiny upon Holmes; lifting him to his feet as he had Irene and Watson. When he leaned in to kiss Holmes' forehead, the detective saw beyond the appreciation in his eyes to a cloud of despondency and inertia. This, Holmes knew, was a man who hid behind a fragile veil of joviality and a good name to prevent the truth from emerging- his once great land had been ripped to pieces before his eyes while he sat still, powerless to stop it. He had most likely lost family members; seen friends killed before his eyes and his subjects suffering beyond belief. Though the Maharaja seemed relaxed and jolly, Holmes could practically see him treading carefully along a knife edge, waiting alert for something to disturb the peace.
"And this is your husband..." The Maharaja smiled warmly at Holmes. "Mr Holmes, your wife tells us much about you on her last visit. You are..." He struggled to find the correct word in English. "An investigator?"
"Detective." A beautiful girl who sat at the Maharaja's left spoke up. Holmes noticed she did not wear the red robes of the palace staff, but a golden sari made from the same silk as the Maharaja's robes.
"Ah yes, a detective." The Maharaja smiled at the girl, speaking words of thanks in Hindi.
"You are correct, Your Highness." Holmes nodded graciously, amused no end by the fact that Irene had obviously been speaking of him as her husband way back when she had last visited. It was the measure of the woman's mind that she thought so far ahead in order to plan her next move.
"Very good." Again, the Maharaja smiled warmly. "Any husband of Miss Irene is welcome here, Mr Holmes."
He turned back to his throne, taking his seat and looking down upon Irene, Watson and Holmes. They were welcomed to take seats at the edge of the crowd near to the base of the throne.
The Maharaja turned to his left and indicated the girl in the stunning gold robes who had spoken earlier. "Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes, my daughter. Her name is Jhasmine."
Unsure of how to properly greet an Indian princess, Holmes and Watson simply bowed their heads respectfully. Jhasmine was one of the most beautiful women either man had ever seen. Her hair was ebony and shone beautifully as it cascaded down to the small of her back. On her slender wrist hung several jade bangles and she played with them absent-mindedly with a free hand as her father spoke.
The Maharaja looked on fondly, but not without some concern. "She is fluent in English now," he said proudly. "She is twenty one years next month, so I search for a husband for her now." He laughed merrily and turned to his right. For the first time, Holmes noticed a young man sat on the other side of the throne.
"My son..." Before the Maharaja could introduce him by name, the son got up from his position and shook both Holmes and Watson by the hand.
"An English custom, I think," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I am Jamal."
"You speak wonderful English," Watson commented.
"I learn from my sister," Jamal said. "She tell me I am a slow learner..." He turned to Irene and bowed low before her. "My lady..."
"It's me who should be bowing," Irene said, laughing. "You're a Royal. Get back up on that throne, Your Highness!"
Irene was hardly showing a suitable level of respect, but the Maharaja merely looked on with a smile as Irene and Jamal laughed together. Holmes felt a prickle of unpleasantness creep up from the pit of his stomach. He remembered all too well the gleam in Irene's eyes when -back in their hotel room- she had mentioned the Maharaja having a son...
Holmes was so lost in thought that he barely had time to react when Irene suddenly stumbled backwards as if bearing a great weight. He jumped to attention and caught her before she could fall. The Maharaja was on his feet now, watching through concerned eyes as Holmes too began to struggle under Irene's weight. What had made her so heavy? He certainly did not remember Irene weighing such a great amount... And then, he noticed what had happened. While talking to Irene, Jamal had apparently blacked out and fallen forwards into Irene. She still held his body; a dead weight in her arms.
"Put him on the floor." Watson's was the voice of reason as his medical instincts kicked in. He helped Irene to lay Jamal down on the ground and checked his airways to ensure he was still breathing. All the while, the Maharaja seemed unconcerned and sat back in his throne.
Before Watson could enquire, Jamal's eyes opened and he sat up as if nothing at all had occurred.
"You must not worry, Doctor Watson," the Maharaja told him. "My son...he suffers from an illness. He is awake, then asleep, and then he is awake again..." He frowned at his son worriedly. "Since his mother dies, I worry about him daily... You see, we do not know what it is that afflicts him so..."
"Narcolepsy."
The Maharaja blinked once. "Please, I do not understand..."
"The condition your son suffers from is called narcolepsy," Watson explained. "He falls into unconsciousness without warning, only to wake again seconds later."
"Narcolepsy..." The Maharaja rolled the word over his tongue, trying to get to grips with the pronunciation. "Nar-co-lep-sy. Is there cure?"
"I'm afraid not," Watson told him. "I wish I could give you good news, Your Highness, but there is currently no known cure for narcolepsy." He turned to Jamal. "However, there are some precautions you can take to ensure that your fits of unconsciousness do not-"
Before Watson could finish speaking, the double doors of the hall swung open to reveal a man in the red robes of the palace staff. He rushed to the Maharaja's throne, fell to his knees in a hurried bow and began to speak hurriedly in Hindi. The Maharaja listened intently, nodding every few seconds and asking the occasional question. When at last the man was finished, the Maharaja turned to Irene, Watson and Holmes.
"He come to tell me that one of our men has been wounded by British Guard at the palace gates."
"If you don't mind me asking, Your Highness," Watson began with a hint of derision, "How exactly was the man injured..?"
"He was struck in the neck," said the Maharaja gravely. "They have acted this way in the past, and no doubt in the future also..." He was watching the now closed doors of the hall; ears cocked as if listening for any sounds of commotion outside. "I send my men to guard the palace," he told them. "When the coast is clear, one of them will take you to your beds."
There was a crash from afar and the sound of heavy footsteps pounding along the corridor. The room was awash with panic as women scrambled behind their husbands and Jamal picked himself up from the floor to position himself before his sister. As befitted his role, Holmes took Irene's arm and jostled her to one side with Watson close behind. They barely had time to draw breath before the doors of the hall burst open once again and a torrent of men burst through. Each wore the red blazer and black trousers of the British Guard and (to Watson's dismay) each held a musket in an offensive position under one arm.
Twenty or so men had entered the hall, but now they all stood to the side to let one man pass. He was clearly their leader, for he walked with an arrogance that could only have been born of authority. This man held no musket, but instead favoured a revolver he kept tucked into a belt beneath his blazer. Had he not tapped the holster every few seconds as he walked, nobody would have even been aware of its existence.
The man now reached the front of the hall and stopped still before the Maharaja's throne. Holmes took in the man's dimensions when compared to his own, and realised that aside from Blackwood's man Dredger, he had seldom stood before such a large adversary. The man before him stood a few inches taller even than Watson and was a good deal wider and stockier than either Doctor or Detective. Even as he walked, he would scratch every few seconds at an inflamed patch on his neck. Shaving rash. This was a man who took great care with his appearance; proved further by his carefully cultivated blonde locks which were combed illustriously across his broad forehead. He was handsome, Holmes observed. Sickeningly so, with large, greedy blue eyes. As he caught sight of Irene, they gave him the impression of a cat crouching over a dish of cream.
"I don't know what you think you are playing at, Maharaja," the man spoke with a drawling British accent that immediately got under Watson's skin, "But I believe you are harbouring a fugitive..."
"I hide no fugitive, Alcott." Watson was surprised at the level of strength and serenity in the Maharaja's voice. "Only an innocent woman, and we will protect her."
Alcott laughed nastily, shaking his head with disdain. "And what protection do you hope to offer? I'd have thought you knew by now how the system works." He turned slowly and locked his gaze onto Irene. Holmes still held her arm tightly, and he felt her tense irrefutably as he neared.
"Miss Adler," Alcott said, taking a step in Irene's direction. "What a grave mistake you made in returning to India. Grave, that its, for you..." He clicked his fingers in the direction of the guards. "Arrest her."
"Oh what charges?" It was Holmes who spoke, and almost everyone in the room turned to look at him curiously.
Holmes watched gleefully as a new hatred began to trickle into the limpid pools of Alcott's eyes. It was clear that the head of the British Guard was not accustomed to backchat, and Holmes thought it best if he got the first word in.
"Sergeant Alcott, is it...?"
"Captain." Alcott spat the word as he glared at Holmes. "Captain Bernard Alcott, Her Majesty's Guard."
"My apologies." Holmes tucked his hands neatly behind his back and eyed the line of stripes on the shoulder of Alcott's blazer. "I was under the impression that amount of striped equated to the rank of Sergeant and not to that of Captain." He smiled innocently, moving to stand in front of Irene. "Of course, you do things rather differently over here away from the eye of Her Majesty..."
Holmes was delighted to see he had gotten under Alcott's skin as the latter gritted his teeth before speaking.
"If you would be so kind as to step out of the way, sir, I have a job to do."
"And what does that job entail?"
Alcott looked around Holmes to where Irene was standing, a defiant expression on her face. "The woman you stand before has committed a heinous crime against the British Empire."
This was too much for Watson, who emitted an explosive noise halfway between a laugh and an exclamation of fury. "Against the British Empire? The Queen's Sapphire belongs to the people of the Kashmir province, not to the British settlers!"
"Oh, so you are aware of the crime Miss Adler has committed?" Alcott smiled triumphantly. He looked 'round at his guards. "I think that constitutes a confession, don't you?"
"That is no form of justice!" This time, it was Jamal who spoke. "A confession comes only from Mrs Holmes herself."
Alcott knitted his brows together. "Unless I am mistaken, the criminal in question is Miss Irene Adler..."
"I'm afraid you are mistaken, Alcott," said the Maharaja. "Miss Irene is married now."
Alcott's face seemed to flush around the cheekbones. "Married?" he spluttered. "To whom?"
Holmes took a step forward, enjoying the moment as Alcott's face turned from red, to purple, to blue and back to flushed red again. Irene stepped with him, clearly not wanting to leave his side.
"Sherlock Holmes." Holmes introduced himself, never breaking eye-contact with Alcott. "Now, I would be interested to hear exactly the charges that you wish to press against my wife."
"Theft of the Queen's Sapphire," Alcott began pompously, "The murder of three guards; resisting arrest; damage to property; possession of firearms-"
"All charges are void," the Maharaja interrupted.
Alcott whipped around to face the throne, fingering the revolver stashed beneath his blazer as a constant reminder of the power he wielded. "Maharaja, you forget yourself!"
"Miss Irene is married woman now." The Maharaja nodded to a red-robed butler, and the latter scrambled from the room. "While she is a Royal guest, it falls to myself to..." He looked to Jhasmine for help with the grammar.
"While she is a guest of the Royal Family, it falls to my father to decide on a course of justice." Jhasmine spoke woodenly, as if reluctant to make her voice heard before Alcott.
The butler returned with a paper scroll, tied with a red ribbon. He handed it nervously to Alcott, who snatched it from his hands and nearly ripped the ribbon in trying to unroll the parchment. As he read, Holmes noticed Alcott's face flushing once again. The head of the British Guard had a face which changed colour quicker than a chameleon!
"You believe this piece of jurisdiction will protect you?" Alcott sneered when he had gathered his wits about him. "Nothing more than ancient protocol, centuries out of date."
One of Alcott's guards tapped him on the shoulder. He wore one less stripe than Alcott, and several more than the other guards. Holmes guessed at once that he was the second in command.
"Sir, might I suggest that we leave this one alone for the time being..?"
Alcott rounded on him. "What on Earth would prompt such a thought?"
"I think it would be wise to withhold the arrest until we have sufficient evidence."
"When I require your input, Hawthorne, I shall ask for it," Alcott snapped. He smiled horribly in Irene's direction. "Married or not, Mrs Holmes, you are coming with me."
"A warrant?"
Alcott glared at Holmes, as if wishing he would keep his mouth shut. "What?"
"Before I will allow you to take my wife, I would like to see the warrant for her arrest."
"There is no warrant," Alcott snapped. "A document signed by Her Majesty grants us the power to arrest and suitably punish any person who on our land commits a crime forbidden by the-"
"On your land, you say...?" Holmes strode thoughtfully along the line of Royal guests to stand directly in front of Alcott; a brave move since Alcott was the taller man by more than a head. "What about on foreign soil?"
"There is no 'foreign soil'," Alcott practically shouted. "This land is controlled by the British Empire!"
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Not quite all of it..." He turned to the Maharaja. "Tell me, Your Highness, does such a thing as a Foreign Ambassador exist here in Kashmir?"
"Yes," the Maharaja confirmed. "We have embassy in Delhi."
"How very civilised of you," Holmes commented. "I trust you have a representative?"
Alcott shook his head disdainfully. "I admire your determination, Mr Holmes," he said sardonically, "But the British Ambassador in this country is controlled by the Empire. A British citizen reporting to the Embassy is as good as putting their fate in the hands of the British Guard."
"That may be the case," Holmes said, smiling, "But I think you will find my wife is not a British citizen..."
There was a long and awkward silence while Alcott considered the implications of what Holmes was saying.
"Consequently," Holmes continued, "To arrest a foreign citizen in a country where she is protected by an Ambassador would require a warrant for arrest signed by the British Home Secretary." He fixed his steely, unblinking stare upon Alcott. "And I assure you, the Americans will fight tooth and nail to ensure that you do not serve injustice upon one of their citizens." He took Irene's arm once again. "As will I in order to protect my wife."
"Sir?" Second in command Hawthorne was watching Alcott expectantly, waiting for orders to retreat.
"Watson," Holmes turned to his friend, "How long would you estimate a warrant of such would take to arrive from London? A week? Two weeks?"
"Two weeks," Watson confirmed. "At least."
"Excellent." Holmes clapped his hands together and had the blind audacity to smile at Alcott. "We'll be seeing you in a fortnight then, Captain...?"
Alcott growled and made to move towards Holmes. Holmes was ready to defend against such an attack, but Hawthorne caught the Captain's arm and restrained him.
"Captain, I would advise you to leave this alone for the time being."
"Sergeant Hawthorne, I-"
"We can come back with a warrant," Hawthorne bribed. "Just come away now, Sir. There's nothing more that can be done for the moment."
Somewhere within Alcott's mind, it registered that his second in command was speaking sense. Pausing only to fix a baleful glare upon Holmes and Irene, he turned on his heel and swept from the room. Holmes thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy on the face of Hawthorne before he too exited the room pursued by the other guards.
As the hall doors swung shut behind the last of the guards, Irene breathed out a shuddering gasp and collapsed into Holmes' arms.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you..." She felt comforted beyond description at the feeling of his arms; protecting her and guarding her.
Holmes set her down a little uncomfortably, aware of the fact that she was shaking with apparent fright.
"So," Watson said, clearing his throat and tapping his cane on the marble flooring, "We have two weeks now to find the real thief and clear Irene's name?"
"Indeed." Holmes was stuffing tobacco into the barrel of his clay pipe. "Most engaging, wouldn't you agree Watson?" HHhhkk
Holmes
"Not the word I would use." Watson rolled his eyes. "You just love a challenge, don't you?"
"I thrive under it." Holmes took a long drag on his pipe, sighing contentedly.
"I thank you also, Mr Holmes," said the Maharaja, stepping down from his throne and clasping Holmes' hand in gratitude. "But these men, they have no respect. They will be back..."
"Oh, I am sure they will," Holmes said serenely. "As my colleague stated, we have two weeks at most before a warrant granting Irene's arrest will arrive in the hands of the..." He coughed. "Competent Captain Alcott." He turned to look between Irene and Watson. "We should ensure we are well rested for the morning."
"Of course," the Maharaja said, waving over another butler. "I have my men show you your rooms. You must be tired after such long journey."
"Exhausted," Watson said truthfully. "Thank you, Your Highness."
Once they had exited the hall and he was satisfied that both Watson and their guide were a suitable distance away, Holmes leaned over to whisper into Irene's ear.
"If you would be so kind as to help me remove the ring, I would be most grateful." He wiggled the fingers of his left hand where the wedding ring held prize position on his fourth finger.
Irene laughed nervously as if she did not quite understand. "Why would you want to take it off? For the purposes of this case, you're my husband and I'm your wife." She held up her own hand. "If the rings go, the illusion is lost..."
"The purpose of this whole charade of marriage was to protect you from immediate arrest," Holmes said. "Ancient protocol it may be, but I think Alcott made it quite clear he cares little for traditional values. I see no sense in keeping the rings on since no marriage is going to protect you once Alcott has that warrant."
"The ring is protecting me," Irene argued, and Holmes noticed at once that her voice had taken on a distinctly frightened edge. "You're protecting me by wearing it..." She stopped still in the palace corridor and clasped Holmes' forearms. "Promise me you won't take it off. Promise me you'll keep up the act."
"For what purpose?"
"I can't explain," Irene said solemnly. "It's complicated... Just promise me, Sherlock."
Holmes stared unwillingly at the floor, refusing to look at her.
"Sherlock, please..." Cupping his cheeks in her hands, Irene raised his face to the light so it was level with hers. Holmes knew it was a lost cause the second that he met her gaze.
"You have my word." That woman...
"Thank you." She kissed him, tenderly, if only for a second. Then she walked away, chocolate curls bouncing about her shoulders and down her back as she moved.
Holmes stood still for a second before following. Watson had been right, of course- there was more to this case than met the eye. An aptitude for honesty had never been one of Irene's celebrated qualities, but now it seemed she was repeating old tricks and keeping important facts to herself.
With or without The Woman's cooperation, Holmes was determined to solve the case not just for his client, but for his own professional integrity. Watson could always be counted upon, as could his own instincts.
Who needs a Woman's touch nowadays, anyhow...