Author's Note: Please forgive...this chapter is a wee bit smaller than usual, but I plan on making it up! :P Writing this has been an excellent distraction from the general crappiness of my last week, and I really hope it's up to scratch! As always, thank you to all the people out there who regularly read and review this story. Please let me know what you think...this chapter is a bit of a tangent as you will soon discover, but hopefully won't cause too much upset. I'm waffling on now! Chapter 17- Enjoy! :D

As had now become habit, Doctor Watson spent his morning in the village, tending to the injuries and ailments of the local people as best he could. There were no projectiles or curses hurled at him as he walked the streets now, he noticed. Instead, he was met with bowed heads and whispered words of respect. Women thrust forward their babies for examination; he was hounded by men as he walked down the street, begging in Hindi for his assistance or to thank him for the life of a loved one who had recovered after he had seen to them; and small children smiled or even hugged his legs as he walked, having been told by their parents that it was safe for them to do so.

Ever since their arrival in India, Watson had given up every hour he had spare to make what he was now calling his 'Daily Rounds' in the village. It gave him a sense of worth, knowing he was fulfilling his duty as a doctor; and besides, it gave him something to do for the hours Holmes was musing alone in his bedroom.

As he headed through the palace gardens towards the Guard Post which would lead him out into the village, Watson saw Holmes and Irene arm-in-arm, heading in the opposite direction. He smiled to himself. Not an hour had passed since his conversation with Irene in the palace gardens, and already she had managed to bring Holmes out of his stupor and headfirst back into the reality of the case. That woman had powers, he was beginning to realise, over Sherlock Holmes that had taken Watson himself years to practice and had still not perfected. Maybe she was gifted, or maybe she knew something he didn't. Either way, when Irene Adler was around, it was clear that the detective did not stand a chance!

Today, Watson was visiting Devi- a young girl of only seventeen who already had a husband and family to look after. Devi's husband worked long hours in the rice fields nearly ten miles from the village, but barely made enough money to support his family. Their little daughter, Watson had discovered, was the baby girl he had found lying in the road close to death on the evening of their arrival. Thin and gaunt she had looked when he had found her, but a week of feeding up on kitchen scraps Watson had sneaked from the palace meant that Karthika (as she was named) was at last beginning to look a little healthier. There was always enough food for Devi as well, but she gave almost all of her share to her daughter. The way in which she took only a meagre amount herself made Watson think of Mary and the sacrifices they were both willing to make for their daughters. He would have gone without food for a year if it meant Tilly and Rose could have enough to survive. It was a sacrifice he had never really understood until he had become a father...

Watson was waving goodbye to Devi and Karthika when a young boy hurtled straight into his legs, obviously running at a great pace. Before he could ask whether the boy was alright, he had a hold of Watson's shirt front and was pulling him quickly down the street. It did not take Watson long to realise where they were heading- the screams of pain could be heard for miles around.

Running now fast after the boy, Watson was ushered through the door of a makeshift shelter to where a woman was laying across a wooden table- her face drenched in sweat and features contorted in agony. Two other women and a worried-looking man (clearly her husband) were crowded around her, but they parted as they saw Watson in the doorway, letting him pass through towards the woman on the table. Watson felt a lump of unease forming in his throat when he saw the heaving pregnant belly beneath the woman's smock and realised she was experiencing a difficult childbirth. Delivering babies was a tireless task, and was certainly never an area Watson had been exceptional in. Nevertheless, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and approached the table, taking one of the woman's hands in his to reassure her before reaching under her smock and feeling the position of the baby.

The woman let out another terrible scream and squeezed Watson's hand so tightly he thought his fingers would snap in two. She shuddered as if she were trying to push the baby out of her, but collapsed in exhaustion back onto the table.

"It's alright..." He stroked her hair back from her damp forehead and smiled gently. "It's alright, dear." From what Watson could tell, the baby was not moving at all. This would mean death for both the child and the mother unless something was done quickly. He shook his head in disgust when he thought about the amount of women who must die here in India because of a simple lack of medical knowledge.

Watson looked back over his shoulder to where the woman's family were hovering near the doorway.

"Get behind her." He spoke in slow, deliberate English which he hoped would breach the language barrier. "I need you to hold her still." He moved behind the table and gestured briefly until her family grasped the idea and came forth to help. The two other women held the whimpering woman down on the table, supporting her gently while Watson placed his leather portmanteau on the table and began to rummage through it. He could not help but notice the husband's eyes on him the whole time...

Watson finally found what he was searching for and pulled a pair of metal forceps out into the open. At the sight of the fearsome instrument, the woman's husband broke forth into a panicked torrent of Hindi; gesticulating wildly and using his whole body to block Watson's path to his wife.

"Please, let me pass," Watson said, his voice as calm and steady as was expected of a medical man. "I'm not going to hurt your wife, I only want to help her..." Still the man stood in his way, shaking his head, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the forceps in Watson's hand.

"Sir, your wife is in great danger," Watson tried again. "These instruments are used widely back in England. They will ensure the survival of your wife and your child, but we have to move quickly."

He made a move towards the woman, and suddenly the man was upon him; still babbling in Hindi and grappling with Watson as he desperately tried to prevent him from getting closer. Watson could have knocked the man to the ground without much trouble, but instead he tried to reason with the man; holding his wrists; speaking slowly and calmly. That was until the woman on the table let out a blood-curdling scream, and Watson realised that he could not afford to wait any longer.

"Look," he said, twisting the man's flailing arms into a fierce lock and forcing him to look into his eyes, "I know you don't speak English, but I need you to understand that if I don't deliver your wife's baby immediately, she is going to die and there will be nothing I can do to save her!"

The man still looked unsure, and Watson sighed deeply.

"I know this is difficult for you," he said, "I have a wife back in England and two daughters, and I would rather die myself than let anything happen to them." He gently turned the man by his shoulders so he was looking at his wife on the table. "I promise you, sir, no harm will come to your loved ones...not by my hands."

The man could not understand Watson's words, but he recognised the sincerity in his eyes. He gazed over at his wife and saw her watching him with desperation clearly on her face, imploring him silently to let Watson help her. Another heartbeat passed, and then the man moved slowly and reluctantly aside.

Watson wasted no more time, positioning himself at the end of the table and bending at the knees so he was at the right level. He lifted the woman's smock and felt her again, ignoring the furious noise emitted by her husband as he did so. Making up his mind, Watson glanced once up at the woman, his eyes grave.

"I won't lie to you...this will hurt, but it will all be over soon." He looked to the two women positioned behind. "Remember, hold her perfectly still," he told them, accentuating every word. "Do not allow her to move." Closing his eyes briefly to compose himself, and as always aware that not one but two patient's lives lay solely in his hands, Watson took a deep breath and moved in with the forceps.

The second the instrument touched her skin, the wretched woman let out a cry so terrible that Watson felt sure her husband would be upon him in an instant and pull him away. But no arms gripped him from behind, so Watson gritted his teeth and carried on with his task. He inserted the forceps as smoothly as possible, aware of the agony he was causing his patient with every second that passed.

The head of the baby had been wedged tightly into its mother's pelvis, but as Watson twisted the forceps as far as he dared, the baby was dislodged and the woman cried out in agony once more as the pains came on fast and the baby began its journey out into the world. She threw back her head and screamed again. Lights flashed before Watson's eyes, and suddenly he was back in the battlefields of Afghanistan seven years previously. The cries of the woman deepened in pitch until it was his colleagues' screams which hammered his eardrums. He saw Tommy Nesbitt -a good friend and associate- sobbing for his mother as Watson frantically stuffed gauze into gaping wounds; tied off the stumps of missing limbs blown off by explosions; wiped blood from his hands and arms. Watson closed his eyes against the roaring inside his head, but he could still see Tommy's body, lifeless eyes staring back up at him from the ground. He could still feel the overwhelming sense of failure and disappointment- could he have done more? Could Tommy's life have been saved? Watson wished he could curl up in a ball on the floor and scrub the terrible memories from his brain. But then, the roaring died away and a very different noise pierced the air...

Watson opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. He held a tiny screaming baby, quite blue in the face from the effort of being born. Watson found his bearings and used a pair of scissors to snip through the cord which connected mother to baby. One of the other women appeared at his side and passed him muslin with which to wrap the baby. He handed the tiny bundle to the woman on the table. She was smiling now, sobbing silently as tears of happiness streaked down her face.

The man who minutes earlier had been intent on incapacitating Watson to protect his wife now embraced the doctor and fell to his knees before him, now crying out thanks as opposed to threats. Watson raised him to his feet and shook his hand, sensing that he would appreciate the gesture. After all, this was a man who was probably not used to the equality of his people and the Englishmen who had taken over their homes. Even after the act of kindness he had already performed, it felt good to show a little cordiality.

The man finally left Watson's side and rushed to his wife, kissing first her and then the head of their baby; blessing his newborn son with whispered words and prayers into his tiny ear. Nobody noticed as Watson slipped away...

The sun was high in the sky as Watson made his way back from the village and towards the Maharaja's palace. The set of rooms he shared with Holmes and Irene were far from luxurious, but the two adjacent bedrooms and communal living room were satisfactory nonetheless.

When Watson arrived back, he went straight to the living room for a sit-down. To his surprise, Irene was already there- sitting alone in one of the armchairs and studying a leather-bound book.

"Hello," Watson said, taken aback. "I didn't expect to find you here, Miss Adler."

She looked up with an easy smile. "Call me Irene, please," she said pleasantly. "Especially since it's 'Mrs Holmes' now, we'd to better to avoid confusion..."

"Irene, then," Watson said with a twinkle in his eye. "I just stopped via the kitchen and asked for a pot of tea...would you care to join me?"

On the day of their arrival, the Maharaja had assured his guests that any dish or drink they desired could be brought to their rooms at a moment's notice and urged them to take advantage of their hospitality. The tea Watson had asked for arrived in due course, and he and Irene sat down in armchairs opposite each other and settled in for the afternoon.

"You would never believe the day I've had," Watson said wearily, pouring a dainty china cupful of tea and handing it to Irene before pouring another for himself. "Rounds here are even more trying than back in London!"

"I spent the morning with my husband," Irene countered with a wry smile, "And he is every bit as trying in India as he is back home!"

Watson laughed. "I could have guessed..."

"We went to the crime scene so The Great Detective could have a sniff around."

"And...?"

"I didn't get to find out," Irene said, sipping her tea. "He went all quiet and shifty, asking the strangest of questions..."

"Like what?"

"Something about the Monsoon season. Any ideas?"

"None whatsoever." Watson yawned and stretched. "Holmes often slips into monotony and silent investigation when he's working on a case- deliberately withholding information. It's incredibly frustrating, but it usually means he's onto something..."

There was a pause whilst Watson took a mouthful from his own mug, confident that this time Irene would not have been able to tamper with the beverage without his noticing.

"So how is our Royal investigation going?" Irene asked.

Watson looked up. "I'm sorry, I don't follow."

"Have you had a chance to get closer to Jhasmine?"

"Oh, that. No, not as of yet." Watson shook his head with a grimace. "It doesn't seem right, taking advantage of the poor girl in order to gain information on the case..."

"But it is for the case," Irene reminded him. "And you're perfectly placed to pull it off, Doctor...As far as they're concerned, you're unmarried and the Maharaja is desperate to find a husband for his daughter."

"Why would he want his only daughter to marry an Englishman?"

"Why wouldn't he?" Irene's eyes gleamed at the prospect over the rim of her cup. "Maybe getting an Englishman to marry Jhasmine would ease the tensions between the locals and the British settlers."

Watson chuckled. "Perhaps if I were a member of the Royal Family as opposed to a penniless doctor..."

"Well, if the shoe fits!" Irene laughed merrily and set down her cup. She glanced back down at the leather-bound book in her lap, and Watson realised for the first time that she was reading his own diary!

"Irene, where did you find that?" Watson asked, indignation outshone by a peculiar amusement. "I've been searching for it all week."

"Sherlock was reading it..."

"So you confiscated it on my behalf and couldn't resist a peek?" Watson rolled his eyes and held out a hand for the diary. "You and Holmes are rather too alike."

"You say 'penniless doctor'," Irene said, handing over the diary, "But you wouldn't know it, the amount of jewellery your wife wears..." Watson looked up to see her waving a photograph of Mary she had clearly slipped out of the leather covering of the diary where Watson kept it as a reminder of his family. The photograph had been taken days after their marriage and Mary was indeed wearing several pieces of expensive-looking jewellery including pearl earrings and the enormous diamond engagement ring which was clearly visible in the shot.

"Ah yes..." Watson took the photograph and studied it with a warm, if slightly wistful smile. "I can't really take credit though; the ring was a gift from Holmes."

Irene snapped her fingers suddenly. "I knew I'd seen that diamond somewhere before!"

Watson looked up sharply as if a long-harboured suspicion had finally begun to surface. "Where have you seen it before?"

Irene grinned. "A little memento, shall we say, of one of my earlier trips to India three years back..."

"You stole it?" Watson asked, appalled.

Irene tutted. "It was a gift."

"From whom?"

"The Maharaja of 's brother." Irene smiled to herself at the memory. "Of course he didn't tell the Maharaja he'd given it to me, so there was an enormous enquiry into its whereabouts..."

"So really what you're trying to tell me is that my wife's engagement ring was given to you in secret by a member of Indian royalty; enquired after in several countries across Europe and Asia; then taken from you by Sherlock Holmes and given to me under the impression that he was performing a genuine act of kindness?"

"Afraid so..." Irene smiled and dipped a teaspoon into the tealeaves that had gathered in the bottom of her cup. "Don't worry, Mary can keep it...it definitely suits her better than it ever did me."

Watson snorted. "Since the diamond in question is effectively stolen property which left India in your hands, I hardly think you're in a position to argue, do you?"

Irene smiled softly in agreement, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Watson was pleased by how strangely comfortable he felt when he was around Irene. Such a relationship between a man and a woman was not customary, Watson realised, and he wondered briefly what the future would hold for men and women who had no interest in each other aside from their simply enjoying each other's company...

Watson was beginning to drift off to sleep himself when the creaking of the door on its hinges shook him out of his slumber. Holmes stood in the doorway, his collar turned up and dark hair scraped into its usual style of dishevelled normality.

"Where have you been?" Watson asked, planting his feet flat on the floor and folding his arms across his chest. "I'd like a word with you about Mary's engagement ring..."

But Holmes was not paying attention. He did not blink, but had his eyes fixed upon Irene- eyes which were the darkest shade of charcoal Watson could recall seeing them.

"Holmes?" Watson asked after a moment. "Holmes?"

Holmes turned his gaze upon Watson, and the doctor saw now the eccentricity upon his friend's face which was present only when a case had taken a development so exciting that the rush alone would keep him awake for nights on end.

"Well, what is it?"

"Jamal is dead," Holmes said. "The game's afoot!"