Author's Note: Anyone for Holmes/Irene silliness? Read on! :P We're ploughing through this story now, and I really can't believe the positive response I've had back from you guys! I really appreciate every comment, so a big THANK YOU and much love to anyone who has followed this story :) I love the fact that a few of you have sent me your own ideas (deductions, shall we say..? :P) about how 'the case' is going to pan out. If you have any inclinations or any questions, feel free to PM me and I will do my best to answer! :D As always, hope you enjoy the latest chapter! :) M x
Dear Mary
We have reached a turning point in our investigations which led to a threat upon Holmes and Irene's lives. The danger grows daily and although I do not wish to worry you, my love, I feel obligated to inform you of the perils we now face here in India. Nevertheless, I am confident I shall soon be back in your arms with the girls by our sides and our future before us. Be strong, my dearest darling, and try not to think of me too often. You will be in my mind today and in my heart always. Give my love to the girls and keep our baby safe.
John
P.S Please do not hesitate to contact me via telegram should an emergency arise. We have an ally within the Guard Post now who I know would be happy to pass along any message you might send.
For many, a month of separation from one's wife is one highly enjoyed. For Doctor Watson, it was fast becoming a nightmare. It was the ninth day of their two-week investigation, and a sea of doubt was slowly beginning to rise over the usually optimistic medic. Alongside continued pining for Mary and his daughters back in London, Watson was concerned for Irene, who had been clearly distressed by the sudden death of Jamal. What was more, he felt powerless to aid Holmes with the investigation – the detective was running the show alone, as always.
Watson was taking a languid walk alone through the palace gardens that morning when the flower-lined pathway forked off in a direction he had never taken before. Curious as to where it would lead him, he turned onto the unfamiliar terrain with barely a second thought.
The sun was scorching on the back of Watson's neck, and he had developed an alarming scarlet heat rash – not just on his exposed skin but under his clothes. When he removed his shirt at night to prepare for bed, he was certain he looked ridiculous. Holmes, who had turned a sickening shade of walnut in the sun and whom had seen Watson shirtless one evening, agreed with him.
The path ahead opened out into a small clearing in the trees. Watson realised upon emerging from the shrubbery that he was not alone – a lone figure in golden robes stood five metres away from Watson. With her sleek black hair and doe-like dark eyes, there was no mistaking Jhasmine, the Maharaja's daughter. Watson blinked when he realised that the princess held a handsome rifle in her delicate female hands.
Watson well remembered his earlier assignment to 'befriend' the young princess in order to gain information that would benefit the case. Jhasmine was away from the castle, and she was totally alone. This, Watson knew, was a golden opportunity to carry out his task and contribute to the case, if he could just get Jhasmine talking...
He watched as Jhasmine, as if she were not even aware of his presence, raised the rifle to her shoulder and fired a shot. There was a screeching from a nearby tree as a flock of exotic birds were spooked by the noise and took to the skies. It appeared that Jhasmine had missed her target, for she hissed angrily under her breath and cocked the rifle once again to reload.
Watson knew he had to be careful in his approach. Irene Adler was a prime example of why a woman with a weapon should never be underestimated! He took two steps forward and cleared his throat.
"Your Highness..."
Jhasmine spun around in a flash, snapping her rifle back so it was ready to fire and pointing it fiercely in Watson's direction.
"Easy there," Watson said, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. "My sincerest apologies for startling you, Your Highness."
Jhasmine did not lower her weapon.
"You are Doctor Watson," she said finally, dark eyes clouded with suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
"It wasn't my intention to cause upset," Watson assured her. "I was simply passing by on my way back to the palace..."
Jhasmine was still wary, but she brought the weapon down and Watson could not help but feel relieved.
"You must understand I am nervous," Jhasmine told him, not making eye contact and counting the bullets she held in a leather pouch at her waist. There were eleven remaining, Watson noticed. "Since my brother's death, everything has changed. The circumstances were most suspicious..."
"I've heard Jamal's death was accidental, Your Highness," Watson said.
"Maybe, but I think differently," Jhasmine answered shortly. She looked over her shoulder at Watson as she raised her weapon again. "It would please me if you did not tell him I was here today."
"Of course," Watson nodded. "I promise." This time as Jhasmine fired, she did not miss her mark. A songbird gave a terrible shriek as it tumbled from its tree and landed, twitching slightly, on the ground some fifty yards across the clearing.
"Poor creature," Watson said, frowning as Jhasmine walked the length of the clearing to pluck her prize from the undergrowth. The bird was dead – Jhasmine's aim had been perfect.
"We have many birds here," Jhasmine told him as she returned. "Your people shoot woodland animals for sport. Why may I not do the same?"
A thought had crossed Watson's mind. "Your aim is marvellous, Your Highness..."
"I am aware." Jhasmine's dark hair was braided into a long plait, and she tossed it complacently over her shoulder. "Jamal told me many, many times..." The princess' eyes glazed over slightly at the mention of her brother and she turned away from Watson.
Before the doctor could make an effort to recover whatever ground he had gained with Jhasmine, a bell tolled from far away, sounding luncheon in the palace.
"I must go," Jhasmine said, frowning in a way which did nothing to deplete her incredible beauty. "Remember your promise, Doctor Watson..."
With a flick of her hair and a whiff of sweet perfume, she was gone and Watson was alone in the clearing with the carcass of the bird Jhasmine had shot. He placed it discreetly beneath a flowering shrub and began to make his way back towards the palace. A theory was beginning to form in Watson's mind, and he was quite childishly desperate to make it known before Holmes himself voiced the same deductions...
Holmes had fallen asleep in his armchair the previous night with his lit pipe still between his teeth, and had awoken with the pipe between his knees and a scorch mark in his best suit trousers.
A member of the palace staff arrived at eight o'clock to perform repairs on the shattered glass of the window. Holmes -whose policy it was to trust no one, no matter how blameless- stood and watched the man like a hawk until he had finished his work, before ushering him from the room and settling back down in his chair to think.
Concern for one's peers is an emotion as passionate in some ways as love, and to Holmes it felt as unfamiliar today as it always had been. Irene's time was running out, and nobody knew this better than Holmes. Equally, his fear for Irene's wellbeing was constantly disrupting his train of thought. It was a situation of the purest irony, and Holmes did not like it one bit. Really, all this caring is hardly beneficial for the case... Holmes was beginning to remember why he made a habit of never becoming emotionally involved with his clients. Of course, when the said client was Irene Adler, it was an entirely different situation!
Irene herself was taking a walk in the gardens, and so Holmes was left alone with his thoughts. The breakfast bell tolled at half past nine, but he ignored it. At nearly midday, there was another knock on the bedroom door, and when Holmes got up to answer it, Sergeant Hawthorne was standing in the hallway; his peculiar square glasses not on his nose, but perched on top of his head.
"Forgive the intrusion, Mr Holmes, but I was hoping to catch Doctor Watson," Right on cue, Hawthorne's face tinted slightly pink, "Before he went out for the day..."
"I doubt you will find him here," Holmes answered, returning to his armchair and closing his eyes as he spoke. "He returned to his room after breakfast to wash and then left again by the North staircase." He opened one eye and gazed belittlingly at Hawthorne. "Judging by his bearings this morning, and every morning since our arrival, in fact, I would suggest that he is bound for the palace gardens."
"...Right," Hawthorne said after a moment's silence. "Thank you." He turned to leave, but Holmes spoke up again.
"Perhaps if I could take a message, it would reach him sooner..."
Hawthorne shook his head.
"No, I think I should speak to Doctor Watson himself before anybody else. It's a rather private matter..." Hawthorne smiled briefly in Holmes' direction and made his exit, closing the door on his way out.
Before Holmes could make up his mind what he thought of Hawthorne's cryptic behaviour (even though he had some idea of the nature of this message for Watson, and wondered how Hawthorne could have the nerve), The door opened once again and Irene entered, her cheeks flushed from the heat and body beautifully wrapped in a lilac sari he knew she had 'borrowed' from the palace tailor.
"Good morning, my husband!" Irene wore her usual carefree smile as she strode to the window frame and promptly tore down the temporary boarding the palace servant had fixed over the cracked glass. She sighed contentedly as rays of golden sunlight streamed into the room. "Nice to have some light in here..."
Holmes was amused, but he did not let on. His senses heightened into a perpetual overdrive as Irene approached and drew up her own armchair beside his. Her hair fell in its torrent of curls over one shoulder, and into the braid was tucked a bright orange flower. Holmes wondered if it was the scent of the bloom or the scent of her which had his hair standing on end today!
"Your friend Sergeant Hawthorne was here just now," Holmes told her. He raised an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth simultaneously. "Or should that be 'Jimbo'?"
Irene smiled. "I know, I just saw him leave." She pulled the flower from her hair and began plucking the petals off one by one. "Where is the doctor, by the way?"
"In the gardens," Holmes began. "At least, that's what I told..." He trailed off. Irene's eyes were pointed directly at him, and she was staring quite audaciously at his thighs. "Ahem..." Holmes cleared his throat, and Irene looked up.
"Did you know there's a hole in your trouser leg?"
"So it would seem..."
"It needs patching," Irene advised, getting up from her chair and going to the cupboard and rummaging around inside.
"And Mrs Hudson will be more than happy to do so upon our return." Holmes already knew where she was heading, and he was determined that it would not happen.
Irene tutted. "Those are your best trousers, Sherlock, and they need patching before the hole gets any bigger."
"It won't," Holmes told her fastidiously as Irene finally found the fruit of her labours amongst piles of clothes – an old black dress in the same material as Holmes' suit trousers. "It's a scorch mark, not a tear; the fibres are already quite secure!"
"It will only take a second," Irene insisted. "This dress has an irreparable rip down the hem anyway, so it won't miss a scrap of material..." She held out a hand imperiously. "Take them off so I can work my magic!"
Holmes sat motionless, an expression on his face which told Irene clearly what he thought of her idea. He knew all too well what was going on. This was just another of Irene's 'games'!
"Don't worry, I won't look," Irene said, rolling her eyes. "Come on, Sherlock, I just want to help you."
"'Help' is not the word I would use..."
"As if I would do anything else!" Irene cocked an eyebrow and smiled wickedly. "Alright then, if you won't take them off..." She reached into her bodice and pulled out a needle which bizarrely already had thread running through its eye. Why on Earth would she have an already threaded needle hidden in her bodice? Holmes realised with a jolt how stupid he was being.
"Tell me," he said, "How did you plan on me scorching my trousers and requiring your embroidery expertise?"
"Why do you think I let you fall asleep with that damn pipe in your mouth?" Irene grinned, brandishing her needle. "I had this out of Doctor Watson's suture kit last night! Now hold still while I sew you up..."
"Miss Adler..."
"You wanted to play, so let's play!" She swooped in with the needle and prepared to dig it carefully into the material of Holmes' trousers. Holmes, however, was having none of it and shifted his legs out from under her grasp. The needle slipped and Holmes yelped involuntarily as the sharp point dug deep into his thigh.
"There, that's what happens when you wriggle!" If she had not been so very attracted to the man before her in the armchair, Irene would have thought she was addressing an insolent child. "For God's sake, Sherlock, keep still." She looked down on him, a dangerous glint in her eye. "You wouldn't want me to hurt you again, would you..?"
Holmes was unsure what to make of his current situation. As much as he was used to Irene's delight in inflicting pain upon him whenever possible, the look in her eye when she had scolded him was something different entirely. Not for the first time, Holmes wondered how far she intended to carry this game before one of them gave in. Well, Holmes decreed that this time, it would not be him who gave in first!
Resigning himself to the inevitable (due largely to the sting in his thigh where the needle had entered), Holmes sat still and allowed Irene to start her work. She cut a patch from the black dress that was just the right size for the job and settled on her knees before Holmes. Before she readied the needle once again, Irene gazed up at him from the floor, an extremely suggestive look in her eye. Holmes looked away. She knew all too well the promiscuity of her position, and to look her in the eyes now would be, Holmes decided, unbelievably foolish.
With the thread now attached, Irene lowered her head close to the scorch hole and placed her idle hand gently upon Holmes' upper thigh. The detective froze instantly. Of course, his assurance he would last out longer than Irene always went to pot when The Woman actually touched him!
"The light in here is terrible," Irene murmured, apparently forgetting she had removed the boards to the sunlight in just minutes before. Her aim was painfully obvious as she leaned down yet further and rested her head on its side between Holmes' thighs and continued to sew.
Holmes entire body was as tense as a cadaver. He could almost hear the Devil whispering words of good luck into his ear whilst the fires of hell raged around them. He tried desperately to think of something -anything- to distract himself from what was happening between his legs, but found that no fanciful image was enough to block out the gentle feeling of Irene's breath ghosting his inner thigh...
It occurred to Holmes that Irene was taking far longer than necessary to patch a simple hole in a pair of trousers. She doesn't seem the type to sew, anyway... He decided it was something that all women must know. Nevertheless, it was now getting on for luncheon (the bell would toll at one o'clock) and Irene was still working. Holmes was now beginning to wonder how he would explain this to Watson if and when the doctor returned to wash before the meal!
No sooner had the luncheon bell rung, Irene straightened up and cut off her thread using a pair of pearl-handled sewing scissors.
"That should do nicely," she said, patting Holmes' thigh and smiling when the detective flinched beneath her touch. She had got under his skin wonderfully, she realised - a fantastic result, despite the fact that Holmes had not 'cracked' during the proceedings. "Shall we go to lunch?"
Holmes did not move even his eyes in her direction, so Irene turned her back and admired her reflection in the long looking glass, before spraying a hint of perfume onto her collarbone and opening the door to leave.
"I'll see you down there, darling..."
Holmes waited until her footsteps had faded into the distance before moving towards the door, feeling more confused in that moment than ever before in his life!
Watson saw Irene and, a moment later, Holmes exit the guest house for luncheon as he was crossing the yard. They had disappeared before he could catch them, so he decided to go to his room and change his shirt before joining them. The deductions he had made through chatting with Jhasmine could wait until after luncheon, when they were all three back in the privacy of their room.
He was about to swing open the main door of their accommodation block when a voice calling out from nearby caused him to look 'round.
"Doctor Watson...I say, Doctor, could you spare a minute?"
Watson turned to see Sergeant Hawthorne approaching from across the yard. The former smiled in greeting. He had taken a liking to the young officer, despite his peculiar habit of blushing under general conversation...
"Of course. How can I help you, Sergeant?"
"Thank goodness, I've been looking for you all morning!"
"Really?" Watson chuckled amusedly. "Come now, Sergeant, what could possibly be so important that it can't wait til this evening?"
Hawthorne had a peculiar look on his face and it was a moment before he realised the young man was not quite meeting his eye.
"I think..." Hawthorne said, as if struggling to find the appropriate words. "I think you had better come down to the Guard Post straight away, Doctor..."
"Alright," Watson said warily. "Might I ask why?"
Hawthorne looked as if he really did not want to answer.
"We received a telegram from London this morning," he said finally. "An urgent telegram, addressed to you..."
"What was the name?" Watson asked, though in his heart he already knew.
"Mary Watson."