Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

Inspired by: "What is This Feeling?" from the Broadway musical Wicked.

May 21st, 1891

Dipping the nib of her pen into the ink, Madeline began penning a note to her dear friend, Ruth Bray. She had to talk to somebody about her…predicament. Nanny Bray was the one she was on her way to visit before getting hit, and despite the single appearance the old woman had paid her at 221B, she wasn't able to get much out of her other than blubbers and tears. A note would be sufficient in expressing to Bray exactly how trying her situation was. Three days of full consciousness with the consulting detective was worthy of a sainthood, she thought (though he was good enough to give her paper and pen when she asked).

'My dearest Nanny …'

Across the room, Sherlock Holmes was writing a letter to Watson. The doctor had decided not to cancel his vacation in France with his wife, and therefore put Holmes in charge of Madeline while he was away. He hadn't expected the work to be so taxing, and aggravating. Ergo he needed to confide the monstrous burden of the duties to his friend, and sending a telegram was out of the question.

'My dear Watson…'

The pens paused. The recipients had to be reassured of the senders' strength in these matters. They were both adults, and had to adapt to the circumstances.

Madeline's eyes flicked up, studying Mr. Holmes critically while searching for the right words. He almost glared back at her, daring her to keep on with it. Eventually she lit upon them, and diverted her attention back to the paper.

After three days of living with the man, she found the habits he'd alluded to were indeed strange. Tobacco resided in a Persian slipper, a stack of notes were affixed to the mantelpiece with an evil-looking knife, and she'd witnessed him withdrawing from the room with a needle in hand for obvious cocaine use. Then there was the way he'd just lay on the floor, not moving an inch or speaking around the clock. It made conversation impossible and she was left with feeling uncomfortable.

The changes in his moods were dramatic. Madeline at times would find him to be an amiable fellow, though he wouldn't talk much to her. Later that night, though, he would be striding across the rooms in fury, his hands combing through his hair and his eyes seeing right through her, or the wall, or whatever one thought he was looking at. God forbid if one knocked over a stack of papers accidentally; there was a mistake she did not care to make again. The chemical experiments were almost tolerable, except when he went after the dog; she threatened to break her bones again unless Holmes spared the pup. Gladstone, the poor thing was called, took to burrowing under the bed beneath her when he sensed the detective's experimenting eye on him and had her special protection.

And the infernal violin practice! At any and all hours Sherlock could be playing the instrument, and half the time the tunes were unrecognizable. She supposed she would have a more lenient attitude toward his musical expression, if he did not play while she and the rest of the world were trying to sleep. He did the gentlemanly thing (as he referred to it) of playing some pieces that she'd adored to make it up to her, but it still was irritating.

She didn't like vilifying her caretaker via a private message, but how could she put a positive spin on a man she hardly knew?

'If I had any choice, Nanny Ruth, I would much rather stay with you. Unfortunately, I cannot even descend the stairs, let alone move about the three small rooms up here. It is tiresome and harrowing having to depend on a stranger with double personalities and upsetting concoctions he tries to force-feed to the pitiable dog. With love, Maddy.'

Holmes, in turn, was looking for the correct description of Madeline.

Besides being a near-parasite, she seemed to have ungainly tendencies. Not once, but five times had she put his organized chaos in jeopardy by simply extending her arm and knocking over whatever sat next to her. Someone that clumsy was a detriment to another's way of living. Rather unkindly, he thought it was no surprise that she did trip and get walloped by the coach, given the amount of trouble she could cause just by wobbling out of bed or in a chair.

The stubborn streak in her almost rivaled his. Save for the request to have him cut her hair, she'd turn down every other offer of help thrown her way. In the beginning Madeline insisted she didn't need any assistance. Clearly she'd gotten used to fending for herself after her husband's death, but when it came time to move to the water closet, she realized that she couldn't even get there on her own. Dressing was a difficulty (one that Mrs. Hudson had taken to assisting with), and sitting up could still cause her an abnormal amount of soreness. It was easy to see how much her self-esteem was affected; pointing out that her clenching jaw would lead to the destruction of her teeth just made her grind them in irritation. Her pride was being sorely tested, especially when the pain was too much and Holmes had to administer morphine to her damaged body.

Lastly, his chief concern with her was that she would not divulge her case to him. In fact, if Sherlock even remotely touched on the subject, she'd clamp her mouth shut. Further observation revealed that she wasn't doing so out of obstinacy, but more so out of fear. Her "nervous ticks" were to narrow her eyes, and her undamaged hand would shake slightly. Most likely she would be perspiring too, but he didn't care to get close enough to find that out. Therefore, whatever or whomever she suspected to be the cause of her "accident" was close enough to home that she was terrified of what could happen were she to tell.

And then she'd counter with nosy questions about his life; the man who once accused Holmes to be a busybody should've met Madeline St. James. Though his occupation required him to know the details of everyone and everything involved in the case, she was just naturally inquisitive. He wondered if anyone had told her the story about the cat and curiosity. Changing tack in the letter was definitely called for.

'For all the above reasons, I believe you should come back at once, Watson. I feel you'd have better luck drawing answers from her than I, as she is adverse to all interviews. I urge you to reconsider your prognosis on the recovery time, and return to London immediately. Sincerely, Sherlock Holmes.'

After a perfunctory blow on the ink to dry it and folding the letter over, Holmes finished putting the flourish on his signature and rose to collect her note for delivery. What happened next was the spark that would ignite the powder keg sitting beneath their situation.

In the process of extending her letter to the detective, Madeline overturned the loaned ink flask.

"Oh, no!" she cried, her face burning in embarrassment. There was no way to correct the error other than to quickly save what was left of the ink. The bottle, though, was snatched away swiftly from her hand. The interloper had once again done damage to his room, to his bed, and he could not let it pass this time.

"No, no, don't bother!" Holmes growled, stamping away with both letters and ink in his grip. "Yet another mess you've caused in my home. You're truly a hazard, St. James."

Were it two days ago, she'd have mumbled an apology. But it was a new case entirely; she was sick of being trapped in the bed, swallowing down her comments in place of politeness.

"I rather think it adds to the décor, Mr. Holmes," she mused sarcastically. "With mess upon mess, a little ink stain makes no difference."

Though his back was to her, she could hear the frown in his voice. "Perhaps not to you, but I do indeed have things in order. Matters are not helped when important documents get overturned, or precious commodities are wasted on the sheets."

"Excuse me, I did not know. Next time when I upset your precious materials with my shattered body, I will throw myself at your feet and beg your forgiveness."

Her angry tone rolled right off him, and he chuckled darkly, "Given that you cannot even stand up properly, I would not be able to tell whether you were prostrating yourself or if you had fallen on your way to the window seat."

"What, the greatest detective in the world wouldn't know something? A sure sign of the apocalypse!" she snapped, hardly caring that she was pushing the bounds of her good luck.

"Never have I met such an esoteric, bumbling, and utterly obdurate woman before in my life!" Sherlock hollered, his vision growing red.

"And I have never known a more inconsiderate, tactless, horse's arse of a man in mine!" Madeline threw back.

If one were to step in between the glowers that the two directed at each other in that moment, that person would've melted from the ferocity of it. Eventually they both looked to the ground, their brains roiling from the confrontation. Grabbing up his pen again, Holmes reopened his letter and added on a hasty postscript. There was no way he could let her behavior go unremarked, even in a private note.

Stabbing the paper intensely, he ended his writing and snatched up his coat. The rooms felt stifling, and he had to get away.

"Where are you going?" Madeline asked, causing him to bite on his lip at the sullen inquisitiveness in her voice.

"It's none of your concern," he grumbled, practically sprinting out of the room, down the stairs and through the front door. Shoving the letters into the postman's hands at the office was not even registered in his brain, as he was preoccupied with his new evening plans. Energy pulsated throughout his entire body, and he knew he needed to put it good use.

It was time to enter the boxing ring again; for once, emptiness of the mind seemed to be the right thing for him.

xXxXxXx

Two days later, the feud had not been resolved. Instead, things slunk back into the awkward politeness and avoidance that they'd been accustomed to the first few days. Madeline, though keeping her tone in check, was shooting daggers at Sherlock whenever he looked at her. And he, in an effort to retaliate in some form, took to giving her a private violin performance…for five straight hours. From one o'clock in the morning straight on. A pillow promptly smacking him in the face sent him flying precisely at sunrise.

Sherlock Holmes had drawn two conclusions after that: women were the most vexing creatures on God's green earth, and now he'd had the second most galling of them living without gratitude beneath his roof.

Mrs. Hudson never looked more relieved to deliver Holmes the reply telegrams Watson had sent him.

"Ah, what's Watson's report?" he crooned, swiping the papers from the landlady's hands. The joyful expression on his face faded with such speed that Madeline couldn't help a giggle before turning back to the copy of "Hamlet" she'd found in the book pyramid the day before. Quickly the elder woman swept out of the room, afraid of the Holmes armory making its reappearance on the premises.

The first message was a reprimand, one that he was half expecting to come from his old friend:

SHERLOCK HOLMES, 221B BAKER STREET, LONDON, ENGLAND

WILL NOT COME BACK STOP TRY TREATING HER LIKE HUMAN INSTEAD OF FREELOADER OR SIMILAR STOP SHE IS STILL RECOVERING AND WILL COME AROUND WHEN APPROACHED DECENTLY STOP

JOHN WATSON

The second, however, was just a blow to the ego:

SHERLOCK HOLMES, 221B BAKER STREET, LONDON, ENGLAND

SHE CALLED YOU A HORSES ARSE STOP DID NOT READ THAT BEFORE STOP MOST AMUSING STOP

JOHN WATSON

"Leave it to a friend to be so disparaging in my time of need," Sherlock muttered to himself before stashing the papers into the coal scuttle.

"It's what they do best, isn't it?" piped the invalid still occupying his bed. He couldn't help the ungentlemanly snort that shot out.

"For once I am inclined to agree with you, madam."

She dropped the book and met his gaze with an electric grin. "As much as it pains you, I am sure."

"Indeed," he said, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. A comfortable silence settled between them, and for some reason they both had the distinct feeling that this was the closest they would ever get to apologizing to one another.

There were valid points in the first telegram; Holmes could've been much more congenial if he aimed to be, and in the past two days he didn't strive for it. Truth be told, he didn't see a reason to, as the rooms were his and he was not entirely open to sharing them with anyone but Watson. It wasn't her fault she was trapped in the predicament as well. No sense blaming her for the events that caused her to become a semi-mummy.

In hindsight, Sherlock realized it was good of them, in a strange way, to have already argued. It bled out the poisons they could've let build up over the weeks of compulsory companionship. It was time to take a step forward and move on from the clash.

All one of them had to do was speak.

Several moments passed before he heard the woman awkwardly cleared her throat.

"Do tell me, Mr. Holmes, how you obtained that nasty bruise on your cheekbone," Madeline murmured, sitting up as delicately as she could. "Cornered by a street gang, were you?"

"No, nothing of the sort," he answered, leaning back on his elbows and crossing his legs. "A fellow was able to gain the upper hand in the ring at one moment, and gave me a right cross as a reward for my laxness."

"You box?" she asked, quirking up an eyebrow. "Intriguing."

A feeble step forward, but it was one they were apt to utilize. Sherlock regaled her with the ripping tale of the entire match, via his analytical step-by-step processing of moves and the reactions of the actual opponent. And, through the hour of exchanged pleasantries that followed, the rift was on its way to being mended.

Author's note: It wasn't the chapter you thought it was, was it? I must be bored over break, because this is the most I've ever updated in a week's time. With inspiration hitting me constantly, what else can I do? Soon enough we'll find out Madeline's case and history, but I was struck with the idea of the two verbally bashing each other. Personally, I find Mrs. St. James' response most amusing, just like Watson did. Telegram writing is an interesting process...Please review, thanks for reading, and I'll catch you guys later!