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: "Borrowed Time" by John Lennon.

June 26th, 1891

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I have been pondering a singularly unique conundrum for the past several hours, and I would greatly appreciate your help."

The doctor, lounging in the one clean chair in the whole of Sherlock's residence, swiftly stood up. It was not often that the detective called for any intellectual assistance, and Watson could only wonder what he was stuck on.

"Certainly, Sherlock."

Sighing abruptly, Holmes flopped to the floor. "Allow me to review the facts. Mrs. St. James has, as you know, removed herself from my rooms upon her full recovery."

John nodded, and prompted his friend, "As per my prognosis. Do go on."

"Second fact: she confided in me some time ago that her birthday is, in fact, on this very day."

Watson raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"As such, she has invited you and I, along with Mary and Gladstone to join her for a birthday dinner, to celebrate her recovery, trial, and ability to make it to her twenty-seventh year. I will admit, Watson, that even having recently forged a companionship with this woman, I was considering not attending."

"Oh come now, Holmes-"

"I said I considered it. After all, I am…" he trailed off, casting his glance around his cluttered, and yet somehow empty, flat. "…occupied usually for a great deal of the time. However, I find myself inexplicably unemployed and in need of distraction. Even if only for an evening."

There was no pulling the wool over the doctor's eyes; he could see that his compatriot had more motives behind the gesture of accepting the invitation besides boredom. With her gone, Sherlock was alone again. Not that he couldn't function on his own, since he'd done it for years before he met the doctor or the lady. His personality was enough to cause people to feel insecure and inferior, and the methods of his madness frightened them away completely. Perhaps that was why he clung so tightly to Watson and Madeline: once he found people he didn't consider average and spiteful, he tried to keep them in his grasp. That was the theory that John had, anyway.

The last two weeks of Madeline's confinement flew by, certainly faster than Holmes expected it to. First the arm cast came off, then the remaining stitches removed, and finally the leg plaster was cut away. Her arm and leg were weak from four weeks of zero use, but Sherlock took a little time each day to get her maneuvering everything properly again…in his own special way of course. Her reflexes became a lot sharper, no thanks to a barrage of items thrown at her in the meantime, and more than once in the last week Watson had to bolt up the steps to make sure she hadn't accidently been skewered in some way, shape or form because of their mutual friend.

Still, despite the last week of near-torture, Madeline threw her arms around Holmes when the day to return home had come, saying she'd miss her odd flatmate. And for his part, the detective awkwardly returned the embrace and muttered something about both of them being able to regain their sanity.

Realizing he'd been mulling for far too long, John grunted, "Glad to see you choosing distraction in the form of a formal dinner, rather than through your other vices."

"Too true, my friend," Holmes smoothly replied, as if there had been no extended silence. "And so, I have been with the event looming ever closer, I need your assistance with this question: what sort of gift does one give to a twenty-seven-year-old woman who survived a carriage accident and a blood transfusion, and who has tolerated living in close quarters with you for four weeks?"

Blinking, the doctor exhaled rapidly. "I, uh…I'm unsure of the answer. Mary took care of the present, we're jointly giving it to her."

"I just assumed you would know, given your affinity for the fairer sex," the detective remarked drolly, shrugging his shoulders. Watson narrowed his eyes, slightly annoyed, but he was far more amused by Sherlock's floundering at such an unusual dilemma as finding a reasonable gift.

"I'd rather have an affinity than an aversion," he rejoined, cocking his head to the left.

"Only an aversion to the majority," Holmes quipped, recognizing the friendly barb beneath the words. "The minority, however, are a completely different tale."

Shaking his head, John murmured, "Drawing up a list of Madeline's likes and dislikes could lead to a solution."

Slapping his thigh, Sherlock smiled. "Capital idea, old chap."

Both men chewed their lips in thought for few minutes, before the man on the carpet started ticking ideas off on his fingers.

"The woman likes painting, poetry, and the opera. She cannot play an instrument, but loves to hear music. Besides reading, she likes to run competitively. Also, she strongly dislikes sewing."

Watson began summing up out loud as well, lowering himself back into his chair. "Madeline hates cats, loves dogs…perhaps buy her a puppy?"

His companion on the ground waved his hand. "No, she refers to Gladstone as her surrogate dog. Couldn't possibly replace him…hmm. She likes to read, specifically novels and plays."

'And one novel in particular…' he thought, an unbidden memory flashing through his mind.

"Just why are you so infatuated with this book?" he'd asked her the day after the trial, finding her curled up yet again with "The Three Musketeers". Genuinely curious, he continued, "You've gone so far as to nickname your friends and yourself after the characters. Why?"

Closing the book, her face adopted a dreamy expression when she'd collected her answer. Her green eyes glazed over slightly, the freckles on her face making her appear much younger as she spoke.

"I like the musketeers because of their adventures. Swashbuckling lives are theirs to lead; trading on wit, plots, and swordplay, they achieve their goals. God knows that if it were acceptable to my great aunt, I would've picked up my grandfather's old sword and started on a grand escapade when I was younger, but it 'simply was not proper'," Madeline murmured, rolling her eyes and accenting the last words to show her displeasure. "Now here I am, still reading this story and still wishing for the adventure."

"Without the hardships and uncertainties, I'm sure."

She giggled. "Quite right, Mr. Holmes."

Without warning, Sherlock sprang up from the floor, knocking over an entire end table piled high with papers. Watson jerked back in his seat, stunned by the sudden energy ripping through his friend's body.

"By George, I've lit upon the answer!" he cried, throwing off his tattered robe and fumbling for an old jacket of the doctor's. "Thank you for all your help, Watson, I must go at once. I will see you for dinner at Madeline's home. Again, you've done me a wonderful service. Farewell!"

Slamming the door behind him, he had no idea the frozen expression of shock still gracing John's face. Unable to move from his chair, he stared at the spot where his comrade had lain only moments before until his mind caught up with the actions.

"…You're welcome?"

xXxXxXx

Seven o'clock came, and all the guests had arrived at Madeline's Sloane Street home. First "Nanny" Ruth Bray had come, fifteen minutes early, to get a few moments with her "precious girl" to herself. Since Madeline hadn't spent much time with her in a long while, she didn't mind at all being with her second mother. Next Julianne and her gauche husband Stephen plowed through the door. Where Julianne was brazen in a fun-loving, harmless way, Stephen was far more crass and controlling. His presence was merely tolerated while his wife and her close friend caught up on the past few weeks' events.

Constance was unable to make it due to a prior event at the convent, but sent a bouquet of flowers with a card congratulating her on her wondrous recovery and walking another year in God's grace. And as the seventh bell chimed in the grandfather clock down the hall, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of the final three party guests: Doctor John Watson, Missus Mary Watson and Mister Sherlock Holmes. Gladstone stood in between his two masters, his leash gripped firmly in Holmes' hand. Mary was in a sweeping grey gown, her husband in a matching grey suit. The detective loitering behind them had even managed to comb his hair and shave; he cleaned up very well, Madeline noted privately. As the clambered into the front hall, she greeted each one with a quick embrace and a wide smile. They all noticed her improving gait and strengthened stance, approving of her increasing recovery.

"I'm so glad you came," she breathed, straightening the skirt of her new green dress. Bending down to pet the dog, she continued, "Welcome to the celebration of the downfall of my youth."

"Aye, happy birthday, dear," Mary snickered, giving her an extra squeezing hug. The young maid employed for the evening bustled away, taking their presents and Gladstone into another room.

Giving her his once-over look, Sherlock muttered, "I take it by the strain in your voice and the hardness in your eyes that something is clearly bothering you."

She nodded. "Yes, Julianne Tyler, you remember her, brought her wonderfully American husband Stephen along. He's very…brash, shall we say."

"Oh, I'm sure he can't be all bad," Watson chimed, trying to remain optimistic. Madeline blinked, and let a dark chuckle roll out of her mouth.

"Just wait for it…"

A deep-throated voice suddenly called out, "Where did the elderly widow get to? Has the doddering girl gotten lost?"

The three sets of eyebrows of her newly-arrived guests simultaneously rose and fell, with their faces creasing in distaste. Madeline grimaced as well, indicating that she'd been privy to nasty little comments from the man in previous outings and events.

"Marriage of convenience?" Holmes surmised, given his impression of the bubbly, bouncing Julianne weeks ago and the rudeness of her husband now. Again, Madeline nodded, pressing a hand to her eyes.

"Very convenient, at least for the people who arranged it," she whispered, before plastering on the most insincere smile she could muster and leading them into the lounge. Introductions went around, with much exultation over Holmes' reputation as a consulting detective and Watson's doctoral abilities. Stephen was determined to not be outdone by these men, flaunting his status as a nouveau riche and plying them with the stock market statistics. Spying her companions' increasingly irritated expressions, Madeline wisely announced that dinner would be ready soon and they should meander into the dining room.

Slipping away to the kitchen as her guests seated themselves, she crooked her finger at the bustling cook.

"Mr. Tyler is here, I'm sure you heard," she began, rolling her eyes. A hand was raised, stopping her speech.

"I'll get the sleeping powder, ma'am, as usual," Mrs. Talbot cut off her employer, reaching through her spices for a tin hidden in the back. Madeline couldn't help her tight-lipped grin; the cook knew her and the man's troubling mouth all too well. "All Americans should learn how to rear their children properly, not just a certain few."

"I utterly agree, Alberta," Madeline groaned, turning back to take her seat two rooms away. Everyone rose from their chairs, waiting for her to circle to the head of the table. Holmes raised an eyebrow at her, silently enquiring where she had gone, what she was up to. Her wry smile in answer told him to wait and see.

The wine was served, the glass set delicately before each patron. Flicking his eyes over everything, Sherlock observed how Mr. Tyler's wine was a fraction darker than everyone else's. Something had been dropped in the drink that had dissolved quickly and altered the exterior slightly. Poisons did that, but he knew that Madeline would never murder…no matter how exasperating the guest was. Running through the other options in his mind, a sleeping draught was the only thing he could come up with.

Feeling the gaze of the hostess on him for a moment, he further observed the guilty slide of her eyes when he gestured discreetly at Stephen's glass and smirked accordingly.

'At least dinner comes with some form of entertainment,' he thought, tucking his napkin into his collar once the food arrived. 'Well done, Madeline.'

Thankfully the concoction worked, for it combined with good food and a steady supply of wine poured its magic through the tycoon's body. The insulting man began to falter in his speech, yawning frequently and sliding down in his seat by the third course. By the time the birthday cake was brought out, Stephen Tyler had slumped over, lightly snoring through the toasts and happy birthday wishes. Revenge, like the creamy frosting on the cake, never tasted so sweet to Madeline before.

She hated leaving her friend to pick up the pieces of incapacitating the woman's husband, but with him being such a boorish brute and her being oblivious to it, she didn't feel too badly about the situation. Julianne was able to keep her happy façade up as she hauled Stephen out into a waiting cab with the help of the footman, bidding Madeline many happy birthdays as they departed. Nanny Ruth had to go as well, her aching bones acting up and preventing her from functioning properly.

"We'd better go as well," Watson said, extending his elbow to his wife and guiding her towards the door. Gladstone pattered down the hall, laying down abruptly in front of the wooden portal. Catching the detective's gaze, he jerked his head in an effort to convey that he should leave, too. Propriety dictated that he couldn't stay in the lady's house alone without a third party, but since when did he care for propriety?

"No," Holmes responded, draining the remaining dregs of wine from his glass. "Not before the lady has opened her presents. It seems that everyone but me has forgotten that we are celebrating her birthday, after all."

Feeling a blush creep into her cheeks, Madeline bade her maid to get the gifts so she could open them in the company of her friends. For the first time all day, it really seemed like she was having a birthday. Twenty-seven…it was such an unimaginable age when she was younger, and nowadays she felt far older than she was. The years had passed by so quickly, and she almost didn't make it to this one. But thanks to the man occupying her settee, and the other standing off by the large window of the sitting room, she had. The least she could do was indulge in the detective's suggestion.

"Let's see…" she said, unwrapping the first. "New stationary and a pen with fresh nibs. Ruth always did like me to write. Next we have flowers from Constance, third is a gold watch and a bottle of French perfume."

"From your kind, Europe-traversing giant female companion, no doubt," Sherlock scoffed, wrinkling his nose when she sprayed some of it in the air.

"No doubt, indeed. A book of Robert Browning's poetry…thank you, John and Mary, I'm sure I'll love it."

"I-we, yes, we thought you might want something new to read, after exhausting all your personal literature during recovery," Mary stuttered, Watson hastily nodding at her side.

Madeline giggled, and then picked up Holmes' gift, the one that he almost couldn't get to her on time. It made him scramble across London and back just to purchase it, let alone engrave it. He leaned forward in his seat, face blank but body coiled in expectation. The package was long, a bit thin, and heavier than she would've guessed. An envelope was stuck to the top with some sort of adhesive, demanding that it be read before the gift was opened.

Pulling the card, she read Sherlock's fast scribble: For all your future adventures.-S.H.

"Adventures?" she mused under her breath, the wheels in her brain turning rapidly. "This can't be what I think it is."

"You won't know for sure unless you open it," Holmes said, his leg starting to jiggle in anticipation.

"You didn't," she stammered, ripping off the brown packaging. A long, beautifully carved wooden box sat in her lap. "You didn't."

Releasing the solid clasps, she lifted the lid a tad, gasped upon viewing the gleaming contents, and slammed it down again.

"You didn't!" she denied, surprise lining her features. Leaning back, Holmes' sense of smug satisfaction rose considerably.

"Oh, I did."

"What in heaven's name did you get her, Holmes?" Watson barked, a little put off by the inconclusive half-speech between the two. Without a word, Madeline flipped the lid open, unveiling soft padding and a well-crafted rapier seated within. The Watsons were both dumbstruck. "You got her a sword?"

"Rapier," Holmes and St. James chimed together, the former grinning widely and the latter lifting the blade out of the box smoothly. It was wonderfully wrought, the knuckle guard made with three looping pieces of metal and the handle scored with several parallel marks. Etched into the forte was the name Athos.

Her eyelids fluttered rapidly; he'd remembered that conversation, one of several she thought he would find trivial. She could hardly believe what was in her hand.

'…I have no idea how to use this thing,' she thought, setting it back in its container. Unable to contain her beam, she strode forward and threw her arms around the detective, hugging him close.

"Thank you, thank you very much," she said, her words heartfelt. His strong arms circled around her, a little less hesitant than the first time they'd exchanged a friendly embrace.

"Should you ever want to learn how to fence, I know a fantastic instructor," he said once they'd parted. "I warn you, though: he's very demanding and utterly machine-like in his form."

Following him to the door, with sidelong good-byes to a stunned Mary and Watson, she nearly exploded with mirth.

"I do not care! I would love to meet with him," she confessed, feeling truly scandalous. A woman fencing…and it would be her. What a novel idea! "Where would I find him?"

Readjusting his jacket and pulling on Gladstone's leash, Sherlock hovered just beyond the portal with a nonchalant glance at the top of the doorframe.

"I think he resides at 221B Baker Street. I'll tell him you're interested," he pronounced, turning his back on her overjoyed expression and climbing into the carriage with his other companions. Just as Madeline signaled her waiting butler to close the door, she heard Watson's shocked-yet-enraged shouts pouring out before the cab shot away.

"Why on God's green Earth did you give her a sword?"

Author's note: The American bashing is not to be taken seriously (I am American, after all); I just figured that if some people take jabs at the British, then they might make jabs at us. And friendship fluff...I love it to death! So if you don't like this chapter, sorry, but I really think it's nice to break from the drama and make things a tad bit happier every now and again. And if you find Holmes to be a tad OOC…sorry for that, too. From all the Holmes stories I've read, plus the film, I've come to the conclusion that he did have the ability to be a caring person…he was just rather selective to whom he showed it to and kept it buried deep down so he could think clearly. That's the impression I got, anyway. More to come soon, so thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you guys again next week!

PS: Yay for finals being over! Woo-hoo!