Sherlock did not move for a full half hour after Kit left. He used the time to watch the shadows on the walls change shapes and elongate, listen to the babble of humanity drifting up to his third story window, and consider that when playing Der Elrkonig for him, Miss Rushford's G had been anything but sharp.

When his heart had finally stopped hammering and he had decided on a course of action, his footsteps were sure. He needed help. He needed advice. And there was only one place he could go for it.

Mycroft Holmes perched comfortably on the top rung of his custom-made step ladder, gazing out into the street from his favorite window. As a founding member of the Diogenes club, he was one of the special few with control over room assignments. This forward-facing library with a full view of the busy street outside had been his since the furnishing was complete.

He had the window open slightly, letting in the cool morning breeze and the noises of bustling people as they made their way up and down the pavement.

His eyes focused on one particular woman pushing a pram past his window, the heels of her boots clicking. He noted from the slightly different sound each heel made that one had been snapped off and re-glued. Mycroft smiled. He found thrifty women charming.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock's voice did not startle him. He had caught the sound of his brother's foot coming up the carpeted stair. It was something in his voice that made him turn and give the younger man a sharp look up and down. It took him almost no time to ascertain the situation. Still, out of politeness, he said "Good afternoon, Sherlock. To what do I owe the delight of your company?"

"I am here at your request, brother."

Sherlock had stopped just inside the door and was contemplating the long walk across the lushly furnished room with dread. He looked wretched. His face was ashen. His fingers twitched at his sides. Despite the fact that he seemed to have made an attempt, his hair was still askew, his waistcoat buttoned improperly.

The hard lines around Mycroft's eyes softened. "No, no." He kept his tone gentle. "Let us ignore that request for now. I think instead that you are here for a different reason. I think instead you may need my help."

"I do."

Mycroft knew how dearly that admission must cost Sherlock. He gestured to the second ladder he had placed at the other side of the window, opposite him. One never knew when one would want to see something from a different angle. "Sit down, dear boy," he said.

Sherlock climbed to the top rung and seated himself facing his brother, his long thin frame in opposition to the corpulent one across from him.

Mycroft ran his fingers through his steel grey hair and then placed his hands on his knees, giving Sherlock his full attention. "Tell me."

"It's difficult."

"It's not difficult," Mycroft corrected him with a smile. "You and Miss Rushford have quarreled. I think I can safely assume that the quarrel was your fault?"

"It was."

"Over an issue of intimacy?"

"At the heart, yes."

"Hmmmm." Mycroft tapped a pinch of snuff onto the web of his thumb and inhaled it with gusto. Sherlock fished his cigarette case out of an inside pocket and offered him one. Mycroft shook his head, watching closely as Sherlock tapped the end of his own on the top of the case and lit it with a match. Once extinguished the match was tossed out the window onto the pavement.

Mycroft could not keep himself from chuckling, but there was no ill-feeling to it. "We are not by nature a very outwardly kind family, are we, Sherlock?"

"Indeed."

"Still, we have our good points. I have noticed that we are, for the most part, very sharp dressers."

Sherlock smiled and crossed his legs, a hazardous maneuver balanced as he was. Still, the precarious position seemed to suit him. He blew a cloud of smoke out the window. "What shall I do?"

Mycroft considered for a moment. "You have solved her case?"

"I have"

"And what are your concerns?"

"As always, I worry about jumping to conclusions. I'm positive Harry has the stolen items, but I fear I must go to the theatre anyway, to ensure that I have not been misled. A quick check of the three other violins in the string section should be enough. After I am positive, then I will go to seek out The Tash and regain the stolen merchandise so that I can…"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He seemed put-out at being interrupted.

"I meant your concerns about Miss Rushford. That is why you are here, is it not?"

"Ah, yes."

"Well? Tell me. She certainly does not strike me as the worst fate that could ever befall a man."

"You only say that because you like her."

Mycroft laughed. "That's true.I do like her very much. She is a singular woman. That is not the point, though. The point is that you fear you may be falling in love with her."

"Ha. Fear she may be trying to ensnare me in some nefarious web of her making!"

"Fine. For the sake of the conversation, let us assume we are referring to the same thing. It is a normal occurrence for a man of your age. Why are you so distraught about it?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with his brother's choice of words. He scrutinized the smoldering end of his cigarette, preferring that to Mycroft's knowing look.

"I also fear that the life I have imagined for myself does not include a helpmate."

"Hmmmm."

"I fear for her safety," he continued. "If my career takes off it will be a dangerous one for anyone linked to me. On any level."

"Very well."

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "I fear for my sanity. The woman is incorrigible."

"But you do want her?"

"Yes." Sherlock did meet his brother's eye then. "In every way." His look was both fierce and unsure. "I am a man, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded. He looked back out the window drawing in deep breaths of the deliciously crisp air. "I suspected that this might be the case."

"You know I have never been fond of personal relationships. They tend to lead one into illogic and strange behavior patterns. I am ill-suited to them."

"Then you are better rid of her."

Sherlock flinched. Mycroft's smile widened. He waged a finger at him. "Ah. So, there is the crux. You've decided that the worst thing for you personally and professionally is to continue a relationship with Kit Rushford."

"Yes."

"But you are unable to give her up."

"Utterly."

"Hmmmm." Mycroft looked out the window again. "I love this window. I see such folly from it." He took another pinch of snuff and wiggled himself into a more comfortable position on his perch. His waistcoat buttons strained at the effort.

"My concerns are not unfounded," Sherlock pressed him.

"No indeed. I see your problem. Especially since if you wish to continue with her you are going to have to make your feelings known. There are some things that society demands that even you cannot get around, Sherlock."

The younger man unfolded himself and slid impatiently from the ladder. He paced the room to

the door and back. "Declarations?"

"Courtship. Miss Rushford deserves to be courted, brother, not hidden away in some room somewhere like a dirty secret. This is something you must remember: As painful as this may be to you, she has done nothing wrong. You must not make this her fault. She has laid no traps for you. You need only meet her once to see that she is not the type for that."

"On the contrary! I find myself ambushed on a regular basis."

"And is your feeling of affection for her so unpleasant to you?"

Sherlock paused in his pacing, halfway back to the door and turned and threw a wild look at his brother. "It's bloody overpowering, that is the problem! Much more of this and I'll be a feature in the bloody Times! World's Foremost Consulting Detective Arrested for Lewd and Indecent Acts in Public Street!"

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock, I assure you, I don't need any lurid details…"

"She is driving me mad!"

"And I think World's Foremost might be stretching the bounds of reality just a little…"

"All my reading and study has done nothing to prepare me for it."

"That's because you need to extend your reading beyond The Martyrdom of Man, Sherlock."

"Mycroft!" the detective yelled.

The elder Holmes was silenced. Sherlock slid his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced around at the leather-bound tomes on the walls surrounding him, ashamed to have lost his temper so easily. "How about Gibbon?" he hazarded after a moment, his eyes pausing on the familiar spine. "'We improve ourselves by victories over ourselves. There must be contest, and we must win'."

"Very good," Mycroft said, "but remember, that is the same man who wrote 'I understand by this passion the union of desire, friendship, and tenderness, which is inflamed by a single female, which prefers her to the rest of her sex, and which seeks her possession as the supreme or sole happiness of our being.'"

Sherlock lit another cigarette and blew the smoke with some frustration at his brother. "Is that what you really think?"

"Well, I have never met such a woman, but, then again, one cannot tell the future."

"You always were the most romantic of us".

"Indeed. Prone to flights of fancy."

Sherlock snorted, drawing mightily on his cigarette before crushing it out in the ashtray on the polished mahogany reading table, not even half-way finished.

"Well, you have yelled all your fears and opinions at me, brother," Mycroft continued. "Has it helped you reach a decision?"

Holmes shook his head, flopping into the armchair next to the table and cradling his head in his hands.

"Then perhaps this will help." Mycroft adjusted his vest, turning his attention back out the window. "Thousands of women have walked past this window in the years I've been sitting here. And statistics tell me that at least three or four of them might make a man such as yourself a suitable partner.

"I think in your life you may even meet one or two of these rare creatures." Mycroft continued. "One perhaps that challenges your intellect more than Miss Rushford. One who perhaps better matches your competitive nature, one in agreement with your moral standards, one for your love of justice, one for your athletic prowess, one for your need for danger…but none who'll challenge your humanity so deftly as a concert musician from Cheapside. One who has all these qualities at once and drives you to contemplate lewd acts in public streets as well. Don't be a fool, brother. She makes you uncomfortable because you have reason to be. You have much to live up to with her."

A group of loud children ran by on the street outside, followed by an old man, tottering on numb legs. A matronly flower seller leaned her hip against a set of stone steps leading into the building opposite and made eyes at any eligible man who wandered by.

Holmes crossed to the base of Mycroft's ladder and placed his hand on one of the rungs, tipping his face up to the man above. It was an expression his brother remembered well from their childhood. The very private Sherlock that few ever saw. "So, tell me this, Mycroft, how does one conduct a courtship with someone, admit them into their confidence, and yet not put them in a position of danger from one's enemies? How do I not overcommit to something I'm not even sure I'm ready for yet?"

"Sherlock, as a boy you were able to tell which path through the woods Father took on the way home by the mud flecks on his boots. I'm sure you'll be able to solve this."

The backstage of the Royal Olympic sparkled with brass polish and gaslight. The familiar smells of oil paint and talc drifted through the air. Holmes threaded his way through stage right wing on his way back towards the performer's exit.

He nodded to a familiar stagehand on his way through, and the man raised a lazy hand at him, not bothering to straighten up from where he leaned on the fly rail.

"Are you here to see Carlyle, then?"

Holmes stopped. "No. Should I be?"

"He was looking for you the other day, sure."

Holmes scowled. What could Jeffey Carlyle want with him? There was no show this afternoon. He had made sure of that the moment he had stepped in.

As he had suspected, none of the other three violinists had objected to him giving the resonance boxes of their instruments a quick check. Especially after he had assured that that their safety could be at stake.

News of Lucy's misfortune had sent a stir through the orchestra. As the second of their musicians to suffer the same fate, they were all eager to do anything they could to avoid the tormenter of the string section. Holmes did tell them they were no longer in danger, but they seemed too hysterical to listen to him. Plain, normal, upstanding girls all of them.

"Holmes!" The voice jerked him out of his reprieve. He swung around to find Jeffey Carlyle barreling down on him from the props area at stage left. "Where in heaven's name have you been?!"

"Been?"

"You've missed three shows, man. What happened to you?" Carlyle stopped only a few inches from the taller detective, fists pressed into his hips. A brief smile pulled at the corner of Holmes' mouth when he realized it looked like the aging props master was going to take him over his knee. "Ah, Mr. Carlyle. I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I was ill."

"And you couldn't get me a message? Dear God man, we almost had a disaster here the first night you didn't show up. I'm supposed to be off doing another show, not coming in to cover the man who's supposed to be covering me!"

"I know, and you have my sincerest apologies, but I'm afraid I must withdraw. Health reasons."

Jeffey gaped at him. "Health reasons? Just like that? Here one day, gone the next? It leaves me in quite a bind, I hope you know."

Holmes did know. He felt a twinge for the little man. It seemed there were no parts of this case that he had not bungled. "I know Mr. Carlyle. I only hope I can find a way to make it up to you and your mistress, Mrs. Laura Childers of Woking. I do hear that Brighton is better in the spring if that's any consolation."

Carlyle took a step back from him, eyes wide, and then turned on his heel and stormed away, shouting as he went. "They warned me, they did. About hiring out of the musician pool. Still, I thought better of you."

Holmes watched him go. He heaved a sigh and turned back towards the stage door, only to find someone standing in his way. It was the director that he had lampooned so mercilessly the last time he had been here. The two looked each other up and down coolly. Finally, Holmes gave him a nod and hurried for the door, skirting around the man without a glance back, ill-equipped to deal with any more confrontation just now.

He had reached the alley and was making a bid for the street when the Director caught up to him, yelling at him from the open stage door.

"Young man?!" As soon as Holmes stopped the Director hopped down from the door the few inches into the alley and marched up to Holmes, his long multi-colored scarf flapping out behind him.

"Young man, wait! Wait! I need to speak with you."

He pulled up just short of knocking directly into the detective and looked up him with bloodshot hound-dog eyes, almost buried in folds of bristly flesh. His eyebrows were long and slanted downwards, some of the longer hairs curling to almost touch his fine eyelashes. He had obviously not slept in days.

"I'm in a terrible position," he pressed on, "I need your help. What was your name again?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"And you have acted before?"

"No, never."

The man looked flabbergasted. "But you do know all Horatio's lines from Hamlet, do you not?"

"I do."

The Director considered, toying with his silken scarf. "Very well, I have a proposition for you."

Mycroft sat at his usual table in the dining room, napkin spread on his lap. To his great joy, there was an 'r' in the month, and the Diogenes club had oysters that were second to none.

Sherlock had been gone for less than half an hour when the Steward stuck his head into the dining room and zeroed in on Mycroft's table.

Mycroft halted with his fork half-way to his mouth, oyster hanging precariously off. The elder Holmes abhorred slurping. He set his fork down gently in the center of his plate and gave his lips a dainty wipe.

"All right, Saunders. Who is it now?"

"A woman, sir."

"An attractive one with an arm sling?"

"Yes, sir. Waiting outside on the front steps. I told her that you might not be willing to see here, as it is lunch time."

"On the contrary. The young lady is expected, - although," Mycroft snuck a look at his gold-plated pocket watch and raised his brushy grey brows in admiration. "She is a full ten minutes earlier than I thought she would be. I love a woman who keeps you guessing. Please tell her I will be with her at once."

The Steward gave him a surprised look, but hurried back out into the hall, no doubt in a great hurry to get another look at the woman who could make Mycroft Holmes interrupt his mid-day repast.

Holmes heaved himself up from the table and followed him out into the hall.

Kit sat next to Mycroft on the stone steps of the Diogenes club, oblivious to the horrified stares of entering club members. She knew it was frowned on, but while waiting for Mycroft she had sunk down on the steps, unable to support herself any longer.

When Mycroft exited the building and found her thus, instead of reproach, he had simply sat down next to her, crossing his hands over the top of his cane and resting his chin on his hands. They were seated that way still, a full fifteen minutes later.

"And you're sure he said her was going to find Harry Wilcox?"

"If Wilcox also goes by the name The Tash, then, yes, I'm afraid so. He said he was going to try the theatre, and if he finds nothing there, then he'd go see Harry. I'll be honest, I didn't really understand that part of the conversation, but we were having such a feeling chat that I didn't want to disappoint the poor boy."

Mycroft reached over and patted her hand where it lay in her lap kindly. "Don't let it worry you, my dear, Sherlock has always been a bit of a going concern for all of us. I'm sure he'll come out of it all right."

Kit frowned. "I'm sorry now I was so hard on him. He is a terribly frustrating man, and he deserved to be yelled at, but I'm still sorry I did it."

"Well, I've been reduced to growling like a bear at him more times than not. It's tiresome I know, but how else is one to get through to him?"

"Did he tell you what we quarreled about?"

"Not in so many words, my dear, but I believe I got the gist."

"You must think very poorly of me."

"On the contrary. I think you're both normal healthy young people confronted with the same issues that have plagued other normal healthy young people for years. It's how we keep the species going, I'm told."

Kit rolled her eyes to cover her blush. Mycroft tapped his cane in thought for a moment before he continued. "There is one thing. When it comes to such issues, Sherlock may have an unfair advantage of you. These are the predilections of our society, I fear. However, in matters of acceptable behavior, my brother is not always the best guide. I believe you to be a pure and virtuous temptress, Miss Rushford, one with a good head on your shoulders, but please don't let Sherlock lead you into any situation that might impugn your honor. You have nowhere near enough money to weather such a scandal, and my brother may count on his sex to protect him."

"Whereas I cannot."

"Most assuredly not, my dear. I am sorry. Please take this as it's intended. I wish you nothing but happiness and success, in whatever future you choose."

Kit gave her friend a warm smile. "Thank you." She considered her hand in her lap for a moment. "What do you propose we do if Holmes is truly in danger?"

"Trust him to find his way out of it, I suppose."

"How can you be so calm about it?"

Mycroft smiled sadly. "Years of practice. I've been looking after Sherlock since I was seven years old. There is a type of man that needs to climb a mountain in order to assuage his feelings of guilt and show his feelings. If no mountain exists, then he will build one, even if he must heap the earth up one barrow-full at a time."

"And you believe Sherlock is in the process of making a mountain?"

"My dear, I believe he has decided nothing less than Everest will do to prove his indifference to you."

"I can't just sit around and do nothing."

"Putting yourself in danger is no way to help. I'm afraid ours may be the stand and wait kind of service. Please take my advice. Return to the room. If he hasn't found his way back by tomorrow morning, then we both of us shall go to the authorities together."

Kit considered this. She stood up, brushed off her skirts and gave Mycroft a firm nod.

"Very well. I'll do that."

He bowed from the waist as best as he could from his seated position and watched her walk off down the street with a sure, decided step.

He leaned his cheek on his hands again and smile a lopsided smile as she disappeared into the crowd.

So much for his dinner plans.

Holmes and the diminutive Director sat on upturned crates in the alley outside the theatre, the smaller man still struggling to regain his breath. The alley was deserted save for a stray can and three empty coal sacks, moldering opposite the stage door against the wooden fence.

The sky overhead looked low and bruised.

"I am leading a troupe of actors on a tour of the United States. The play, as you know, is Hamlet. We are leaving at the end of the week." The Director finally huffed out. "The tour will last eight months, and I find myself in need of an actor to play Horatio. Someone who already knows the lines and would be willing to come with us on such short notice. Would this interest you?"

"What of the man you already had?"

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, something we must all accept about this business: The theatre is our mistress - we must love her, but that does not mean that she must love us in return."

Holmes considered this for a moment. "A wastrel?"

"An untenable drunk. He Has suffered a head injury due to falling out a second story tavern window after a particularly flamboyant evening of merrymaking. He will be unable to fulfil the terms of his contract and has therefore been let go."

"Ah. And you have no qualms about taking on a first-time actor for the role?"

"I have many qualms, but the money for the tour is already spent. It must go ahead. I can rehearse you on the boat during the journey over."

"An intriguing offer, I must say. When would you need my answer by?"

"I will be here in the afternoon tomorrow from one until five. If I have not heard from you by five, I will assume you do not wish to accompany us." The diminutive thespian stood up from the wall, straightening his coat. "You should accept Mr. Holmes. I believe I can get a performance out of you that would be worth seeing."

Holmes smiled. "No doubt. I will give you my answer tomorrow before five. In the meantime, I have only one more question."

"Very well."

"Actually, it's a condition. It concerns my wife."