Author's Note:

So sorry about the delay! I had to write this chapter several times over (taking out large chunks that not even my beta ever saw), until at last I had something I was satisfied with, and even after that, I needed to fix some OOC moments! *sighs* (Btw, did you know that book-signing events began with the Marshall Fields department store in Chicago in 1914? I didn't until just the other day. ^^)

Yes, we're still going slowly, but at least you see two days in this chapter, not just one. We're slowly but surely picking up momentum! Also, if you'll forgive a shameless plug, I have two more SH fics up now: A Study in Stardom, which is a real-life/Canon AU starring not only Holmes & Watson but also Jeremy Brett, David Burke, and eventually Edward Hardwicke; and "The Doctor and the Storyteller," in which Watson tends to a young soldier during WWI, a soldier who will go to become one of the most famous and beloved authors of all time (take a guess at whom!). Please check them out and let me know what you think!

One more note. My mom recently told me about a televised Sherlock Holmes play she used to really enjoy as a teenager, so I tried to find it on YouTube. Guess what? THE WHOLE THING WAS THERE. So I watched the whole thing and fell in love with it! It's a 1981 production, starring Frank Langella as Sherlock Holmes—and while Langella doesn't look pure Holmes as Jeremy Brett does, he still does a wonderful job! I think he's very true to the character! It's rather a lighthearted presentation, and a combination-adaptation of SCAN and FINA, but it's a lot of fun. There's a plot twist at the end that some hard-core Sherlockians might not approve of (I do, and I won't give it away, so you'll have to watch it to find out for yourself), but I should think that the rest of the play should make up for it! (Their version of the Holmes/Moriarty-at-Baker-Street confrontation is one of the best parts—Holmes is pure win in that scene, and the end is absolutely priceless!) Link to my playlist (remove the spaces): http : / / www . youtube . com / user / RingSaberWardrobe#grid / user / 8890E3F544C94130. (If that doesn't work, just go to my YouTube channel via my profile and open the playlist from there.) Enjoy!

To my reviewers:

The Pearl Maiden: *jaw drops* YOU CHANGED YOUR NAME! xD …Thank you, m'dear! Um, yes, I will reference to the RDJ film… I have some ideas regarding that. Watson would probably enjoy Jude Law's performance, based on what I've read. xD

Brazeau: Thanks! It can be a challenge, sometimes, figuring out how exactly they'd react to different things. And they're definitely fortunate to have fallen in with the Duran family, that's for sure—although, one really could say it's the other way around… ^^

==Chapter VII==

So Much to Learn

I can see there's so much to learn

It's all so close, and yet so far

—"I Wanna Know," Phil Collins, Tarzan

(Watson)

Our first foray into a 21st century town was tempered by the fact that Holmes and I already had some idea of what to expect, thanks to Sherlock. I believe that Kathleen spent an exorbitant amount of money on outfitting us both with wardrobes, but she never did let us see the bill. Even Holmes could only estimate the cost, for she removed some of the price tags before we took possession of our new things back home. At least, our hostess displayed both practicality and good taste as she helped us select our clothes, and she respected our desire to remain conservative in our new wardrobes.

Holmes's purchases were replete with jackets and slacks and ties that Kathleen informed us were considered semiformal wear these days. He did, however, concede to two pairs of blue jeans on account of their durability (he really only conceded to one pair, but Kathleen slipped another into the shopping cart). I myself picked out a few semiformal things, as well as some more casual sweaters and polo shirts and two pairs of blue jeans.

Holmes also bought (well, bought via Kathleen) a long grey trench coat similar to the one Benedict Cumberbatch wore in Sherlock. The coat certainly suited him well. For the purpose of a cool-weather coat, I decided upon a beige jacket rather military in style. Holmes and Kathleen were unsurprised, and Kathleen's appreciative look as I tried it on was rather flattering.

Our attentions were briefly arrested by T-shirts bearing text, which Holmes swiftly declined as being below his dignity. Amused, I pointed out one shirt that read WARNING: Dangerous Chemicals Inside as being utterly perfect for him. I do not believe he was as amused as I, and we left the store without one single T-shirt having made it into our bags.

Our "intensive training" began promptly after luncheon, starting with a long history lesson on the 20th century. Learning that a great war—the Great War—would begin only ten years from the year Holmes and I had left chilled me, and in learning the particulars, I found it was no wonder that everyone thought the world would end. I believe I should have, had I lived through it.

Would I even ever see that war, or would I be forced to "skip over" one hundred twenty-one years of history?

I could not tell which possibility frightened me more.

(Holmes)

Around three that afternoon, our identification papers arrived. Kathleen glanced over them briefly with a rather grim look before handing them to us. After a few moments of scanning the documents myself, I believe I understood her reaction.

"This is preposterous!" I ejaculated. "How utterly invasive!"

Watson's brow furrowed as he read over his own papers. "They do want to know a little more than perhaps they should…"

"Watson, no one but close friends and family should know the answers to all these questions! Not even you and I know this much about each other!"

"I know, it's bad," Kathleen interjected, "but you don't have a choice, Sherlock. I'm sorry." I glanced at her, and read genuine sympathy and regret in her expression. She was no happier about this than I, and she was also right.

I shook my head and ran a hand lightly through my hair, grudgingly accepting the inevitable. "I suppose that, for our dates of birth, we should simply count backwards from our current ages."

"That's what I would do, yes," Kathleen nodded.

With a sigh, I picked up my pen and began to fill out the blanks.

Over dinner, the children began to discuss what film they wished to watch that evening. "Y'know, what we ought to do is Narnia," Ruth suggested, turning to her mother. Ruth was nearing fourteen, though her small, slight figure might lead a casual observer to mistake her for a good two years younger. "Mr. Holmes and the Doctor would probably enjoy it, and we're overdue to watch it, anyway."

"Narnia?" Watson echoed.

"The Chronicles of Narnia," Christy clarified. "It's fantasy, but it's Christian fantasy. There's one character, Aslan, who's really Christ—just in a different world."

"Fantasy," I repeated unenthusiastically.

"Actually, I think you would like it, Sherlock," Kathleen interjected. "They're not mysteries or horror tales, but they are excellent tales of Good versus Evil."

"I'm game," Watson chirped, delighted at the prospect of a new story to enjoy—honestly, the cheerfulness of that man sometimes!

"I suppose I could at least give it a go," I muttered.

"You're gonna love it, Mr. Holmes!" Edward gushed. "There're—"

"Edward!" Kirk scolded. "Take a lock!"

The little laddie gave me a sheepish grin not unlike the smiles of my Irregulars when they had been caught snatching biscuits from the sitting room table. I smiled back at him and shrugged, just before a wave of nostalgia colored with homesickness washed over me.

I did not appreciate the fact that Kathleen was watching me and could clearly read me as easily as I could read her. A great mind coupled with the soul of a woman is a dangerous thing, indeed.

(Watson)

My heart was in my throat as the sordid scene unfolded before my captivated gaze: the Great Lion walking to his death at the hands of the White Witch. For a moment only, I glanced at Holmes, who looked to be as riveted as I, his grey eyes intense. We watched the nightmarish creatures on the screen rejoice in their triumph, then listened to the steady rhythm of a truly devilish ritual.

Then the knife fell, and I was struck with a sudden flash of memory, seeing the horrified grief in little Lucy's eyes. A part of me was back at Reichenbach once more, shouting desperately for the only friend I had in the world, all the while knowing in my heart that I was calling for a dead man. That relived memory only intensified as Susan and Lucy mourned their loss, and I felt afresh a deep heartache I thought buried ten years ago.

Despite Aslan's death, Peter, Edmund, and their army struggled on, retaliating in a fierce battle. Kathleen's words from the other day sounded in my head: fighting the Long Defeat.

But then the sun rose on the Stone Table, and oh, joy, joy, joy! Death had miraculously "worked backwards," and Aslan was alive ("My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected") once more!

The battle, however, was far from over, and I feared still for the boys' lives before the end. But Aslan came bounding in, vanquishing his foe as God will someday vanquish the Devil, and Edmund was healed. Even the children's return to England could not dampen my spirits now, for I already knew that they would return to Narnia someday, as King Arthur was said to someday return to England.

I could not wait to watch the next story.

As the children prepared for bed, Holmes and I found ourselves alone in the living room. "Well," I smiled.

My friend cast his scrutinising gaze over me. "My dear fellow, are you quite all right? There were some moments during that film that I noticed you to be rather pale."

Aslan's resurrection had brought with it the memory of Holmes's return to London, and chased away the nightmare of those dreadful Falls as surely as light chases away the darkness. "Of course, old man," I smiled rather solemnly. "I was caught up in the story, is all. And, well, it put me in mind of Reichenbach—Aslan's sacrifice."

A brief flash in his grey eyes told me that he had relived some of his own ghosts as well. Perhaps such is the mark of a good story, possessing the poignancy to trigger such reactions from its audience.

"But his return—oh, that more than made up for it, Holmes! It was as if I was back in my consulting room, pulling myself back together after your theatrics!" I spoke that last in fond laughter, and he smiled ruefully.

"Either Aslan or the producers share my love of theatrics, what with his appearance before a rising sun," he said, half-scoffing, half-sheepish.

"Indeed," I grinned. "Ah, that film did my heart good, Holmes! It was an excellent tale, quite touching."

"Rather simple, I should think…" He looked up at me from his musing and gave me his odd half-smile. "And it had heart to it… without romance."

I raised my eyebrows. "A great compliment, to be sure, coming from you, Holmes."

He shrugged. "It was a mere fact, Watson, no more."

"Mm-hmm."

"Watson."

I looked at him innocently. "What?"

(Kathleen)

Late that evening brought with it the question I'd been waiting to hear ever since Sherlock's long surf on the Web. "Kathleen," he said without preamble, "how is it that Watson's stories are treated as fiction, and he and I ourselves regarded as fictional characters and not historical figures?"

John did a double-take. I merely flopped onto my couch with an explosive sigh. "I was wondering when you were gonna ask," I muttered, and straightened slightly. "John? It's quite a story—you think you might want to record it?"

He gave me a dry look as he took a seat by his friend. "I'm guessing it's already recorded."

"Touché, but still." He shrugged and pulled a small notebook and pencil out of his sweater—and Sherlock Holmes nearly huffed with impatience. I grinned and folded my arms behind my head. "Well, let me start by telling you how I found out.

"I was twenty at the time. A friend of mine was getting ready to have a rummage sa—never mind that, it's not important." Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Really, Sherlock, it's not. Anyway, I was helping my friend dig through her attic—it was this big, beautiful, pre-Civil War house… ohhh, I just adored it. And her attic was just absolutely overflowing with all kinds of antiques and things all the way back from colonial times. She said before we started that anything I found that I liked, I could put into a big box and she'd sell it to me for fifty dollars—she was moving west and she just wanted to get rid of stuff."

I smiled like the cat who swallowed the canary. "Lucky for me that she was a really sweet friend and didn't care for detective stories… 'cause I found a Christmas 1887 print of A Study in Scarlet."

John's hazel eyes went round. "Good heavens, that would be over a hundred years old!"

I nodded eagerly. "I know, I know! I just… froze, and then, well…" I looked away. "I'll admit it—I screamed. I was so excited, I screamed."

I heard John chuckle. "Somehow, I can imagine that."

I blushed. "Yes, ahem, well, anyway… Most original copies of Study are worth a few million dollars now—" John gasped and paled; Sherlock sucked in his breath sharply—"but, umm, this one was probably worth even more. You see, Doctor, it was signed John Watson, M.D."

John's gaze went distant as he obviously tried to recall such an autograph. "I think… yes, I did once sign an original '87 Beeton's Christmas Annual. It was a young American woman who came to Holmes in '95 with a small case—do you remember that, Holmes?"

"Yes, indeed, it was a very trifling problem," Sherlock said languidly. "She needn't have seen me about it—I had it cleared up in five minutes."

I laughed. "I've had cases like that. They pay for speed, I guess."

"And we are paid for wasting five minutes of our lives."

I rolled my eyes. "A capital crime, to be sure," I muttered loud enough for them to hear.

John bit back an amused grin. "At any rate, the girl was a fan of my writings, and she asked me to autograph her copy. How could I refuse her? That must be the very same copy you have, Kathleen… oh, I should dearly like to see it!"

I grinned. "It's in the den in a plastic bag to prevent damage—all those originals are nearly a hundred fifty now, you know."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows briefly in a "good Lord" expression; John whistled softly. "Incredible," he breathed.

Sherlock looked me in the eye. "So finding that signature caused you to believe that we could have been real, after all."

I nodded. "Right. Fortunately, not long afterwards, I was hired by a government agent in London for a case with Scotland Yard, and, of course, I accepted in a heartbeat. At that point in time, I hadn't even ever been out of the US before, so I definitely jumped at the chance to see London. Once the case was wrapped up, I went to my employer and, well, discussed my finding with him. He was extremely intelligent and well-connected, and I knew that if anyone could help me, it would be he. Instead of answering me directly, though, he took me out to this vault where important old documents are preserved. By this time, I was practically dying of suspense, but then he carefully laid out these old papers on the table…"

I was sure my expression was one of enrapture. Sherlock's own face was pensive, and John's quietly understanding. "Our case files," he murmured. "You saw our case files."

I nodded slowly. "Mark even let me handle them—with gloves on, of course. 'The Bruce-Partington Plans,' 'The Devil's Foot,' 'The Illustrious Client,' 'The Three Garridebs'… those were the ones I got to see. Ohhh, I was just in heaven." John chuckled, and I grinned. "It was fantastic. So after that, Mark—the man who hired me—sat me down and explained the thing to me. The reason he knows is that he's a direct descendant of one of your clients from way back—Mrs. Helen Armitage."

"Miss Stoner!" Watson breathed.

"That's the one. Mark Armitage is her great-great-grandson. 'The Speckled Band,' I think, tends to be one of your more popular adventures, and it was no less popular among the Armitage family. Helen related the story to her son, who passed it down to his, and the story passed down to Mark. When Mark entered governmental service, he did some digging of his own, and turned up some interesting facts."

Sherlock was leaning back in his seat, his fingers steepled and his eyes closed—the same way he would listen to the facts of a case. I smiled fleetingly at that and continued, my tone now more serious. "Late April 1904 editions of several London newspapers carried the story of the disappearance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. The last anyone had seen of Mr. Holmes was by Harold Stackhurst at 4 p.m. on Friday the 15th. The last anyone had seen of Dr. Watson was at 6 p.m. of that same day when he got off the train in the Sussex Downs."

"So that's why you think this is permanent," John interjected solemnly.

I shook my head. "Not really, but that's a lot more than I want to get into right now. It does lend more credence to the idea, though. Anyway, the police eventually gave it up as a lost cause—some people even believed it to be another disappearing stunt like Reichenbach. The Strand eventually pressed Sir Arthur—Doyle—for more Sherlock Holmes stories, and Sir Arthur asked Mycroft for permission. Mycroft granted it and let Sir Arthur have access to the case files. Mycroft took possession of all your things, both of you, and had them stored away in case you ever returned. Mark even saw the stuff once, said it was like stepping back in time. Mycroft allowed Sir Arthur to claim credit for writing the stories, and the two of them worked out this elaborate cover-up story in which the two of you became fictional."

John's expression was incredulous—Sherlock's darkened. "I have a supposition as to why."

I raised my eyebrows. "Congrats—that's more than Mark or I have ever been able to do. We're still absolutely clueless."

"Mm," was his only reply.

I cast a quizzical glance at John, who shook his head fractionally—apparently, that was all I was going to get for now. I shrugged and spread my hands. "Well, so… that's the story. It's possible, though, that becoming fictional has made you even more famous than if the world knew you were real. The Sherlock Holmes stories are timeless classics. Schools and homeschool programs use short stories like 'The Speckled Band,' 'The Norwood Builder,' and 'The Redheaded League' in their literature curriculums. For decades, people have written their own stories about you and published them. Fan speculation has long since been a scholarship in its own right, with people working to ferret out more obscure details, like Dorothy Sayers reasoning that the university Sherlock attended was Cambridge."

I caught a brief twitch of Sherlock's lips and counted it a score for Dorothy Sayers. Cambridge, it was, then.

"And I have become the 'most portrayed movie character,' I believe," he added. "Eighty actors in over 220 films."

John whistled. "By Jove!"

I nodded again. "William Gillette, Basil Rathbone, Ronald Howard, Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee, Christopher Plummer, Frank Langella, Charlton Heston, Robert Downey, Jr., Vasily Livanov, Benedict Cumberbatch, just to name a few… and of course, the all-time best, Jeremy Brett."

John arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" I smiled secretively and rose from the couch to the DVD shelf, grabbing the Granada series case and handing it to John with a flourish. "Good heavens," he murmured.

"Spitting image, eh?"

"My word, yes! Do you think him faithful?"

I smiled widely. "Nobody could be more faithful than dear Jeremy. I mean, he'd carry around this complete edition of the stories and make notes and point out where the script deviated from Canon… He even got up in arms over the producers' departures from Canon before Granada Television took over the production. And Jeremy was the type of actor that just gave—" At that point, I could have kicked myself. Hard. I could see a shadow over Sherlock's face out of the corner of my eye. But I'd gone this far, and John deserved to know. "Jeremy was the type of actor that just gave his performances his all—I mean, heart and soul. Remind me to show you one of the episodes sometime—getting to know Sherlock now, I really think Jeremy had him nailed."

"Or was it the other way around?" Sherlock muttered morosely.

I sighed, really wanting to kick myself now. "I heard that one coming."

"I'm sure."

Frowning, John looked back and forth between us. "What are you talking about?"

"He died, Watson," Sherlock said flatly, rising to his feet. "He died soon after quitting the role, and he was already deteriorating well before the series ended." He stalked out of the room, and John and I watched him go.

"Kathleen?"

I closed my eyes. "It's a long story."

"It's not nine yet—we've plenty of time."

"Okay, okay…" I took a deep breath. "It really started with a rheumatic fever Jeremy had as a boy…"

(Watson)

Tuesday morning, driving lessons began. Holmes flatly refused to learn, and Kathleen wisely decided not to press the matter, whispering to me later that maybe I could convince him someday. I told her that I should try if ever I had a good chance, and she appeared satisfied with that.

So at a quarter to ten, I found myself behind the wheel. Needless to say, cars these days were much more complicated than their prototypes.

In merely backing up, I managed to knock over a trash bin, thankfully empty. I also jolted myself and Kathleen rather mercilessly as I learned to brake. Nevertheless, after practicing all morning, I had a good idea of what I was doing.

Holmes, meantime, spent the morning talking shop with Jeremy, who, as it turned out, took a keen interest in chemistry. While I was learning to handle the clutch properly, Holmes was in the basement, aiding Jeremy's chemical pursuits (the boy having somehow finished his school lesson by half-past nine). I was delighted that my friend had someone to keep him occupied, especially in his old hobby.

Following luncheon, Kathleen had something of a dilemma on her hands. She had scheduled out our lessons for the week and had scheduled nothing but driving lessons for Tuesday. She finally declared a break of an hour or so while she worked out what to teach us next. Holmes bowed deferentially and betook himself out to the porch to have a smoke.

I, on the other hand, soon found my attention arrested by the youngest member of the family. "Doctor," said Aubrey, "do you wanna play Legos with me?"

"Legos?" I echoed, studying the pert little thing. She had her father's blue eyes and sandy brown hair, but the face was undoubtedly her mother's.

Aubrey nodded sharply. "Uh-huh." I noticed Christy watching us, and I gave her a reassuring look. "C'mon, I'll show you." She took my hand and led me to the room I had already deduced to be a playroom. She pried the lid off a large plastic crate and pushed it over, spilling its colourful contents onto the floor.

I bent down and picked up one of the brick-like objects, examining it. "What heaven's name…"

"That's a Duplo brick," she informed me with the air of an expert. "Duplos are big Legos. You put them together to build stuff." She held up a large red heart made of the things, apparently interlocking celluloid bricks

"I see."

"Can you help me build a really big castle? Every time Mama and I try, we get int-er-upted."

I started. My little companion was gazing up at me with a hopeful expression. I most definitely did not want to take the place of the child's mother in her architectural endeavours—no doubt Kathleen gave it her best every chance she got to be with her youngest—but how could I disappoint Aubrey?

I settled onto the floor, careful of my bad leg. "If you'll show me what to do."

The wide smile she gave me was worth it.

(Kathleen)

After a few minutes of playing around with my carefully-constructed lesson schedule (thank you so much, Mr. Holmes), I gave up and headed for the front door. Sherlock was there on the porch, leaning against the railing and contentedly smoking his pipe. Smiling slightly, I quietly shut the door behind me. "Mind if I intrude on your solitude?" I said softly.

"I suppose, if you don't mind the tobacco," he replied, his pipe still clenched between his teeth.

I grinned. "I don't." I ambled over to the railing and leaned against it as well, at a respectful distance from the former detective. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply and slowly let the breath out.

We stood like that for some time in silence, Sherlock still puffing at his pipe and I letting my mind wander. It returned firmly to earth, though, when he broke the silence by saying, "I am sorry to have upset your plans so."

I sighed and shrugged. "You're not a car person—some people are like that. It's okay, no big deal."

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "You're a very forgiving woman."

I laughed slightly. "I'm a mother and a teacher—I kind of have to be."

He gave me a sardonic little half-smile. "Indeed."

Amused, I shook my head, and the pasture fence out of the corner of my eye abruptly gave me an idea. "Do you ride?"

"Yes." I could feel his grey eyes follow my line of vision.

"Well?"

He set down his pipe. "I should like nothing better," he said candidly.

I grinned again, hissing "yes!" excitedly like a teenager before springing down from the porch and sprinting for the pasture. Behind me, I heard Sherlock's brand-new mocs pound the ground as his longer legs gained on me.

All three Arabians were out on the other side of the pasture. There was David's chestnut gelding Hidalgo, named after the famous racehorse; my own dapple grey mare Silver Blaze, shamelessly named after another racehorse of literary fame; and the young dark bay stallion Thunderhead. Thunderhead was only five years old and actually Christy and Jeremy's steed, but so spirited that I wouldn't allow them to ride him. I rode Thunderhead myself and had tried several times to break him in adequately, but each attempt took so long that I was invariably called away on a case before I could complete the task.

And that gave me an idea.

"Sherlock," I said as I climbed over the fence, "how good a rider are you?"

He followed suit. "Quite good—I was very small when I learned."

I nodded, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. "Ever broken in a horse before?"

He came to stand beside me, his keen eyes observing the horses. "The dark bay."

"Five years old, stallion," I told him, my voice falling into its professional patterns. "Thunderhead. I've tried to do it myself, but I keep getting called away on cases."

"Quite so." He squinted at the stallion as Thunderhead parted company with the older horses and took off along the fence. I read appreciation in his aquiline features, and smiled. "Thunderhead," he murmured.

"Think you can break him in?"

His squinting eyes narrowed further in consideration. "Perhaps. I have broken a horse in once before."

I started forward once more with long, even strides. "You can have a go at any rate."

He matched my stride easily. "Indeed."

"The dapple grey is my mare, Silver Blaze." I flashed a somewhat sheepish smile at him, and he shook his head. "The chestnut was David's gelding, Hidalgo."

"And the stallion is Jeremy's?"

"Jeremy and Christy's, yes. But even though they're good riders themselves, I don't want to chance it, you know?"

"Perfectly understandable."

Hidalgo noticed us and ambled over. I grinned and wrapped an arm around his strong neck. "Hidalgo, this is Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, Hidalgo." The gelding nuzzled me, and I laughed. "And he's just a big ole softie."

Sherlock smiled. "The horse, I take it?"

"No, I meant you," I grinned, with such a jesting tone that there was no doubt I was teasing.

A split-second chuckle escaped him before he shot me an obligatory scowl, at which I snickered. He slowly extended his hand, palm up, to Hidalgo, who turned his attention from me to the strange new hand. The gelding nickered and smelled the ex-detective's hand, then nickered again in approval. I laughed again. "Looks like you might have a new fan, of the equestrian variety."

"To be sure." Sherlock gently stroked Hidalgo's neck, murmuring reassuringly all the while. I watched with fascination—Sherlock Holmes was actually a horse-person! I felt my face split into an idiotic grin that I hastily dispelled when Sherlock glanced at me. I cleared my throat and called for my mare.

Blaze trotted over, giving me a playful but hard shove in the back. Once I regained my balance, I rounded on her with a scowl, planting my fists on my hips. "Silver Blaze, you idiot! What're you trying to do, assassinate me?"

"Following in her namesake's hoof prints, I see," came an amused voice from behind me.

"Drop dead," I snapped, and had the feeling he was grinning at my back. I whirled around, and his expression flashed for a split-second before resuming its usual deadpan look. "Meet my idiot mare," I ground out, exasperated.

"How do you do, Silver Blaze?" Sherlock nodded courteously, flashing a quick grin at me before holding out his hand for the mare to inspect. Evidently, he met her approval as he had Hidalgo's.

I turned away to watch Thunderhead gallop along the fencing. A beautiful sight, a spirited horse in full gallop. But as a practical matter, Thunderhead could not remain untamed—he had to be worth his keep. Sherlock came to stand beside me, and we watched the stallion for some time in silence, my companion no doubt planning how to break the horse in.

"When shall I start?" he said finally.

"Next week?" I turned to him with a slight smile. "Break him in, and we'll consider your clothes paid for."

"And Watson?"

"I'm sure we'll work out something."

Sherlock lifted his head a bit. "Thank you," he said quietly.

I cocked my head. "For what?"

"For taking us in." He turned his frank, grey gaze on me. "For sacrificing your time and privacy to help us. I realize that this whole affair is a grave undertaking."

My smile grew marginally. "You're welcome, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It's my pleasure."

Author's Note:

The Narnia scene was one of my favorites. I seriously doubt that even Sherlock Holmes could fail to be touched by the film, and I loved writing the way it was affecting Watson.

The brief Watson/Aubrey scene was one of those fluffy moments I've been dying to have the chance to do. Expect much more fluff along that vein in the future, featuring both Watson and Holmes!

It was also great finally explaining how Kathleen knew the duo was real. Man, can you imagine finding an original copy of STUD? (Not to mention, buying it for less than a million!) I'd die of joy! And can you imagine actually holding their original case files? Ohhh!

The last scene was one of the scenes that needed reworking, but the end result was worth it. My beta and I are in agreement about the attraction of Sherlock Holmes taming a stallion. Quite a lovely idea if I may say so myself… I have to admit, though, that Kathleen and I feel like we're walking on eggshells every time she's talking one-on-one with Sherlock, just 'cause of his notorious aversion to female society. She loves being able to talk with him, but at the same time, I think she's a little nervous that she'll say the wrong thing and turn him off. I'd sure be!

Please review!