Chapter Ten

For the next three days, every time they left, or returned to Baker Street, Holmes and Watson could not fail to spot Cassia Ingram. She had taken up a permanent position on the other side of the street, in clear sight so it was impossible to miss her.

"They'll be billing her for back poll tax," Watson had quipped the second time he spotted her, but Holmes had remained silent on the matter.

Every time he saw her, John Watson could not fail to notice how haggard and haunted the poor woman looked, and could not understand how Sherlock found it so easy to simply ignore her and go about his business.

If he had decided to give her a chance to explain, why didn't he give her some sign that he was prepared to see her?

Why keep her dangling?

Why didn't she take things into her own hands and just march up to him and slap him around the chops and demand that he listen to her?

John Watson would part with money to see that.

However, after the third morning, when Cassia Ingram had walked away when she realized that once again her luck was out, it suddenly occurred to Watson that perhaps he was the reason she had never tried to make an approach.

Perhaps she thought that she might have more success if she spoke to Holmes alone.

"When are you going to put the poor woman out of her misery?" he had asked Sherlock when they had gone out, their destination, Bart's Hospital and an ongoing set of experiment Holmes was conducting, with the help of Molly Hooper.

"It's not up to me, Watson. You've seen her there, she's had ample opportunity to approach me and ask for another chance to explain, but still she resists."

"Perhaps she hasn't worked up enough nerve to face another onslaught," Watson had muttered darkly as the pair had climbed into the back of a black London cab.

When they returned to Baker Street late that afternoon, Holmes looking rather washed out and tired, even the extreme summer heat beginning to erode his usual cool and composure, Watson spotted Cassia Ingram on the other side of the street, further up than her usual observation post, and tried his best to distract Holmes as they alighted from the cab.

Once upstairs he made some flimsy excuse that he had forgotten that he had made arrangements to meet Mary, and hastily took his leave, although as he departed, he could not help wondering if Holmes was really coming down with something, or if it was a case that he was simply overcome by the heat and humidity.

Holmes had been nauseous most of the day, and distracted but had passed it off as a sick headache and had given both Watson and Molly a look that brooked no further questions on the matter.

It was true that most people were suffering with the extended heat wave.

No-one was immune.

They'd heard the same repetitive complaints all day.

It's too damned hot. It's not healthy.

I've lost my appetite and all I want to do is drink.

We need a good thunder storm to clear the air.

How are you supposed to sleep?

No wonder the world thought the British were obsessed with the weather.

It was all they could seem to find to talk about.

Either it was too hot, or too cold, too wet, or too dry, two different seasons in the course of one day at times, from one extreme to the other and whatever the weather was doing, it never seemed to suit anyone.

Watson emerged from 221B and scanned Baker Street, but there was no sign of Cassia Ingram.

Damn.

He had obviously missed her.

He was just about to move to the curb to hail a cab when she suddenly emerged from the cafe beneath Holmes' digs, with a bottle of water in one hand and a Mars bar in the other.

Watson decided that it was high time that he took matters into his own hands.

She might be blessed with the patience of a saint, but he was not, and he was eager to see if he could learn anything to pass on to Holmes that might make his friend more accommodating and receptive to what she had to say.

"Miss Ingram," he greeted her cordially.

"Dr Watson,"

"Would you have a moment, Miss Ingram?"

"Cass. Yes, certainly," she acquiesced, perhaps realizing that here was an opportunity to appeal to an ally, someone who might interceded on her behalf.

If Holmes wouldn't see her, perhaps she could confide in Dr Watson, and he might be able to persuade Holmes to at least give her a fair hearing.

Watson walked to the cafe and held the door open for her, and then he selected a quiet table in the back and ordered Coke with ice and lemon.

"How is Mr Holmes?" Cassia Ingram asked, unscrewing the cap on her water bottle and taking a long swig, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

"Why do you ask?" Watson found himself frowning at her. It was the last thing he had expected.

"It's the done thing, isn't it? Polite enquiries as to people's health? That's how we British normally start a conversation," Cassia Ingram smiled gently. "Hello. How are you? My next question would have been, how are you, Dr Watson?"

"I'm well, thank you. You, on the other hand, I deduce, are not."

"Troubled sleep, Dr Watson, but you know that already."

Holmes had been right.

She didn't look as if she had had a minute's restful sleep since he had last laid eyes on her.

"Would it help if you told me what is troubling you?" Watson enquired gently, after the waitress placed his drink on the table before him and departed.

"You are very kind, Dr Watson, and I appreciate the gesture, but you are not the one that I need to convince."

"So why haven't you made more noise, pounded the door down until he lets you in?"

"Do you really think that would work? Seems to me he would delight in my embarrassing myself on the street, making a spectacle, and, probably revel in calling the police and watch them cart me away, and I would still be no nearer my goal."

"Don't give up so easily."

"I'm not giving up. In fact, I was going to wait a while longer, see if you left early, and then I was going to beat the door down with my fist," she grinned now.

So, Watson had been right.

She wanted to see Holmes when he was alone.

Perhaps she preferred to have another confrontation with Holmes without witnesses.

"He's free now. No need to break the door down. I've got a key," Watson grinned conspiratorially at her. "And don't take any of his bull."

"Oh, don't worry, he won't run me out of his flat again, doctor. This time he will have to bodily throw me out. I have to find a way to get his attention. Believe me, it even crossed my mind to try to get him into court on a trumped up paternity suit, but it would take too damn long and no-one would believe he was capable of either passion or lust."

Touché.

"You play dirty, Miss Ingram." Watson grinned.

"Cass."

"John."

"Not really. I'm usually pretty straight with people. I tried being polite and playing by the rules, John. You saw what happened. I've never seen anyone quite so gleeful and pleased with himself."

"Yes, he was an absolute rotter."

"Don't spare my blushes, John. He was a dickhead, but most people are when confronted with something they don't understand. They tend to shoot first and ask questions later. It's easier to poke fun than to try to accept that there might be something in it. I'm used to outrage and distrust and downright spite. I didn't think that he would be any different in that respect. However, I did think the case might mean something to him," she sighed wearily.

"You can lead the horse to water, but you can't make it drink. I've dealt with people like him all my life, John. What I do is not an exact science and I can be wrong, because I am human, and my interpretation of what I see can be off. I've never claimed to be perfect. I'm an interpreter of sorts, and sometimes I get the translation wrong."

Her explanation sounded plausible.

"And that's when I get into trouble, and people start to doubt. They think I'm a fraud, a con artist. The devil's spawn!" she laughed, but it was a bitter little laugh.

"In my experience, there are three types of people, John. It's a bit like believing in a higher authority, a God or whatever you want to call it. You're either devout, believe unconditionally and do not need proof, or, you're not sure but you don't want to take the chance that there could be a God and a heaven and if you don't believe, just a little, you might end up in the other place, roasting throughout eternity, so you keep a foot in both camps, and then there is the complete atheist, wouldn't believe if the Almighty showed up at their front door or they woke up the find the Rapture going on around them."

Watson recalled that Holmes had said pretty much the same thing. His analogy had involved two sides of the same coin, but it boiled down to the same thing.

"It's the same for me. I find that there are those who want to believe, who are desperate to believe that this not all there is, and that those whom they love who have gone on ahead are still watching over them and that they are happy and waiting for them."

"There are those who want to believe but just can't seem to make up their mind because they might look ridiculous if it turns out there is nothing too it after all, and then there are people like Mr Holmes. Totally closed to any possibility because there is no tangible proof, and of course, there is grist to his mill because there have been those who claim to be genuine who have been caught out too many times."

Watson silently admitted that what she said made a lot of sense.

He hadn't really thought about it like that before.

So where was he in all that?

Somewhere in the middle, he supposed, but he'd never really had cause to think much about it.

"But, there's the rub, John. I simply have to succeed in convincing Mr Holmes. I've been biding my time, picking my moment, but I realize that there will never be a right time. So how does one go about melting the glacier, doctor?"

"I'm not sure you can. He's been keeping an eye on the papers and the web, we both have, but the trouble is, Cass, there is still no report of a missing, or dead child anywhere."

"Don't you think I know that, John?" she sighed heavily. "If there were, you wouldn't need me, and my nightmares wouldn't be driving me round the ruddy bend!"

There was a tremor in her voice now, and Watson realized that her hand was shaking again.

"I'm sorry," she lowered her eyes to the table top briefly, drew in a long, ragged breath, expelled it slowly, and then looked back up at him, her green eyes luminous and too big in her pale face. "I can't take much more of this."

Watson believed her.

It was taking an obvious physical and emotional toll on her.

She definitely wasn't faking it.

"Are you game? Will you take me up on my offer to let you in with my key?"

"I don't want to cause any trouble between you."

"We're big boys, Cass; we can take care of ourselves. I know how to handle him. Besides, he prefers nouns and adjectives and verbs to fists and knees and elbows. We throw our toys around for a while but we stop short of breaking things over each other's heads."

"He's not going to simply invite me in for tea, is he?" Watson shook his head gently. "Then I really don't see that I have any other choice. Thank you."

"I won't come in with you, I've got plans ..."

"Thank you, it's probably for the best. It's not that I don't want, or need you there, John, I've nothing against you, but, this is between me and him. He's the one I need to convince. He is the one who needs to hear what I have to say, and he will probably be less inclined to admit that he might be wrong if he has an audience."

Watson silently conceded that that much was true.

Holmes didn't like having to back down at all, he could be a real child about it, and it was much worse if he was in the company of people that he knew and respected.

He hated losing face.

"Don't take any nonsense, but bear in mind; he's feeling the effects of the heat too. His health and temper are suffering from it as much as the rest of us."

"He's human after all. I bet that doesn't sit well."

"No," Watson chuckled.

"Then I promise that I will try to be gentle with him, which, I dare say is more than he will be with me."

As it turned out, John Watson did not need to resort to deceit, for as he and Cassia Ingram walked up to the door of 221B, Mrs Hudson was just appearing at the door.

"Oh hello, dearie," she greeted Watson a little breathlessly, looking somewhat flustered. "Don't mind me. I'm just off out to get the evening newspaper for his Lordship up there," she rolled her eyes heavenward in exasperation.

"Barked out the order to go and get his paper, and couldn't resist giving me a mouthful about scratch cards. I mean, it's my only vice, and it's only a few pounds now and again," she grumbled. "I don't know what's wrong with him just lately, he's such a cross patch. Tetchy, all the time. Everything I say, everything I do these days seems to get on his nerves."

Mrs Hudson leaned toward Watson and lowered her voice.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say it was his time of the month!"

Watson had to force himself to bite back a snort of laughter.

"Don't upset yourself, Mrs Hudson. He's been like that with everyone. It's probably the weather," he reassured.

"Oh yes, isn't it awful, dear. The heat!" she declared, her right hand automatically rising to mop her brow, but then her expression changed, and Watson knew that she was thinking about her errant tenant again.

"He's never been the easiest, but just lately, I don't know. He changes his mood like the bloody weather, well, you know what I mean."

Cassia Ingram silently watched the conversation with interest.

It wasn't so much what the older woman was saying, but her tone and her body language, and the obvious concern and affection that she had for Sherlock Holmes.

It seemed her first impression about him had been right. That no matter how obnoxious he could be, he inspired a great deal of affection from those who cared about him.

"Look, I don't want to hold you up, Mrs H, I know what he's like if he's kept waiting for his paper," Watson interjected, knowing from experience that now that she was on to her favourite subject, the old woman would just keep waffling on. "But I was actually on my way home when I bumped into this young lady," he indicated to Cassia Ingram who was standing beside him, silent and observant.

"Here to see him?" Mrs Hudson again raised her eyes heavenward.

"Yes."

"A client I suppose."

"Yes, look, would it be an inconvenience for you to show her up, only I really do have to go. Meeting the wife," Watson gave her a cheeky wink.

"Oh well, yes, you'd better get off then, mustn't keep the new bride waiting," she smiled warmly at him. "You leave the young lady with me."

"Thanks Mrs H," Watson bent his head and planted a soft kiss to her cheek. "There's no need to tell Holmes that you saw me. Just say you opened the door and found the young lady on the doorstep."

"Oh," she seemed a little confused, but then gave a resigned shrug. "Ok, dear. Mum's the word."