Note: I am really delighted with the stats for this story. It is so encouraging to see that people from all over the world have found this story and are keeping up with it. It is my first attempt at a Sherlock fanfic and I am still unsure if I have the characters right and the canons of the show, so, if you are reading this I would appreciate some feedback, if you can find the time. If you like it, tell me, but if you don't, tell me what I am doing wrong and I will try to do better. Thanks to those who are following and have reviewed, it is much appreciated.
Chapter Eleven.
"Sherlock! You've got a visitor!" Mrs Hudson bawled up the stairs as Cassia Ingram followed her into the narrow hallway of 221B Baker Street.
"Did you hear me, Sherlock? Young lady to see you!" she yelled as she breathlessly laboured to climb the stairs. "Found her on the doorstep just now," she concluded as she walked into Holmes' living room only to find the young man nowhere in evidence.
"Oh, well he can't be far. Sit yourself down, dear, and I'll go and have a word."
Mrs Hudson disappeared through the door only to make a loud, shocked exclamation a few seconds later.
"Sherlock!"
Cassia Ingram quickly went to see what was wrong and found the elderly woman fussing over Sherlock Holmes, who was lying face down in the doorway of what was obviously the bathroom, his head poking out on to the narrow landing.
"Don't fuss so, Mrs Hudson. I'm alright," Holmes was trying to fend off her fussing hands.
"You stupid boy! You're lying on the bloody floor, looking like death warmed over; you're obviously not bloody alright at all!"
Mrs Hudson was sounding more and more panicked with every word, her voice rising hysterically.
"I'll go and see if I can catch Dr Watson."
"No you will not!" Holmes roared, stopping her in her tracks. "I slipped. Alright? It's as simple as that. I threw some water on my face and obviously got some of it on the floor. I didn't see it and I slipped."
He paused to take a breath.
"Why the hell am I explaining myself to you?" Holmes sounded disgruntled now, obviously embarrassed by the situation he found himself in, especially when he glanced over Mrs Hudson's bowed head as she returned her attention to clawing at his arm in an effort to try to help him up, and found Cassia Ingram standing on the landing watching proceedings with concern etched into her pale face.
"Will you get out of the way, Mrs Hudson! I can't get up with you clogging up the doorway like that."
However, the look that crossed his face, fleetingly, told Cassia Ingram that he had serious doubts that his legs would take his weight at all.
"Will you leave me alone!" He roared again, obviously ill at ease at finding himself in such a position and not having any control over the situation.
"Shut up! Shut up, Sherlock! You ungrateful little sod!" Mrs Hudson snapped back at him, obviously very distressed to find her tenant in such a predicament.
"Mrs Hudson!"
"Might I make a suggestion, Mr Holmes?" Cassia Ingram came marching toward the bathroom now, a determined set to her shoulders.
"Why don't you do as Mrs Hudson says and shut up. You can rant as much as you like, but you're not going anywhere under your own steam right now. Why don't you admit defeat, graciously, and allow us to help you up? You might win the battle, but you won't win the war, so why waste any more precious energy?"
"Thank you, dear." Mrs Hudson threw her an appreciative look, grateful for her intervention and support and for stopping Holmes' tirade.
"Oh, very well," Holmes acquiesced, somewhat grudgingly. His ego might be dented, but he was still intelligent enough to know when he was bested.
She was right.
He wasn't going to be able to get to his feet alone.
All the energy had simply drained out of him, and his legs had refused to obey his commands.
He had been feeling nauseous all day, queasy and light headed, and had eaten little as a result, the heat had been oppressive and draining, and by the time he had reached Baker Street and his flat, his head had been hurting so badly he felt like banging it against a wall, the pressure inside so intense he thought it might explode, and all he had wanted to do was splash cold water on his face, down a fist full of pills and then lie down in a darkened room for a while.
He had accomplished the first task, but not before he had hung over the toilet commode, heaving and retching dryly for several long, agonizing minutes, but, as he had turned to exit the bathroom, he'd suddenly grown extremely dizzy and before he knew it was getting an up close and personal view of the bathroom linoleum flooring and landing carpet.
Grudgingly, Sherlock Holmes allowed the two women to assist him to his feet, and support him between them as they made their way slowly to the living room.
He flopped down into his chair, relieved to have made it to his destination without further mishap and wearily ran his fingers through his mop of hair.
Oh Lord, what was happening to him?
This could not be good.
"I'll make you a cup of tea, and then I'll ring John ..." Mrs Hudson declared, heading for the kitchen, trying to hide the fact that she was close to tears.
"That won't be necessary," Holmes called after her, but he suspected that he was wasting his breath again.
He knew that the old dear cared about him.
It was endearing, sometimes, but there were other times when he could cheerfully strangle her.
He was not in the mood for her mother hen act right now, his main priority, to get rid of Cassia Ingram and then go and lie down as he had originally planned, hoping that if he slept, he would feel better when he awoke.
"I don't need you to bother John. I'm fine. I told you, it was just a silly accident. Besides, I thought you were going for the newspaper, Mrs Hudson," he reminded her impatiently.
"You and your ruddy paper," she cussed as she appeared in the kitchen doorway. "And what about your tea?"
"I don't want tea. A glass of water will suffice."
"I'll see to it, Mrs Hudson." Cassia Ingram offered, realizing that Holmes was about to lose it big time with the old woman's incessant fussing.
"Oh."
"Go, Mrs Hudson. If I am not mistaken, this is a prospective client," he gave the old woman a pointed look. "What kind of impression do you think we are making?"
"Oh, yes, well ..."
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Take your time. It's far too hot for you to be rushing about, remember your hip ..." Holmes called after the elderly woman as she grudgingly left the living room and made her way slowly and painfully down the stairs, muttering darkly and loudly about what an infuriating and ungrateful man he was as she went.
Cassia Ingram took the opportunity to go to the kitchen where she ran the cold tap for a few minutes before filling a glass, and then she returned to the living room and handed the glass to Holmes, who took it carefully from her, took a few short sips, then reached up to place the glass on the mantle beside him.
"So, you finally plucked up the courage to beard the lion in his den," Holmes drawled sarcastically. "Something Watson said," he elaborated when she frowned at him.
"May I sit?"
"Oh please do, make yourself at home. I'm at something of a disadvantage at the moment, Miss Ingram, a captive audience if you will, so why don't you fire away. I assure you, you won't get a better opportunity."
"Do you always have to be such a smart alec?"
"Get to the point, and then get out."
"That poor lady is beside herself with worry about you, Mr Holmes, and all you can do is act like an ingrate. You really have no idea how to be gracious and accept genuine affection, do you?"
"I won't say it again, Miss Ingram, get to the point."
"Drink your water and get your breath back. I wouldn't want to be accused of taking advantage of you in a moment of weakness."
"It's hardly that," Holmes scoffed, but reached for the glass never the less.
Cassia Ingram sat in the chair opposite him, easing herself back into the upholstery and made herself comfortable.
She was in no hurry.
It was now or never and she was going to have to tread very carefully.
He wasn't going to make it easy for her, but, she was prepared to wait him out.
As he had said, she would never get a better opportunity.
She fixed her eyes on Holmes and remained silent, content to just sit and watch him, watching her.
He looked a little better now, more colour in his cheeks and the stunned mullet expression had gone from his eyes.
He took the occasional sip from the glass of water, and she could not help noticing that there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he held the glass.
For his part, Holmes was grateful for the opportunity to get his equilibrium back and get his thoughts in order, and the only way he knew to do that was to observe Cassia Ingram and see if he could glean anything new about her.
Again, she was nicely dressed, to suit the weather, a pretty floral patterned pink summer dress, the kind with the long, layered skirt that almost fell to the ground, and a matching pale coral coloured shrug thingy to cover her arms and shoulders.
A tiny wallet on a thin leather strap was draped across her upper body.
She had money on her this time, so she had undoubtedly travelled here alone today. Probably every other day she had stationed herself across the road, too.
She had come prepared to stay as long as it took.
Still tenacious Miss Ingram.
For today's footwear she had selected a pair of low heeled pink sandals and wore no stockings or tights.
She still hadn't put on any make up, but this time, she had chosen a simple silver necklace, a fine box chain with no pendent, to adorn her throat, and a pair of silver ball stud earrings glistened in her delicate earlobes.
Today, her hair was neater, artistically coiled in a chignon in the nape of her neck, and there was no hint of toothpaste on her chin.
She looked cool, calm and casual, but Holmes knew that she was anything but.
Actually, now that he looked closer, he realized that she looked wretched, her beautiful green eyes red rimmed and tired, with dark bluish purple smudges beneath the lower lids, a clear indication that she had not slept for several nights, her complexion pale.
There was also certain guardedness in her manner and in her eyes, almost as if she was deliberately measuring what she said to him so as not to rile him.
Was she scared of him?
The thought surprised Holmes.
So did his reaction.
He didn't much like the idea that he frightened her.
That had not been his intent.
Then he quickly quashed the idea, telling himself that if she was scared of him, it was probably because she knew what he was capable of doing to her reputation.
A subtle change in Holmes expression suddenly alerted Cassia Ingram that he was starting to recover his wits.
He was still a little shocked by what had happened to him, but he was slowly putting it behind him.
He was a proud man and he disliked being seen as less than in control of everything in his life.
Slipped eh?
Accident my big toe!
Still, if that was what he preferred Mrs Hudson and his friends to believe, who was she to contradict him?
He was also beginning to exhibit small signs of impatience.
"Well?"
"Oh, please, Mr Holmes, can't we just sit here, quietly for a few minutes? Enjoying a little peace and quiet at the end of the day."
"Mrs Hudson will be back shortly," he reminded her coolly.
"I don't think so," Cassia Ingram gave him a conspiratorial smile. "She's just won £150.00 on a scratch card and is right now going round to her friend around the corner to tell her about her windfall, and what an ungrateful rat bag she has for a tenant," she confided. "Tea and cake all round. She won't be back for at least another hour."
"Really," Holmes sounded disinterested and tried to smother a yawn, as though he had expected this kind of ploy from her.
The statement could neither be proved nor disproved until Mrs Hudson returned, and Cassia Ingram would be long gone by then, probably with the inpression of his foot tattooed on her posterior.
"I like this room."
"Oh? Really?"
Holmes was surprised.
When it wasn't doing a good impression of a tip, the room was very masculine and functional.
It neither pleased nor displeased him.
It simply was home.
"Yes. There is a lot of positive energy here. Your energy. Your personality."
"Or lack thereof, as some would have you believe," Holmes drawled sarcastically.
"Don't you get tired, Mr Holmes? Tired of the one-up-manship, the snide remarks, the witty repartee? Tired of the doubts, the ridicule, the always having to explain what is blatantly obvious to you but goes over everyone else's head? Don't you just get fed up to the back teeth of having to explain what you do?"
She did not wait for a reply.
"Well, so do I," Cassia sighed heavily.
"Will you please just get to the point, Miss Ingram?"
"Cass, please."
"I don't have time for this nonsense."
"Actually, Sherlock, may I call you, Sherlock?" she enquired politely.
He gave her a non chalont shrug.
"Actually, Sherlock, you have more time than you think."
Holmes inscrutable blue/grey eyes narrowed suspiciously as his heart unexpectedly skipped several beats in his chest.
What did she say?
No, she couldn't know, could she?
No, he was simply reading too much into it.
How could she know?
She could not.
She was guessing.
Ah, Miss Ingram, you are more astute than I gave you credit for.
"If you are to be believed, Miss Ingram, we all have more time than we think. Time here on this plain, and then, on the other side. Do they mark the passage of time over there, Miss Ingram?" he intoned sarcastically.
Fine, have it your way, clever dick.
If you need me to spell it out for you, then so be it.
"Don't you find this facade of cold aloofness tiresome, Sherlock? We both know it is no longer a reflection of your true self. You've always had feelings but you've always been able to quash them, deny them, detach yourself from them, but that is no longer the case. You have discovered that you have friends, people who care, people, who surprisingly find your queer little ways, and you, endearing. They care about you unconditionally, simply because they can."
"And, in the last few months, you've discovered that you care too, and you're not sure how to handle those feelings. It scares you that you feel so strongly, because it reminds you that you are getting a little too close to the that line in the sand, the line that stops you from becoming just like the man who tried to destroy you. It's a very fine line, isn't Sherlock? You may still be on the side of the angels, but it wouldn't take much for you to take that last tiny step."
"And you hate that weakness in yourself, don't you. The realization that under the right circumstances, you could be pushed into becoming the very thing you loathe and fight against."
"You have come to realize that just by associating with you, these people who care can be made to be targets, by those who consider you to be their enemy, their very lives placed in danger because they care about you. I can understand that you don't want that responsibility, Sherlock, but alas, there is nothing that you can do about it. They won't stop caring about you, no matter how hard you try to push them away."
"Caring doesn't make you weak, Sherlock. You don't always have to be so cold and heartless and clinical. You need to learn to accept that you do have feelings. You are not a machine, and no man is an island after all."
"I know from experience that it can be rather hard work trying to care about someone who does not know how to reach out and reciprocate, who cannot let go and show their true feelings, but, like your friends, I don't let it stop me."
Her expression was a little sad now, and then she realized that she really did need to get to the point because that thunderous, outraged expression was beginning to dance in his eyes once more.
"Anyway, you're right, Sherlock. I'm tired of pussy footing around, tippy toeing around waiting for you to come to your senses."
"At last," Holmes sneered. "Now we get to the crux of the matter. Lay your cards on the table, Miss Ingram, after all you're here because you think that you can make a believer out of me," he mocked.
"Oh, I don't think, Sherlock. I know."
She suddenly sounded so confident, so sure of herself, and despite his misgivings, Holmes found himself intrigued.
He had to admit to a certain curiosity as to what her angle would be, and how she could possibly believe that he would actually fall for her tosh.
Would she go into some kind of trance?
Did she really think that he was so gullible?
Please!
However, it appeared that despite her words, Cassia Ingram was going to make him wait, for she was back to reclining comfortably in her seat, staring at him, and Holmes found it most disconcerting.
Was that what it felt like, when he was observing other people?
Like one of his specimens under the microscope?
"Don't you know it's rude to stare," he ground out impatiently at last. "What is it that you find so fascinating anyway?"
"Your aura."
"My what?"
Holmes had been expecting her to say something about his wretched cheek bones, or his eyes.
Certainly not that!
"Your aura," Cassia repeated softly, watching the ebb and flow of colours that surrounded Sherlock Holmes, and the dark reddish brown colour that seemed to be blurring the edges.
"I noticed it the other day. It's beautiful, by the way. Strong, vibrant colours, indicative of your strong personality and opinions, no doubt, but, it's not as stable as it should be. It seems to be fluctuating, fading then getting brighter again."
"My aura," he sighed impatiently, rolling his eyes heavenward in utter exasperation. "If you insist on continuing with this balderdash, I might just have to throw you out of the window."
"Very drool, Sherlock. I know you are more than capable. Usually."
He gave her a withering look but made no response.
"Your aura says a lot about you, Sherlock, but not just about the man you are, it is also an indication of your physical and mental well being, and yours is telling me a great deal."
"Poppycock!"
"Your aura is flawed, Sherlock, and it is getting worse. Not only does it fluctuate, indicating that your energy levels are ebbing and flowing, but there is a darkening around the edges, and that is not a good sign."
"Miss Ingram, I won't ask you again," Holmes was beginning to see red and he was finding it harder and harder to sit there and listen to this twaddle. "Please, just spit it out and then be gone!"
"What?"
"Whatever it is you think that you know that is miraculously going to make me a believer."
"I know your secret."
"Oh, is that all!" Holmes scoffed. "I have many of those. Watson thinks I'm anal because I do not share my private thoughts easily..."
"And of course, he would be right," she countered, and he glowered at her.
"Which one?" Holmes demanded, moving forward to the edge of his seat, a sneer twisting his lips. "Which of my dirty little secrets is it, Miss Ingram? Could it be that despite all outward appearances, I'm not really a man after all, but a woman ..."
"I don't think that's a rolled up sock in your trousers, Sherlock," she countered dryly, without embarrassment, her eyes flicking downward for just a second to where the material of his trousers was bunched up around his crotch, before returning to his face, her gaze steady and unwavering.
"No, then perhaps it's that I'm really a bigamist with three wives scattered around the provinces and six hungry children ..."
He ignored her jibe as he continued in mocking tones, but Cassia Ingram remained unfazed, her eyes never wavering from his face.
"Is that really the best you can do, Sherlock?"
"Give me a minute or two, and I'm sure I'll think of something more scandalous. You did rather drop it on me out of the blue. You, on the other hand, Miss Ingram ..."
"Cass, please, after all, we are going to be seeing an awful lot of each other from now on ..."
"I think not, Miss Ingram. As I was saying, you, on the other hand have had three days to come up with something, so, I say again, spit it out!"
"Very well."
Cassia Ingram inched a little closer to the edge of her seat narrowing the distance between them, and then she was reaching out with her right hand, and Holmes quickly realized that she was going to touch him again.
He remembered his reaction the last time, and did not want a repeat performance.
His body had reacted as though a jolt of electricity had shot through him when she had cradled his head between her hands and leaned in to whisper into his ear.
"May I?"
"No! You certainly may not!"
"Alright, keep your shirt on, Sherlock. I wasn't going to hurt you."
"Miss Ingram, this is becoming more than tiresome. I have given you ample opportunity to say your piece," he made a great show of inching back from her. "Get to the point or get out."
"Very well, Mr Holmes."
What happened to her calling him Sherlock all of a sudden?
He had quite liked the way she said it in that low, contralto voice.
Now where did that come from?
"I know that you have been feeling unwell ..."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
She had the floor now, and she meant to have her say.
"And it has nothing to do with the weather. Indeed, you have been off colour for some time, but you being you, Mr Holmes, bullet proof and unbreakable, you ignored it, passed it off as some passing virus or your body reacting to your forced inactivity. You told yourself it was just some passing general malaise, and then buried yourself in banality, trying to keep yourself busy. But, it didn't get any better, did it, and now you can't ignore it any longer."
Dear God, had she been following him, as well as camping out on the other side of Baker Street?
"I know you couldn't bear it any longer and finally consulted a doctor."
Crickey, she had been stalking him, and he hadn't spotted her.
Holmes didn't know which was more disconcerting, the fact that she had been able to do so without his being aware, or the fact that the very senses he relied on most of all might have failed him.
"Have you been stalking me, Miss Ingram?"
Sherlock wanted to trample her down, tell her that it was ridiculous, that she was just guessing after finding him in a compromising position in the bathroom doorway, but the tone of her voice, her whole demeanour, and especially the softness of her eyes told him that she was not merely guessing.
She absolutely believed in what she was saying, and she felt sorry for him.
"No, Mr Holmes, I just know, that's all. I know it as surely as I know that the sun will rise in the morning," she told him gently. "I know that you are in pain. Here," she raised her right hand to her head.
"I know that you have experienced balance and co-ordination issues, blurred vision, nausea and you're sleep has been disturbed by the pain. The headache is getting worse. You tried pain killers, but the across the counter variety didn't touch it, indeed, you even tried getting drunk to numb the pain, but that didn't work either. It never goes away, does it, Mr Holmes, it's the centre of your universe, a persistent, nagging ache, and sometimes, all you want to do is bang your head against the wall."
"And then you blacked out. Oh, I don't mean just today. It's happened before, hasn't it?"
Homes neither denied nor agreed with her.
He couldn't speak he was momentarily stunned.
"And, I know you're scared."
"Poppycock," the words were out before he realized, but the fight had gone out of his voice.
Was it possible?
Was it really possible?
"Naturally, because you are who you are, you think you know what it is, and you did a bit of snooping on the net, but in the end, you realized that you needed professional help. You're still waiting for results from tests. Don't worry, Mr Holmes it won't be much longer. You'll have a call by the end of the day."
"You think you have a brain tumour, and you are right, Sherlock," she inched forward in her seat again and this time she gently reached out and laid her hand on top of his.
Holmes did not react.
He was still too stunned.
"It's alright, Sherlock," Cassia Ingram reassured softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, but, suddenly regaining his wits, Holmes wasn't having any of it, and quickly snatched his hand out of her grasp now.
"So that's your game! You think you can make me a believer by telling me I'm going to die and will soon see for myself that there is something more than this mortal coil!" Holmes roared. "How low are you prepared to go, Miss Ingram? Get the hell out of my flat!"
"Oh, please, don't be a wally all your life, Sherlock, take a day off," Cassia Ingram sighed deeply in resignation. "You're not going to die, at least not any day soon," she told him softly but there was steel in her voice and absolute conviction in her green eyes.
"You're still on the side of the angels, but you won't be joining them for quite some time. I have it on good authority that you are going to live to a ripe old age. Yes, you have a brain tumour, but it's small, benign and, at the moment, operable," she told him matter of factly. "If you do something about it now, you will have no long lasting impediment to your speech, hearing or cognitive abilities, in short, nitwit, you'll be exactly the same man you are now, only perhaps a little more humbled and appreciative of the time you've been given. But if you bury your head in the sand and ignore sound advice ..."
Her voice trailed away as she recognized the pure, unadulterated hatred for her burning in his eyes now.
I'm sorry.
I tried ...
I really tried ...
You need to give me something. Now!
"I told you, you have more time than you think. This too shall pass, Cherie ..."
"What did you say?" Holmes demanded cutting her off.
"This too shall pass."
"Why? Why do you say that?"
"You know why."
He gave her another pointed look, demanding an explanation from her.
"I don't know, Sherlock. Honestly. I just pass the message on, but I do know that it has to be something specific to you, a message that you will understand, because she keeps saying it, over and over."
"She?"
"Yes, someone who loved you very much, Sherlock, someone who understood you better than anyone, and someone who still watches over you. She doesn't always approve of the things you do, and the way you treat people, but she still loves you, and she says to tell you she had a really good laugh, 'cherchez le chien' indeed! You're still fluent, but your accent hasn't improved any."
The colour drained from Holmes face and he could only sit and stare at Cassia Ingram, slack jawed and incredulous.
"She's your grandmother. She has a very attractive accent, but I have to keep reminding her to speak in English because when she gets excited, she goes off into French and I only have the very basic school girl stuff I'm afraid."
Cassia Ingram carried on, ignoring Holmes stunned silence.
"She is taking great delight in telling me that they are not ready for you over there just yet, they're enjoying the peace and quiet ..."
"I would like you to leave now, Miss Ingram," Holmes, jaw clenched, spoke through his teeth, in a low, cold voice.
"People like you are despicable and you do not impress me. I have no idea whom you spoke to, or how much you paid them, but rest assured, Miss Ingram, I will make it my life's work to find out, and then I will make sure that the world knows the truth about you."
Damnation, what more would it take!
"Your obstinacy will be the death of you, Sherlock. Quite literally."
"I won't ask again. I just have to make one phone call and the police will be here in less than five minutes to forcibly remove you," Holmes cautioned in a cold, empty voice.
"You won't make that call, Sherlock. You know I'm right, but, I understand that for a man like you, it must be hard to accept. I know you want some time to yourself to try to work out what skulduggery brings me to know these things about you, but the children don't have the luxury of time, and frankly, I can't take much more of this."
"My regrets, Miss Ingram, I don't have any silver with which to cross your palm, and I would advise you to leave. Now! Before my patience completely deserts me and I forget that I am a gentleman."
Couldn't he see for himself what this was doing to her physically?
Cassia Ingram shook her head sadly.
"Look at me, Sherlock? Can't you see what this is doing to me? I'm a wreck. The dreams are more vivid than ever and I can't get the images out of my mind, even when I'm awake! Have some pity, please!" she implored in a low, throaty voice, but his expression did not change, and she knew that she had lost him.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. The last thing I want is to hurt you or embarrass you. I thought you would be relieved to know that your problem isn't as serious as you think, but, I see that you are not prepared to take my word for it. You'll know better soon enough."
She rose from her seat with dignity and began to walk away from him, then thought better of it, turning back to face him once more.
"This isn't about you, or me, Sherlock. We don't need to like each other to work together, but we do have to build trust. I thought that was what I was doing, earning your trust. I don't get to choose the messages I get, or whom I have to deliver them to, hell, most of the time I don't even know what they mean, because they're not meant for me. I'm just the delivery woman."
"I still need your help. I have other messages, more information for you, but you need time to digest what I just told you, and accept its validity, and you are obviously still not ready to hear the rest of what I have to say. Too bad. I'm not going to give up. I can't. They won't let me, and if this goes on much longer, Sherlock, I'm going to go out of my mind," she told him with obvious sorrow.
Holmes remained unmoved.
"You know, you really should tell John. You're not going to be able to hide it from him for much longer, and yes, he'll be angry that you felt that you had no choice but to keep it from him, but, he is your friend, he cares, he will understand. You're going to need him. Mycroft, too. Time to put old rivalries to one side Sherlock, it won't be easy, but your grandmother is right. This too shall pass ..."
She turned and began to walk away, not looking back this time, but she did still have one more important thing to say to him.
"And your grandmother says you might find your scarf more palatable with a little salt, Cherie."