Chapter Twenty Eight.
They had grown silent, but no longer the uneasy silence of before.
Sherlock finished his tea, and then went to the bathroom where he relieved himself, then after washing his hands, splashed cold water on his face, and then ran a comb through his unruly locks, wincing as even that seemed to cause his head to hurt more, all the time regarding the hollow cheeked man who looked back at him from the mirror above the sink as though he were a stranger.
He resisted the urge to bob his tongue out at his reflection.
Actually, upon reflection, he realized that he didn't look quite so bad.
Indeed, there had been days when he had looked much, much worse.
He still looked tired and there was a hint of the pain that he could still feel thrumming through his skull, in his eyes, but he had more colour now, and his body did not feel quite so unsteady and shaky.
The nap had done him good.
Just as he had predicted.
He sauntered back into the kitchen and ran the cold tap to fill a glass of water and took the two pain pills Watson had left for him on the counter along with a note telling him categorically not to take them before at least four hours had elapsed since the last dose.
Four hours had well and truly elapsed, and Sherlock could hardly believe that he had slept for so long.
He swallowed the pills down gratefully and then rinsed out the glass and turned it upside down on the drainer, noticing as he did so that the kitchen looked remarkably clean and tidy for a change.
Not Mrs Hudson's usual style either, he noted.
For one thing, everything had been replaced exactly where it should be, not where Mrs Hudson thought it ought to be.
It made for a very refreshing change.
After Mrs Hudson had been in, he could rarely find what he wanted straight away, always having to hunt around, making more of a mess than before she started, and no matter how many times he complained to her about it, she insisted on doing things her way, whilst complaining that she was his landlady, not his housekeeper!
So that was how Cassia Ingram had passed the time while he had been out for the count, and probably why Mrs Hudson had warmed to her so easily.
Her willingness to muck in.
The sign of an orderly mind, respect for someone else's preferences, or an indication of obsessive compulsive behaviour?
Mmmmm.
He would have to think about that for a while before coming to a decision.
Perhaps it was just a case that Cassia Ingram was a well trained house guest, taking nothing for granted and wanting to pull her weight.
Never mind. He approved.
After downing the pain pills, Holmes realized that he was peckish, so he dug out half a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits from a cupboard and wandered back into the living room, nibbling on one, dripping crumbs on the carpet as he went, the pack still in his hand and so as he offered one to Cassia Ingram, like the good host he was, and accepted with a grateful smile, then he retrieved his mobile phone and laptop and made himself comfortable in his chair.
Cassia Ingram ate her biscuit in silence and glanced around the comfortable bachelor's living room.
Holmes had plenty of books, but she didn't think that she would find any of the heavier tomes to her liking, they seemed to be mostly science based, or law books judging by the titles on the cracked spines, and she knew that her brain was in no fit state to absorb anything written on the yellowed pages of the dusty, ancient tomes.
Holmes meanwhile, used his thumbs to dash off a quick text to Watson as he waited for his laptop to fire up and absently chewed another chocolate biscuit.
'Where R U? SH.'
Watson's answer came back quickly.
"Ah, the beast awakes... JW'
'Very funny. I love you too, kiss, kiss, kiss, SH'
You ok? JW.'
'Yes. SH.'
'Leaving shortly. JW.'
'Leaving where? SH.'
'The practice. Did my evening surgery list. Last one for a while. Have to see Locum agency sent round and set her straight. Should be back by 6.30 -7pm latest. Chinese still ok for everyone? JW.'
"Watson wants to know if you still want Chinese takeaway for dinner?"
Holmes casually glanced in Cassia Ingram's direction and caught her scrutinizing the living room, as only a female could, with a view to it being a future home.
He was startled by the notion, and then wondered why.
Didn't all women always look at new rooms with an eye to how they could change them if they had the chance?
Holmes found himself wondering how in the world, this women might have got even the slightest hint from him that he might welcome her into his home, other than as a guest.
Watson had been the ideal flat mate, but now that he was gone, Holmes had no need to share, he was financially more stable and able to afford the rent on his own, and he found that he liked living alone, and the freedom that it afforded him.
He had no intention of sharing his personal space with anyone.
Least of all a woman!
"Fine by me."
"Hmmm?"
Holmes looked back at Cassia Ingram with a startled look on his face, not realizing that he had been so lost in his own thoughts.
"I said fine by me. Chinese?" She reminded with a soft smile on her lips.
"Do you have any preference? Anything you can't eat for religious reasons, or any special dietary requirements?"
"No Sherlock, nothing like that. I'll have what everyone else is having, thanks. Actually, I'm not really all that hungry," she confided. "I've still got the collywobbles," she smiled wryly. "Probably best not to put too much into my stomach. I wouldn't want to embarrass myself later."
Holmes merely nodded, then used his thumbs to text Watson back, knowing that his friend was aware of his likes and dislikes, as far as Chinese food went, and that he would bring a selection of dishes so that they could each dip in and share.
Pot luck.
Just like old times.
Holmes realized that he had somehow polished off the last of the chocolate biscuits, and had to admit to himself, that he was suddenly starving and so he added a post script to his text.
'Bring Chips... Prawn Crackers too. SH."
'Chips? R U sure you're not pregnant? JW.'
'LMAO. SH.'
'That I would pay to see! Anything else, your Lordship? JW.'
'Something sweet. We might need something to keep our strength up later. Could be a long night. SH.'
'Chips and chocolate? You'll get fat! JW.'
'I should be so lucky. SH.'
'See what I can do. JW.'
'Hurry up. I could eat a horse! SH.'
'Tough, chew on your scarf until I get there. JW.'
After concluding his text message, Sherlock Holmes turned his attention to his computer, becoming so engrossed that he seemed to forget that Cassia Ingram was still in the room with him.
Sensing that he was lost in his own little world, Cassia Ingram watched Sherlock Holmes surreptitiously through her long eyelashes, a soft smile forming on her lips, pleased to see that he did not look quite so sickly after his nap.
She had thought it a very good sign when he had come wandering back into the living room chomping on biscuits, and had known that he was over his earlier difficulties and was starting to feel a little more like his usual self.
Uh oh...
Watch out!
Cassia continued to watch surreptitiously as he balanced the computer on his knees, his long, elegant, musician's fingers dancing over the keyboard confidently, and she guessed that he was responding to his new emails and checking for possible future cases.
That was also a good sign.
That he still perceived that he might be around to get the opportunity to look into future cases, and be up to taking on the challenges they might present with all his faculties in tact.
Perhaps he had taken what she had told him about not joining the angels just yet, to heart after all.
As she looked at him, Cassia realized that he would make the perfect subject for a sketch.
He really was the most beautiful man that she had ever met.
The almost flawless alabaster skin, flawless, only because of the tiny moles on his neck, which he flaunted by leaving open the collar and top button of his shirt and not wearing a neck tie. That wonderful bone structure, especially those sculpted, aristocratic cheekbones, and those enigmatic eyes, sometimes appearing almost crystal clear, sometimes so blue they were like London Topaz, sometimes grey, smoky, sleepy and catlike, sometimes seeming to spit fire when he was angry, agitated or excited, and other times, cold as ice, all seeing and calculating, more reptilian, almost snake-like, and those lips, that almost perfect Cupid's bow, eminently kissable.
If you dared.
Not likely.
He bites!
And he's way too hot for my blood.
Yet, the man did not seem to have any sense of just how attractive he was, although, she suspected that when he needed to, he could turn on the charm to use to his advantage.
She had also seen the less than attractive side to him.
Sensed the danger there.
The very fine line between brilliance and madness, that he teetered on daily.
He was happy to cross boundaries when necessary, and John Watson was a perfect foil for him, his moral compass, but John wasn't always there, and without that guidance, someone to reign in his natural tendencies, Holmes could be something of a loose cannon.
Cassia couldn't resist the desire to try to capture all that on paper, the beauty, the innocence, the intensity and the intelligence, so she picked up her sketch pad once more, opened it to a clean page, grabbed a stick of charcoal and began to draw, noting as she did so, the perplexed frown now drawing down the young man's brow.
Something had obviously displeased him.
Ignoring the look, Cassia continued to draw, quickly outlining the shape of his face, concentrating on his strongest features, his chin and cheekbones, to get the correct proportions.
"So, Cass, tell me about yourself," Holmes invited casually, glancing up from his computer screen momentarily, a look of genuine interest on his face.
Cassia caught the look as she flicked her eyes up from the page to check that she had his eye's correctly centred on her drawing, and saw something in those unique eyes that warned her that he was up to something.
A surprised look crossed Holmes face as he looked up properly then and found Cassia Ingram sitting, barefoot and crossed legged on the couch once more, a large artist's sketch pad balanced on her knee.
"What are you doing?" he frowned.
"Baking a cake," she could not resist teasing him, he looked so dumbfounded suddenly.
"Very drool," Holmes drawled as she returned her attention to whatever it was that she was drawing.
"Doodling," she told him then, more seriously, without taking her eyes off the page before her, her face now a picture of concentration, her hand moving confidently and fluidly over the paper.
"Doodling?"
"Yes. I'm sure you did something similar when you were a kid and got bored in class."
And Cassia Ingram was sure that he had been bored, more often than not, because he would have been so much smarter than the rest of the kids in his class, quickly taking in the finer points of every lesson, way ahead of them, and therefore he would have grown bored quickly and probably spent much of his time staring out the classroom window, or defacing the desk with a ballpoint pen.
Sherlock waz 'ere!
She'd been there too.
Not a posh education like Sherlock must surely have had.
Strictly state schools for her, then college and finally a good university, and each institution had been more than adequate for her requirements.
Holmes expression confirmed her assumption, when she again glanced up to make sure that she had the sweep of his fringe, now falling somewhat endearingly over one eye, correct.
"You know, doodles. Squiggles, stick figures, funny faces, cartoons. That sort of thing. Like daydreams on paper. I just draw what comes into my imagination, " she elaborated for him, again without taking her eyes off her creation, not wanting him to realize that he was the subject of her present imaginings. "It helps to relax me. Some people read, do yoga, or meditate, some people play an instrument, some shout and throw things at the television," she grinned then. "I doodle."
"Oh," Holmes continued to frown, suddenly realizing that she had deflected his invitation to talk about herself quite easily.
He was surprised.
For most women he had encountered it had been their favourite subject and they had been more than happy to talk about themselves, wanting to impress him, but Cassia Ingram, he realized, had avoided doing any such thing since the day he had met her, and he recalled that he had initially liked the notion that she did not need to fill the silence with superfluous idiotic prattle and ramblings, however, now, it disconcerted him, made him suspicious, and, it occured to him, it would be awkward for him to ask her straight out again.
Holmes let out a deep sigh of frustration.
What exactly did he know about this woman?
After meeting her several times now, in truth, he knew next to nothing about her, only that she had a genuine psychic gift, was stronger than she realized, mentally and emotionally, she was intelligent, good hearted and compassionate, and she could be outspoken and passionate when something moved her and she had something to say.
His Google search of just a few moments ago had yielded nothing new, and his observations of her had told him very little about her.
She was a complete enigma to him.
Holmes hated being in the dark like this.
He also always loathed knowing nothing about his clients.
It tended to split his concentration and divide his time and attention because he could not resist trying to find out more about the person that he was working for, whilst also trying to fathom out the case they had brought to him.
Pauper or Prince, it made no difference to him, he just needed to know whom he was dealing with because he hated nasty surprises further down the road, for he had learned early on in his career that the motives of those seeking him out were not always purely good or selfless.
Holmes much preferred to concentrate his mind on one problem at a time and not to have to constantly be worrying about looking over his shoulder, trying to deduce whom was friend and whom was foe.
He prided himself on his ability to read people, to see things that others didn't, the little tells that revealed to him so much about a person's personality, life style, profession and habits.
Cassia Ingram was a totally blank canvass, and intentionally so, he decided.
Either that or he was sicker than he thought, and his finely honed powers of observation and deduction were failing him.
Holmes didn't think so, and that wasn't over self confidence.
It wasn't just him she seemed to be hiding her true self from.
How was it possible in this digital age, for someone not to leave some kind of footprint or trail on the internet?
As far as the web was concerned, she was practically invisible.
Indeed he had only found one Cassia Ingram during all of his searches on the internet.
One woman with that name in the right age group and the right geographical location, indeed the world, when normally, even with the most unusual of names, you could find at least a half a dozen scattered around the globe.
Only one Cassia Ingram.
Cassia.
Not Cassandra or Cassie, or even Cassiopia.
Only one Cassia Ingram in the whole wide world?
What were the odds of that?
Was that even her real name?
Cassia.
Even as he thought about it, it sounded contrived.
A made up name.
Was she even the one and only Cassia Ingram that he had found during his internet investigations?
He did not know for certain whether she was or was not.
However, he sensed that she was not going to make it easy for him to find out.
Most people didn't even realize the trail they were leaving electronically as they passed through life, but Cassia Ingram seemed not to have left so much as a footprint in the sand.
She was a ghost.
Well, not literally, of course. He knew that she was real, substance, for he had held her in his arms, only briefly, and she had been flesh and bone, but in every other way, she might as well be ethereal.
Spirit.
So, she either lived in a bubble, or she was very clever and went out of her way to avoid leaving any trail behind her.
The question was, why?
What was she trying to hide?
And not just from him.
Holmes watched as she yielded her charcoal stick with confidence, her hand moving gracefully and fluidly over the large page, tilted up slightly on her lap before her, her face soft and relaxed.
Open.
Just as it had been since their very first meeting.
Look at me, here I am, what you see is exactly what you get.
I don't think so, Miss Ingram!
What was she hiding?
Who was she?
Really?
Damn!
How irritating!
He, Sherlock Holmes, the greatest deductive mind of the era, reduced to needing to resort to asking questions like other mere mortals, instead of being able to deduce what he needed just by observation alone.
Drat!
He let out another sigh of frustration, and this time Cassia stopped drawing and looked up at him curiously.
"Something wrong, Sherlock?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I was just thinking... Recalling a case I followed a few years ago."
"Oh?"
She returned her attention to her creation, seemingly uninterested.
"Yes. Sir Walter Bootle.'
"Who?"
'Sir Walter Bootle. Merchant banker, died in 2007."
Holmes spoke casually however as he regarded Cassia with a curious frown creasing his brow, he realized that she genuinely did not seem to recognize the name.
"His son tried to infer murder but there was nothing to it. Unless, of course, your sources tell you otherwise... "
"My what?"
"You know, your sources, on the other side."
"No."
She lifted her hand to rub at some irritant just below her right eye and left an attractive black charcoal smudge on her cheekbone.
"Why?"
Holmes regarded Cassia with a curious frown deepening on his brow as he realized that she genuinely did not seem to recognize the name.
How odd.
"Because he was your god father," he added dryly.
"No," Cassia shook her head gently but did not lift her eyes from the page before her, nor did her hand miss a stroke as she continued to draw, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth absently in concentration.
No deception there, Holmes deduced.
She really did not have a clue what he was talking about.
The plot thickens!
"Not your god father?" Holmes pressed.
"Nope."
"Oh. Your date of birth is June 1st, 1978, yes?"
"Nope."
She continued to draw, but now there was a small, knowing smile beginning to curve at her lips.
Damn.
She knew that he was on a fishing expedition.
"Oh."
"Checking up on me?"
"Just curious."
"Wrong Cassia Ingram."
"Must be," Holmes muttered through clenched teeth, irritated at being thwarted so easily.
"Was that your quaint way of trying to be delicate, and ask my age, Sherlock?"
Now she was laughing at him!
"No."
"Good. Didn't your mother ever tell you that it was rude to ask a lady her age?"
Holmes grunted something inaudible.
"But, as you are so curious, I'll tell you. I'm as old as my tongue, and a little bit older than my teeth!"
She chuckled softly now, and it was quite a pleasant sound.
Then suddenly she grew serious and fixed her lovely green eyes on his face.
"Are you worried about whom you have invited to stay under your roof?"
"No. I told you that I trust you, and I meant it."
"Good."
"But it strikes me that I really know so little about you."
"Ah, the great detective at work. You really can't stop yourself, can you? What's wrong, Sherlock? Can't work me out?"
He scowled silently back at her, irritated at the dig, and just how astute she was, even more convinced that she was deliberately concealing her true self from him and even more determined to find out the truth.
If she thought she was going to get the better of him, then she better look out!
But why?
Why did she feel the need to deceive him, and the rest of the world?
Who was she!
"You know all that you need to know about me, Sherlock. I promise you that I am not an axe murderess, and I haven't escaped from a mental hospital or a prison. What more do you need?"
"Your real name would be a good start, don't you think?" He demanded with a triumphant look on his face.
Gotchya!
At that moment they heard the street door downstairs close, voices rising from the hallway, briefly, and then a few minutes later John Watson was bounding up the stairs with a bag of Chinese food in one hand and Holmes London Evening Standard in the other.
"Sorry it took so long, there was a queue," he spoke breathlessly, breezing through the living room toward the kitchen.
"Mrs Hudson gave me this," he tossed the neatly folded newspaper to Holmes as he carried on walking to the kitchen. "She said to tell you, nice legs, shame about the face."
Holmes caught the paper adeptly and made a snort of disgust, silently cursing Watson for his poor timing.
Meanwhile, Cassia Ingram continued to regard Holmes with a soft, knowing smile, aware of his disdain and irritation but unwilling to put him out of his misery, and then she closed her sketch pad and propped it up against the side of the couch, returning the charcoal stick to the tin with the others and rose, gracefully, from the couch, languidly stretching her body, feeling a little stiff after sitting for so long.
"I'll go and see if John needs any help with the food," and with that she walked across the room, head held high, ignoring Holmes sour experssion and rather pointed, frustrated glare.