Chapter Twenty Nine
Cassia Ingram and John Watson worked well together, putting out the selection of dishes that Watson had brought for their dinner, and then she returned to the sitting room to lay the table for three, while Sherlock Holmes scowled behind his evening newspaper, shifting irritably in his chair.
The three of them ate in silence, Holmes making inroads into a plate piled high with Sweet and Sour Chicken, Chips, Crispy Noodles and Prawn Crackers, devouring the food like a man who had been on a desert island for months, barely stopping to take a breath between bites, which disconcerted Watson, who feared that his friend would pay for his rash eating habits later.
What a pig!
I don't need to be psychic to foresee a technicolour yawn in your future, Sherlock, my friend!
In some ways it was pleasing to see, but in others, it was rather worrying. His body just wasn't used to it.
It was also one of the things that Sir Frederick Penrose Gill had warned him to look out for, along with sudden irrational mood swings and personality changes and lack of inhibitions.
So, if he started ripping off his clothes and strutting around stark bollock naked, that was definitely time to cart him off to hospital!
Oh wait, he already did that, at Buckingham Palace no less, although on that occasion he did at least have the decency to wrap himself in a sheet.
Exhibitionist!
Meanwhile, Cassia Ingram nibbled on a Prawn Cracker and dipped it into soy sauce, the small portion of Chicken Chow Mein hardly touched on her plate.
Watson grew more and more uncomfortable as the meal progressed, sensing the odd, cloying atmosphere in the room as he ploughed his way through Sweet and Sour Pork and Egg Fried Rice.
More like a ruddy elephant in the room.
He thought sourly to himself.
Holmes was acting very strangely and Cassia seemed to have withdrawn into herself, quiet and ponderous, although she did not seem uncomfortable as she ignored Holmes' silent, scathing, evil looks.
They seemed to have reached some kind of standoff, avoiding looking at each other, much less speaking to each other, and the strained silence was creating an unpleasant atmosphere that was definitely putting Watson off his dinner, as he wondered what had transpired between Holmes and Cassia during his absence that afternoon.
Nothing good, it seemed.
Oh terrific!
What a fun evening this is going to be!
After dinner, Cassia, who had barely touched any of her food, offered to clear the table, wash the dishes and tidy the kitchen, while the two men caught up with the news headlines on the BBC News Channel, and Watson suspected it was a ploy, to remove herself from the heavy, poisonous atmosphere Holmes was exuding.
Her chores completed, when Cassia returned to the living room, she found Holmes and Watson engaged in conversation about the deepening unrest in several Middle Eastern countries, and she made for her place on the couch, sitting down quietly, curling up in the corner, listening to each man's concerns about the future of those countries, and for their peoples, all the time aware of Sherlock Holmes' scrutiny of her, and the silent promise that she had seen in his eyes over dinner, that he would finish their conversation at the first opportunity.
Cassia made herself as small as she could in the corner of the couch, drawing her legs up under her, tipping her head back and closing her eyes against Holmes petulant expression and scathing looks, grateful to have some small respite from his cold disdain toward her.
God he could be a loathsome creature when he wanted to be!
Back to square one.
Damn him!
He was wary of her again, and all because he couldn't be satisfied with knowing what he did about her.
Back to believing that she was trying to deceive him somehow.
No longer quite so trusting.
But why?
He knew all the important things about her.
All the things that he needed to help her to end the killing
Surely that was all that mattered?
But no.
He was the great Sherlock Holmes, and he had to go deeper into things. He had to keep asking questions.
Smart arse.
It never occurred to him that the questions he was asking were the wrong questions.
Nor that the answers he sought were not important.
They wouldn't alter anything.
Better men than he had tried to solve the enigma that was Cassia Ingram, and had failed.
Somehow she doubted that he would be flattered to be amongst such illustrious company.
Let it alone, Sherlock.
It doesn't matter.
I do not matter!
There are more important things at stake here.
Oh hell!
Well, it wouldn't matter after tonight.
One way or another tonight would see an end to it.
He had made her and John a promise.
Tonight it would be over, and she would be able to fade away and he would forget that she had ever existed.
He would only remember a woman called Cassia Ingram.
Cassia found it restful sitting on the couch with her eyes closed, listening to both men putting the world to rights, both of them seeming to have forgotten her presence in the room with them.
However, she was still not sleepy.
Both men had pleasant voices, Holmes' rich, deep baritone, Watson more of a tenor, and both spoke with passion, firstly about the precarious political situation in the Middle East, and then about different sporting headlines, and finally, the weather forecast for the upcoming Bank Holiday weekend.
It seemed that there was a fresh storm brewing.
And not just outside!
When the news headlines began to repeat from the beginning again, Holmes switched off the television set and both he and Watson turned their attention to their laptop computers, Watson updating his blog for a recent case, although he deliberately left out anything that even hinted at Holmes' present illness, and Holmes, well, he was impatiently tapping at the keys on his keyboard and scowling at the computer screen, continuing to try to find out more about her, Cassia deduced, and not enjoying the fact that he kept encountering the same brick wall.
Good luck with that, Sherlock.
At least it would keep him occupied, and hopefully, quiet for a while longer.
Cassia took out her own mobile phone and checked her email account and for any text messages, but there were none, not that she had expected any, however, she was a child of her times, just as adept at using the technology as either of these two intelligent men, and it was something to do with her hands.
At about 9pm, when it was just starting to get dark outside, and she and Watson had run out of the occasional snatches of small talk, and Holmes' irritated mood and withering looks had started to get on her nerves, his sour mood and deliberate ignorance of her presence in the room creating a noxious, negative, oppressive atmosphere in the room that she knew would taint her psychic ability later if she did not remove herself from it's influence, Cassia rose slowly from the couch, stretching her aching legs and emitting a deep sigh as she jammed her bare feet into a pair of low heeled black pumps.
"Going somewhere?" Holmes asked sarcastically raising his eyes from his laptop long enough to eye her with cold disdain.
"I'm going for a walk. I need some fresh air."
"That is the last thing you need."
"And to stretch my legs. I've been cooped up inside all day..."
"Sit down," Holmes commanded angrily now, causing even Watson to look around at him in surprise and confusion. "Fresh air and exercise are the last things that you need. They will only keep you awake. A soporific is more in keeping. You do not need any more stimulants. All that tea you drank this afternoon would keep a rhinoceros awake!"
"I'm really not sleepy anyway..."
"Tosh woman! You're exhausted. Stop fighting it, Cass," Holmes' sneered as he deliberately hissed her name sarcastically. "And try to get some sleep."
"Stop telling me what to do, Sherlock!"
Of course, he was right.
She was bone weary, and yes, she was fighting it, trying to delay the inevitable, but in all honesty, who could blame her?
Besides, the atmosphere that Holmes' was creating in the room was hardly conducive to restful slumber.
Cassia needed some time out away from Holmes' very obvious irritation and negativity to regroup, to compose herself and calm herself so that she could build up her mental and psychic protections so that she was as prepared as she could be for whatever might happen later.
"I won't be long," she assured, raising her chin in fierce determination. "I'm not going to run out on you, Sherlock."
However, Holmes gave her another pointed, disapproving look.
"Where can I go? I'm not your prisoner, Sherlock, but I'll leave all my things here as insurance that I will come back," she was pulling on her coat now to show that she was not going to cow-tow to him, the look of determination etched into her face.
"There are things I need to do, to prepare myself for later, and I can't do that here," and that was all the explanation he was getting.
"Here..."
Watson dug his hand into his trouser pocket and produced his copy of the front door key. "You'd better take this. Don't want to disturb Mrs Hudson at this time of night, by knocking the door when you get back."
He handed her the key, ignoring Holmes' blatant look, the one he recognized as accusing him of being a traitor.
"Thank you, John," Cassia accepted the key from him graciously and then without another word, she left the room, aware as she did so of Sherlock Holmes' cold, furious glare.