Chapter Thirty One.
Cassia Ingram left 221B Baker Street, head bowed and a dejected set to her shoulders, as she pulled her coat more tightly around her, for the evening was chilly and damp after a brief rain shower earlier.
It was growing dark now, and although the street lights were flickering into life, one by one along the street, offering a soft orange glow, the encroaching darkness made her feel even more uneasy.
She was not used to going out in the big city alone in the evenings.
Basically, she wasn't used to going out in the evenings at all.
You house plant.
She wasn't street wise at all, and she was aware that a woman alone on the streets of London would make a wonderful target for robbery, rape, or worse.
You idiot!
Scare yourself silly, why don't you!
You should have thought about that before you took the hump and walked out on Holmes!
Cassia continued to walk, no particular destination in mind, and no intention of staying out too long, driven only by the need to put some distance between the hostile, oppressive atmosphere in Holmes' living room, and the silent, arrogant scrutiny of the man himself.
She found herself a few streets away, approaching a late night convenience store and decided to go inside to buy bread and milk for the following morning, recalling that Holmes' had been running low on both items.
It would also be her way of making a small contribution in return for his hospitality.
Such as it was.
Lord, but he was a stubborn, stubborn man!
Like a rabid dog with a bone.
He was going to prove to be a huge pain in the bum. She could feel it.
She didn't need that in her life.
Things were just perfect as they were, and she didn't need the nosy, bull headed, pugnacious, holier than thou Sherlock Holmes with his smug attitude and sneering face upsetting the apple cart.
She had worked too hard for that.
Damn him!
It seemed that Sherlock Holmes was going to be the price that she would have to pay for the rest of her life, for coming forward and trying to do the right thing.
Such as it was, so shall it ever be...
Proof positive once more, that for her, no good deed ever went unpunished.
Why did it always have to be this way?
Just for once, couldn't she do the right thing, and then go back to her quiet, safe, existence?
She entered the convenience store and after picking up a basket, wondered around the brightly lit interior putting a loaf of medium sliced white bread and a carton of semi skimmed milk side by side in the basket, perusing the shelves as she wondered around, simply killing time, until finally, she went to the check out to pay for her items, and suddenly realized with horror that she had come out without any money.
Her purse was still in her handbag back at 221B Baker Street.
Humiliated and embarrassed, anxious that the shopkeeper would think that she had no intention of paying, and might think of calling the police, she deposited the basket on the checkout desk with a weak smile of apology and then hurried out of the shop.
Damn the man!
He had her so unsettled she couldn't think straight.
Hot colour rising on her cheeks, she continued to walk down the street, hurrying away from the store.
She did not want to go back to Holmes' flat just yet.
She needed more time to get her equilibrium back, so she walked a little further and found a black painted metal bench beside a bus shelter and sat down with a hearty sigh.
She ran her hand over her face wearily realizing that she had a stinking headache. Undoubtedly caused, in part, by Holmes' rotten hostility and the atmosphere of negativity that he had been generating, and the tension it had caused in her trying to avoid his scrutiny and maintain her composure.
However, she also sensed that there was an element of Holmes' physical illness to it too.
She was feeling an echo of the pain that he was suffering, the severe pain in his head caused by the alien growth invading his brain.
Poor Sherlock.
He must be in absolute agony.
And yet, he was so stubborn, so tenacious, he was fighting through that pain and was determined to get to the bottom of the enigma that was Cassia Ingram.
She ran her fingers roughly through her hair, digging her nails into her scalp in a bid to relieve the pain in her head, and then she sat back on the bench and crossed one leg over the other, and pulled her coat about her more tightly as she casually waved a big red London bus away, as it approached to pull up at the bus stop.
There was a definite hint that the season was about to change, in the air, a cold breeze whipping up and carrying with it the scent of more rain, as she sat there contemplating her dilemma.
What to do about Sherlock Holmes.
He was never going to let it go, now that he had realized that she was holding out on him.
He had told her as much, when he had accused her of being a charlatan and that he would do whatever it took to bring her down.
He would spend the rest of his life in pursuit of her secret, gradually undermining the foundations and slowly removing, brick by precious brick, the wall that she had spent most of her adult life building up around her to protect herself.
Damn him!
He would hunt her down until he triumphed, and never for one second give a damn about the hurt, turmoil, heartache and chaos that he would cause in his wake.
All he cared about was proving himself right.
All he cared about was his damned game.
The truth.
The consequences of unearthing those truths did not matter to him.
Egotist.
No, child!
A dangerous child to boot, with no conscience, uncaring of appearances, of how things made him look.
Interfering git!
I don't need this!
Shit.
What am I going to do about him?
You could always marry him, Cherie.
Or kill him!
However, neither of those were viable options.
Sherlock Holmes wasn't the marrying kind.
He was above that sort of thing, considering himself 'married to his work', and she had no doubts that he would be impossible to live with.
Smug bastard loves himself too much to share himself with anyone else!
Yet, no matter what she thought of him right now, she really did not want him dead.
Hadn't she gone out of her way to make just that point to him only a few hours ago?
He was far too precious a commodity.
No.
She would have to come to some sort of terms with him.
She would have to make a deal with him.
She could not see any other solution.
It all boiled down to trust again.
Did she trust him?
Yes, dammit, for all the good it would do her.
So, it would have to be a trade off.
If it was the truth that he sought, then it seemed that she was going to have to trust him with it.
And it would have to be the whole truth, not something that she made up quickly on the spot, for he would surely see through that little ruse, and be right back to chipping away at her secret.
The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.
That was the only thing that he would accept.
However, if he heard it from her own lips, perhaps he had just enough humanity and compassion in him to understand her plight, and take her secret with him to his grave.
If nothing else, she sensed that Sherlock Holmes was a decent man at heart.
An honourable man.
Damn!
What choice did she have, really?
She had no other option but to trust him.
She had no desire to live out the rest of her life on the run and hiding from him.
She had worked so damned hard as it was to garner just a little safety and peace of mind, and she was not prepared to have it shattered by Sherlock ruddy Holmes!
It would be infinitely better to have him as an ally than an enemy.
So, it seemed that it was time to make a deal with the devil.
Better the devil you know, Cherie...
Fine.
Let the bugger think he had won.
She would do whatever it took to protect her sanity and her security, and preserve the status quo that she had strived so hard to achieve.
Only time would tell if she was right about Holmes, and that she was indeed placing her trust in the right man.
And woe betide him if he let her down...