Chapter Thirty Three.

As he exited 221B Baker Street, John Watson glanced both ways, up and down the street, trying to decide which way to try first in his search for Cassia Ingram, and then decided to head down the street, pulling his coat collar up around his ears as he did so, for the wind had suddenly picked up, running it's icy fingers between his coat and his shirt collar.

There was more activity down that end of the street as there were shops that stayed open late, various takeaway food establishments and access to public transport.

If Cassia had any street sense at all, she would have wanted to stick to places that were well lit and had plenty of people around, for there would be less chance of anything nasty transpiring that way.

Safety in numbers.

Or the pack mentallity.

Pick pockets and the like often hunted in pairs, he knew.

That thought spurred him on, and he increased the speed of his step.

He found her a short time later, hunched up inside her coat, against the chilly breeze and the damp night air, sitting on a bench beside an empty bus stop, the disturbance of air caused by passing traffic kicking up bit of litter in the kerb and tossing them around her feet.

John decided to approach her warily, as she seemed to be lost in thought, and he did not want to frighten her, so as he closed in he gave a soft cough into a balled fist, announcing his presence well before he reached her, and she swiftly looked around, wary, an anxious look on her face until she realized who it was.

"Hello," John greeted her in soft tones.

"Hello yourself."

"Are you ok?" He asked with genuine concern as he sat down beside her.

She looked cold, miserable, exhausted and deflated.

"Yes."

"Liar."

"Yes." She smiled softly. "And not a very good one, it seems."

"I'm sorry about Holmes behaviour. I'd like to say that it's due to his illness, but I'd be wasting my breath, wouldn't I? You know he's like that most of the time."

"Yes. I know."

She gave a soft sigh and sat back on the bench, straightening her back and stretching out her legs before her, crossing them at the ankles.

"It's just the way he is, I suppose. Quick silver. Lightening in a bottle. Brilliant, yet bordering on madness..."

"Yes."

Watson could not help thinking that that had summed his friend up in a nutshell.

It was something that worried him too.

The fact that Holmes danced a little too close to the flame of madness when he was working on a case, the lack of self control, the single mindedness.

"How is he?"

"Sick as a dog and feeling pretty damned ssorry for himself last I looked, but it serves him right."

"Oh."

"Look, Cass, there's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to... well, say it. While you've been out, Sherlock sort of lost the plot, he had a bit of a wobbler, and the long and the short of it is, he went through your things."

"Kinky."

"No, not like that." Watson clarified quickly. "He was looking for some form of ID, something to tell him who you really are. He knows you're not Cassia Ingram, whoever she might be ..."

"He won't find anything."

"I know. He didn't. I told him he was well out of order, but ..."

"He doesn't think he did anything wrong. He can justify it by telling himself that he has every right to know everything about everyone. Paranoid git. He sees enemies around every corner, doesn't he?

"Not exactly enemies, but he has trusted people in the past who it turns out have turned on him, or used him. He likes to know everything that he can about his clients, simply because he wants to avoid being stabbed in the back by someone he is supposedly working for. People have their own agendas, and they are not always what they seem to be."

"Touche."

She sighed heavily and scuffed her feet on the paving stone.

"So, it looks like normal service has been resumed."

"Mmmmm."

"Thanks for the warning," she gave another deep sigh and moved her position on the bench, the slats of the seat uncomfortable, cold and hard beneath her buttocks.

"The least I could do. I wish I could tie him up and gag him and let you stick pins in him for the rest of the night, but he's so hard he probably wouldn't feel it, or he'd think it was ruddy accupuncture for his tumour!"

Cassia turned to face him and gave him a weak smile, appreciating his attempt at levity.

"He just can't seem to take anything on face value, can he?"

"No," John grew serious again now. "I guess he learned his lessons the hard way. He doesn't even really trust his brother."

"I know. Sibling rivalry to the extreme."

She sighed once more and turned to regard Watson with sad, big green eyes, and he decided not to ask just how she knew about Holmes' unconventional relationship with his older brother.

"You know, it shouldn't really be that hard to take anything or anyone on face value when you're in the habit of seeing every tiny detail of a person's life and personality written all over their clothes and in their mannerisms, but he does."

"I knew you had him weighed up," Watson grinned.

"Everything always has to have a different agenda, some kind of sinister sub plot. He can't just focus on what he sees, there has to be something deeper."

"Yup," he agreed casually. "Look, Cass, I understand. I can take you at face value."

"I know. You've been very kind, John. He's damn lucky to have you as a friend."

"Sometimes I wonder why I bother."

"But you do."

"Yes, God help me..."

"He's an odd fish, but he is what he is and you accept that."

Watson nodded.

He decided that she deserved to know why Sherlock had been so cold and insensitive toward her all evening.

Again, it was the least that he could do.

Fore armed is fore warned...

"He thinks you're hiding something. He thinks that you are deliberately deceiving him, and as you say, in his mind, there has to be something sinister in it."

"I'm not, and there isn't. It isn't just him, or you, John," she confessed on a long, ragged breath and tried to make herself even smaller inside her coat.

"We know. He's worked that much out."

"Good for him. I hope he's happy."

"Not really. It's still a puzzle that needs to be solved."

"Why can't he just leave well alone?"

"Because he's Sherlock Holmes, a legend in his own lunchbox."

She gave a gentle snort of amusement, but then her expression changed to sorrow once more.

"A relentless bastard."

"That too."

"I have my reasons for doing what I do, John. Good reasons."

"And they're none of our business," Watson acknowledged in soft, gentle tones. "And I told him that too, but..."

"But Holmes thinks they are, and he won't let go until he drags it out of me."

"I know."

"So, I'm going to let him."

"What?" Watson frowned.

"I'm going to let him drag it out of me, let him think he's won, or at least dangle a carrot in front of him that he can't resist. A promise to spill the beans when all this is over and the dust has settled."

"You don't have to do that, Cass. Just tell him to piss off. You wouldn't be the first, and you won't be the last."

"It won't make any difference," she again scuffed the heels of her shoes against the paving stone beneath her feet. "You know I'm right. He'll still keep pursuing it, except he'll act like it's all over and done with and forgotten about, and meanwhile, behind our backs, he'll still be digging away, and for my peace of mind, I can't afford for him to do that."

Watson knew that she was right about Holmes.

He would pretend that he had put it out of his mind, while all the time he would be ferreting around for some small snippet of information until he got to the bottom of her secret, and he would not once consider if he had any right to discover it.

"I've already made up my mind, John, but, I don't intend to make it easy on him."

"Good for you."

He reached out and gently patted her hand comfortingly now.

Her hand was cold, and he realized that she was shivering inside her coat.

"C'mon, it's getting nippy out here. It will start raining soon, no doubt."

"No doubt."

However, she made no effort to move, and Watson realized that she was already thinking about the confrontation with Holmes, and, what was expected of her later that night.

"Look, Cass, you really don't have to do this. I could go back and tell Holmes that I couldn't find you..."

"But then he'd come looking for me himself."

"True."

"Besides, where else can I go? I'm a walking time bomb. A liability, and if I'm honest, I really don't want to be alone, especially when I go to sleep."

"I could always slip him a sleeping pill. Hell, I might just do that anyway. We could all do with a little peace and quiet."

He grinned, and then grew more serious as he regarded her exhausted face.

"Actually, Cass, that's something that you might consider. You definitely need some quality rest, and, you might not dream in a chemically induced sleep."

"No, John. It's alright. Thank you for the thought, and any other time, I might agree with you about putting Holmes to sleep, but my preference would be to hit him with a ruddy great spade, right in the mush," she smiled weakly then.

"Maybe I could sneak you into the Operating Room and you could be his new anaesthatist!"

Cassia smiled weakly, however, there was no real amusement in her expression, but there was suddenly a genuine sadness in her eyes, and Watson realized that that wasn't really funny.

"Don't tempt me..." she murmured softly, deciding to go along with his humour so as not to affend him, but didn't quite pull it off because of the quiver of emotion that suddenly made her voice crack.

Oh Lord...

Was he right?

Did she feel something for Holmes too?

Nice diagnosis, doctor!

"But," she let out a long, ragged breath then. "I want to do it, John. I need to do it, and I'm ready. We have to do this now. This killer has to be stopped, and we both know that despite his promises, to both of us, Sherlock won't let it go until it's over. So let's get on with it, and get it over and done with."

She really was a sweetheart.

All her concern for Holmes, and none for herself.

Such a pity that Holmes would never appreciate her affection and would probably continue to deny that he felt anything at all for her except respect and admiration.

Souless, heartless loser.

Ah, the course of true love...

Pity her affections would all be wasted on Sherlock.

Maybe he was wrong.

Maybe he was reading too much into it, and what she actually felt for Holmes was merely pity at his sudden illness.

But, he didn't think so.

"Cass, can I ask you something ... personal?"

"That would depend on the question, John."

"Do you like him? Sherlock?"

Even when she had been describing him, she had not been cruel or derogatory, she had simply stated the truth about him and there had been something gentle and warm in her eyes when she spoke of him.

"Mmmmmm."

Cassia grew thoughtful, dropping her head briefly, allowing the curtain of her hair to fall forward over her face for a moment, and then she raised her head and used her fingers to tuck her bangs back behind her ears.

"I know, tough question, and none of my business..." Watson chuckled then, rising from the bench and offering Cassia his hand to help her to her feet as they were both suddenly buffeted by a draft of wind caused by a passing double decker bus.

"I don't dislike him," she accepted his hand and rose slowly as she was feeling a bit stiff after sitting in the chilly night air for so long and was grateful for his support as the gust of wind caused her to wobble and sway, briefly.

Another one who obviously doesn't like to admit to being human!

What is it with these two for crying out loud!

"And I suspect that rankles with him. He tries to so hard to make people dislike him, because it's easier for him. He doesn't want anyone to get close to him, because then he might have to try to make an effort to be civilized, and show his true social ineptitude," she continued as they began to walk back toward Baker Street.

"God forbid, he might even show his true self, and that would be the end of the world, that image he's developed of himself for so long, destroyed in seconds. When you and he first started sharing the flat, I bet he really had to bite his tongue sometimes, he had to try to be civil because he needed you to stay, to help with the rent, and then with the cases. Let me ask you, did you like him when you first met?"

"Actually, I thought he was an arrogant, upper class tosser."

"Until he demonstrated his unique ability to see the things that no-one else can, even though they are in plain sight."

"Yes."

"And you grew to like him. You tolerated his antics, because you saw something worthwhile in him."

"Yes."

"Well, so do I. But that's not really what you're asking, is it? You don't really mean like, you mean, fancy..."

"Sorry..."

He had the good grace to look a little shamefaced.

"Well, he is an attractive man. The good Lord and excellent genes certainly put him together in a very agreeable package."

"And then he opens his mouth."

"Mmmmm. Actually, I haven't given it much thought..."

She suddenly stopped walking then and turned to look at Watson with a look that spoke volumes to him.

Oh boy ...

And what merry dance we shall have!

"Oh hell, yes I have and is the Pope Catholic?" she confessed on a ragged breath, tears suddenly springing to her eyes, although he couldn't be sure if they were caused by the sudden gust of frigid wind that whipped up around them and raised the dust off the pavement beneath their feet, or if they were caused by something else.

"But what good does that do either of us? I'm human. A normal, healthy young woman with all that goes along with it, but that was not what brought me to Holmes door. It has no relevance here and now."

She paused to draw in a ragged breath.

"I admire what I see, both the physical beauty, and the mental prowess and his strong sense of right and wrong. The way he goes about things is a different kettle of fish, and his attitude, frankly, it stinks, but, he's never had anyone to stand up to him and try to make him see a different angle or point of view. That is what you do for him, John, and he is learning."

"I'm glad I'm good for something."

"Yes he's pompous, arrogant and insensitive, but something made him that way. I really don't think that he was born like that. I think that somehow, he must have been deeply hurt, and now he gets his retaliation in before anyone can hurt him. It's easier for him somehow if he rubs people up the wrong way. He knows how to deal with hostility. It's affection and sympathy and empathy that he can't deal with. You just have to get to the bottom of that, and perhaps you'll find the real Sherlock Holmes under all that bravado and bluster and superiority."

She paused to take a breath, another gust of icy wind tugging a strand of her hair across her cheek, and as she pushed it back behind her ear, and then wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand, Watson realized that what she was saying made sense.

He too had had a sense that something had deeply hurt his young friend and that Holmes kept the world at arm's length because he feared that he could not cope with a similar kind of hurt ever again.

Holmes could be as insensitive as a brick, but there had also been times when Watson had caught a glimpse, if only fleetingly, of his more human, sensitive nature.

He'd seen Sherlock laugh, and cry, he'd seen him completely at a loss because he had no longer been able to trust himself, to maintain his detachment, and he had seen him forsake his own life to save those of the people that he held dear.

Well, sort of.

It had felt pretty real, and it was something that Watson did not ever want to go through again.

He had stood at his friend's graveside and told him that he was the most human, human that he had ever known, and it had been true.

It still was.

"I happen to think he's worth giving it a go. We all have defence mechanisms, a need for self preservation. For Holmes it's the face he presents to the world. Rigid. Hard. Austere. Superior. Arctic. He denies that he has feelings, claims that he does not have the ability to empathize with other human beings, but that isn't strictly true, it's just that he has made a conscious decision not to allow himself to get close to anyone, that way he doesn't have to try to reciprocate, and he won't make himself vulnerable, or get burned."

They began to walk once more, hurrying now out of the chill and the damp as a fine mist of drizzly rain began to tumble from the skies.

"On the other hand, you stuck around and took all the crap, the prickliness, the disdain, the arrogance, and in doing so, you've discovered for yourself that he is not always what he seems, that there are greater depths to him than he would like to allow anyone to see, except you."

"You too."

"Me?"

She seemed surprised.

"You seem to have summed him up nicely, and believe it or not, I've seen a different side to Sherlock when he's with you. You might not believe it, but this is quite tame for him. He's toned it down a lot, and I know he's trying to behave. You've made a stronger impression on him than either of you realize."

"I never judge a book by its cover John. I only have the evidence of my eyes and my instinct. He thinks he's such a hard man, but underneath... He would be devastated if he ever showed any sign of weakness to the world."

And allowing himself to love anyone would be a show of weakness.

Oh Sherlock, you berk...

"That remains to be seen. Anyway, I told him he needs to apologize for his behaviour tonight, and for invading your privacy, but I have a feeling that getting it out of him will be like pulling teeth."

"At least he might make the effort. That has to count for something, even if he doesn't mean it. He knows it's the right thing to do, for appearances sake, if nothing else, and if he's going to defuse the situation and get what he really wants."

"Exactly."

"But, I'm not holding my breath."

"Me neither."

"And no-one said I have to make it easy for him."

"Go get him, tiger!"

"But do I fancy him?" she returned to his question and gave it further consideration, briefly.

"Mmmm. If I'm honest, I don't know what I feel, John. I've been alone for so long, I've forgotten how that feels. Besides, I don't consider myself to be fanciable. I haven't been in the company of any men for such a long time, you seem like a different species to me, I'm afraid. I don't know how I'm supposed to react, how men are supposed to react to me. I've never considered myself attractive or sexy and so I wouldn't know how to deal with any man trying to make me believe that I am either of those things. I don't look to put myself in a situation where I might misunderstand, or get hurt."

Another of life's innocents...

Yearning for love and affection, yet not knowing how to offer it or accept it.

Or even recognize it when it was right under their noses!

Was whatever it was that she was hiding another reason for denying herself love?

Watson could not help wondering.

He had often suspected that that was behind Sherlock's decision to remain single and celebate.

Oh yes, he spouted on about the statistics on record, of wives or girlfriends killing their husbands or significant others, and never putting himself in that position, but after the Reichenbach thing with Moriarity, Sherlock had also been more focused on protecting those who he was close to, and Watson realized that a girlfriend, or even a wife, would make a prime target to get to Holmes, to be used against him.

As a newly married man, Watson could relate to that.

He'd thought long and hard about it since Holmes' return, and he had fallen in love with Mary.

What if another maniac like Moriaty showed up and tried to use her to get to himself, or Holmes?

It didn't bear thinking about.

If losing Holmes had almost been his undoing, losing Mary would kill him.

"Like Sherlock."

"The world can be a cruel place, John, if you are just the tiniest bit different to everyone else," he could tell from the sudden catch in her voice that she was speaking from experience now. "And you have to admit, Holmes is off the scale as far as being different is concerned."

"You're an attractive girl, Cass. I could fancy you... That is, if I weren't already married... I'll just shut up before I dig myself an even deeper hole, shall I?"

"Good idea, although, I am flattered, John. Thank you."

Cassia smiled more warmly now as they drew closer to 221B Baker Street.

"As for Sherlock, what does it matter if I like him or he likes me? There's no prospect of it going anywhere, for either of us. After this business is over, I'll probably never see him again."

As they arrived on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street at last, and Cassia handed over his doorkey, which was still warm from being curled up in her hand, John Watson could not help thinking that that would be a terrible, crying shame, for both of them.

But then again, he was a newly married man, and he was constantly being teased by his medical colleagues that it was natural that he would want all of his friends to know such happiness and contentment and fulfillment.

And Sherlock was, after all, perhaps his closest, dearest friend.

What a man he would be, basking in the warmth of the love of the right woman, of that, John Watson had no doubt.

Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed to have made up his mind that there was no room for such a thing in his life, and there was an end to it.