Chapter Thirty Four.
Watson and Cassia climbed the stairs up to Holmes' flat, Watson going ahead and Cassia following, trudging up the stairs with a weary step, a wary mood and trepidation in her heart, each wondering what they would find.
Independently, both found themselves hoping that Holmes would be feeling better and that there had been no recurrence of his sickness whilst they had been gone, while secretly, they each feared a repeat of the earlier fainting incident.
However, they found to their surprise that Holmes had not been idle during their absence. He had sought out fresh bedding, blankets, one for each of them, and a couple of fat, fluffy pillows for whoever got to sleep on the couch.
As they entered the living room, they found it empty, but they were not overly concerned for they could hear Holmes moving around in the kitchen, and upon hearing them return, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway.
"Cocoa?"
Both Watson and Cassia nodded their agreement, both feeling the need to wrap their chilled hands around something warm and comforting.
"Need any help?" Cassia offered, presenting Holmes with an opening, hoping that whilst they were alone together in the kitchen, he would use the opportunity to offer her some semblance of an apology, but, if he did not, then she would be able to try to broach the possibility of reaching some sort of agreement with him about her circumstances and his need to unearth her so called 'secret'.
As he stood in the kitchen door way, however, Cassia thought that Holmes looked anything but apologetic or contrite.
Despite his usual distain and a hint of belligerence, he did still look lousy though, pale and drawn, his suffering obvious in his unique eyes and in the deep lines etched into his brow, and, now that she was back in his indomitable presence, her own headache was back with a vengeance.
Poor sod.
Knowing how dreadful he must be feeling, and what he was facing when daylight arrived, Cassia found it hard to be truly angry with Sherlock Holmes for long.
That didn't mean that he didn't know which buttons to push to ignite her temper, of course.
He did.
However, she had never been one to harbour a grudge, although, Holmes was sorely trying her patience in that department.
What was it Maddie had said?
The immoveable object and the irristable force.
How true.
She had the feeling that whenever she encountered Mr Holmes their dealings would always result in a big bang!
It would never be boring or dull.
On any other occasion, she might have enjoyed sparring with him, verbally and mentally, but right now, here in this moment, she was too weak, too mentally and emotionally drained to put up more than a token resistance.
Let the genius think he's won, if it gets you a bit of time and space to pull yourself together and get your strength back for the ordeal ahead.
A temperary reprieve.
He was what he was, after all.
Instead of being angry with him, despite her continuing frustration with him, she found herself admiring him more.
To thine own self be true...
He didn't pretend to be anything other than the man that he was, and he saw no need to apologize for the way he was either.
What you saw was most definitely what you got.
Take it or leave it.
Like it or lump it.
Yes.
He was what he was.
There could be no middle ground with Holmes, and he was something of an acquired taste, like Caviar, or Marmite. You either liked it, or loathed it, and Cassia could not deny, that despite everything that she had seen and heard, she liked him.
It was time for a truce.
Perhaps she could persuade him that he was making a mountain of a mole hill, that her life was insignificant and not worth his bothering about.
She was neither a criminal, nor a victim, and there was nothing for him to concern himself with in the way she chose to live her life.
However, she doubted it.
She could see it in the glittering of his eyes and the set of his jaw.
He was determined to know.
The very fact that he knew that she was hiding something, that she was not whom she claimed to be, was like a red rag to a bull.
He would never let go.
He would make a much better ally than an enemy, and it looked as if he had his heart set on getting to the bottom of her secret, no matter what the consequences, to either of them.
Meanwhile, John Watson was aiming pointed, meaningful looks at Holmes as he took off his damp coat and slung it on the back of a nearby chair, however, Holmes was doing his best to ignore his friend.
"Please yourself," Holmes' intoned with a half shrug of his shoulders, in reply to Cassia's question, then turned around and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Cassia gave Watson a warm, reassuring smile as she too shrugged out of her coat and fluffed up her slightly damp hair, and then after hanging the coat up on the peg on the back of the door, alongside Holmes own heavy coat, she went to join Sherlock in the kitchen.
She found him setting out three mugs and a sugar bowl on to a familiar tray.
"There are some things I wanted to clarify with you," Holmes spoke, not turning around to face her, as she entered the kitchen.
Was this where she got her apology?
"Before we all settle for the night."
Meaning, before you dream, and all hell threatens to break loose.
"Oh."
He must have heard the note of disappointment in her tone and turned around to look at her at last.
"I need to know if there is a chance that this man, our killer, is aware of you, psychically, that is. You told John and I that you are able to feel what he feels, that you feared that he might be able to control you and make you do what he is doing, so, I have to know, does it work in reverse? Is it possible that he is aware of you and your interest in him?"
"I don't think so."
She gave an involuntary shudder of revulsion at the very idea.
"But you can't be sure?"
He continued to probe, regarding her intensely.
"I'm not worried that he might come after me, Sherlock, if that is what you are thinking," she spoke softly, but her tone was neutral, devoid of any kind of emotion and she kept her expression relaxed and calm.
Holmes found that he did indeed believe her.
She had never expressed any concern for her own well being, only for that of others who might be unfortunate enough to be in the same room with her when she dreamed.
"That did occur to me," he confided, something in his eyes softening, just for a second.
"However, it also crossed my mind that if he is aware of your interest in him, that he might realize that the heat is on, and that he may go to ground and lay low until he feels that any interest is well and truly over."
"I'd thought of that too, Sherlock. I don't get any sense that he is afraid of being discovered," she explained.
"But he still might decide to keep a low profile for a while."
"Yes, he might, but, I don't think so. The need to kill is just too strong. He can't fight it anymore."
Just as I can't fight you...
"One other thing, is there any possibility that you might be able to influence him, his actions, that you might be able to intervene and prevent him from killing?"
"No."
Holmes actually saw her cringe.
It was a simple statement, spoken in a low, cold voice, but the shudder that ran the length of her body, and the expression on her face told Holmes that the mere idea was terrifying for her.
"If I could, don't you think I would have tried?" she asked, through clenched teeth.
"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to infer that you haven't done enough to prevent his killing spree."
"I should damn well hope not, Sherlock!" she snapped back. "I have done everything that I know how to try to stop him, to try to get someone to believe me and do something about it..."
"I know," Holmes tried to placate, but it was clear that he had hit a nerve and that she was angry with him.
"How could you even ask such a thing, Sherlock?" She asked in incredulity now, her green eyes full of disappointment and shock that he could think something like that of her, the gold specks in the irises fizzing with anger.
"Forgive me. I mis-spoke."
His tone was gentle now.
However, Cassia could not help feeling that he was deliberately goading her, trying to make her lower her guard so she would say something that she had not intended about her true identity and the life that she was trying to conceal from him and the world.
"You're upset with me? I don't need to be psychic to know that. You've been glaring at me all evening, ignoring me, or having a dig, and I simply don't understand why, but, I had thought that you knew how serious I am about this. I thought you knew how this is tearing me apart..."
"I do. I shouldn't have..."
"No, you shouldn't!"
"Very well. I'm sorry," Holmes reiterated, but there was little repentance in his expression of his tone of voice.
"Is there anything else you want to know, about how this psychic link works?" She demanded angrily now.
"Do I know what he's planning and when he's going to make his next move?" She sneered at him now, letting him know that he wasn't the only one who could turn ugly if necessary, and that she did not appreciate his attitude.
However, even as he opened his mouth, she continued before he had a chance to speak.
"No dammit, I don't! I can't get in to his head, Sherlock, and I don't want to, thank you very much!" She announced in a high pitched voice.
Realizing that her raised voice might attract the attention of John Watson, and suddenly aware that Holmes was beginning to enjoy her discomfort, Cassia drew in a long calming breath and tried to reign in her emotions.
"I can't stop him invading my dreams and my visions, but it's not something I know is going to happen ahead of time anyway. Frankly, it's never happened to me before, and I'm baffled by it. I do everything in my power to try to protect myself from being taken over by a soul who has passed over, but he's very much alive, and I don't know how he's doing what he is, or why my usual protections are not strong enough to block him," she spoke more calmly now, needing Holmes to understand the reality of the situation.
"I don't have any control over this. I am an antenna, a conduit. Either the veil opens and I dream, or have visions, or it does not. That's why I'm so concerned about what you are hoping will happen here tonight, Sherlock. You're placing far too much stock on my ability to influence proceedings. It doesn't work like that, and I can't. Either spirit will co-operate, and allow me to do what you want, or they won't. If they decide to protect me, to block me, there is nothing that I can do. It's not up for negotiation either. I can't just turn it on or off like a switch. They show me what they think I need to see, when I need to see it."
"I will bear that in mind."
"Good. I wouldn't want you to think that I was deliberately being awkward or unco-operative," she replied sarcastically.
"Thank you for explaining the situation to me."
However, Cassia got the distinct impression that she had been wasting her breath and that he still believed that between them they would be able to manipulate her dream or vision.
You supremely arrogant and utterly conceited tosser!
They remained silent for several long seconds, staring each other out, until Cassia finally decided to break the uncomfortable silence, needing to do something with her hands, before she took a swing at him and punched him in the jaw.
"What can I do?"
"Actually, thinking about it, I don't believe that it would be wise for me handle hot liquids," Holmes gave her a half smile and a wry look, and then moved his gaze, briefly, down to his bandaged wrist.
"No. I agree. You don't want to end up wearing it again."
Unless I'm the one throwing it in your face!
"Then perhaps, if you don't mind, would you see to the milk? I've already got it all ready on the hob."
"Fine."
Suddenly there was another tense, uneasy silence, and Cassia, growing more and more uncomfortable, unusually, felt the need to fill the silence, trying to delay the moment when she would have to speak to him about his delving into her life.
"I noticed we were running a bit low on milk earlier, and while I was out, I went into a shop to buy some, then I realized I didn't have any money with me."
"I suppose it was the thought that counts. John can nip out to the newsagents in the morning if need be."
Cassia walked over to the cooker and turned on the hotplate under the small saucepan of milk, while Holmes finished setting up the tray and added a plate of plain biscuits.
They worked in an uneasy silence, until, finally, unable to bear the tension, both turned from their tasks to face each other, and spoke in unison.
"Look, Sherlock..."
"Cassia..."
Cassia gave a small, nervous laugh, and then quickly returned her attention to the milk heating in the saucepan on the hob.
"Ladies first," Sherlock invited, in sarcastic tones.
Oh boy, you really are the absolute limit!
He really was spoiling for a fight.
"Fine," she spoke through clenched teeth as she half turned away from the stove, mindful of the heating contents of the saucepan and faced him, side on.
He had a cold, ruthless expression on his face, and she knew instantly that he suspected that he knew that she knew all about his actions while she had been out and that he was not sorry at all about what he had done.
She gave a deep sigh.
"John told me what happened, that you went through my things..."
Holmes made no response.
No big surprise there.
He had suspected as much.
Ever the boy scout, Watson. Ever the officer and genteman.
There would be no denial, no apology forthcoming any time soon, Cassia realized as she took in his haughty expression and now cold eyes.
"I know what you were looking for," she continued after another quick glance at the saucepan on the hob. "And I know that you didn't find it."
"Indeed," Holmes confirmed coldly.
"Why?"
"You know why," Holmes countered quickly. "I felt it necessary."
"But why is it necessary, Sherlock?"
He did not answer her, but continued to regard her with cold, suspicious eyes.
"The way I heard it, you had a tantrum and threw my toys out of your pram."
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the that the milk in the saucepan was beginning to come to the boil, showing signs of climbing up the sides of the pan, so she turned off the hotplate and moved the saucepan to a cold ring at the back of the stove, resisting the urge to throw the hot milk all over Sherlock Holmes as she did so.
"Did it make you feel better?"
No reply.
"Well, did it? You got yourself all worked up, and made yourself sick to boot. So, was it worth it?"
She asked again, leaning back against the stove, carefully avoiding burning herself on the still warm hotplate.
Still no reply.
"I don't think so. And I don't understand why you are so angry and outraged, Sherlock. I don't understand why it is so damned important to you to try to dig up what you obviously consider to be my 'dirty little secret'. If there is such a thing, it has nothing to do with you, or with this case, the reason we are trying to work together."
She spoke calmly now, her tone reasonable, meeting his steely blue/grey gaze with steady, unwavering green eyes. Her previous anger apparently dissipated.
"I've never lied to you, Sherlock. Indeed, I've gone out of my way to be as straight and up front with you as I could. I thought that I had gained your trust, but now it seems that the rules of your silly little game have changed, and we're back to square one, and I have to win your trust all over again."
"No. Not quite square one," he corrected. "I do not doubt that you have a genuine gift."
"Well, thanks for that, if nothing else."
Her tone was sarcastic.
"And I still trust you in that."
"Well whoopee ding bloody dong!" she muttered darkly. "So why isn't that enough for you, Sherlock?" she demanded now. "Why are you so determined to go digging around in what you consider to be my dirty laundry, to find the skeleton you believe is lurking in my closet?"
"I prefer to know with whom I am dealing, what drives them, and what their true motivation might be. People lie. Often they don't even realize that they are doing it. Little white lies are a rule of thumb these days just to get people through the day."
"I have never lied to you, Sherlock."
"You're very appearance is a lie!" He accused.
"What?"
"The way you look, dress, every inch of your appearance is a lie. You don't know it, but there is absolutely nothing truthful in the way you present your physical self to the world."
That's rich coming from you!
"Really?" she was surprised.
He was right.
She didn't know that she was hiding her true self, if indeed she was, until he had just said so.
It had been so long since she had had need to be her true self with anyone other than a few select friends that she probably had forgotten who her true self was.
Did that make her a liar?
"Oh, I see, it's because you can't do that wonderful observation thing on me, that's what narks you, isn't it? You can't show off how brilliant you. You're frustrated because I'm not as transparent as most people are to your practiced eye, aren't you? Did it ever occur to you that what you do, although utterly brilliant, is also intrusive and insulting?"
"No, it hasn't."
"Well, it is. You tried it on me the very first day we met, but you were disappointed, weren't you."
Cassia gave him a weak smile.
"I didn't do it deliberately, if that's any consolation. This is me. This is who and what I am, Sherlock. Just a nothing little nobody from nowhere, trying to live a quiet, simple life,"she declared. "So, here I am, standing right here, what do you know about me?" she challenged.
"Next to nothing."
"No, not what you know about my life, just from looking at me, Sherlock. I mean, what do you know about me?"
Holmes regarded her with cold, analytical eyes, as he realized what she was truly asking him.
What did he see?
What did he feel?
What had he learned about her as a woman, from having spent time with her?
Well, he knew that she was outspoken, tenacious, and that she had a conscience.
She was no meek wallflower either.
She was intelligent, articulate, charming, amiable and caring.
She was affectionate too.
She was also strong, mentally and emotionally.
She had stood up to him, more than once, faced down his cynicism and his arrogance, fighting for what she believed in, and what she knew to be right.
In many ways, she had laid herself wide open to him, and he knew that she was a good woman, full of good intentions.
She had a genuinely good heart.
And a beautiful soul.
And yet, there was something that she was concealing, not just from him, but from the whole world, and he knew that he could not, would not rest until he learned what it was that was so dark, so threatening, so awful, that it made her hide away from the world.
What it was that had made her turn her back on life and try to lose herself.
Yet, even he did not really understand why it mattered so much to him.
But it did.
Unless...
If she was in trouble, in danger, then perhaps he might be able to help her, protect her...
Yes.
That was it.
He wanted to be her Saviour, her knight in shining armour, to rescue her from the dangers and evils in her life.
Her guardian angel.
That damned hero complex kicking in again!
"Well? Is it really so hard, Sherlock?"
"I thought you found what I do insulting."
"It is, when you don't know it's coming, but I'm asking you. I want to know what your impressions are of me."
"So you can tell me yours of me."
"No. Because what I think about you doesn't matter. Whatever impressions I have of you don't matter much either. I know all that I need to know about you."
"Very well."
He drew in a short breath and began.
"You are witty and feisty. Charming, and articulate. Courageous, and outspoken. You are also a little shy, reserved and introvert, but not meek. You are not ostentatious, or prone to over exaggeration, and you are warm hearted and conscientious."
There, that wasn't so difficult, was it!
Yet all that said, she knew that it was still not enough for him.
He didn't want impressions, he wanted facts.
"I know that you are a good woman," Sherlock added, keeping his tone even and sincere, because he really did mean it. "And whatever it is that you are fleeing, whatever it is that you are afraid of, perhaps I could be of some help. But you have to trust me..."
"I am not afraid, Sherlock. I'm not running away from anything," Cassia sighed softly now. "I just don't feel the need to lay my life out like a carpet for all and sundry to scrutinize and trample all over."
"I am not all and sundry," he was irritated again now. "I want to help you."
"I don't need your help, Sherlock! I've managed very well all these years without it. I don't think I'm going to fall apart when all this is over and I never see you again, you conceited, arrogant dunderhead!"
His expression grew angry and irritated once more.
"Look, you pilchard, for the last time, I'm not in trouble, I'm not a criminal, and I am not in danger. At this precise moment, you are in more danger than I am, because I could cheerfully throttle you! Now, back off and let me do what needs to be done, Sherlock," she told him in irritation now, a fierce look on her face.
Holmes found himself admiring her.
She really did have balls.
"You don't need to know anything more about me than your mind and your heart already know, and all this negativity that you are generating will only make it harder for us to achieve anything."
She reigned in her temper again and spoken more calmly.
"I can't work properly if I am anxious or tense, stressed out, and your veiled threats about digging about in my private life are creating all those things right now. It's completely unnecessary, Sherlock. There is nothing there to interest you."
"Why can't you trust me?"
"I do, you moron. I wouldn't still be here if I didn't, putting up with this crap. There are more important things..."
"Yet you still cannot be completely honest with me," he persisted.
"Oh, for crying out loud man, will you listen to yourself!" she erupted now, her hands curling into tight fists at her side. "We must have a completely different idea about what 'complete' honesty is," she snatched a quick breath before continuing.
"I don't need to know your inside leg measurements, or which side 'Sir' dresses, or what you like to eat and drink or how many girlfriends you might or might not have had and when, or if you live like a monk, or bat for the other side!"
She was in full flow now, and determined to give as good as she got, her voice low and throbbing with intensity.
"I don't care if you wet the bed when you were young, of if you still do now! I don't care that you don't get along with your brother, and it matters not a jot to me if you want to kill yourself dabbling with chemical band aids!"
She snatched another breath and continued before he had a chance to chime in, although she could see that he clearly wanted to.
"I don't care that you are deliberately cruel and obnoxious, that you sulk if you can't have your own way, and that you would fall out with God himself and make sure you got the last word in if you believed that you were right and he was wrong! I don't need to know why you always have to be so cold, calculating, prickly, all hard edges and spikes. It changes nothing. None of that changes who you are and what you do, and the fact that you are unique."
"I don't need to know anything more about you than that you are damned good at what you do. I don't need to know what makes you tick, Sherlock, so why the hell is so damned important for you to know those things about me!"
It was quite a speech, and, Holmes realized, she had made her point very eloquently, those amazingly green eyes spitting golden sparks as she glared at him.
So, why was it so important to him?
He still did not really know.
His only excuse was that it was the way that he had always worked, and he could not, would not change his methodology now.
And, somehow, now it was even more important to him to know who she really was.
"Damn you ..."
Cassia saw what he was thinking in his eyes and turned away from him then, pretending to weep, bowing her head so that her hair fell slightly forward to hide false tears, as she reached out for the saucepan of cooling milk.
He probably knew that it was all an act, but it wouldn't hurt to let him believe that he had upset her.
It probably wouldn't make any difference, he was too hard and cold and unsympathetic for that, but it might make him stop and think for a moment.
It might buy her some time.
"You're not going to let it alone, are you?" she sniffed and made a show of raising her hand to pretend to dab at her crocodile tears.
"There is a simple solution, Cassia." He put more emphasis on her name.
A clear taunt.
"Why do you even think that you have any right to know all that there is to know about me, anyway, Sherlock?" she demanded.
Holmes made no reply.
He simply waited for her to turn back to face him, untouched by her show of emotion.
"Go and play with the traffic on the M25 ..." She mumbled then drew in a deep breath, threw back her shoulders and reached for the saucepan.
"Fine, if that's how it's got to be, so be it."
She sighed heavily once more and turned around, saucepan in hand, careful not to slop the hot contents over herself as she moved toward Sherlock and the tray of mugs on the counter behind him.
Holmes moved out of her way, casually, and leaned his hip against the counter as she poured hot milk into the three mugs and on top of the cocoa powder that he had already spooned into each one.
After emptying the saucepan she moved to the sink and ran the hot tap, filling the saucepan with hot water before dumping it into the sink to soak along with a liberal dash of washing up liquid.
After drawing in another long, calming breath, Cassia once again turned back to face Holmes, taking in his cold, unyielding eyes.
He really was a ruthless bastard.
He really did not know how to empathize with another human being.
"You unfeeling bastard... It looks like I have no other choice. So, I'll save you the time and trouble of digging around, Sherlock."
As she had known that she would, she saw his expression change to one of triumph.
"I'm listening."
She gave a small derisive laugh.
"Oh no, not now, Sherlock. It isn't that easy. I'll tell you what you want, or you feel that you need to know, but at a time and place of my choosing, and you're going to have to work for it, Mr Smarty Pants," she sneered.
"It's a reward, Sherlock, not a right, and before I tell you anything, I will need your assurance that it will never ever go any further."
"You have it."
"And I'm supposed to believe you?"
She gave another derisory laugh.
"Oh, I do, don't worry."
Now she could see the spark of triumph glistening in his eyes.
Mission accomplished.
He thought that he had got the better of her, worn her down.
"I trust you, after all. Now, get the hell off my back. I need peace and tranquillity and harmony around me, not angst and doubt and suspicion and discord," she told him in no uncertain terms now.
"I'm sorry that you feel betrayed, Sherlock. You really have no need to feel that way, and I don't deserve to be punished for your paranoia."
"Cass..."
"Shove it, Sherlock."
"You don't know what I was going to say," he protested mildly.
"Frankly, unless it starts with 'I'm sorry, Cass' I really don't care," she told him defiantly now, squaring back her shoulders.
"Let's just drink our cocoa and try to get along. I'm tired, Sherlock, and I know that you are too, and you really need some pain medication for that bloody headache."
She raised her hand briefly to her brow, in exactly the place where Holmes' own headache was pounding away.
Could she really feel his pain?
Holmes was momentarily stunned, but then he remembered what he wanted to say.
"Cass," Holmes was undeterred and meant to have his say too.
While they were both being brutally honest.
"Whatever it is, this secret that you are so desperate to keep, I swear, it will be safe with me."
"I believe you. That's why I'm willing to share it with you, Sherlock. But, you have to know that it is a heavy price for me to have to pay for your co-operation," she told him flatly now.
"All I wanted, when I came to you, was to do the right thing, to have someone believe in me, just for once, and to bring an end to these horrific murders. I still want that, so I'll pay the piper and dance for the Devil, and then I'll be on my way and never darken your doorstep again. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom..."