This chapter is dedicated to Shiori92 for being such a helpful and loyal fan. I suppose I'm like Sherlock and you are Watson. Sometimes you had to point things out to me for me to realize their importance/stupidity. ^^ You have all my thanks, along with everyone else who has stuck with me this far.

FormofJane: Crepe paper was used as a lipstick. I think 'teeth' was a bad vocabulary decision on my part. Thanks for asking though! (:

I also saw a TON of new reviewers this time around! I HOPE TO SEE YOUR LOVELY NAMES AGAIN? :3 please?

Renadale and I appreciate it more than you could possibly know!

PLEASE REVIEW & FAV (:

~Mistro~

~.~.~.~.~.~

There was overwhelming feeling of insecurity that lied within me. Showing my practically bare legs to Sherlock Holmes tested that boundary quite enough for one day, but when I was suddenly left alone in the pub, I knew that my worries were at their peak.

Somehow, I had to come out of the booth. If someone were to walk in, surely I would startle him or her in my attire. If I were to walk out, everyone's eyes might turn to me.

That was the last thing I wanted.

The only thing I could think of to do was to quietly slink down a nearby hallway. There was a curtain next to the gypsy's booth that would allow me to go unnoticed. I would also be close to Sherlock in case anything happened in which he needed my help.

Not that I would be of much use anyway.

My trembling fingers pulled back the red velvet to grant me a better view. I could see no one on the second floor balcony. Everyone was enjoying their night and had no concern for me. The performers on stage had already forgotten about my presence and the men surrounding them had surely done the same. It was the opportune moment and I took it with satisfaction.

My bare feet waddled softly towards the entrance, and in seconds I was hiding behind the blue curtain. I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief as I tiredly pulled the feather from my head. Its white fuzz tickled my hand as it twiddled it between my fingers.

A memory began to trickle into my mind, the silence keeping it from going away. The more I tried to fight it off, the longer it lingered. My mind was lost to those handsome eyes.

~.~.~.~.~.~

"Renadale, what exactly are you trying to achieve?" Thomas's fists were dug deeply in his pockets as he smiled bemusedly at the peaceful, young girl. She glanced up at him with a peeved expression before turning back to her knots.

"Father said it was good practice," she muttered. She couldn't help but feel rattled every time he spoke her name. It was the first time anyone besides her father had said it with affection. And he was so charming that it was difficult to believe his sincerity. "Knots can come in handy when you least expect it."

Thomas only laughed as he sat beside her in the tent. She felt deeply wrong with the situation. They were alone and no one was nearby to keep an eye on them. He was so close that he could have kissed her if he wanted to. Not that he wants to, she thought with embarrassment.

"Your fingers are too tense. In fact, I think you're focused too much." He quietly took the knot from her fingers and began to finish it. She wasn't bothered by this intrusion. She enjoyed watching him work. He taught her with silence. "It's a simple knot, really. A sailor's first lesson."

"Well, I'm not a sailor. Am I?" She couldn't resist a small smile.

"No, you are not." His teeth were perfectly white as he grinned. An American's teeth. "I'm very glad of it. If you were, I might not have been able to see your lovely face as often as I have."

"It has only been a couple of weeks."

"A day would suffice if it meant spending it with you."

Renadale did not take the compliment well. Feeling hot and under pressure, she struggled to stand up from the ground. Thomas watched her with scrunched brows, curious as to where she was headed. "I have to go and do… research."

"Research?" Thomas laughed with his charming, deep chuckle. "We haven't found anything yet."

"Yes, I know." Her words struggled to come from her mouth. She shut her eyes in clear frustration, trying to distract herself from his perfectly smooth skin. He was pale from the New York lifestyle, but that only made his dark complexions more desirable. "That's why it is called 'research'. I haven't found an answer yet."

"Wait." A soft hand found itself on her exposed arm. She cursed herself for wearing a short-sleeved dress. She rarely did it, and now that she did, he just had to touch her. "I wanted to give this to you."

She slowly turned to face him, her curiosity always getting the better of her. Her eyes caught sight of the profoundingly orange feather that he was wielding towards her. Her fingers snatched it up quickly from his hands as the words could barely fall from her mouth. "Is this from a Golden Pheasant?"

"I heard you speaking to your father. You had mentioned that they were your favorite, and I just couldn't help myself. I had collected some samples when I was in Norfolk some months ago." He watched as she played with the feather in her fingers. They moved over the material so lightly, as though she would break it with a single squeeze. "Do you like it?"

"Oh, Mister Smith. How could I not?" Her head shook in bewilderment. "My father will be ecstatic when he hears you have one. He has always loved the oriental bird."

"Yes, he does enjoy his nature." Thomas once again dug his fists into his pockets. He was content that he had put that sparkle in her eye. Something about the girl was different. She wasn't like the talkative, showy girls he was used to back home. Sure, he loved those women, but Renadale Adkins was a breed all her own. She was getting the better of him; a man that people swore would never be flustered by a woman. "Renadale, perhaps we should go set up for dinner. The team will be back tonight and I'm sure they'll want a hearty meal."

"Oh, right!" Her cheeks returned back to their normal pink as she carefully tucked the feather into her keepsake box. "They'll certainly be hungry." She shuffled out of the tent, leaving Thomas alone.

He glanced around her tent, staring at her rumpled sheets and her tossed pillow. She did not have much else: a book, her box, and some research materials. There was a small journal that his fingers itched to pick up, but he would not do that to her.

He was astounded with himself. Since when did he care about a woman's private thoughts? He could see when a woman wanted him from miles away. But what about her? She was always flustered. How could he possibly know if it was because of him or not?

"Stop it," he cursed to himself. "Stop letting her get the better of you. You're Thomas Smith, for God's sake." Even his words were not convincing enough. She had captivated him and he was too deeply interested to walk away. He cursed himself once more before joining Renadale outside.

~.~.~.~.~

My mouth literally began to taste bad after the memory left my head. My body let out a visible shudder at the thought of Thomas. I had wanted to kiss him so badly back then, to have him be my first, and yet I had just gotten my old desire a few weeks ago. Irony had no issue coming into my life.

My back rested against the wooden wall as the tight corset ordered me not to breathe. At least my hair tumbled down to my shoulders, making me feel slightly relaxed. It was also a way to shield my face from any unwanted onlookers. Even though I was alone, it was as if there were eyes all around me.

My thoughts then drifted to what was happening inside of the fortune room. Who was in there with Sherlock? What did she look like? Perhaps she was beautiful. I almost peeked my head inside, but something else caught my attention. A loud banging. Grunts. A cry.

Was that the sound of someone fighting? Had the murderer already come into view?

A large lump began to rise in my throat. I didn't have time to question myself or prepare for what was going to happen next. Straight in front of me, a small man tumbled to the ground between the curtains. I jumped back in shock, letting out an audible scream as I tried to kick him away. Other men and women were just coming down the hallway, but dashed out at the first view of the Cossack.

"That's definitely not a gypsy girl!" I cried wearily.

The man's eyes cracked open at the sound of my voice. He ripped of his jacket and tossed it aside, jumping onto his feet without the help of his hands. I wanted to pin him to the ground, but I could not find the stamina or the energy. He was gone just as quickly as he had come.

I scrambled to my knees as I scooped up the vest of knives he had left behind. The weapons were a threat to my unstable hands, but I kept them close nonetheless. If he didn't have them, that was all the better. "What am I going to do now?" I muttered as I stared down at the sparkling metal.

Sherlock quickly retreated from outside of the curtain. His eyes caught mine with surprise. I could read them as clear as day. What the hell are you doing here? No proper answer came into my mind. The woman beside me held my entire captivation. Her long hair plummeted in curls similar to mine. It was like a waterfall on her head, and I could not help but be jealous by her stunning features and sharp cheekbones. She must have caught me staring, because before I knew it, her strong hands pinned me to the wall.

"Who are you?" She shouted, snatching the knives from my hand. "Are you working for him?"

Sherlock tugged her off, trying to calm her down. "She's with me! She's not supposed to be here. This is not our main concern."

"Right," the girl spat. Her eyes were still suspicious. I knew she was probably just frightened. However, with her sudden invasion onto my body, I felt a bit more harassed than she did. "Let's go before he gets away." The two rushed down the hall without another word.

The squeaky notes of Irish fiddles rang all around the pub. The song was 'The Congress Reel' and the blissful notes did not seem to fit the present situation. I could hear people shouting, glasses breaking, and money falling all at once. No doors were open for me. There were no clear arrows telling me where to go next. Somehow, I would just have to go with the tide.

Most of my life felt like that.

My bare feet carried me down the balcony hall. Men and women were charging towards the stairs to get away from the Cossack, but I was trying to move against the current. The lonely fish travelling past the crowd. That was how I had always been, hadn't it?

When I finally reached the end of the hall, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. I looked bewilderingly at the girl, but her eyes were only fixated on a nearby window.

The window?

"Sherlock!" I shouted as I peered over the edge. He was at the very bottom, getting pulled at by a bunch of gamblers. Who knew what was in store for him? "You idiot! You just had to get us into another mess, didn't you?" I could feel the girl standing directly behind me. Her eyes were drilling into my face: inspecting me, judging me, sizing me up. I could no return her look. She was far too intimidating.

And Sherlock's present situation was much more alluring.

It was just like the boxing arena. Men were cheering and getting ready for a fight. My stomach felt weak just thinking about him getting hurt, but I knew he could handle himself. He could easily fight that acrobat with his bare hands.

Except, he tossed a chicken towards the Cossack. No one expected it, but it allowed for Sherlock to get away from the fight without a cut. "Your friend is a foolish man," the gypsy muttered in my ear.

I turned to mirror her frown. "Might I ask who makes this declaration?"

"I am Madame Simza." Genuinely, I was surprised she told me. "Now, you will answer my question. Why is your friend protecting me?"

Red hair. Short body. Fat face. James Moriarty was creeping into my mind like an unwanted disease. I missed the days where he was a glowing hero. "Because…" I said softly. "The man who sent that murderer to kill you must be stopped."

"If he knows that your detective friend saved me, he will come after you." Her eyes were as dark as night and shook me to the core. "Do you really want that?"

"We've had people came after us before. This time certainly won't be any different." Somehow, I had trouble believing my own words. There was antipathy on her face as she looked at me, but it could not be helped. I wasn't there to make friends and neither was she. We both had our business prospects.

"Keep telling yourself that," she said before turning away. "It might just save your lives."

She began to dash down the hallway once again. It didn't take long for me to realize that Holmes and the Cossack were back inside. Simza wasn't wasting a minute for an opportunity to fight the man that tried to take her life. My lips pouted a bit in jealousy. She had all the stamina that I had ever wished for.

"No point in standing here," I muttered and made my way back onto the balcony. It was easy to follow the gypsy with her bright orange skirt, and I shoved past more frightened guests to follow her bread trail. The acrobat was on the balcony above us; his feet were so light that they could not be mistaken for Sherlock's.

I kept yelling at myself in my head. Where is Holmes? What makes you think you can fight this man? Why are you following the gypsy in the first place? But I did not have the fitting answers.

Simza and the Cossack had both entered the backstage area. My feet flew me down the steps, but I could not make my way into the circle to help her. She was tossing her knives towards him, but he ended up getting the better of her with a sharp jab to the nose. My whole body ached to go and help, but my determination was rudely interrupted. A sharp shove came to my shoulder. I grabbed it in surprise, but was forced to look ahead as I saw Sherlock rushing past me. With Sherlock and the gypsy woman, things would be taken care of in no time. The only thing of value that I possessed was my jeweled corset.

Sherlock's foot gave the Cossack a firm shove until he tumbled from a nearby window and into the Thames. I wanted to raise my hands in applause, but decided it was probably not the proper time.

"Hey!"

The interrupting voice took us all by surprise. "John..." I groaned when I saw him peek his head from behind the curtain. He was as drunk as a man could be, and his face was swelling up from a fight downstairs. All I could do was think of how Mary would feel when he turned up at their wedding looking like he just came back from his war days.

"You can run, but you can't… Where's you?" His words were slurred as he stumbled onto the wooden floor. Sherlock's eyes were full of amusement at the foggy state of his friend, and Simza was too preoccupied with her bleeding nose to have any concern for the pitiable doctor.

"John Watson," I sighed. "What have you been up to?"

He spread out his arms as though it was obvious. "Just had a fight!" His legs crossed lazily over the other until his whole body got the better of him. We all watched with wide eyes as he tumbled into a pile of stage lights. Sherlock and I both jumped forward to help him, but he was adamant that we stay away. "Just had a fight!" He repeated, pointing an angry finger in Sherlock's face. "Where were you?"

My motherly instincts got the better of me as I kneeled to hold him up in my arms. His bloodshot eyes met mine with perplexity, and it was then that I realized he did not yet know of my presence. "Renadale…?" His voice was a harsh whisper. "What are you doing here?"

"Helping you, apparently." I couldn't help but manage a laugh, despite his swelling face. "I'll explain it all when you have your proper mind back. You've made quite a mess of yourself."

He let out a groan and abandoned his head to my shoulder. All of his money was gone, his friend had forgotten about his stag party, and he was getting married the next day. I certainly didn't blame him for his pessimistic state of mind. "I should have known something would be…" He struggled to find the words as his eyes rolled sluggishly around the room.

It was all I could do to hold back my laughter. "I would recommend that you don't talk right now."

"I'm glad to see you taking your best man duties so seriously."

All of us craned our necks to the stairway, where Mycroft stood with a filled champagne glass. Carruthers stood naturally beside him. It was like they were at a show; clearly we were as amusing as any comedic play.

"I was on my own!" Watson screamed as he fell from my arms. He laid on his flat back, shouting up at the sky in ferocity. "Not gonna get my monies!" Trying to hold my laughter back was too much of a struggle, and I fell against the stage in giggles. "She was biting my leg!" He continued in aggravation.

Sherlock's arm folded over his mouth to hide his smile. Mycroft was less than pleased with the scene, being the mature older brother. "I'll have Carruthers put some fuel into that motor carriage of yours." Mycroft's voice was loud and firm. "You do have a wedding to attend."

"Oh, I'll drive!" John's head peeked up excitedly from the floor. Another burst of laughter escaped my lips. It was contagious, even though I knew I wasn't helping the situation. John ended up cackling right alongside me. "Honk, honk!" He motioned squeezing the vehicle's horn, sending us off into another whirlwind of laughter. "See? Rena thinks it's a good idea!"

"Don't toss me into the mix!" I had to wait until I was done laughing to finally speak up. "You driving is a very bad idea." Sherlock and I locked eyes with mutual smiles.

"Do you think Mary will be okay with me looking like this?" John gestured towards his features. "She always had a thing for rugged men."

"John, you must stop talking nonsense, as much as I like it." My hands scooped up his torso. He fell onto me again without warning, too drunk to have any control of his reflexes. "Let's get you into the carriage before anyone tells her what you've been up to."

"Oh, let her find out," he grumbled. "It's not like I can hide the marks on my face."

I snatched a nearby cologne bottle from a backstage table. With one pump, I sprayed a lavender mist into his ruddy face. He coughed and batted away the smell, but it was impossible to get completely away. "No," I smiled. "But at least we can hide the smell."

~.~.~.~.~

The vehicle was pumping its way along as the night sky began to dwindle and the sun began greet us. John was fast asleep in the back, snoring as much as Gladstone. We had only been driving for ten minutes and the sound of the car and guttural noises were already getting to my head.

Sherlock's mind was deep in thought as I distracted myself by reading the gypsy's letter. It was addressed to Miss Simza Heron, Providence Warf, London E.C. My French was still nonexistent, but the sketching of the boy was more than enough to hold my interest.

"So, what do you think?" Sherlock's head turned towards me briefly as I began to tuck the letter back inside of its package.

"I think you should have given it back to her."

"She forgot it," he mumbled. "Someone had to take it." I tucked it back inside his coat pocket and turned my eyes back onto the road. The sky was an astounding shade of orange. I couldn't help but be reminded of some other possessions matching the shade.

Simza's skirt.

Thomas's feather.

Even Moriarty's hair.

Only, it was much more picturesque than those things. The sun was there for me every day if I wished to see it. But at that precise moment, its effect was astounding. It drew me in and sucked all of the breath from my lungs. "Amazing sunrise, is it not?" Sherlock's soft tone filled my ears.

"It is a perfect day for a wedding," I said with a smile. "Clear as clear can be."

Sherlock only grumbled a minor response. My head turned towards him to tease, but he was not in the mood for wittiness. Even though he had gotten rid of a murderer, and was one step closer to Moriarty, Watson's wedding could not be avoided. His whole body wore a halo of anxiety. "You're upset."

"I'm not upset." His fingers scratched his face, but I knew it was to hide the lie in his eyes. "What would I have to be upset about?" Sherlock Holmes was not worth arguing with. He did not need to be more upset than he was, and I happily left him alone in his misery.

My eyes could not seem to peel away from him, however. We were sitting closely together in the front seat, and I could spot a cut on his left cheek. It was dripping dried blood and would no doubt leave a scar. Bitter reminders of the cuts he received in the sewer paraded back into my mind. "Sherlock, you're hurt."

"So is John," he scoffed. "He'll manage."

"It's not painful?" Sherlock's lips were a tight line. He did not want to be pampered by a woman. He was Sherlock Holmes. Of course it wasn't bothersome. "At least let me clean it up a bit." I went to reach for his face, but his hand grasped my wrist before I even grazed his skin.

"Leave it." His response was as sharp as the Cossack's knives. "I'm fine."

He had not been hostile with me for quite some time. My cheeks were probably as bright as the morning sky when he pushed me away. I thought we had moved past those days. "You're not fine." His voice may have been like a dagger, but mine would be a razor. "You push people away when they try to help you. Frustration is written all over your face and yet you insist on being alone." Sherlock slowly began to take his foot off of the fuel. His jaw was open in slight shock, but he wasn't about to say anything convincing. "I'm tired to not understanding you. I've tried for so long and you never tell me if I'm doing it right." My anger dissipated into feeble cursing. Clearly, my words were enough to stir him from his gloominess.

"I do not deny your statements." His shoulders dropped to a state of relaxation, but the fire would never leave his eyes. "Everything you have said or known about me is true, but the reasoning behind my attitudes are difficult to explain."

"You don't need to help me anymore. I understand what the letter is saying. This boy, Rene, is Simza's brother. He must have done something for Moriarty, or is going to do something for him, and that is why they tried to kill his sister." All of my words were rushed beneath my breath as I turned my face away from him. Perhaps I was acting like a child, but that was only because it was reciprocated. "I'm up to scale with you now. Don't worry; you don't have to teach the imbecilic Renadale of your upcoming plans."

"You're the furthest thing from an imbecile, Renadale." Sherlock's brows creased together. "Don't degrade yourself in that way."

"Why not?" I scoffed. "I've proven myself to be worthless."

"Oh, yes! You're worthless because you saved me from a bullet." His fingers instantly reached towards the top of my blouse, pulling down the left shoulder. I gasped in shock at his forwardness, but was unable to speak as I stared at the hideous scar beneath it.

I could not hide the hurt lingering in my face. My skin was warped beneath my clothes. It wasn't a huge wound, a bit bigger than a shilling, but it was enough to make any grown man shudder. I could not seem to take my eyes away from it. I had avoided its sight for so long and now it was suddenly smiling into my face. "What a pretty sight…" I laughed darkly. "Quite an ugly thing, isn't it?"

"Every day I wake up and I think of that scar." His voice was quiet as we turned down a country road outside of the city. The scene was beautiful with the sunrise, but Sherlock's words moved me even more. "I think of how I could have stopped it. I could have stopped it with my own heart, but you took it for me. There is nothing hideous about it." His face refused to turn towards me. "There is nothing hideous about any part of you."

I tried so hard to hold onto my conviction, but it just would not stay. Comforted tears threatened to fall, so I had to turn away from him once more. "Don't make me seem like a hero. You know very well that I would do the same thing if the situation presented itself again."

"Which is why you are not ever to be deemed as worthless."

"Do you keep me in gratitude? Because if that is the case, then I would much rather-"

"I do not keep you. I want you here because…" His voice trailed off with a shake of his head. "It doesn't matter. You are not worthless. You are…" Now it was time for me to watch him. His struggle was always a sign of something affectionate accidentally slipping out, and I waited on the edge of my seat in anticipation. It was like waiting for Tristen to find Isolde in the woods. "Everything."

Everything?

"Renadale Adkins, you are everything." His face was literally wincing in pain as he forced the words to fall from his lips. "You are the birds. You are the flowers. You are the trees." I couldn't help but smile at his pathetic attempt to be romantic. I could not stay mad at him. He could not be upset with me, either. We were too weak around the other, toying with the other's hearts without even knowing it. I was afraid, but I once again reached for his face. This time he let me and his words stopped.

My fingers pulled at the handkerchief in his breast pocket, and I quietly began to rub the blood away from his wound. It had been there for a while and was difficult to scrub off, but after a minute it looked very much improved. The bloody handkerchief was of little use and I let it go in the wind. It tumbled on the ground for a moment before being picked up by a morning breeze.

My body was cold against the gusts. My clothes were not exactly proper attire, and I tried to hide my shivers the best that I could. Watson was cuddled under a blanket, sound asleep. I was jealous of his wooly protector. Even if Gladstone were there to lick his face, he would not have moved an inch. Sleep was his bride then.

"Take my jacket."

"What?"

"You're shivering. Take my jacket." He began to shrug it off, meanwhile keeping one hand on the wheel. When he finally tossed it in my direction, I stared down at it as though it were some foreign beetle. "Renadale, don't pretend that you're not cold."

"I am cold, but now you shall be." I gently placed the jacket back on his lap. He did not appreciate this, and once again returned it into my arms. My body was horribly dressed. That was something I could not hide from Sherlock's deductions. The jacket was too big for me as I slipped it on, but it was warm beyond compare. The smell of him was all over it. Just thinking about it being on his body was enough to make my blood pump. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock only smiled slightly before continuing down a dirt path. He was still dressed smartly and warmly, but surely he had to be a little cold?

Centimeter by centimeter, I began to make my way closer towards him. I think he noticed after a while, but I did not stop my movements. His eyes were curiously peering over at me through the corners of their viewpoints. I did not hesitate to place my head onto his shoulder. My side was pushed against his, our body heat rebounding off of one another. His chapped lips let out a shaky sigh. Whether it was from nerves or irritation, I could not be certain.

My arm slowly wrapped itself underneath his, and I pulled his sleeve towards me. There was no fighting on his part. My eyelids were beginning to drop as the cawing of the morning doves began to lull me to rest. Sleep was wrapping me in her soft blanket, and I welcomed her with open arms. She hardly ever came to visit me. I often looked for her in the middle of the night, only to get a reply of rattling winds along my windowpane.

Just as my dreams were about to overtake me, I felt something soft upon my hair. At first it was a hand: hesitant and distant. It was almost afraid to touch me in fear of offense. I did not move. I did not breathe. All I could see was orange and red from behind my sealed eyes; flaming up like my emotions. "I have always been pleased when you have your hair down."

The smile on my lips could not be repressed. Gaiety flourished inside of me. She burned away the dusty fears, the rickety nerves and replaced them with blossoms of hope. With every affectionate word he uttered, I found myself tumbling more and more into his arms.

The next feeling was a pair of lips, gently kissing my curls. Slowly, my fingers curled around his, feeling his cold skin against mine. I wanted to kiss his hand and lips until the morning sun was completely up. I wanted to enfold my arms around him and swear to never let go.

Who knew how many more moments like that I had left? Things would change very soon. The closer the Professor got, the more trouble we would find ourselves in. At that moment, I let the future stay in its place. I could only focus on the fingers tangled up in mine. I could sleep peacefully.

If only for a little while.

~.~.~.~.~

See that little box down there?

Write something.

Now.

-SH