Wow! Thanks for all the followers! No worries, I made sure to follow you all right back. And naturally, thank you so much for the lovely reviews. I know things are going a bit slow at the moment, but I sincerely hope you're still enjoying it and continue to look forward to the upcoming posts!

Oh, and I started Uni! So, that's why it took me a while to update this. Hope you all enjoy the new chapter!

:)

~Mistro~

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Thomas did not live far from Mycroft Holmes. He invited me to take the carriage back to his abode in order to continue our discussion and take a look at some more research he collected. I did not argue. Watching him drip the booze down his throat was getting tiresome. He was not the Thomas I remembered.

The carriage ride was quiet, for the most part, until after about ten minutes of quiet thoughts, Thomas spoke up. "He really said he loved you?" Disbelief was hard to hide from his voice, even as the coach rumbled over the huge gravel.

"Yes," I said firmly. I failed to mention that I never said it back, or that Holmes had only said it once. I also was sure to leave out the fact that Sherlock's words were not entirely set in stone. The idea of him saying that to have a swift rid of me taunted at my mind. Thomas could never know those things.

He only laughed in response. The idea was obviously amusing to him, but as he silently bit his nails with a prolonged gaze out the window, I could tell he was bothered. He had never said it to me. He had never kissed me. He never properly asked me to marry him. Sherlock Holmes was winning. And Thomas? Well, Thomas couldn't stand it.

"How is his brother?" His voice came out of the blue. His eyes were fixated firmly on me with genuine curiosity, but I knew he was just trying to break the ice. My only response was a long glance before I turned back towards the window. "Are you ignoring me?"

"You ask these questions to jeer at me," I mumbled. "You do not care about the Holmes brothers. You never have, nor will you."

Thomas sighed heavily. His fingers fiddled with the brim of his bowler hat before he managed to release another chuckle in the enclosed space. "Renadale, can't you see that I'm trying to be friendly? You must know that I'm jealous." Begrudgingly honest. That was the Thomas Smith I knew.

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"I understand you better than you understand yourself." My eyes snapped towards him. They held no previous warmth. "It was true back then, and it is still true to this day."

"Really?" Instead of being offended, Thomas seemed genuinely intrigued. He leaned forward a bit with twinkling eyes. My body curled away from him as much as possible. "Deduce me, Renadale. I want you to tell me what you see. Play those little games that Sherlock is so good at."

Normally, I would have shrugged off this request and gone right back to the rolling countryside. However, Thomas was pushing his limits. I could smell the alcohol on his breath and see the sleepless nights with the blink of his eyes. It was time for him to wake up. It was time to return him back to the rouge man I once knew. "Ever since I've left, my memory has haunted you. You have so many regrets about us that you've slowly turned to alcohol and God knows what else."

Thomas's smooth face crinkled as he knitted his brows. "You can tell that all just by looking at me? How do you know if it's true?"

"I don't need to look at you," I mumbled. "I can smell it on your breath." Thomas sat back in offense, clearly embarrassed by his new habits. His composure retorted towards his unpolished shoes: another strange change of character. "You've also been writing. I assume they have been letters. One who has your job does not require taking that many notes."

"Letters," he smirked. "How could you possible manage to find out that one?"

"I can tell by the darkness of your fingertips." My eyes could not trail away from his black skin. His hands shrunk further into their sleeves, as he grew weary of my wandering eyes. "Who are you writing letters to, Thomas? You've obviously been frustrated about it, because I can tell that you've scrubbed your hands many times over. They're soft and clean, despite the stains." When I had taken his hands in mine back at the pub, I instantly knew. A researcher's hands were always rough. His had been surprisingly soft. I wasn't used to them being that way, so it obviously grabbed my attention at the first instant. "Well? Are you going to tell me who the letters were to?"

"We're here." His response was sharp as the carriage pulled to a halt. He did not even look at me as he kicked open the door furiously with his boot. His body disappeared from sight, and there was no hand to help me down. I wasn't used to being treated like a lady with most people, but Thomas had never failed to make me feel like a princess. This cold dismissal stung at my heart. My apologies were about to fall from my lips, but it was too late. He was already marching his way inside.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Thomas managed to ease up a bit when I put my smiling face on. It was a bit forced, but if it made the situation less uncomfortable, then grinning until my cheeks hurt was my only option.

As Thomas gathered his research notes for me, I left myself to wander about the living room. The chairs were vintage, yet elegant, and no doubt expensive. There was a minimalistic feel to the place, which very much described the archeologist's character. He was rich, but showing it was not his main concern. A photograph of his mother and father stood on the mantelpiece alongside a stunning Chinese vase. A smile secretly passed my lips. Perhaps he hasn't changed as much as I thought.

"So, here we have it!" Thomas's voice interrupted my thoughts as he tumbled in the room. There were so many books clamped between his hands, I could hardly see his struggling face. "These are all of the resources I've managed to gather along the way. Hopefully they'll be of some use. I'm terrified to look at my library fees."

I gasped at the sight of it all. Thomas was besieged in a mound of documents, and rightly so. There might have been twenty books in his arms, but I soon lost count. "Heavens, Thomas! Have you really been that bored since I left?"

"Yes," he said with a chuckle. The books were instantly thrown onto a nearby couch, their pages flying open in all different directions. Not only will you have a late fee, but a damage fee, I couldn't help but think to myself. "Then again, I don't complain when I get to shut myself away with a pile of books."

His words brought a smile to my face. "Neither do I."

We began to set out on our quiet tasks. Thomas showed me a few interesting histories of the Illuminati, but nothing I thought would be useful. As time passed, the sun trickled further down the sky. I watched it carefully before it went completely out of sight. I could feel my tired eyes reading words without any comprehension; I finally closed a book before setting my fatigued gaze on Thomas.

"Are you alright?" His mutter was spoken without so much as a glance at me. "Your stare could be felt from miles away."

"Do you think this is foolish?"

As he lifted his head, the confusion was hard to hide in his face. "You're trying to find a man that killed many innocent people. In my book, that's not exactly foolish. Most people would have the sense to deem that as noble."

His words were comforting, but not enough to convince me. "I can't help but wonder why Sherlock would have dropped it so easily. If he didn't think if it was important, then why should I?" Sherlock's dog-like eyes came trickling back into my memory. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would reunite with him. Whether he liked it or not. "He's so brilliant. If there was any cause to look further into it, he would have. Maybe I should just forget all of this."

"Renadale, I want you to tell me everything you know about this case." Thomas leaned forward in his leather chair. It squeaked beneath him, disturbing the unsettling silence that followed.

When I finally allowed myself to speak, it was not without hesitation. "We assumed that the murderer was most likely young. He wasn't careful, and he ended up paying the price for it." Thomas nodded his head, a signal for me to continue. "If he was young, then he probably didn't have a high status. Someone must have hired him."

"Why?" Thomas already knew the answer, but I knew he was just testing me.

"A young man would not be the head of a society, particularly one as big as the Illuminati. Someone was trying to find a cheap way out. And considering that most men who are involved with groups such as the Illuminati are wealthy, it's reasonable to assume that he made his employer unhappy."

"You think that his employer got rid of him?"

I nodded my head slowly, the idea becoming more sensible in my mind. "I have a feeling that he's dead. I don't think the employer just fired him. After all, someone of a higher status wouldn't want any traces left behind."

No loose ends.

My entire body shot up in my seat.

No loose ends.

I could hardly get a thought out of my mouth while those three words bounced on the walls of my brain. Thomas noticed my sudden spark of awareness. His body shot up from the chair with unrepressed excitement. "What is it?" His words were rushed. "What have you discovered?"

"James Moriarty," I mumbled into a near whisper. "Could he have been the one to kill the boy?" Thomas watched as the ideas turned over in my mind. "The pieces go together. Moriarty is a huge figure all over the world, particularly in France and Germany. He has so many connections, that nothing would ever trace back to him. No one except Sherlock Holmes. And, considering Sherlock Holmes was already onto him, he had to hire someone else. Someone worthless." And then there was the most obvious point of all. "He was fascinated with the Illuminati. Whenever someone recently brought it up, he became nervous. I've seen it for myself." The memories of his attitude at the lecture started to replay in my mind.

"You think it was Moriarty who killed the boy?" Thomas seemed genuinely surprised, but little did he know how dangerous that man was. "I always thought he was a smart one."

"He is! That's why he gets away with so much." My expression must have turned dark, because fear began to dribble over Thomas's handsome face. "He's dangerous, Thomas. He's a threat to us all."

Thomas literally stepped back with trepidation. He knew that I wasn't one to mess about, and my words were as serious as they would ever be. "A threat? In what way?"

The words could barely come from my lips. "War, Thomas… He's throwing a war upon our heads and we don't even know it."

"War?" Thomas almost laughed. "I know that France and Germany aren't inviting one another over for tea, but you mean to suggest that the entire world will get involved? I'll tell you one thing; America will stay out of it."

He might have thought it ridiculous, but the idea was out there, and nothing else made sense. Moriarty knew his aim. He knew where the money was. War. Not just a year's war, or a war between brothers, but the entire world. He was going to put us all in the ground while his pockets grew and grew.

"He will have us in our graves in the next few years, if he can manage it." My voice was cold. "And if Sherlock does stop him, it will already be too late. He's planted the idea of war inside of society's head. It's growing with every minute; with every bomb that continues to go off."

"America won't take part," Thomas's voice was clear as he repeated himself. "They've already discussed the fact that a war outside of their grounds is not of their concern."

"It will be their concern. Come what may, America will eventually have to choose a side as well." Thomas winced at my words, but he knew what I said was right. I could not convince myself that I was jumping to conclusions. War was literally being laid like bricks. You just had to know where to look.

The bombs. The weapon supply growing. France and Germany at one another's throats. War was inevitable.

"Thomas, I have to go."

My colleague's face twisted rather sourly as his hand reached for my arm. It was the first time he had touched me since the pub, and I could not help but reminisce for a mere moment. "Must you?" There was nothing lush about this statement. He was lonely. There was not even a butler to take care of that huge house. Thomas Smith was alone; the one thing no one ever expected him to be.

Bitterly, I nodded my head. The sun was flickering to its last breath. In a few minutes, it would be time for the moon to take the stage. If I was going to Paris the next day, sleep was what I needed. "You will see me soon, Thomas Smith."

The shock on his face was nearly comical. "Why?"

"When this case is over; when Sherlock stops Moriarty, I am going to bring him back with me. The three of us are going to finish what still lingers." I tried to sound as determined as I could. However, with James Moriarty in the picture, it was difficult to plan your next steps. "I will find that boy, even if it takes me months."

Thomas gave an honest smile at my headstrong decision. "I'll be looking forward to it."

After sliding on my well-worn coat, I said my quick farewells and headed towards the door. There was no more awkward tension between us; darker thoughts consumed our minds. As I was heading back towards town, Thomas's voice called out to me from the doorway.

"Just remember, Renadale! The caduceus! Don't forget about the snakes!"

Snakes.

Slithering. Rough. Eyes like Satan's. His words sent shivers up my spine, but I nodded back at him nonetheless. And, as I glanced towards the growing moon, I could not help but see a serpent's pupil piercing straight into my soul.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Ten o' clock could not have come sooner. My eyes barely kept shut throughout the entire night, while Mary remained depressed in her nearby room. She was getting too much sleep; I was getting too little.

I did not even bother to take note of the bags beneath my eyes when the hand of my clock finally reached its destination. My legs flew over the side of the bed, still sore from when I hit the freezing water two nights earlier. Quivering hands tossed a navy dress over my head. A reunion was headed my way, but I was not going to get dressed up. Sherlock Holmes had seen me in far worse conditions. There was only thing I wanted him to see.

That I loved him.

My lips broke into a smile as the thought filtered inside my head. "I love you," I whispered. I repeated it aloud until it sounded normal, but nothing seemed to fit. Sometimes, it was too high. Then it became too low. At one point, I fear I sounded rather furious. "Ah, well," I sighed happily. "I'll say it perfectly when the time is right."

Thoughts of the night before were already distant. They were still important in my heart, but my heart was a bit more preoccupied with something else. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking when they finally tugged back the handle of my door. They only stopped when I got a glimpse of what awaited me on the other side.

"Mycroft!" My scream rang out in the high-ceilinged hallway, and it was not a split second later that I slammed the door shut, very much to his disapproval. Unfortunately, the incident had repeated itself.

Mycroft Holmes wasn't wearing any clothes.

"Why?" I mumbled to myself, pressing a hand against my hot forehead. "Why does he do these things?"

A friendly knocking came upon my door. "Oh, Renadale! Are you alright? You seemed to be in a flush. I just wanted to wish you a safe parting journey. Sherly told me how troublesome you are with boats. Do be good to my brother, despite the arrogant twit he can be."

Just as before, I could not help but laugh. It was utterly repulsive; my manners and his, but the whole situation was so bizarre that I couldn't properly comprehend it in my mind. Poor Mary would have to deal with him on her own. She was in poor spirits enough as it was, and seeing me go would only make it harder. I did write her a letter, which I planned on handing over to Mycroft in the meantime.

However, I was not too keen on that idea any longer.

"Yes, Mycroft, thank you so much!" My voice attempted to sound gleeful, but it still was spoken through bits of giggles. "Really, don't wait around for me. I've forgotten to do my makeup and I fear it will take ages."

I knew that he could tell I was lying between my teeth. There was a momentary silence before he sputtered up a cough. "Yes, well, alright. I do hope to see you soon! Take care!" There was another pause before I heard feet shuffling down the stairs. "Come along, Stanley!"

A minute passed before I was brave enough to open my door. Thankfully, Mycroft and his old butler had disappeared and I was left to slip my note beneath Mary's door. "Be well, my dear friend," I whispered quietly as the paper skidded from my sight. "John loves you. He will fight for you."

Those words I actually believed. There had been things I was trying to convince myself of; Thomas was all right. Moriarty was evil. Sherlock Holmes loved me. I could not be sure about any of those theories, but the promise I gave Mary at that moment was undoubtedly honest.

My time had finally come. I knew which port they were leaving out of, and I wasn't going to miss the ship for anything in the world. Bracing my small rucksack tightly in my arms, I managed to let out a shaky sigh.

"Sherlock Holmes…" My voice echoed in the halls as I spoke. "I love you."

And that time, it felt as pure and true as I had always felt it.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The sight of a dock is not exactly a pleasant one. Men are bustling about, smoke is wafting through the air, the smell of fish and sweat fills your nose even when you pinch it. And, worst of all, the water was the only thing that awaited you. I had had enough of water to last a lifetime.

After my coach dropped me off, I made sure to pay my fares and head off quickly towards a sign leading in the right direction. Signs for Paris were accordingly hung up, and with each step, my emotions grew.

First, it started in my legs. They began to feel as wobbly as if I were on board the ship, and I tried not to fall over with my sudden lack of air.

Then, it traveled straight to the bottom of my stomach. It was like someone had dug a knife right through my body and twisted it. Somehow, though I knew it was excitement, it hurt. Anticipation can often be misinterpreted as pain.

And lastly, it travelled all the way up my throat. Choking me, stopping my legs, making my arms curl around my chest with pain. I can't do this. I can't go on this boat. I can't tell him that I love him.

And it wasn't because I didn't want to. I did. More than anything. Sherlock Holmes was the painter of my daydream murals. He was the composer of the happy tunes I started to sing. He was the love I had always wanted, but never gotten. He was ideal. And I cared for him with each part of my soul.

That was why it hurt so much.

Because, if he didn't love me back, it would tear me apart. I was sensitive. His heartbreaking words would sting me to the core. My heart had already been broken once. And now that the feelings were deeper, my heart would not break. It would shatter.

"Miss, are you going on this boat?"

I turned around with an audible gasp. Somehow, the recollection of where I was and where I was headed slipped past my mind. "Y-Yes," I managed to choke out. "Yes, this is my boat. I'm sorry for keeping the men waiting. My sea legs are not strong and I fear the waters."

The man had a friendly, bearded face and I couldn't help but be reminded briefly of my father. His warm hand reached out for my upper arm, sending it a slap of reassurance. "You'll be alright, love. There will be plenty of women on board for you to talk to, and the men will be there with steady arms to guide you."

Sherlock had been so good to me last time I was on the ship. He had pulled my hair back, washed my face, cleaned my clothes… I didn't want any other man but him to help me, despite the kind offer. "Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to get on board straight away."

I did as I promised, but it was hard for my nerves not to rise again when John and Sherlock were no were to be found. Needless to say, I took my time walking around the ship, and I had only scanned one side until I finally rested my eyes upon the pair.

"Paris, again?" John laughed behind a cloud of smoke. I could not tell if it was his own, or his sullen partner's. "Surely you and Renadale had a nice time before. What makes you want to go back?"

I knew it had to do with that gypsy woman. What was her name?

"Yes."

My breath stopped immediately at his deep, single reply. Afraid he would hear my surprise and take notice, I slammed my body against a nearby wall. They would not have a chance to see my face that way, but I could still listen closely to their conversation.

"Pushing her off of a train…" John chuckled, but it was not without a sour edge. "What an affectionate move."

"That's exactly what it was."

"Was it?" John scoffed. I could imagine him rolling his light eyes to the back of his skull. "Somehow, you don't strike me as affectionate."

"Miss Adkins knows how I feel." Sherlock paused before he finally spoke again. "It was not something that I wanted to do, but rather had to do. You know I did it for their own safety." John did not reply. He was clearly too frustrated with the outcome. I knew how much he missed Mary, and I almost ran out and told him how much his feelings were reciprocated. "If anything were to happen to us-"

"Did you ever even tell her?"

Another pause. From them, as well as my heart.

"Tell her…?"

"How you truly feel."

Sherlock let out a curt laugh. It did not make me feel much better and the knife-like feeling returned to my gut. "How I truly feel? Watson, your words are more confusing than the Illuminati language." Somehow this past reference made me pleased that he had not forgotten about the previous case, but it did not make me feel very thrilled about him loving me. Things were beginning to take a turn for the worst, and worst of all, I was beginning to feel seasick.

"Don't be like that, Holmes." John's voice was as cold as ice. It sent shivers down my spine, along with the freezing air coming off the water. "She was never like that with you. She showed you. We all knew how she felt. If you don't care for her that way, then she deserves to know. A woman like Rena should not be kept waiting. She's too good for that, and someone will come along and take her before you can blink."

All of us held our breaths for the response.

But, we did not get one. The sound of the boat's horn was released, and as it jolted into motion, my stomach returned the gesture. "Oh no," I breathed in horror. My fingers pressed to my lips at the first sign of movement, and as we finally began to depart from the port, I knew I could not contain myself for much longer.

My legs darted out beneath me until my torso flung itself over the edge. I could feel all of the weakness inside of me pouring right out into the water. Appalled cries of dismay rang out around me, but I was too preoccupied with my present situation to take notice.

Just when I was starting to feel alright, something soft brushed against my skin. "Don't move. Stay where you are. Let your stomach relax." I did as I was told, but not because he told me to. The mere sound of Sherlock's low voice was enough to freeze me in my spot forever. And when his rough hands gently ran through my hair to pull it away from my face, I knew that my embarrassment was at its highest.

"Sherlock-"

"Renadale." It was a threat. I didn't even need to look at his face to sense the frustration on it. "Speaking won't make you feel any better."

Yet, I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell him. Even though it was not the proper time, he needed to know. Then again, after he and John's conversation, I wasn't really sure of where his affections remained. The day seemed to stretch on forever as I stared into the water moving beneath me.

"Renadale Adkins." Amusement was evident in John's voice. My eyes flickered shut as the heat on my face rose. "She's come back, has she? If only Mary were that headstrong." He sighed heavily, and gave me a gentle rub on one of my shoulders. "I was against the idea, you know."

Neither of their faces were clear to me, but I smiled nonetheless. "I know."

"But, if you want to know a secret…" He came a bit closer to whisper in my ear. "I'm very glad you're back."

"Me too," I managed to reply. "Me too."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

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