Erm. So. I can explain. University has been eating my soul. I had no idea how tough and busy things would get, but there is no need to fear. I am writing a lot over the break, so Renalock is back on!

Please don't think I have forgotten about the story. (: I would not do that to all of you, nor would I do that to myself! Thank you for the caring and supportive reviews, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter! We're almost halfway! (:

Much love,

~Mistro~

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Have you ever had your head slammed in a door? Shoved against a wall? I have not, but awaking the next morning after a night of alcohol gave me such a pain that neither of those two could have compared to it. My hands could not stop shaking. My head was pounding and at the first glimpse of sunlight, a headache was drilling into my skull. My stomach was empty from lack of food the evening before. Surely, the alcohol had not been a friend of mine.

Though my entire body felt as though it were not with me, there was something that I could not help but take note of. My body, weak as it was, was alone. Battered, old blankets were wrapped around me, but they were not what I was familiar with. I had fallen asleep with the sensation of warm arms keeping me close. Those arms were no longer beside me.

What if they've left and left me here?

I instantly shot up from my makeshift bed, my eyes trying desperately not to blur and twist the whole room. What if they had left me behind? The worst sorts of thoughts were beginning to trickle towards my mind like the wine had trickled down my throat. My hands firmly pushed me from the ground and into the empty space of the tent. There was commotion outside, but the voices were all foreign. I could not hear the nervous pitches of Doctor Watson, nor the sarcastic remarks of his partner.

My eyes briefly trailed down to my fingertips. I could still feel his in mine; lingering longer than acceptable for an unmarried woman. Rough and cracked, but still gentle and comforting. My stomach twisted at the idea of being apart from him, if even for a second.

Time was of the essence. I shuffled my cold feet towards the opening crack in the tent. The daylight hit me with a force I had not expected, but I squinted my eyes and continued my search. A few of the gypsies saw my rough state and sent me a cheerful wave and mocking chuckle, but I ignored them in search of my friends.

"Oh, where are you?" When I spoke, the voice was not mine. It was harsh and scratchy, befitting to someone else. I made a promise that I would never drink again, unless of course, the situation presented itself. And if I planned on spending my time with Sherlock… I was certain those situations would be presented.

"Does she have a clue of what's going on? We can't wait much longer and she's not even dressed properly."

Madame Simza. I could recognize her heavy accent any day. My head snapped at the first sign of her voice and sure enough, there she stood with her heavily draped arms crossed firmly over her chest. The look on her face was one of displeasure, but it was growing increasingly familiar to me. No doubt it was because of my drunkenness and inability to function properly the next day. All I could manage was a hesitant smile. "Good morning," a small chirp came from my lips.

"It will be… once we actually leave." Her hands roughly tossed me a ragged, green dress and when I looked back up, she had disappeared behind the other makeshift homes. The dress smelled of firewood and spice, but it was better than my wine-drenched apparel that I had been wearing before.

Swiftly, I changed my attire and headed back into the center of the camp. Watson and Holmes were nowhere to be seen. Part of me was worried. Another part remember how they always presented themselves when I needed them most. It was just the act of waiting that I wasn't thrilled about.

"Ivrogne. Girl." Simza could not have sounded more displeased with me. Taking five minutes to turn my head to face her, I was greeted with exactly the face I had imagined. Bitter. "They're waiting for us in the cart."

"What cart?" I asked softly, rubbing the tiredness away from my heavy eyelids. She did not need to respond with words. Her thin finger pointed into the distance where a large, wooden cart was waiting with an open boot. I presumed that we were to get inside, considering Watson and Sherlock had already beaten me to it.

"Let's get going, ivrogne. Oui?" Her hands roughly shoved my back in the right direction as she laughed amusedly. I presumed her jovial chuckle was more fixated towards me, rather than with me. She didn't need to tell me twice. One look from Madame Simza was enough to send me running across the country.

When I finally reached the edge of the cart, John leant me his hands to help crawl inside. When I finally hit the wooden floor and got a better view of his face,

I knew I was not alone in my late-night struggles. "Oh, John," I breathed. His eyes were dark sunken as a gun-shot ship, and his hair was sprouting out from beneath his hat. "You look absolutely shattered."

"I'm afraid I'm doing poorly. I wish I could say it was because of natural causes, but… " His face twisted into something sour. "I fear it was my own fault."

"Did you drink as well? I feel like a fool for my lack of proper memory."

"I did, but I'm afraid I was nowhere near as impressive as you." He cracked a smile, though the dark rings beneath his oceanic eyes could not hide his lack of energy. "Sherlock said you fell asleep quickly. That was good to hear. I do hope that you're feeling much better."

I returned the smile warmly and sat casually beside him. Sherlock was on the opposite side of me, but he was lost in a French conversation with the gypsy woman. "I'm assuming you have nothing that can cure me."

"Just a bit of sleep and plenty of water," John smiled. "I think being away from your mother right now is the best cure. If she would have seen the state you were in last night, I fear it would have been the death of both of you!"

Our laughter covered up the remaining conversations, but before I could get another supportive word in, the wheels kicked into movement. I heard the horses whiney into motion as the wheels dug themselves into the dirt of the Earth. The sudden shock of movement startled my dizzy head, and my arm reached out for comfort. I was sitting between Watson and Sherlock, and since Sherlock was the closest to me, I reached for his sleeve in support. "I'm sorry," I muttered with my eyes tightly shut. "My head is still a bit fuzzy."

Something gentle tucked a stray curl behind my ear. I wanted to look into his eyes, but I knew that if I opened my own I could be doomed to more queasiness of the stomach. "If you must, place your head upon my shoulder."

There was no need to suggest the idea a second time. My head almost instinctively fell onto him as if we were opposing magnets, unable to resist the temptation and pull of one another. I knew his head had turned to look down at my hair, but I shut my eyes incase he could see the embarrassment hidden behind them. "Last night…" I started to mumble, but grew weary of any lectures that he might have for me. My lip was bit and my words were silenced.

"Last night, you proved to me that I taught you how to dance properly." Sherlock's tone was serious, though I found it hard not to laugh at his words. Simza and John had moved towards one another to engage in a conversation and thankfully they could not hear us. "Whether or not I taught you well is a different story."

A brief chuckle escaped my lips, but the movement hurt my stomach and I grabbed it quickly before it could hurt. Sherlock noted the wince and gently sat back to look at me. "I'm fine." A tight smile broke out onto my face. "Just a bit unadjusted to the morning, that's all."

He was tired too. I wasn't sure how long he had stayed by my side, but wherever he was, he did not seem to get much sleep. It wasn't just the evening before that had been making him weary. It was everything. Moriarty was still loose and planning another attack. Rene was nowhere to be found. Thomas was still on my heels and I naturally hadn't been very useful. I had been a foolish drunk who only dreamt of romance.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock's voice trickled into my stream of thoughts. I looked up at him with blank eyes, not wanting to confess my mind. "I can always tell when you're feeling guilty about something. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I was drunk," I mumbled.

"We were all a bit drunk."

"You were drunk."

Sherlock smirked. "Correct. I was not drunk. However, most people see my mind on a daily basis as something rather intoxicated and twisted. Not to mention, you were livelier last night than I have ever seen you."

I could not help but hang my head in shame, despite his somewhat attempt at a compliment. "The last thing you need right now is a hopeless drunk."

Sherlock shook his head. "A bit of fun is exactly what I needed."

Fun? I didn't think of myself as fun, especially when Sherlock had to watch out for me. My face turned away from his at it grew warmer by the second. Not to mention, when was the last time I bathed? I probably looked like a train wreck and the last thing I wanted was for him to see me that way.

"Renadale."

"What?" My head was hung as my fingers twisted anxiously around one another in my lap. The floor was hurting my bottom and the wooden walls twisted my back. Being in my bed with a warm up of tea back in London was the only thing that sounded soothing.

"You are always what I need."

My head snapped up instantly, all worried thoughts of my appearance gone. Perhaps I was wrong about my bed in London. Sherlock Holmes was my medicine. "What would entice you to say such a ridiculous thing?" I managed to whisper as my cheeks flushed pink.

"You have given me a night that I can look back and smile upon. You made me feel needed. Contrary to your opinions, I rather liked looking out for you." His face was twisted into something painful, as though the words themselves were burning his tongue as he spoke. "You also told me something that no one has confessed to me before."

I love you.

The memory flooded back like a tidal wave. I had said it! Hadn't I? Yet, how had I said it? Obviously, I had been drunk. My hair must have been everywhere. Who knows how tightly my clothes had been on? My eyes might have been rolling back into my head for all I knew!

Why were we both so untraditional? Why could we not look one another in the eye and say, "I love you" with all of the feelings and emotions still attached? What was so criminal about that? The world did not turn easily for us. It got stuck and it tripped, stumbled, and bruised itself along the way.

"Sherlock," I muttered lowly after finally regaining my senses. "I want to apologize for what I said to you the night before."

"Apologize?" Hurt flashed across his face.

"I'm not saying that I didn't mean what I said. In fact, most people say what they feel when they're drunk. However, I can't recall how or when I said it. I want to apologize for not being more romantic or having it be more memorable."

Sherlock's brow rose swiftly. "Oh, I promise you… It was memorable."

"Well…" There were so many things that I wanted to say. I wanted to bring back all of the times where I realized I loved him. I wanted to swoon over the little things he did and tell him how frustrated he made me when he showed no affection at all. I wanted to promise that I would never love another man as much as I had, did, and would love him. Yet, the words just would not come. John and Simza had begun to notice our discussion and I could feel six eyes beating down upon me. "I'm sorry. That's all I wanted to say."

Sherlock said nothing. I knew he was watching every movement I made. His thoughts were what puzzled me. Was he loathing me? Was he pleased with what I had said? There wasn't enough time to think. We would be in Paris soon, and if I did not get the tiniest bit of sleep before we reached our destination, I feared I would be even more useless than what I had been before.

And so, I let my head fall against the wall. Words from all moments of our time together started flooding into my head like waves.

"I do not keep you. I want you here because… It doesn't matter. You are not worthless. You are… Everything."

"Sherlock, why are you doing this?"

"Because… Because I love you!"

"Renadale, do you have feelings for me? I mean, do you-"

"I love you."

Though my eyes were shut, and my chest lightly moving up and down, I was not asleep. These thoughts could not bring me to sleep. And yet, I was happy for it. They were the sweetest dream I had ever known. When the case was over, I could only hope that there would be more.

~.~.~.~.~.~

"Renadale, how did you manage to sleep? We practically drove through the center of Paris and you didn't move at all." John was asking me as he nudged me back into reality. "Take my hands, darling. We've got places to go and people to see, not to mention the time crunch we often find ourselves in."

I finally opened my eyes, only to find John looking up at me with that handsome smirk from the ground. There was laughter in his eyes and I wondered how he could find the positive in so dark of times. His hands were reaching up towards me, ready to help me out of the cart.

"Are we here?" I muttered, curls of every size falling in front of my eyes. John only laughed. I took that as a yes. My hands shakily reached for his until he pulled me down swiftly and effortlessly

"Yes, darling. We're here." I could tell he was a bit nervous about everything by the warmth and moisture of his hands. I had noticed that happening to me when I was in situations that I didn't wish to be in; my hands would grow damp and my temperature would rise.

While the others talked amongst themselves, I tried to take in my surroundings more properly. The side of the cart read, 'Les Sept Grenouilles', and though I had no idea what that meant, the word above it was very clear to me. "'Restaurant'? We were traveling in a stolen food vehicle?" Simza only shrugged as if it were the last thing that mattered. I couldn't help but feel nauseated by this. Then again, a lot of things made my stomach turn.

"Renadale, we're going."

Sherlock's voice drew my attention, and before I had even noticed, we were left alone. The others were marching on ahead with determination in their steps. "I'm terribly sorry." My feet rushed to catch up to the rest of the group, but stopped when a light tug was felt at my coat.

Sherlock was waiting for me to turn around. When I finally did, his eyes were wide with concern and fatigue. The alarm read more easily and I quickly asked him what was the matter. "It's you," he replied. "You don't seem to be yourself. I don't want to take you anywhere that you might feel unsafe or unsure. If something were to go wrong, and you weren't entirely conscious…"

A small smile broke out onto my face. My fingers reached for his, where they send a light squeeze. "Lack of sleep is what's eating away at me. Whatever happens, I can take care of it myself. I've had a pretty good teacher."

"Yes, but I will watch out for you-"

Before he could say another word, I seized the chance to get a bit closer to him. We were alone in the short alley, and who knew for how long? My lips brought themselves to his before he could comprehend what was happening. When I finally moved away, I managed to whisper one last phrase to him. "Need I remind you that I saved your life?"

"Perhaps that was brash of you."

"Sometimes I can't be controlled." A mischievous twinkle flickered in my eyes. I saw Sherlock's face fall, as if he had misunderstood my words. His eyes searched my face for reassurance, but I turned away with a grin before he had the chance to figure it out.

I felt even filthier than I had before. And yet, I wasn't bothered.

The Paris night was growing darker, and as we made our way into a restaurant kitchen, it dawned on me how different this case was from the rest. Bronze pans and pots were boiling, clinking and clanking on every side of me. Cooks sat down to finish their lunches as apprentices worked until their backs sweat. Everything smelled delicious, but that one thought continued to eat at me.

What had they talked about last night?

Food?

Was there something to do with food?

My head almost throbbed as I tried to pick out the conversations from last night. All of the words formed one massive speech in my head and I could hardly pick out the voices from one another. Trying too hard to remember, my head began to ache and my fingers instinctively flew to my forehead. "Oh, stuff and nonsense!"

I didn't have time to properly calm my stress, before a tall French man grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me towards him. I nearly shrieked in surprise, but when his hands began to pat me up and down, I knew I had reached my frustration's peak. My fingers swatted at his wrists until I heard the smack of pain. He pulled his hand away in shock, his thick brows rising.

"Renadale, they're just searching us to see if we have any weapons," Watson whispered. "Don't you remember what we discussed last night?" All it took was one bemused look to make Watson remember. "Oh, right. I've forgotten."

The man resumed his business, all the while to my displeasure. We were soon out of that situation and instead facing a winding, gloomy staircase. "No matter what the case is…" I began to tell Watson, "… we always end up facing a horrible staircase into darkness. Why is that?"

"Perhaps it comes with the job description."

We continued down the steps as pebbles chipped off from the scraping of our feet. I could feel the air growing cooler as we travelled further into the abyss, but when we reached the bottom, it was the coolest of all.

Now there were only four of us. Sherlock, John, Simza and myself. The gypsy woman seemed to know exactly what she was doing the second she hit the floor. A man sat in the center of the room, his roughly patched jacket facing us without any interest. I could not see Simza's or the man's face, but got the feeling that neither were very thrilled.

"Still hiding in basements?" She cursed with barely a bat of her eyelids.

An elegant French voice replied with words that were unknown to my ears. I stood closer to the staircase where I could lean against a wall and watch the scene unfold. Sometimes my life is more exciting than an opera. I wouldn't be of much help anymore. Especially since I didn't even know why I was there.

My mother was right. I should have just made hats.

"I'm not here to see you." Simza's voice was so firm that she could have been mistaken for a ruler. She would certainly have my vote, if I were able to give one. Or maybe it was because she frightened me.

The man only continued in his native tongue, until suddenly he changed his mind. "… with your English friends."

His words caught me off guard, but not my partners. They had little interest in the speaker. Despite their lack of attention, I knew that there was a mess coming. I could always tell. It wasn't too difficult to notice when the French man's arms grew stiff and the hairs on his neck could be seen standing up from the kitchen upstairs.

Sherlock began to make a comment about the wine, but my eyes could not help but be fixated on Watson. His nose brushed against a blank sheet of paper as his eyes squinted in deep thought.

Why would he do that? What does the smell of paper have to do-

Oh.

Yes, I remember.

"The wine," I whispered. "The drawing and the wine on the paper! Ah, it's all coming back to me now."

It was finally my turn to see the French man's face. He turned in his seat to get a better look at me, but his face was not amused. "Who is this? Est-elle stupide?" Shelock seemed pleased by this comment, judging by the hearty laugh he let loose. I could do nothing but frown. His words meant nothing to me. "She's pretty, but she doesn't seem like she would be very helpful."

"Useful," I corrected. The man did not scare me and I felt free to speak my mind. His beard and hair were almost white. His eyes were tired and his cheeks were unshaven. He looked like a tired father who just wanted to see his family after a long and dramatic day at work. "I think I help out when I can. I do what is asked of me and I do it to the best of my ability. Whether or not I'm useful… Well, that's a different story."

Surprisingly, the man formed a smile. I was too shocked to return the gesture. "Perhaps I was wrong about your friend. Not so stupid at all."

Oh, I thought darkly. So that's what 'est-elle stupide' means. I supposed I was rather dim not to pick up on that.

"This is not what I came here for," Simza's voice was as sharp and cold as ice. "I want to know, and you will answer me. Is my brother here?" Her voice was nearly a shout.

Don't show weakness, I thought. You're much more vulnerable that way.

"I haven't seen him for a long time," the man casually answered.

Her black eyes narrowed like slits. She had the look of the raven about her and her talons seemed ready for clawing and her beak ready to bite. "You're lying."

The man was silent for a moment. His head finally nodded towards the chair opposite him. "Sit. Please." Simza and Sherlock followed his wish, but John spoke up before the French man had a chance to.

"A letter was received from Rene, using this same paper."

"Of course," Sherlock said casually. "He took it with him wherever he went." His head snapped towards Simza. "He's telling the truth. Rene isn't here." She looked surprised, as if he had no possible way of knowing such a thing. And yet, it was Sherlock Holmes.

The French man spoke between mouthfuls of food. "He was given another assignment"

"By an anonymous benefactor." Sherlock finished.

The man nodded slowly. He grabbed a clean napkin and soiled it with the food around his mouth. "Another Englishman with money. Power. Who supported our cause. And now… he dictates our every move." A huge gulp of wine was still unable to make the man happy. Bitterness lingered on every one of his features. "I made a deal with the devil. But after tonight, it will be over."

The man's eyes were shut as he spoke. I had seen that look before.

Jacob.

I knew what he was planning to do. He was going to kill himself.

There weren't many things that I was absolutely certain about, but when a man had to shut his eyes when he said such powerful words, he did it to hide his emotions. No matter what a man says, death is the most frightening point of one's life. Or rather, not knowing what comes after it. I made my way closer to the group, standing beside Watson with a better view of the speaker.

"My job is almost done," he continued. Sherlock's fingers were crossed over his lips, his eyes unblinking. For a moment, I thought that I had detected concerns. Had he noticed what I had? Or was there something I had not seen?

"He's had you plant another bomb. Hasn't he?"

Watson's exclamation took me off guard. I was noticing things; they just weren't the correct things. "Another bomb?" I whispered. Lives lost, buildings burnt, the people's hopes crushed. That's all a bomb brought. Nothing more. Moriarty was a sick man. I was wrong to have ever admired him. "Bastard," I spat out as the thought trickled into my head. "He's a bastard; that's the only word for it. Haven't enough people died?"

"She's right." Simza's agreed. "Claude, please. These men can help you."

Claude almost looked as if he would laugh. He straightened himself out a bit and took on a more serious expression. "I wish they could." A long pause lingered in the air as we waited for him to explain. "You see gentleman, he has my wife and children."

Sherlock's head fell to the side in disappointment. "If you tell us where the bomb is… I'll find a way to help your family." His voice didn't sound entirely sure in that remark, but I may have been the only one to pick up on this. Sherlock Holmes was good at many things, but a man cannot always keep his promises. No matter how hard he tries.

"It's already taken care of," Claude said with lowered eyes. "We have a deal."

That look. "I know that look," I whispered swiftly to Watson as we watched Claude take another sip of wine. "I've seen it before. He's going to do something brash. Too brash."

"Renadale, what are you talking about?"

Watson's eyes were fixated on me, waiting to explain myself. But I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. If I did something hasty, it might end up badly. Moriarty would kill his family if he was not found dead. We might not be able to stop him. All I could do was listen.

"He and I. No loose ends." My knees grew weak at the phrase. I had heard it far too many times in the past few weeks and it never brought good news. "There's only one thing I can do to keep my family safe."

"No," I whispered hotly to Watson. "This is it. This is what I meant." Watson's eyes darted across my face desperately. My whole body wanted to reach out and stop the man with the wine, but it was frozen. Did no one know what was going to happen? Did no one else see?

Claude's eyes did not meet anyone's after that. He was entirely to himself. His thoughts were his own, though he gave us one last warning. "You have less than ten minutes."

"Don't!"

Sherlock's words were not enough. The gun was fired. Powder filled the air. Commotion was appearing upstairs and we had ten minutes until the bomb went off. Not to mention we had to get out of there without anyone catching us.

Sherlock's eyes met mine desperately. There was a dead man lying right beside him, but we could not mourn. Simza was beyond herself in shock and yet we could do nothing to calm her or ourselves

"We have to move!" I shouted as the sound of footsteps grew closer. "If we just stand here, they are going to capture us and we will never save those people."

Sherlock merely patted Claude's shoulder, before getting down to business. "John, he has no further need of that pistol. Why don't you take it and guard the stairs?" His partner was swift to oblige. "As for you, Renadale… Help Madame Simza to her feet and her senses."

I was quick to follow orders. Simza was weak when I helped her stand. She was no longer the strong-minded woman I once feared. "Are you alright?" She had no time to answer, before Watson shot off two warning bullets up the staircase. Her whole body jumped in response. "It's alright," I reassured. "We're going to get out of here and find your brother."

"There's only one way out of this place!" John shouted from the staircase.

Sherlock was merely staring at a wall, but at this point, I knew him well enough to understand his thoughts without a single word. "There's more than one way out, isn't there?" I asked with my arm still around Simza's.

"Right you are!" Sherlock stepped up to one of the coat hooks on the wall and pulled it down towards the floor. A large clicking noise forced us to look in his direction, where the wall was suddenly opening up before our eyes. "Ah!" His arms spread apart amusedly. "Ingenious. That's the one." He turned to look at me and Simza, our eyes wide with amazement.

I began to speak. "How did you…?"

"Perhaps another time would do for an explanation. Quickly as we can!" While Watson shot off one last warning, Simza and I rushed towards the open passageway. "You know what to do with that sandbag, Watson."

All of us made our way inside of the dark tunnel. The only light was coming from the candles in the wine cellar. Those disappeared almost instantly after John whacked the sandbag to its demise, and were left quaking in the darkness. At least, the females of the group were.

Instead of running up towards an exit, a light began to flicker in the darkness. "Aren't we going?" I asked with heated breath. "What are we doing just standing here?"

"Your patience has never been your strongest suit, Renadale," Sherlock mumbled as the flame flickered to life. "Be patient, darling. Doctor, could you secure that lever?"

Though the men were getting to business, Simza was still struggling to find the truth in her dark reality. "He could have told me. Ravache was strong. He lived for liberty! He would never take his own life!" Her voice was beginning to shake the further she got into her speech. My hand gently found hers in case she might want support. I was shocked when her fingers gripped mine near to breaking.

"Calm yourself," John suggested. I wasn't sure if it was a doctorly order, or if he just wanted her to be quiet. A bomb was going off in about eight minutes. No doubt he was on edge.

However, Simza could not stop thinking of the fate in store for her beloved sibling. "My brother… He… He's weak!"

John's head snapped towards her warningly. "Sim. I need you to take a deep breath, and follow us."

I nodded in agreement. "I know this is all overwhelming, but life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it. You don't know that he is dead yet, so don't assume it to be true." Her fingers relaxed a bit more in my own, but her face was moist with uneasy sweat. "Right now, we have to stop this bomb."

"Renadale, come here."

Sherlock's anxious tone tugged me away from the gypsy and towards a large table set up in the secret compartment. There were bits and pieces of woodwork, and paper lying about, but nothing struck me as readily important. "What is all this?"

"Do you recognize that?" Holmes's finger pointed swiftly towards a plank in the center of the table. "I don't want my memory to fail me, but I belive it's…"

"From Don Giovanni." I recognized the 'Imperator' sign like my own rugged boots. "I would remember that any day. It's during the Commendatore scene. Who could forget?"

Sherlock didn't waste a second. "To the opera!" He shouted. I didn't have time to think. There was no time to speak. Before I knew it, his hand was in mine, and we were furthering ourselves into darkness.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Again, I'm so sorry about the wait! But, here's a fun question for you all! If you could cast Renadale in the film, who would be your first choice? Leave a comment below and let me know!

Review please as well! Sorry if it was lacking in romance or anything. ;)

MUCH LOVE XXXXXXX

~Mistro