Hey guys! Thanks for all of the LOVELY reviews… Another author's challenge? I think so! Here is the question for today's chapter.

If you could invent one new character for the stories, who would they be and what would they be like?

Maybe a bit more of a difficult one, but I'm curious to see all your flowing creativity. (:

Haliston- Thanks so much for the sweet review! I'm very glad this story has kept fascinating and enjoying you, and I hope it always will, even after it's end. :)

I am Alys: Glad to see you back! Hope I didn't keep you waiting for a disappointment. ;)

CrimsonBottles: You're absolutely wonderful. Hope to hear more out of you soon!

JilianMastrano: No worries, Moriarty wouldn't hurt such a frequent and wonderful reviewer like yourself!

SoundzofSilence: The mysteries continue… ;)

Hope this chapter isn't too dull. Things will pick up, I promise. I think I just needed some character development here. :)

LOVE YOU ALL LIKE I LOVE RAMEN NOODLES.

~MistroStrings

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

Sherlock was kind enough to pay for our rooms in a nearby inn. Watson and Sherlock would have time to catch up, while Simza and I were finally given a chance to meet one another properly. The hotel was small and quaint for one night's rest. We could not afford more than that, but without sleep, we would all be lost physically and mentally. The gypsy attire prohibited a luxurious stay, but I was pleased enough with the cozy, wooden inn.

When we actually made it inside the building, our feet were as heavy as our backs, and our backs were as heavy as our eyelids. Little conversation was passed during the coach ride and whatever was said held minor interest to us all. John had even begun to doze off, startling us all with a repressed snore.

As for Sherlock, he was still ill at ease with his blunder. His lip would curl with the darting of his eyes; a sure sign that he was bothered. The thoughts consumed in his head were written on every fleck of brown in his eye. I have messed up. He is winning.

And yet, Sherlock Holmes was not often a man who regretted much. He was able to realize his mistakes and accept them. This was a trait that I had admired from the start, along with many other aspects that were dear to me. Maybe I was the person who knew the most about Sherlock Holmes.

After his dearest doctor, of course.

The four of us managed to slug our way up a narrow staircase, and outside of the two rooms luring us in for sleep. Words continued to stay silent as drowsiness slipped into our veins. We unlocked the door with a fumble, each of us ready for our pillows to meet our heads. But, before Sherlock managed to slink into his room, I snatched his sleeve before he had the chance. John and Simza shut the doors behind us, not even taking note of our disappearance.

My fingers continued to clutch his arm. His eyes watched my hand, until it finally uncurled with hesitation. "Are you alright?" My voice was soft in the empty, unlit corridor.

Sherlock's forehead grew crinkled with thought. Perhaps he was going to empty his heart out, and confess that he was not alright, but instead he said very little. "If I am not, I shall find a way to be."

"That is not a proper answer. I cannot deem it acceptable." Sherlock couldn't resist cracking a smile at my stubbornness, but my lips could not depart their downward state. "You have not been happy for some time. Your feelings aren't as easily hidden anymore."

Sherlock's grin shrunk in size until it was barely more than a turn of the lip. "I am happiest when you are."

Responses always seemed to be hard with the detective. Sherlock Holmes needed nothing but solitude and deduction, and I knew this without so much as an utterance. He did not need me as much as he said he did, though I knew that my heart could not beat as strongly without him. With a slow kiss on the cheek, and a gentle touch of his hair, I bid him goodnight with a mere glance. From the corner of my eye, I could see that he was unmoving. His feet were frozen like the frosty air outside, glued forever to the faded carpet.

He will be alright, I convinced myself. Sherlock Holmes is always alright. And though I managed to turn away from him, even my words were not fully convincing.

There wasn't much time to dwell on our conversation. Simza was patiently waiting for me as I entered the room. Her eyes were as sharp as the knives that she carried beneath her skirt, but something about her face was not threatening. Her hand gestured widely towards the bed, ordering me in silence to sit. Without a second though, I followed the trail leading to the blue sheets.

Simza faced me, her knowing smirk creeping from beneath her raven-like curls. "How long has it been?"

It didn't help that the only glimpse of light was a candle near the door, and Simza's eyes were sparkling like a fox. The words, though I tried to stop them, came out in nervous chokes. "How… H-how long… what?"

"How long have you been in love with him?"

My eyes nearly fell from my skull. I was certain that my affections for Mister Holmes were obvious, but I hadn't expected Simza to confront me in such a profound way. She almost seemed upset with the idea, and I half wondered if she held any affection for my boss. "I'm not in love with him…" My response almost sounded like a question.

"Oh, don't lie to me." Her fingers shoved my shoulder back in annoyance. "You are as bad at hiding as the murderer who was in my fortune-telling room. I'm just a curious woman, and when something is on my mind, an answer must be placed with it."

My shoulders rose with instinct. I could barely bring my eyes to her face, instead planting them on the dusty window. "We're merely friends." A bitter chuckle was all the answer I received. If there was no confession from me, there would be no sleep for either of us. "Alright, if you must know, then I… I shall tell you." Why are you doing this, Rena? What does it matter if she knows? "I've held affection for him as long as I can remember. There was a time when I thought it impossible, but somehow that all changed. Now I know there is no one else for me in this world." My confession shocked even myself.

"When did you meet?"

"I can't put a date on it." My attempt to recall failed. "Nearly a year ago, perhaps? I had only just turned twenty-five." Twenty-five. Such a perfect age for naïvety. So innocent and so foolish. Unfortunately, I hadn't changed much. "He hired me as a maid."

Simza let out a hearty laugh. "His maid? By the looks of it, it seems as if you've never cleaned a day in your life and he hasn't bothered to either." She took a seat beside me, her scowl transforming into a smile. "On the other hand, there is nothing that can be said on my part. The only things I wash are my dishes and myself."

Her words managed to put a smile on my face and a small laugh in my throat. When she suddenly started laughing along, something in my heart swayed. This woman was not anyone to be fearful of. All she wanted was her brother; her last drop of blood. She was still very young and her heart was prone to breaking. We both had someone taken away from us and we were both sensitive when it came down to things.

Perhaps we weren't as different as I had thought.

"I've never been in love." Instead of sounding sad, Simza was amused. "There was one man that had me fooled, but I hated the feeling it gave me in the pit of my stomach, so I pushed him aside." My face twisted in sadness for the beautiful gypsy, but instead of being heartbroken she began to chuckle. "My mother would always complain that I would never get married; that I was just as much of a boy as the rest of them." Simza wagged her finger knowingly. "When I showed her my strength and my fighting skills, she never complained again."

"Where did you learn to fight? I've wondered since the day of the stag party. Watching you was truly incredible."

She smiled modestly, obviously not used to such compliments. "Don't spoon out such big words; not to someone who doesn't deserve it. Some of the boys in camp were kind enough to teach me. Once I started beating them all, I began making up my own tricks." She gave me a wink. "I've heard that even you know some moves."

Well, that's kind of Sherlock to tell her, considering I can barely remember a thing. "He's taught me minor fighting skills, but it was something my body could not fully grasp. I suppose I'm more of a peaceful woman."

"Irony," Simza spat.

My brows came together in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"You're fighting for peace, are you not?" Her head turned to the side. "This Professor is threatening to bring war, not just upon the Continent, but the entire world." I could feel my face growing as white as the carpet. "You're fighting to stop him. You're fighting for peace. That is called irony, if I remember my English correctly."

"I think the fact that I'm the one fighting is… Well, that's just called stupidity."

Simza could not seem to wipe the smile from her face. Surely I was like a newborn to her, innocent and foolish, and even so I was glad to grant her some happiness in so dark a time. Despite how short that happiness would last. "I think the time is right. Here and now."

Somehow, in the dark, with Simza's deep and powerful voice, I was starting to get the wrong message. My body inched further away from her. "What… exactly are you talking about?"

Simza shot me an annoyed glance. "Time for me to read your cards." She began to rattle off curses in French at my foolish assumptions. That was the first time I was glad of my nonexistent translation skills. Without an agreement from me, Simza pulled a deck from her pocket. The bent and torn sheets of parchment were tied together with a long, lace ribbon. Simza's fingers untied the pack breezily, as she had so many times before. "I want you to take out three cards." I watched as her bare hands spread the deck across the bed sheets. "Feel it. Don't think."

Doing as I was asked, though undoubtedly thinking somewhat about my choices, I slid three cards from their spots. They looked up at me with detailed, regency designs, the tales underneath waiting to be told. "Do I turn them over?"

"Let me," Simza said gently. The first card turned over slowly. An eternity might have passed, but I was captivated by the face that greeted me. An old man with withered hands turned his back towards us atop a mountain. He held a single lantern, facing it out towards the empty valley beneath him. He was not completely alone, but his only companion was a mangy wolf with unforgiving eyes. "The hermit," Simza whispered. "This card represents your past. You lived a life of solitude, silence and loneliness." My heart twisted at the depressing sketch. It twisted, because she was right. "These are not bad traits. It means that you have learned to follow your own counsel, and that you have the strength to go through life alone, if you ever have to."

"Alone?" I whispered. "Why would I ever be alone?" Sherlock Holmes, you promised that you would always be with me. Surely, he would not break his word.

Would he?

Simza didn't wait for me to think of an answer, nor did she give one. Instead, her dirty nails flicked over the next card. A large wheel faced us. It was golden like the morning sun, but with black symbols etched around its curves. I could not understand the meaning, but along with the wheel, a Sphinx was grinning back at me. "The wheel of fortune," Simza's face was smiling now. "This is a good card for your present. It represents the changes that your life is going through. These could be positive or negative changes, but as we have learned, you have the strength to follow your own path, no matter what these alterations bring."

And finally, the last one. The future. My future. Normally, I might not have believed these things, but she had been right about the other two. What would this bring? I crossed my fingers and prayed for something sweet, such as the lovers or the sun. Instead, what I got was far less glorious, but far more heart-racing.

"What is that?" I whispered fearfully. "Simza, what is that supposed to tell me?"

"The hanged man…" Her voice was as low as the sun beneath the horizon. We both stared into the black card, the man's eyes watching us without any affection. He did not hang from his neck. Instead, he hung from his ankles, but somehow it was just as frightening. He looked relaxed, and yet sad, as if he had no other option in his life. "This card represents catastrophic changes yet to come."

"Catastrophic?" My repeated whisper could not help to shake. Every chill that could possibly breeze through the room must have at that very moment. My whole body went numb and as frigid as ice. "Does that mean that I cannot handle these changes?" Another question trickled into my mind, but would not come out upon my lips.

Could this mean an end to something?

Simza hesitated with her answer. After a minute of struggling, she finally swept up the cards from their pile and tucked them back into her skirt's pockets. "These are just nonsense. I do it for money, you know. None of it is real." She was lying. Her eyes never once met mine, and a strong woman such as herself would have the nerve to tell it to my face. But, even she did not. Even she knew that my life was left to fate.

Something bad was going to happen if these cards were truthful.

Something I feared would change the course of my life forever.

Despite her ignorance of the cards and my shaking fingers, I managed to draw my attention to something else. I tried to think about my father, my mother, anything. The image of the blonde man with his tied ankles dissolved quickly from my mind.

"You're very strange, Renadette Adkins."

"Renadale," I replied bitterly.

She shrugged. "Even your name is strange."

"And Simza is not?"

Her brow rose in unison with the corner of her mouth. "Touché, ivrogne. Touché."

"Ivrogne?" I recalled that name from the gypsy camp. It was tossed in my direction quite frequently ever since. "What does that mean?"

She did not answer me with words, but only another knowing smirk. The woman was playing games with me, but I somehow didn't mind. Though no one seemed to have touched the bookshelf across the room in years, Simza pulled out a blue cover with ease. A long trail of dust flew off with it, causing a cough within my throat. Without warning, the book was flung in my direction and just nearly passed my fingers. The title looked unfriendly as I glanced at it in my open hands.

The French to English Dictionary. By Martin LeGasteron.

I flipped through the pages quizzically, until reaching 'I'. My eyes searched for the mystery, but my only reward was a burning in my cheeks. The translation fell from my shocked lips. "Drunkard?!"

With good reason those gypsies had called me that. And yet, alcohol was not something I favored. The last thing I wanted was for Sim to think this way, especially when we were finally warming up to one another. My head snapped to Simza to try and explain my behavior, but it was too late. The gypsy was fast asleep.

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

The next afternoon, Sherlock insisted that we go and eat at the café beneath the Eiffel Tower for a quick chance at French biscuits and tea. He would join us later on, for he had some quick business to attend to. I made no complaint; food was beginning to become almost unknown to me. The thought of something sweet made my head spin with desire.

Sherlock had awoken that morning with a smile so wide that it could only make the rest of us feel a bit worried. He was pleased with himself for some reason or another, and with the rest of humanity, though none of us could place our finger on the reason.

"He's getting rid of the stress from yesterday," Simza had muttered to me when we made our way out of the inn. "All of that emotion building up inside of him… It's not good for his soul."

"All of that emotion?" I repeated. "I never thought Sherlock would be equipped with such a phrase."

When we finally reached the café, it was nearly twenty minutes that we had to wait for Sherlock Holmes. Why? We hadn't the slightest idea, but naturally we had hoped that it would be important.

My questions were no longer barricaded in my brain with the sudden arrival of Sherlock Holmes. Without a word to the others, or myself, Sherlock grabbed my hand and drug me up to order with him: a perfect opportunity for me to solve this happy-Sherlock riddle. "The finest tea in France belongs to this café," he said. "It shall be all ours, as a treat for our long and weary travels."

Jovial Sherlock was something I could get used to, despite the fact that it was neither who he was, nor whom I knew him to be. My dark brows came together in my forehead, allowing visible confusion to pass my face. We were waiting in line to order, the rest of the well-dressed crowd taking no note of our shabby appearance. "Something is different about you."

His hands clasped together greedily. "I've had a breakthrough, Renadale."

"I had thought so. Nothing else makes you light up so much." Not even me, I thought glumly. He was practically bouncing off the walls with amusement at himself. "What is making you like this? You snuck of this morning to attend to business, and now you can't wipe a smile from your face."

"You shall find out when take our seat with the others. All of the information I have gathered will have light shed upon it… Everything will be awoken."

Sherlock Holmes was not just happy, despite his cheerful tone of voice. If I could describe him as anything in that moment, it would have been grey. Dark circles around his eyes were no longer swollen, but rather imbedded into his skin. His eyes flickered every time a glance of sun came our way, and only then did I pick up on his 'business'. "You didn't sleep at all, did you?!" My question was almost a gasp of accusation. "After I left you outside of the room, you never even went in!"

"Do you have any proof?"

"You went rambling around Paris at night! Your face says it all without your jaw moving an inch."

"I suppose it was more of the morning."

"Sherlock." My voice was firm. "You need to rest. I know this is a difficult task for you, perhaps the hardest in your eyes, but I think it is one of the easiest tasks you shall have to face in the next few days. And I can tell that this lack of energy is taking its toll on you. Or, at least, it will."

Sherlock scoffed at my lengthy warning. "You truly think that? I feel absolutely wondrous."

Sherlock Holmes was sleep deprived. I knew that was true, but I sighed and said nothing else. He ordered five teacups, one for each of us, along with a plate of biscuits. When he was not looking, I ordered one more for him in hopes that it would help keep him awake. While we waited in line, I attempted to bring up an issue that was bothering me. "I wanted to ask you something." Sherlock wasn't paying much attention. His eyes were fixated on someone outside, an inspector. He was having a conversation with a group of men and women, and I could presume it was not a good one. Sherlock hadn't heard a word that I had uttered. "Sherlock…? You see, my birthday is coming up soon, and-"

"Monsieur Holmes?"

A young woman behind the counter slid a silver platter in our direction. Five cups of tea, a pot for the rest of it, and some elegant sweets laid spread out like the tarot cards. I eyed the snacks carefully, my stomach growling as my mind drifted away from my previous inquiries. "Let me taste it." My fingers snacked a shortbread cake from the tray, slipping it between my teeth with a hasty desire. Sherlock watched as the biscuit disappeared in seconds, to which I could only return a crumbly smile. "Just making sure it wasn't poisoned."

A flicker of the old Sherlock returned with his amused smile. "I'm sorry, had you been saying something before?"

He hadn't been listening to my birthday comment. I presumed as much. All I could do was give him a tight smile and shake my head. My birthday was nothing we needed to worry about, but it was just that… I wanted to do something special with him. Just the two of us.

Wishful thinking was all it was.

"Let's continue on then." A force smiled stretched across his unshaven face. "Before the tea gets cold."

I watched him leave that spot with quick steps. He shuffled into the covered table beside Simza, beginning to speak as if nothing had ever happened. My own feet would not move. Sherlock's actions that day had been so off. One second, he was as happy as a fool. The next, he was as sorrowful as a raven.

Though my own thoughts were enticing, missing out on the table's conversation would certainly bury me in trouble for the future. I quickly made myself known to my companions, scooting in besides John. Sherlock was finishing a sentence as I made my way over. "… or consider what we know?" He continued. "Last night's bombing was clearly meant to look like Germany's retaliation for Strasbourg."

"That wasn't the only reason." My whisper was heard across the table.

"Correct," Sherlock nodded. "The bomb was also meant to conceal the murder of just one man. The man killed by the gunshot was none other than Alfred Meinhard."

Simza's soft biscuit fell from her mouth in confusion. She said nothing behind her mouthful of food, but instead shared the same exact look that I was wearing. Uncertainty.

"He makes guns," John clarified, spreading his arms at the length of the table. "Big guns."

"Oh." My voice was small when I spoke. "Well that's… not good. Is this because of Moriarty's fetish with causing war?" Sherlock only had to shoot me a look for me to fully understand the truth of it. "He's taking ownership of all of these dead men's business. He's making money off of them, and just waiting for the bodies to stack up as the bills stack up with them." Even my own dark words taunted me, but the truth was staring us right in the face. I was no longer afraid to look at it.

"Only days ago, a large share of his company was bought by an unknown investor." Sherlock rose his cup to his lips with a raise of his brow. We all knew who that 'unknown investor' was. A red, bearded man with a stomach burning for power.

John scoffed. "Moriarty."

"The clues point in one direction, but to avoid repeating last night's debacle… I was obliged to collect more sufficient data, hence my tardiness." Sherlock kept his voice low as the groups of people around us began to grow.

There was a smile creeping onto his face, but he swiftly hid it behind the rim of his cup. He wasn't fast enough for my eyes, and with a firm setting down of my cup, I looked him square in the eye. "What did you do now?"

He fumbled with words for a second, the story probably sounding better and more sensible in his head. In the end, his decisions were probably the decisions fit for a fool, but he would have to come out with them eventually. We all waited for an explanation as the sun danced hotly onto our backs. "I may have gotten myself into a bit of a mess, but I promise, it was worth it in the end."

"What disguise did you use this time?" Watson asked casually, munching on a small shortbread.

Sherlock sighed. None of us were supporting his escapades, making him feel all the more foolish. Regardless, our curiosity was still there and that was enough to satisfy the detective. "Old librarian." Long white bread, long white hair, small spectacles and eyebrows more bushy than a cat's tail. I remembered him fixing it up back in Baker Street, but not once did I actually expect it to be used. How wrong I was. "He has a habit of feeding that urban species, the feral pigeon." We all waited to see where that fact would take us. "So. There are seven mainline railway stations in Paris. But, taking ten minutes to get to the Jardin des Tuileries… where the largest concentration of the winged vermin may be found…reduces there to one, the Gare du Nord. Where he will be just in time to catch the 11:04 train to Berlin."

My eyes narrowed. "Did they say all of this and you listened in, or do you just somehow know these things?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. Without moving his lips, his eyes spoke to me. Renadale, my sweet thing, you really needn't ask such a question. "It makes several stops along the way," he continued. "One of which is-"

"Heilbronn," Watson said with a satisfied smile. He set his cup down with amusement, almost as if this game were too easy for the likes of him.

"Exactly where we must go," Sherlock agreed with a distant stare. Something wasn't right about the German city's name trickling into his ears. It sent him a dissatisfied shiver down his spine, the idea of the place possibly frightening. And yet, why would Sherlock Holmes be scared? He had bested Moriarty for this long, and this far, so what was one more chase? The cat was chasing the mouse and it nearly had its paw on the tail. I just hoped we would always be the cat.

Sherlock still did not seem keen on the idea, but Watson was still more than entertained. "What is in Heilbronn?" I asked quizzically. "Is it something we should be weary of?"

"We should be weary of everything, Miss Adkins," Sherlock said softly. "The days grow shorter and the nights shrink with them. We have little time to take care of ourselves, each other, as well as watch our own backs." His gaze was lost to us. "The whole fate of humanity seems to be in our hands. If we mess up things in Heilbronn, it could be catastrophe for all."

"Meinhard's factory is in Heilbronn," Watson clarified. "With the large guns and every other weapon you could probably imagine. If they spot us breaking in, we'll be done with. And I don't think it will be with money to return home."

My face twisted slowly towards my friend. His blue eyes met mine with worry, but they too whispered me reassurance. Sherlock Holmes has bested Moriarty before, and that is what we will do again. With the help of you, of course. "Are there bombs there?" No one bothered to answer me. Suddenly, the cookies and tea no longer looked appetizing.

"It's Moriarty's factory now," Sherlock grumbled. "Unfortunately, due to the bombing, the crossing between France and Germany is to be closed. I'm afraid our pursuit is over, unless we can happen upon a comrade who knows their way around borders…" The air grew still as Simza stared off into the distance. Six pairs of eyes were glued upon hers, but she did not meet a single pair. After a moment or two, we watched her rise from her place. Fire was flickering in her eyes as her chains and jewels clanked against one another. It was almost a battle position; an idea was turning and wheeling through her head. Though we were going to break the law, sneak into a country illegally, and most likely toss ourselves into a land of guns, bombs and other explosives, Simza found no large issue with any of this. Her voice was firm when she finally spoke, and even the sweet violin music nearby couldn't calm my nerves.

"Get off of your chairs, gentlemen. I've got just the thing."

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

Simza took up deep into the forest. Our gypsy disguises were back on and completely believable, but little did we know that we were soon about to stumble upon something that would really dip our toes into the characters. Though the three of us did not know where we were headed, Simza was adamant that this was the best, and the only way that we would cross the border into Germany.

Her and John talked idly in front of Sherlock and I, our tired feet lagging us from a swift journey. The birds chirped in conversation above us, the morning dull cooling down behind the leaves. The sounds and scenes were sweet, and I warned myself to take them in while it lasted. Sherlock and I were nothing like the animals fluttering above us. No words passed between our lips. No kind thoughts were exchanged, nor any dull ones. There were things I wanted to ask him, but they were selfish and I forced my tongue to be bit.

"You seem to be quite fatigued today, Miss Adkins."

"Since when did you decide to be formal?" I had thought that the 'Miss Adkins' was long gone. He used to use it in uncomfortable, or angry situations. Was there something I wasn't seeing? "I'm not tired. If anything you're the tired one." There was a different side of my voice, and Sherlock was quick to note it. He only stared down at me with concern until I finally let loose a sigh and confessed myself. "Last night I could not sleep."

"Why is that?"

"Simza…" I struggled with the words. "She read my cards."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his boots sticking to the muddy ground beneath them. His dark features blended in strikingly with the green of the nature pouring out around him. Even though he was unwashed and it wasn't the right time, I could not help finding him completely beautiful in that moment. Beautiful in the face, the soul, and in the mind. Every time he spoke, touched me, or even looked at me, my whole world shook. I could not be upset with him. "What did they say? Surely you didn't lose sleep over such a minor thing."

My eyes flickered away from his. I could not tell him the truth. Not because it would hurt him or bother him, but because I still could not admit it to myself. "They said very little. I just couldn't sleep… that's all. Perhaps the mattress was badly made."

He was smarter than I was giving him credit for, but he asked me no more questions. His hand reached out gently to touch my arm, leading me back onto the trail. Just before we turned the corner to meet the others, Sherlock managed to send a whisper against my ear. "If you ever cannot sleep again, please come and get me." The burning in my stomach returned, sending shock waves throughout my entire body. "I will sit up with you all night, if I must." His eyes were still glossy and smooth compared to his scratched and scarred skin. "You should know that I would like nothing better."

There was only one thing I knew how to say. There was only one response I could utter to show him my appreciation. I love you. And yet, I couldn't say it. I had said it before, but only once, and ever since it would not come easily to my voice. "Thank you."

His eyes never left my face, but I could see his chest beginning to rise and fall as fast as the birds were flying above us. Those two little words seemed to mean more to him than they would to another. Perhaps he knew that secretly, a third word was slipped in there, and that my appreciation was another declaration of love. He tried to make an audible response, but I turned away before he could manage it. Obviously, Sherlock Holmes struggled to wrap his head around an idea that was staring him right in the face.

He was mine, I was his, and nothing could break us.

"Too English!" I heard Simza bark, snapping me from my daydreams. Her fingers swiftly swapped her ragged hat with Watson's proper one. He seemed disappointed by this, but it did make him fit in with the rest of the group. Well, as much as John could fit in with a company of gypsies.

Sherlock mocked his friend with a chuckle. "I think you make a fantastic gypsy."

"I certainly smell like a fantastic gypsy." Watson's heated breath only sent laughter into our own. He brushed dust from his hat, making his way over to a line of horses set up amongst the trees. "Unsanitary business, these sort of things. Riding horses, wearing dirty clothes… After all, I am a doctor. I should be taking much better care of myself."

"You're a married man," Simza said amusedly. "You won't have time for yourself anymore."

The sight of the horses took me by surprise. All of the horses were energetic and ready to go, reminding me a bit of myself at the start of my Sherlock Holmes adventures. I had always loved horses, but seeing them out in the wild was much more spellbinding than watching them drag me around the city. The horses had no choice but to help our race, and we made them suffer for it. The gypsy lives actually made much more sense than the city ones. They were in touch with nature, their families, and themselves. All we cared about was business and how to make our pockets bulge.

My fingers stretched out towards an unoccupied black horse's nose. "Hello, darling. Are you to be mine?" It huffed towards me, but the heat of its breath was comforting rather than chilling. The animal's nose pressed against my palm, enjoying my touch. It liked the feel of my fingers against its skin, and I wondered how long it had been since the creature had seen affection. "You're a beautiful thing, aren't you? We're going to get along just fine." I was far too distracted by the beautiful animal to take notice of the scene playing around me. Before I knew it, Sherlock's petrified voice was flickering through the trees and into my eardrums.

"They're dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle. Why would I want anything with a mind of its own bobbing about between my legs?"

My head snapped instantly towards the speaker. If my eyes had been large already, they were the size of the horse's then. "I'm sorry?" My voice scoffed with unhidden shock. "What is it we're talking about here?"

"I shall require a bicycle, thank you very much!" Sherlock continued with his rant, not taking any notice of my horrified question. "It's 1891! I could have chartered a balloon!" Sherlock turned his back from the scene, literally making his distance from the creatures. He wandered off on his own private pity gathering, none of us having any desire to join in. My question remained unanswered, but I quickly learned that it had been a horse that he was talking about.

At least, I hoped it had been a horse.

"What's gotten into him today?" I whispered to John, tightening my supplies onto the saddle. "He's been acting so strange lately, and nothing I say seems to make its way into his brain. Sometimes I feel like we shouldn't even be here. In the end, I think it will come down to the Professor and himself and we will be of little us."

"Don't put yourself down, Rena. Sherlock might act that way, but without us he's lost. It's just that he doesn't like horses." John laughed at the ludicrous idea. "He can ride them, but he really has little fondness for them. They're very intelligent and he likes being the smartest man in the room." John looked genuinely worried as his already appearing wrinkled furrowed. "For a moment there, I thought he might actually not be joining us." John scrunched up his face in amusement and displeasure before addressing the gypsy woman. "How can we make this more …manageable?"

Simza stopped to think it through, before a white smile crack onto her dark skin. She shot us both a bemused smirk, a childish side of her beginning to come out. "I know just the thing." There was a long pause as the laughter caught in her throat. "We'll fetch him a pony."

~.~.~.~.~.~

If you are interested in seeing what the tarot cards look like, I imagined them to look like the ones from

Tarot – cards . net

(:

Have a look, if you're interested!

Xxx

And please review, getting to 300 made my day last time, and the next chapter will provide much more action and excitement!