Thanks for the glorious reviews! Let's get to 400 next time, shall we?

AND. Take a look at my profile please, for the almighty The Saintlike Weasley has created ANOTHER beautiful banner, but this time for the current story.

This is strange, but this story has almost come to a close! How did it happen so fast? I'll be sure to drag it out a bit longer… because then we only have one more story. Then the series is over.

Forever.

Depressed yet?

Love you ALL. 3

Halliston: I never actually wrote a story with the Blackwood case. In the first Sherlock story, "Kisses of Ten", Renadale briefly mentions it. The first story takes place shortly after the Blackwood case. The following three take place between the Blackwood case and 'A Game of Shadows' :D Hope this clears things up

~MistroStrings

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

When the train finally stopped, my whole body had stopped with it. Every muscle in me was past being sore. I was numb. My neck was beyond repair and I could feel the crumbling of my skin each time I moved. There wasn't any time to complain or seek help. Mycroft would know what to do. And if he wouldn't, he'd be able to find someone who did.

The train wasn't a passenger train, so sneaking off without getting noticed was a trouble in itself. A couple of men were touring the crates while gathering supplies to ship into the cities. At the first sound of their boots, Simza awoke from her sleep with alertness and energy "We have to get out of here." Her tone frightened me enough to jump out if the train was still in motion, but I was too weak to move. Sleep had not supplied any rejuvenation. "Did you not hear me?" Her scarred hands shoved Tamas awake. John sputtered up at the sound of commotion, his reaction almost as bad as if he had been injected with Sherlock's wedding present.

"Do keep it down," Sherlock grumbled. I watched as his head fell against the side of the wall. "The day has been long and I fear I need some nourishment." If I thought I was lacking motivation, I suddenly become a hero compared to the detective.

"Fine," the gypsy replied. "Save your own skin when they find you." Simza wasn't going to wait around for the likes of us. She had a brother in need of saving. With a quick hop from the edge of the cart, she disappeared from my view before I even had time to ask where she was headed. Tamas followed her like a lost dog, but part of me presumed he also knew their path.

That left the three of us. The useless trio. The pathetic triplet. Nothing could save our sorry souls now. We were beyond redemption. However, we could at least attempt to stay out of trouble, even if it were for a little while.

"Come on, gentlemen." I tried my hardest to have my gritted teeth sound like motivation rather than excruciating pain twisting my insides. "We should probably remove ourselves from this situation if we don't want to spend the night in a prison."

"Gypsies hop aboard trains quite frequently," Sherlock spoke without a crack of his eyes. "Hoping off them isn't enough to send one to prison."

My body now towered over him. He couldn't see me, but already I felt stronger. My wounds would be patched up and we could get back to business. The thought of a bath was heaven in itself. If I couldn't solve the murder of symbols, I was at least going to take down Moriarty. "You're absolutely right," I said firmly. "They won't arrest us for being gypsies. It's the fact that we are actually a group of poor rabble-rousers from London with someone else's blood splattered across our chest that might worry them."

That seemed to do the trick. With a groan and a sputter of what sounded like blood and dust, Sherlock was back on his feet again and ready for whatever came his way. His eyes were darker than I remembered, but his skin was as pale as the snow sweeping the ground. Watching him wobble to his feet, I gathered how weak he really was. He was a trickster, and tricksters were good at hiding things for a while, but in the end they always came through. And Sherlock was weary. There was no one who could deny it. There was minor limping as he hopped from the train, but judging by his quick pace, he was either starving or on the verge of growing determination.

Sherlock began a speech. "We'll get to my brother's house and grab some dinner." Well that answers my previous question. He continued as I chuckled silently behind him. John had managed to catch up wearily, though he seemed to be the healthiest of all of us. "Once we've managed to catch up with our lack of energy, we'll have to start thinking of the peace summit."

"We won't get a night's rest first?" John asked through a heavy sigh. A bed was the sweetest thought to John Watson: more than his beloved Gladstone and more than his precious Mary. Oh, no. A bed would be just fine to cure his aching heart.

"There's no time," Sherlock implored. "We've already wasted enough when we got captured." Though Sherlock tried to sound disappointed, I saw through the act. The whole time, things had been happening in the order he wanted them to. We were supposed to get captured. He was supposed to get tortured. But why?

"No time?" I scoffed. Hiding my discovery was difficult. "Perhaps you could have avoided us getting caught easier than you think."

Sherlock stopped walking as we approached the edge of the forest. His head turned over his shoulder to get a better look at me. Instead of offering me that mischievous smirk that had become so familiar, a look of hesitation crossed his face. In fear of Watson finding out, his eyes did the speaking. How did you know I planned it all?

It's not that hard, my own eyes replied. He didn't seem to get the message. Or if he did, he kept his pain hidden. Without uttering a sound, he continued onwards through the woods. I knew in a moment that it was going to be a long journey. Not just through the forest and not just to James Moriarty. But a long journey between the twisted emotions of Sherlock Holmes and myself.

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

Mycroft did not live too far from the station. It was a trek through the snow, but that was about the only burden we encountered. A few stray animals watched our path grow, but they never meant to interfere. I kept my coat wrapped tightly around myself with my eyes fixated on my footprints. No one and nothing would bother me that way.

"These woods are beautiful," Simza said ahead of us. "The mountains are beautiful. How could a man plan such a horrible thing in a place like this?"

"He is not a man," Sherlock scoffed. "Il est le diable." The two of them continued with their French conversation. Eventually the throaty words became a blur in my head, creating background noise for the pounding of my heart.

I felt John approach me, knowing that he was also lost by their words. He was wearing a smile that seemed out of place in a land that seemed unreal. My eyes did the asking. What was he thinking? "Soon we'll be at Mycroft's and then the peace summit. If things go as planned, we'll go home and pretend this never happened."

He was right. That's what happened every time. We never discussed things once they ended and they ate away at us like a wound. "Maybe this time we should talk about it. This hasn't been like the other cases. This has changed everything." My eyes flickered towards the group ahead of us, specifically on Holmes. His back was hunched and his eyes moved in every which way. Normally, I could guess what was on his mind. Not any more. "This has changed some of us more than others."

John sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly. His eyes were also fixated on the detective with concern lacing his pupils. "I fear he'll go mad. I fear he's already starting to."

"People always say Sherlock Holmes is mad."

"But he isn't, is he?" John growled. Any animosity towards his friend was a threat to him as well. "He's a genius. A bloody genius who tries too hard to make things right. People toss words about like they're nothing, but calling someone mad who tries to save humanity… In my opinion they're the creatures of madness. Not him. Not us."

I couldn't help but smile, though it seemed out of place. John Watson had always been my hero. Since day one, I couldn't imagine how someone was so close with Sherlock, but also had such control over him. And though Holmes was a genius, John was incredibly smart and just as adventurous. The life of a doctor was what he had planned, but it might not have been what he yearned for.

I let my thoughts linger in my own head while trying to comfort John verbally. "All I know is that this is going to end soon. We should focus on that. If we let ourselves think of the future, we might become too arrogant."

"You're right," he nodded. "If anything, we can't fail this." His anger disappeared, twisting into a look of unknowing. He repeated his words with trepidation. "We can't fail this."

I could only imagine the thoughts running through his head. What if we did fail? The world would break out into war. Asia would fight anyone who came near. America would win if they chose to fight and no matter who came near them, they would tear them to pieces. Britain might stand a chance against Eastern Europeans, but overall lives would be lost, history would be destroyed and the chaotic world that we already lived in would become manic. Unstoppable. Hatred would gush from the core of the Earth and suffocate our very existence.

The thoughts made my head spin and my stomach hurt, but I didn't have time to think on them very long. I was grateful when the small cottage beneath the mountainside came into our view as we approached the end of the forest. It looked horribly comforting. Every light was on to welcome us, forming a yellow smile against a frozen night.

"Here we are," Sherlock spoke up. "Swiss villa of my brother Mycroft. I recommend that you all keep your ears attuned, your eyes at attention and your smiles ready. My brother will not like you very much if you don't."

The game was back on. My back was pinned straight as if a new corset found its way upon me, and my shoulders were pulled back at attention. John was good at standing straight. No doubt his military days were to blame for that. Cold air brushed my face like the hand of death, warning me of something I had already realized moments before.

My voice shook as my threatening words blew out in an icy breath. "This is the beginning of the end."

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

The inside of Mycroft's home was just as expected to be. Elegant, yet somehow bohemian in relation to the red walls and the deep wood that bordered them, along with the odd collection of furniture that awaited us from the very threshold. And though it was not Mycroft who opened the door for our weary selves, we could hear him shouting at us just down the corridor.

"Join me, join me!" He sounded quite merry to have us all there. I suspected he didn't have many visitors in the outskirts of Switzerland.

"Always do, brother!" Sherlock responded with the widest grin he had given in weeks.

A voice shouted back. "I've got a pleasant meal awaiting you!" The clashing of silverware informed us all that he was not quite ready, but the thought of food made us giddy. I watched as John, Simza and Tamas followed their sense of smell.

I myself was going to follow them, but was startled by the polite, old butler that was taking my coat away from me. He left without a word, as quiet and stealthy as he had come. "That's Stanley," Sherlock clarified. "I'm sure you recall."

I remembered him briefly from the Chichester home, but he never ceased to amaze me. Such loyalty was admired. After kicking the remnants of snow from my boots, something soft grasped my upper arm. I looked up to meet Sherlock's sorrowful eyes, their expression not matching his vibrant greeting just moments before. "Are you alright?" I was flustered by his sudden appearance and the realization that we were now alone. "You must be exhausted. Surely a bath must be set up-"

"I've been a horrible man to you, Renadale." Bitterness trickled through Sherlock's words and into his eyes until it reached his whole body and twisted it into a slump against the wall. "You do not know the things I have done. The things I have seen."

"Of course I do," I reassured. "I've been there with you. Through thick and thin, I have seen the same as you and shared the same senses." He gazed at me from the corner of his eye with his back still slouched lazily against the wall. "Do you understand me?"

He waited for a moment to reply. The answer he gave was not the answer I was expecting, nor the one I had hoped for. "I have never understood you, Miss Adkins."

Miss Adkins. Were we travelling back in time?

With a defiant step towards him, I aimed myself into his line of vision. If he wanted to look the other way, I would follow his watch. There was no avoiding me. "How dare you," I spat out without fear of his remarks. "Where is this even coming from? You have the nerve to say that to my face after you claim I am the only thing that makes sense in your life."

"I will not allow myself to hurt you any further." His voice grew smaller as he spoke, but my frustration did not tend to his weaknesses.

"The fact that you could even plan these events is monstrous." I was going back to our eye conversation in the woods. The fact that he knew what was going to happen infuriated me. "You could have at least told me in advance… given me times to prepare my emotions."

"It had to be real," he explained. "Moriarty had to believe that I was the fish. He had to see me weak. You were my only way."

Though we were both injured, a sharp shove could not help but pass through my hand and onto his shoulders. I watched as he grabbed himself in pain, the age becoming noticeable on his face with every drop of stamina that flew away from him. "My tears were not there for you to use blindly." I recalled what he had said to me in Paris. "You told me we were partners."

His eyes shot up in horror. "Renadale, this does not change things. You have helped me more than you know and of course we are still partners…"

I could sense the growing frustration within him. The last thing he wanted to do was insult me, hurt me, and cause me pain. But he was doing so and it was clearly visible on my wrinkling face. "What?" I grunted, sensing his fear. "This wasn't part of your plan?"

My feet started carrying me away. I was quite content with the way my conversation would have ended: fierce, headstrong and very obviously a better detective than he took me for. But it did not end that way. Sherlock's hand flung me back to face him. Without a word, I watched time fly by. His smooth skin became hard and scarred. His cheek was cut forever, and wrinkles dug themselves across his hands and his face. Blackness circled his right eye like a reminder of his inability. His body became weaker as his mind buckled from the stress of James Moriarty. He was changed. I would never have him the way I found him.

But, my goodness, did I love him.

And my goodness, I was horrible at hiding it.

"You forgive me," he breathed out. Surely my face read as passionate, though I could not think of it as I stared at the growing tears. This time they were not upon my face, but the face of Sherlock Holmes. I had reduced the man to near weeping, which seemed far worse of a crime than any of James Moriarty's. "Please tell me that you do. I know this must come across as pure evil, but you must know that it was all for the sake of the game."

"You cannot use me as your chess piece-"

"You have never been a piece," he muttered. "You have always been a queen. My saving piece. The one who helps me win." His hands knotted themselves in my hair, pulling our foreheads together with heated breath. "Do not fall from me. Stay with me. There is nothing more obvious than the fact that I need you."

"You need me to win the game with Moriarty?" My whisper was planted dangerous close to his ear.

"Not with Moriarty," he sighed. "With myself."

I thought back to what he had said before. I have never been a good man. That might have been true. He had never cooked for me, offered to rub my feet, or donated to charity. He had never bothered to give Gladstone a bath, send Mary a wedding gift, or even toss Missus Hudson a tip. He might not have been good at socializing and he was far too openly critical when he disapproved. No, he was not a good man.

He had saved the lives of Londoners many times before I had met him. He solved cases that almost lead to the destruction of the British parliament. He travelled through foul sewers just to put the minds of parents' who lost their loved ones at ease. He gave up everything to chase down a man who was aiming to destroy the world. That one wasn't yet finished, but if he won, he would certainly not be a good man.

"Sherlock Holmes…" My lips were unafraid to caress his ear. I could feel the familiar heat and ache between our bodies. Over a year had passed since we had first met, and our lives were changed forever. "My father always told me not to marry a good man," I teased. His hands travelled down my neck sensually, his fingers moist from the body heat we shared in the small entrance. "He told me that I was to marry a great man. A strong man. A man with conviction and sense." Sherlock Holmes could not seem to focus on my words. I felt his hands travel further towards my hips. His fingers spread themselves across my waist. "You might just be that man."

He stopped moving for a moment to watch my lips. After I cracked a silent smile, he allowed himself that one simple pleasure. The mischievous grin. "How are we to know if that man might not present himself later?"

"Well. I've done my research. I'm a better detective than you might suppose."

"And?" He teased as his rough lips skimmed the surface of my own. "Your conclusion?"

"You're better than that man."

"Come see me tonight." My heart froze in its cage. It wasn't often that I trusted the sincerity in Sherlock's words, but this time it was clear.

My mouth fumbled with the words forming in it. "I… Well, I … of course will come and see you. Tonight, that is. To talk. Or…"

"To talk," Sherlock jutted in. "I simply want to talk."

"Of course. Naturally."

"That is, unless you had other intentions?"

"I'm not the one who makes plans ahead of time."

"Touché, but all will be explained tonight."

My brows scrunched towards him. I could feel the green in them shooting emerald blows into his soul. "You'd best get a proper speech ready, because most of the time when you explain things, everything becomes far more complicated than it was before."

Sherlock's tired face suddenly flickered to life. I watched as his lips curled into a smirk, teasing at my emotions. "When I told you that I loved you, it made our relationship more complicated?"

"In a way!" I shouted. He wasn't going to beat me at my own game. "You said it while throwing me off of a train! Now, what do you think you're doing?" My hands began to brush his coat. Trying to make him look decent was not in the cards for that evening, but I tried my hardest. "Your brother is waiting for you."

"He is," Sherlock replied, tucking my curls behind my ears. "You go before me. I fear I must freshen up a bit."

I did as I was told, passing a tired Tamas on the way. He bid me a goodnight as his tear-stained eyes led him up the stairs and out of my vision. I didn't have enough time to ask if he was alright, but Mycroft's shouting pulled my attention away. I joined the rest of the group at Mycroft's heavily set, ancient table.

"The fact is that it's going to happen whether we like it or not." Mycroft Holmes made sure that his opinion on John Watson was made clear through the sighing of his voice. He found him stupid. Quite stupid indeed. "Everyone has already arrived! Although these gentlemen may be talking peace, believe me, they are readying their armies at home. To cancel the summit now would be tenement to war."

I groaned through a bite of potatoes. "Tell us something we haven't already found out." Hearing such dreadful news come from Mycroft's mouth made things certain. He had insider access to everything concerning politics.

"The telegram… wasn't it clear?" John's anger was mixed with genuine confusion. We had warned Mycroft from inside the weapons base. We had risked our lives to escape that place, and still there was a peace summit going on! John had every right to be upset as I was quickly joining him.

"We have double the security, Sir." Caruthers tried to make up for things.

Simza certainly wasn't going to have any of his nonsense. "Oh!" She said mockingly, cocking her head back and forth and speaking through a mouthful of chicken. "Double the security? That's comforting!"

"You don't understand the delicacy of this situation." Mycroft clearly had the upper hand here. His suit was neatly pressed while we all looked like vagabonds. I was certain that he was right about everything, but I didn't want to believe it. "I passed the telegram onto my superiors, but they're the ones that brought Moriarty into the peace process in the first place! He has positioned himself brilliantly. He's one of our foremost intellectuals, he's a personal friend of-"

"Personal friend of the prime minister, yes we all know that!" John cut the elder Holmes off with a sarcastic wave of his hand. Things were not going as well as expected, but I didn't want to argue. I liked both sides of the party, and truthfully I wasn't certain if we could stop things or not.

"I believe you! But where's your evidence?" Mycroft whispered dramatically.

John leaned forward, making sure that Mycroft saw what he said very clearly. "He's too good to leave evidence. He doesn't leave loose ends."

Sherlock came stumbling into the room with something into his hands. Simza perked up, pleased to see that he had finally managed to find his way around a five-roomed house. His hair was combed and his suit jacket on. He did look a bit more elegant, despite the black and blue skin surrounding his eye. "Oh!" She snickered. "He's alive." We all watched as Sherlock pressed a golden tube up to his lips and sucked in, as if he were trying to inflate himself. My head fell to the side as I got a closer view of the device.

My inner thoughts trickled from my mouth. "Such a strange machine. I can't imagine what it's for… Why was I never a good inventor?"

"Sherly, put that down!" Mycroft warned from the other side of the table.

"What is this contraption?" He asked breathlessly. "May I have it? It is most invigorating-"

I stood up quickly, peeling the device from his hands. "No, I think I'll take it off of you…"

"That's my private and personal supply of oxygen," Mycroft explained carefully. I fiddled about with it in my hands. There was a pump to let air in and a perfect ring where the lips would sit. All of those moments Sherlock had taken my breath away. All I ever needed was that machine. "And you're not to touch it." Mycroft's eyes drove into my skin. "Any of you."

I carried it over to the other side of the dining room where Sherlock and Stanley gathered near the tea table. Mycroft continued to break our spirits as he spoke behind me, assuring that there was nothing we could do to stop things. I set the contraption on the tray, watching as Stanley carried it outside of the room.

"That could be useful some day," I whispered to Holmes.

Sherlock nodded. "More useful than one could imagine."

Mycroft's voice continued from the table. "The fact is… We don't really know what he's planning."

"It won't be another bomb," Simza grumbled.

John agreed. "No, there won't be another bomb."

"It doesn't make sense," she continued.

Once again, John corresponded. "Why would he attack all the nations?"

I tossed my own opinions into the pot. "He's not begrudging everyone."

Sherlock's voice uplifted over our own. "It could be an assassination. By a lone gunman with a syringe." His eyes were so obviously fixated upon the gypsy woman that there was no denying what he intended.

Simza dropped her hand away from her face in shock. "Rene."

"Unfortunately, yes."

Her face suddenly twisted. I recognized it instantly. It was the same look I had worn just an hour before. "You knew," she gasped.

He quickly cleared the air before another woman could claw away at him. "I had my suspicions, but having seen who is attending, I'm now certain." Simza could not hide her anger. It was flaming in her cheeks, as red as the skirt beneath her.

"Well!" Mycroft said rather perkily. "At least we know who to look out for."

"Rene will be the evidence," John said with a bit of a happier tone. Now he had proof against Moriarty. Now everything we had worked for was coming together.

"If we can find him and stop him, we will perhaps not only save his life, but prevent the collapse of Western civilization." Sherlock's face became smug. The idea pleased him. It pleased us all. I was not in the mood for my world to end just yet. "No pressure."

"My brother," Simza continued. "He's been lost for so long. How could I not have found him? How could he be the same man he was before?" She was not asking anyone in particular, but the palm of her hands. She rattled off something in French with sorrowful tones, as if her heart was breaking. A tear trickled along the edge of her eye, but she did not let it fall. "If only I had paid more attention. What if he is lost to me?"

Mycroft laughed as if it were a preposterous idea. "You cannot blame yourself for your brother falling in league with a criminal mastermind. We all have dark parts of ourselves that only come out when we are older. For example, I realized that I had a fascination with hunting, whereas the idea never used to occur to me. It's quite cruel, when you put it in perspective."

John and I shot one another a glance. Both of us knew the helpfulness of the Holmes brothers, and this was not one of those times.

"Keep your family close," John attempted to soothe her. "That way when they are lost, they always have a chance at returning. View this as a blessing. This might be your chance to save Rene."

I couldn't help but be bothered by John's words. Keep your family close. I knew I should have been comforting Simza, but my own life was eating at my thoughts. Was I keeping my family close? Or was I creating a new old? My mother was alone in London. Her nights were cold and dark. She cooked for one. She set her table for one. And yet, she didn't have to. I threw that life away like a tattered handkerchief. Like it was nothing.

I began to feel sick. Selfishness was the only thing that I could blame it on. I hugged myself for support, but nothing was working. My head was spinning with the image of her. She had been alone without my father for so long and still she was weak. I was all she had left. And now she didn't even have that.

"Excuse me," I said suddenly. There was nothing in there that could calm me. Everyone watched with curious eyes, but no one asked what the matter was. I needed to get away from the tension and the sudden guilt that poured over me. My boots carried me to the kitchen.

When I finally made my way inside, there was comfort in knowing I was alone. The candles had been blown out after the last plate found its demise and nothing but the darkness welcomed my entrance. Outside a crow squawked, reminding me of the ones that lingered in the London streets.

The shaking of my hands was enough to worry me into silence. I pressed myself against the counter, taking deep breaths and trying with every fiber to not recall those distant memories. Snow was falling gently outside of the window as the night slipped on her black dress. My own voice tormented me as I tried to focus on the trees. If the air is fresh and the sky is open, why do I feel like I'm suffocating?

"Renadale?"

Sherlock Holmes was watching me from the doorway. When I showed him my pale face, he knew it was time for concern and quietly shut the door behind him. His feet did not take long to reach my side, but his hands were not so quick to comfort. "Are you ill?" He inquired.

I shook my head as the knotted curls flew about like a bird.

"Something in there sparked a memory," he whispered. "Your mother and father."

"How did you…?"

"It wasn't hard to pick up on," he began to mumble. "Your state was weary, therefore allowing an excess of emotions to swell within you while meanwhile destructing your barrier to hide said emotions. Now, though you've gone through many tragedies in your life, none seemed to have quite an effect on you like the death of your father. Something someone said at the table must have triggered a fire within you, causing your arms to retreat to a rather childlike position in which one hand began to nervously rub the opposite elbow." My eyes were darting about the floor like mad as I tried to catch the courage to look at him. He quickly realized his rambling and stopped short. "I suppose I'm trying to express my concern for your general wellbeing."

"I'm alright." My reply was far too quick to be plausible. Sherlock stared me down in the darkened room; his eyes as sharp as the knives beside me. "It wasn't so much about my father. It is guilt and her tight hands. She's suffocating me."

"You cannot patronize yourself about leaving your mother back home." Sherlock knew my fears without my lips ever having to express them. Perhaps that was partially why I loved him. "Though we can try to not feel guilty about these situations, I can understand that it is not easy to avoid the emotions that come with them."

Though I wanted to ask how he knew, my tongue was bit. He had never mentioned his parents and Mycroft never seemed to bring it up. I remembered a photograph in Mycroft's Chichester home of the whole family, but their stoic faces and blank eyes made me question who they really were. I only got the chance to understand one.

Knowing that times were changing, and our worlds were tilting with the upcoming peace summit, asking a question was the least of my concerns. I let my thoughts fire away into the open. "What were your parents like? Are they still alive? Do you think of them often?" One thought suddenly became three and I cut myself off in fear of offense.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. The signs of nervousness that were previously evident in myself were now visible upon him. His eyebrows rose as if he had never been asked such a question, and his arms folded themselves shakily across his chest. He spoke with ease, despite his stature. "My mother's name was Violet. My father's name was Siger. My father worked through many professions, first for the British East India Company, then a partial criminal for a short while…" He shot me a cheeky wink. "You wonder where I get my taste for adventure. Then he moved on to a government position before he died. As for my mother, she didn't do much, though she was a bright woman. I often encouraged her to use her talents, but it wasn't easy to be a female scientist during the time of my youth, nor is it still." He seemed genuinely distressed by this fact as his eyes drooped and lost themselves to a memory.

"Is your mother alive?" The question scared me, though I feared the answer more.

"No, of course not." His certainty was possibly to blame on the fact that he had never mentioned them before. Perhaps he had wanted to. Perhaps he had learned what he knew from them and had wanted to make them proud. Now they were no longer here. I didn't want to ask what happened to them, for fear of striking a bad chord.

I nodded my head slowly with a free sample of a smile. He took it willingly. "Thank you for telling me."

"Any time you would like to know more, you may ask." His smile wore a bit of sadness within it and I could see that he was not entirely whole without them. I couldn't decide if the love he had for his parents was so painful that he could not speak of them, or if it had never been there at all. But after a moment of staring into his downcast face, I knew it was the first. "I have never told a soul."

"You've never told anyone about your parents?"

"John has asked once or twice, but I never gave him any details. I told him of my grandmother, who was the sister of the French painter Vernet. But I never told him that it was she who taught me French and she who taught me to dance." His eyes were bright enough to light the room. "He knew that my other ancestors were squires along the British countryside, with a few scattered about in France, but I never told him how I used to write stories about them and pretend they were heroes."

"Why have you never told him?"

Sherlock Holmes gave me a stern look. His jaw was firmly set to the point where I thought it might crack. "Because I didn't want to remember. I used to have someone worth fighting for. And then they perished, and I was alone. My brother had his own life to lead and I had nothing but my mangled thoughts and the hollowness of my own solitude."

"But, you didn't have to be that way," I chuckled lightly. "And surely you meeting Watson changed things."

He scoffed as if I failed to see. "You cannot change who you are. I cannot stop my mind from tormenting me into madness each time a serial case appears. People see my deductions and my knowledge as a talent or a skill, but sometimes it grabs me so tight that I feel as if I'm…" He stopped to take in the dusty air around him. "Suffocating," he finally breathed out. "I can't remember what it's like to feel normal. I wear it like a badge, but sometimes I fear it is killing me."

My hands found his upper arms where they rested comfortably for a moment. Sherlock finally pulled away and instead brought me into his arms. His heart was pounding like a heavy snowfall against the windowpane. I glanced outside to see if I was mishearing things, but the night was still and peaceful. "Watson cares for you just as much as I. Perhaps we care in different ways, but he asks the same questions because he worries about you." I tried to explain what I didn't know. The only thing I wanted was to make him calm. As I spoke, I could feel his heartbeat softening. "You don't ever have to tell another soul, but I promise that your life is safe with me. And you can always fight for your parents. Losing my father made me realize that he can never truly be gone."

Sherlock did not respond. For a long time I waited, but there was nothing. He might have disagreed. With a scientific mind like his, he may have just seen the dead as simply that. Rotting flesh without conscience and senses. He also might have been playing with the idea that humans do have souls and that fighting for them could never be a bad thing, even if they were not there to properly thank you.

He kissed my forehead slowly as if to thank me before heading back into the dining room. Somehow I was more relaxed. My body rested against the countertop and I cracked open the window to let in a slight breeze. The wind brushed my curls behind my ears, like the soft hand of a nurturing mother. The wind's voice seemed to whisper to me as I shut my eyes.

"You are strong, Renadale."

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

I know the chapters are a bit dull, but I don't want to rush the story because I need to wait for the next film to come out. Hope you guys liked it though.

Please review? I'm really itching to hear from you guys.

It's been a bit lonely on this review page. ):

xxxMistroxxx