Hey guys! So I really enjoyed AGoS, and was inspired to write a story featuring Simza (I loooove Noomi Rapace), since there aren't too many on this site. I also really admire the steampunk genre, and wanted to incorporate this aspect with Sherlock Holmes. :) I hope you like this chapter. Please keep in mind that this story is just for fun, it's definitely not a piece of literary genius! That being said, I would really appreciate any and all reviews, and they make me update faster.

"Hows you gettin' on cocky?" The moving man this morning, said whilst taking two bookends (wedding gifts) from the house to the carriage.

Terrible business, as his father would say.

Buck up, John, tomorrow is yet another day. You can't possibly save them all! His commander, a cheerful fellow and rarity in the British Army.

'I believe', pondered Watson, 'that this came after a particularly bad day in India. Too much blood and not enough morphine.' That thought, as morose and trite as it first appeared, seemed to successfully define this past year. From a desperate train car, to a snowy mountain ledge, to a stuffy Brighton sick room. He was beginning to feel a little bit cursed.

In two cases, the end results had been better than expected. Then again, one assumes no less when dealing with Sherlock Holmes. (Though it was annoyingly difficult to remove the intricately-carved tombstone, and explaining the whole situation to a disapproving priest proved equally troublesome).

Mary, however, was no Sherlock. She was an amazing woman in her own right; strong, bright, and capable. One husband was usually enough for a woman, but she, delightfully independent, had seemingly gathered two.

Which is why the fever came as a surprise, and even though Mary had a doctor and a detective at her bedside, there would be no miraculous recovery. No Holmes-esque resurrection or hangman's pardon. Watson, shaken by these thoughts, put on the 'stiff upper-lip' he'd forgotten about. Without Mary, the house at 4 Cavendish Place was empty, save for bad memories. It was time to move on, and a certain friend had offered lodgings at Baker Street for cheap rent.

Though he lacked Holmes' incessant observational skills, and possessed his own brand of emotional detachment, it remained as no surprise that Moving Day was particularly difficult. It was his life, after all. Or at least, it was his life. The descent back to bachelorhood, the sudden loss of Mary, both were troubling and shocking. He deserved the time to mourn and readjust.

But this ... this was taking it to the extreme.

In the back of his mind, Watson acknowledged that standing in front of his former home, literally remaining frozen solid for eight hours – observing pigeon mating, the daily business of squirrels and boring human activity – was nothing short of ludicrous. Life was unfair, it was time to move on. The cold and dark were creeping in, and a Baker Street residence awaited him. These convincing thoughts had been running through the doctor's mind for hours, and yet he had not moved. He continued to stare at 4 Cavendish Place from the park across the street as if, through glaring, he could somehow change the past.

Frankly, this was all a bit tedious for one Sherlock Holmes. Whom, after the overwhelming success of indoor camouflage, had branched out the collection. The word 'branched' being a pun, as the detective was currently posing as a convincing bush. 'Absolutely ridiculous,' he thought, as muscles and limbs cramped in uncomfortable places. 'This cannot be allowed to go on'.

Just as Holmes was debating his great reveal, no doubt planned to terrify his partner and instigate movement towards Baker Street, a flutter of activity near 5 Cavendish Place caught his well-trained eyes. Likewise, the same motion was perceived by Watson a moment later. A messenger had broken the stillness of the street, a spry young boy – probably eleven or so – hopped up the stairs and rang the bell. A moment passed, then another, and finally the door opened to reveal an equally small girl. An exchange, a letter for a coin, the door shut.

That should have been the end of it. It would have been, had there been anyone else but Holmes and Watson outside, but they stayed. Why? An odd sensation in the air, let's call it, a feeling that something big was about to happen. Five minutes passed, followed by five more, and dusk continued to settle in around them. The door reopened with a loud thump. The girl appeared, head down, shoulders up, wearing a heavy coat and striding blindly down the street and around the corner. It seemed like mere seconds later when a carriage rounded the very same intersection, and stopped in front of the very same house.

When three large men emerged, bowler hats and patched coats signalling a dangerous sort, Holmes decided that disguise was no longer appropriate.

"My dear Watson, I do believe there's a game afoot." He whispered.

Flinching, the doctor's hand automatically went towards his pistol. "Dear God, Holmes, how long have you been standing there?" He demanded, indignant and embarrassed.

"Long enough to notice your obvious emotional distress, yet not quite long enough to ascertain their motives." He briefly indicated the three thugs with a head jerk. Their pretence of polite visitation was clearly abandoned after a moment's wait. A shifty, slight fellow had moved into lock-picking position. (Yet, Holmes noticed, he had very little natural talent for the task).

"We could just leave, you know. There's no need to jump feet first into every single -"

"Stop! Right there. That's your problem, Watson." Holmes broke in, gesticulating rather wildly. "You're positively morose. It's disgusting. We're sitting here, watching a house being burglarized and doing nothing. Deplorable." The men, having successfully breached the front door, had filed into the household. The doctor felt a small twinge deep inside his conscience, though, after literal hours of observation, he was fairly certain the home was deserted.

"Fine," he responded with a sigh, "what is your master plan? Go in, guns blazing, make a scene, a daring escape and ...?"

Holmes didn't answer. His attention, in contrast, was fixed on the house. The gentlemen had already returned through the entrance, no evidence of their looting in sight. They seemed almost ... rushed, as they jumped into the carriage and immediately sped off.

"Odd."

It was then that the house exploded, propelling Holmes and Watson backwards and searing an unattractive hole in the detective's bush-like hat.

Approximately twenty minutes earlier

Contrary to the static duo standing amidst the foliage across the street, 5 Cavendish Place was relatively bustling with activity. Amelia Lovelace was in the middle of a full scale anxiety attack, complete with pacing, palm-sweating and the occasionally tug of hair. A small automaton wheeled around her legs, trying to complete its daily dusting, all disturbances aside.

"I knew it!" She whispered fervently, hands clasped together tightly, as in prayer. "I knew something was wrong. I know something is wrong." A clock struck seven beside her ear, causing her to let out a small squeak and flinch away from the dancing bird, which appeared every hour for its performance.

"Where is he?"

Finally, the doorbell echoed throughout the empty corridors, and Amelia rushed to the front entrance. She smoothed out her hair and skirts, trying to look less significantly less worried than she actually was. 'Please, please, please, let it be papa.' She thought, ignoring the fact that he had a key – nevermind the doorbell. She wrenched open the wooden barrier to reveal a dirty-looking boy, her own height but probably younger.

"Evenin' missus Lovelace, I 'ave a letter for ya, from Robert Lovelace." Said the messenger, smiling through crooked teeth. Amelia quickly dug through her pockets and handed over a coin, taking the letter with shaking hands and quickly shutting the door. She turned around and leaned her back against it, her breath was coming in nearly audible gasps while her fingers fumbled with the envelope.

My darling Amelia,

I'm sorry for hiding this from you, but things have spiralled so completely out of hand. There has been someone watching us, but the plans in motion are more nefarious than we could have dreamed. You must leave the house immediately – take the train to Aunt Elizabeth in Brighton. Stay one night at the Dancing Dove if this letter arrives after dark. Take the money you need from my cash box.

My dear daughter, there is one thing I must ask of you before you leave London. Take page 42 of your favourite book and mail it to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as well as the second letter in this envelope. I'm afraid that many lives depend upon it.

All my love forever,

R.L.

She stood, frozen, against the front door. Her fingers trembled, taking both letters from the envelope and tucking them into her pocket, letting fear completely take over for one moment. When she moved a second later, it was pure survival instinct. The knot of anxiety which had started in her stomach was readily expanding, and she knew someone was coming.

She bolted. Taking off from the dead wood and running up the staircase to her room, grabbing her old book bag on the way. Off came the stuffy dress, as fast as shaking fingers could undo the knots, on went her more modern kit of stockings, boots, short ruffled skirt, blouse and leather corset. She piled underthings into her bag, along with a small portrait and toiletries. Leaving her room and sprinting into her father's study, Amelia scanned the packed bookshelves.

Take page 42 of your favourite book...

'He could only mean this one,' She thought, pulling a large hardcover from the wall and placing the entire book into her bag. She spared another moment for the cash box under her father's mahogany desk, and then she was back down the stairs and out the door. As Amelia quickly walked away from her house, her consciousness slowly began to emerge from the adrenaline-induced haze. There was regret there, mingled with a plethora of other emotions: sadness, confusion, fear.

She had only just rounded the corner and began down the second block, heading towards the Dancing Dove, – her father knew the owner and they'd often have dinner there –, that she heard the explosion. The ball of dread in her stomach finally overwhelmed her. Amidst the screams and the opening of doors, her quick pace turned into a full-out run.

She sprinted down the street with only one thought in mind, 'find Sherlock Holmes.'

Hope you enjoyed it! Please review! I should have the next chapter up soon. :)