Thank you for waiting, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter! Many more exciting things to come!

Also, I think I'm just going to start writing in British English spelling. So don't be put off if there are some strange looking words. I just never know which to use and end up making a mess of both of them, but let's stick with the good ol' UK!

~Mistro~

The moon appeared to be higher in New York City. I knew from my father that the moon could not move, despite it seeming to follow you on a nightly carriage ride. Yet in the moment that I watched it from the balcony window, it seemed akin to an all-knowing eye, as if some greater power was watching over me.

But were they protecting me?

Stryker had seemed to grow bored of me rather quickly and fled to his room as soon as we reached the hotel. Of course, my back was guarded by one of his men disguised as a bell boy. There were moments that I would do a double-take to make sure that it was not Holmes coming to my rescue. And yet no kind words were whispered in my ear about rescuing me. I was truly a princess locked in a tower, but Holmes and Watson were the farthest thing from princes.

And that was why I had to taken action.

There had, admittedly, been moments where I believed waiting for Sherlock Holmes would be the better option. I hated myself for thinking it, but the truth was that I was in a country I had never been to with a man that was likely plotting to slit my throat. It wasn't the most comforting of thoughts.

That moment quickly dissolved when I realised that he was not at my side. When would he be? That was an answer I could not solve with even the most complicated of mathematical formulas. In my heart I was an inventor, although it had been many years since I put it into practice, and inventing was what I aimed to do.

Stryker had not noticed when I slipped the pocket-watch from his waistcoat. He didn't seem to miss the wait of it hitting against his stomach, or if he did suspect me, he was taking an awfully long time to note it. I knew that fast feet were the key. Luckily my trusty boots were my sole companion on that evening.

Locking the door to my hotel room, I lit a small candle in the far side of the room. When I began to remove the cover of the pocket-watch, the pleasant cranking of gears provided soundtrack to my dangerous actions.

It was a beautiful piece of machinery. Faded vines were etched into the gold surrounding the clock face as the cursive numbers warned me directly of the little time I had. It was a shame to put an end to its elegant tick, but removing the gears would help not to put an end to my tick.

I twisted the parts between my fingers. They were still sharp and no bigger than the bed of my fingernail. They would work just fine.

I stared down at the window opening. There was a small latch at the top that had been bolted. The only way I could break it was to slip something beneath the cover, rotate the lock and break the mechanics. My father had once wanted windows like these in our countryside home, but when I told them of what a hassle they could be, he opted for normal panelled glass. Clearly my studies were not a waste.

Following my own instructions, I began fidgeting with the small gear. There was a chance that I could drop it in the cover and lose it forever, but there was also a chance of escape. I was keenly aware of the sweat on my back as to which option was more appealing.

"Come on," I whispered through gritted teeth. "Just unlock already!"

There was a brief knock at my door. My finger jolted forward in surprise, but I managed to catch the gear before it slipped into abyss. The maid called my name from behind the wall.

"You can't come in!" I shouted. "I'm not decent!"

"Excuse me, miss. I didn't mean to intrude, but I'm afraid that a letter has come for you." She hesitated in the silence. "It's from a man down the hall. He wishes to see you immediately."

I breathed a heavy sigh to calm myself. "You'll have to tell him I cannot come. Slip the letter beneath the door."

I heard nothing, nor did I see parchment find its way into my room. After a moment, the handle began to move. Slipping the gear into the space between my breasts, I stood silently by the window. The girl stared at me with discomfort, her face twisted into something sour.

"I do not wish to be a nuisance, and I know how inappropriate it is to bother a lady like this-"

"I'm not a lady."

"All the same; you are much more than myself." I wanted to roll my eyes. It was remarkable what nice clothing could hide. "The man that sent me to you frightens me. He seems angry and brash. I do not want to upset him if you do not come with me."

I could see how the rest of this story turned out. I would feel sorry for the girl, take pity on her, and follow her lead to Stryker's room. He would ask me where the pocket-watch was and what I wanted with it. Everything would be lost and perhaps my life would be, too.

This was not the only option.

I silently walked over to the door, pressing it once to make sure it was tightly locked. My finger fiddled with the key, the girl watching me all the while.

"Miss?" She muttered. "What are you-"

I quickly wrapped my arm around her waist, pulling her back into my chest. She was fighting against the hand that was covering her shrieking mouth. The last time Sherlock had told me about the pinched nerve was in Paris while we practised Bartitsu, but in that desperate moment I recalled exactly where it was. My fingers dug into the top of her shoulder. It only took a moment for her body to grow limp in my arms, her delicate frame crashing to the floor beneath me.

I stood over her, breathless, for a brief moment. "I cannot believe that just worked."

There was some guilt in leaving her there, but I had to move quickly. In a few brief seconds, I had released the window's seal from its hold. I felt the rough wood beneath my fingers as I pushed it upwards, allowing just enough space for my body to climb through.

"A sheet rope," I muttered as I squatted on the small ledge. "Why didn't I think of that earlier?"

I was perhaps five floors up. I had not taken the time to count. There were a few balconies just beneath me. If I fell, I would certainly give the guests a fright and cause alarm for security. Judging by the guests that I had seen in the lobby, however, they were likely above the age of fifty and would not be able to get anywhere in a relatively quick amount of time.

I let my body fall.

The floor of the balcony met my ankles with a rough greeting. I winced in pain, but knew that I could climb the rest of the way down with the iron railing. No noise came from inside the room, but I was not counting my luck just yet.

Passerbys did not seem to take note of me in the dim light of the road, and I managed to climb my way down with my skirt properly ironed. Getting a taxi would be far more difficult, as I had no form of payment on me.

I should have kept the damn watch.

I tried to recall if there were any useful landmarks nearby. We were, after all, in the heart of New York City.

My mind flickered back to our carriage ride home. There had been a registry office attached to the post office. I had thought about Thomas absentmindedly when we passed it, but it seemed my recollections were of sudden use to me.

I followed the quiet road to the furthest corner of the park. The lights of the restaurants and bars were at their fullest, the clock tower to my right telling me it was not yet past nine in the evening.

The registry office was thankfully still open, despite it only being with workers who appeared to be cleaning up. A young woman stared up at me with sky blue eyes, her blond hair disappearing into her pale skin.

"Can I help you, miss?"

I winced, still not used to the accent. It was an unsettling reminder of where I was and how I had gotten there. "I need to find someone."

She glanced at her desk full of books. "I'm afraid that I'm off duty."

"Please," I took a step forward. I hoped I looked as desperate as I felt. "It's rather urgent."

I glanced at her hand. She was unmarried and likely had nobody to rush home to. Working in the office by herself at that time of night also told me that she was searching for some kind of recognition from her boss. She was dressed finely, but that was likely to impress a co-worker than because she had the funds to do so.

"Sit here." She extended her hand towards a nearby chair. "I will see what I can do." A pair of small, circular spectacles found her petite nose. "Who is it that you're looking for?"

The words spilled out of me like rain water. "His name is Thomas Smith. He's around thirty years of age. He works as an archaeologist and spent some time in England. He would have reentered the country about three weeks ago." The time span made me keenly aware of when my blood was meant to be shed. It was uncomfortably soon.

The woman began to flick through the pages with precision. She stopped on a single piece of paper, her finger sliding down it until it hit the bottom with a look of disappointment. "I believe I found your friend."

I sat up, the grin unable to be hidden. "That's wonderful! I'm afraid I don't have a piece of parchment for the address. Do you mind writing-"

"I'm afraid he has no address." Her fingers closed the book very delicately. I was waiting for a stronger explanation, but she said nothing. She couldn't even seem to meet my gaze.

"I'm sorry?"

She took a shaky breath. "It appears that he moved from his home two weeks ago. The payments were made and the house now belongs to somebody else. No new address has been given-"

I shook my head. "That's impossible. He has to be in New York."

"He is, in fact." She rubbed her eyes with weariness. "He's in the hospital."

My body felt as if it had hit the ocean. A cold wave washed over every inch of my skin, sending my mind into its darkest reaches. "What did you just say?"

"I'm afraid that I have no information about your friend's illness, but he appears to be quite sick. He checked into the Hospital for Special Surgery just last week and has not appeared to update his address." She began to scrawl the address on a sheet of paper. "You can ask at the front desk for him. They don't normally allow visitors at this time of night, but…" Her voice stopped with an implication I did not want to comprehend.

"Thank you," I muttered. The paper felt rough in my hands. "Is this anywhere near…?"

She slid a coin across the table. I stared at it blankly, surprised by how much women could understand one another without uttering a single word of their fears.

"It's just a short taxi ride away."

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

The hospital somehow felt colder than Bellevue. Although the imagery of Stryker's morgue continued to flood my mind and heighten my worries, Thomas was my main concern.

The secretary at the front desk seemed disinterested in what I had to say. As soon as the patient name fell from my lips, she spouted the room number and waved me on my remorse journey.

The hallways were long and quiet. Occasionally a snore would slip through the cracked doors, but otherwise it was a rather peaceful place for the seriously ill. I knew that they were seriously ill judging by the medical equipment lining the halls. My father understood the human anatomy quite well and my dearest friend was a doctor, but these were devices of which I could not comprehend their use.

The black and gold numbers printed onto the glass window of the doorway seemed rather unfriendly. "Two hundred and five," I said aloud. I never understood why I spoke the words so clearly. Perhaps it was to convince myself of what was waiting for me on the other side.

I gently pressed on the bronze handle, the creaking door loud enough to wake anyone in the room up. I was pleased when I saw that there was only one bed, but disheartened to see no visitor chair beside it.

The moonlight trickled in through the wide window, which was only loosely covered by a white, lace curtain. A dark figure lay on the sheets, his head turned sideways as if looking away from me. I knew it was Thomas in an instant. The hands that rested at his side had the same veins that I had stroked repeatedly when I was a girl. They were like the dying words of your parents; something one never forgot.

"Thomas."

The head turned slowly, allowing me to confirm my fears. It was indeed Thomas Smith, but with wearily cracked eyes and an unfamiliar stubble growing on his chin. There was something near his chin, but I could not make out its form.

"Renadale." His voice cracked beneath the weight of something heavy. He hardly seemed surprised.

I kneeled beside him, my knees cold on the linoleum floors. "What on Earth are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me that you were sick?" My fingers lazily began to stroke the top of his head as if he were a lost dog. "Why do you have this?" There was a small white napkin tucked beneath his chin. I pulled at it without consciousness, revealing a large red stain on the other side. In a second I knew all too well why he was there.

"I'm not surprised that you came." He could barely whisper. Tears were beginning to form on the edges of my eyes, but I didn't like what they symbolised. "I thought leaving without an explanation would make you angry with me and you wouldn't come, but when I remembered how smart you were, I knew that it was a bad idea. You would come anyway."

I laugh fell from my lips, but I could feel the cold drops of tears on it. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I came by force rather than out of a fear for his health. "I didn't know you were ill, Thomas. If you would have told me, I could have helped-"

He shook his head. "There was nothing you could do."

I wrapped my fingers around his. His hand did not flinch. "How long?"

A dark look passed his eyes. "How long have I been sick, or how long do I have left?" I couldn't answer that question. "It's been a rather long time, Renadale."

I hung my head low. How had I missed the signs? The drinking? The heartache? Had I truly been so selfish enough to think that it was all because of me and his adoration for our past romance? The truth was that I had been selfish enough to think so and pushing him away had been what I perceived to be my only choice. He had been drinking to rid himself of the inevitable fear of death. His desire to get closer to me not only stemmed from our past relations, but because he wanted somebody there. He needed someone. When he discovered that I could not reciprocate such a feeling, he left to America by himself in order to pass quietly into the night.

"I'm so sorry." It was all I could say, though it would never be enough. "Thomas, I don't want you to leave me."

He smiled as I wept. It was all unfitting, like a puzzle built without the proper pieces. "You know that I will never leave you, despite my body not being here."

"Don't say that." I could barely make him out from behind my wall of tears. "You're going to get better. You'll be healthy again and we can go somewhere warm." I pressed my forehead to his, the heat of it almost singing my brow. "You would like Morocco. We could go there together."

His eyelashes fluttered shut. I knew what he was thinking, as he wore his emotions like a mask. He was ready to die. The consumption had literally overtaken his body for years and nothing was left to be done. It was a harsh reality that Thomas had accepted years ago, and one that I was now burying with dreams of a utopia he would never see.

"That would be nice." He said it more as a comfort to me than himself. "I would like that very much."

I nodded fervently, reaching to cup the side of his face. Stryker was so far from my mind in that moment, he could have come in and seized me without my complete acknowledgement.

"Will you stay with me?" His body shook suddenly, a droplet of blood falling into the handkerchief. I wiped it away instantly to hide the truth that faced us so boldly. "It would be nice to fall asleep in your arms." For the last time, he said without words.

Without a verbal agreement, I climbed into the bed. He smelled like lavender and salt, his striped pyjamas twisting his appearance into something like a child. He felt like one too, as all the weight from his muscular arms and legs had disappeared within the short frame of a month. His head rested on my chest, my arms encompassing the entire width of his disappearing frame.

"I missed you, Renadale." His words came out in a shiver, but my name still sounded sweet. "I missed you terribly."

I had to press my hand against my mouth to stop the sobs from escaping me.

"I missed you too." My shaking lips met the crown of his head. "I have always missed you."

His fingers lazily traced the buttons on the top of my dress. "Was I a bad man, Renadale? In my lifetime, was I more evil than good?"

I pressed him closer to me, thankful he could not see my swollen cheeks and eyes. "You were never a bad man, Thomas. You were witty, kind and intelligent." I hesitated to say the next words, but I knew they had been true and therefore could not deny him the honestly. "I would not have fallen in love with you if you weren't."

Thomas's lips curled into a slight smile. I could feel it against my skin. "So, you did love me once."

"Perhaps twice," I chuckled. "Perhaps three times, or even four."

I could see his eyelids shut. I worried me to watch the darkness of his pupils disappear, but I could not prevent his tiredness. My hands continued to run through his locks like a machine. They may have worked their way into the knots for hours or days; I lost all sense of time. Thomas's chest was still gently rising when I finally surrendered myself to sleep.

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

Thomas's uncle had a thick white beard. He didn't look anything like his nephew, but the sadness that washed over his eyes was similar to what I had seen the night before in Thomas's. My own eyes must have been as red as a beetroot, the burning sensation still lingering.

"You did him a great favour, you know. Coming out here like this." We could not connect our eyes when Mister Smith spoke. "I can't imagine that he would have been able to pass so quietly and peacefully without you by his side."

Tears once again began to roll down my cheeks. I wasn't sure when they had stopped or started. "You don't need to thank me. I needed to see him more than the opposite."

Mister Smith's finger traced over the clipboard he was holding. We were waiting outside of the room while the doctors had cleaned up. They had asked us to hold onto the information sheet, where his time of death read exact time unknown.

The doctors had found us in the morning with my body still curled over him. He had stopped breathing likely long before that, but in my deep slumber I had not felt his body grow cold or stop its minor movements. The fact that he had died in my arms did not frighten me, but rather comforted me. Had he been alone with the white floors and white walls, that would have haunted me much longer.

"Where will you bury him?" My voice was raw.

"We have a family grave sight on Long Island." Mister Smith coughed slightly, his belly bouncing beneath his tight waistcoat. "His parents and sister are buried there."

My heart stopped. I hadn't even known he had a sister. There were many things I wanted to ask, but the only words I could find were, "He'll be happy there."

Mister Smith gave a sad smile. "Yes, he will be. Many of his archaeological discoveries are at our house at the moment. Documents, artefacts, photographs… Too many things for me to hold onto. I think he would very much like for you to have them."

"I would like that very much. Are you based in New York City?"

He shook his curly head. "No, no. We live in Washington D.C., but it's not terribly far to reach via train."

I hesitated to answer. If I left I would gain ground away from Stryker. I would also be far away from where Sherlock Holmes believed he could find me. During the brief pause, a nurse found her way to me. Her fingers slipped me a sheet of white paper before she walked off. Mister Smith and I stared at it with confusion. My first fear was that it was from Stryker, but he was not the sort of man to leave a note.

There was only one person I knew who did that.

I unfolded the crease.

Say yes.

The scrawl was not of Sherlock Holmes's hand, but of someone else I knew rather well. Mister Smith was looking at the note with as much fascination as I was, but for entirely different reasons. He was curious as to where it had come from; I was curious as to how John Watson could have planned its delivery so perfectly.

"Yes." My words were firm and unwavering. I had to leave New York City regardless. I might as well do so with the possibility that John and Sherlock were waiting for me. "I will come with you to Washington."

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