This was directly after The Musgrave Ritual. Before Holmes had even heard of Ricoletti of the club foot or his abominable wife; had reached the crowning glory of his career by recognizing the significance of a second stain upon a wooden floor, or entered into the grotesque and chaotic lives of people such as the pitiable Hilton Cubitt, or Grimsby Roylott of Stoke Moran.

This younger, more fanciful version of Holmes that I met that late night in 1882 shocked me, and made me wonder what else there was about my friend that he had deemed too secret to tell me. I was to learn later there was much my dear friend had left out.

In fact, at the time, I was still ignorant of who Mycroft Homes was. I was to remain unaware of his existence until many years later, when he enlisted our aid for a case that I would publish under the name of The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter. When Homes told me this story, he suggested that that man who had helped Miss Rushford and himself was an old school friend. A detail which even at the time raised my suspicions, since I knew that Holmes kept such small and exclusive company.

Now, many years after, I know it was Mycroft, and have written him in as such. Looking back, I smile in recognition of the stubborn inactivity so clear in my friend's description of him.

But what of Kit Rushford?

Even that night I remember wracking my brain to see if there were any signs that I had skipped over that my friend had once had a woman in his life. I could find none. And yet, she must have existed. She must have left some kind of lasting, if hidden mark on Holmes.

As his story drew to a close I weighed all he said, intrigued by the mental image of my friend sitting on a park bench beside such a lady, at a respectful distance, enjoying the verdant landscape.

Kit scanned the vibrant green lawns around them, the statuary a few feet away from them, angles carpeted in soft moss. The arm of the metal bench beneath her hand prickled with rust. She sighed volubly, hoping to illicit some response from the silent man beside her.

Holmes said nothing, instead choosing to stare straight ahead, back ridged. He was properly dressed today, as impeccable as one could be on his somewhat underwhelming budget.

To Kit it was an unaccustomed sight, so used was she to seeing him wet, muddy, sooty, or in some other way indecent.

That was how he had looked when he escorted her to her own home the night of the fire, making sure she got safely inside, and even going so far as to lean on her door jamb momentarily, searched his mind for something coherent to say for several minutes before finally settling for the less satisfying option of turning on his heel suddenly and walking away.

Kit closed the door softly and leaned her back against it. Perhaps he was overwhelmed by smoke inhalation. Surely he would be back tomorrow.

But he wasn't.

Nor the next day.

She worried. She couldn't help herself, though by then she knew his absence had been a foregone conclusion, and that she had been foolish to allow herself to hope that he would change so vastly for her.

Perhaps the offending smoke inhalation was more serious than she had though?

Mycroft arrived on this second day, and proposed that after her strenuous activities of the last few days she might wish to see her doctor.

"Is Sherlock dead?" Was the first thing she could think to say as soon as she climbed into his cab next to him.

"Not to my knowledge, my dear. Why, what has he done now?"

"More precisely, what has he not done?"

"Ah. So he has failed to come and visit you."

"Is he honestly this dense? Or is he actually heartless?"

"I told you, Sherlock is not our family's most prized possession."

Mycroft gave her an apologetic smile, but she found that she was unable to muster one in return. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid that doesn't make it hurt any less."

"Have you ever read any Edward Gibbon, Miss Rushford?"

"All that is human must retrograde if it does not advance." She quoted.

Mycroft winced. "You and my brother have more in common than you know. I was thinking about his somewhat less fatalistic side. 'Hope, the best comfort of our imperfect condition'."

"It does not bother me that your brother is imperfect, Mr. Holmes. It bothers me that he is unwilling."

"Hmmm."

They conducted the rest of their drive in silence.

At one point, Mycroft's hand crept to cover hers, and she let it remain, enjoying the small comfort of human touch.

On the third day Holmes the younger knocked on her door. He looked alien to her, so completely dressed, holding a package under his arm. His face was clean shaven, though still scraped and bruised from their recent adventures. She almost reached out her hand to touch one of the cuts on the corner of his mouth.

"I hadn't realized…" She started. Holmes waved her off with a half-smile.

"They were well-hidden. I didn't realize myself until I had applied several buckets of water over my head." He shifted the package from one arm to the other. "I…was wondering if I could interest you in a walk in the park? I have something I very much want to discuss with you."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes, let me go and get my shawl."

There was very little going. She grabbed it from the stand beside the door. Holmes helped hold it for her one-handed, balancing the parcel in the other.

"I had meant to ask you where you learned to fight like that Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid that I forgot in all the excitement."

He gave her another of his half-smiles, happy for any excuse to draw his attention away from the proximity of his hands to her arms and back. "It is called Bartitsu. A mixed fighting style I have been studying for some years."

"You mean in addition to boxing and fencing?"

"Indeed. It uses aspects of both. One can never be too prepared."

"Or mysterious."

He declined to answer her jab, but kept his smile firmly in place.

The walk had been a pleasant but silent one, and it was only after a great deal of ambling through the streets before Holmes final led her to Trinity Square and gestured her towards a bench. Kit sat. The square was not large, with bright, though untended grass, and an imposing view of the Tower.

They continued their silent scrutiny of the scenery for almost ten minutes in complete silence. Kit considered asking about why he had neglected to even send her a message in the last three days, causing her to worry needlessly, but knew it was a hopeless endeavor. Holmes would speak when he was ready. She just prayed it would be sometime today. It was starting to get chilly.

"Miss Rushford," he said at last. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. What he said next did nothing to assuage her feelings of abandonment.

"I felt I owed it to you to tell you in person that I have decided to go to America."

Kit's hands tightened on her lap, but she tried to keep her voice even.

"Oh? In the near future?"

"On Sunday." He confirmed.

"Which Sunday?

"The 23rd."

"As in the day after tomorrow?"

"Indeed."

"Hmmm." She said. A picture of Mycroft making the same deep rumbling noise came to her mind, but she embraced it. What else could one really say to such an announcement?

"All right," she forced herself to say. "I wish you well, Mr. Holmes. I hope that I have nothing to do with your sudden decision to flee the continent."

"I'm afraid the decision has a great deal to do with you, Miss Rushford."

"I see," she said.

Well. That was final. Her lungs cried for air. She tried to take several slow deep breaths, but there was something in the way. Some obstruction in her throat that made her head light. She had steeled herself for this, knowing that he would leave her once her case was over, but she was still unprepared for the despair.

She wracked her memory. Everything that had conspired to lead them here had seemed so inevitable at the time. What had gone wrong? He had kissed her, not the other way around. The faint and familiar sparks of anger set in. She had the sudden overwhelming urge to take him by the shoulders and shake him. Even if she wept hysterically as she did it.

Holmes dared a sideways glance at her. She seemed placid enough. He had been ready for tears, for raging and other typically feminine displays of irrationality and displeasure. Instead her calm silence was making him sweat. He could feel the moisture gather under his collar and a stray drop tickle its way down his chest. Oddly, it hadn't seemed this hot when he had left his rooms earlier that day. Still, he refused to remove his coat. It would be a sign of how uncomfortable he was, and therefore a weakness.

A second glance discovered Kit now staring straight at him, hands primly in her lap, waiting. Every phrase he had practiced died on his tongue. His throat felt crowded with rocks.

"Well," he said, slapping his hands lightly against his knees and standing up. "I supposed we had best get back." He offered her his arm.

She grabbed the tail of his coat and pulled him back down onto the bench beside her. He bumped down, looking at her with startled amazement.

A young woman walking arm and arm with her lad gave them a surprised look as they crossed in front of the bench, her crinolines swishing against the gravel of the path before them. Kit gave her a glowing smile.

The moment the couple had passed she turned on Holmes.

"Miss Rushford, please, think of your hands," he stuttered.

"Oh, I do, Mr. Holmes. I continually think about how much I would love to wrap them around your throat."

"I'm sure the doctors would be against it."

"On the contrary, the doctors say my hands are healing very nicely. Mycroft accompanied me to my appointment yesterday. Did he not tell you?"

"Hmmmm." Holmes shifted uncomfortably. She was staring at him again.

"Will you tell me what it is that's on your mind Mr. Holmes, or will I use even more unladylike tactics?"

"Can you possibly still possess any?"

She pinched the lobe of his ear with her nails and twisted. Holmes' eyes bulged. His shoulders raised as he hissed and his entire body seemed to curl towards her.

"All right! All right! Miss Rushford! Enough!"

"You may call me Kit."

"Kit! Stop it!"

She did not.

"My Family lived on a farm when I was young!"

She released his ear, looking him a question. That was not what she had expected.

"The farmstead of Mycroft," He continued, putting a little distance between them on the bench. "We moved of course, many times, but some of my most formative memories are of the days of my adolescence I spent there before I went to Oxford."

"Go on."

Holmes readjusted his waistcoat, which was not out of place. He had removed his hat, and smoothed his fingers over his hair. When he spoke, his eyes were fixed at a spot on the ground near her feet. "I am aware that I am…confusing. That my behavior is…" He considered several choices before settling on "…inconstant. I do not have a talent for conversing with the fairer sex. I believe this has led me to inadvertently cause you grief."

"Correct."

His eyes flicked up to hers, storm grey, and for a moment he said nothing. When he began again she found that he had changed tactic.

"There was a young woman who worked for us. Her family lived in the area. We were near the same age."

Kit sat quietly, willing him to go on. His mouth opened several times to start, but he seemed unable.

"You can tell me, Sherlock."

He shook his head. "I can't." She sagged, but he took her hands in his and for the first time turned towards her. "But I want to." There was something in his voice that eased the sense of failure for her. "I have never, ever been tempted to tell anyone these things before. But I want to tell you. And I will. If you will allow me the time I need, I will."

"Of course, Sherlock. I understand."

And she did. Even though she was disappointed that he had backed away from her, she felt that coming so close was new territory for him.

"Thank you. And I don't mean I will tell you at some undisclosed moment years down the road. I mean soon. I wish for us to continue our association."

"Difficult on different continents."

"Which I why I propose that you also relocate to America. Temporarily of course."

Kit waited a moment, expecting him to correct himself. When he didn't she said the most intelligent thing she could summon out of herself under the circumstances.

"What?"

"Kit, I'm asking if you would like to…." Here he made several vague hand gestures. Some of them seemed to indicate a forward movement. "…. Allow me to visit you in a more official capacity. I'm aware that you have no parents for me to ask, so I'm asking you, if this would be something that would interest you."

"What?!"

"Dear God woman, we'll get nowhere if you insist on being this thick. I'm asking if I have your permission to court you. I propose you accompany me on an acting tour of the Americans, which is scheduled to last approximately eight months, and during that time, we find out if we are compatible, while at the same time being out of the hawk-like eyes of London society. It strikes me as the safest and most convenient option."

"What?!"

Holmes leaned back from her on the bench, pressing one long finger over his lips. "I must admit, I expected you to be a trifle more communicative about this."

"Sherlock, there's no way I can accompany you."

"Not true. You have nothing holding you here."

"My job."

"Gone."

"My friends."

"Miss Tilby? I'm afraid what's best for her now is time to heal."

"I can't leave her destitute."

"Nor would I ask you to." He straightened, obviously pleased with himself. "I returned the earrings to the Atherbys. It turns out the reward was substantial."

Her eyes narrowed. "How much?"

"Enough to pay off Mr. Tilby's gambling debts. The police will hold him for a few more days I'm sure, but after that he is free to stay with his sister, as long as he doesn't get himself into any more trouble. He need fear no retaliation."

"But…how?"

"You were correct. After you saw Mycroft at the Diogenes that day he did take your suspicions to the police. In his defense, he warned them not to go into the warehouses blind, but there is an inspector there, Lestrade I believe, who was apparently unwilling to listen to his strenuous objections.

"Mycroft felt horribly to blame for exposing you to such danger. I note that he did not include my own danger in his apology." Holmes sniffed, then continued.

"So when I asked him to help me track down the real owner of the John Street warehouses, the man that The Tash was in the resurrection business with, who got him the job as a collector in the first place, Mycroft was happy to use his influence. I met with him yesterday, and although he is assuredly the lowest of vermin, he is vermin with a keen business acumen. He values money over petty revenge. He agreed that his dealings with the Tilby family were at an end."

"But…" Kit floundered. Perhaps he had an answer to all her objections. Half-heartedly, she tried one last time. "My home."

"Easily packed up. Mycroft has already agreed to make all the arrangements to have your things stored after you leave. All you need to worry about it what to bring."

"How can I accompany you on an acting tour with a company that I don't belong to? You can't take me along like a member of a harem!"

"Miss Rushford, please." He seemed comically shocked by her suggestion. "I've already arranged all that. I told the producer that a stipulation of my acceptance of the contract was that he also find a job for you. It turns out that they were in need of a Stage Manager. Something that I think you will be very good at."

"But why on earth would he give me a job without even meeting me?"

"Desperation, my dear. And because I told him you were my wife."

"Sherlock!" She started to her feet, where she hovered momentarily, looking down at his open, surprised face. She swayed for a moment, unsure about the best course of action, until the need for flight took over and she found herself turning, hurrying down the path, heedless of which direction she was going.

She heard the scuff of footfalls behind her, and then his hand was on her shoulder, drawing her back, placing himself as an obstruction to further forward movement.

"It's impossible." She blurted.

"No, it's not."

"Sherlock, I cannot pretend to be your wife."

"But that's precisely what you've been doing for the last few days. You appear unharmed by the experience."

She shoved him, hard. Sherlock stumbled a few steps back, catching himself by grabbing the elbow of a greying statue standing by the side of the path.

"I'm sorry," he said after they both had a chance to take a few calming breaths. "I didn't mean for it to come out that way. Listen, let me explain. My offer and the job are two separate things. I did lie in order to make sure the position went to you without question, but not because I expect gratitude. Because I know you need a way to make an income until you are able to play again. I wanted you to continue to have your independence. I also know you will be very well suited to it. You have a compassionate nature, and a most amazing ability to keep your head in a crisis. You will excel at the job, and I believe find it very enjoyable."

Here he took a deep breath, but plunged on before he could change his mind.

"My offer of courtship is sincere. If you say no, I will be… well, it's unthinkable to me what I will be, but you need to understand that the position does not depend on it. It is yours whether I am there or not, whether you ever choose to talk to me again or not. Tell me not to go, and I will stay home. Tell them the truth about us the moment you get on the boat. There are no strings."

She could feel the tears starting. How did he always manage to do this to her? Twist himself so tightly into her chest and yet miss the point completely. He was close enough for her to smell that combination of aftershave and pomade. His breath was warm and heavy with tobacco. His hand remained on her shoulder. She knew she could not stand it. Being close one minute, and then pushed farther away the next. It would tear her heart, but she could not put herself in that situation.

"This isn't fair, Sherlock. Every time I feel like I know where I stand I wake up the next day to find that you've changed your mind. You can't just offer me exactly what I want one day and then rub my face in the fact that it's not true the next. Don't you care about my feelings at all?"

He nodded.

She felt her shoulders sag. "That's it?"

He drew a deep ragged breath, but did not move. Kit sidestepped him and continued more slowly down the path.

If she hadn't been listening, she would not have caught his words. They came after her, just audible above her own racing heart.

"Miss Rushford, what I feel for you I feel in my liver."

She stopped.

The voice continued.

"I feel you in my lungs, in my joints, in my blood, and in my bone."

She turned to look at him. He stood where she had left him, hands clutched into fists at his sides. His expression was not a kind one. "Woman, you have infected me. Each heartbeat makes your hold stronger. And I know I have done the same to you. You can deny it, but I know it's a lie. Just as much a lie as if I told you that I was able to go on as before without you."

He approached her then, palms held up as thought to show he was weaponless.

"If we try and fail, so be it," He was too close now. Kit took a step back. "But don't you dare walk away from me without trying."

Kit lifted her chin to glare at him fully, unwilling to let his nearness silence her.

"I have always tried with you, Sherlock. You were the one who didn't show up."

The muscle in his jaw twitched.

She covered her wane smile with one hand. Poor man. He really was completely hopeless.

"Will you think about it?" He persisted.

"I will," she promised. "Now will you be so kind as to escort me home, please?"

His eyes never left hers as he offered her his arm. "It would be my pleasure."

He escorted her out of the park.

They walked to her door in silence, though it was not as strained as she had worried it might be. She could feel Holmes' arm vibrating under hers, and he said nothing until she had her door open and was turning to bid him a confused goodbye.

It was then that he offered her the package he had been carrying under his arm.

"Miss Rushford, this is yours as well. There was enough reward money left over for me to make an investment. I want you to have this, and understand that it is yours regardless of the future."

"Mr. Holmes, please, that's really not necessary."

"I insist."

She took the package, and looked up at him once more.

"May I ask that if you are willing to accompany me on this adventure that you send me a telegram at my lodgings, by, say, tomorrow morning?"

She nodded once.

"If no telegram arrives I will understand and not bother you again."

"No…"

"And, may I also ask…"

"Yes?"

"May I….?"

He had no idea how to proceed. Nothing worked right around her. Nothing was simple or straightforward. There was nothing painless. Still, it was a pain he wanted. He wanted somehow to show her how desirous he was of her help, how ready for evisceration, provided it was she holding the knife.

He held out his hand to her and she wordlessly slid her own palm into his. He lifted it to his face and did not kiss, but lay it alongside his cheek, closing his eyes and feeling the warmth.

He released her gently and stepped back, bowing. A moment later he was gone.

Kit closed her door behind him. The package she took to the sitting room, where she unwrapped it in front of her coal fireplace.

Her hands stilled as the paper fell away to reveal the violin case. She opened it carefully. The varnish and carving spoke for itself, but she lifted the instrument and read the label inside.

Anno 1746, Carlo Bergonzi
fece in Cremona

She had never realized before that such pain and exhilaration could go hand in hand.

Here my friend stopped. He had nothing left. The fire had all but died, and the room was so devastatingly quiet that my first loud in-drawn breath startled us both. Holmes jerked his head in my direction, and then unfolded himself from his armchair, standing and stretching his long frame to its full height.

"So?"

"Watson?"

"There must be more."

"Of course there's more, but that is enough for tonight. I find myself quite overwhelmed with the need to sleep."

"Holmes, don't be an ass, was she able to decide?"

"Watson, please. Of course she decided. She is an adult after all. And logically, that question doesn't even make sense. Whatever the outcome was a decision."

He rolled his shoulders and started to walk towards his bedroom. I swiveled my body around in the chair to watch him go.

"Damn it Holmes. You know what I mean! Did she go with you?!"

"It's nearly morning, old Boy, and you're the one who's always lecturing me on my need for better sleeping habits. I will tell you all, but on another day. Trust me Watson, I won't forget it all between now and then."

"Holmes?" My voice was very serious.

He answered in just as serious a tone. "Watson."

"You did see her again?"

"Yes, Watson, I see her every night, in one dream or another. Miss Rushford is nothing if not persistent."

He entered his bedroom and shut the door.

I stayed on in my chair, waiting for the grey of dawn to filter in past the gaps in the curtains, heralding in another day.

That's it y'all. Done and dusted. Thanks to everyone who took the time to read it and give me such great feedback. This was my first FanFic, and y'all made the experience an amazingly supportive and positive one.

Now I've just got to decide if I've got a sequel in me somewhere.

Leave a thought in the box below!

Cheers!