A/N: Written for my hc_bingo prompt "arrest". Many thanks to tabbystardust for the suggestion that spawned this fic and for the manip that I (loosely) based Holmes' disguise on. :) Also, this is movie-verse but pre-movies in timing.

Sherlock Holmes had been quite specific in his instructions and, as always, Dr. John Watson did his best to follow them. Still, as the carriage pulled up to a large, brilliantly lit manor house, Watson had some misgivings and he straightened his white tie and smoothed his moustache anxiously.

Holmes had given him an invitation bearing the name of Dr. James Whitman; the doorman accepted it without comment and the butler checking off the list of names said in a bored voice, "Your wife has already arrived, sir. I believe you will find her in the ballroom."

"Thank you," Watson said, nodding briskly as he stepped inside the opulent foyer. A magnificent marble staircase rose in front of him and there were long hallways branching off to his right and his left with well-dressed people everywhere; he hesitated a moment before following the sound of music and gathered voices to his left.

He straightened his waistcoat and jacket as he approached the ballroom, wondering when his alter ego had acquired a wife and who it might be-Holmes had said nothing on that subject, only that he was posing as a visiting relative of some sort. Holmes hadn't provided any details, really, so it was just as well that no one seemed to notice his presence as he slipped into the crowd.

The ballroom was large, with instruments at the far end. Evidently the dancing had not yet begun in earnest, for most of the bejeweled ladies and their escorts were lingering at the margins of the shining floor, drinks in hand, while a handful of couples put the music to its proper use. Watson searched the crowd for Holmes or anyone else he might recognize but found no one, so he casually took up a position with his back to a decorative column where he could see who was coming and going.

"My dear Watson, you haven't even condescended to say good evening," a smooth voice murmured into his ear as a hand slipped into the crook of his right arm.

Watson shook off the hand and took a step away before his mind caught up with his reflexes. "Holmes, what are you-" he started, glancing over and then everything stopped as he realized what Holmes was wearing. He couldn't speak, couldn't hear, could only stare dumbly.

Holmes smirked as he drained his champagne glass with a dainty flick of his wrist. A helpful waiter stepped up and he deposited the empty glass on the offered tray before turning to Watson. "Don't stare so, darling. Come dance with me," he said in a voice that was so very like his own and yet so very unlike him.

Watson allowed Holmes to lead him onto the dance floor, though it wasn't until Holmes turned to face him that he managed to mumble, "I don't know how."

"Truly? It seems I have misjudged your wooing capabilities," Holmes said flippantly, taking one of Watson's hands and setting it onto his waist. "We will have to remedy that later, but for now, just follow my lead."

Holmes was certainly capable enough of making it look like they were dancing, though Watson did little more than shift his weight from one leg to the other.

Only once Watson was sure he could keep doing that without consciously thinking about it did he hiss, "You should have warned me!"

"Would you have believed me?" Holmes asked mildly, raising his shapely eyebrows.

Watson spluttered for a moment before he conceded, "No, I would never have thought you'd show up in a dress, much less looking like this. I take it you are supposed to be my wife?"

"Very good, Watson. Have you made similar strides in figuring out the case?"

"You never told me anything about the case."

"Ah. It is a simple case of poisoning, but I have yet to find the proof that will condemn our evening's hostess."

Holmes went on to explain that the hostess was the daughter of a wealthy man who died seemingly naturally six months prior. She had been unhappy for quite some time about the size of her allowance, as she had expensive habits, but her sickly younger brother, now the head of the estate, refused to alter the amount following their father's death. Now the brother was displaying new, unusual symptoms that mirrored those of their father before his death and the brother's fiancee solicited Holmes' help, fearing that he was being poisoned so his sister could gain sole control of the sizable estate.

"I attempted to gain entry to the house two days ago to find the poison that she has on the premises, but she denied me. When I found out they would be hosting this charming little gathering, I solicited invitations from my client so we could pose as her visiting relatives."

The music changed to something at a faster tempo, and Holmes directed Watson off the dance floor and back to his position by the pillar.

"Couldn't we have done so without you being in that ridiculous getup?" Watson asked snidely. What he wasn't going to ever admit aloud was that Holmes looked stunning. The black silk dress he wore set off his new figure quite nicely-Watson imagined a very strong corset was to thank for Holmes' sudden acquisition of a slender waist and the illusion of hips-with the neckline low enough to be alluring without being immodest and his shoulders bare above a ruffle that ran along the neckline and over his upper arms. The ruffle served admirably to hide Holmes' bosomless state and it and the above-elbow black gloves camouflaged the musculature of Holmes' arms. Holmes' wig was very nearly the color of his own hair, the dark tresses swept up in some mystifying way. The only decoration Holmes wore was a thin black ribbon tied around his neck like a choker. Watson wondered at the complete absence of facial hair, but wasn't sure he wanted to ask about it.

"This 'ridiculous getup' has already allowed me access into the ladies' dressing room and several intriguing gossip circles." Holmes took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and handed one to Watson. "Now I must ask you to play your role. When I leave, wait a few moments, then follow me."

Watson took a sip of his champagne and nearly dropped the glass when Holmes abruptly tossed the contents of his glass into Watson's face.

"You're a horrid brute!" Holmes said in his not-Holmes voice, then Watson heard hurried footsteps and gasps and murmurs in Holmes' wake.

Shocked by Holmes' behavior, it took Watson a few breaths to fish his handkerchief out of his pocket and clean his face, then he bolted after Holmes.

The stares and whispers confirmed he was headed in the right direction as he hurried down the hall and then up the staircase.

At first glance there was no one in the upstairs hallway, but then Watson caught a glimpse of Holmes' skirt and he ventured toward it. Holmes was standing in a window alcove, one hand against the wall to hold himself up and the other hand holding his side as he gasped for breath. "Can't breathe properly in a corset," he complained when Watson joined him.

"Why were we causing a scene?"

"To give us an excuse to come up here without being followed." Holmes straightened and marched purposefully to a door on the opposite side of the hall. It was locked. He rummaged in his skirt and drew his lockpicks out of a hidden pocket.

Watson was suspicious of this reasoning, since it seemed rather more likely that they would be followed and the details of their disagreement spread through those gossip circles Holmes mentioned, but no one appeared.

A few moments later they were standing inside a sumptuous dressing room. Holmes immediately began searching the drawers and cupboards while Watson stood watch near the partially ajar door so he could raise the alarm if anyone approached.

Watson was somewhat amused by the way Holmes would occasionally huff with annoyance and shove his skirt out of the way or bend awkwardly when his intended movement was halted by the corset. Then Holmes' muttering took on a different tone and Watson noticed him fingering a packet that he had drawn from a drawer of cosmetics.

"Did you find what you needed?"

Holmes replaced the packet and stood slowly, making sure all was as he had found it. "I found the poison, but I don't . . ." he trailed off, staring past Watson as his mind worked furiously. "Oh! Of course!" he cried out, looking pleased with himself. "I have it. Let's go."

As they left, Holmes locked the door behind them. They were headed for the stairs when Holmes halted abruptly, grabbing Watson's sleeve. "Someone's coming," he said urgently, tugging Watson toward the window alcove. "Quick, kiss me."

"What?" Watson asked, aghast.

"Kiss me, you fool," Holmes repeated and, hearing the footsteps reach the landing, Watson decided he might as well continue obeying Holmes.

Watson pressed Holmes against the wall and lowered his head as the footsteps shuffled toward them on the deep carpet. He found it less difficult than he'd anticipated to make the kiss convincing, sliding his hands over Holmes' bodice and then moving one hand to Holmes' face to feel the improbably smooth skin. Holmes seemed just as absorbed in the kiss, though Watson could feel that one of Holmes' hands had strayed to where he had his revolver tucked in an inner waistcoat pocket.

There was a chuckle behind them, answered by a woman's breathy laugh, then a door was unlocked and their audience disappeared into the room they had just left.

Holmes pushed him away as soon as the door closed. "There, you see? Our ruse has been fruitful. Now we return to the party."

Watson couldn't help skimming his fingers over Holmes' jawline one last time before he straightened his clothing and offered his arm. "Dare I ask how you managed that?"

"Wax. I do not recommend it," Holmes said with a grimace and a shudder.

"Who passed us?"

"Our hostess and her married lover," Holmes said casually as they descended the stairs.

Watson decided not to comment. "What do we do now?"

"We return to the party until we can slip away unnoticed."

Watson was going to ask why they couldn't just come down the stairs and walk out the front door, but as soon as they were in sight of the guests loitering around the staircase, there were whispers and giggles and Watson could feel eyes following them as they returned to the ballroom. "Why are they staring?" he hissed to Holmes.

"Most parties do not get to see a couple have a row and then make up afterward, all in public," Holmes said dismissively. "Also, you have some lipstick at the corner of your mouth."

Watson blushed furiously and, hesitating outside the ballroom, used his champagne-damp handkerchief to scrub at the stain on his face.

He was just tucking his handkerchief back into its pocket when there was a commotion the direction of the staircase. A frantic-looking young woman was pushing through the guests and, to Watson's surprise, Holmes went to meet her. He hurried to follow.

"He's suddenly worse, much worse," she said, sounding panicked. "You must come."

"Did you leave him? Did his sister come?" Holmes demanded as they began to go back the way she'd come.

"No, I never left him until now. His sister didn't step foot in the room, but she had her man bring us champagne."

"Did he drink any?"

"We both did."

Holmes stopped abruptly just inside the other wing of the house. He turned and cornered the butler that had been minding the door. "Send for the doctor and the police. Do not let anyone leave the house by any means, including your mistress."

The butler stared at Holmes wide-eyed, though Watson couldn't tell if his consternation was caused by the instructions Holmes issued or the incongruity of a man's voice coming from what seemed to be a woman.

"Arthur, you will obey," the young woman said commandingly, and the butler bowed briefly.

"Yes, miss," he said compliantly, then turned and began issuing orders to the nearby staff, and a young lad ran out the front door.

As soon as he saw his instructions being carried out, Holmes resumed his march. "I told you not to let him consume anything that might have been tampered with," he said to the young woman. "That champagne is highly suspect."

"I asked if she had touched the glasses and he said no. I thought that was caution enough." She sniffled as she opened a door midway down the hall and led them into the ailing man's suite, a small sitting room with a bedroom beyond. A valet held the door as they stepped inside.

"Drinks can be poisoned without being touched," Holmes said cynically, immediately heading for the chaise lounge that held the suffering man.

Watson stepped forward and performed a cursory examination while Holmes hovered over his shoulder, peering at the man and sniffing. "Heart rate is rapid and irregular," Watson reported. "Sir, how do you feel?"

"Oh, William, you must answer him, he's a doctor," the young woman pleaded, falling to her knees on the other side of the lounge and taking one of his limp hands into both of hers.

William stirred weakly and swallowed. "It's all right, Mary Ellen. The champagne isn't sitting well with me, that's all."

"Is there water?" Watson asked.

The valet quickly brought him a cup. "It's nearly run out."

"Then run and fetch more, George," Mary Ellen said sharply.

Watson helped William sip from the cup until William spoke again, his voice not as raspy as before. "I fear I will bring it up again."

Mary Ellen drew a shallow basin out from beneath the lounge and set it in his lap. Holmes drew Watson away from the sick man and said in a low voice, "Your diagnosis?"

"Arsenic," Watson said immediately. "There were several possibilities but his breath confirms it."

"Just as I thought. And he has received doses of it for quite some time, judging by the lines on his fingernails."

Watson nodded soberly, noticing that Mary Ellen was watching them closely. She seemed paler than earlier, and she was swallowing repeatedly, a sheen of sweat on her skin. She seemed to hesitate a moment, then rose and joined them.

"Well, Mr. Holmes? Is it as I feared?"

Holmes had the courtesy to turn his back to William as he answered, "Arsenic, for at least six months, if I don't miss my guess. And I can prove it is his sister."

Mary Ellen's eyes widened and she clapped a hand to her mouth as she gasped. She seemed ready to burst into tears, but instead she darted for the washstand and bent over the basin, heaving.

"Ah, yes," Holmes remarked. "The champagne."

Watson rolled his eyes and went to offer his assistance while Holmes turned his attention to the champagne glasses.

When the door opened, Watson assumed the valet, George, was returning with more water, so he was surprised when an angry woman's voice demanded, "Who are these people and what are they doing in my house?"

Watson looked over his shoulder at the newcomer, finding a darkly beautiful woman flanked by two large men. Holmes was standing beside the table with the champagne glasses, clenching his fists as if preparing for a fight.

"No, Victoria, it's my house, at least for now," William contradicted her. "These people happen to be Mary Ellen's relatives, visiting because she is worried about me."

"You're lying," she shot back, advancing a few steps toward him.

"So what if I am? Are you going to finally kill me for it?" She narrowed her eyes at him and he gazed back calmly.

"Don't be absurd," she scoffed.

"Then feel free to have some champagne, dear sister. I'm afraid it doesn't agree with my sensitive stomach," he said, motioning to the two mostly-full glasses.

When she didn't move, he said sharply, "What, you don't want it? Perhaps that's for the best; there is a strange powdery residue at the bottom that I have never seen in a champagne before. So you see, dear sister, I know what you have been doing, as does everyone else in this room. What will you do now? Kill us all?"

Mary Ellen whimpered and collapsed to the floor and Watson moved to help her, missing whatever was said next. The fact that he was suddenly grabbed from behind rather made the situation clear; it was unexpected enough that he had no time to grab his revolver before he was held around the neck in a position so a single movement by his captor would break his neck. But his hands were free, so he pulled at his captor's arms with one hand for show while the other carefully slipped his revolver from his waistcoat.

While Watson was being subdued, Holmes had been struggling with the other man. By the time Watson was able to look over, Holmes had lost his wig, torn his skirt in several places, and was kneeling on the floor in front of his opponent. Watson realized that Holmes' opponent was using the ribbon around Holmes' neck to choke him and his heart clenched. He watched in mute horror as Holmes' fingers plucked uselessly at the ribbon, then his view was briefly blocked by the suspect as she joined the fray.

She stood in front of Holmes, bending over him as he arched back, trying to ease the tension around his neck. "So it's you," she sneered, plucking one of the champagne glasses from the table. "This is for you, Mister Holmes." She grabbed a handful of his hair, tipped his head back, and tried to force him to drink.

Watson couldn't get a clear shot on the man behind Holmes and shooting the woman wouldn't guarantee that Holmes would be released, so he watched and waited anxiously. At the edge of his vision, Mary Ellen was crawling toward him and his captor, but what she intended he couldn't guess. William seemed motionless on his lounge, but whether he had succumbed to the poisoning or had been knocked unconscious, Watson couldn't say.

Holmes clutched the front of Victoria's dress with one hand, the other fumbling with his own bodice. Watson thought he glimpsed a glint of light off of something metal at Holmes' chest, then he was startled when the door banged open. "Miss Mary Ellen, where-" the valet, George, started, then evidently noticed what was going on. "Oh!"

Watson took advantage of the distraction to drive an elbow firmly into his captor's chest, then twisted and drove the butt of his revolver into the man's temple. He slid quietly into a heap and Watson staggered to his feet, immediately looking to see how Holmes fared.

Holmes had pitched forward onto his hands. He was able to breathe only in ragged gasps, coughing roughly as he dragged air in through his damaged windpipe. Watson could see a line of blood on Holmes' neck where the dagger that freed him had nicked his skin in the process.

The man who had been choking Holmes looked dazed and was soaking wet. Even as Watson took a cautious step forward, George brought the now-empty water pitcher down upon the man's head with a crash and he slumped to the floor. Perhaps most surprising, Victoria was restrained by William's arms wrapped around her from behind. Mary Ellen carefully took the mostly empty glass from her fingers and set it back on the table for the police.

The local police shared Scotland Yard's tendency to show up after the action had concluded, for the police sergeant chose that moment to appear in the doorway. "Would someone like to tell me what is going on?" he said in a booming voice that seemed inappropriate for his small stature.

"I can, if you don't mind me sitting down," William said wearily, returning to the chaise with Mary Ellen's help. George gripped Victoria's arms to keep her from running away.

As soon as William spoke, Watson dismissed them both and focused his attention on Holmes, who was still on his hands and knees, gasping. Watson knelt beside him and reached for his handkerchief to dab at the blood on his neck. Holmes shook his head and pushed his small dagger toward Watson. "Corset," he said breathlessly.

Watson understood immediately and set about cutting the bodice and corset strings. Holmes began breathing easier as soon as they were loosened, and Watson pulled them away as Holmes sat back onto his heels. Abruptly he spoke. "She kept the arsenic in this," he said, holding up a necklace with a small vial pendant. "There is more in her dressing room, but this is what she used to administer it."

His interruption drew all eyes in the room onto him, half-naked and bleeding. "And who might you be?" the sergeant asked with disbelief in his voice.

"Sherlock Holmes, one of her attempted victims."

"I see," the sergeant said, sounding not at all convinced.

William resumed his tale where he had left off and Watson took the opportunity to ask worriedly, "Did you swallow any?"

"I haven't a clue," Holmes said carelessly. "The lack of oxygen was a rather more pressing concern at that moment."

"I hope for both our sakes that you didn't." Watson returned to his attempt to blot away the blood on Holmes' neck. Holmes batted his hands away and took the handkerchief to do it himself. Watson busied himself checking on the unconscious men, both of whom were still safely unconscious.

When William's report was finished, the sergeant summoned several of his men to arrest Victoria and the two men-one of whom was her manservant and the other was her lover-and collect the necklace and champagne glasses as evidence. Then, to Watson's utter shock, the sergeant turned to Holmes and said, "You are under arrest for gross indecency."

"What?" Watson spluttered as Holmes stood up and smirked as he held his arms behind his back to be cuffed. "You can't do that!"

"Of course he can, Watson. Didn't you know it's indecent for a man to dress like a lady?"

"Yes, but-"

"You should arrest him, too, Sergeant. They were kissing in the upstairs hall," Victoria put in smugly.

The sergeant harrumphed. "Begging your pardon, miss, but under the circumstances your word isn't sufficient. He'll be staying put."

Mary Ellen handed Watson her wrap and motioned toward Holmes. Watson draped it over Holmes' shoulders so he wouldn't be quite so exposed when he was dragged away. While he did so, Holmes murmured, "Wire Mycroft; he'll be able to have the charges dropped. And be a good chap and bring my other clothes when you come to get me out. Miss Hamilton knows where they are."

"Miss Hamilton?" Watson asked blankly.

Holmes jerked his head in Mary Ellen's direction. "My client."

"Ah." Then Watson understood why she had known Holmes in his disguise-evidently she had helped him don it.

"All right, that's enough. If you have anything else to say to him, he can visit your cell," the sergeant said brusquely, shoving Holmes toward the door and taking charge of Victoria himself. "Come along, men."

Watson followed the parade of policemen to the front door, pushing through crowds of gawking ladies and gentlemen-it seemed the ballroom had emptied into the hallways so all could witness the humiliation of their hostess. Holmes held his head high and didn't look to either side as he was pushed along at the rear of the group. Only when they were going outside did Holmes look at Watson and wink.

After the door closed, the murmurs grew louder and Watson retreated to William's room to escape the hubbub and check on the poisoned occupants-he was ashamed of himself for forgetting, albeit briefly, that both William and Mary Ellen required medical attention. Fortunately, the doctor that had been summoned was already there and tending to William, who looked rather the worse for his exertion in restraining his sister.

Mary Ellen was not in the room when he entered, but several minutes later she emerged from behind a closed door; the glimpse Watson had of the interior before she shut the door again revealed that it was a bathroom. George handed her a glass of water as she seated herself in an armchair not far from William's chaise.

"If you wish to rest, there is a room down the hall available for your use," Mary Ellen said, looking up at Watson. "Mr. Holmes' clothes are there as well."

"I need to send a message to London first," Watson said.

"It can't be sent until morning, but I will see to it personally," she assured him, rising and leading him to a writing desk just inside the bedroom.

Watson intended to write a telegram like Holmes suggested but found he couldn't be brief while still explaining enough of what had happened. So he wrote a letter and hoped the post would be sufficient. It would be at least several days before any trial occurred, or so he calculated, and that would be enough time for Mycroft to do his work. Watson finished his letter before he realized he was going to need bail money for Holmes.

William shuffled into the bedroom while Watson was dithering over whether to write a new letter. "Doctor, as soon as the bank is open, I will ensure that Mr. Holmes' bail is paid. Please forgive me for not saying anything sooner."

"That is very kind of you," Watson said cautiously.

William shrugged. "It is a small price to pay for what he has done for us."

"Would they allow me to bring him his clothes now?"

"I don't know, but you have free use of my carriage if you wish to find out."

"I'd like to try."

William nodded and called for George, who went to fetch the carriage. Mary Ellen took the letter from Watson and led him to Holmes' clothes, which he bundled up quickly.

The carriage ride into the town proper wasn't long, and soon he stood in front of a small stone building.

He had to knock repeatedly before the heavy wooden door creaked open and an old, withered man in a faded uniform peered at him expectantly.

"I have clothes for Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Watson said, gesturing with the bundle. "May I give them to him?"

"I don't see why not," the aged police officer said cheerfully, beckoning him in. "I doubt he's asleep yet, they haven't been here long."

A small office area was the front of the building, with another heavy door in the back wall that the officer had to unlock. "Your friend is in the right cell," he said conversationally, leading the way into a short hallway lit only by the light spilling through the door he'd just opened.

"There are only two?"

"We don't usually need even that many. Fortunately one of the other men was bailed out by his wife not five minutes ago so they didn't have to double up. The lady is being guarded at the sergeant's house," the officer readily explained, unlocking the cell and swinging the door open for him.

"Holmes?" Watson said, squinting into the dimness.

"Watson." He sounded pained. "The answer to your earlier question is yes."

Watson was baffled and took a step toward Holmes' voice. "What?"

He was answered by the sound of Holmes retching.

"I need a light in here," Watson said urgently to the officer.

A lantern was soon set on the floor just inside the cell. His next request was for another pail or basin for Holmes to use.

Holmes was violently ill for quite some time, possibly hours. Watson feared dehydration and tried to get him to drink water that the officer kindly brought, but the irritation of the arsenic made it nearly impossible for Holmes to keep anything down. Holmes was strangely quiet, aside from the panting between bouts of illness, when he would lean forward and rest his forehead on Watson's shoulder.

It was nearly dawn-according to Watson's watch, for the cell had no windows-before Holmes had some respite from the effects of the poisoning. His pulse was still quite rapid, but the other symptoms abated long enough that Watson tried to clean him up and wrestle him into the clothing he'd brought.

The aged officer helped Holmes up onto his cot while Watson painfully regained his feet, his stiff legs protesting the hours spent kneeling on the stone floor. "I've sent for the doctor," the officer murmured when Holmes was safely stowed and Watson was vertical.

"I'm a doctor," Watson said indignantly.

"You're his friend. Our doctor confirming what ails your friend will be much more convincing to the magistrate."

"Ah. Yes, of course." Watson took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking down at the ruin of what had been his best trousers and his only coat with tails. There was little he could do about that, so he focused on getting some water into Holmes.

By the time the other doctor arrived, Holmes was again curled up on the floor with the waste bucket and looked thoroughly miserable. The doctor quickly confirmed the similarity of Holmes' symptoms to William's and Mary Ellen's, then he urged Watson to go back to the house and get some rest. Watson relented only when the doctor promised to remain with Holmes until Watson returned or Holmes was released.

Watson nearly dozed off on the short ride back, and he looked with dazed amazement at the number of partygoers who were only just leaving as his carriage pulled up. He ignored them as he limped slowly down the hall. He fell onto the bed without even removing his tie and was asleep in minutes.

His growling stomach woke him a few hours later. He wandered the halls until a passing servant took pity on him and pointed him to a small dining room where food was laid out. William's valet George was already there, and Watson ate hastily in order to accompany George to the bank and then back to where Holmes was being held.

Their errands went smoothly until they went inside the police station and found chaos. Nearly a dozen people were jammed into the small office area, including the sergeant, the officer who had been there all night, several men who looked like solicitors, and a huddle of what looked like Scotland Yarders, though Watson thought he might just be seeing things. It seemed everyone was talking at once, and the hubbub nearly drove Watson back outside.

Then he saw someone he recognized and he pushed forward through the crowd until he came up beside him. "Inspector Lestrade, I didn't expect to see you here."

Lestrade regarded him silently for a moment, no doubt noting the condition of his clothes. "I could say the same of you," he replied finally. "But perhaps I should have realized that Holmes was involved in something this strange. Where is he?"

"Back there," Watson said, gesturing toward the cells. "We're here to bail him out."

Lestrade snorted, turning back to the sergeant. "What'd you get him on?"

The sergeant explained and Lestrade looked almost amused. "Well, let him out and we'll see what he has to say about the suspect turning up dead."

"I don't know if he's coherent; he's been ill all night," Watson said quickly before the rest of Lestrade's words sank in. "What do you mean, she's dead?"

No one answered him, as George and the sergeant were seeing to the exchange of the money and the aged policeman was leading Lestrade toward the cells. Watson followed them. The policeman opened the door for Lestrade, then said, "The doctor apologizes for having to leave to see to the body, but Mr. Holmes seemed to be doing better."

Watson was skeptical; when the cell was opened, Holmes was curled on his side on his cot, looking pale and disheveled but not actively ill. Watson wasn't fully reassured until Holmes opened his eyes and said dryly, "Lestrade. What a coincidence."

"Your suspect is dead," Lestrade said without preamble.

Holmes immediately sat up. "I must see the body."

"You must rest until you're rid of the poison," Watson countered.

"Nonsense. It is necessary to examine the body and I am quite able to do so."

"Then why aren't you standing?" Watson asked shrewdly.

"You failed to bring my shoes," Holmes said petulantly.

Watson sighed and pulled Holmes' boots out from under the edge of the cot. "I thought you'd be more comfortable with them off."

"Under what circumstances was the body found?" Holmes asked as he hurriedly shoved his boots onto his feet.

Lestrade launched into an explanation of what the sergeant had told him but Watson didn't really listen, preferring to watch Holmes for the tell-tale signs that he was still not well. Holmes' fingers fumbled somewhat and when he stood he did so with a surreptitious hand against the wall, but at least he was able to stand and he wasn't vomiting.

When they finally left the cell and the police building behind, Watson insisted that they take the carriage to the sergeant's house even though it wasn't far away. Lestrade and the sergeant joined them and George rode with the coachman. No one spoke while they drove what amounted to two London blocks and disembarked in front of a modest house. The sergeant guided Holmes and Lestrade to the bedroom where Victoria had slept, and Holmes quickly began his assessment.

It didn't take long for Holmes to decide she had poisoned herself. It took a little longer and a scandalously thorough pat-down of the body for him to find the small, empty vial-much like the one she'd had on her necklace-slipped into a specially designed pocket in the neckline of her chemise.

After that Watson declared that they return to William's house. Holmes resisted the idea but followed almost readily when Watson took hold of his arm and pulled him from the room. Once in the carriage, Watson said nothing, watching Holmes, and Holmes refused to meet Watson's gaze, looking down at his clasped hands as if that would hide the sweat that dotted his brow or the tremors in his fingers.

Holmes was quick to get up when the carriage stopped; a little too quick, perhaps, for he stumbled as he stepped down and fell to one knee. He was much slower getting up, even with Watson's help. George opened the front door for them, then hurried down the hall while Holmes and Watson followed more slowly in his wake.

Mary Ellen emerged from William's room just before they reached it. "There is food in your room, and a change of clothes for you, Doctor," she said, falling into step with them. "I took your letter to London and the other Mr. Holmes wrote a message to your landlady."

"Thank you," Watson said, trying not to yawn.

Holmes stopped in the doorway of the guest room and turned toward her for a moment before shaking his head and turning away again. "You may wish to return to your fiance's side. I expect his valet has given him the news by now."

"News? What news?"

Holmes wandered into the bedroom without answering. Watson glared at Holmes' back and carefully told her what had occurred that morning.

She was speechless for a moment, then her expression brightened. "I suppose I should feel sorry, but I'm only glad we don't have to worry about her any longer. Don't let me keep you from your rest. You and Mr. Holmes are welcome to stay as long as you like."

'As long as you like' turned out to be over a week, thanks to the residual effects of Holmes' poisoning. It was seven full days before the vomiting ceased completely; Holmes was still quite weak when they departed for London, but Holmes refused to remain any longer. He said he didn't wish to impose, but Watson suspected Holmes simply wanted to be back in more familiar surroundings and Watson couldn't argue with that.

In that time, Mycroft had arranged for the charges against Holmes to be quietly set aside. To Holmes' chagrin, that did not result in his clothing and wig being returned to him. Watson tried to convince him the disguise had been ruined in the course of apprehending the suspect and Holmes' arrest, but Holmes complained that they could have been mended, as they cost him a considerable sum to obtain in the first place.

"It's not like you'll need them again," Watson said with exasperation when Holmes once again brought up the subject on the train home.

"The female guise was useful in this case; who's to say it won't be useful again?" Holmes argued.

"Perhaps because it could get you arrested again?"

"Only if I got caught. I've only gotten caught once," Holmes said smugly.

"How many-wait, no, I don't want to know," Watson said with a put-upon sigh. "Would you seriously dress like that again?"

"If it would help. I've done many things in order to solve my cases."

"So I've noticed."

Holmes didn't answer and for quite some time the only sound was the rhythmic sound of the train clacking over the tracks. Watson stared out the window and let his mind wander. He was abruptly brought back to reality by Holmes murmuring, "Don't think I've forgotten that I need to teach you how to dance."

Watson grunted in response. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does."

"If you say so."

"I do," Holmes said seriously. Watson suppressed a smile and returned to staring out the window, wondering whether Holmes was planning to do so before or after he found himself a new dress.

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