Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The floorboards creak under the carpet as the woman pads through the corridors, barefoot and in a rush. The light coming from the lamp she is holding casts eerie shadows all around, accentuating the profiles of the people in the portraits that line the hallway. 

A door snaps closed somewhere behind her. She gasps, but does not dare look back. Instead, she picks up the pace into a light jog and dashes down the grand staircase, almost tripping in her haste. 

The front door is locked and she does not have the key. Footsteps approach from the upper floor, the sound of a melody being hummed reaching her ears. 

She grows frantic. 

When it is clear the door will not budge, not even after tackling it with all her weight, she steps back and turns to the service corridor. The humming voice echoes through the halls, carried by the freezing breeze coming from God knows where. It seems to be everywhere. If she hears it once more, she might go insane. 

The kitchen’s tiled floor is ice-cold and wet when she steps onto it, but she barely flinches at the feeling. The lamp flickers in her trembling grasp before she sets it down on the counter and tugs a drawer open. The cutlery inside rattles, causing the humming to stop briefly. She goes still as a rock, slowing down even her own breathing until it becomes shallow. 

After a few seconds, the song continues, and she wastes no time. Thrusting her hand into the drawer, she digs through it until she finds a long butcher’s knife. 

The footsteps are approaching. There is no escape other than the cellar downstairs, but even there she would eventually be found. There’s a door at the far end of the kitchen that leads out to the backyard, but the footsteps are too close. 

And the humming—its volume keeps increasing. It is coming closer. She grips the butcher’s knife so hard it nicks the skin on her palm, blood trickling down onto her feet. 

Right outside the door, the humming stops. She holds her breath. 

The oil in the lamp runs out and the flame flickers for a moment before everything goes dark. 

The door opens.

She screams. 

Chapter Text

London, May 1883

It has been pouring heavily for six days now. The east wing of the hospital was almost flooded even before midday. If the leaks on the roof are not repaired promptly, it will most likely end up collapsing. 

After checking Mr Price’s vitals and writing them down, I reported to the matron. We are both concerned for the poor man’s health; he has been unconscious for forty-eight hours and the fever has not gone down despite our multiple attempts. He keeps muttering nonsensical things, as if talking to someone in his dreams. 

I myself know that feeling all too well. I often wake with a start in the middle of the night, my nightgown clinging to my skin and the sound of a gunshot ringing in my ears. 

I hope Harry hasn’t noticed about the slowly diminishing brandy in the bottle he keeps in his study. He thinks I don’t know about it. It was Father’s favourite, and it helps with my hand tremors—  

“Jane?” a voice calls from the doorway. 

Dropping my pen, I whip the notebook closed and turn around. “Yes?”

“You’re needed,” Poppy urges, glancing over her shoulder at the hallway. “The matron says Mr Price has worsened over the night.”

I am on my ten-minute break and know that Miss Gordon, the matron, would not call on me if the matter was not of absolute urgency, so I don back my bonnet and slip my little notebook into a drawer. “I’m coming right away.”

The corridors of St Bartholomew’s Hospital are still difficult to become familiarised with, as they all look strikingly similar. However, I do know the way to Mr Price’s bed and I hurry without much thought. 

“The fever has subsided, but he’s grown too cold,” the matron is saying as I arrive. I plant myself at the foot of the bed and she briefly lifts her head to glance at me. “Miss Watson, I knew you were on a break, but Mr Price is critical.” 

“It’s all right. What can I do?” 

“We are trying to lower his heart rate. It is racing.” 

“May I?” I ask. She is my superior, after all. Miss Gordon nods and lets me step closer, handing me the stethoscope. 

I press it to the young man’s upper chest, and just as I do so, his breathing deepens and becomes erratic. I listen in and notice he is breathing with his belly, the intakes sharper and deeper each time, like he is drowning and trying to get gulps of air. 

I have seen this before, and apparently, so has the matron. When I look up at her, she meets me with a knowing glance. 

This is no normal breathing — it’s a deep death rattle. 

“He doesn’t have much time left,” I announce, my voice surprisingly steady. I squeeze my right fist. “It could happen any minute now.” 

“There’s no use in trying to wake him, is there,” Poppy murmurs, saddened. 

“I’m afraid not, Miss Edwards.” Miss Gordon sighs, then turns to me. “Miss Watson, would you please go fetch Doctor Stamford?” 

I depart with a sharp nod. Delivering news of the impending death of a patient is never easy nor pleasant, but it is something that comes with working in this field.

At least it is better than going out to a battlefield to tend to the wounded in the midst of battle. 

A sharp pain tugs at my left shoulder, but I quickly shake it off as I rush down the stairs. Outside, the rain is beating so heavily against the glass panes on the windows that I am afraid they will break at some point. 

“Doctor Stamford,” I call, spotting him in the hall of the hospital, still in his coat.

“Nurse Watson. What’s the matter?” he says, turning to me as he pushes his glasses up his nose. It is only then that I notice he was talking to another gentleman, and I most likely barged in in the middle of their conversation. 

This, however, is an urgent matter, so I apologise quietly, barely sparing the other man a glance.

“It’s Mr Price,” I reply, slightly breathless. “He’s breathing with a death rattle. We don’t know how much he’s got left—” 

“Dear God,” Doctor Stamford mumbles, then apologises to his companion and quickly follows me back to his patient’s bed. 

I stand aside with Poppy and the others as the doctor takes the patient’s pulse, frowning as he struggles to find it. He informs us that it is very weak and asks to please send an urgent telegram to his family. The matron leaves immediately, and just as she disappears behind the door, Mr Price’s chest heaves and stutters, then he lets out his last breath. Doctor Stamford removes the stethoscope and leans back in his chair, visibly affected. 

“Time?” he murmurs, patting his pockets. Poppy unhooks the little silver watch from her apron and glances down at it. 

“Twelve twenty-three.” 

He nods, jots it down on a little notepad, then stands up. I move to the window and wordlessly push it open, letting in a gust of wind and a few droplets of rain. Thankfully, no one says anything. 

Poppy, Mabel and I move to roll Mr Price onto his back and cover him with his bedsheet. I notice Mabel is holding back tears. I know she used to sit by his bed and read to him when he was awake and feverish. 

Following the hospital’s protocol, the body is covered in a shroud and wheeled down to the morgue. Until there is news of the family —which seems unlikely because no one came to visit in the whole two months he has been here—, that is all we can do. Miss Gordon asks Mabel and Violet to rearrange the bed and get it ready for the next patient, while Poppy and I accompany her to see which unit Mr Price is being moved to. 

Death used to always make the hairs on my nape and arms stand on end when I was younger. I will always remember the first time I saw a dead body—my own grandmother, who died of old age while she slept peacefully in her chamber. I was seven years old and we were visiting my mother’s family in Scotland for the summer. 

“Go and kiss Nana good-bye,” my mother said, fighting back the tears. “She is going to heaven.” 

I wanted to refuse, but I had not been taught to be naughty, so I stood on my tiptoes at her bedside and kissed her cheek. I will never, ever forget how cold she was. My brother Harry, who was ten years old at the time, rushed to open the window. 

“We need to let her leave,” he explained when questioned about it. “She needs to be free, now.” 

My father, a doctor at heart, gave him a talk about how being superstitious is useless and not at all based on scientific facts, but my mother’s face held the tiniest hint of a smile. Even I could see the gratitude beneath the tight lips and red-rimmed deep blue eyes. My Nana’s spirit was no longer trapped within the confines of the estate; it could come and go as it pleased. 

I blink, swiftly brought back to the present by the strong, chemical smell that permeates the air in the mortuary. Poppy is covering her mouth with a handkerchief, grimacing. 

“I hate this place,” she mumbles. “It reeks of death.” 

“Miss Edwards, have some respect,” the matron reprimands her, and we both look down. As I do, I notice a shadow out of the corner of my eye and quickly glance to the left. 

What I see has me stopping in my tracks. 

There is a man in one of the units, surrounded by shrouded corpses on tables. He is smacking another one with—is that a riding crop ? 

I look around, wondering why no one has said anything. Everyone seems to be going about their business. Who let him in? Why is he whipping a dead body? Is he in his right mind? Am I the only one who can see him? 

I take a step forward. 

“Sir,” I say. He keeps whipping, his back turned to me, and does not seem to hear me. “Sir!” I call, louder than the whip. 

The crop flies twice and I wince inwardly with each hit. Then it stops, and the gentleman rearranges his clothing before turning to me. He is tall, smartly dressed —as far as I can see in the dim light—, with sharp facial features. His gaze studies me for a moment before he drops the crop and his stance relaxes. 

“You cannot be in here,” I continue, stepping into the room. “Especially not with—that. Whatever it is you are doing.” 

He smirks to himself, as if a funny thought has just crossed his mind.   

“Surely someone like you has seen much worse than a beaten-up corpse, after spending so much time abroad,” he states matter-of-factly, as one would when talking about the weather. “Was it Afghanistan? I was unaware they had sent nurses.”

I swallow down my surprise. “I volunteered.” 

He turns to look at me once more, his gaze even more penetrating than before. I feel oddly exposed. 

“Oh, I see. ” He looks down at my clenched fist, and I instinctively clasp my hands behind my back. “And your husband was not very happy with that, was he?” 

I am about to reply when someone else strides through the door. “Holmes, I thought you’d have left already.” 

I turn upon realising it is Doctor Stamford who has just spoken. We both notice each other, wide-eyed, then he smiles politely. “Ah, Miss Watson. I see you have met my friend here, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, this is Miss Jane Watson, one of our best nurses.” 

“Actually, I came in here to tell him off,” I admit, earning a chuckle from Doctor Stamford. “He was—”

“I know, I know. It’s an experiment, apparently,” the doctor explains in a calming voice, gesturing to Mr Holmes. “He’s got my full permission.” 

“I was merely trying to determine how long after death bruising can occur,” Mr Holmes explains, then checks his pocket watch. “Alas, I had better be going. I must collect something from the cemetery.”

He walks past me to a hat stand, where he gathers his coat and tugs it on. I observe him, puzzled. 

“Why would you need to perform such an experiment?” I ask. 

“In my line of work, Miss Watson, it is necessary,” he replies.

“He’s a detective,” Doctor Stamford adds. “And a very good one, at that.” 

Mr Holmes rolls his eyes at the praise, but I am curious. 

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” I blurt out. 

Does he have special powers? Can he read minds? Could he have possibly seen through my layers of clothing and noticed it? 

He grabs his hat, but pauses before putting it on and turns to me. 

“The explanation would take a while,” he simply says, one hand reaching into an inner pocket of his coat, “and I am in a hurry. If you still want to know, I suggest you come visit me here at your convenience.” He passes me a card with his name and address on it. I read it over and look up to say more, but he is already halfway out the door, tipping his hat to Doctor Stamford and me. “Good afternoon.” 

Still baffled, I turn to the doctor. 

“Yes,” he nods, “he’s always been like that.” 

Chapter Text

The rain still pours heavily in the evening as the cab lurches to a stop right outside my brother’s house. The driver, clad in a hefty overcoat, kindly helps me down the steps and I give him an extra two pence for the trouble.

“Thank you, miss. Have a good evening.” He tips his hat before driving away, disappearing into the darkness. 

I hurry up the steps to the front door in search of shelter from the downpour, but it all proves futile since I am completely soaked when I step into the foyer. My shoes make a strange squelching sound as I tread the little piece of carpet by the door, unsure of how to avoid getting the —very obviously expensive— wooden floors wet. 

“Miss Jane!” someone calls, and I look up to see Daisy, the maid, rushing towards me from the top of the stairs. “God almighty, you're dripping! Here, dry yourself.” 

Before I can reply, a towel is pushed into my hands. I dab it over my face and dress, drying it off as carefully as I can. It was my mother's; I do not want to ruin it. 

“Thank you, Daisy. This is really kind of you.”

“Jane? Is that you?” My brother, Harry, walks into the foyer with a pipe in his hand. His eyes widen upon noticing me. “Jesus Christ!”

“Yes, I know I am soaked. I am aware,” I snap, “and so must be the Holy Trinity. Wait, no, you haven't mentioned the Holy Spirit yet, have you?” 

He rolls his eyes. “How pious of you.” 

“I just got caught in the rain. All I need is a change of clothes… and maybe a hot bath?” I ask, glancing over at Daisy, who smiles softly.

“All right, Miss Jane. I’ll go get it ready for you.”

“You're a true blessing.”

I step out of my boots and groan at the sight of my wet stockings. 

“Did you swim all the way here?” Clara, my brother's wife, peers into the foyer from the parlour. There is a mischievous grin on her face as she speaks. 

“Oh, yes. I was chased by sharks, you see,” I reply, joking along, “so I had to be fast.”

She throws her head back with a laugh, her mousy brown curls swaying with the movement. I join in even though I try to hold back. 

There is a softness about Clara, a sort of aura that makes one inevitably gravitate towards her warmth. She is kind, optimistic, bright-eyed and clever. I was so happy when Harry announced their engagement—I had been waiting for it since the day we were formally introduced to each other, years ago. 

“Have you eaten anything?” she asks, ushering me into the parlour and closer to the fireplace. I shake my head as I take a seat. 

“No, but don't worry about me. It is past dinner time, anyway.”

“We already ate,” Harry says, giving his pipe a puff, “but Mrs Bentley left some food for you, lest you be hungry.”

I reach under my layers of skirts, tugging off my stockings to leave them to dry by the fire. My brother scoffs. 

“Manners, Jane. You're a lady. Or supposed to be one.”

“A lady who’s had a long day at work in the hospital,” I counter, massaging my sore ankles. “We lost a patient today.”

Clara gasps softly. “I am so sorry.”

“May God rest their soul.” Harry nods. 

“He was only twenty-five,” I recall. I do not normally hold many details of our patients in my memory unless they are useful, but Mr Price’s young age struck me from the very beginning. “Grew up in Whitechapel. I don't think anyone is going to claim him.”

Clara sits down beside me, taking one of my hands between hers. “At least you made sure he was as comfortable as possible,” she says in a reassuring voice. 

“On a lighter note,” Harry adds, taking a piece of paper and unfolding it, “look at this. Remember her?”

I look up and realise he is showing me a newspaper. His finger is pointing at one of the articles on the front page, the letters big and bold. 

The event of the season!

English aristocrat to marry young Scottish heiress

I look up at him. “This is of no interest to me, Harry. I don't care for strangers’ marriages—”

“Read on,” he urges me. “You may not know who the groom is, but you surely remember the bride.” 

Frowning, I take the newspaper with renowned curiosity. The article mentions Mr Arthur Granville, only son of Lord Phillip Granville from Granville Limited, the renowned textile company. Apparently, he is getting married to Lady Elizabeth Ashford, the daughter of a wealthy aristocratic family from Scotland. 

“Lizzie,” I murmur. Harry nods. “It's been years since I knew of her.”

“I know,” he replies, “that's why I thought of you when I saw the article. I do not know Mr Granville personally, but I have happened upon him a couple of times at social gatherings. He seems to be a decent, well-spoken man. Very charming, too, if I might say so.”

“Harry told me you and Lady Elizabeth used to be friends,” Clara chimes from beside me.

“Yes, we were, when we were little. The very best of friends,” I recall, my fingertips tracing over the paper as I read through the article. Wedding preparations, the venue, the guests… The ceremony and feast are to be held in the Ashford estate in the Scottish Highlands. “Or at least, we used to be. We lost contact over time.”

I do not tell her it was me who stopped sending letters first. 

“Even so, I find it strange she didn't send you an invitation.” Clara tilts her head, humming. “If it is the ‘event of the season’, as it says on the paper, then it must be full of important people.”

“Ah, maybe that's why she didn't invite me,” I joke, but this time she does not laugh. I clear my throat. “Well, if you’ll excuse me—”

I put the newspaper aside and move to stand up. As I do, a small piece of paper slides out of my pocket. Harry picks it up before I can. 

“Mister Sherlock Holmes,” he reads out loud, “consulting detective. 221B Baker Street.” With a frown, he turns to me. “What's this?”

“Oh, your patient!” Clara exclaims. “Do you suspect murder? Did you hire a detective to figure out what happened?” 

“What—no,” I stammer, taking the card from Harry. “He just gave it to me.”

I see them exchanging glances. Suddenly I do not want to be in this room. I wonder if I should just bolt for the stairs. 

“And no, he isn't a suitor,” I add. They both sigh, so I take it as my cue to leave. “Anyhow, I believe a warm bath awaits me, and I intend to stay in it until the water gets cold. Good-night.” 

“But Jane,” Clara says, placing a hand on my arm, “who is this man? Mr Holmes?”

“A friend of Doctor Stamford’s,” I reply. And truly, that is all I know. “He was whipping a dead body with a riding crop in the hospital's mortuary.” Harry raises an eyebrow. “I came in to tell him off and he gave me his card, that's all.” 

I move past Clara and my brother, heading for the stairs. I do not tell them about how Mr Holmes knew about me being in Afghanistan and how that equally bothers and intrigues me. 

Later on, as I sit in the bathtub, gliding my fingertips over the surface of the warm water, I cannot help but recall Mr Holmes’ words. 

Was it Afghanistan? I was unaware they had sent nurses.

Another tug at my left shoulder, and my hand instinctively clasps over it. The marred skin of the scar pulses beneath my palm, causing me to squeeze my eyes shut at the pain. There is no use in trying to push it away now that I have no work to focus on, no patients to tend to, no paperwork to sort through.

With my eyes closed, all I see is the sun hanging big and bright in the sky, the bloodied bodies of soldiers piled up around me like discarded dolls, their eyes still open, staring out into nothingness. My own hands, covered in dirt and blood as I tighten yet another tourniquet around someone’s leg or arm. Prayers, whispers, cries, gunfire. Sweat sliding down my face, my neck, my back. My uniform sticking to my skin. 

I resurface, gasping for air. I blink, disoriented, my hands gripping the edges of the bathtub so tightly that my knuckles have turned white. My breathing is uneven and shallow, my lungs still burning from the lack of oxygen. 

No doctors have been able to help me so far. They have only suggested stupid things as the cause—the onset of hysterical episodes, a lack of fresh air, being an unmarried woman or even employment. Clara nearly punched the last one in the face for suggesting that I, and I quote, ‘just needed a husband.’

I step out of the bathtub, dry myself and get ready for bed. As I brush my hair in front of the mirror, carefully working through the tangles, I make a decision. 

Perhaps Mr Holmes can help me.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I rise early and decide to take advantage of the fact that Sundays are my only days off work. I wash myself and get dressed before briskly walking down to the dining room, where I stumble upon my brother. 

“Good morning, sister,” he greets me with a smile, putting aside the newspaper he has been reading. “Coffee?” 

My hand trembles slightly. I lace my fingers together as I join him at the opposite side of the table. 

“Tea for me, thanks.” 

Daisy, who has been listening from the doorframe, nods and disappears into the kitchen. 

“Why are you up so early?” Harry asks, checking his pocket watch with a frown. “You don’t normally show yourself before nine o’clock on Sundays.”

“It is my day off,” I remind him, taking a piece of toast. “I have stuff to do, places to be.” 

He snorts. “You are being so obviously, intentionally vague that now I am curious what you’re up to.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I smile up at Daisy as she pours my cup of tea. “Thank you. Harry, may I have that?” I point at the newspaper. 

“What for?” 

“Reading, obviously.” I snag it from the table before he can protest. 

Lizzie’s impending marriage is all over the headlines. I know I should feel happy for her, but after so much time apart, all I feel is that our precious childhood moments are gone forever, swept away in the wind, and she has become just another stranger. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking—” Harry begins. 

“Never a good thing,” I interrupt without looking up.

I can feel his sour expression.

“You remember Mr Morstan, don’t you?” he continues, dabbing a napkin over his moustache. 

It truly escapes me how Clara can find that attractive. It is not that my brother is not good-looking; after all, we both take after our mother, and she was indeed a very beautiful woman. The moustache, however, seems to be a growing trend among the circles of solicitors he frequents lately. It makes him look ten years older. 

“Jane?” he calls, a hint of irritation in his voice. I blink up at him. 

“Hm? Sorry, you were saying?” 

Harry sighs, exasperated. 

“Mr Morstan,” he snaps, clearly losing his patience, “my acquaintance from work. I introduced you two weeks ago. Do you remember him or not?” 

“Well, let me think.” I put the newspaper down and drum my fingers on the table. “Which one was it—the one who looked like he had just finished law school, or the one who carried himself like a stuck-up aristocrat and had ridiculously bushy sideburns? I get easily lost, you see. So many names.” 

“Jane!” Harry’s face is red as a beetroot. He looks like he is going to start whistling like a steam engine at any moment, so I seize my chance and finish my tea. 

I do remember Mr Morstan, though. He was the second one. The size of his sideburns is perfectly normal and he was incredibly polite, but irritating Harry when he presses the topic of marriage into the conversation is my only way of escape. I stand up and grab the last bite of my toast. 

“He is coming over for tea,” Harry blurts out, “this afternoon at 2:30.” 

“Good. He will be happy to see you.” 

I get my coat from the rack and slip on my gloves. 

“Jane, please—where on earth are you going?” my brother asks, his voice suspicious. 

“To church,” I reply. He scoffs. 

I tried. Lying to a lawyer is not exactly an easy task. 

“I have yet to see you attend Sunday mass.” 

“I’ve got business to attend to.” 

“What business?” 

I finish pinning my hat to my hair and turn to him with a smile.

“None of yours. See you later.” 

“How dare you—” he starts, sounding dangerously like Father, so I rush past the front door and close it behind me before he can follow. I cannot promise I will be here for tea with Mr Morstan, but I tell myself I will try my best. For my brother. 

The sunlight bounces off the cobblestones, still wet from last night’s rain, as I step past the garden gates. I shade my eyes with a hand and scan the street for any available hansom cabs, but it seems that I shall have to walk down to the main street to get a better chance. 

The hustle and bustle of Grosvenor Place hits me in the face at once—the clacking of hooves, hundreds of voices mingling together to form an unintelligible melody that makes my skin crawl. I was never this sensitive to loud noises or bright light; at least not until I joined the Army. 

I shake off the thought again, repelled by it, and immediately hail a cab. 

“Where to, Miss?” I hear the driver ask.

I look up through the trapdoor.

“221B Baker Street, please.”

The man nods and the cab lurches into motion. It takes around fifteen minutes to get to my destination, but to me it feels like only a few seconds have passed. When the driver announces our arrival, it takes me a moment to notice my hands are tightly gripping the fabric of my skirt. I make a conscious effort to disentangle them from my lap, then I smooth down the fabric and step off the cab. 

“Good day, Miss,” the driver says in a heavy Cockney accent after I pay the fare. 

And, just like that, I am left alone, standing before a dark door with a sign that says ‘221B’ in big brass letters. On the first floor, right above the door, there are two high windows covered by sheer white curtains, but I see no light inside. Maybe coming here unannounced was a bad idea? Perhaps Mr Holmes is not even in. 

I clench and unclench my fist.

What on earth am I even nervous about? 

Before I can give it any more thought and end up turning around and leaving, I raise my hand and knock on the door three times. To my surprise, someone answers from behind it. 

“Mr Holmes! Client!” a female voice calls, then the door opens. 

I straighten up and offer my best smile as I attempt to mask my surprise — an old lady is standing before me, clad in a simple yet fitting cerise dress. When she opens the door, I catch a waft of her perfume. Bergamot and lemon oil. 

“Oh!” she lets out a little yelp, looking surprised to see me. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, madam,” I greet with a nod. “I am here to see Mr Holmes. I should have probably sent word beforehand—”

“Oh, nonsense, there’s no need,” she shakes her head, ushering me into the hall. “Please, do come in. May I have your name, darling?”

“Jane Watson,” I reply, feeling a strange but pleasant warmth spreading across my chest. 

“Mrs Hudson!” someone bellows from the upper floor, and this voice I recognise. “I’ve told you time and time again—no clients before ten o’clock!” 

She turns to me with an apologetic smile.

“He’s a bit grumpy in the mornings.” 

“I can come back another time,” I offer. The last thing I want is to cause trouble. 

“No, please,” she insists, gently taking my forearm, “wait here. I’ll be right back.” 

She goes up the stairs with impressive speed for someone her age, then knocks on the door before letting herself in. 

“Sherlock,” I hear her whisper angrily, “there is a lady waiting downstairs. I shall not have you dismiss her!” 

Is this woman Mr Holmes’ mother? Whoever she may be, she must be someone important. Mr Holmes emerges from the flat a few seconds later, wearing a dark purple robe over his suit. As soon as his eyes land on me, I stand up straighter. 

“Miss Watson,” he greets with a polite nod. “Please forgive the misunderstanding—my landlady should have told me it was you.” He gives Mrs Hudson a dry look that she pointedly ignores.

“Mr Holmes,” I return the greeting, then begin to walk up the stairs. Mr Holmes extends a hand towards me as I near the landing, and I look at it for a moment before hesitantly taking it. As soon as I reach the door, he lets go. 

“I’ll bring up some tea,” Mrs Hudson offers sweetly when she walks past me.

“That won’t be necess—” Mr Holmes begins to say, but the door to her flat closes sharply. 

“I’m sorry to cause such a disturbance.”

“Oh, not at all. Please,” he opens the door and gestures for me to come inside, and when I do, I am faced with a rather uncanny sight. 

The flat is spacious yet sparsely furnished, except for a couple of armchairs by the fireplace and a medium-sized dining table. Off to the side, there is a desk with a microscope, vials and papers full of notes scribbled in a hurry. On the wall between the two windows, a stuffed deer’s head watches me with its beady black eyes. Despite the beautiful day outside, the curtains are drawn. 

“I suppose you already know why I’m here,” I turn to Mr Holmes, who is shoving tobacco into a pipe. 

“Of course,” he replies, holding it between his teeth as he lights it with a match. “You want to know how I knew about your past.” 

“I’m curious, though. Did you collect what you needed from the cemetery?” 

He nods towards the mantelpiece, where a human skull is sitting next to a stack of papers. Judging by its shape, size and the amount of dirt still on it, I can see it is not fake. 

“Sometimes I need someone —or rather, something— remotely similar to a human being to talk to and develop my thought processes,” Mr Holmes explains. “This one listens and never interrupts. Helpful, but also irritating, at times.” He turns to me with a smile. “Not much of a challenge.” 

“What about Mrs Hudson?” I inquire, to which he shakes his head. 

“Too emotionally involved.” He pauses, only then seeming to notice the armchairs. “How rude of me. I didn’t offer you a seat.”

“It’s quite alright,” I shake my head. “I prefer to stand.” 

“Even with your injury?” 

My whole body tightens. 

“Beg your pardon?” 

“You were injured,” he states. “In the midst of battle, most likely.” A brief pause. “Left or right shoulder—no, that's obvious. Left one.”

I look down at myself in an attempt to find whatever is giving all of this away.

“What makes it so obvious?”

“You are in pain and you are constantly hiding it. You did not ask for a seat when you entered and refused it when I offered, even though it would ease the pain. You need to hide it, perhaps because they wouldn’t let you work if they knew.” He then pointedly glances at my right hand, my own gaze following suit. 

It is shaking visibly. 

I clench it into a fist to stop the tremors. 

“Doctor Stamford could have told you about my injury,” I suggest, clasping my gloved hands at my back. 

“We do not normally discuss other people’s personal matters.” He raises an eyebrow. “Ah, also—your stance. You were not in the military, obviously, but someone close to you or around you was. Father, probably?” 

“My father was an Army Colonel,” I nod, “as well as a doctor.” 

“Is that why you became a nurse?”

“If you’re asking whether I became a nurse because I couldn’t become a doctor, then yes, I did,” I concede. “I was lucky to receive such a polished education. My parents did not make a distinction just because I am a girl. I was educated in science, law, politics and language as well as music and sewing.” 

Mr Holmes smiles softly. “Useful for stitches, too.”

“True.” I find myself smiling back. 

I slip off my gloves and raise my left hand, pointing at the simple gold band around my ring finger.

“You mentioned a husband, Mr Holmes,” I add. 

“I believe I did, yes.” 

“While everything you’ve deduced is completely correct —I was sent back to England after getting shot through the left shoulder in the battle of Maiwand—, I regret to say I am not married.”

Mr Holmes grows quiet, eyes scanning over me. Then he suddenly grunts in annoyance, slapping the back of one of the armchairs. 

“Brother!” he exclaims. “I should have known.” 

“Everyone’s been addressing me as ‘Miss’, and you didn’t notice?” I hold back a smile. 

“Many women choose to retain the ‘Miss’ treatment.”

“Well, certainly not in my line of work,” I say, and we both chuckle. 

“I’ll admit, I noticed the ring,” Mr Holmes says, “and assumed you were either married but wanted to keep it separate from work, or divorced but still harboured feelings for the other person.” 

“The ring was my mother's,” I explain, glancing down at it. “She left it to me when she passed. I wear it to prevent people from asking questions.” 

“Your Scottish mother, am I correct?”

My eyes widen.

“How do you know?”

“There's a trace of an accent in the way you pronounce certain words,” he observes, taking a seat on one of the armchairs. “Very subtle, but still there. You were educated by her, mostly, I presume.”

I blink, caught off-guard completely now. 

“That's—that is brilliant.”

He watches me, letting out the smoke through his nose.

“That is not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Things I wouldn't dare repeat in front of a lady.” 

We share a smile. 

“Sir!” Mrs Hudson’s voice suddenly cuts through the silence, startling me. It is coming from downstairs. “I told you he is with a client, you cannot just—sir!”

Footsteps approach and Mr Holmes is beside me in the blink of an eye, shielding me from the door, which swings open almost immediately. 

Out of all the people that could have just burst into the room, Lizzie’s father was absolutely not on the list of the ones I expected. Sir Richard Ashford is still a big fellow with a friendly face, although it is now covered in sweat and creased with concern. 

“What's the meaning of this?” Holmes demands. 

“Mr Holmes, I apologise for the intrusion, but this is a very urgent—” his eyes shift to me. “Heavens above, Jane, is that you?”

Chapter Text

Mrs Hudson appears at the door, huffing and puffing behind Sir Richard. 

“I tried to stop him. I am too old for this.” 

My instincts take over, so I approach her and gently offer my arm for support. She takes my hand instead and pats it. 

“Here, take my handkerchief,” I offer again, pulling it from my pocket. 

“Thank you. You are an angel.” Mrs Hudson takes the handkerchief and dabs it over her forehead and face. 

Once that is taken care of, I look up at Sir Richard. 

“Yes, it is me.” I nod in greeting. “It has been a long time, Mr Ashford.” 

Holmes looks at us both, taking a long drag from his pipe. 

“You are Sir Richard Ashford,” he observes, “the Scottish businessman whose daughter’s marriage is all over the papers lately.” 

“That I am, Mr Holmes,” the other replies, taking off his top hat. “I’ve come all this way in a desperate attempt to ask for help.”

“Please, do take a seat,” Holmes offers. I make to leave, but he stops me with an outstretched hand. “Miss Watson, please, if you don’t mind, I would like you to stay.” 

“Why?”

“You know this man personally,” he gestures to Sir Richard. “Perhaps you can shed some light on this matter, offer him some help and comfort in this time of trouble.” 

I glance at Sir Richard as if asking for permission. He nods, so I take a seat on a nearby chair while Holmes takes the opposite armchair. 

“Please, Sir Richard, do tell us about your predicament.” 

I am surprised he is already including me. 

“It’s—it’s my daughter, Mr Holmes,” the other man replies after a beat, his lip trembling slightly. 

My heart skips a beat. Before he can continue, I lean forward on my chair. 

“What happened?” I blurt out. “What’s wrong with Elizabeth?” 

Holmes looks at us both with a knowing smile on his face. 

How dare he smile in a moment like this?

“I knew the minute he addressed you by your first name, Miss Watson,” he tells me. I knit my brows. “The age difference between you and the way you greeted him told me the rest.” 

“My daughter has gone missing, Jane,” Sir Richard chimes, “and I need your help finding her, Mr Holmes.”

“But the wedding—” I start to say.

“The wedding is still on the papers because if news got out about the bride suddenly going missing, the ceremony would be called off,” Holmes interrupts, stating it as something painfully obvious. 

“And the bridegroom? Does he know?” I counter, looking at Sir Richard. “He must know.” 

Sir Richard sighs, fidgeting with the top hat in his hands.

“He does. In fact, he and his family are willing to help—”

“Good.” I nod.

“—as long as we manage to find Elizabeth before the end of the month.” 

I quickly do the maths in my head, my eyes widening. “That is in two weeks’ time!” 

“Then you understand my urgency! Will you help me, Jane?” he reaches out and grabs my hand, giving it a desperate squeeze. “And you, Mr Holmes? Everyone told me to come to you when the police reached an impasse.” 

I am surprised that he is asking me for help, when initially he came to see Mr Holmes. The detective takes another drag from his pipe. 

“I shall take your case, Sir Richard,” he says, “on one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Miss Watson’s help in this case would be invaluable. I would be a fool not to take advantage of it. I formally request that you let her assist me where needed.” 

I perk up, drawing my hand out of Sir Richard’s grasp. “Now, one moment—”

“Of course, Mr Holmes. She and my dear Elizabeth used to be good friends.” Sir Richard turns to me with a pleading look. “Please, Jane. I am begging you. She still remembers you fondly; still thinks of you as a friend. Won’t you help find her? The anguish is driving us insane.” 

I take in his words, focusing on breathing deeply through my nose. My hand threatens to tremble, but I manage to keep it steady. 

“Sir Richard, I am humbled by your words, truly, but I do have a job and I cannot simply walk out like this,” I explain. “I too still remember Elizabeth fondly. I really do, but you must understand.” 

“That issue can easily be fixed,” Holmes pipes in, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “I’ll have a word with Dr Stamford.”

I can do little else except sit here and blink up at him in utter disbelief. I only came here to talk and now I am suddenly being dragged into one of his cases? 

“She was about to send you this,” Sir Richard says then, producing an envelope from an inner pocket of his waistcoat. 

I take it and examine it with surprisingly steady hands, despite my rattled nerves. The paper is soft and of excellent quality. My fingertips trace my name and the hospital’s address, beautifully handwritten on it. 

“So she was going to invite me,” I whisper. 

“You doubted it?” 

“No.” I look up too quickly. “Well, I thought, after all this time—”

“She has never forgotten you,” Sir Richard cuts me off, his voice softening. “Before she went missing, she told me she was excited about you being there for her.” 

Something tugs at my heart. I blink, and in that short moment I see Elizabeth’s black hair swirling around her freckled face. She’s laughing in the wind, chasing me through the labirynth in her parents’ estate. Her laugh echoes in my ears. 

My eyes burn with unshed tears as I stand up abruptly. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, extending the invitation back to Sir Richard. He takes it with a defeated look. I turn to Holmes. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr Holmes, but I cannot accompany you on this case. It wouldn’t be appropriate nor beneficial, especially with me being so emotionally involved. I would only be a hindrance, I’m afraid.” I slip on my gloves, regaining my composure. “And besides, as I’ve said, I have a job that comes with great responsibilities. I cannot just disappear.” 

Holmes blinks, as if taken aback by my response. 

“May I at least try to persuade you to think about it?” he offers. “You can give me an answer tomorrow.”

“The answer is no,” I say as he stands up to meet my gaze. He towers over me, but I do not step back. “I must apologise yet again, Sir Richard, but I am currently unable to help you.”

Silence falls over the room, so I take that as my cue to grab my coat and wrap it around myself. I want to get out of here; my head is filled with bittersweet memories that I desperately need to get rid of. 

“Alright,” Holmes concedes, sounding defeated also. Sir Richard looks devastated. I avoid his gaze. Holmes comes up to me and offers his hand. “Thank you for your visit, Miss Watson.”

I grasp it and give it a polite shake. 

“Thank you,” I reply, “for your time.” I reluctantly turn to Sir Richard, who gives me a last, pleading look. “I wish you the best of luck, Sir Richard. I truly do.” 

“Thank you, Jane.” 

Holmes sees me to the door and waits as I descend the steps to the foyer, where Mrs Hudson is already waiting. 

“Are you leaving already, darling?” she asks, checking the time. 

“Yes, Mrs Hudson. My apologies, I wish I could have stayed longer.”

“Oh.” She sighs, reaching out to help me pin my hat back onto my hair. “He wasn’t rude to you, was he?” she whispers, looking over at Holmes. 

“No, it’s not that. I just have places to be,” I lie with a small smile. “Mr Holmes has been nothing but a gentleman,” I add, looking up at him as well. 

The corner of his mouth twitches up into a half smile. 

“Well, in that case, I hope to see you soon, Miss Watson,” Mrs Hudson says as I step outside. “Take care, will you?”

“I will. You too.”

As soon as the door closes, I stand there for a moment, watching the 221B sign. Then I start walking. 

I do not stop until I have reached Regent’s Park. The fresh mid-morning breeze is a nice change from Mr Holmes’ cramped flat. I would probably have found it interesting, I think to myself as I walk aimlessly, had Sir Richard not made such an unexpected appearance. 

My thoughts inevitably dart back to Lizzie. I wonder what might have happened. Her parents’ estate and surrounding lands are big enough to get lost in, especially with the haar rolling in from the nearby cliffs. Perhaps she wandered way too far and could not find her way back? She loved to go on long walks. 

Loves, I remind myself. I refuse to assume she is gone. 

I am such a coward. 

I ran away without knowing the facts – the when, the where, the what, the why. Sir Richard did not even have the chance to give details because I went into a panic and left. He must be speaking about this to Mr Holmes now, who I imagine has taken the case out of pity for the poor man.

I have failed them both. 

I have failed Lizzie. Dear, sweet, Lizzie, whose laugh could brighten up even the darkest of days. 

Come get me , she would say, her voice echoing through the hedge walls of the labyrinth. Come get me, Jenny.

I feel a tug on my shoulder, so strong it makes me wobble on my feet. 

“Miss! Are you alright?” a man asks, approaching from my left to steady me by the elbow. I pull away as soon as I feel the touch. 

“I am fine.” I look at him, and he seems taken aback. He keeps staring into my eyes. Is there something in them?

“You do not look fine, Miss.”

I frown. 

“Mind your own business, why don’t you,” I reply, then push past him without expecting a reply. 

My quick steps soon turn into a jog, then the next thing I know, I am dashing through the streets back to where I came from. People make way with surprised gasps when they hear my approaching footsteps. The pain on my shoulder slowly subsides and becomes a faint throb by the time I reach Mr Holmes’ front door and give it a resolute three knocks. 

I am coming to get you, Lizzie.

Chapter Text

Paddington Station is bustling with people, steam rising in clouds towards the high, domed ceilings. Trains whistle everywhere, the sound causing me to wince. 

“It’s platform number two,” Holmes says next to me, pulling my mind out of the auditory chaos. He nods in the direction of said platform, and my gaze follows. 

We slip past a cluster of people waiting for an arriving train, then head down a flight of stairs. Holmes offers to help with my suitcase, but I politely decline. He does not insist. I do notice, however, that he lets me go first and watches me closely as I grip the railing with my free hand. I can feel his blue gaze on the back of my neck. 

Dr Stamford and Miss Gordon had a strong argument over my impending absence. Holmes even managed to get the police involved to attest to the importance of me travelling to Scotland for a week, but it was no use. 

“Miss Watson is my best nurse,” Miss Gordon had said. “And I am her superior – I should be asked for permission.” 

“This is above our power, Miss Gordon,” Dr Stamford had replied in a placating tone. “A lady has gone missing, for God’s sake.” 

“Then I’m sure there’s enough people in England and Scotland to go looking for her, but not Miss Watson.” 

The Detective Inspector, Mr Lestrade, had decided to step in and tell Miss Gordon they were not exactly asking for permission. I was to accompany Mr Holmes to Peterhead at once, in order to help with the ongoing investigation concerning the missing Lady Ashford. 

As for the disappearance, news has got out quickly. As we pass another group of bystanders, I notice a newsie waving papers in the air. 

“Extra! Extra! Wealthy Scottish heiress gone missing! Read about it on The Daily Telegraph for two pence only!”

I reach into my pocket for the money. 

“One, please.” 

Holmes raises an eyebrow at the child. 

“Wiggins, I didn’t know you had got a job,” he says, and the boy smiles up at him. 

“Mr ‘Olmes, good day t’you! Me mum was goin’ on about how I spend all me time on the streets, runnin’ about and wastin’ me time – so I got this job to send some bees and honey home.”

As we exchange the money and the newspaper, Wiggins turns to me and does a poor job of tipping his cap. I smile despite myself. 

“Good day, Miss!”

“Good day.” I nod.

“Wiggins, this is Miss Watson. She is a doctor,” Holmes introduces me. “She is helping me with the case on the papers.”

“Nurse,” I correct, but the boy shrugs. 

“Same thing to me, Miss.” He grins. “You must be real lemon if Mr ‘Olmes wants to work with you.” 

“I’m sorry?” I blink, not understanding.

“She is,” Holmes nods, giving Wiggins an extra two pence. “Keep an eye on my place, will you?” 

“Of course, Mr ‘Olmes!” the boy says excitedly. “Have a safe journey!” 

He waves us off and we walk away in a haste. Our train awaits, steam already rising from the engine. 

“I imagine your brother was not too pleased to hear about your trip,” Holmes comments as we approach the train. 

I turn to look at him in an attempt to get a better feel of his tone. Is he stating a fact or asking a question? Most of the time, I cannot tell. 

“You are correct,” I reply. “He threw a proper fit.” 

I recall the previous evening. Harry was screaming bloody murder downstairs as I got my luggage ready with Daisy’s help. 

“...and now she’s off to Scotland, with a stranger whom she’s only met once !” 

“Harry, please,” Clara tried to appease him, although I could tell by the tone of her voice that she, too, was at the end of her tether. “She is a grown woman.” 

“But she is unmarried! People will talk!” 

“Then let them!” Clara finally exploded. 

I sighed, folded a petticoat and stuffed it in the suitcase before heading downstairs. I wanted to placate them before the argument went too far. 

“People have always talked, Harry,” I cut in as I descended the last steps. “At first, because I didn’t drop out of school and pursued higher education. Then, because I volunteered to help in the war, and ‘war is for men’,” I marked the quote with my fingers. “And all the while, because I haven’t got married. Not everything in a woman’s life is about marriage, and you know that. Mother and Father taught us. They treated us equally.” 

Clara nodded at my statement and turned to Harry expectantly. 

“I know,” Harry exhaled, still looking exasperated, “but Jane, you’re my little sister. I promised Father I’d look after you, I swore—”

“I don’t need looking after,” I cut him off again, sharper this time. “I’m not a child, Harry. I think we’ve already established I can look after myself just fine.” 

“Besides,” Clara adds, calmer this time, “it’s her friend who’s gone missing. She needs to help her.”

But I knew Harry cared less about Elizabeth than he did for my honour. Or rather, his honour. People would know I was in Scotland, helping Holmes with the case. An unmarried young woman travelling alone with a man she barely knows, unchaperoned, to solve a mystery in the middle of the Highlands. Absolutely scandalous. 

Harry was more worried about how his acquaintances would take the news and how that would consequently impact his social standing. I could see it in the way he avoided my gaze, turning instead to stare at the fireplace. 

“I’m worried about you,” he muttered.

“But you’re more worried about yourself,” I snapped. Clara turned to me with wide eyes.

“Jane…”

Harry still would not face me. His eyes were locked on the burning flames. My chest felt tight and compressed against my corset. It hurt to breathe because it felt like I was going to burst, but I ignored the pain. As I always do. 

“It’s alright,” I said. “I won’t tarnish the family name.”

“For God’s sake, Jane—” Harry began, the anguish in his voice almost palpable. 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t mean that. I know your friends and colleagues will talk. I know Mr Morstan will talk,” I pushed on, my voice firm, “but I assure you I have no further interest in this case other than finding Elizabeth alive and well. It is my decision, nobody forced me, and if I have to travel to bloody New Zealand to find her, I will.” 

The silence that followed was so heavy that I can still feel it over my shoulders as we step into the carriage. This time, I accept Holmes’ offer to place my suitcase on the luggage rack above our heads. 

“There’s something I must tell you, Miss Watson, before we arrive in Peterhead and begin with the investigation.”

I look up. “And what is that?” 

Holmes takes off his top hat and places it neatly on the seat beside him. Then his eyes are on mine, unmoving. 

“I know you’ve been to war, so you must have witnessed a variety of disturbing situations,” he explains, “but I still must warn you—if Lady Ashford’s disappearance has been caused by someone, that person, or persons, will likely be after us once they know we are investigating. Our own lives may be at stake.” He pauses. “You do understand, don’t you?” 

“I am fully aware,” I nod. “It is not so different from the war.” 

“Were you ever targeted?” 

“No,” I respond, too quickly, judging by the way his left eyebrow raises. My shoulder protests. “I don't think so. But I did go out into the battlefield. To tend to the wounded.”

“Of course.” He nods, placing his joined palms in front of his slightly pursed lips. 

The train whistles again as the last few passengers hop onto the carriages, and then, with a sudden jolt, we are sliding out of the station. I shift my glance between Holmes, who looks lost in his thoughts, and the window to my right. Now that silence falls over us, I notice how incredibly loud the world is – the train clattering on the tracks, the engine, the chatter of people walking up and down the hallways, the wind whistling as we gain speed. My hands are sticky with sweat inside my gloves.

Holmes looks at them, glances to the door of the compartment and then back up at me. 

I wonder what he sees. 

“You seem to know more than you let on,” I say, making an effort to rest my back against the cushioned seat and appear as at ease as possible. I can tell it does not work. “Yet I know very little about you.” 

The corner of his mouth curls up in a half smile.

“Are you sure about that, Miss Watson?” 

“I would say I am.” 

“See, that is the problem with most people. They see, but they do not observe.” 

“Well then, what have I missed?” 

“You’ve been to my flat,” Holmes replies, opening one of his gloved hands. “You’ve seen most of what’s in it. I know you took in some of the details. Why don’t you give it a try?” 

“A try?” 

“Try and deduce something about me.” 

I blink, taken off guard. I have never attempted to deduce anything about a person. Mother and Father only taught me to deduce facts based on scientific observation of the experiments we carried out in their home laboratory. I was never asked to observe a human being; only animals, and most of them were already dead. The frogs we caught in the pond at the park made for very interesting anatomy lessons. 

What I have before me is something I have never studied before. A man, alive and kicking, breathing, watching me with anticipation from his seat opposite me. A man I barely know. A man who experiments on dead bodies with a riding crop, who collects skulls from the cemetery to keep on his mantelpiece. A man with expensive taste, judging by the fabrics he wears and the tobacco he smokes. Someone whose mind is as cluttered as his home, but manages to find clarity in the chaos of it all.  

However, I do not say any of this. I feel it would be impolite to do so. 

“I remember a violin,” I say after a moment’s hesitation. “It was near the fireplace, propped against a bookshelf.” I look down at his hands, and when Holmes notices, he does me the favour of removing his gloves. I lean forward and inspect his fingers from a closer perspective. “You’re a fine player,” I conclude, pointing at the calluses I expected to find right below the fingernails of his left hand. “And you do play quite often, it seems.”

“Helps me think,” he replies, then looks at me encouragingly. “Very good. Anything else?”

My thoughts dart back to the skull, but I shake my head. 

“I don’t know. You have expensive taste,” I clumsily add, gesturing towards his hat and coat. “I am guessing you grew up in a good family and received a polished education.” 

Holmes leans back, looking impressed. “You’re more observant than you look. But then again, you’ve barely scratched the surface, Miss Watson. May I?”

Well, at least he is asking for permission. I give him a nod, and he clears his throat. 

“You grew up in London, swaddled by the affection and care of your parents and older brother. Your Scottish mother, I assume, was of noble descent. A member of the aristocracy, perhaps.” The confusion must be showing in my face, because he hastily adds, “it shows in your manners, your vocabulary, even in the way you hold yourself. Which also tells me your father was in the military. You mentioned he was a Colonel, right?”

“Yes.”

“And a doctor.” I nod, transfixed. “A passion for science that he and his wife shared, and consequently passed on to you. You could not study Medicine, so you went to nursing school. Then war broke out and, I am guessing because your brother could not be recruited, you decided to volunteer.” 

“How—”

“Does your brother have any health conditions, Miss Watson? Anything that might have prevented him from enlisting?” 

I blink up at him. It briefly strikes me that I must look like a goldfish that has jumped out of its bowl. 

“He was diagnosed with a heart condition when he was eighteen. It doesn’t prevent him from going about his daily life, but great physical efforts could be dangerous,” I explain. 

“Right. Then we’ve got the matter at hand, Lady Ashford. Or should I say, Lizzie?” 

“You didn’t deduce that. You were there when Sir Richard and I discussed her.” 

“You are correct, Miss Watson. But then again, you only see. A great deal of things transpired from that exchange.” 

“Such as?” 

“You and Lady Elizabeth were childhood friends. She lives in Scotland with her family, so I guessed, since you and your family had a home in London, you only ever saw each other during the summer. So, grandparents. Your mother’s parents, more specifically.” He extends his palm, then traces an invisible straight line on it with his fingertip. “It is a pretty easy and straightforward path from here. Aristocratic families living in the same area tend to know each other for generations, so your mother’s family was most likely acquainted with Lady Elizabeth’s. You met each other when you were little, spent every summer together, and consequently grew to be very close. That is partly why you felt compelled to help me find her even after your repeated refusal.” I look up and meet his ice-blue gaze. It is so clear I can almost see myself in his eyes, like a mirror. 

I swallow. My brain screams at my body to lean back, but my limbs do not respond. I am rooted to the spot. 

“‘Partly’?” I murmur. 

“I know what war does to a man’s mind,” Holmes answers. “I’ve seen it. You have surely seen it too, at the hospital. But what amazes me the most, Miss Watson, is that however hard you try to deny it, you are not haunted by the battlefield.” He pauses, leaning a little bit closer to me until our faces are level. “You miss it.” 

“What—” 

Slowly, Holmes takes hold of my right hand and lifts it up between our faces. 

“You suffer from hand tremors. Doctors may have told you they are derived from the injury you sustained in the war, but they’re wrong. See?” I follow his gaze to my hand. It is as steady as a surgeon’s. “I am putting you under heavy pressure and emotional distress, and yet your hand remains firm. It is not the comfort of home that you long for. It’s the battlefield, the rush of emotion that overcomes you like a tidal wave.” He gently lets my hand go, and I pull it closer to my chest. “Your friendship with Lady Elizabeth is partly what brought you back to my flat. The other part is this – the danger, the risk, the adventure . Something you crave but cannot obtain in the self-repeating cycle of your life in London.”

Sunlight peeks out from behind a cloud, momentarily blinding me. I am glad by the loss of visual contact, and allow myself a moment to look away and take it all in. 

“That,” I pause, searching for the right word, “was brilliant.”

Holmes chuckles. 

“Second time you’ve said that in the past few days, Miss Watson.” 

“You can hardly blame me. I am speechless when surprised.”

He grins, and I find myself smiling back. It is a rather odd feeling, to be aware of the fact that the person sitting in front of you has just emotionally dissected you, like I used to do with the frogs, and not be as bothered by it as you thought you would be. 

“So,” I exhale, allowing some of my excitement to show in my voice, “how long until we get to Edinburgh?” 

Holmes loads his pipe with tobacco. “About eight hours, I’d say.”

I nod, then stand up to rummage through my suitcase. When I finally grab what I was looking for, I turn to him. 

“Do you mind if I document the case?” I ask, producing my diary from between the layers of clothes. “It may help with the investigation.” 

This time, it is Holmes who looks surprised. 

“Of course,” he concedes. “That is most reasonable.” 

I take my ink and pen and begin writing. The journey ahead of us is a long one and we probably will not reach Peterhead, our destination, until tomorrow, so I decide to occupy my mind with the facts. Holmes helps me assemble everything we know so far, but when I am done and silence returns, it is not uncomfortable. 

I lean back on my seat, and this time, it does not feel forced. 

Chapter Text

Peterhead, Scotland, May 1883

It has been two days since we left London. We are now in Peterhead, the easternmost point in mainland Scotland. It is as small and quaint as I remembered it – a little fishing village by the sea where everybody knows everybody. I went to bed last night with the lull of the waves crashing against the sand, and woke up this morning with the cries of seagulls hovering above the boats that returned to the harbour. 

I did not expect it to feel so unsettling.

My ears have grown so accustomed to London’s hubbub that the silence over here feels heavy and overwhelming. Thankfully, we are to ride up to the Ashford estate today to properly begin the investigation. I must admit I still have absolutely no idea of what is expected of me. All I can provide is documentation of the case, aside from what I can remember of Elizabeth and her family. 

Sighing, I put down my pen and rest my forehead on my hand. I feel tired due to the lack of sleep; I hope I will not mind the silence in the nights to come, or else I shall have to resort to the laudanum tonic I once nicked from the hospital’s cabinets. It is either that, or brandy, and I do not want to drink alcohol in front of Holmes. Or anyone else, for that matter.  

Yesterday, when we arrived in Peterhead, Holmes and I took a cab to the Crown Inn, one of the few accommodations in the village. The man at the counter gave us a strange look when we requested separate rooms, but was smart enough not to offer any further comments. After we got settled, we had a frugal meal of fish and boiled vegetables for dinner, followed by a cup of tea as we sat by the fire. Curiously enough, it was Holmes who first retired to his room for the night. 

“Shall we meet down here tomorrow at eight o’clock?” he said, turning to me. 

“Sounds good,” I nodded. 

Holmes opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it and gave me a polite smile. 

“Good-night, Miss Watson.” 

“Sleep well.” 

Upon glancing at my pocket watch, I notice it is now seven thirty. I turn to a blank page on my little journal and place the pen between the pages, my thoughts wandering back to Holmes’ brief moment of hesitation last night. What was he about to say? It has been one of the many things keeping me awake.

I barely spare my reflection a second glance when I look at myself in the mirror. Outside my window, the sun is nowhere to be seen. All there is is a gloomy sky, the thick morning fog rolling off the hills. As a child, I used to love this weather. Now, as I fasten a tartan cape around my neck, I have to stifle the chill that threatens to run down my spine. 

Holmes is not in the inn’s dining room when I arrive. In fact, the only people present are another man and woman quietly having breakfast at one of the tables. I turn to the innkeeper’s wife, who is wiping the counter near me. 

“Good day, miss,” I say, easily slipping back into my Scottish accent. “What is the breakfast menu?” 

“We sadly don’t have a menu, dear. It’s always baked beans, haggis, sausage, tattie scones, fried tomatoes and mushrooms with some toast. And tea, of course,” she explains, looking up at me with kind eyes. 

“Just tea for me, then, please.” 

“Are you sure?” someone asks behind me. 

I turn, startled, to find Holmes standing in his dark overcoat. His hair is impeccably slicked back and he is carrying a deerstalker hat in his left hand, a folded map in the other. 

“Holmes,” I blurt out, surprised.

“Good morning, Watson. Sorry if I sound intrusive, but experience says you need a full breakfast in order to keep your energy. I’m going to need your senses working their hardest today,” he explains. “Though, of course, it is ultimately up to you”

“Well, thanks for your concern, but I really have no stomach for such a breakfast,” I explain as we move to sit at last night’s table. “Anyway, I thought we were meeting at eight.” 

“I heard you walking down the stairs and I have been awake since two, so I thought it was pointless to delay. I am having tea, two sugars, please,” he nods to the innkeeper, who takes the order immediately. 

“Just tea?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “And you want me to be full of energy when you’ve been awake for most of the night? Holmes, I am sorry to say that doesn’t make any sense. You’ll fall ill.” 

“Nonsense. The case keeps me busy, and that’s enough,” he brushes me off with a shake of his head, then unfolds the map on the table. “This over here is the Ashford estate, is it not?” he asks, pointing at a certain area south of Peterhead, near the Bullers of Buchan. 

I nod. “Yes, exactly.” 

“Could you more or less point out the expanse of the grounds?”

“Sure, I can try.” 

I lean forward and do my best to pull the memories back up to the surface, marking with my fingertips the limits of the Ashfords’ land. I feel unsure at times, but there is one thing I remember for certain – the grounds to the east reach the cliffs. I recall the adults telling Lizzie and I not to go and play too close, lest the strong winds or the heavy fog make us lose our way. Or our footing. 

Holmes marks the limits I tell him with a pencil, making sure it is all as accurate as possible. We rise from our seats after finishing the tea, which sits heavy in my empty stomach. I start feeling uneasy again; I am suddenly aware of how much time I have spent away from this place and the memories it is bringing back. 

Pull yourself together, Jane, I think to myself, giving Holmes a small, stiff smile. If he notices my discomfort, he does not say and holds the door of the carriage open for me. 

The Highlands’ landscape is a mix of greens, browns, greys and whites. The more I look at it through the window, the more the colours seem to blur and blend into each other. It is haunting, yet beautiful. I catch Holmes smiling at it for the briefest time. 

“Ashford Park is up near the Bullers o’Buchan,” the driver yells at us from the front seat. “Apologies if the carriage rattles – the winds are strong today.” 

“It’s quite alright,” Holmes answers, his voice rising above the clatter. “Thank you for the warning.” 

A while later, and after nearly bumping my head against the roof of the carriage several times, the vehicle slowly draws to a stop. We hear the driver call out, then the sound of a gate sliding open. I press my face to the glass, but the place is shrouded in such a thick mist that I can barely make out the shape of the trees surrounding us.

The road changes from muddy dirt to gravel, something the horses seem grateful for. It surely must take less of an effort to pull a carriage when the ground beneath your feet does not sink underneath you. 

Holmes dons his hat as soon as the carriage stops. 

“Shall we, Miss Watson?”

I nod, letting him go first. I rearrange my skirts, my cape and my own hat in an attempt to look as decent as possible, then step out of the carriage. Holmes holds out his hand wordlessly. 

“Thank you,” I say, reaching out and taking it to descend the steps. Despite the biting cold and the wind, his hand feels warm to the touch. 

“My pleasure,” he replies, bowing his head. 

“Jane Watson?” a female voice calls from the front door. We both turn our heads towards it. 

Lady Helena Ashford, Elizabeth’s mother, is rushing down the steps with haste. She looks pale and dishevelled – her once raven black hair is now streaked with silver, the shadows under her eyes a deep dark purple.  

“Jane Heather Watson, is that truly you?” she calls again, louder this time. My heart lurches at the anguish in her voice. 

“Helena, please!” Sir Richard is behind her in an instant, grabbing her hand to slow her down. “Darling, wait–”

Lady Helena shakes her hand free and steps towards me. I feel like I am going to get struck in the face, so I brace myself. 

The slap never comes. 

A pair of arms wrap themselves around me in an embrace so tight it squeezes my shoulders together. I can feel Lady Helena’s fingers tangling in the fabric of my dress, squeezing and twisting it at the back. This is no loving hug – it is desperate, terrified. 

She buries her face in my shoulder and sobs. 

“Thank goodness you’re here,” she cries. It is only then that I notice she is wearing a nightgown, a thick robe and a pair of slippers. “My sweet girl, my Lizzie, she’s gone. You’re the only one who can find her.” She sniffles, pulling back to look me in the eyes. Her eyes are bloodshot, the pupils shrinking as they meet mine. “You’ve got to find her, Jane. You have to–” 

“Helena, dearest,” Sir Richard intervenes, taking her hands and slowly pulling them free from my shoulders. I can still feel her fingertips digging into my skin. “Please, let the girl breathe. She’s here to help, and so is Mr Holmes,” he continues, his voice calm. Holmes tips his hat politely.

“How do you do, madam?” 

But Lady Helena does not respond to the greeting. She keeps staring at me with a pleading look in her eyes. I take a step forward and gently take her hand in mine. 

“I shall do my best to find Lizzie, Lady Helena,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady. “I have vowed to find her, but Mr Holmes here is the one in charge. We all must do whatever we can to help him.” 

“Forgive her,” Sir Richard tells us, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing it over her forehead. Lady Helena protests, but then gives in. “All of this has taken a toll on her health. She’s been bedridden for the past few days, and only jumped out of bed with renewed energy when she learned of your arrival.” He sighs, then glances over at Holmes. “Times have been… challenging.” 

“I understand,” Holmes nods, “and as my companion just said, we will do whatever we can to find your daughter. First, however, we must take Lady Ashford back to her bedroom.” 

“Yes,” I agree, “she is getting cold. I can walk her.” 

“That would be most helpful.” Sir Richard gestures to the door, where a butler is standing. He disappears into the house and, almost immediately, two young maids come running towards us. They hold Lady Helena up by her arms, supporting her back, and start to lead her away. I immediately follow. 

“Jane, please join us in my study when you’re finished,” Sir Richard says. Holmes gives me a small nod. 

“I will make sure to,” I reply, then turn to walk behind lady Helena and the maids. 

The open door of the house betrays no secrets; everything within is dark. As soon as we enter, my mind is once again flooded with childhood memories. The grand staircase, the large sitting room with arched windows, the endless winding hallways leading to the library, the kitchens or the servants’ lodgings. I used to say this house was a maze one could easily get lost in, and it has never felt more true. 

We take Lady Helena up to her rooms, which are on the first floor. She is barely conscious by the time we lay her on the bed. I unclasp my cape, for the fire is roaring in the fireplace and sweat is already sliding down my back. I help the maids tuck her in and fluff her pillows, then take her pulse with my pocket watch. 

“Thank you, Miss Watson,” one of them says, curtsying. “You needn’t go through so much trouble for us.” 

“It’s alright. It is also my job to help people,” I tell her. “And Lady Ashford seems to have gone through a great deal of pain lately.”

“She has,” the other says. “Mrs Kane, the housekeeper, has moved temporarily to the bedroom right across this one, should the Lady need anything in the middle of the night. She often wakes up in a sweat, screaming for Lady Elizabeth.” 

I try not to let the pain show in my face as I look at Lady Helena’s sleeping form. 

“I suppose that's all we can do for now,” I murmur. “Look after her until she recovers.” 

“If you need anything, Miss, just call Mrs Kane or us. I’m Flora, and this is Elsie,” the younger girl tells me. 

“It's good to meet you both.” I nod politely. My gaze darts back to the door. “I think I ought to go back to Lord Ashford’s study. Would you be so kind as to accompany me? I’m afraid I’ll get lost if I’m left to wander the halls by myself.” 

Elsie gives Flora a nudge. 

“I shall escort you,” she promptly offers, a red curl escaping her bonnet as she walks to the door. “Please, follow me.” 

I notice her taking a couple of candlesticks from a cabinet we pass in the corridor. Surprise must show in my face, for she gives a soft chuckle. 

“The house becomes incredibly cold and dark even in the middle of the day,” she explains. “There are no oil lamps, so it is best to carry candles and a box of matches just in case.” 

“Oh, right. That makes sense.” 

She leads me down several hallways I cannot remember having passed before, but then again, I was more focused on Lady Ashford. There are endless rows of portraits and bookcases I want to stop and look at, but Flora’s steps are too quick. She leaves me before two mahogany doors at the end of a short hallway on the ground floor. 

“And here's the study. Do ring the bell if you need us,” she tells me before curtsying and disappearing behind the nearest corner. 

With her gone, the sounds of the wind howling outside seem to amplify. The wooden boards on the walls and floor keep creaking and I am left with a sense of cold and dread. I do not know why, but I suddenly feel like running out the door.

If only I knew where the door is.

When I raise my hand to knock, I see the shadows shifting out of the corner of my eye. My head turns sharply to the right, only to realise it was my own shadow projected against the wallpaper. I swallow around the lump in my throat.

As I step into the study, I am immediately comforted by the warmth of the fireplace and the voices of Holmes and Sir Richard. However, I cannot shake off the feeling that this is not the same house I remembered. The staff I used to know are all gone, but there is something else. Something I cannot quite put my finger on. 

I must know what it is.

Chapter Text

The study is bigger than Lady Helena’s bedchamber, is my first thought as I step through the doors. Both Sir Richard and Holmes, who had been sitting by the fire, rise to their feet upon noticing me. 

“Jane,” Sir Richard greets me, inviting me to join them with an open hand, “thank you for your help with my wife. She has not been doing so well lately.” 

“It is nothing,” I respond.

As I go to sit by one of the armchairs, I notice Sir Richard dismissing the butler at the door with a curt nod of his head. I glance at Holmes, relieved to see he has apparently noticed this as well. His eyes are slightly narrowed and fixed on the door as the young man disappears behind it. 

“I imagine, Lord Ashford, that what you are about to share with us is of utmost importance,” Holmes says while Sir Richard pours him a glass of brandy, “and secrecy.”

Sir Richard visibly tenses. 

“Well, Mr Holmes, it seems what they say about your prowess is true,” he concedes, turning to us. “I do have things to tell you, but the walls have ears and my daughter’s betrothed is due to arrive any moment now, so I thought it best to summon you and Miss Watson here first before anything else happens.”

“Your daughter’s betrothed?” I arch an eyebrow. “What about him? Do you suspect him?” 

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves, dear Watson,” Holmes intercedes, softly gesturing towards me with his left hand.

“I do not suspect him, my dear, but what I am about to tell you, I do not wish for anyone else to know. I must confess,” Sir Richard explains, “that there are secrets within these walls. Dark secrets. Ones I have struggled to keep buried for the sake of my family’s reputation.” 

My eyes widen and I inch forward in my seat, intrigued. Holmes clasps his hands in front of his mouth, pensive. 

“I suspect Elizabeth’s disappearance is not a mere coincidence,” Sir Richard continues, beads of sweat starting to form on his forehead. “There are those who wish to see our family ruined; who seek to exploit our vulnerabilities and tear us apart.

“It all began with a dispute over land, ages ago. A rival family, the Fergusons, has long coveted our estate and the wealth it holds. It has been centuries. They will stop at nothing to seize control and I am almost certain they will resort to deceit, or blackmail, or even violence, if necessary, to achieve their goals.”

I feel the silence hanging heavily over our shoulders. I have never heard of this family, the Fergusons – or have I? Many of my earliest memories have been wiped out or shattered in pieces. The war has turned my young years into a blur.  

“Have they always lived up here?” I ask. “Did my family know about them?” 

Sir Richard shakes his head, sighing.

“Only your mother’s side of the family did – they were the ones who lived here the longest, as you know. However, they always stayed out of everyone else’s business, and they never wanted anything to do with the Fergusons.”

“Even so,” I insist, “I struggle to comprehend how this feud could be related to Elizabeth.”

“Lord Ashford fears his daughter may have become ensnared in the Fergusons’ schemes,” Holmes chimes in, leaning forward on his seat. 

“I do,” Sir Richard admits, nodding. His eyes betray a deep anguish when he looks at us. “That is why I implore you to find her, to bring her back safely before it’s too late. And please,” he adds, leaning closer to grasp my hand, “let nothing of this conversation transpire. Nobody must know we suspect the Fergusons; not even my wife.” 

“Your secret is safe, Sir Richard,” I assure him, turning to Holmes for confirmation. 

“Indeed,” he agrees, “you can trust us completely. However, I do have a request, if I may.”

“Yes?”

“I need to know when and where Lady Elizabeth was last seen, so I can properly begin the investigation.” 

“She was last seen a week ago, on Tuesday the 5th of May,” Sir Richard answers without hesitation, “when she was retiring to her chamber to sleep.” 

“Do you mind if we take a look?” Holmes asks.

I am not too excited about going through Lizzie’s belongings with her gone, but I must admit it is the only thing we can do right now that can give us some answers. 

“I don’t,” Sir Richard finally nods, “but do be careful, please.”

He leads us up the stairs and into a long, darkened hallway to the east. There is a door at the very end, right opposite a large window overlooking the hills. As we approach, I can faintly hear the waves crashing below the cliffs. 

“I’ll wait outside,” Sir Richard tells us, placing a key on my palm. “I still cannot bear to go inside the room for long.” 

“We’ll be quick,” I promise. 

I slip the key into the lock and the door opens with a click, revealing a spacious bedroom with big windows. The curtains are drawn, obscuring most of our view, so Holmes crosses the room in two swift strides and pulls them open. 

“Has no one set foot in here since the disappearance?” he coughs, patting some dust off his cuffs. 

“It certainly seems so,” I murmur, glancing around.

There is a four-poster bed to the right, with twin nightstands flanking it. There is also a fireplace, a desk, a chair, a green velvet chaise-longue below the largest window, a tall wardrobe, a vanity and a few bookshelves full of books. I draw closer to the vanity and pick up the hairbrush – it has a few long, black hairs on it still. Placing it back, I take a quick look around the room. It is not the tidiest room I have ever seen, but it is also not in a complete state of disarray or abandon. It looks as if someone was just here but stepped out for a moment. Looking at all this, I feel like Elizabeth is going to step in through the door any second. 

Holmes approaches the bed and takes a look at the covers, humming to himself. 

“It is unmade, but it doesn’t look like she slept in it,” he says after a moment.

“How do you mean?”

“When we get up from the bed, we toss the bed sheets to the side in a certain way,” he explains, gesturing with his gloved hand. “She sleeps on the left side of the bed, so she must have naturally moved the covers to the right. These are pulled downwards.”

I move closer to see what he is pointing out. There is a window to the left side of the bed, but it is tightly locked, and even I cannot open it when I try to. 

“Really, Watson?” Holmes gives me a small smirk. “Escaping through the window is too easy of a conclusion.” 

I raise an eyebrow. 

“Even so, we shouldn’t rule it out so quickly.”

“Well, alright. If she did flee through the window, what could have made her do so?”

I turn to face the rest of the room, brow furrowing in concentration. There is nothing in this place that could potentially scare someone off to the point of jumping through a window, but I do spot something interesting. With a small gasp, I move to the desk and pick up the book that is on it. 

“ Jane Eyre ?” Holmes arches an eyebrow. “Surely, Mr Rochester is unsettling, but–”

“No, it’s not that,” I cut him off, smiling despite myself. “This is and has always been Elizabeth’s favourite novel. She has read it countless times. She used to fawn over it when we were young.” 

“So? It’s just fiction.”

I give him a sceptical look before opening the book. My suspicions prove to be true, so I smile triumphantly. 

“Never underestimate the power of a compelling story, Mr Holmes,” I say, turning the book over so that he can see Elizabeth’s tidy handwriting all over the pages. 

“She annotated it.” He draws closer, picking up the book to inspect it with his magnifying glass. “Almost every chapter.” 

“Indeed. And I’ve seen some passages have been underlined, too.” 

“This could be a good starting point,” Holmes concludes, looking at me. “Nice work, Watson.”

I try not to blush at the way he so easily praises me. 

“You too.” 

I hold his gaze for what feels like an eternity, then look away as I clear my throat. He hands me the book and I tuck it under my arm. 

“We should keep looking,” I mumble. 

“Yes, of course.” 

“You check the wardrobe, I do the desk drawers?”

I get a hum of agreement in response, so I get to work. There is nothing out of the ordinary in Lizzie’s desk – pens, ink, loose writing papers with addresses on them and a few spare wedding invitations. 

I close the last drawer, a sigh escaping my lips. I suddenly think of hidden compartments and switches, so I kneel down and begin to feel and pat my hands all over the hardwood table. 

Nothing. The wood is even and smooth all over; nothing stands out or feels different. Defeated, I turn to Holmes.

“Any luck?”

“Well, aside from the fact that Lady Elizabeth has decent taste in fashion, I can tell there's something missing from this wardrobe.”

“Something missing?” I move to my feet and approach him. 

“A nightgown.” He turns to me. “It is the only piece of clothing I haven’t been able to locate.” 

“So she was probably wearing it when she disappeared.”

The door opens and a gust of cold wind blows in, startling me. When we turn around, we see Sir Richard beckoning us from the doorway.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr Holmes, Jane; Mr Granville just arrived.” 

We leave the room hastily. Holmes locks the door while I tuck the book into one of my skirt pockets, and we follow Sir Richard down the stairs. As we approach, we notice the staff are already gathered in the foyer and the front doors are open. 

Outside, there is a carriage that could very well belong to a member of the royal family – large, clean and regal. Even the horses pulling it look elegant. As soon as it stops, a tall, slim, put together man steps out. His red hair is combed to one side and his pale face flanked by neatly defined sideburns. Curious hazel eyes roam over everyone’s faces, including ours, before landing on Sir Richard’s figure. 

“Lord Ashford,” he greets politely, offering a hand to shake as two footmen begin unloading suitcases off the carriage. “I am pleased to see you.”

“Mr Granville.” Sir Richard gives his hand a firm shake, all traces of insecurity or fear gone. “Welcome back to Ashford Park. I wish I could receive you in cheerier circumstances.” 

“Do not worry, I’m here to help wherever I can.”

They walk into the foyer, where Holmes and I are standing. Sir Richard clears his throat, gesturing towards us. 

“Then I hope you don’t mind having some assistance.”

Mr Granville looks up and notices us for the first time. 

“Allow me to introduce you to Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, and Miss Jane Watson, his assistant.”

“Colleague,” Mr Holmes cuts in with a polite smile before I can say anything. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Granville.” 

We all shake hands in greeting. His are soft but quite sweaty – he might not look it, but he is definitely nervous about this whole ordeal. 

“Likewise. I see Lord Ashford has finally agreed to get the police involved.” 

“Oh, no, not really.” Holmes clasps his hands together behind his back. “I do not work with the police.” 

“Oh?” 

“They do know about Elizabeth, though,” I reassure him in the best way I can. “Mr Holmes meant to say he is not a private detective. He is, as some would call it, a freelancer.”

“Well, I am indeed surprised,” Mr Granville attempts a smile, but it does not reach his eyes. “How is the investigation progressing? Have you been here long?”

“We only got here this morning,” I reply. 

“And we are still gathering information,” Holmes adds as we all walk into the adjacent sitting room. Outside the windows, the fog has not lifted yet and it is almost impossible to distinguish even the shape of the trees. The butler enters behind us and lights a few candles around the room, then returns to the door. 

“Would you care for some tea?” Sir Richard offers, to which all three of us nod. 

“Tea would be nice, thank you,” Mr Granville says as we move to sit around the room. 

Mr Holmes wordlessly pulls a chair out for me before finding a seat for himself, while Sir Richard and Mr Granville sit across from us on a comfortable-looking sofa. The butler gives a nod and disappears behind the door. 

“So, Mr Granville, how’s the business doing?” Holmes asks then, sounding genuinely interested. 

“Beg your pardon?”

“I understand you and your family own a company – Granville Limited, is that so?”

“Yes, that is right.”

“I merely wanted to inquire about it. Is it doing well in the market?” 

“Well,” Mr Granville sucks in a breath. “We cannot complain. We have been better, but luckily for us, there’s always going to be a need for textile products.” He looks over at me, nodding at my dress. “Miss Watson probably knows what I am talking about.” 

“Absolutely,” I lie.

“I am glad to hear that,” Holmes continues. “I do hope we can count on your assistance in this case, Mr Granville. Your testimony is crucial.” 

“Of course,” the man replies, sitting up straight, “anything I can do to help.”

I am sure Holmes has already noticed the dark circles under his eyes and his tired voice. Mr Arthur Granville is a young man, most likely no older than twenty-five or twenty-seven, yet he looks so… aged. Distress weighs visibly on his features. 

“We have heard the engagement is to be called off by the end of the month,” I explain carefully, “should Elizabeth not be found by then.”

Mr Granville’s jaw tenses.

“That was my mother's doing.” He huffs. “She has never been fond of Elizabeth and would do anything to stop the wedding from happening.” 

“But she is not really your mother, is she?” Holmes asks then.

Teacups and spoons are carefully deposited on the coffee table as Mr Granville looks up.

“How–?”

Holmes gestures to the ring around Mr Granville’s little finger.

“You are wearing your biological mother's wedding ring – it is far too small to fit around any of your other fingers, and far too thin to be a man’s ring. It also has the initials C.G. engraved on it, which tells me it certainly isn't yours.”

I sip my tea to hide the little smile that threatens to pull at my lips. Mr Granville blinks in disbelief, speechless, while Sir Richard smiles. 

“Mr Holmes is a talented man, you see.”

“Indeed he is,” Mr Granville nods. “You are right, Mr Holmes. My mother died when I was only eight years old. She gave me this ring a few days earlier – her name was Christine Granville.” Sighing, he looks around the room. “She was Scottish, too. Grew up around here, if I recall correctly.” 

“Did she?” I perk up. 

“Yes. I believe her maiden name was – pardon my bad memory,” he chuckles nervously, “Fairbairn? No, that’s not–”

“Ferguson?” I cut him off.

“Aha! That's right, Miss Watson.”

Holmes and I share a look. 

Chapter Text

The dread that falls over me like a bucket of ice cold water is difficult to conceal. I notice that Lord Ashford is having a hard time as well, judging by the pale hue of his face. Thankfully, Holmes steps in before the silence becomes too awkward. 

“Are you certain?” He asks Mr Granville. “That was her maiden name?”

“Why, yes, Mr Holmes. She was my mother.” 

My right hand cramps and I flex it behind my back. 

“Well,” Lord Ashford clears his throat, the colour returning to his face as he picks up his teacup to take a sip, “I didn’t know your mother hailed from Scotland as well, lad.”

“The topic never came up in conversation,” Mr Granville replies with a shrug. “I must say, Mr Holmes, you’ve got quite a keen eye. I thought I was being inconspicuous.”

“No one ever is,” Holmes says bluntly. “At least not to my eyes. There is only so much a person can hide before it all begins to seep out through the cracks.”

I cannot tell if he is being vague on purpose or if that is a veiled threat to any secrets Mr Granville might be keeping. Either way, Mr Granville only nods in admiration and keeps sipping his tea. 

After that, the conversation shifts back to Elizabeth and Lady Helena. Sir Richard does not discuss anything we do not already know, so I give Holmes a pointed look as soon as we finish our drinks. He takes the cue and moves to his feet. 

“I hope you can forgive us, Lord Ashford, Mr Granville; my colleague and I have business to attend to.” 

“We thank you for your time, Lord Ashford,” I add, shaking the man’s hand. “You have been incredibly kind.” 

“Anytime,” he says, clasping my hand in his and giving it a squeeze. He catches my eye, an unmistakable sadness darkening his gaze. “You’re both welcome in Ashford Park anytime you wish to visit.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Mr Granville tells us. “If there’s anything else we can help with, do let us know.”

“We shall,” Holmes nods. “It is likely that you’ll hear from us sooner than later. Please, give our well wishes to Lady Helena.”

Fog clings to my cheeks as we step outside the house, the gravel crunching beneath our feet. I had forgotten how long and how heavily it could stick around, even during the months leading up to the summer. My woollen cape does not feel warm enough. 

“They call it the haar,” I tell Holmes as the carriage slowly makes its way back to Peterhead. 

“Hm?”

“The heavy fog.” I sigh. “They used to warn us not to wander into it. Some said it could be so thick you couldn’t see a foot in front of you. You could step over a cliff side without realising.”

“Do you think that’s what happened to Elizabeth?”

His question catches me so off guard that I peel my gaze from the window to direct it back at him. 

“No, I don’t think so.” I pause. “Do you?”

“No. Had that been the case, her body would have been found by now.”

I try not to picture Elizabeth as a corpse. Her skin, pale and bluish, probably bruised after hitting the rocks. Deformed, even. Her beautiful eyes, unseeing and clouded by the water. Her lips, purple, sticking to her teeth. Her belly, swollen; her dark hair damp and sticking to her face.

“Yes,” I mumble, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “You’re probably right.”

Holmes adjusts in his seat. It is difficult to keep a comfortable sitting position, given the reduced space in the carriage and how hard it rattles down the muddy path. 

“I have to admit I’m interested in the Fergusons,” he says, pressing two of his fingertips against his mouth. “Especially now that we know Mr Granville’s biological mother was one of them.”

“My family never spoke of them,” I reply after a moment’s thought. If they did, I do not remember. “But with the feud Lord Ashford mentioned, there has to be some string we can pull at with them.”

“Exactly. There’s that,” Holmes concedes, then points at my pocket, “and then there’s Elizabeth’s novel. Jane Eyre .”

I pull it out and smooth a hand over the cover. “I can read through the marked passages, see if I can find a connection.”

Holmes nods. “Do that. And tomorrow morning, we are going to visit the Fergusons.”

I blink up at him. “What?”

“Do not fret, my dear Watson.” He gives my hand a gentle pat as the carriage draws to a stop. “I have a plan.” 

He steps out without elaborating and I scramble to follow, barely making it down the steps. Thankfully, he does lend me a hand. 

“What’s this plan of yours?” I ask as I rummage through my purse for some coins for the driver. 

But Holmes does not reply, and instead waits until we are inside the inn, seated by the fireplace. I am warming my palms, my eyes never leaving him. I swear if he doesn’t speak soon, I will make him. 

“First of all,” he begins, then gives me a pointed look, “do you trust me, Watson?”

“Trust is a broad term.”

“That’s an entirely different discussion. Tell me, do you?”

“We’ve known each other for less than a week.” 

“And yet,” he opens a palm in a sweeping gesture, “here you are.” 

“Here I am,” I concede, meeting his gaze. It then dawns on me how much of a stranger we are to one another. 

It is truly a scandalous situation, to be fair. If I’m being honest with myself, how many women do I know that have done something remotely similar to what I just did with Mr Holmes? I can think of nobody. Not even the boldest, most independent women I know or have heard of have ever stolen away with a bachelor at the drop of a hat. And I can count myself lucky that I have not been instantly fired from my job at the hospital. 

Holmes is watching me patiently, waiting for an answer. The light from the fireplace casts soft shadows over his features, which are, in turn, sharp as a blade. His ice-blue eyes watch my every movement and twitch. 

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment when I started finding him handsome. 

“Tell me about your family,” I request. 

He scowls. “My family?” 

“Yes. For me to trust you, I must know something about you,” I explain. “You know about my family, it’s only fair I know about yours.”

Something in his expression shifts, like a letter being sealed. I can tell he’s being guarded. Perhaps this is a sensitive topic, but I wait until he speaks.

“Well, if you must know,” he begins, “my parents are alive and well. I have a brother, too; Mycroft. He’s older than me.” 

“What does he do?”

His lip twitches into a half smile as he waves his hand dismissively. “He works for the government. I don’t really pay much attention; it sounds boring enough as it is.”

“Do you get along?” I ask again, the tension in my shoulders easing a little. Perhaps we can find some common ground in the fact that we both have older siblings. 

“The polite answer is ‘yes’,” he replies with a shrug. “However, I am sure you of all people would know the amount of truth hidden in that single word.”

I do. It is not a big amount. 

“Couldn’t imagine you as a bickering child,” I reply with a small smile. 

“I wasn’t. That’s why I’ve become a bickering adult.” He returns the smile. “Or so Mrs Hudson says.”

“What is your plan?” 

He draws a fingertip over his top lip, thoughtful, and my eyes inevitably follow the movement. 

“I was thinking we could go up to the Ferguson estate,” he murmurs, “under a guise of some sort, of course.”

I am taken aback by the sudden direction this is taking.

“Don’t you think we will draw suspicion? They must know about Elizabeth.”

“But they do not know about us ,” he counters, leaning towards me in a quick motion. I lean back a little. “They most likely don’t know who we are, or that we’re investigating the disappearance.”

I think of all the things that could go wrong if the Ashfords’ lifelong rivals find out that we are snooping around. I do not remember them having any kind of relationship to my own family, but after the war my memories are as unreliable as a broken clock. I could very well be wrong. 

“Even if we’re pretending, we need a very good reason to show up there unannounced,” I eventually say. 

“I shall take care of that, Watson. Give me until tomorrow morning.” 

“All right.” I nod. “I trust you.”

Holmes nods at me in a gesture of what I assume is gratitude. We then move to a table to have supper, but I find myself unable to stomach anything other than the warm soup we are served. I leave aside the vegetables and the buttered bread, my head already preoccupied with the book in my pocket and the evening of reading I have ahead of me. 

I am afraid of what I might find. I know it is but a simple novel, but I remember Lizzie being very fond of it. She could have left a note or a message, and I dread to think of its contents. 

I bid Holmes good night and retire to my room, not without noticing the concern in his gaze. As I move to walk past him, I feel a hand wrapping itself around my wrist. 

“Watson, are you quite all right?”

I look down to meet his eyes. My skin sizzles where it touches his hand, but I try to ignore it. My left shoulder begins to protest. 

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “Just not very hungry, is all.”

“You are in pain.”

He is not asking. 

“I promise you, I’m fine.” I give his hand a pointed look and he promptly releases me. “The pain comes and goes. It happens.”

I know that he doesn’t believe me, but thankfully he does not press the matter any further. Ten minutes later, I am holed up in my room like a wounded animal, removing all the pins keeping my hair in place and letting it fall down my back. 

Pain flares up again as I open my trunk, little sparks clouding my vision momentarily. I kneel down on the rug and grip the edge of the trunk for support, but my right hand is shaking violently and I can barely control it. 

“Hell,” I curse under my breath, glad that Harry is not here to reprimand me. 

After a bit of rummaging, I find the laudanum tonic. I notice the warnings claiming it is an extremely addictive substance and it must be used with caution, but I have administered this so many times that I could recite the label by heart. I unstopper the bottle and pour ten drops on my tongue, grimacing at the bitter taste. 

If only I had some brandy to wash it down with. 

I close the lid on the trunk, move to my feet and change into my nightgown. Clara gave me one of her woollen shawls for the trip, so I tug it around my shoulders before settling down with Jane Eyre on my lap and a lit candle on the desk. As the pain in my shoulder begins to fade, I flip through the pages in search of anything that might have gone unnoticed. 

Lizzie underlined the sentence “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will,” which I half expected, but the charcoal marks are especially strong under the words ‘free’ and ‘independent’. I carefully fold the corner of the page. 

It is only after an hour of going back and forth through the book that I manage to find something useful. The words “I am coming: wait for me” have been underlined, but there is something else on the edge of the page. The pencil strokes are so light that I have to grab the candle and draw it close to the paper to see what is written:

My heart is pierced by Cupid

I disdain all glittering gold

“There is nothing can console me, but my jolly sailor bold,” I whisper to myself, finishing the lyrics. 

It’s the sea shanty we used to sing when we were little. Sailors and fishermen abounded in the area, so they always had interesting stories and songs to share. I remember our mothers turning their noses up whenever Lizzie and I broke into singing because they knew we had been talking to the locals, but we didn’t care. There was something eerily beautiful about that tune; it would stay in my head for days. 

I shake my head and quickly open my notepad to scribble everything down. I also make notes of everything I can remember about the song and its meaning – a mermaid who falls in love with a sailor and wishes to be with him forever, even if that means dragging him down to the depths of the sea. 

Sleep does not find me. Instead, I am haunted by vivid dreams of troubled waters and an endless reiteration of that cursed shanty.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I am awoken by an insistent rapping on the door.

“Watson!” Holmes calls from outside. “Are you all right? If you don’t reply within the next ten seconds, I’m breaking the door down.”

I sit up so quickly that my head starts to spin.

“I’m all right!” I call out as I hold out a hand towards the door, as if he could see me through it. The other hand I press against my temple, where a headache has begun to stir. “Just—give me a moment.”

I hear him clearing his throat.

“You missed breakfast. I thought you’d maybe gone out for a walk, but the innkeeper told me you hadn’t left your room.”

My shoulder protests when I bend down to lace my boots. I remember the laudanum, the blinding pain. Perhaps I miscalculated the dosage. 

“I’m fine,” I reply, trying not to let the truth show in my voice. “I merely forgot to set a wake up call and slept in.” 

As soon as I’m presentable enough to open the door, I do so. Holmes is standing in the hallway, dressed in one of his suits, with a tartan cape draped over his shoulders. There is a deerstalker hat in his hand and a slightly unsettled expression on his face as he takes in my features. 

“Dilated pupils,” he murmurs under his breath. “Watson, have you taken anything?”

“Taken anything? No,” I reply. My right hand trembles, so I close my fingers into a fist. “I haven’t had a chance to break my fast yet.” 

“That’s not—” he pauses, “never mind.”

It’s a very poor attempt at diverting the conversation, but it seems to work, since he does not push the matter any further. I take the opportunity to fetch my cape and hat, then walk back over to my mirror, where I pin the hat to my hair as best I can. I dislike admitting this, but I do miss the help of a maid when my hair is unmanageable. Thank goodness I am apt enough at braiding it and pinning it around my head neatly. 

Later, when we're sitting at our usual table having tea, I produce my notepad and slide it over to Holmes.

“I was up last night, reading over some of the passages Elizabeth had underlined. I found something interesting.” 

He hums into his cup, reaching over and reading my notes on Jane Eyre and the shanty lyrics Lizzie had scribbled on the margin. 

“It's interesting, indeed,” Holmes concedes, looking up at me as he returns the notepad. “I’m curious as to what you make of it.”

I'm surprised.

“Well, I suppose it suggests the presence of someone else. A lover, perhaps. Someone she’s clearly fond of,” I say rather clumsily. 

“You think she stole away with a sailor?”

“Not when you put it like that, no.” I turn up my nose, which elicits a chuckle from my companion.

“I must say, I thought you were more adept at reading between the lines, Watson.” 

That is a jab at my ego, but I try not to let it show. I sip my tea, slightly amused by how entertaining I find this exchange despite the offence.

“Well, what do you make of it, then?” I ask.

“I do admit this indicates that she is actively hiding something. Whether that something is a secret, forbidden love affair, is still to be proved. It doesn’t have to be exactly like the lyrics, you know.” 

“But Holmes, this is a fishing village where sailors are a common sight. If she were to happen upon new people, it’s likely it would be a sailor, or someone related to the sea, at least.”

“Do you believe a lady of high status such as Elizabeth would usually mingle with the townsfolk?”

The question catches me off guard. I pause.

“I… don’t know,” I admit. “I—We haven’t kept in touch.”

Holmes watches me for a moment, humming to himself.

“Keep your notes, then. Don’t mention any of this to her father or fiancé. Perhaps there’s still more to unearth about the book.”

“Perhaps.” I nod, placing the teacup back on the saucer. “You did say you were devising a plan. Any developments?” 

At the question, Holmes visibly perks up. He reaches into his pocket and produces a cream envelope, then hands it to me. The paper feels thick and expensive. 

“I’ve been busy while you were still sleeping,” he explains. “Turns out, the Fergusons are having a soirée tomorrow evening in their estate. They’re inviting the most prominent families in the area.” 

“What are they celebrating?” 

“The engagement of their eldest son.” Holmes gestures for me to open the envelope, which I promptly do. 

“An invitation to the party,” I murmur, reading through it, “addressed to Mr and Mrs Campbell of Fraserburgh? Who are they?”

“That would be us, my dear Watson.”

I look up, eyes wide. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t look so alarmed. I told you we were going to the Fergusons estate under a guise of some sort, didn’t I? Well, here you have it.” 

My heart rate skyrockets. I grip the paper in my hand so tightly it crumples. 

“You could at least have told me you were planning to pose as a married couple!” 

Holmes pours me another cup of tea. “Would you have agreed had that been the case?” 

I take a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Probably not.” 

“Then you understand why I had to procure the invitation through my own means.” He gives me a small, self-sufficient smile. “Besides, we went over how we trusted each other, didn’t we? Last night.” 

“That we did.” I bite the inside of my cheek before reluctantly taking another sip of tea. “Tell me, though, Holmes – how on earth are we doing this?” 

I regret asking the question. A little over twenty-four hours later, I’m standing in the middle of a guest room in the Ashford estate, surrounded by maids that bustle in and out of the room, carrying several types of petticoats, corset covers, dresses and shoes. Since I didn’t bother bringing any evening dresses with me, Lord Ashford kindly agreed to let me borrow one of either Elizabeth or Helena’s. 

Elsie, whom I remember from the first day we visited, is tightening the corset at my back. I can tell I’m going to have trouble breathing, judging by how tightly she is pulling at the straps. 

“Could you maybe—ow,” I gasp, one hand coming up to my chest, “couldn’t you loosen it a little?”

“But Miss, the corset needs to be tight. Otherwise the dress won’t fit. Lady Elizabeth’s dress was tailored for her, and in order for your frame to fit in it, we need your waist to be smaller.” She hums, stepping back to look me up and down. “Much smaller.”

“Oh.” I sigh dejectedly, already feeling like I’m about to pass out. 

Elsie and the others help me into the petticoat, then bring in the dress. It’s actually quite a beautiful, delicate evening gown – cream-coloured silk with round skirt, trimmed with frills in the front and back. Above the frills there is a wide trim of delicate daisies, all embroidered together with green leaves interspersed. The bodice is plaited in the front, with a square neckline that is trimmed on the front and left shoulder with a wreath of daisies matching the ones on the skirt. 

The fact that my left shoulder is more covered than the right is something I am grateful for, but don’t mention. I cannot hide my scar from the maids, and I can tell they’ve noticed it, but thankfully, they’ve chosen to keep quiet. 

After they’re all done with my dress and my hair, intricately braided in the latest fashion, all three of them step back and take a good look at me. 

“You look like someone else entirely,” Flora says, to which she gets an elbow to the ribcage from Elsie. 

Beatrice, the other maid, reaches forward and delicately places a couple of daisies in my hair. I smile in appreciation. 

“I take that to mean I look beautiful, Flora?” I turn to the younger girl, who blushes and looks down at her feet, ashamed. 

“My apologies, Miss Jane.” 

“She didn’t mean that,” Else scowls. 

“It’s quite alright. I haven’t worn evening attire in, well,” I pause, realising I can’t even remember the last time I wore a formal gown, “a very long time.” 

I thought I had made my peace with the fact that most of my memories prior to the war were blurry or outright gone. Turns out it is starting to bother me. 

I shake my head slightly; now’s not the time to dwell on that. I slip my arms into the long, white silk gloves while Beatrice fastens a pearl necklace around my throat. I swallow as I look at my reflection in the mirror – it’s hard to tell who the elegant, fine woman looking at me is. 

“Are you ready yet, Jane?” Lord Ashford calls from outside, knocking delicately on the door. It’s a far cry from Holmes’ quick, impatient rap. “Mr Holmes is already waiting in the foyer.” 

“I’ll be down in a minute, Lord Richard.” 

“Perfect. I’ll get the carriage ready.” 

I steel myself before leaving the room. I hitch my skirts up a bit before descending the staircase towards the foyer, careful not to trip. Holmes is pacing up and down like a caged lion, seemingly deep in thought. He is wearing a tailcoat suit with a white necktie, standing collar curving open at the throat, and a white waistcoat underneath. His hair is slicked back with pomade and a pair of spectacles rests on his nose.  I try to hold back a chuckle at the thin moustache above his upper lip, to no avail. As soon as he hears my laugh, he turns around. 

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Holmes off-guard. He seems to be prepared for everything, always with the perfect response to any eventuality he’s already considered. Right now, though, he appears surprised. His blue eyes blink rapidly behind the glasses, his mouth opens and closes a couple of times, but no sound comes out. It only lasts for a split second, however. Then he’s back to his usual, composed self. 

“You look—the part,” he says, visibly struggling to find the proper words. 

I can’t help the smile that curves my lips.

“So do you. I do wonder, was the moustache truly necessary?”

“Absolutely.” He reaches up and smoothes his fingers over it, easily slipping into a thick Scottish accent as he speaks. “Aren’t you fond of it, dear Theodora?”

I bite my lip, trying not to giggle again. I must take this seriously. We’re going on an undercover mission to gather as much information we can on the Fergusons and any possible connections they may have had to Elizabeth. 

“Tone down the accent a bit; it doesn’t sound natural when you speak like that.” 

“Oh. Thank you, I shall.”

The door opens and Lord Ashford walks in. 

“The carriage is waiting,” he informs us. “My word, don’t you look dashing! And you, Jane – you look splendidly beautiful.” 

“Thank you, Lord Richard.”

Holmes offers me his arm, which I take before letting him guide me to the carriage. 

“Thank you for your help with the dress, Lord Ashford,” Holmes says before we depart. “We shall be in touch tomorrow.” 

“Do not mention it, good sir. Be safe.” 

We drive away and he waves us off with a sad smile on his lips. I sigh, toying with the little oval fan Beatrice gave me earlier. 

“It must have been difficult for him to see me in one of his daughter’s dresses,” I murmur. 

“Certainly. But that shouldn't be your main concern tonight,” Holmes replies. “Remember, we are to discreetly gather as much information as we can about Elizabeth and her disappearance, and whether the Fergusons have anything to do with it.”

“Discreetly,” I emphasise. “All while posing as husband and wife.” 

“Yes. We have been married for a little over a year. I inherited a fortune from my great uncle and we bought an estate up in Fraserburgh. You’re the young daughter of a landowner in Edinburgh, Lord Sinclair.”

“What if they ask about my family?” 

“Tell them they’re either deceased or living abroad. If you choose the latter, mention the Swiss Alps. I’ve noticed the British aristocracy is fond of them.” 

“Right.” I nod, making mental notes to remember every little detail. “And what were our names, again?” 

Holmes scowls at me. “Do pay attention, Watson. You’re Theodora and I’m Everett.”

I repeat the names to myself, trying to get used to how they feel on my tongue. Holmes is watching me as I do so.

“Have you done this a lot?” I inquire. 

“Done what?” 

“Gone undercover, pretending to be someone you’re not.” 

“Quite a few times, yes.” He glances out the window, but gives no further comment. 

“You seem to enjoy it.” 

“I do admit it’s… fun, sometimes.” He smiles. “I only do it when strictly necessary, though. You would be surprised at how easily people spill their secrets to a complete stranger.” 

A thought seems to occur to him, and he begins to rummage through his pockets. 

“Did you forget anything? The invitation?” I ask. 

“No, I’ve got that. It’s something even more important—ah, here it is.” Holmes produces a simple gold wedding band that he slips onto his ring finger. “I’ve got the matching one for you.” 

“Oh. Yes, of course.” I take off my left glove and hold out my hand. 

His hands are warm and soft as they carefully hold mine. It occurs to me that I could have simply put on the ring myself, but I quickly dismiss the thought. I do enjoy the delicate touch. It has been a while since someone even held my hand in such a tender way. 

Holmes slips the ring on and I realise how touch-starved I am. His thumb swipes across my knuckles, sending shivers down my spine. 

“Where did you get these?” I ask, unable to handle the heavy silence. 

“A pawn shop in Peterhead, yesterday morning. I was told their original owners are long dead.” 

He drops my hand, and I feel like I can breathe normally again. 

“We’re here,” the coachman announces as the carriage lurches to a stop. I put my glove back on.

“Ready, Watson?” Holmes says, holding his hand out.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I take it, and he helps me down the steps. Once we’re both out, he unclasps his cape and drapes it over my shoulders. 

“Come, darling.” His Scottish accent is back, and with it a lovely and kind demeanour I haven’t seen in him before. He does look every bit the devoted husband. 

I have to remind myself this is just a role we’re playing, we’re on a case, this is work, and we are colleagues. We barely know each other. He was beating up a corpse when I first met him, for goodness’ sake. 

But then, why does my heart flutter when he looks at me so lovingly? Even with those glasses and that ridiculous moustache, I still manage to find him endearing. It’s infuriating. 

The Fergusons’ estate is impressive – marble columns, wide, high windows and a huge French garden. The scent of fresh flowers permeates the air, and as I turn my head to smell it, I notice the carefully trimmed hedges of a maze. It all looks polished and well looked after. The Fergusons certainly look like they want to project a certain image to their guests. 

We are greeted at the door by a butler who takes a card from Holmes’ gloved hand. He ushers us in, announcing “Mr and Mrs Campbell, of Fraserburgh!”, to which some of the guests curiously turn their heads. I cannot see anyone I recognise, although that probably doesn’t help much. Holmes carefully retrieves his cape, takes off his hat and hands them to another butler. 

“Mr and Mrs Campbell! How good to meet you at last.” 

I do my best to put on a radiant smile as I turn to face the approaching woman – middle aged, slender, clad in a dark green silk gown with flounces of Indian embroidery. Her black gloves go up to her elbows, but her pale, freckled skin on her upper arms and shoulders is still visible. Thick, red curls hang loose from her updo as she approaches Holmes and I. 

“Lady Ferguson,” Holmes greets her, bringing her hand up to his lips. “Everett Campbell. A pleasure to meet you.” 

I look to him for cues, slightly nervous, when Lady Ferguson turns to me. 

“Likewise. And this must be your lovely wife,” she says, holding her hand out.

“Indeed. Lady Ferguson, allow me to introduce you to my wife, Theodora. Darling, this is Lady Amelia Ferguson.” 

“A pleasure,” I nod, shaking her hand. “You’ve got a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. You yourselves are an adorable couple, might I say. I must admit, when I checked the guest list, I had very little idea as to who you were. My son Cecil was in charge of the invitations, and as you can see, he did not spare a single one.” She gestures around us, where more and more guests are milling about, chatting to each other with drinks in hand. “It is difficult for me to remember all the names.”

“We do understand,” Holmes says, charming as ever, as he links his arm with mine again. “We recently took up residence here, so it’s completely normal to not be recognised. It is our first official appearance after all, isn’t it?” he adds, turning to me, to which I nod. 

“It is, indeed.” 

Lady Ferguson seems pleased with our answers, but I can tell she’s already distracted by the guests that have been filing in through the door. 

“Well, I do hope you have a nice time. Please, help yourselves to the punch if you can. It’s delicious,” she tells us, giving my arm a friendly squeeze. “I’ve got to greet the rest of the guests. Do enjoy your evening.” 

“Thank you, my Lady.” Holmes bows his head as she walks past us, greeting an elderly couple with renowned interest. 

“I don’t envy her,” I whisper once she’s out of earshot. “Hosting such big soirées must be exhausting.” 

“Such is the burden of married women,” Holmes comments nonchalantly, guiding me further into the house. “Would you like a drink while we eavesdrop?” 

I grin. “Won’t that cloud my senses?” 

“We’ve got to mingle. One glass won’t hurt.” 

I absently fan myself, inwardly cursing the pressure of the corset against my ribs, while Holmes fetches us the drinks. I can taste the strong gin as soon as I bring the glass to my lips. 

“Well, someone went overboard with the alcohol.” 

“Try not to look like you’re choking, dearest.” 

I decide I will never get used to hearing such endearments from Holmes. My heart leaps every single time. It’s becoming embarrassing. 

“I do try. What do we do now?” 

“Eavesdrop on conversations, if you can. Ideally, exploring other areas of the house would be good, but it’s risky. All the ways leading upstairs are either blocked or watched,” he explains, lowering his voice to the point where I can barely hear him. 

“You’ve already noticed all that?” 

He smirks. “I’m wounded. I thought you said I was brilliant.”

I feel heat rise up to my cheeks. Holmes must have noticed as well, for his smile widens ever so slightly. 

“Let’s mingle, speak to the other guests. Follow the story we gave Lady Ferguson,” he instructs. I panic a little at the thought of being by myself in a big house full of people, but I tell myself I’ve been in much worse situations. 

“All right. Let’s meet back in the ballroom in thirty minutes.” 

“Good luck,” he says, kissing the back of my hand. 

“You too.” 

In the span of the next twenty minutes, I speak to more people than I think I’ve spoken to in the last five years. I barely remember a name when I’m suddenly introduced to someone else, their hands shaking mine and their voices complimenting my dress. None of them have much to offer in terms of interesting conversation; all the ladies seem to be interested only in fashion and leisure. They do perk up at the mention of the Swiss Alps. How interesting. 

At some point, I notice a handsome young man watching me from across the room. He is strikingly beautiful, with features pale and smooth like a chiselled Greek sculpture. His copper hair is neatly combed to one side in the latest fashion. When I first notice him, he is speaking to an older gentleman, but our eyes meet for the briefest of times. He immediately excuses himself and shakes the man’s hand, his biceps tightening underneath his jacket. 

Good God, he is coming towards me. There is an intent in his dark green eyes I cannot quite place, and I feel I am equally excited and terrified. 

“Good evening,” he greets in a sweet voice, reaching for my hand. “Please forgive my forwardness, my lady, but I noticed you from across the room and I knew I had to introduce myself. Cecil Ferguson, at your service.” 

Lady Amelia’s son. I swallow around my dry throat as he kisses the back of my hand, offering the loveliest smile. 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, good sir. Theodora Campbell.” 

“Ah, Mrs Campbell. I was wanting to put a face to that name.” He smiles. “From Fraserburgh, isn’t it?” 

“Indeed,” I nod. “We’ve only recently moved up there, though.”

“Oh? Where from?” 

“Edinburgh.” I smile, then decide it’s time to turn the conversation around. “Please excuse my obliviousness, but are you the son whose engagement we’re celebrating tonight?” 

“Engagement? Oh, no.” Cecil chuckles, shaking his head. He grabs a glass of punch from a nearby table and offers it to me. When I politely refuse it, he takes a sip. “That would be my brother, Kenneth.”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry. I’ll have to go and congratulate him at some point.” 

“Please, do so. He needs all the encouragement he can get.” 

I tilt my head to one side, curious. “How so?” 

Cecil turns to look at me, his smile fading in lieu of a slightly graver expression. 

“People of our, let’s say, status, hardly marries for love, Mrs Campbell. I’m sure you understand what I mean.” 

I blink a couple of times, clearing my throat. “I do.” 

“He is to marry a young heiress from the south. I can’t even recall her name, but my father was determined to make it happen,” he explains, his voice returning to its previous light tone. “She is decent-looking and young. I don’t know why he keeps moping about.” 

“Does he? Mope, I mean,” I inquire. 

“Oh, yes. Infuriatingly often.” He puts aside the empty glass and focuses all his attention on me. “But enough about my brother. I’d like to know more about you, Mrs Campbell.” 

Music starts playing, a lively waltz I barely recognise. Cecil holds out his palm towards me. There’s a hint of mischief in his eyes I cannot quite place.

“May I have this dance, my lady?” 

I’m not a lady , I want to say. I feel like a cornered animal.

I slide my hand into his. Perhaps he can tell me something about Elizabeth. 

“You may.”