Chapter Ten: “Whisper of the Garden”

14th May, 1889


It was a fittingly bright and cheery Tuesday early afternoon in mid May when a smiling Dr. John Watson stepped out of the hansom cab newly arrived at 221b Baker Street. Although perhaps it was more fitting to say that he bounded from the carriage with all the expected glee of a ten year old who had just found that he had been given the pet he had always asked for. He was nearly at the door before he suddenly skidded to a halt, and with many effusive apologies, turned back to pay the bemused driver before swiftly moving back to his intended destination, his bag swinging jauntily in his hand as he rang the doorbell.

After a few moments, as ever, Mrs. Hudson appeared to open the door, her face breaking immediately into a smile that reflected the beaming face awaiting her on the doorstep. "Good afternoon, Doctor! You're looking remarkably chipper today!"

"And a good afternoon to you, Mrs. Hudson! Isn’t it a glorious afternoon?" he replied, as she stepped back to allow him inside. "Is Holmes at home?"

"Just finishing lunch, Doctor," she answered with a nod. "Or what passes for lunch with him," she huffed slightly.

"Splendid!" he exclaimed, already heading up the stairs after hanging his bowler hat on the peg by the door. "I'll just head on up then."

"Come in, Watson," Holmes called loudly prior to the door opening, not looking up from his perusal of the last of his morning papers, while in one hand a half eaten sandwich seemed permanently poised midway between his plate and his mouth. "You're early...and from the sound of it, just as enthused as I expected."

Opening the door, entering, and placing his bag down on the side table by the door, Watson strode over to his friend, pulling out a large thick card from his inside jacket pocket. "Indeed I am! I, and Mary too of course, have just been invited to the Prince of Wales’s Charity Rose Ball! I cannot wait to tell Mary...she'll be utterly over the moon, old man!"

Holmes’s eyes not did not move so much as an inch from the paper he was reading, his manner completely unsurprised. "The Kew Gardens affair on the thirty-first. Yes. I had heard there was a scramble for invitations even amongst the more prominent nobility." He absently pointed at his desk with the finger of the hand holding the half eaten sandwich. "My invitation arrived courtesy of Mr. Martin Yeates this morning, and he informed me yours was delivered by courier to your practice. He asked me to convey his thanks to you once more, and hopes this might in some small way convey that gratitude. Apparently one of his uncles, a Sir Ralph Yeates-Lavelle, joined the Prince's staff," he informed him, sounding markedly underwhelmed. “He felt invitations to this exclusive event were the least he could do for our help over that Lucifer's Playground matter...personally I was rather more concerned with his keeping our bargain on his restitution for past deeds." He turned the page of his paper slowly. "Which I’m pleased to say he's doing admirably."

"What a kind gesture!" Watson wholeheartedly acknowledged, not entirely shocked that his friend was not the least bit enthusiastic about the event. "And that is wonderful to hear," he added, continuing to beam at the detective as he took his seat across from him.

His friend nodded. "Yes, it is encouraging...his reparations and repentance for his life of gentlemanly burglary continues apace, and he informs me that our wronged Mr. Pearson and his young widow have been happily married, and are comfortably settled thanks to the 'dowry' he gave them." There was a note of great satisfaction in his voice as he relayed the news, the index finger of his other hand tracing the page of the Daily Telegraph, his eyes following along. "As for the Rose Ball, and His Highness's invitation, I'm sure you and Mary will have a fine time."

Watson stared at him for a full minute. "You are not coming?" he breathed, unsure if he had heard correctly.

"A sharp deduction, Watson," Holmes responded with the slightest of smiles, before glancing up from the paper. "I am not," he confirmed stoutly.

"But why?" the doctor gaped. "This is the Rose Ball! The newspapers have been full of nothing else for months! Invitations are rarer then hen’s teeth! You must go! Oh dear fellow...you really should think about this..."

"I have thought about it, Watson...I gave it, oh...at least a full five seconds of my time before I disregarded it entirely," he cut in, and at last placed the hovering sandwich back down on the plate. "Prince of Wales or not, Charity Rose Ball or not, you know my feelings on these overblown social events."

"Yes...but...still, it’s for charity, and from reports, it promises to be a once in a lifetime event! The preparations alone are causing…" The older man paused, his brow creased as he remembered something. "What about Miss Thurlow, Holmes? Did she receive an invitation?"

"Mr. Yeates made no indication of it," Holmes replied, pouring himself another cup of tea. "He distinctly said the number of invitations he received from his uncle, quite apart from his own, of course, were two in number - one for yourself and Mary, and one for myself and a guest." He set about adding milk and sugar to his beverage.

The other man's eyes widened. "Well, that won't do! She was a great help to you in the investigation, and not inviting her...well...it just isn't cricket."

Holmes raised an eyebrow at his friend’s vehemence over the teacup that was now raised to his lips. Lowering it somewhat, he gazed at him with tolerant amusement. "I'm sure Mr. Yeates meant no disrespect to the excellent Miss Thurlow. He is most probably unaware of her being instrumental in our being called in on the case...and the subsequent part she played alongside ourselves." He moved the teapot towards the doctor. “Please, help yourself, Watson.”

Nodding his thanks, his friend’s face was marked with a frown of concern as he rose to his feet. "Well, there’s nothing for it,” he subsequently concluded with determination, retrieving a second cup and pouring himself some tea. “She simply must go. It is only right and fair. Even more so as she is now out of full mourning, which will make matters easier."

"You are assuming, of course, that she wishes to go, Watson. As it stands, I would gladly forward the invitation to her, but it is clearly made out to myself, and I have sincere doubts that Miss Thurlow could pass for me, even in the worst of light," the detective pointed out with a smile.

Watson froze in mid stir, a light suddenly appearing in his eyes as an idea presented itself, and as his head rose the smile forming on his lips was plain to see.

Holmes caught it immediately, and lowered his cup to its saucer. "Watson, whatever it is that has come into that misguided mind of yours, dispense with it directly. Your obvious manipulations last month with regards to Miss Thurlow and myself were quite discomforting enough. Do not compound your error any further with more unsubtle and futile matchmaking. You know my thoughts on social events...you know even better my thoughts on women and romance!"

Reddening slightly at the reminder of the exceptionally stern lecture he had received from his friend in the aftermath of Mary and his own attempted matchmaking in the form of a concert engagement, the doctor shook his head quickly. "No, no, old man! Perish the thought! No, I have merely found a way that Miss Thurlow can attend the Ball,” he assured the suspicious consulting detective. “I obviously cannot escort her, as I will be escorting Mary, but you could...as a friend only, of course! You have a guest space upon your invitation…and after all, it is only right that she receive thanks and the reward for a job well done as well. And since she will not be able to participate fully in the festivities...you will not even have to dance with her!"

Still watching him warily, Holmes weighed Watson's words carefully, eventually having to confess to himself, albeit grudgingly, that they held at least a modicum of merit. "She does deserve the thanks of Mr. Yeates as much as we do...of that there can be no doubt," he admitted, his brow creasing a little, as his long fingers began to thrum on the desk. “And it’s true that while her escort, I should not be obliged to dance with her due to her remaining in half mourning. Still…" he added, “Miss Thurlow will not be the only woman in the place, and all of them will be highly disposed towards a waltz, a gavotte, or a polka!”

His face reflected more than a measure of distaste at the idea of having to submit himself to such a possibility, but gradually became a veritable picture of dramatically resigned self sacrifice as he resolved that he would simply have to venture into the proverbial lion’s den for the sake of a friend and what was the ‘right thing to do.’

A moment later, however, his eyes narrowed again at his colleague. "Watson, if I do accept to go and to invite Miss Thurlow, I shall require a serious undertaking from both you and your lady wife to refrain from indulging the nuptial haze you are currently wallowing in with any further attempts at fostering romantic feeling where none exists." He picked up his teacup once more. "There is nothing but friendly feeling for Miss Thurlow on my part...and on hers also. Do I have your word on your own and Mary's behalf?"

The doctor nodded quickly in reply. "Of course! Of course! No matchmaking, I promise. And I am sure Miss Thurlow will be pleased to see you. After all, she commented to Mary last week that she enjoys your conversations...from a purely intellectual perspective, of course,” he added hurriedly, determined to avoid another prolonged lecture. “I am sure you will both entertain yourselves accordingly."

Holmes gauged his friend's reaction carefully, before releasing the long suffering sigh that had been threatening to emerge ever since he realised that he had been caught up in Yeates's obligation to their friend. "Very well..." he agreed, shaking his head, as if facing the most arduous of chores in the attendance of this ball, "I will send her a telegram informing her of the invitation and asking to see if she would care to accompany me."

"Excellent!" came the exuberant exclamation of his friend. "Now! What can I aid you with today?"

Putting aside his disgruntlement, Holmes brightened significantly at the prospect of work. Picking up the pages of the Telegraph, he leaned forward, handing them to the doctor, a veritable gleam in his eye as he pointed to a story of a break in to a foundry on page three. “Tell me now, Watson, what do you make of that?”




31st May, 1889

In the distance, the bells of St. Mary le Strand had long since struck seven, the clock now nearing seven-thirty as the hired brougham trundled down en route from Charing Cross towards the Strand, Temple, and the Embankment of the Thames with its lone passenger seated inside, resplendent in a dove grey gown of silk and ribbons that perfectly matched her wide and currently anxiety-filled eyes. Reaching a gloved hand up to her hair, Helen nervously fiddled with the long spiralled curls that hung loose down her back, though most of her hair was caught up in loose twists.

She still could not believe she was en route to the Rose Ball, and was still rather stunned that it was Mr. Holmes of all people who asked her to accompany him. He had stated his reasons plainly enough, and she was immensely flattered and gratified that he wished to include her in the 'spoils' of the Lucifer Hunt case as it were. However, even though he had clearly underlined the ‘practicality’ of the evening by suggesting they meet rather than his collecting her, the receipt of his invitation and the idea of spending an evening with him in such grand and beautiful surrounds had made her stomach jump and her heart race in so worrying a way that she knew it could cause nothing but trouble, most especially for her.

Having turned down from South Street onto Strand and gazing out at Strand Palace as they approached, she was both eagerly awaiting and dreading the evening ahead. On the positive side, it was tremendously exciting to be part of something so unique and spectacular...and the chance of meeting the Prince of Wales was to be a stunning high point. It was hard to fathom how far she had come in so short a time, from struggling seamstress living in near squalor in a run down two roomed flat in Camden to this. However, her excitement was tempered by these affectionate feelings for her friend, rescuer, and escort, feelings that she was now forced to admit had been growing slowly for months and which had only been exacerbated by their concert engagement a month previous, and that, try as she might, would not leave her in peace.

The harder she denied them, the stronger they returned. There wasn’t a day that had passed since Sharapov’s concert that her mind hadn’t turned to him, wondering where he was and what it was he was doing. It had disappointed her terribly that Dr. Watson, in the aftermath of that concert and for some hasty reason, had switched her subsequent appointments with him to his practice. She had understood that it was indeed more practical given his new marital circumstances, though she feared the truth of it had much more to do with the talk that Mr. Holmes had informed her he would be having with his medical friend.

She could well imagine what had been said - the most strenuous of reproaches to the good doctor, and a stern dressing down for daring to attempt to suggest in a roundabout fashion that Holmes might do well to think on her in a romantic fashion. Dwelling on such thoughts and the words that passed from the imagined Mr. Holmes’s lips in denial of that fact proved to be more distressing than she cared for.

In any event, for whatever reason, the good doctor had changed the venue, and the outcome of which was that it deprived her of the legitimate opportunity to interact with Holmes, which in turn had only increased her thoughts of him. So much so that now, she was terrified that she would do or say something to the recipient of her tender musings on meeting him again, or that would turn her into one of those gushing female aficionados that made him cringe and set him to flight, thereby threatening their carefully constructed friendship. A friendship that she would not see harmed for all the world.

A moment later, she was jarred out of her thoughts as the carriage came to a halt beside a barrier on the turn down to Lancaster Place and Waterloo Bridge, which in turn would lead them to Victoria Embankment and her embarkation point. This sentry post was manned by a group of very business-like policemen, who upon finding her name upon a list politely wished her a good evening before allowing her to continue on both in journey and in thoughts.

Forcing her mind away from Holmes, she concentrated again on the reality facing her and the benefits of the night, so that by the time the carriage pulled up behind a stream of others moving along the tree lined embankment towards Cleopatra’s Needle, the two bronze sphinxes, and the massively long and plush red carpet which had been laid beyond them, she was again sufficiently excited for the night to begin, and determined to put only friendship on the evening’s agenda.

As she alit from the carriage and joined the throng of equally anticipatory guests on the walk along the scarlet runner, they were watched from some distance from behind more barriers at either end of the Embankment at Northumberland Avenue and Temple by what appeared to be half of London. Walking with the other invitees towards the stewards, she watched as they directed their eminent passengers to one or other of the brightly illuminated river boats that stood awaiting them at Charing Cross Pier in the gradually gathering dusk.

Both boats were festooned with literally hundreds of small, ornate pagoda style lanterns especially made for the occasion, which were lit and draped from stem to stern, and strung in lines from stack to prow. Soft renditions of Handel’s Water Music emanated from the string quartets on each, as the vessels stood ready and waiting for the elegant and smooth champagne cruise up the Thames towards Richmond and Kew Gardens.

Beyond the stewards, on the bank near one of the carpeted gangways, Holmes withdrew his gaze from the watching crowd towards the Tower Bridge side of the Embankment, and turned back towards Watson and Mary. Both men were pristine in their dress suits, the fine, warm, late May evening making the overcoats and hats they had draped over their arms redundant for the moment. Clad in a beautiful blue satin off the shoulder gown, her hair in blonde ringlets, Mary listened with apparent nervousness to her husband’s soft words, as he pointed out certain luminaries and nobility approaching along the carpet as they waited.

Holmes’s eyes drifted back over the line, his height giving him an advantage, and raised his chin on spotting whom they were waiting for. "Ah..." he said, "here is Miss Thurlow now." His head cocked slightly on taking in her gown. "I must confess it is something of a relief to see her out of the black of mourning."

Following the detective's gaze, Mary's blue eyes widened, not having seen her friend since she had officially come out of full mourning a week previous. "Oh my, John...she looks stunning!" she breathed. "Indeed...colour suits her much better, Sherlock...though she looks more than a little nervous."

Watson nodded in agreement. "You're quite right, my dear…on both counts." His eyes twinkled, as he smiled at her. "The two of you make quite the matching pair in that regard....on both counts."

Mary gave her husband a shy smile. "Well, it is not every day one meets the heir to the throne, my dearest."

"Quite true," he admitted. "Quite true...and it is not every day he gets to meet someone as charming as you. I'll have to watch my step...and his," he harrumphed jokingly.

She chuckled softly, and squeezed his arm. "On that count, you never have to fear."

Holmes stifled a sigh at the couple’s to and fro, having been in its presence since he had arrived in the carriage to collect them from their home. "I believe,” he cut in, formulating his temporary escape, “I will escort Miss Thurlow the rest of the way to expedite her passage past the stewards." Giving Mary a quick bow and handing Watson his coat and hat, he turned on his heel, and moved down the carpet in singular opposition to the noble traffic towards his quarry.

Helen, for her part, had slowly been making her way down the carpet in an attempt to use the time to bolster her resolve; however, as she turned her head to see how close she was to the boats, she caught sight of her approaching escort as he strode with a calm and consummately self possessed air down the walkway to her in the late evening sunshine, her breath hitching at how his perfectly his suit was tailored to his long, lean frame.

"Miss Thurlow," he greeted her, stopping by her side and bowing before offering her his hand. "Good evening."

Swallowing lightly, and hoping with her entire being that he would take any stumbling as nervousness to the surroundings, she forced herself to take his hand. "Good evening," she replied, praying her voice was at least level. "It is good to see you once more, Mr. Holmes."

"A pleasure as always," he returned smoothly, bending over her gloved hand and lightly kissing it.

Inwardly cursing the odd flush that shot through her, she managed to give him a friendly smile as he straightened. "And how have you been? I believe the last time I saw you was at the concert," she opined, marvelling that she was able to sound so casual about it.

"I have been passably well, thank you. Busy thankfully…an innocuous theft of steel at an iron foundry that turned out to have more far reaching implications for state security…most interesting, I shall have to tell you of it some time," he replied, offering her his arm. "Though we have yet to continue our discussions from the concert, our last time together as you say." He peered down the slow moving line before drawing her out of it. "A shame, as it was quite enjoyable."

"Only passably well?" she enquired teasingly, a small smile on her lips at his alert manner and his admission that he was keen on further conversation with her. "Yes, I must admit I too found it regrettable that we could not talk more,” she understated in the most profound of manners. “Tell me, how fare your articles? Have you managed to complete them?"

Looking eminently pleased at her inquiry and continued interest in the subject, he smiled contentedly. "Indeed, I have. I finished them just days after that. Since then, both have been submitted to and straight away accepted by varying distinguished journals."

He paused for just a moment, and then without any warning whatsoever, took her with him as he walked briskly along the edge of the carpet, straight past the line of now queuing guests towards the stewards, stopping only to say, "Miss Helen Thurlow, she is on my invitation," to the Chief Steward. The unfortunate man could only look after them in the most startled fashion, as he was brushed past and left frantically to search his list for the name, while the other stewards dealt with the huffs of indignation from the other guests. Holmes, oblivious to them all, led Helen straight to Watson and Mary.

Flashing an apologetic smile back at the frazzled steward, Helen hurried along side of him as best she could, one of his strides equalling nearly two of her steps, and she was more than a little relieved, if slightly winded, when they reached their friends.

"Good evening, Doctor...Mary," she greeted them with a smile, as they watched their approach with an odd mixture of mild mortification and resigned amusement at Holmes’s impatient nature.

“Good evening, Miss Thurlow.” Watson took her hand as she moved it from Holmes’s arm in greeting and bowed over it. “You look perfectly charming this evening. Holmes and I are fortunate men indeed in the attractiveness of our companions.”

Helen gave him a warm, shy smile in return. "Thank you, Doctor, you are too kind as always...though indeed Mary, you look quite amazing this evening!"

The blond woman smiled, and took a step to give her friend a quick hug, as her husband moved aside. "Thank you, Helen...but it is you that looks wondrous. That dress most certainly suits your eyes. And your hair is quite delightful!"

Holmes's attention drifted quickly as the exchange of feminine pleasantries went on, his own eyes moving from the arriving guests to fix once again on the crowd nearest the Westminster end of the Embankment. "The police are far too lax in their duties," he commented in contrast to the discussion of dresses and hair.

Helen blinked, and turned to follow his gaze. "What makes you say that, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired.

"I number amongst our fellow guests this evening, at least three Members of Parliament, who would be and in fact are excellent targets for political assassination...and two Foreign Dignitaries whose unpopularity in some of our more extreme domestic groupings would see them equally prime for such treatment. Those people are far too close...one well aimed shot with a long barrelled hand gun or rifle, and we could have an international incident and not a glorified garden party."

Watson gazed at the distant crowd. "Really, Holmes...that suspicious mind of yours. The chances of that happening are..."

"Far higher than you would care to admit," Holmes finished, turning back to him.

Shaking his head, the doctor clapped his shoulder. "Admit it, Holmes, you are seeking divertissement from what you fear will be a dreary evening amongst the flowers."

"It is not the flowers I seek divertissement from, Watson," his friend replied, watching the parade of the great and the greatly wealthy. "The flowers and I get along splendidly."

"Well then, Holmes...consider us all fragrant blossoms for the evening," Watson returned with a chuckle.

The detective huffed as he was flagrantly teased. "Really, Watson...you do say the most absurd things. I would keep your husband well clear of the champagne on offer tonight, Mrs. Watson," he addressed Mary with a sniff.

The blond woman's laugh was low but heartfelt at that. "Most assuredly, Sherlock. I plan to keep him well occupied this evening, for I have been quite looking forward for the opportunity to dance...we both heartily enjoyed it last Christmas."

"I wish you well of it," he replied with an air of resignation. "I've no doubt with the Prince of Wales at the helm, this affair shall waltz well into the early hours of the morning.” He paused, and regarded her for a moment. “Though...undoubtedly, it would be rude of me not to request at least one turn about the floor when you receive your dance card?"

Mary smiled, and inclined her head. "I shall look forward to it, Sherlock," she agreed, before catching the flash of melancholy that she saw flit over her auburn haired friend's face, and decided to change the subject.

"Excellent," he voiced, before straightening, and clasping his hands behind his back, a somewhat victorious smile forming on his face. "Then I claim the first quadrille...and that should ensure my presence upon the floor is seen so nothing further shall be expected of me in that regard."

As Mary nodded in reply, Helen turned away to gaze out over the river. She had always loved dancing, and though it had been regretful she could not participate at the Foundation's Christmas Party, for this event it was most disappointing. Reining in a sigh, she watched the lights glint over the water, and wondered if coming had been such a good idea after all.

"I say..." Watson mused with a shake of his head, as a rather distinguished elderly gentleman passed by with a much younger woman on his arm and walked up the carpeted gangplank to board. "We are travelling in distinguished company tonight. Wasn't that Lord Saddlestone, the former Tory Party Chairman, Holmes?"

"I believe so," Holmes agreed with a slight nod.

Watson smiled as he watched the pair mingled. "How charming...he's brought his granddaughter with him."

Mary coughed quietly. "Um, darling...that's not his granddaughter."

Holmes’s laughter burst from him, as he heartily clapped Watson upon the back. "His granddaughter…Watson, my dear fellow, you do know how to raise a chap's spirits. Really, Watson, there are so many clues it fairly glows."

“Well that’s all very well for you to know, Holmes,” the doctor grumbled, before turning to his wife with a puzzled frown. “But how on earth did you know that?” he exclaimed.

Mary's fan fluttered over her face to hide her smile. "I read about their marriage in The Times, John. She's from Monaco, I believe."

"I say." Watson looked after the old man in awe. "Well done, Lord Saddlestone, eh?" he breathed, and Helen turned back just in time to see the doctor's wife give him an arch look at that. Catching it, the older man rearranged his features rapidly. "That is...of course...if he was some thirty years younger...as it is now," he stumbled, shaking his head vigorously, "it's quite inappropriate...quite inappropriate."

Glancing over at the retreating couple, Helen resisted the urge to chuckle at the older man's fumbling. "She's related to the royal family of Monaco, and brought quite a tidy dowry with her," she added, confirming Mary’s statement. "It was considered a fine match... Maggie…Lady Margaret, I mean, was at the wedding a few months back."

Holmes offered her his arm a moment later. "I'm quite sure the bride and her dowry will not be long separated," he murmured quietly. "A ‘mature’ husband and a young wife...especially one of a Gallic disposition...are all too soon parted." He smiled at them, before taking on a theatrical mournfulness. "Nature is so very cruel to young lovers."

Watson stifled his laugh into a chuckle. "Holmes, your cynicism on such matters will be your undoing...but for the moment, I'm glad to see your humour improve."

With a smile at the growing air of merriment, Helen slipped her arm around the detective’s, and with a respectful nod of his head to her, Holmes led them up the gangplank to board.

The interior of the steamer was lavishly appointed and exceedingly comfortable with plenty of room for well over a hundred guests on each boat. At eight o’clock precisely, the short sharp orders of the ship's officers rang out from on board the two cruisers to the men on the shore. The gangways were removed and the lines cast off, the steamers pulling away smoothly from the embankment to begin their ninety minute journey up the great river to their verdant destination.

The distant cheers of the watching crowd rose up as the two gleaming boats slid out into the heart of the Thames, building their speed to a gracious glide over the grey waters. Around them, small hired steamers chugged alongside for short distances, crowded with leisure seekers and the curious, the small boats trumpeting their greetings from their high pitched horns, and shooting small spouts of smoke and steam into the air with the noise. The younger and less reserved of the guests aboard stood by the rails and smiled back towards the shore and small floating entourage at the enthusiastic public, one or two even inclined towards a congenial wave in response to the acclamation as they passed.

Standing near the prow with many of the guests, the quartet looked on as London rose up in all its imperial glory around them; the great buildings piled on all sides as they moved towards Westminster Bridge with dignified refinement. Handel’s music, composed for royal ears, gave increased weight to the majesty of the voyage, allowing those on board the merest hint of what it might have been like to be that great queen upon her royal barge on the Nile, whose eponymous ‘needle’ they had just left behind. On the Surrey side of the river, the gardens of Whitehall led pleasantly on to the Westminster clock tower and so on to the Halls of Parliament.

Moving down towards Vauxhall, the boats and barges moored alongside the banks of the Thames became fewer and fewer, the tall chimneys of the industries located there taking the place of the great buildings of government, and replacing them with the candle makers and potters of Lambeth. A hint of a dingier, less affluent part of the city that the onboard guests were immediately distracted from by the emergence of a small army of waiters carrying vintage champagne and the lightest of canapés to them on silver trays that glinted in the increasingly fiery orange of the sunlight as the golden orb started to wane.

They moved smoothly past Battersea Park and Battersea Fields with its renowned duellists’ ground towards Chelsea and beyond, the greenery along the banks of the river already becoming more evident. The barges and boats almost completely gone now, giving way to small leisure sail boats and skiffs along the increasingly grassy banks, meadows, and uplands, large formal buildings transforming into villas and pleasure parks.

As they journeyed through the gathering dusk, the hundreds of lights on the boat gave an ever increasing dreamy glow to the journey, the air around them gradually clearing of the effluvium caused by London life and business. Similarly, the grey filthy waters of the river, responsible for the renowned London ‘pea-souper’ fogs that so often affected the city, began to clear. And as they sailed on towards Oliver’s Ait, where Cromwell had sat and considered his strategies centuries before, the waters of the Thames were that of an almost entirely different river, sparkling clear with the waning sun glimmering and bouncing off it, and the meadows and fields that swept down to the banks with their noble houses and cottages inset were all that could be seen as Richmond hove into view.

Finally at just past nine-thirty, the tall building of Kew Palace slid into view and the boats turned inwards toward Brentford Gate opposite the Duke of Northumberland’s estate across the river towards an entire cavalry of carriages waiting to whisk the arriving guests to the centre of the mile long gardens and the Ball.

As the parade of guests began to disembark, they waited nearby their belongings in hand. Holmes, the voyage having suited him admirably, had chosen to sit on deck, and, as a consequence, was in far mellower a mood. "A most pleasant journey I must admit," he commented.

"Indeed," agreed Mary, the nervous aura returning to her face as her hand tightened on her husband's arm, feeling very much the army captain's daughter at that moment.

Patting it lightly, Watson gave her an encouraging smile. "Chin up," he said softly. "You've not one thing to fear tonight, my dearest." His eyes moved to those below them boarding the carriages and back to her meaningfully. "This is your true stratosphere, Mary Watson...where a real lady belongs."

Gazing up at him with pure adoration, her cheeks flushing, she replied, her voice low but thick with emotion, "You are too good to me sometimes, John Watson."

Taking her hand from his, he kissed it gently. "Not half as good as you deserve," he returned, before drawing himself upwards. "Now! Let us cast aside all nervousness and enjoy ourselves, agreed?" he asked, holding her hand still.

With a nod and an emotional smile, she gave his hand a squeeze. "Yes," she agreed wholeheartedly.

Satisfied, the doctor gazed at their friends and smiled, wrapping his wife's hand around his arm once more. "Shall we?" he asked them, leading the way.

Holmes moved to the gangway with his own partner for the evening on his arm, looking after his friend. "There is no doubt that Watson's aptitude for putting people at their ease in even the most strained of circumstances is without peer...it is an estimable gift."

Beside him, Helen smiled softly. "Quite so," she concurred, glancing up at him. "He definitely has a way with people...an admirable trait in anyone, though especially so in a doctor. Though you should not sell your own abilities short, Mr. Holmes."

He shook his head slowly, his smile dry. "I have seldom put anyone at their ease in my life, Miss Thurlow...not through words or manner in any event. My nature and outlook don't allow for it, as my levels of sympathy for the feelings of others are too subsumed by the more practical element of keeping them or their property safe."

"And you do not think that having someone look out for your well being is cause enough to give them ease?" she returned. "You have a rare character, Mr. Holmes. You are honest, and there are few such men that are. When you devote yourself to a cause, you follow it through and give your all to accomplish it. How can that not fail to put one, especially one whose life is in your hands, at ease?"

"Of course, there is no doubt but you are right, Miss Thurlow," he agreed without any hubris. "However, Watson's gift requires no application of practice or logic...or thought. He works from instinct and good feeling, and can achieve with a single word what I can only do by force of all my powers and energy. It is not so great a gift as a rational mind, of course, but it is a singular one all the same, and one most easily noted when it is absent," he said quietly, privileging her with another flash of his private thoughts regarding Watson’s departure from Baker Street.

Giving his arm what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze, she shook her head. "You are singular men, and fine ones at that…the best and the most complementary of friends," she stated with gentle firmness. "And I am lucky to know you both."

Holmes gazed at her appreciatively, his lips quirking in a teasing fashion as he announced, "I have always deemed you a woman of rare judgement, Miss Thurlow. I see I am once again proven correct!"




To be continued...
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