Fan Fiction ❯ Hinc Illae Lacrimae ❯ Eureka ( Chapter 5 )

[ P - Pre-Teen ]

//Squeee, so many reviews for one chapter? Okay, ya got me! If you really want me to, I'll continue! Still, even if I had gotten only one review telling me to keep going, I would have written another chapter anyway. *dodges flying vegetables* I owe it to Crewe not to let her fade away as another stereotypical made-up character in a story I never finished.//

Hinc Illae Lacrimae
Chapter 5: Eureka


"Poisoned!?" exclaimed Watson, his eyes darting from me to Holmes, who was pacing restlessly back and forth across my "room". "Good heaven! This is most serious business!" Thank heavens he was gracious enough to provide me a bucket for... yeah... which I used, prompting Holmes and Watson to dutifully look away.

"Serious and sinister," added Holmes, his thin hand stroking his chin in thought.

Watson knelt beside the bed and pried one of my eyes wide open, then stared long and hard at my mouth. I found myself breathing hard, like I had been running a marathon. Lord, it was cold. Bringing his face close to mine, he nodded slowly, apparently wrestling with different hypotheses.

"Are you experiencing loss of breath?" he finally asked.

I rolled my eyes. "What does it look like?"

"No need to get snippy," he said defensively, chastising me in a paternal way. "Now then, do you feel weak? Do your limbs feel heavier than normal?"

"Yes and yes."

"Nausea and disorientation, I suppose?"

"Holmes, stop that pacing!" I shouted, causing the detective to stop in his tracks. "You're going to make me throw up again!"

Watson smiled wryly. "I take that as a yes." He stood and turned to Holmes. "There is no doubt in my mind. The discoloration of the mouth, the breath smelling faintly of almonds... I have seen all these symptoms before. It was minor cyanide poisoning."

"Just as I thought," Holmes murmured, more to himself than anyone. "No doubt it was dissolved in her tea. That would explain why I have none of her symptoms."

"But why, is the question?" I said, holding my spinning head. "I've only been here a couple weeks. How could I even make any enemies?"

"Was Miss Crewe getting too headstrong for you, Holmes?" asked Watson jokingly. Holmes shot him a glance which pretty much came across as the equivalent to 'I'll kill you if you even suggest such a thing'. Watson cleared his throat. "In any case, it is extremely good fortune that you stormed out of the restaurant when you did. Had you ingested any more tea..." He trailed off, but I knew precisely what he was implying.

Holmes came forward and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Now, Crewe," he said, locking his piercing gaze on me. "I want you to close your eyes. Good. Now focus on the exact moment you were sitting in the restaurant."

I obeyed, getting a mental image of my surroundings. My tea and sandwich in front of me, a window looking out on the street on my left, and Holmes across the table from me, whiling away the time with a lively discussion about the significance of boot laces. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"Now," he continued, "It is imperative that you try to recall something for me. Concentrate on the people around you. What did they look like? Did they ever make eye contact with you? Please try to remember."

"Okay, I'll try...." Crap, was I even paying attention to the other people? Not to my recollection, but I proceeded to reconstruct my surroundings the best I could. "Let's see... I remember a man and a woman sitting together in the corner. She was kinda chunky, and he was wearing a really ugly olive green waistcoat."

I heard a soft laugh from Watson.

I thought for a moment. "I'm pretty sure... yeah. There were three old women sitting near the couple." I opened my eyes and looked up at Holmes. "Right?"

He nodded. "Pray continue."

I closed my eyes again, thinking hard. "Oh yeah! There was this guy sitting by the window reading a newspaper."

"Excellent!" the detective exclaimed, causing me to jump. "What did he look like?

"Uhh," I said, screwing up my face, "He was skinny-- though not as skinny as you-- and he had dirty blonde hair and a faint moustache." I paused. "Come to think of it, he sort of looked like my cousin Jeff."

"Was he doing anything besides reading the newspaper?"

"He was... hmm." Yes, Crewe, what *was* he doing? You were too busy noting how cute it was how Holmes spun his spoon between his thumb and forefinger, weren't you? Then you directed your attention to the window to make it look like you weren't looking at him, and--

"Oh my god," I whispered, opening my eyes.

"Yes?" was Holmes's immediate response.

"I... looked over at him when I was drinking my tea, and he smiled and raised his cup in a toast. I didn't really think anything of it when it happened..." I shook my head. "Whoooops. Man, I'm such a *moron*!"

"Now now," he said, in his trademark comforting voice that he could turn on and off like a lightswitch, "You are certainly not to blame for this misfortune. You could not have possibly known what would come of an otherwise friendly glance." His black eyebrows drew together. "Though this does thicken the plot, I must say. You have not become acquainted with enough people, really, for anyone to develop a murderous intent. So little data..."

As Holmes grew silent, I began to feel nauseous again, but not from the poison. I was practically the most agreeable person I knew! Well, at least, when I wanted to be. And I hadn't met hardly anyone since I had arrived inexplicably in this era and thus got into this horrible mess. Who would want to kill me? I was so far away from home....

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to fight off the wave of nausea and depression. I guess Watson took this to mean I wanted rest or something. "Well, Miss Crewe, since you, er, disposed of most of the poison in your body, I believe it is safe to say you will live."

Holmes nodded. "And that is a tremendous relief to me--" *Really? I'm flattered, Holmes!* "--for I will be needing your help in pointing out our culprit." *Oh. Well. Never mind then.*

"Although," the doctor added with just a trace of worry in his voice. Great. "It would not be prudent of me as a physician to neglect one of my patients, for there is a considerable risk of a relapse. If I am not mistaken, there is an afghan in that armoire over there. Holmes, old boy, kindly retrieve it and cover my patient. We must keep her warm."

Blinking once, Holmes took the blanket from the nearby wardrobe and draped it over me. Ooh, it was soft! As I fingered the edge of it to keep my mind off throwing up, Watson advised me to get some rest (which I highly doubted was going to happen) and left the room.

As Holmes wished me goodnight and began to follow Watson out the door, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to thank him for everything. Remembered that I forgot... man, that sounds dumb. "Hey, Holmes?"

He paused at the door. "Yes?"

"Thank you," I said quietly.

He nodded. "You are quite welcome." He must have thought I was talking about the whole blanket thing. All right...

"Not just for this," I said, holding up the afghan, "I mean, for everything. For letting me stay here, which I'm sure doesn't bear too lightly on your conscience. For treating me like an actual person, not just some brainless woman who can't do anything for herself..." I know, I was starting to ramble. Let's get this wrapped up, dearie. "And for putting up with me. I know you don't like me, so I just wanted to thank you for tolerating me." There, I said it.

...But the look on his face made me regret it.

"Crewe," he said, for once looking truly offended, not just ticked off, "whatever made you think I did not like you?"

You see what letting your mouth say whatever it feels like can get you into? "Well," I blurted awkwardly, "it's sort of obvious." Nooo, fool girl! Take it back, take it back! "No, what I meant was... Oh, come on, you *did* call me a hot-head, after all!"

I winced, waiting for the explosion. To my surprise, it never came. Instead, Holmes smiled at me, a glint of impishness in his eyes. "And would that be before or after you called me stupid, Crewe?"

Oh, he *had* to throw that in my face. I smiled sheepishly, my face burning with embarrassment.

"The point is," he continued, pulling the velvet chair in the corner closer to the bed and sitting down, "I only treated you the way I did because I have never previously met a woman as... bold as you. Forgive me if it came off as dislike."

I smiled, trying to keep my eyelids up. Oh, of course. Now that Holmes and I were actually beginning to be on good terms, I couldn't stay awake. "Don't think anything of it, Holmes, old boy," I replied, yawning. "I promise I won't call you a woman-hater ever again."

"I would appreciate that," he said, leaning back in his chair and stretching luxuriantly. "Now do get some rest. I daresay I will be needing your assistance as soon as you are feeling up to it."

I blinked, watching as he made himself more comfortable. "You're not leaving?"

He smiled, amused. "Terribly sorry, Crewe, but as much as it would please you if I left, I must make sure there is no risk of another, shall I say, episode. Go on then; I will be here until you fall asleep."

"But I, I don't think I'll even be able to," I protested, my cheeks becoming warm. The last thing I wanted was Sherlock Holmes to hear me snore.

Holmes rose from his chair and left the room, and for a moment I thought he had gone for good. However, he returned after a short while, his violin in hand. He sat down in the plush armchair once more, raising the bow to the strings.

"Holmes, please, you really don't have to--" I quickly fell silent as the first few notes of a sweet, lilting melody filled the room. Jeez, he sure knew how to get me to shut up.

I lay in bed, enchanted, as the detective played the very lullaby that had first drawn me to him. After a few minutes I almost forgot about all the horrible events of the day, watching Holmes's graceful fingers and tranquil face. He made everything seem so easy; music, chemistry, "the science of deduction". I smiled, no longer resisting the urge to close my eyes.

I wonder what my friends in the twenty-first century would say if they knew I had fallen head-over-heels for Sherlock Holmes.



//When I was doing some research for this story on different poisons... Whoa, let me tell you. Crewe is lucky she threw most of it up. The more severe symptoms of cyanide poisoning are not pretty.

Anyway, I'm glad so many people bugged me to keep going. And Hank, I know you weren't trying to be mean. In fact, I never thought you were. *hugs you* No hard feelings, mate!//