A Little Favor

by "...the girl with the strawberry curls"

Author's note: This is the story of what happened on the little trip to France mentioned in "A Question of Timing" and "Our American Neighbor." I hope you enjoy the completion of this adventure, even if it is out of chronological order.

Holmes and I spent the night following our punting experiences in my lodgings, under the care of my landlady, Mrs. Robinson. We had returned from the river rested and ravenous. Sandwiches and lemonade followed by a bottle of bubbly wine and strawberries seem to have only piqued our appetites after the fresh air and sun of our day on the Cherwell.

I had stopped at a public telephone during our stroll from the river and placed a call to the elves informing them that I would need to pickup some finished garments in two days time. They assured me they would have some items ready for their final fittings, and if I could arrive early in the morning the completed garments could be mine.

It was after dark by the time we arrived at my lodgings, arm and arm, ready to set off on another adventure. The time apart had melted away and we were once again, united in heart and mind. Holmes proceeded to my rooms while I knocked on Mrs. Robinson door to thank her for the loan of her hat and to return the outlandish item. She threw open her door, and exclaimed that a messenger had delivered a packet for Mr. Homes, marked urgent. "This came over an hour ago, and I was just about to send Mr. Robinson to see if he could track you down on the river. It was hand delivered, and you can see it's marked urgent. I just didn't know what to do." My landlady gushed.

"That is quite all right, whatever it contains Mr. Holmes will see to it immediately and there will be no harm done. Are we too late for some supper?" I asked.

"No, I have been keeping something warm for you. It will take me three quarters of an hour to bring everything back up to the proper temperature and I'm just finishing a tart that I can include if you can wait. I'll just put everything on a tray and bring it to your rooms when it is ready. You'll have plenty of time to freshen up."

"That would be lovely, thank you, Mrs. Robinson."

I took the packet and joined Holmes in my rooms. He was already in the bath. For the punter, punting can be sweaty work on a warm day, and Holmes needed to soak the soreness out of his arms and back. Propelling a punt with a pole was not something he did on a regular basis, and although he was in excellent condition, he had used muscles in ways they had not been tried in some time.

"There is a packet from Mycoft marked urgent, Holmes. Do you want to open it now or after you have dried off?" I called in the direction of the bath.

"You open it Russell, it should be information regarding our trip to France. Mycroft said he would forward any intelligence or instructions as things developed. What does he say?"

I opened the large envelope and tipped the contents onto the surface of my desk. There was a map of southern France and two letters. One was addressed to Holmes, the other to me. I opened mine first.

Dear Sister Mary,

Damn the man, he could be thoughtful and kind at the strangest times. It was no small thing to have one of the most powerful men in Britain, perhaps the world, as your brother-in-law, and it always gave me pause when he showed his regard for me. Mycroft was not comfortable with women and frankly mistrusted them. But, from the moment I showed up at his club, almost four years before, with an injured Holmes, he had accepted me with all his heart. I had come to love my husband's brother, and even before our marriage he had quickly become part of the family I forged with Holmes.

I heard Holmes leaving the tub and hurried to open his envelope, leaving my letter open on the desk. His contained information about the couple we were to contact, and an invitation to dinner at Mycroft's for the following evening. Mycroft also requested that I write a letter to my "Great Aunt and Uncle" (the two agents, it seemed, were to be my relatives) informing them of my recent marriage to a wealthy older gentlemen, our impending trip to see them, and our hope to bring them back for a visit to our country manor. I was to include a few lines of apology for having been remiss in not contacting them before this--as they knew, I had spent much of my youth in America. My new English ties had me longing to reconnect with my mother's people. Mycroft had added, "You know the drill," and in fact I did.

Holmes came into the room comfortably dressed in clean shirt, trousers, slippers and dressing gown. He had left a few things here soon after our marriage, and at the time it had made me laugh to think that I had added a more luxurious bolthole to the array of those he had in London. I had taken the rooms with an eye to comfort, mine and ours. The bed was large and easily accommodated two, and there was a sufficiency of room so as not to feel crowded when sharing the space. Even though this was to be my separate world, I had looked to the future and the hope Holmes would visit me from time to time, and so it had been.

Seeing the sheet of paper on my desk and me pondering the other piece in my hand, Holmes cocked an eyebrow in my direction. I gestured at my letter from Mycroft, and said, "Your brother's confession."

He picked up the letter and quickly scanned the lines, his face breaking into a grin as he took in the content. A grin on Holmes was a rare thing to behold. His angular features were transformed and his eyes danced.

"Good Lord Russ, I did not think the old man had a romantic bone in his body. I will need to reappraise my brother after this. You have wrought a change in him that must be noted."

"This," I said as I handed him the paper, "is the information on the couple in France we are to help. It contains my instructions to write to my 'Great Aunt and Uncle' to set up the meeting in a few days. I will have it ready for the morning post. Now, I think I will take my bath and prepare for supper."

I removed myself to the tub and soaked until Holmes called me to join him for the meal delivered by Mrs. Robinson. I emerged from the bathroom in my long, comfortable robe and carpet slippers to find a feast laid out on the small folding table I kept for this purpose. Mrs. Robinson had outdone herself. There was a whole roasted chicken, fresh peas with mashed potatoes, and a green salad. She had given us two slices of apple tart with a wedge of crumbly cheddar for dessert. We indulged ourselves and didn't speak of our impending trip until the coffee and brandy were poured.

"Do you know anything of this couple Mycroft wants us to escort safely to England?" I asked.

"Mycroft is concerned about them. They have worked for him for many years, having moved to France in 1900. They provided him with some valuable intelligence before and during the war. He seems very attached to them, which in and of itself makes them special. They do seem to be in-active at this time, so the possibility of difficulties seems remote."

"Then, this will be mostly a pleasure trip. How unusual, do you think it is another peace offering from Mycroft? You really must alleviate his fears that I will become upset when you are away for more than a few days. He must know by now that I am no clinging wife. At least I hope he does."

"Mycroft counts you as unique amongst your sex. I am not sure what is behind all this, but we can ask him tomorrow night when we dine at his lodgings."

And so we did. As was the rule at Mycroft's table, no business was discussed during the meal, but over brandy, cigars and coffee for me, Holmes broached the subject.

"Mycroft, why do these agents require our time to escort them to England? If, as you have indicated, they have passed little intelligence since the end of the war, why are you going to such extremes for their safety?"

"They have served the Crown faithfully for over twenty years, and their reports have saved hundreds of lives. Now they only wish to return to England to spend their remaining years in peace, and have their final rest in good English soil. It is a small request, that I have it in my power to grant. But, there are undercurrents in the Mediterranean just now that have made me uneasy as to their safety. I know it seems an insignificant matter to accompany them back, but I would caution you both to be on your guard. This may not be a simple assignment, and I would not wish any harm to come to either of you."

I did not like the sound of that, but I put a smile on my face and said, "We shall keep our pistols at the ready, and the look of innocence on our faces at all times."

This brought a smile to Mycroft's lips. "Mary, you have distilled the matter down to its essentials very nicely. Just, do take care," he warned.

After a very peaceful night in Mycroft's guest room, I spent the next morning at the elves. My telephone call from Oxford had elicited the miracle I had hoped. The clothes I had ordered while in London weeks before were finished and fitted with remarkable speed. When I left their establishment I was glowing with the pride of owning three lovely dresses and a lightweight traveling suit that made me look every bit the wealthy bride. My other clothes had been gathered from Sussex and the Bloomsbury flat, and with the help of the versatile Mrs. Q, alterations to hem lengths were accomplished in a matter of hours. My now-extensive wardrobe was expertly packed and I was ready for the journey.

I was beginning to look forward to this trip. It was rare for Holmes and me to travel in comfort and luxury. In the guise of a wealthy newly married couple we could travel in first class compartments, and request that we have our privacy. I might be called upon to blush at this request of my older husband, but I was sure I could rise to the occasion when necessary. In fact, it might be fun to hang on Holmes' arm and simper sweetly as he made our travel arrangements at each station. On Holmes' part it would take very little acting, to show discomfort at being the "older groom." Yes, this might be quite entertaining.

We acted our parts at each station as Holmes booked our seats on the trains. In each case our request for a private compartment was granted. In Paris the agent did give Holmes a wink and a nudge that caused the muscles of the arm on which I was hanging to twitch. Holmes, always the professional, controlled himself (though with a very arrogant tilt of his head) and in fluent French, tersely thanked the agent. We were, after all, playing rich, upper class English tourists and his casual fluency in that language was vital to his persona.

The journey from London was a pleasure. The channel crossing was smooth, and our arrival in Paris was on time. The wait for the train south to Marseilles was short, and all our luggage was transferred without incident. In less time than I thought possible we were at our decidedly upscale hotel in the port city of Marseilles. My "Great Aunt and Uncle" had left a note for me at the hotel, and I showed my pleasure at the letter for all to see.

I exclaimed, "See dear, Aunty and Uncle Peterson are expecting us tomorrow morning and have invited us to stay for luncheon, it will be so lovely to see them. I can hardly wait until I can introduce you to them."

"Yes, dear, I know how you have longed to show them how happy you are as my wife. We shall hire a car and see them in the morning, at which time you can persuade them to return to England with us for a visit, as soon as possible. I do need to get back to my club in a weeks time. There is that bridge tournament I was hoping to enter," he extemporized.

"Thank you, my darling," I leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You are just being super about all this. It does mean so much to me to have some family know how happy I am," I gushed, meeting my husband's eyes. The look we exchanged was pure devilment, but no one around us would have thought anything of it.

We were shown our suite of rooms and as the door closed and the footsteps in the hallway receded, I collapsed in giggles on the silk sofa. Holmes stood with his hands on his hips shaking his head.

"I do think you overdid it a bit, Russ. We are playing parts, but I do not think it necessary to slide into burlesque."

"You were letter perfect as the stuffy husband of a 'sweet-young thing.' I was just complementing your performance. Besides, it was fun. The hotel manager was practically rolling his eyes and I believe I heard him murmuring under his breath about 'the English'."

"Did the letter from your 'Aunty' contain more information than our invitation to luncheon tomorrow?" Holmes inquired.

"No, just that they were thrilled we had come and they would be expecting us at eleven. They did included directions to their house, which seems to be approximately twenty kilometers outside of Marseilles. With this glorious weather the drive should be very pleasant. I am quite looking forward to tomorrow."

After refreshing ourselves and changing from our traveling clothes, we set out to walk the streets of this port city. Holmes had been in Marseilles many times, and expertly navigated the small narrow byways that brought us to the sparkling harbor. As we stood admiring the bay, with its 16th century Chateau d'lf looming just off the coastline on a small island, Holmes kept up a running commentary of the history of Marseilles and pointed out the historical sites of interest. He was a marvelous traveling companion and his prodigious memory provided a wealth of knowledge about any city we visited.

We continued our stroll along the harbor and after a time, we turned back toward the hotel, stopping at a small restaurant to enjoy an excellent dinner. Over our meal Holmes told me quietly that he would slip from our room later and exit the hotel unobserved through a back entrance he had located. He wished to see if some old contacts could be found in the city. We had no expectations of needing help, but being prepared for all eventualities had served Holmes well all these years.

We walked back to the hotel, enjoying the balmy evening air and as we retrieved our key made a point of informing the desk clerk, that we would not be going out until the morning and did not wish to be disturbed.

Back in our rooms, Holmes quickly dressed in appropriate clothes for his foray to the seamier side of this city. His departure left me restless, but I forced myself to relax and read for a time before dressing for bed and submitting myself to sleep.

I was awakened, in the wee hours of the morning, by a warm body joining me in bed. I managed to ask if he had found who or what he was looking for, and if things had changed much since his last visit. He said some things never changed; they just get older. The pillow muffled his voice, but I thought I heard tension in it.

I roused myself more fully and turned on my elbow to look at his face. "Holmes, is there a problem?"

"No, Russell, I did locate a few of my old contacts, but found others have disappeared or died. What I did find disturbing were the undercurrents currently passing through the underworld inhabitants. Mycroft is correct, there are strange agents about in the Mediterranean at this time. The unpleasantness between Greece and Turkey has everyone on edge. With the Turks seeming to have control in this conflict, the balance of power in the region is shifting and those who have allegiances with one side or another are reevaluating their position in the grand scheme of the game."

"Mycroft did warn us of a potential for danger. I feel my lovely holiday slipping away, what a shame. I suppose there is nothing for it but to try to get some sleep," I said, stifling a yawn. Tomorrow could be more trying than I had imagined. I let out a sigh, rolled onto my side, and snuggled into Holmes. His arm came comfortably around me and I drifted into sleep.

The drive out of Marseilles was glorious the next morning. The road we were instructed to take went west along the coast, giving us breathtaking views of the sea. As befitted his current role, the car Holmes had hired was large, luxurious, and handled the road well. The driving directions were accurate and we soon found ourselves turning down a narrow lane to a country cottage. It was situated in a hollow surrounded by large shade trees. A small wooded area bordered the west side. The fields beyond the cottage were ablaze with lavender and sunflowers. The whole of it brought to mind the paintings of Vincent Van Gogh. The vivid colors evoked his works. I had never been a fan of his paintings, but at this moment, I could see the appeal. The scene was perfection.

"Oh Holmes, it is so lovely here. It is hard to understand why they would want to leave all this," I said with a sigh.

"Ah, there are your 'Aunty and Uncle' now," was his reply.

Holmes expertly negotiated the narrow drive and parked the car in front of the tiny house. Waiting at the door of the cottage were my "Aunty and Uncle Peterson." They appeared to be in their late seventies, with white hair and wrinkled countenance. They were the same size and shape and could have been brother and sister instead of husband and wife. Maybe there was something to the idea that spouses began to look like each other after many years of marriage. Their skin was tanned and told of many hours in the open air. There would be a garden in the back of this house, a garden bursting with color and life. A garden they planted and tended together, I thought. I felt my heart open to these two strangers.

Keeping up the act I allowed Holmes to hand me out of the car and hurried to embrace them. They opened their arms and returned my affection with kisses to both my cheeks. Holmes offered his hand to Mr. Peterson, and kissed the hand of Mrs. Peterson, who blushed. Holmes cut a fine figure and when he displayed his social graces, many a woman found herself captivated.

Once inside the house, Mr. Peterson closed the door and turned to greet us again. "It is a pleasure to meet you both. Mycroft has done us a great honor by sending his brother and sister-in-law to be our escorts home. I wish I felt more at ease. We have had the distinct feeling that we were being observed for the past several days. We dare not leave the house, as I am sure it was searched a few days ago when we were visiting a neighbor. I just don't understand why we have attracted attention so suddenly. We were very active just before and during the war, but in the past four years we have only passed on two minor pieces of intelligence. We should be invisible by now, but that is not the case. I have no idea what all this means."

"If that is the case, then perhaps we should move up our timetable and leave this evening on the late train to Paris. We could take rooms there and catch the train to Calais and then the boat train to England in the morning," suggested Holmes.

"We need one more night here Mr. Holmes. We have a friend who is making the trip from Valence by car tomorrow. He has agreed to take our Hector." As I was about to inquire whom "Hector" was, a large, very shaggy English Sheep dog loped into the room. He sat at Mr. Peterson's feet and looked up at him adoringly. The old man caressed the large head and said, "Hector doesn't travel well and the trip to England would be very hard on him. As we don't really know where we will be ending, it is best that we leave him here. He needs land to roam and people around him. Our friend could not come any sooner. He had business in Valence this week, and will be driving directly from there to pick up Hector and then drive them both back to his home in Lyon. We have no car, so you see how it is."

"Yes," drawled Holmes. "Would it be possible to leave the animal with a neighbor for tonight? I really do think we should leave now. I do not like the feel of this situation. We could drive straight through to Calais and catch the boat train tomorrow. I know of several places along the route where we could have Mycroft's agents meet us with a new automobile, and they would return this one. You would simply disappear. Any watchers would take some time to pick up our trail, but we would be safely in England by then."

Mentally I sighed. Once again it appeared I would be offering up my wardrobe for the greater good. Maybe those agents of Mycroft's could pick up our trunks and get them back to England.

"No, Mr. Holmes. I don't see how we can do that. Our friend's travel plans are set, we have no way of contacting him, and if we left a note tacked to the door, would that not alert anyone who was watching us? We need to see our friend and say our goodbyes. He does not like to travel by boat, and swears he will never return to England, so this is our last chance to see him. He is making the trip especially to see us and to pick up the dog. It would be wrong to leave now. You must see that," was Mr. Peterson's forceful reply.

"What I see is the potential for danger. I do not like it. Mycroft sent us to bring you safely to England and that is what we intend to do, but we must have your cooperation," was Holmes' peevish answer.

I stepped forward and said, "When is your friend expected tomorrow, Mr. Peterson? By the way, what is his name?" If they continued on in this manner, the two men would become entrenched in their positions and nothing would be accomplished. I thought it wise to divert them for a moment.

Mrs. Peterson must have thought the same thing. She spoke up while putting her arm through her husband's, and said, "Richard, Richard Davis, a fellow Englishman. We met him just after the war. He was badly injured and moved to France for the weather. He should be here by ten tomorrow. He does not want to be forced to spend the night on the road with Hector, and he did want to visit with us a bit."

"How many people know of this plan for Hector?" asked Holmes.

"No one really, save for Richard. We have spoken to our neighbors about the possibility that we might be visiting our Niece, but we only spoke in generalities. I asked if we might leave Hector with them, if we did make a trip for a few days. That is all." Mr. Peterson said.

"Good. Then we shall return tomorrow at nine in the morning and be here when your friend arrives. After he leaves we will take a drive along the coast to Nice and board the train there. I will make the arrangements tonight," Holmes said with a commanding tone.

Holmes always had several plans in his head at any one time. I admired the way he changed our route as he calculated the best way to handle the situation. His mental gymnastics were one of the reasons he had survived the rough-and-tumble life for so long.

With the plans set, we enjoyed an al fresco meal in the back garden. It was as lovely as I had imagined, and the couple took a great deal of pride in their accomplishment. We chatted about the countryside, gardening and about England. I had led the conversation to a point where I could ask why they wanted to return to England and leave this lovely area.

"We have struggled with this decision of months and months," sighed Mrs. Peterson. "My husband's health is failing. His heart," she said as she patted his arm. "We have no family, just each other. I am still not convinced this is the best for us, but Sam wants to spend our remaining years in our homeland."

By the time we took our leave of this elderly couple, I was very attached to them, and Holmes had set aside his displeasure at their stubbornness. He shook Mr. Peterson's hand with great warmth and again kissed Mrs. Peterson's hand.

We drove the first few kilometers in silence, each lost in our own thoughts of this lovely couple facing the end of their days with grace, courage and the annoying attention of some unknown enemy. I spoke first, "How much danger do you think we are facing?"

"I do not know, but there is something to their house being searched and their movements observed. This level of attention is not the norm for such minor agents. I just wish I had some idea why they have become of interest to anyone. Mycroft would have informed us if they had been involved in anything that would have brought them attention, but he has not. They did not offer any explanation, although you did an admirable job of giving them openings during luncheon. I do not like it, and we shall have to make further changes to our plans. How do you feel about having a lovers' quarrel in the lobby of our hotel?" He said with an eyebrow cocked in my direction.

"Will I be required to cry, or will we just use loud voices?"

"Tears I think. I will be insufferably rude about your aunt and uncle. You will be distraught because your lovely plans for a family reunion are being upset. We will check out of the hotel in an uproar and shed these personae," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Holmes was fully engaged in our little problem now. He was clearly enjoying this. I recognized all the signs of his excitement; he was even humming softly, Bach I think.

"You had all this planned last night," I said accusingly. "How did you know we would need this elaborate a plan?"

"I did not know anything, Russell, just placed certain contingencies in motion. One must be ready for every eventuality if one is to stay alive, even on what seems a small matter. Contingency plans have saved my skin on more than one occasion in the past, my girl."

"Of course, Holmes. They have also added to your general air of omniscience," I said with a grin.

"Humm..," was his reply.

When we reached Marseilles, Holmes returned the car to the garage where it had been hired, and we walked the two blocks to the hotel. By the time we entered the lobby we were in the midst of a vicious row. Holmes was cold and cruel, and I produced a few tears. That was all that was needed along with the judicious application of a damp hanky to my already reddened eyes. With the occasional loud sniff, I gave the perfect complementary performance to Holmes' seething anger. When he demanded our key and the bill, the hotel staff was jumping to stay out of his way. I cried louder, and received many looks of support and sympathy from guest and staff alike. He was hated and I was pitied. When we followed our luggage down to the lobby the manager appeared. His displeasure at having a scene in his establishment was evident, and he personally saw our luggage piled into a thoroughly disreputable taxi and let us know, as only the French can, he was pleased to see the back of us.

Settling into my seat in the back of the taxi, I leaned toward Holmes and whispered into his ear as I nodded toward the driver, "Is he yours or Mycroft's?"

"Mine actually," drawled Holmes, his eyebrow cocked in question.

"I saw him parked up the street when we approached the hotel, and you touched your hat brim for no apparent reason. Part of last night's plans, I take it."

"Yes, and our destination also. We will change and go to our decidedly third rate hotel from there. I have found one without bugs, I am pleased to report."

"Thank you, that is very thoughtful." I was following Holmes' lead and not using any names. It seemed our driver wasn't someone to whom Holmes had given a name, even a false one.

We pulled into a warehouse space and the doors were pulled closed behind us. The driver unloaded our trunks from his taxi and waited as Holmes pushed cash into his hand. He doffed his hat toward me, got back into the vehicle, and the warehouse doors were once again opened as he pulled away. He hadn't said a word.

We each opened a trunk and pulled out rucksacks we had previously packed with essentials. Holmes motioned toward a door in the back of the space and we entered a small room and locked the door behind us. There were two parcels waiting, and as I opened mine I saw I was to be a young lad, possibly a deck hand. "Fisherman?"

"Yes, we will spend the night at our lodgings, and tomorrow at dawn we join our boat. We will be removing the Petersons by sea." He murmured as he dressed.

My costume reeked, and I wrinkled my nose as I said churlishly, "Did you have to buy clothes that had already been used for fishing?"

"Verisimilitude, Russ, simply verisimilitude," he said, with too much joviality.

I leaned over and sniffed at his shirt. Verisimilitude, my foot, his clothes didn't smell half as bad as mine. Damn the man.

After dressing, I wrapped my hair tightly to my head, and pulled a knit cap down over it. I had checked the cap for lice before putting it on my head. One cannot be too careful, after all.

"What arrangements have you made for our trunks? I would really hate to lose my new clothes."

"Never fear, your wardrobe is safe. The trunks will be shipped back to London, from another city I might add."

"Good," I sighed.

We walked out of the warehouse as two disreputable sailors, and spent a very uncomfortable night in an extremely third rate hotel, but to my relief, there were no bugs.

Well before dawn we left our rooms and walked several kilometers down the coast to be met by a skiff that took us to a fishing boat that looked large, old and tired. The captain, a small, solidly built man of fifty, with curly graying hair and a weather-beaten face greeted us and took us to our cabin. He looked every bit a Mediterranean fisherman, but once the door was closed he turned and put out his hand to Holmes. "Welcome aboard, sir. Your brother sends his regards. Madam. How may we be of service?" he said with a decidedly plumy accent that was startling coming from that countenance.

Holmes sketched out the plan so far. We were to be taken to a cove near the Petersons' cottage where we would make our way to the woods near the house. Holmes wanted to see if we could detect the watchers and pick up any clues that might be helpful. We would wait for the friend to arrive and see what transpired. The niece and her husband would not show up at nine, but, if there were no watchers, the Petersons would be whisked away with little or no luggage, and simply disappear from the coast of France. It would be an uncomfortable journey, but a safe one. I could only hope the elderly gentlemen was up to it.

The vessel may have looked old and tired, but it ran swift and silent. We were up the coast and put ashore in less than two hours. We made our way through the woods, keeping to the trees whenever we could. Soon we had the little cottage in sight and Holmes signaled for me to stay where I was as he circled around to see if anyone else was in the woods. I sat on my heels, my back to a large elm. I was trying to keep an eye on the cottage door and look in every other direction at the same time. I could not see Holmes, but I knew he was out there. After nine, very long minutes, he appeared at my side.

"There is evidence that someone has stood in that grove of trees." He indicated a clump to the west. "Two in the past three days, and there is the sign of three as recently as last night. I picked up these cigarettes from the area. What do you make of them?" he asked as he passed me twelve cigarette ends.

It annoyed me that he was making this a test. He knew everything that was to be known about the cigarettes, but I would indulge him. "They were smoked, as you said, by three different individuals. Several of them in the past twelve hours I would say. These, (I pointed to four that were a slightly different color) are of a Greek manufacturer, but all have tobacco that is Turkish. Also, all four Greek cigarettes were smoked last night by the same person."

"Very good Russell, very good. The oddly colored ones are a special brand, found only in and around Greece."

I had thought myself well past needing his praise, but it filled me with immense pleasure to hear him say he approved of my analysis. I may be his wife and I may share his bed, but he will always be my teacher. Somehow that realization settled my nerves.

"Come Russell, there is a rocky place to the east of the house where we will have an unobstructed view of the front door, and the grove of trees. We can hide there while we wait." We made ourselves as comfortable as was possible among rocks and dirt, and silently contemplated our own thoughts.

After two hours, I checked my watch. Holmes' posture had stiffened a few minutes before, and I saw that it was nine fifteen. We had seen absolutely no movement in or around the house. I was beginning to get a very bad feeling.

"Holmes, something is wrong," I whispered.

"Yes, there should have been some movement by now, they expected us at nine. We will have to chance entering the house. Stay here while I make sure no one has joined us without our knowledge."

I fingered the loaded revolver in my pocket nervously. If Holmes ran into any trouble, I would be required to extricate him. The role always made me nervous, but I pushed down the feelings by taking several deep slow breaths. I waited, and eventually saw him slip to the back of the house. After some time passed, the front door opened, and he signaled me to join him. I ran the short distance as fast as I could, and met him in the doorway. The look on his face hinted to what I would find in that house.

He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "There really is no way to say this gently. The Petersons are dead. It has the appearance that Mr. Peterson succumbed to a heart attack, and in her grief Mrs. Peterson shot the dog and then herself."

"Holmes, no, that cannot be," I sputtered.

"I said it has the appearance, not the fact. He has some small bruises on his lower back, and at the base of his skull. He was very expertly restrained so as not to leave obvious marks. It is more likely that they held him and shot the dog and then threatened his wife. When his heart gave out they shot her. The house does not appear to have been searched, so what they wanted was in the mind of that man. I wish to God I knew what it was."

I closed my eyes briefly to absorb all that he was telling me and to steady myself. I would have to view the bodies and go over the scene. It was part of the job, and there was the slight chance that I might see something Holmes had missed. It was a slim chance, but it had to be done. I steeled myself and walked into the living room.

Mr. Peterson was slumped in his comfortable chair, his dog at his side just out of reach of the lifeless hand dangling over the chair arm. I did not look for Mrs. Peterson yet, I knew she was there, but I needed to focus all my attention on the first victim. As I was about to touch the body, Holmes was there lifting the shirt for me to see the small marks at the base of Peterson's spine, and the finger marks at the back of the old man's head, at the hairline (Holmes could be pompous, and he could be infuriating, but he also possessed a generosity of spirit and immense empathy. He would not force me to touch these people whom I had liked, and he would not make me feel I had failed when he spared me). We held each other's gaze for a moment and wordlessly he told me it was all right, and I told him of my gratitude. I turned my attention to the bruises and pushed back the desire to run from the house. The bruises were very faint and would likely be missed by anyone other than Holmes and myself.

I got down on my knees and inspected the wound on the dog. Hector had been shot in the head, but not here, at this place in the room. The wound was between his eyes, and the animal should have crumpled back onto its haunches, not flopped onto his side as he now appeared. I got up and cast my eyes about the room. The morning light was playing on the walls on the west side of the room, and an area that appeared to have the sweeping marks of something having been wiped there, caught my eye. I went over and inspected the wall more closely. The area had been recently washed, and on the baseboard I found a tiny smear of blood. The dog had been placed by the chair after it had been shot next to the wall. Finally I turned and faced the body of Mrs. Peterson. She was on the floor on the other side of the chair that held Mr. Peterson, approximately two and one half meters from him. A pistol was in her limp hand and there was a bullet wound at her right temple. As I bent down to inspect the wound I was struck by something I saw. I stood up and walked back to the dog once again kneeling beside the animal. The bullet hole was slightly larger than the one in the temple of Mrs. Peterson. "Holmes" I said, "They were shot with different caliber weapons. The gun in Mrs. Peterson's hand did not make this wound in the dog. It is just slightly difference in size, but it is different."

"Yes, I wondered what you would make of that. The marks on Mr. Peterson's back are from the larger caliber weapon. It was thrust forcefully against his back several times. Whoever held that weapon shot the dog also, but did not want to leave his revolver behind, so this slightly smaller caliber pistol was used on Mrs. Peterson and left with the knowledge that few would notice the dog's wound was different. This weapon on the floor is a cheap model, easily obtained. The larger weapon might have some value to its owner, either sentimentally or monetarily. The thing might be part of who he is for that matter. Gunmen sometimes have a signature weapon and are loath to give it up. It gives us another clue to identify him, at the least. He stood behind Mr. Peterson,...here,...see. The boot marks are quite distinctive. His stride tells me he is a man weighing approximately ten and one half stone, of short stature. The other footprints are from a much heavier man and someone of medium height, this last set is from a younger man, impatient. He leaves scuff marks as he shifts back and forth, anxious or excited it would seem."

A small man with a very large gun, I thought. The Freudians would have a great deal to say about that. Holmes' analysis of the boot marks was flawless of course, and I had nothing to add, so I again turned to the body of Mrs. Peterson. As I approached I let my eyes play over the limp form. I got down on my knees to more closely inspect her hands. I noticed a small abrasion on her left wrist. Someone had held her briefly with a strong grip, and she had struggled to break away. There was an odd odor on her left hand. It was musky and pungent. "Her nails, Holmes," I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

Holmes pulled an evidence envelope from his pocket and showed me what it contained. There was a greasy substance smeared on the pristine white paper, and a few very small hair clippings. The hair was black and the substance could only be hair oil. He held it near my nose and allowed me to inhale deeply. It was hair oil. Mrs. Peterson had somehow gotten her hand into the hair of one of the men, and he had wrenched it away leaving the mark on her wrist.

"Noxious stuff, but particularly popular in Sicily, and I know of only three tobacconists that handle those odd cigarettes I found outside. Two are in the Greek Isles, and one is in a small town in Sicily. You know I have thought of doing a monograph on the peculiar odors of hair products, based on geographical location. Perhaps something for the future," he mused. "We have a direction. Come Russell, we can do no more here."

I was standing in the center of the room looking at the bodies of two people I had just met, and trying not to let the pain of their loss overwhelm me. It did not seem right to just leave them like this, but as I was about to voice my objection we both heard the sound of a car coming down the narrow lane. The friend was arriving. We turned as one and headed out the back door without a sound. Holmes relocked it and we fled into the fields of sunflowers and disappeared.

It took a very long time to make our way to the agreed upon pick-up point, and neither of us spoke. Once aboard the ship I collapsed into a chair in our quarters and allowed Holmes to give the particulars of what we had found to the Captain, who had joined us in the cabin. The two men called for charts and started discussing the route we would follow to Sicily, as soon as was possible. A tray with tea and sandwiches was brought in and I forced myself to eat, but I tasted nothing. I had a large lump in my throat, and a knot in my stomach. Two good people had died, and we had left them for their friend to find. Sometimes I hated all this. Why was I here instead of at my desk in the Bodleian, where everything was so much simpler? Why did Mycroft send us here to meet people we would like, only to find their dead bodies and not know why they had died? Why? Why? My brain shouted. I felt the prickle of tears in my eyes and I wanted to scream.

Holmes suddenly stopped what he was doing and turned in my direction. It was as if he had heard my mind's anguished cry. He asked the Captain to excuse us for an hour while we rested, then he would join him on the bridge. After the door closed Holmes came over and stood before me. He wordlessly pulled me up from the chair and guided me to the bed. Stretching out upon its surface, he enfolded me in his arms and pulled my head down to be cradled on his shoulder. His voice was gentle as he whispered, "It is all right, Russ, they were good people, it is appropriate to mourn them." His words released the emotions that I had been holding in check, and I sobbed into his shoulder until I was empty, and sleep overtook me.

I awoke to an empty cabin and the drumming sound of the boat's engine. I felt better, the lump in my throat was gone, and the knot in the pit of my stomach had relaxed some. The storm of emotion had passed, and I could face what came next. I found a basin and pitcher of water and set about washing my face and putting my hair back under control. Holmes always liked to loosen my hair and stroke it when I was in distress. I was struck by the memory of the first time he had indulged in this action (for I now knew what pleasure it gave him). That too had been on a boat. The signs of my distress washed from my face and my hair and clothes straightened, I left the cabin to find my husband.

He was smoking his pipe on the stern, in the lee of the wind, amongst the nets. "Hello Holmes," I said quietly.

"Hello Russell. I take it you are feeling more yourself."

"Yes, I am sorry I let my emotions get the better of me, very unprofessional."

"Hardly that," he said as he knocked out his pipe and put it in his pocket. "I was just pondering the insights you have brought to my life. There was a time, not that long ago, when I would have viewed the bodies of the Petersons and felt it appropriate to suppressed all emotions associated with their deaths. I would have made myself look upon them as just a set of clues, evidence I would use to capture the murderer. They would have been no more than a piece of a problem I was trying to solve; no feelings would be allowed to enter into that problem. I had no place in my life for anything but the cerebral. The emotions were banished, or at the very least drugged into submission when they threatened to overwhelm me. I trod a very dangerous path, and it almost destroyed me. It might have done, had it not been for my loyal friend Watson. He pulled me back from the brink more than once."

Holmes took a deep breath and continued, "From the moment you stepped into my life, fifteen and so hurt and angry, you changed it irrevocably. You have shown me a different way. You have demonstrated your ability to put these emotions aside when necessary, and then deal with them at the appropriate time and place, without letting them overwhelm your intellect. You have retained that human connection in spite of all that you have experienced, the pain and loss you have had in your life. It would have been far easier for you to distance yourself and become the thinking machine Watson described me as in his stories. You did not. You have taught me a far better method than I employed at your age, and I will not allow you to think yourself unprofessional because of it." Here he faltered and nervously pulled out his pipe and stared at it for a moment, before putting it back into his pocket.

"Thank you Holmes, that is very generous of you." I said, as I sat down on a coil of rope next to him and leant my body against his.

He turned his gray eyes to mine and spoke volumes without uttering a word. His look held such love and deep concern. Holmes had so many feelings that he could not put into words, but conveyed with his eyes. I felt an electric shock run up my spine, as I perceived the gravity with which he was weighing his next words.

"We must discuss this case, for case it is now. We have taken the independent action of attempting to identify and capture the murders of Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. This was not our assignment, but I for one, do not think I can turn back just now. I will offer, though, the possibility that you can turn back. This may take weeks, Russ, and in the end be futile. You wanted only a small diversion from your work. This offers a lengthy and dangerous path, and at its end, there is always the possibility of failure." Here he paused and allowed me to contemplate his words.

After a few minutes I answered, "I need to see this through Holmes, as much for my own sake as for theirs. They felt like family in those few hours we had together, I could not turn my back on them now. I will not leave until we have discovered who did this terrible thing. I am prepared for what will come in Sicily." This last was bravado and I hoped Holmes did not see how truly unprepared I was. We just would not fail I thought, and when we have captured the murderers I will feel more at peace with the loss of my temporary relatives.

"I see," he said thoughtfully. "I do not think you will be in Sicily on this occasion. The town we seek is small and too many strangers asking too many questions would arouse suspicion. No, we will have to allow the capable Captain Damanasos and his crew to be our eyes and ears. They have been known in this port and throughout the Mediterranean for many years. I have instructed him in where he might find the information we need, and a very general description of the men we know were at that house. Damanasos can do the job; he is after all one of Mycroft's. We must be so much excess baggage and wait." He paused and I could see his hand fingering the pipe in his pocket. He was not all that satisfied with having someone else do his work, but was resigned to the need in this case. He went on, "This is a very fast boat; we will be in Sicily by the day after tomorrow. This vessel has the reputation of not always sailing the straight and narrow path. The crew has indulged in some small smuggling operations in the past, and do bring in a catch from time to time. But, they have made it very clear that for a price they will move cargo that might not be exactly legal."

"Perfect for our purposes," I mused.

"Quite," was his answer.

A silence fell between us and Holmes again pulled out his pipe and went about filling the bowl from his tobacco pouch. This voyage was resurrecting many memories from our journey to Palestine. I found those memories were a comfort to me. I even found I wanted to enjoy some of the pastimes we had used on that trip.

"I wonder if the Captain has a chess set aboard?" I queried.

"Actually, he does, and has said I might borrow it if I give him a game," Holmes said with a small twitch of his lips.

"Silly man, does he think he can beat you, or does he just want the bragging rights of having played you?"

"Or, he may be a better player," ventured Holmes.

"Then that would be a game I would very much like to see," I said as I leaned more heavily into my husband.

The Captain was a good solid player, but he was unprepared for the unconventional and eclectic play of Holmes. The game shifted back and forth for some time, and I enjoyed watching Holmes put together his assaults that left the Captain scrambling and looking appraisingly at the man on the opposite side of the board. In the end Holmes won, but just barely. "I think Mr. Holmes, that you would be a very successful smuggler in the Mediterranean. You do the unexpected without letting your opponent have the slightest clue that you have changed the rules somehow. A very interesting game, thank you," the Captain said as he offered his hand to Holmes.

"Thank you," Holmes said as he shook the man's hand. "You are the first person, outside of Russell, to give me such a challenge in a very long time. She beats me enough to keep me humble. It's one of the reasons I married her."

I had to work hard to not snort at that last statement, and actually managed to place a complacent look on my face when the Captain's eyes shifted to me. The poor man left shaking his head and muttering to himself.

The Sicilian town we sought was named Trapani, an ancient word for "hook," and a very good description of the shape of its harbor. It was located on the northwesterly tip of the island, and was distinguished by the windmills that dotted its coastline. They were used to grind the salt that could be found in the nearby coastal plains. The Captain had told us that the tuna fishing in this area was excellent, and had brought his boat here many times before.

Our vessel pulled in and anchored in the deep blue water. Captain Damanasos, along with his first mate, rowed to the shore in the small skiff. The Captain was going to the barbershop nearest the tobacconist that Holmes described, to make inquires about the men we sought. Holmes and the Captain had concocted a likely story of tracking men who had stolen a cargo that was to be transported on our vessel, and they must now be found. It sounded plausible enough, but the Captain would need to lean heavily on his honor being besmirched and such, to gain the sympathy of his informants. Culturally they would respond to honor needing to be regained and might be freer with their information.

Sitting quietly and letting others do our legwork was not something either Holmes or I found an easy thing to do. We were staying in our cabin so we would not be observed from the shore. This crew had been in this port many times, and two new crewmen might cause suspicion. The waiting was making me very restless, and I paced back and forth in our small space, until finally Holmes spoke sharply. "Russell, do sit down and read or review irregular verbs or something, just be still."

I froze and glared at the top of the head that was presented to me as he bent over his pipe to fiddle with cleaning the bowl. I thought, not for the first time, that I should take up the pipe, if for no other reason than to have something to do at times like this. The image of Holmes' face if I were to pull out a pipe and start smoking had me giggling to myself. This put me in a much better mood, and I walked to a chair and sat.

Holmes glanced up from his pipe at my giggle and looked at me expectantly. "I would be very pleased to hear what amuses you so, Russ. Do tell me your jest," he said sharply.

"It's nothing Holmes, but I do think I will bring knitting the next time we jaunt off like this. It would give me something to do with my hands, and I might have a lovely cardigan in the end," I said, with a wicked grin on my face.

Holmes came perilously close to snorting to this, but he managed to control himself. He suddenly tilted his head to one side and listened intently before saying, "The skiff is returning, now perhaps we will have the data we need to move forward with this case." I had heard nothing, but trusting that Holmes was correct, I walked to the small porthole and peered out; the skiff was indeed approaching from the shore.

The Captain soon joined us in the cabin, displaying a look of satisfaction on his face. "By God, beg pardon ma'am, the men we seek are known here. They spent some time in the town, arriving three weeks ago. They departed suddenly, by night, little more than ten days before this. When I told my story of their theft of my cargo I was offered more information that I thought possible. The leader was described as a small man who seems a bit of a dandy. He did openly wear a large caliber revolver in his belt. He had his hair trimmed every six or seven days, and loved that awful smelling hair oil. The barber thought him a fool, but was happy to take his money. The second man was the muscle, and he kept to himself. The youngest of the three liked to brag to the ladies when he was, umm," here he faltered and looked embarrassed as he glanced in my direction, "when he had a few too many drinks. He bragged about doing a 'job' in Italy, and their need to lay low for a time before they would be picked up by a boat and taken to their next assignment. I spoke to the girl who was 'friendly' to the youth, and even she offered information. He wasn't as generous with her as he had promised. He told her he was employed by very important people and would be making more money than she could imagine in the next weeks. He spoke of France and then joining others in Crete to return to the east."

"At this rate, the youth will not last long, in his chosen profession," quipped Holmes.

Damanasos had let his accent slide from the plumy to somewhere nearer to Greece as he told his story. This was a man whose history I would have loved to have heard.

"I will be writing a report for London and sending it off from Palermo. If you want to include anything let me know. From Palermo we will travel to Chania, Crete. I have many contacts in Crete, and if these men are there, we will find them." With this he inclined his head to Holmes and me and left the cabin.

"Crete," I said with awe in my voice, "a land of myth and mystery."

"If we are fortunate, we shall clear up a mystery, but I am not sure there will be any myths involved," murmured Holmes thoughtfully. "Crete is an island defined by its geographical location. It sits between the continents of Europe, Asia and Africa and has been the crossroads of cultures, conflict and bloodshed for millennia."

I could tell Holmes was about to launch into one of his lectures, so I settled myself and prepared to listen.

"Many factions in the Mediterranean have used that country for a base. The current unpleasantness between Greece and Turkey may be playing a role in whatever these men are doing. Promises made by the western Allies to ensure Greece entered the war on their side, has led to the current war in that region. Those promises included large territorial gains at the expense of the Ottoman Empire. Turkish revolutionaries have fought the Greek advance to a stalemate, and earlier this year the Allies proposed an armistice. The Turks have declined any settlement of the hostilities. The area remains very volatile, and I for one do not wish to be drawn into the unpleasantness," Holmes said as he looked in my direction.

"I agree, if these are Turkish agents, I do not want to chase them into a country where there is actual warfare," I stated. A small shiver ran down my spine and I could not keep my mind from conjuring up the image of Holmes' back as he hung in a room in Palestine, the victim of a Turkish madman.

"Good, it is decided then, we will pursue this as far as we might without actually entering into an area where there are military operations," he said sensibly.

The boat made its way along the coast of Sicily to the larger port city of Palermo. Here we would be invisible, so Holmes and I went ashore, to make some purchases that would enhance our possessions. The crew had contributed items to keep us clothed, but we felt it was time to pick up additional things. This was quickly accomplished, and I was very pleased with the shirts and one dress I purchased. I replaced the horrid stocking cap, Holmes had given me in Marseilles, with a floppy fisherman's cap that was large enough to accommodate my hair in a braid. A crewman took our parcels back to the boat as Holmes and I went about looking for the other items we desired. We parted company at a small bookshop. Holmes asked me quietly, "If they have any English newspapers purchase them, will you Russ?" I nodded my agreement. I was in desperate need of something to read, and Holmes was running low on tobacco so we each went to satisfy our wants.

When I entered the small, poorly lit store, I took in the smell of old books and I was home. One and a half hours later Holmes was hissing in my ear that the Captain would leave us if we did not return immediately. I left with great reluctance, clutching a lovely volume of the mythic history of Crete and a novel by Edith Wharton, "The Age of Innocence" in Italian. I did not, as a rule, read fiction but this had won the Pulitzer Prize two years before, and I thought it might be diverting, besides I could use the practice with my Italian. Holmes had to be satisfied with a four-day-old London paper, and one only two-days-old from Marseilles. From the latter we read that the Petersons had been found, and their deaths ruled murder, suicide. The small article concluded with the statement that a relative was having their bodies shipped to England for burial. Mycroft was taking care of them, I thought. Sam Peterson was getting his wish to go home to England where he could rest in his native soil, with his good wife at his side.

I spent much of the voyage to Crete on the stern of the vessel reading or in the cabin. The crew may be working for Mycroft, but they were still Mediterranean fisherman at their core. They were uncomfortable with a woman aboard their boat. Holmes could sit and talk with them for hours, but I was "female" and unwelcome in their male world. I did not let this bother me, as I had experienced the male bonding ritual from both sides, as an excluded female, and as a female disguised as a male. In that guise I had been privy to the interaction of men, sometimes casual and sometimes in the heat of battle. The one gift I had taken from my time as a male, was the concept of brotherhood. I was brother to men I might never see again, but the connection went deep and would last a lifetime. With that knowledge I could content myself with my reading and leave Holmes to bond with our shipmates.

We approached Chania from the Mediterranean and into the Sea of Crete. The town is located on the northwestern side, and at the base of an elongated shaped chunk of rock, and sandy beaches. On the map the peninsula had the appearance of a swollen thumb, jutting out into the sea. The land up from the sandy beach had the look of desert about it, harsh and challenging. There were jagged rocks jutting up from the sandy soil. The vegetation was sparse and low to the ground; the word "scrub" came up from the depths of my memory. My father had called bushes much like these--scrub brush. An American term I supposed. I suddenly realized this terrain was very similar to portions of California. The plant life gave off the air of being tenacious of life, surviving in conditions of little water and too much heat.

The sun was setting when we landed the skiff west of the city and walked to a small house on the outskirts of the town. It was a simple whitewashed building that displayed a bright yellow door and shutters. The Captain knocked and we were allowed to enter the cool dim space. Inside were several men finishing a meal. In the next room I could just make out the dark shapes of several women. The men welcomed Damanasos with slaps on his back and kisses to his cheeks, but they continued to keep one eye on Holmes and me while doing so. The Captain vouched for us and glasses were brought out and an alcoholic beverage was produced. I was translating as well as I could for Holmes. I read ancient Greek, but translating this spoken version was proving to be heavy going.

The Captain asked if any strangers meeting the description of the three men we sought had been seen or if anyone had heard of them in the area. Heads began to nod, and Holmes sat straight upright.

"Ask them where these men might be found," he demanded.

The Captain asked the question, and the answers were so animated and numerous; I was only able to understand a few words. The Captain translated, "These men had been in the town, and have spent a great deal of money on their comforts and amusements. The young one insulted a girl in the town and her brother fought with him. The brother was knifed but will live. The three men left town earlier than they had intended. The townspeople were not very welcoming after the fight. These men left for Souda one maybe two hours before our arrival. Souda is on a large bay across the band of land separating the Akrotiri peninsula from the mainland of Crete, approximately six kilometers from Chania."

"If we can obtain horses to make the journey to Souda we might still catch up to these men," Holmes said.

The Captain was astounded by this request of Holmes. "Sir, we are two men and a woman against three experienced killers. What do you think we can accomplish by chasing them through the night?"

"It would be very good if we could have a look at the three and at the very least have a description of them for Mycroft. It would be productive if we could delay their departure long enough for you to bring your boat and your crew to the Souda Bay and lend the sheer force of numbers that would make their apprehension a possibility. Now, will you inquire about the horses, or shall my wife be forced to make the request?" Holmes said, in a voice that was on the edge of command.

The request was made, and heads again nodded in the affirmative. We would be lent horses, and the youngest man in the group offered to guide us through the dark to Souda Bay. He had broken English and I had broken Greek, so it was determined that we might be able to communicate. The Captain rose to leave and cautioned us to be careful. "Your brother would be very unhappy with me if anything were to happen to the two of you," were his departing words, as he left the room to return to his vessel.

We set off on horseback following the young man whose name I had been told was Niko. It was a torturous journey over rocky, hilly terrain in almost complete darkness. The moon was new and no light penetrated the night as it enveloped us. The horses seemed familiar with the path we took and were blessedly surefooted. After I determined mine was not about to bolt or walk into anything, I gave him his head. My nerves were on edge, and I was filled with apprehension as to what we would face on the other side of this rocky expanse. Holmes was correct that we might delay the killers long enough for the Captain to bring his boat and crew, but I had no idea how we would accomplish this feat. I hoped Holmes had a plan, but I suspected he was--he would hate this phrase--playing it by ear. Those who only knew my husband from Dr. Watson's stories would believe that he was a methodical and careful planner. This was partially true. In my experience he was just as likely to improvise as he went along.

I had thought the ascent up the hilly expanse had been difficult; I was unprepared for the decent on the other side. I clung to the neck of the animal and whispered a fervent prayer that I would not fall off. There was a sense of vertigo, of falling into space as we descended into the black void. We went down and down into the darkness, until finally we made a small curve to the left toward the water, and a dot of light became visible in the distance. I whispered to our guide to ask what the light might be. He answered that someone had built a bonfire on the beach; a signal fire was more like it, I thought. They were going to be picked up tonight. Damn.

"Holmes," I whispered. "Do you see it?"

"Of course I can see it, Russell, don't be obtuse," was his sharp answer.

"Then, what course of action do you wish to take? Niko would like to know, and so would I," came my equally sharp reply.

We were riding down the narrow path single file, Niko in front, me in the middle and Holmes at the back. Each time I spoke to Niko I lent forward on my horse's neck to facilitate his hearing my words, and when I spoke to Holmes it required my twisting in the saddle to make myself heard, and both were becoming tiresome.

"Ask the young man if we can approach the beach without being seen," he answered.

I relayed the question, and the answer came back that we would need to leave the horse and walk in the last sixty meters. We agreed to the plan. We rode closer to the light and finally found some boulders that would afford us cover for the animals.

We left the horses hobbled and set off on foot following our guide. Holmes and I each had our revolvers, and I had my throwing knife in my boot top, but Niko was armed with a wicked looking rifle. The manner in which he had it slung casually across his back told me he was no stranger to the weapon. The thought was very reassuring.

The fire on the beach was a torch of light that cut through the darkness. Not daring to make a sound, we crept through brush and rocks. The last fifteen meters we were crawling on our bellies, the rocks and brush tearing at our skin and clothing. We could see one figure on the beach sitting on his heels by the bonfire, alone. What happened next is really just a series of impressions. Holmes had lent in my direction to whisper something in my ear, when the sand half a meter in front of where his head had been a second before exploded with the crack of a gunshot. He continued the motion in my direction and gathered me up to roll over and over away from the spot were we had been. There were shouts behind us; two men were in the darkness and firing their weapons repeatedly. The man on the beach was up and racing in our direction. We were caught between them. I looked for Niko and saw that he had gone in the opposite direction from us and was now on one knee bringing his rifle up and around to take aim into the dark. A volley of gunfire erupted from the night as he turned, his head jerked and he collapsed in a heap. There was no cover, we were open targets for the three guns, and I wanted to press my body into the sand and pull it over my head. Instead I had my revolver up and I took aim at the man running from the beach. Holmes had turned and was covering our backs from the two in the dark. The sand by my head exploded and the grit thrown in my face blinded me. I heard Holmes fire off several rounds as I tried to clear my glasses and eyes from sand. I could hear the sound of the man running from the beach, and I knew he would be on us in seconds. When my vision cleared I saw him take aim at the back of Holmes' head and my blood went cold. It was the small man with the large caliber revolver. The dandy with the noxious hair oil was about to put a bullet in the back of my husband's head. His hand was out stretched and I could clearly see his small wrist silhouetted in the light from the bonfire. I did not hesitate, I put a bullet through that wrist, shattering bone and severing tendons rendering the appendage useless. His scream was a mixture of agony and fury. The large caliber revolver dropped from his now lifeless hand to the sand.

With their leader screaming on the beach, the two in the dark became disorganized and began firing wildly. They then tried a frontal assault, which Holmes' revolver kept at bay. I positioned myself so I could watch the man on the beach and still provide Holmes with some cover. We kept changing our positions, crawling low to a new location after each shot. We hoped to keep the two from directing their fire to our exact location and the tactic seemed to work. They were wasting their bullets firing where we had been, seconds before. As long as we stayed on our bellies we would not be seen against the light from the beach. We finally were able to crawl behind some small rocks and Holmes reloaded his pistol. "Why were those two out in the dark from the beach?" I breathed.

"It would appear they had been sent out into the darkness to retrieve more fuel for the fire. I heard one drop something heavy just as the first shot came," was his answer.

The guns in the dark were silent and I wondered if they too were reloading, or if they had run out of ammunition. My answer came as a large muscular man came out of the darkness from our right. He had worked his way to our flank and was now flinging himself at Holmes. The inertia of his leap pushed Holmes into me and I struck my head against one of the rocks we were using as cover. I was stunned and when my head cleared I could see the younger man emerging from the dark his gun barrel in his hand, he was wielding it like a club. I got to my feet and stepped into his path. Using his momentum I grabbed his shirtfront and threw my whole body down, kicking out with my feet to fling him over my head and onto his back. The air was violently pushed from his lungs and he lay temporarily stunned. My knife was in my hand and I braced to meet the next attack. I had lost my revolver and didn't have the time to locate it in the sand.

I heard voices coming from the shore. A boat was landing and the small man, with his useless hand cradled to his chest, was running into the surf. The younger man saw his leader leave and he started to run toward the water. The large man grappling with Holmes landed a mighty blow to his jaw, and Holmes went down. The brute turned toward me and took in my knife, my stance, and I'm sure the look of fury on my face, and sprinted for the beach.

The two men from the small boat were running with guns drawn and firing in our direction to cover the three as they escaped. Holmes pulled me to the sand and thrust my weapon into my hand. We continued to fire until the boat left the shore and went into the black night. We could not see the vessel it joined but heard its mighty engine as it started up and pulled away into the east.

Free from deadly gunfire, Holmes and I rushed to Niko's side. He was alive; a bullet had grazed his forehead and left a bloody gash. Using my handkerchief and one of the sleeves from Holmes' shirt, we bandaged the young man's head. He would have a glorious scar to display when he told the tale of this night. He started to regain consciousness and we helped him move onto the beach, nearer the fire, as we waited for the arrival of our vessel.

While we waited, I was almost overwhelmed by the realization that "They" had escaped. They were gone, and there was no way to follow them, short of stopping at every island, isle or rock jutting up from the sea in Greece, or God forbid, heading to Turkey. We had not discussed it, but I was as sure as Holmes that they were Turkish agents. What few words that were exchanged between the three were in that language. I had been convinced when I first heard them speak, but Holmes' reaction to their words made me positive. He had gone ridged with the first word. He had been marked by torture at the hands of a Turk. Marked with the very real scars on his back, and the deeper wounds to his soul. He would never be able to keep from reacting when he heard that language.

I had not intended to speak my thoughts, but the words just came tumbling out. "Holmes, we failed," I said with desperation in my voice.

"It does happen, Russell. It is not pleasant, and it can eat at your soul if you allow it. I have been guilty of that destructive behavior in my past, on the whole, I would advise against it. We have done our best, which is all we have to offer." His words did little to alleviate the pain I was experiencing. The words, we failed, loomed huge in my consciousness and threatened to overwhelm me. How could this have happened? Despair was waiting to smother me, but I pressed it back, there was still much to do.

Captain Damanasos brought his ship into the bay at that predawn hour when the sky is at its blackest, and the stars dot its bowl like so many candles on an ocean of darkness. He agreed there was no chance to follow the vessel that held the enemy agents. They would leave no convenient trail for us to follow after last night. They would just disappear into the islands and points east.

Niko was brought to the ship for the return trip to his home. He was still unsteady on his feet, and could not make the ride back. Two crewmen were dispatched to take the horses to Chania where we would put Niko ashore and pick them up.

With Niko safely aboard and being looked after by what passed for the doctor on this vessel, Holmes and I stood on the deck and watched the beach recede into the distance.

"Might I ask why you chose to put a bullet through the small man's wrist instead of his head?" Holmes queried.

I was silent for several minutes before I answered, "A clean death was too good for him. I took away what made him feel like a man. I took his large revolver. He will never hold it or anything else with that hand again." My voice was tight with fury, and I pulled back my jacket to display the large weapon I had in my waistband. I had picked it up from the beach where its former owner's blood covered the sand. In his pain and panic he had left his prize possession for me. It was cold comfort, but it was something.

Holmes left me to my thoughts as we made the trip back around the peninsula to the city of Chania, Niko's home. His family was waiting for us, as the crewmen had already arrived with the horses and told the tale of the nights adventure. The male members of his family helped him to the house and cried aloud the story of his narrow escape from death. He was a hero returning from the wars with battle wounds to display. Holmes and I accompanied him to his house and received the gratitude of his family. We made sure Niko would be properly cared for, and declined the offer of a meal. An older lady of the household took my hand and bid me to follow her to the yard in the back of the house. There she took me to a small stone building set apart, with a large fire and kettle near by. She took me inside to display the treasure she was offering. There stood a large claw footed bathtub. The kettle had heated water and that water was now steaming in the tub. For bringing her son home, she was offering me the kindness of a hot bath. She let me know that she would personally bring in any additional hot water I needed and stand guard at the door to see that I was not bothered. I looked down at my torn and filthy clothes and despaired that I didn't have anything clean to put on. She understood and let me know that clean clothing would be brought for me. I started to take her hand in thanks, but at the last moment I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and she colored and told me to stop being foolish and to take my bath before it became cold. I did as she said. The bath revived me and lessened the stiffness that threatened to overcome my muscles. It didn't relieve the growing sense of frustration at not being able to capture the murderers. It didn't lessen the pain of my first true failure, but it was reviving.

I returned to the house to find Holmes bathed, shaven and clothed in a clean shirt and trousers. His jaw was bruised and he walked with a stiffness that let me know he had suffered from the night's event. Even clean we both were not in the best of moods. I did not want to talk to him, which would open me to the black depression that threatened to overwhelm me. I went into the room where Niko had been placed and checked to see that he was fully alert and not lethargic after his head wound. He appeared to be recovering and we said our goodbyes. Leaving the room I walked past Holmes and took my leave of the family that had been so kind to us. Then I walked outside and went straight to the skiff. Holmes joined me and we returned in silence to our boat.

Back aboard the vessel, I wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Holmes was right, we had done our best, but it had not been enough. I pulled the large revolver from my belt where I had shoved it after the bath. It had seemed a prize when I had first picked it up, but suddenly I wanted nothing to do with it. I walked to the railing and threw the accursed thing into the sea.

"Feel better?" came the voice from behind me.

I turned and faced my husband, "Not really. I just couldn't stand to have it another minute. You tried to warn me that this case could turn into a futile attempt, but I thought we could do it, I thought we could not fail. It was naive of me to think we were infallible. It just did not seem possible that we would not capture those agents. How do you bear this feeling of bitter failure?" I could feel the desperation begin to close upon me, and I turned my back to hide my face from Holmes.

My husband walked slowly to my side and took my hand in his. He led me to our cabin and closed and locked the door. He pulled the drape over the porthole, and turned to me. I just stood in the middle of the room where he had let go of my hand, I was suddenly too weary to protest or move.

He came back to me and held my gaze, his eyes deep with emotion. His hand came to my cheek and gently stroked the skin where I had a scratch. With his other hand he pulled the hat from my head and began to loose the tie that held my braid. His fingers pulled the hair loose and spread it down my back. "Holmes," I breathed.

"Shhh" was his gentle reply. "You asked how I bore the failures of my past. I fled from them in drugs. I had nowhere that I could seek comfort, but the oblivion the needle offered. Oh, Watson tried to be of some help, but even his friendship could not alleviate the despair. I was totally alone. You are not. I will not allow you to be." His hands held my face, and his mouth came down on mine with all the force of that first kiss on the dock by the Thames. I became lost in the power of that kiss. I clung to Holmes for support as my legs lost their strength. When rational thought returned I was awed by the emotions he was conveying to me. He needed me as much as I needed him. Neither of us would be left alone with failure and despair. This was our strength; this is what would save us. We had each other. The days ahead would be difficult, but for the next few hours we could cling to one another and find peace.

The next day the Captain informed us that he could not return us to France; he had another assignment and needed us off his vessel in three days time. It was decided that we would be taken to Trieste where we might board the Simplon Orient Express for Calais and the boat to England. This was the fastest way for us to make the journey back, but the timing was critical. If we missed the express, it would be days before the train returned for another run to France and England. That would force us to take a succession of locals to make our way across Europe. It was not a prospect that lightened our already downcast frames of mind.

We did miss the express, by only two hours. There would not be another for a week. It was a very sorry pair of detectives that endured the nightmarish journey from Trieste to Calais. Gone were the wealthy newlywed couple and their private first class compartment. They were replaced by a man and a woman in simple clothing who could only secure seats in second class, and on one particularly unpleasant portion of the peregrination, seats on a third class bench. Our moods darkened as the hours and days passed in a confusion of unwashed bodies pressed against us, little sleep and less food. The last fifteen hours before Calais were purgatory. We were on a local that stopped at every town, village, or wide spot in the road, along the route. At each stop people climbed over us to depart the train and still more poured on and insinuated their bodies against us. By the time we arrived in London and found our way to Mycroft's room, it was late in the day, and we both set our minds toward one goal. We would give our report to Holmes' brother, with as much grace as we could muster, and flee to Sussex. Staying in London was not an option. We were desperate for the clean air of the downs, and the tender ministrations of Mrs. Hudson.

For what happened next read "Our American Neighbor"
For what happened just before read "A Matter of Timing"

Authors note: The Second Greco-Turkish War (1919-1922) mentioned in this story, was a bloody conflict that caused millions to be displaced from their former homes. It was settled by The Treaty of Lausanne (1923) the final treaty concluding World War I. For those interested there is a great deal of information available on the Internet.

The editing process of this lengthy story was expertly facilitated by Merrily/"'I'm getting too old for this,' he muttered", Fran/"It saved me from ennui" and our own Countess Wilhelmina/"His gentle, clever hands." Their suggestions and corrections helped to shape this story, and allowed me to submit it for your pleasure. Also my thanks go to Pamela who generously volunteered her time and exertise to prepare this story to go on The Hive. Without her help it would not be here for all to read. New friends all, but much loved by me. "...the girl with the strawberry curls"