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Paper Chase	By : varenoea Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 3925 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 1-Paper Chase
- 2-Ch 2
- 3-ch 3
- 4-Ch 4
- 5-Ch 5
- 1
- 2
A/N: Vixin asked: "Silly Watson if the post mark was dated two days ago, how are you to meet her 'tonight Monday'?"
Very simple, really. In Victorian England, the mail was a LOT more reliable than these days. You could calculate very easily when you had to pop a letter into the mailbox to have it arrive at a specific day. For further reference, see Liza Picard's "Victorian London".

On the the story.
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„Let me see. It’s a lady, and not one you’re related to.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you blush over a letter. And you don’t seem to be angry or agitated, so I take it that you’re excited for some other reason.”

“Great work, Holmes. I didn’t know if it was written by a lady, let alone if I’m related to her or not.”

“No, but you thought it was written by a lady, and the content made you believe - or hope! – that you were not relatives.” Holmes looked at me over the breakfast table and grinned slightly. “Will you let me have a look at the handwriting?”

“No”, I said sharply.

“I’m sure I could help you figuring out what kind of a woman she is. I just bet you want to know yourself. A little look won’t do any harm…”

“It’s a love letter! Keep your hands off it!” I drew the paper away just as he was about to snatch it.

He looked hurt. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Don’t you think it would be out of place to let you read a love letter someone else has directed at me? And a very… intimate one, at that?”

“I see.” His tone implied that he very much did not see.

I breathed out and pinched my nose. It was too early to have a conversation like this one. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of letting him read the letter, to see him blush. Blush he would, I was certain of it. The letter was very intimate, as I said before. Even Holmes would have blushed over it.

I was bursting with curiosity, of course. It seemed that I had a secret admirer; and unfortunately she seemed keen on staying secret, since she had only signed with the words “Secretly yours”. But there was no way that I would ask Holmes to find out who she was. First of all, he was the last person with whom I would ever want to discuss romance; secondly, the lady would make herself known when she wanted to; and finally, it is not a very good basis for romance if your future lover finds you through a detective.

“I would never try to impose myself on your life”, Holmes said sincerely and got up. “I must be off.”

“What are you doing today?” I asked.

“Surely nothing remotely as interesting as your case.” He tapped his finger on the piece of paper, which I had placed upside down on the table. “I wish I could at least get a look.”

“No.”

“I could find her out in no time…”

“I know. I’m being cruel, but you’re not allowed to solve this one. It’s mine.”

“Hmpf. Treasure it. All I get to do today are my tax assessments.”

We laughed, and he left. This left me alone with the letter.

The handwriting on the letter and the envelope was small, delicate and round, written in black ink. The paper did not tell me anything at all - it looked like it had been taken from a package of typewriter paper. The letter was not perfumed, the stamp was a bland and uninteresting thing, picked without any intent of giving a message to the receiver. The postmark had been placed two days ago.

I looked for smears that could tell me if the writer was right- or left-handed, but there were no smears. The writing looked as neat as it could be.

I sat, gnawing my lip. Should I ask Holmes after all?

No. This was my riddle. Besides, the content of the letter gave me a few clues. It read:

Beloved!

Or may I not call you beloved, since you don’t know who I am, or indeed if you want my love at all?

I must admit, your writings were the first thing to strike my interest; and the more I found out about you, the more I wanted to know. Now I find myself taken in by your looks as well; your voice, and the way you smile a little lopsided in the moments when you fail to find the words you’re looking for.

If you would permit me to, I could spend four hours just looking into your eyes, only to imprint their colour into my memory forever. Or if this sounds boring to you, I could spend two hours staring at your eyes, and two staring at your mouth, to remember the shape of your cupid’s bow.

I could see that the lady had a strange sense of amusement.

Or even better – I could spend hours looking at your hands, your shoulders, or your chest, or – or anywhere you will allow it. Oh say you do, say that I would be allowed to just sit beside you and look on you!

I’m not even bold enough to ask for a touch. I will wait until you reach out and take my hand. Until then, I’m staying in the shadow and wait for you to come and show me that my letter have not left you cold entirely.

You might feel like a little blinded now, but if you want to see, meet me tonight, Monday, at seven. Do not fear for your reputation; we will not meet at a secret place but under everybody’s eyes, and besides, under the eyes of a saint who sees to it that no improper actions take place between us.

Come and meet me – or if my affection bothers you, do not come, and forget all about me.

Secretly yours.

What was I supposed to make of that? A secret admirer who wanted to meet me in public? And under the eyes of a saint?

Of course I would go. I was far too curious to ignore the lady; and, admittedly, I was feeling more flattered by the minute. I even began to wonder if she looked pretty.

But there was one obstacle to solve: where would we meet? A public place, under the eyes of a saint? There were at least a dozen places in London where this applied. I read the letter again, more thoroughly; and suddenly the strange sentence “you might feel a little blinded now” struck me. In this paragraph, the eye motif practically threw itself at me.

A saint, blinded and seeing, in public.

The only thing I could think of was the statue of St Paul by the cathedral. The place was public enough, and St Paul fitted the motif of being blinded, and then seeing again.

This riddle did not seem very hard to me so far. Well, if the lady knew me as well as she claimed she did, she should know that I was no match for Holmes.

What kind of a woman would only have become interested in me through the stories I published, and then met me in person – not only met me but watched me for long enough to get infatuated with the way I smiled – and still never have introduced herself in person?

Or was she someone whose acquaintance I had made before?

I had enough to think about while I waited under the statue of St Paul. It was three minutes to seven when a boy ran up to me. In his dirty hand he held an envelope – bland, uninteresting-looking, and not a single word written on it.

“That’s for you, sir”, he said, pushed the envelope in my general direction and turned to run away again. But I was not going to let him get away that easily. I held on to his jacket.

“Wait a second. Who gave this to you?”

“Uh, I’m not allowed to tell, sir.” He tried very hard to avoid my gaze.

“Come on, you must at least tell me if it was a man or a woman? Old or young?”

“No, sir, nothing at all. It’s pretty serious. I’m not allowed.”

He tore his jacket out of my hand, and was gone.

I stayed and had a closer look at the envelope. There was nothing written on it, no stamp, no seal. Strange. If you were going to have a declaration of burning passion delivered by a twelve-year-old boy, you had better seal it in some way or other, and keep him from reading it. Otherwise you could be sure that you made the boy’s afternoon.

I opened it and pulled out another sheet of typewriter paper. It was covered in numbers – written down in the neat, black ink handwriting I had seen earlier today.

I realized that my admirer did not intend to appear in the flesh, at least not today. Instead, she had fobbed me off with another riddle. I found this rude, but on the other hand, I was beginning to enjoy this game. I had found the right place today; I would solve the number riddle as well.

I went home thoughtfully.
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Paper Chase