The Marrying Kind; Sherlock Holmes

[Mary Poppins]

The outside of 221b Baker Street was as unremarkable to Mary Poppins as any other house in London. While she loved the dear city and all its intricacies, she was in one of those moods that made everything look terribly grey. It was Uncle Albert, he was away again and his home had been closed up for the winter! Honestly, Mary had never felt so jilted in her entire life. Really, for a man of Uncle Albert’s age to go cavorting around the countryside in the dead of winter was a most irresponsible thing. Not to mention the manner in which he had so thoughtlessly put her out.

”I can see those hateful thoughts ticking all over your brain,” sometimes Mary really wished that Atticus would be quiet. ”Why shouldn’t the old man have a right go in his latter years? After all, you’re never home for tea anymore, not to mention the fact that it’s been a year since you actually stayed with him.”

Mary glared at the parrot. She had no desire to hear sense from him now, she was put out and intended to stay that way until she had had a cup of tea and the right amount of admiration from another human being. Or, perhaps, a well-informed measuring tape or mirror. Really, she did miss Bert. She snapped herself out of the reverie and turned once more to the façade of Baker Street. It was not quite so dull as she had thought it.

Ascending the steps one at a time, she readied herself to speak to the establishment’s owner. She had never let an apartment in her life. She had always been gainfully employed. Really, the wind was playing the most awful tricks on her. The Wind. With all that had been going on, she had not thought to check where the thoughtless creature had deposited her. It had been frightfully unpredictable recently. She would find out the exact date from the owner. Although, it might take a little finesse. Most people would know what year it was…

She carefully raised the gold knocker with a gloved hand and let it fall to the heavy, wooden door. As she waited, she looked upward and noticed that the shades were drawn in some of the upstairs rooms. It was odd considering it was only just the end of the afternoon. The door opened to reveal a small woman with a tired posture and exasperation written all over her face.

”I do beg your pardon, my name is Mary Poppins,” Mary began, ”I am here about the rooms you have to let. Is it too late for me view them?”

Her offer made the woman’s face brighten immediately and she introduced herself as Mrs Hudson and ushered her in to see the upstairs rooms. The interior of Baker Street was rather more welcoming, the plan open and lighter than Mary had expected.

”They are very decently sized rooms. They were previously occupied by a doctor, a very kind young man, a military man, neat. He’s getting married, though, so he’s left the rooms vacated. A shame to see him go…” she commented with a dark look at a closed door as they ascended the beautiful staircase. Mary wondered if it was at all related to the drawn curtains. She thought she could hear strains of violin music coming from behind it. She was, however, far more interested in learning what the date was and how far she had travelled on this chilly winter’s evening. They stepped into a beautiful room with pristine floorboards and immaculate countertops. Mary must be sure where she was before she moved forward.

”Forgive me,” she stopped, leaning on her umbrella as if it were a walking stick, ”I seem to have forgotten the…”

She got no further, however, as a large crash ran suddenly through the house. Mary spun around and faced the doorway through which the sound had come. Her face was bright with shock. She turned back to Mrs Hudson who seemed rather more harrowed than surprised. She sighed a sigh so heavy, Mary thought the floorboards might sag beneath the weight.

”There is one downside,” the tired Mrs Hudson began, ”I’m afraid my other tenant is somewhat… different.”

Mary frowned at her. Different? She enjoyed difference. It was vulgarity she detested and, whatever your upbringing, there was nothing more vulgar than excessive and seemingly unproductive noisemaking at this odd hour.

”Well, that simply will not do,” was all Mary said as she walked decidedly from the room and made her way towards the closed door. Mrs Hudson trotted behind, imploring her to leave him be. Really, Mary had never heard of such a thing. A grown man? She twisted the handle and threw open the door. The room was in a complete shambles and Mary thought she could smell formaldehyde. How alarming. She noted a foot hanging off the armrest of a nearby chair. She assumed it was attached to a living human being. Then again, the smell of formaldehyde was particularly strong. She gathered all of her outrage and went to work.

”Now, sir, if indeed that is what you can be called, I…” but there she stopped as she saw, her eyes adjusting in the gloom, a familiar figure form in the chair. Her breath caught in her throat and so did her voice. This was a strange turn of events, indeed.

[Sherlock Holmes]

It was another dark mood for one Sherlock Holmes. He had finished a marvelous little case involving a racehorse and a fiendish little jockey that was looking to get rich quick. The result was really all quite elementary. Honestly, all of the facts could be seen by a blind man! Well, apparently Scotland Yard had all the sight of a blind man, which was why he was called in. That was three weeks ago. He took in small cases, the kind that could be solved right from the comfort of his own home. Speaking of homes….

The detective lifted his eyes to sourly glare at the door. His sinister little land lady Mrs. Hudson had decided to let out Watson’s old rooms. (He knew that when she made her special crumpets for him this morning that she was up to something foul). He had tried to insist that he would continue to pay for his and Watson’s rooms. But then that infernal woman gave him a pitying look, and told him that the Doctor was not coming back.

So right when she closed the door, he threw a crumpet at the closed portal, then moodily sunk into his arm chair. It would be a dark day indeed, what with no cases to amuse him and strangers walking around in dear Watson’s rooms. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to survive the day, and had just taken up his beloved Stradivarius violin, playing a soothing song, when he heard footsteps and voices coming up the stairs.

He continued to play, but listened to the voices. One was Mrs. Hudsons, but the other was distinctly familiar female. Perhaps 29, carrying an umbrella. The clever landlady was keeping the conversation at a low tone, knowing that her other tenant’s sharp ears would pick up their conversation.

But he knew why the female was here, and he felt a distinct feeling of dark rage that came during these moods. Placing his violin lovingly on the side table, he calmly got up and walked over to where his chemical set was. Some chemicals were still in their beakers and vials, somewhere even bubbling furiously. It was into one of these bubbling mixtures that Holmes dropped a whole vial (literally, vial and all) into. He was of course a chemist, and knew what would happen. So he quickly backed away and slumped into his chair, his brown eyes twinkling with dark delight.

Five….. four….. three…. Two….. one…..

CRASH!!!

The detective watched as the vial burst out of the beaker in a marvelous display, slamming into the ceiling with a lovely crashing sound. Well Mrs. Landlady, try to sell away Watson’s old rooms now! For surly the new potential tenant would want to know exactly why such a noise would come from a darkened room.

However, it was when he heard those furious steps approaching his rooms, did he realize why the mysterious female seemed so familiar. A distinct style of boots, unknown to England… at least not at this time…

The door had burst open, and in stormed one Mary Poppins. Resident of London, England…. 1913.

”Now, sir, if indeed that is what you can be called, I…”

He watched calmly as she came into view, huffing and puffing disappeared into shock. He continued to remain draped in his armchair lazily. Dressed in a evening coat that looked like it had seen better days. He gave her a lethargic grin, “Really, barging into a bachalors quarters without even knocking… for shame Miss. Poppins!” He looked over the arm of his chair to view a very confused and flustered looking Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh stop fretting Nanny, we’ve met.” He said with a sigh, “Go, get some tea, yell at me later…”

”Oh and I will yell! You nearly stopped my heart, what on gods good earth was that racket!” The land lady paused, and caught sight of the mess of chemical and glass on the ceiling and sighed, ”I’ll get some tea then…” She shot an apologetic look to Mary, before making her way out of the door.

Sherlock waited until he heard Hudson’s steps disappear to the lower floors, before turning his attention to the magical Governess. A small half-smirk appeared on his face, “Welcome to 1883 Miss. Poppins.” The smirk vanished, and he gestured to a seat that wasn’t buried in paperwork or burned with chemicals as an invitation to sit down. She had some explaining to do before Hudson came back with their tea.

[Mary Poppins]

“Really, barging into a bachelors quarters without even knocking… for shame Miss. Poppins!”

Mr Sherlock Holmes: Logical Mind, Consulting Detective and, apparently, Lay-about House-Menace. ”Poor Mrs Hudson,” Mary thought before delivering a curt reply with a half-hidden smirk of her own.

”It would seem I am rather attached to you Mr Holmes,” there was a well-hidden endearment in her voice, “although only the East Wind knows why.” Despite all of his failings, Mary knew that Holmes was a good man at heart and he had helped her through a particularly interesting visit to the future. Of course, admitting that she needed anyone’s help was about as close to coming out of Mary Poppins’ mouth as a confession of her own vanity. She held a somewhat disdainful affection for the man.

Poor Mrs Hudson seemed flabbergasted and almost mortified by Mr Holmes’s apparent impropriety, but the detective showed little care for her surety.

“Oh stop fretting Nanny, we’ve met.” He said with a sigh, “Go, get some tea, yell at me later…”

Mary was appalled. Really, for a man of Mr Holmes profession, it was quite unsuited for him to yell at anyone, let alone the woman who, Mary had no doubt, took a great deal of care for him. Mrs Hudson, however, seemed to hold her own quite comfortably.

”Oh and I will yell! You nearly stopped my heart, what on gods good earth was that racket!” This lasted only for a second, however, until she acquiesced to his request, ”I’ll get some tea then…”

She looked apologetically at Mary and the nanny smiled back knowingly, she herself had seen the antics of many a misbehaved charge. Mary turned her attention back to Mr Holmes, noting his particular brand of childish adulthood. It was quite common amongst unusually intelligent men, she had to admit, but its lack of tact was not lost on her. He smirked at her as Mrs Hudson disappeared a fair way below.

“Welcome to 1883 Miss. Poppins.” He gestured for her to take a seat, his mirth disappearing for a second. Mary paused before taking him up on his offer. She looked around the room and took note of all that she saw. Mr Holmes was not in a good way, of that she was certain. Indeed, the darkness that descended as his smile faded was sinister in almost every way. The dark room and its upturned contents were further marks that something was amiss. Perhaps the East Wind had not been so haphazard in its depositing of her here at this time. Perhaps, her services really were needed, albeit in a somewhat unconventional manner. It was clear that, if not a nanny, Mr Holmes needed someone.

Rather than take his offer, which, with Mr Holmes felt more like a command, she stayed where she was. Mary Poppins did not take commands, she gave them.

”You know Mr Holmes,” she peered at him in the dark, ”a welcome is frequently more pleasant when issued in a well-lit room.” With a flick of her wrist and a directional forefinger, she flung open the heavy curtains from across the room. The light was blinding in the sustained darkness and even Mary blinked slightly at the change. It was slightly cruel, but she knew that Mr Holmes was not the type to be handled with kid-gloves. ”Not to mention when the host is on his feet…” she was hard-pressed to keep the smile from her face. Sometimes, she really enjoyed her work.

Mrs Hudson would be a short while with the coffee; she had time. She raised her hand and clicked her fingers.

[Sherlock Holmes]

”It would seem I am rather attached to you Mr Holmes, although only the East Wind knows why.”

“Hmmm.” Other than that small noise, Sherlock didn’t say anything. What a time to show up for that attachment! His dark mood had fully set in, and it didn’t help that now he would have two women in the house telling him what to do. At least Mrs. Hudson knew when to leave him alone. Mary Poppins was about to see the dark side to this detective.

Throughout his exchange with the landlady, Mary looked rather appalled at the way Sherlock spoke to the elderly woman. But he recompensed the housekeeper on her pains, paying twice the amount for his lodgings than Watson ever had to. When he offered the seat, she didn’t take it, but instead turned toward him.

”You know Mr Holmes, a welcome is frequently more pleasant when issued in a well-lit room.”

And then she flicked her wrist, sending painfully blinding light into his rooms. Letting out a cry, the detective buried his face in his hands as his eyes desperately adjusted to the sun they hadn’t seen in weeks. “Bloody Hell Poppins….” He hissed, his foul mood only worsening.

”Not to mention when the host is on his feet…”

“I believe I will stay put, as you have all but blinded me, Mademoiselle!” The sudden French accented word came out of nowhere, breaking out of Sherlock’s usually controlled English tones. He supposed he got that from his mother, who would start talking in French when she became upset or angry. (It was also a warning to Mycroft and himself to stay in their rooms until she calmed down).

He felt his depression suddenly deepen at the thought, rubbing his eyes with the flat of his palm and blinking them as his pupils finally dilated enough to see his room. And what is the first lovely sight that he sees? Why it is Mary Poppins, her hand posed and ready to invoke that special kind of magic that he had seen before.

“Don’t you dare…” He muttered, did she not realize how dangerous that was? This was no longer the 20th century, where apparently magic was just fine to practice. Now, with him getting regular visits from Clarky and Lestrade, she was putting herself in mortal danger. Did she not realize that magic was outlawed, that she would be hanged if found out?

But she clicked the fingers anyway, and Sherlock could only watch her mournfully as whatever magic she suddenly decided to use on him took effect….

(ooc: you clean his room, he’ll only trash it again the moment her back is turned xD )

[Mary Poppins]

“Bloody Hell Poppins….”

As the light rushed violently into the room, Mr Holmes’s dark side lashed out at it with the vehemence of a wounded panther. Mary’s face did not change as she understood the gravity of this situation. The detective she had known on that futuristic London street was as far from her now as she was from 1997. There was nothing for it but to continue to force him out of this shadow. She commented on his lack of proper poise when greeting a guest. His response was unyielding.

“I believe I will stay put, as you have all but blinded me, Mademoiselle!”

”Je suis trés desolée pour l’inconvénient, Monsieur,” the sarcasm dripped from her words. She too could play at that game. Her retort was short-lived, however, as Holmes seemed suddenly to retreat deeper into the darkness; his face growing heavier as he contemplated something. A memory perhaps? His words seem to hurt himself more than they did her. Mary had seen that look before. She knew shadows when they came to overcome. She herself had suffered. Yes, even this magical life was not above the pawing shade. She knew, however, what had to be done. He looked up at her, his eyes adjusting to the light just as she raised her hand.

“Don’t you dare…”

”You’ll thank me for this eventually, Sherlock,” it was said with certainty and that ever-present smile, even though she knew all to well how few and far between words of praise really were. It was likely that Mr Holmes did not like to be ‘helped’. She clicked her fingers and drawers all around the room slammed shut of their own accord, dust rising from shelves and the ill-used chemistry set putting itself to rights again. A broom rushed passed between the two figures, sweeping up the mess on the floor and Mary noticed, for the first time, the presence of a bull dog, hunched under a chair opposite Mr Holmes. A hat stand came off of the floor to stand at height again and Mary pulled the hat pins from her hat and placed it neatly on the arms of the wooden stand as items of all shapes and sizes zoomed mindfully across the room to rightful places. She placed her umbrella in a small black umbrella stand that had appeared from under a desk where it did not belong. Within moments, the room was in order and Mary stood with arms folded.

She stared at Sherlock, her face as stern as ever it was, eyes narrowed and questioning. She had no doubt that all his life someone had pandered to his whim, indulging these darkened moods and allowing him to slip into the shadows. Although, she sensed that someone had to have kept him in line until now, someone to ground him. Where was that person now?

She had no time to think, however, as Mrs Hudson came in with the tea. The woman backed slowly into the room, pushing the door with her back and carrying the tray in. She turned to put it on a nearby table, but gasped as she saw the changed state of things. The tray fell from her hands, tumbling to the floor with a heavy clatter.

”Heavens alive!” she exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at Mary. ”What’s happened here?!”

”A little light really does the world of good,” Mary commented nonchalantly, as if it solved the entire riddle. Mrs Hudson frowned.

”I don’t…” but she suddenly stopped, eyeing Mary out before looking over to Holmes. Then, as if she understood something, looked to the fllor. “I’d best get a cloth to clean up this mess.”

With that she was gone again. Mary turned back to where Holmes was sitting, smiling at him. She searched her mind for all the things that could be amiss with a man like he. Really, it was much easier with children. There was so much less in childhood to complicate life. She loathed that children felt compelled to ‘grow up’. She would get to the bottom of this. She gently removed her long, navy coat and hung it carefully next to her hat.

”Tell me, Mr Holmes,” she finally moved to take a seat, sitting on the edge of the chair opposite Holmes, her posture perfect and her hands, still gloved, resting on her knee, her blue eyes piercing as she focused on him, “how long do you intend to stay indisposed?”

{OOC: Mary has eyes on the back of her head, Sherlock… XD}

[Sherlock Holmes]

”Je suis trés desolée pour l’inconvénient, Monsieur,”

“En outre, vous devriez être” Holmes murmured back darkly, curling up farther on the arm chair as his mood only darkened. Curse this stagnation and its effects on him! Even the slightest detail hurt to look at. His mind was already moving along almost viciously at the implications to how Poppins knew French. His mind hyper-reacting to everything,

”You’ll thank me for this eventually, Sherlock,”

And with that, the detective watched as all of his belongings were rearranged, put out of place, by the future-nanny. Though the room now looked orderly, Sherlock himself knew it would take him weeks to find those specific important case notes that were usually laid out on the dresser. Or even those trousers of Watsons that he usually kept hanging over the chair.

Everything was always in its place, as per usual. Wasn’t that what he told the landlady so many times before? It would take him forever now to fix this, turn it back to his orderly chaos. And he would fix it. He could tell from Mary’s stance and narrowed look that she obviously thought that he easily got away with these dark moods all his life. This was not exactly true.

While the two nanny’s interacted, Sherlock stayed silent. His head on his knees as he remained curled up in his armchair. Dark brooding eyes watching the wall, not in a blank expression, but full of piercing intelligence. Combined with the dark look, he looked almost inhuman at that moment. He was so still, that if it wasn’t for the fact that he was breathing, one would think that he was a statue.

Finally, Mrs. Hudson was gone. But it was obvious that she hadn’t believed that it was just light that cleaned his room in only five minutes flat. Wonderful, he would have to explain that part in some clever way before Mrs. Hudson jumped to conclusions.

”Tell me, Mr Holmes, how long do you intend to stay indisposed?”

He did not answer, did not move, remained in his mute and inhuman-like state. It was only after a rather long moment later, that Holmes finally turned his head to match Mary’s piercing eyes with his own intelligent and shadow-like brown eyes. Unlike Mary’s, which showcased her disapproval at his actions, his showed no emotion or reaction to the way she had taken charge and moved his things around without any thought to the consequence.

Finally though, he spoke. The voice was cold and hollow, but at the same time it came in a whisper, “When you return my room to how it was exactly before, I will answer your questions. Until then, we have nothing to discuss. Because I am sure you so enjoy it when someone enters your room, uninvited, and moves your things around.”

He went silent again, staring at the wall. His own bedroom from his childhood had always been scrupulously cleaned. It was hardly even his room, for there was nothing in it to define it as his. No toys or pictures or even childish mess. His place in his childhood home had always been in the library or the back gardens and woods. The only two places where he could be alone.

[Mary Poppins]

Holmes stayed quiet after Mary’s straightening up, refusing to answer her question, and stared darkly into nothingness until returning Mary’s gaze a while later. She expected to see defiance, or petulant frustration, instead she saw a nothingness that shimmered within her and challenged her all the more. She continued to stare back, unwilling to break the gaze or back down from this apparent pressing of wills. After a moment, his answer came.

“When you return my room to how it was exactly before, I will answer your questions. Until then, we have nothing to discuss. Because I am sure you so enjoy it when someone enters your room, uninvited, and moves your things around.”

The words struck her fiercely. More fiercely than she cared to admit, even to herself. She had gone so long unquestioned by adults in any convincing way, that she was vehemently confident. So certain was she of her methods and the infinite superiority of her thoughts that she had never questioned their validity. She was a nanny, a governess. This was her purpose; to handled things, to handle situations, to handle people. Those brown eyes were so dark that her motives shone like a lamp stand in a midnight, London street; exposed to scrutiny, whatever their persuasion. She tipped her chin, blinking quietly without a shadow of her unexpected hesitation in her eyes. Mary Poppins was never wrong.

Yet, here was the cry of a wounded man and try as she may, she could suddenly not justify to herself what she had done. His quiet displeasure unveiling so much more than the whimpering of an over-indulged child, she uncovered a misjudgment. Something sinister was at work in his mind and in her hurry to snap him out of it, she had not seen the puzzling world he had built around himself. She had acted with such swift judgment that she had failed to comprehend his honest process. She had stolen his sanctuary.

A shiver ran imperceptibly up her spine. She was so used to being in control of everything she put her hand to, she had assumed it in this role as well. Now, with all the viciousness of an injured tiger, Sherlock Holmes would take it back. Something flared within her, unwilling to make such a compromise. Sherlock was in no way to assert control in his own life at this juncture. Control was hers by right, for his ultimate benefit. That is the way that it always was.

His eyes refused to have it and Mary felt all of his demand for the restoration of what was his. She knew that look.

She had seen it hundreds of times in the faces of defiant children and more so in the eyes of parents convinced that their actions were justified and the possession of their children their own castle. She had seen it in the ongoing eyes of her ever-patient friend, waiting for a day when he could change what they both knew would be coming. She had seen it in a dark and lonely place filled with the unexpected change of the cruel and calculating weather and the paradoxical knowledge that, no matter the plea, the outcome would be the same. Of all the violent demands for control she had witnessed, none was more compelling than that in her own eyes, confronting her with every changing wind and shattered attempt at connection. None was more vehement than the resigned anger of the blue eyes that so often stared at her from an unrelenting mirror. She above all, knew what it was to have no control. Until this moment, none had dared to compare to her own violently stolen freedom.

She was at the mercy of a changeable wind, so she took control wherever she could find it. Now, she had come to a place where she could not usurp the bearer so easily. Should not usurp the bearer so easily. Sherlock Holmes needed more from her than disdain. Yet, she knew that this darkness would not leave of its own accord. The man needed help, even if it was not evident in his fight against her influence.

So, Mary Poppins did what she had never done before.

”I have never had the privilege of choice in the matter of what does and does not move in the course of my life,” it was quiet, in a tone that Mary only reserved for the most sacrosanct of moments. She never broke the gaze that had filled the room with taught restraint. With her world as unpredictable as it was, she did not speak of herself to anyone. It was her first rule of survival and she had just broken it.

[Sherlock Holmes]

All the while, Sherlock held the gaze solidly as if it was a lifeline. He expected her to, at any moment, fire off a strong response that would be a typical nanny-response. Strong, unyielding, stubborn, and one that try and make him feel inferior. Honestly, Sherlock felt violated. Ever since he was young, he had no say in his life. Now, finally, he had a say. If he wanted to keep his room as a pig-sty then by god, he was going to keep it that way!

”I have never had the privilege of choice in the matter of what does and does not move in the course of my life,”

Now, Holmes hadn’t expected a confession. Blinking, the dark look turned slightly confused, but only for an instant. Then it turned to slight pondering at her words. Though the dark look hadn’t completely disappeared, it had lessened now that he had something to think about.

What did she mean, not being able to choose what happens in her life? Was she not a person of magical capabilities? How was it that she could not use her magic to have the ability of choice? Perhaps in being a person of magic, she was somehow bound to this magic. Like Midas and his golden touch, his ability was wonderful. But the consequences were much more deadly.

“It is not the most wonderful feeling, is it?” He finally informed her softly, shifting in the armchair so that he was sitting properly in it instead of draped over it like some kind of blanket. He knew what it was like to have no choice in his life. But he had taken control, had chosen to go into his own form of job, instead of government life.

Now that he was thinking about it, how old was Mary Poppins really? True, she looked forever in her late twenties, but it was quite clear that she was older. Such was usually the case for those of magical properties anyway (though he knew only few).

Then again it was also a very terrible idea to ask a woman her age. It usually ended with a nasty slap. Even in his dark mood, he knew that subtly would be needed. As subtle as one such as he could be. And he knew that it wasn’t much.

“Miss. Poppins, you are not twenty years old, are you?” It was more of a statement than a question, but the detective had a strong suspicion that he was right. Let her yell at him for ‘asking her age’ if she wished. She had done nothing but give him disdain since she had arrived in his room.

[Mary Poppins]

Mary’s words had somewhat the desired effect. The detective’s eyes showed a flash of unexpected confusion before turning to that contemplative shimmer that could almost betray the ticking of the mind behind. The thought of her as a person with more complexity than a magical figure, ever-confident and of a single persuasion, seemed to be just the rememdy to Sherlock’s black state. He eyed her with a little less venom, taking her in under these new discoveries, she had no doubt.

It was not an uncommon feeling for her to be wondered about. Mostly, it was ghastly. The human mind could conjure such hideous untruths and assumptions, ones she would as soon not be a part of. Everyone should know that their thoughts had more effect than simply passing over in time. They collected on their target, becoming a part of them, part of the perceived person they were. It was a most unpleasant thing to be wondered about.

With Sherlock Holmes, however, Mary felt distinctly different about the matter. There was something safe about his mind. He was not usually a man that jumped to conclusions, not unless provoked, and one that, more often than not, was correct. Should she not feel vulnerable under such circumstances? Exposed to his scrutiny? In truth, she knew that no matter his conclusions about her, he would never understand the whole tapestry of intricacies that patterned her life. She kept his gaze. It was surprisingly comfortable to think of someone who could try. Her mind flicked to Bert, suddenly, as if trying to convince her of something for the millionth time. There was always someone.

The thought upset her, knowing how much her leaving affected him each time; the knowledge that she may never return. The sudden shock thought forced her eyes to the floor, controlling her flash of emotion with difficulty. Really, what was it about this room that had this effect on her? She knew that, some of the time, it was merely time for something and places were just conduits for the necessary shift.

“It is not the most wonderful feeling, is it?”

Mary looked up swiftly, her guard going instantly back into place. She had lost track of what Sherlock was speaking. It felt as though he had seen something in her, was it the fact that she had backed down against the ever-challenging stare? Had she shown more than she should in a moment of surprise? She looked at him. No, he was still speaking of control. She calmed, a docile and knowing smile spreading over her face.

”I can think of more preferable ones,” she offered.

The infusion of a thought process into his brain seemed to prompt a series of changes in Sherlock and Mary followed his shifting in his chair with interest. She settled back in her chair, certain that she had stumbled upon a more effective medicine for his mood. Sherlock Holmes needed no sugar, just a puzzle to solve in his franticly busy mind. Her smile remained as Sherlock seemed to delve into the puzzle with which she had presented him; herself. His eyes were searching now, hitting on several thoughts at once, all about the enigmatic governess that had appeared, once more, in his life. It flattered her vanity, in truth. While she maintained at a distance from the scrutiny of sloppy thinkers, she had to admit that she enjoyed the mystery she upheld. She was actually surprisingly happy to be a source of intrigue in this case.

“Miss. Poppins, you are not twenty years old, are you?”

The question caused Mary’s eyebrows to raise slightly. She had several lectures piled high in store on the subject of asking a woman her age, but figured that their impact on Sherlock might be minimal. She tilted her head slightly, crossing her arms, her eyes narrowing and her smile still in place. It was interesting that he had settled on her age as an area of uncertainty. Most were happy to accept a truth as it was presented to them, it eradicated the need to struggle over it. Her façade was usually keenly accepted, except by children, of course. Young minds were so superior in that regard. She chose immortal words to answer in a manner that would not so easily reveal the truth.

”With three younger sisters grown up, your Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it,” the quote was sing-song, clearly not her own words. They were issued by another Jane in Mary’s past. Miss Austen had been a smart girl, she had kept her broad thought in adulthood. It was an admirable quality. Mary held Sherlock’s gaze, once more. She had to admit, talking about herself could be infinitely diverting under these circumstances.

[Sherlock Holmes]

Sherlock continued to observe, and he noted the slightly down trodden look on the nanny’s face, as if she had just thought of something rather sad. He did no remark upon it, for he knew himself that there were some scars on the human mind that should not be brought up. He could name several on his own memory that he would rather never came up again.

Speaking of emotional scars, he suddenly realized that the picture of the Woman had righted itself after the Nanny’s cleaning of the room. Hopefully, Poppins would take no notice of the only photograph in the room. The devil-may-care smiling woman in the evening gown; was one item on his mind he didn’t need reminded of.

”I can think of more preferable ones,”

The detective did not offer a smile in return, his mind still deep in thought about this new puzzle that had presented itself. That was what Mary was: a puzzle, a paradox. Something that should not exist, not in a world of logic. It reminded him of another woman just as remarkable as the magical nanny sitting across from him.

The answer to his question came, but it did not come in the form of a lecture as Sherlock had predicted. He could defiantly see the defiant look, the obvious nanny-like impulse to lecture. But Mary seemed to have suppressed it for now. The detective was glad for it. His dark mood was still hovering over him, despite the new puzzle presented. And he doubted it could handle another lecture without caving down upon him again.

”With three younger sisters grown up, your Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it,”

Thin eyebrows were raised at the obvious quote from Austen. “I will take that as a yes.” He mumbled, seeing her snarky look and breaking the gaze-lock that she held on him easily. Sherlock was never one to keep attention on one thing for too long. Always, his eyes drifted, taking in everything.

The bull-pup from under the desk grunted loudly, getting up and waddling over to Holmes’ armchair. It plopped down at its master’s feet, gazing mournfully up at the detective. Sherlock paid him no mind, knowing that the old dog was missing his second master just as much as the first one did. He continued to stare at the wall, trying to understand the Poppins woman through the only way he could.

“You stated before, when we were in the futuristic England, that you travel by wind?” It would explain the umbrella he had observed in the umbrella stand: her mode of transportation. Then again, did not most magic-folk travel by brooms? Why not umbrellas too?

[Mary Poppins]

“I will take that as a yes.”

Mary was not about to give confirmation on anything, let Mr Holmes draw his conclusions and wonder about their validity. She was not about to admit to her age. She took a side note that being referred to as ‘your Ladyship’ did not distract him. Suddenly, the dog beneath Holmes’s desk emerged and grunted at his owner, falling at his feet. It was a sad noise, one of longing. Sherlock ignored him. Mary was not so callous as to ignore the needs of someone so obviously distressed.

”I am sorry, are you unwell?” she asked the canine, concerned for his wellbeing. She remembered the smell of formaldehyde and it disturbed her somewhat. He turned his mournful head to look at her, but seemed too tragically disposed to speak back. He whined quietly, adding a few words with a rumble from his chest and a little bark, ”Just missing a friend.”

Mary guessed he must mean the man whose rooms she had been considering letting. He was obviously sorely missed by all at Baker Street. ”I’m sure he was a fine man.” She smiled, sympathizing with the animal.

”He was,” he barked, “I could always count on Watson when Holmes was in one of his moods. He won’t even look at me.” It was tragically conveyed and, although Mary Poppins dislike dramatics intently, she felt a bit of his struggle.

”That is quite unacceptable,” she commented, giving a dark look at Sherlock, moody or not this poor fellow was his responsibility, “I’m sure Dr Watson was never so cruel.”

Holmes seemed to be ticking something over in his mind. “You stated before, when we were in the futuristic England, that you travel by wind?”

Mary’s eyebrows raised, her gaze sharpening. It was a startling insight, certainly not one she would have given away, ”I am sure that I said no such thing.” It was sharp, defensive almost, as she felt that familiar discomfort that usually appeared on Atticus professing some insight to her about her own character. It was vulnerability over a secret that Mary strove to keep from most adults. While she had been content to discuss the variables in her life which offered her control over the conversation, she was not quite so content with being somewhat unveiled. She calmed her response, not wanting Holmes to press on with that line of enquiry. ”What a ridiculous suggestion.”

She looked around the room, happy with her handy work despite its effect on the detective. Her eyes found a curiosity on the table behind him, a picture frame that had been moved upright in her sprucing. It was a smiling figure of a beautiful woman and Mary Poppins curiosity was instantly piqued. While she hated to be wondered about, she did a fair amount of wondering of her own. There was no wrong in this, she was a responsible steward of thoughts, unlikely to pin unhealthy ones to anyone. This, however, was too tantalizing to forgo. Sherlock Holmes had not seemed the type to be sentimental over the picture over a woman. This one must be extremely significant to him. Mary stood, approaching the table and leaning over it to pick up the picture. She turned to Sherlock, “I had not thought you the man to be easily sentimental, Mr Holmes. I find I am surprised. I am never surprised.”

[Sherlock Holmes]

”I am sorry, are you unwell?”

Sherlock looked up sharply at Poppins, wondering at first if she was talking to him. But her eyes were on Gladstone. The moody dog grunted and let out a small bark. Then the detective watched with a small sort of awe as the woman seemed to be carrying on a conversation with the animal, shooting Sherlock sharp disapproving looks in-between the sympathetic tones.

”I’m sure he was a fine man….. That is quite unacceptable,…. I’m sure Dr Watson was never so cruel.”

“Stop with the dramatics,” He mumbled, reaching for his riding crop that thankfully, was still resting on the nearby table. With the flat end of it, he started to scratch the back of the bull pup. The dog grunted happily, its short tail wagging as it rolled onto its back, letting Sherlock scratch his stomach. I miss him too, you ridiculous canine.

It didn’t help that Watson could any day come and pick up Gladstone and take the dog with him. Sighing, he watched as the animal fell asleep to the attentions, and threw the riding crop in some direction of the room, letting it land where it wanted. (Mostly because, he knew it would annoy the nanny).

”I am sure that I said no such thing. What a ridiculous suggestion.”

Though she gave a negative answer, the detective knew from experience that when one got defensive, it usually meant they were lying through their teeth. Sherlock gave the nanny a half-smirk, one that inferred that he didn’t believe a word she said. “If you say so..” He said, in a sing-songish, triumphant voice.

As he went back into his thinking, he didn’t notice that the nanny had moved until it was too late.

“I had not thought you the man to be easily sentimental, Mr Holmes. I find I am surprised. I am never surprised.”

Holmes looked over, startled to find that she was holding the picture of The Woman. Surely she thought that he had a simple school boy crush on the woman in the picture, how wrong she was. The Woman and he had a relationship that was a very paradox, one of cat and mouse, where affection should never be but is.

Standing quickly, the detective walked over and snatched the picture from Poppins, placing it back on the table face-down. After giving the nanny a long, measured look, he finally spoke. “Leave it alone, nanny.” Then walked back over and sat down in the arm chair.

He didn’t just mean the picture. He wanted her to leave the topic alone. It wasn’t something that he liked to talk about. Especially with futuristic nanny’s that had no business in it.

[Mary Poppins]

“Stop with the dramatics,” He mumbled, reaching for his riding crop that thankfully, was still resting on the nearby table.

Mary pursed her lips. She was many things, but overly-dramatic was not one of them. The ill treatment of another being was hardly a matter to trifle with. Indeed, she took it quite seriously, as she did most other things. While she carried herself with style and flair, dramatic she was not and she detested the attempt at being made to feel unsupported in her opinion of his care for the poor creature at his feet. Mary said nothing of it, though, noting that her conversation with Gladstone had the curious effect of willing Mr Holmes to action in the form of an affectionate back-scratch. Mary was suddenly curious. While curiosity was frowned upon in general by her and certainly did kill the cat when put to improper use, she was noticing something about Sherlock Holmes. No matter his brusque manner and his often openly disdainful disposition, he was a man not without care. It was entirely possible and, indeed, Mary Poppins thought, entirely probable that he too missed the famous Doctor who had so recently vacated his life. Was that the cause of his determined melancholy? Perhaps a part of it, she concluded.

Suddenly, Sherlock turned the conversation back towards herself and, more pointedly towards her mode of transportation. She was, all at once, defensive about it. While she was happy to offer a few tidbits about her mystery to lure Sherlock from his blackened state, she was hardly about to share the most particular details of her extraordinary life. After all, there were some things of which certain detectives need not know the full extent. She flatly denied his umbrella-aviation theory, she would not give it up.

“If you say so...”

Mr Holmes was enjoying his game and Mary was not so sure, she was allowed to share in the fun. Perhaps she had relinquished her control too soon. She was not about to be made a spectacle of and was most definitely not about to admit defeat. Let her not leave that in any uncertain terms. ”Really Mr Holmes, jumping to conclusions is hardly a past-time that becomes you,” she began with a pointed tone, ”I admit I am surprised to find you successful at all as a detective if that is the manner in which you conduct an investigation. Let me put you at ease, Sir, that I say exactly what I mean and mean exactly what I say.” It was filled with the not-insignificant assurance that came with holding a position of authority for so long a period. (Although, Mary was never willing to let on just how long a period.) She would let him draw some conclusions about her if he would, but it was not in the cards for her to tell him the truth. She had held the ruse before, having done it dozens of time to her charges. Deny everything and call the other ridiculous for mentioning it. She was suddenly interested to see how the tactic would work on a mind like Holmes’s.

As she did, she stood to take note of something on the table behind him. It was a picture. An interesting picture. Mary seized to opportunity to see just how deep the currents of Mr Holmes’s hidden humanity ran.

”Leave it alone, nanny.”

He snatched the photograph from her hands and placed it back on its face. So, there was Mary’s answer. Those currents ran deep indeed. Only the severest of emotions warranted that kind of suppression. She herself knew well the art of insistence that something be left alone. She was less inclined towards the skill of doing so herself. She would have to approach carefully, however, if she was to learn the truth about this woman. He was too smart to be led any kind of dance towards a confession. How could she get him to own it? Why was she so keen that he should do so? She scolded herself inwardly. Jumping to conclusions bore her no great favours either. He had returned to his place in the armchair. She should change the subject, she would, but the issue caught in her mind like a vivid pictorial. Observance of society was impossible to avoid in her line of work and certain aspects of it repeatedly captivated her. The hidden hearts of men like Sherlock Holmes were among them. It was incredible to her that the presence of a mere one person might so wholly claim minds so brilliant. Of course, she understood that the term ‘mere’ might not be easily applied to all of them. What was it that drove those minds to listen to hearts instead and push them against every natural grain of their being? She touched the back of the frame, not intending to turn it upright, simply linking herself with that ethereal something that caused such vibrant and vice-like connections.

”She must mean a great deal,” it was more a reflection than an attempt to rile him up. Either way, she was intrigued to know just how he would respond. Thus, her eyes leveled on him, once again, full of no definable emotion.

Ooc: I’ve just realized that Mrs Hudson has not yet returned. Perhaps something sinister has happened to her!

[Sherlock Holmes]

”Really Mr Holmes, jumping to conclusions is hardly a past-time that becomes you, I admit I am surprised to find you successful at all as a detective if that is the manner in which you conduct an investigation. Let me put you at ease, Sir, that I say exactly what I mean and mean exactly what I say.”

Sherlock did not get angry or defensive. He dealt with such accusations from many, Lestrade for example, and sometimes even from the suspects in cases themselves. It usually meant he was on the right track. “Whenever you eliminate the evidence, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true.” He muttered quietly, “You did not arrive by carriage, as it is an extremely muddy day today, you would have had mud on your shoes from the dirt kicked up by the horses. You did not arrive by train, as you would have had soot among your person from the coal in the station. Nor did you arrive by boat, for your clothes would have been slightly damp. Therefore, you arrived by air.”

His methods were simple, elementary even. Yet time and time again someone was always there to explain how he seemed to make such ‘grand conclusions’ out of thin air. Hardly, it was simply through the method of observation that he could draw these ‘conclusions’. He never jumped to conclusions, as the detectives at Scotland Yard did.

He did not like the way she touched the portrait of ‘The Woman’, as if fascinated by the idea of a woman holding his mind. If she knew the reality behind such a picture, who Irene Adler was and why she captivated him so. Why she was his equal, she would have disapproved. Ah well, such was life.

”She must mean a great deal,”

He did not answer, for he heard the footsteps of the second nanny of the household, carrying a second tea tray. Mrs. Hudson entered, calmly setting the tea tray on the now clear table. She picked up some envelopes that rested on it, handing them to Sherlock. “The mail is in.” She said, calmly.

“Writing to someone, Nanny?” He caught sight of the ink upon the housekeeper’s fingers.

“To the Doctor, I had to inform him of the miracle of the day that Sherlock Holmes’ room was clean!” She smirked slightly, but there was fondness in the smile. Sherlock looked at the envelopes calmly, not saying a word as the elderly woman stepped out once more.

He opened the first letter, which of course was the appeal for a case. A welcome distraction from the statement that Miss. Poppins had made about Adler. That was a road he didn’t wish to go down, not until he knew this mysterious woman from 1910 better.

[Mary Poppins]

“Whenever you eliminate the evidence, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true. You did not arrive by carriage, as it is an extremely muddy day today, you would have had mud on your shoes from the dirt kicked up by the horses. You did not arrive by train, as you would have had soot among your person from the coal in the station. Nor did you arrive by boat, for your clothes would have been slightly damp. Therefore, you arrived by air.”

Mr Holmes was, of course, as entirely confident in his conclusions as he had been in his initial statement and Mary found herself amused with his assuredness. There were far too many things in the world that had no explanation, in Sherlock’s manner at least, for her to find his argument satisfactory. ”While that may be the case,” she answered back, ”I have yet to see good evidence that would lead you from air-travel to the use of my umbrella as an instrument of it. I hardly believe a scientific man, such as yourself,” she pointed to the chemistry set, ”would be satisfied with the physics of such an endeavor.” Her face was stony in its retort, although she was smiling inwardly, knowing full-well that she was giving him the run-around. Sometimes such behaviour was acceptable to her, although she had to admit, somewhat beneath her.

She changed her approach yet again, moving her attention to a picture on the table behind him. Atlhough that topic seemed no more to tantalize him than the nothingness between cases. She dropped the enquiry as soon as Mrs Hudson returned with the tea and the mail, it seemed. She seemed more jovial than when Mary had seen her moments before and Holmes seemed to notice a change as well, though of a more practical nature. He asked if she had been writing.

“To the Doctor, I had to inform him of the miracle of the day that Sherlock Holmes’ room was clean!”

Mary could not help but smile, directing her comment at Mrs Hudson, but most pointedly at Sherlock, ”A wonder to behold. And, I am sure, a rarity for the Doctor…” She watched his face to see his reaction, but his focus was engaged with a letter as Mrs Hudson made her exit. She wondered almost instantly what it contained, but scolded herself immediately. It was really a most vulgar desire to know another’s business. Mary allowed him the space, moving to where the tea had been set and proceeding to poor herself a cup.

”Sugar, Mr Holmes?” she would hardly bother with asking if he wanted tea, although, it would be just like him to grow distracted and refuse it. As she finished preparing the cups, she placed one next to him as he read and returned to her seat to sip at it. It was truly the most civilized thing England had offered to the world and, she imagined, would be one of the longest-lasting of its influences. She savoured it for a moment before turning her attention back to the detective and finally allowing herself to ask, ”Good news?” She sincerely hoped it was and something that would hold his attention long enough for his more amiable, if one could call it amiable, side to be shown.