A/N: Chapter two! At last! I had written a little bit before but then I moved to Woodstock for college and it made things so incredibly complicated... Thank you to those who already reviewed, and, I actually got the idea of Lucy (well, the name came from Dracula) from A Study in Scarlet. You know, the girl (whose name I can't think of off the top of my head) that was adopted by that guy who had no choice but to follow the mormons and all that stuff? I just made her a little more tom-boyish.

"Ernest is a real gentle horse. My daddy used to give lessons to some of the boys in town and he'd use Ernest to start off, especially for the younger ones."

Lucy was standing on the bottom log of the gate and leaning in to pet the stallion. Sherlock seemed to be paying more attention to her than what she was saying.

"How old are you, miss Lucy?"

"No 'miss' stuff out here, 'less you prefer I call you mr. Holmes. I'm twenty-two."

"Very well, Lucy. You may call me Sherlock. Is there no young man in your life?"

"Nope. They're all too busy with the brainless types who would panic if they're missing a glove."

Sherlock nodded.

"But you don't do that?"

"I hardly ever wear gloves an' I sure don't panic. It's not cause I'm rich enough to just buy another pair, either. I just don't see why one should bother panicking. It just makes the situation worse than it is. Besides, it's a glove. Who cares if people can see your hand? Just take off the other glove and ya got a match."

Sherlock chuckled softly.

"Hmm. Just a question, what happened to your mother?"

"They don't really know. Someone said once that it was cause she was poisoned. What made it worse was she was eight months pregnant with me. Daddy always said it was a miracle I survived. I guess that's why he doesn't mind me doing un-lady-like things: it's proof that I'm strong despite what happened. He's just so happy that I lived and didn't turn out sickly."

Sherlock turned this over in his mind. Why would someone want to kill the woman, let alone while she was with child? Did someone simply want to stop her from having the child? Or did they want both of them gone?

The two eventually walked back up to the house. Lucy needed a drink and asked for some soft wine. The butler brought it forth in a small glass and Lucy chugged it immediately and handed the glass back to the butler. Sherlock chuckled at the 'un-lady-like' manner in which she drank it. She handled it as though it were cheap beer. As she continued on her way, however, Sherlock just behind her, she stopped suddenly and started coughing violently. Sherlock came behind her and helped to lay her down as the Watsons and Lucy's father ran in from the parlou.

"Lucy! Mr. Holmes, what happened?"

"I'll explain in a bit. For now, Watson, go to the kitchen and fetch a mix of water, salt and mustard powder, quickly!"

Quincey led the way as he and Watson were off in a flash. Being a doctor, Watson knew that Holmes meant that the lady needed to be made to vomit, and quickly. Mrs. Watson brought the twins back to the parlour, knowing this was not something they should see.

Sherlock helped Lucy to sit up and lean back on him, rubbing her back to help ease her breathing. She was very red in the face and tears were streaming down her eyes.

Watson returned, still stirring the mixure and handed it to Holmes, who helped Lucy to down it by keeping her leaned backward on him. As soon as the glass was empty (quite a lot of it had gotten in her and Holmes' laps, but she managed to swallow to most of it), Holmes got her to lean on all fours and pressed on her stomach.

She began retching immediately, spilling an icky, watery brown mess all over the tile floor. Holmes was quick to notice that there were small streams of red... blood.

As soon as the mess was all over, Quincey turned to Holmes.

"Alright, what happened?"

"When we came in she called for a glass of wine. Either some of your wine cellar has gone bad, or someone poisoned it before it reached Lucy."

Holmes tried to hide the crease of worry that threatened to break. He was still rubbing Lucy's back, trying to ease her breathing, which was ragged. She still had tears streaming down her face.

Mr. Norris' face drained of colour as he processed the information.

"Whoever it was before that killed her mother... he's come back."

"So it would seem." Holmes helped Lucy to sit in his lap, away from the mess.

Lucy took a few gasping breaths before speaking, her voice sounding as though she had had strep throat for a week.

"But who would want to kill me? What have I done?"

"I'm guessing it'd be more a matter of money, miss Lucy. As vile as it sounds, people do kill for money."

"But who?" mr. Norris asked, flabbergasted.

"In order to know that, we must ask this: quae prosum. Who benefits? And now, sir, miss Lucy, there can be no doubt. The game is afoot."