Enemy Lines - Chapter One
"What are you doing here?"
Elizabeth James slipped into the Holmes' living room, glanced upwards and to her right, and shot the raven-haired detective a withering stare. She crossed the painted lounge, her glass of champagne clutched tightly between long, pale fingers. She paused by the fireplace, stepping forward on the tips of her toes to brush her fingertips along Sherlock's shoulder. "Always nice to see you, too, Sherlock." She took a large gulp of her drink. "And, if you must know, my parents are in France buying some new art pieces and - "
"Fascinating."
Elizabeth smiled as she continued her story. " - and your mother didn't want me spending the day alone in the house with the dogs. So… Christmas! Any nice surprises this year or did you manage to guess everything that was under the tree?" A teasing grin pulled at her lips. "So… What did Father Christmas bring you this year? A lump of coal? A new toy train?"
The detective rolled his eyes.
"Oh, ignore him, Lizzie," instructed silver-haired Mrs Holmes, bustling into the lounge. She eyed the two of them standing beside the fire, pursing her lips. "He's still upset that he never got that telescope when he was seven."
"Still?" laughed Elizabeth, now biting her lip. "After thirty years you've still not given up that dream of becoming an astronomer?" A wink at Mrs Holmes' retreating figure. "How telling."
Sherlock's smile was wicked. "Remind me again, Liz. How is Peter? Oh," Sherlock lowered his voice, just out of hearing range of his mother. "I must have forgotten. You're divorced now."
"Sherlock, if you think some half-hearted insult at my idiot of an ex-husband is going to upset me and make me go off in a strop, you have another thing coming. We divorced six years ago. And I have both you and Mycroft to thank for putting him behind bars. Now," breathed Elizabeth, handing her now empty glass to the detective, still smiling between clenched teeth, "be a dear and get me another?"
With pursed lips and an insult on the tip of his tongue, Sherlock left the room, crystal glasses clinking with each step.
"Lizzie, darling. Could you - ?" The grey-haired matriarch gestured to the half-finished mince pies on the flour coated dining table, passing the brunette a tub of glazed cherries. "Just pop them on top, darling. Where's Mike disappeared to? If that man is even thinking about have a cigarette on Christmas Day - " Mrs Holmes' threat followed her out of the kitchen, echoing along the narrow hallways of the cottage.
Elizabeth turned to the remaining Holmes brother. She bit her lip. "Your Mother is a frightening woman for her age."
"Then why don't you leave?"
"What? You want me to leave?" laughed Elizabeth, shaking her head. She held her hand against her chest and feigned despair. "And miss our annual jibes and sparring across the dinner table? Don't be silly, Sherlock." She grabbed one of the discarded paper Christmas hats and placed it atop his head, the thin purple crown rustling against his dark curls. A grin spread across her lips. "Stand still. Don't take it off. Let me get my phone - "
But Sherlock had already ripped the material from his head, the paper shredding in his grip. He shook his head, his movement so slight that Elizabeth had nearly missed it, and left the kitchen.
Elizabeth stared around the room, folding her arms across her chest as she glanced at the half-eaten plates of Christmas dinner and bowls of ice cream. "Alone again," she muttered, bringing the dishes to the sink.
"And I take that the shot wasn't fatal?"
"Well observed, Elizabeth."
The brunette flashed the detective a sour stare. "Pity," she muttered. "It might've made for an eventful Christmas dinner."
"Not upsetting our guest are we, Sherlock?"
"Not at all, Mycroft. I was just reminding Elizabeth here of our little involvement in her husband's demise -"
"Careful, Sherlock," warned Elizabeth, dangling the carving knife between her digits as she filled the sink with soapy dishwater. "My finger might just slip."
Sherlock silenced her with a stare.
"Oh, ignore them," advised Mr Holmes, dusting off his jacket. He glanced back at the two thirty-somethings, watching as Elizabeth and Sherlock argued in the kitchen. "It's what I do when they're together. They've been that way since they were six-years-old. Always arguing. Always exchanging biting words. Whenever you are confronted with an opponent, conquer him with love."
John nodded. "Gandhi said that."
Mr. Holmes nodded and folded his newspaper.
John blinked. "And you think that Sherlock and Elizabeth… Sherlock and Elizabeth argue because they love one another? Is that it?"
"John, you must understand. I'm an old man now. But I've seen those two together since they were at primary school. Always the same arguments. Always the same ammunition. If they weren't fighting, I'd be worried."
The war hero glanced back at the kitchen, fighting back a hoarse laugh as he looked on: soapy water coated the flagstone floor of the kitchen, both Elizabeth's and Sherlock's knees, shins and shoes sodden. "Yeah," muttered John, still watching as Sherlock's elbow pushed the woman away. "Strange."