Paris, 1863

Part 1.

Spring was delightful that year, the air was filled with the smell of freshly cut flowers that men were selling on the streets and with the scent of coffee and warm bread coming from every little coffeehouse, and you could find those around every corner. Sherlock Holmes was walking down Rue de Rivoli, dressed in a navy-blue velvety suit and a white shirt with a rich, lacy collar. His walking stick was knocking on the pavement and crushing little green leaves fallen from the trees. Warm sunlight was flickering through the glorious rose window of the church of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois and Sherlock thought that it looked more like some prince's palace than the house of God. He passed the church and stood in front of the Louvre Palace. He narrowed his eyes as he was examining the statues on the façade, the stone they were made of was lighter, and since he first saw them he thought that they look like living people, so graceful and magnificent, ancient gods ready to step down from their pedestals any minute. Familiar voice shook him out of this reverie.

"People think many things about you, Sherlock, but I bet they would never say that you're a dreamer."

Sherlock turned around to face the man that spoke to him in French, in a strong, resonant voice. He was tall, with longish, wavy brown hair, and bushy beard. His eyes were bright and the way he was smiling revealed great wisdom. Although he was in his forties he still had signs of his passed youth visible in his friendly, ruddy face.

"And I could be anything that pleases the crowd but never a dreamer, I think you are well aware of that," Sherlock answered him and reached out with his hand to greet the man. "How are you today, Gustave?"

"Lovely day, isn't it?" Gustave shook Sherlock's hand firmly. "Lovely day for daydreaming, my friend. I can see you didn't give up your hopes. I'm telling you, Sherlock, the more you hope, the more disappointed you'll be," Gustave sighed but was still smiling.

"I told you, dreams and hopes are for fools, not for me," Sherlock put his gloves on as the gentle but chilly wind started to blow – "I am just passing by on my way to Porte-Saint-Martin, care to join me?".

"So, why are you going there?" asked Gustave as the two men were walking along.

"The courier brought me a message from Inspector Lestrade. Apparently there has been a body found in the Canal" Sherlock said.

"Ahh, going to make some sketches?"

"Precisely."

"Good thing you have a friend in the police, I remember how Daumier told me how he must've bribed a lot of people to study crime scenes for his Rue Transnonain *. Any particular composition you're working on?"

"Judith Beheading Holofernes **".

"Biblical theme! You?!" Gustave was honestly surprised.

Sherlock said nothing to that, so after a longer pause Gustave picked up the topic again.

"As I said, you are, in fact, a dreamer. You're really thinking they'll accept it if you'll make a biblical scene!"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said eventually and frowned.

"You paint dead bodies! And not in a way that that bunch of dilettantes in powdered wigs from the Academy paint dead bodies. Your paintings are not nice and sweet, your bodies are not porcelain white, fragile and pure, bowed in ecstasy of martyr's death and decorated with flowers. Yours are… real. Dirty, swollen, bruised, wounded, broken, there is blood, but not graceful red strings running gently down the milky skin of Saint Cecille, pools of blood…"

"This is how it looks in real life, Gustave," Sherlock interrupted him.

"Well, of course! You don't have to explain that to me, you know I admire the truth and brutal realism in your works. But Sherlock, this is why I had to prepare my own exhibition back in 1855, they didn't want to see realism on the world's fair, the jury turned me down. Do you think the jury of the Royal Academy will be more favourable for you? Only because you'll make it into a biblical theme? It'll still be realism."

"They will be thrilled, Gustave, don't you understand?" Sherlock stopped in the middle of the street. "Everything on this painting is perfect. Every detail matches, I thought every little thing through, every stain of blood, every curl of hair, every inch of steel cutting through the flesh, every wrinkle of fabric, everything is just perfect. It's as if… as if it's alive! They will think they are witnessing an actual carnage! It looks exactly how it would look like in real life, back then. No lies, no adornments, just the pure, true life. No one had ever painted like this before, I will be the sensation of this Salon ***. And my painting will be forever hanging in Louvre," Sherlock's eyes were wide and sparkling when he said these words.

"Oh, I wish for you to achieve this, my friend, I really do," Gustave grabbed Sherlock's shoulders like a proud father, but his eyes were showing sadness as he knew this young passionate man in front of him was about to go through a great disappointment, "I have to go now, Sherlock, but I'm really looking forward to see these sketches you're about to make today. Will you visit me tomorrow?"

"I can't tomorrow. LeBlancs are having a dinner party and I'm invited."

"LeBlancs? And you're invited?"

"Yes, my father's name still has that power. He used to be very well respected before he passed away, so is now his other son. Thankfully he lives in London and no one here knows that I am not, in fact, Mycroft's favourite little brother," Sherlock smiled wickedly.

"Have a good time then, and visit me some time this week, I'm very curious about these drawings of yours," Gustave hugged him friendly and they said goodbye to each other.

Sherlock turned right and walked away into the direction of Port-Saint-Martin. Gustave Courbet **** was standing there for a moment, looking at Sherlock's slim figure. Gentle wind blew through the streets and brought him a scent of wet grass from the bank of the Seine. He was thinking about the times when he himself was so young and full of confidence, when he believed in his own talent, and hoped to change the world of art. He saw the reflection of himself in Sherlock's sparkling eyes and he understood that the cruel critique of the Royal Academy is about to destroy another talented artist.

"They'll never understand him," Courbet said quietly to himself and walked away in the opposite direction.

Part 2.

John Watson was sitting in his study, trying to focus on a letter he was writing, but the view outside the window, his desk was standing next to, was successfully distracting him. He absent-mindedly rubbed his shoulder, it still hurt him sometimes, even though it was the fifth year after he was wounded during the Sepoy Mutiny. He was wearing white shirt with wide sleeves, light-brown vest, matching brown trousers and knee-high officer's boots. He was expecting his friend, Michael, to visit him. Michael Stamford was his old friend, they came to Paris together about two years ago and now Michael was coming back to London, John hoped he could take the letter with him and deliver it to John's father. He seemed more confident than the official post office. But John still couldn't finish the letter, he didn't know how to explain to his father that he still hasn't found a candidate for his future wife. Eventually he just wrote a few casual words and silently hoped that his father wouldn't inquire any further. When he was sealing the envelope, a knocking on the door reverberated around the room.

"Please come in!" shouted John in English and turned to face the door where he expected to see Michael, but it turned out to be his butler, Jacques.

"Ah, Jacques," John said in French this time and smiled in apology for shouting, "what is it?"

"Sir, there is a young lady waiting for you downstairs." – answered Jacques in a formal tone.

"A young… young lady?" John was noticeably surprised. "Did she introduce herself?"

"Yes sir, it's lady Sarah Luise LeBlanc."

"Oh… yes, yes umm… please tell her I'll be there in a minute."

When Jacques disappeared behind the closed door John walked from the study to his bedroom to collect his jacket and cane. After a longer moment he was, now fully dressed, walking down the stairs to meet lady Sarah. Walls of his apartment, with light wallpapers with floral pattern, were echoing his footsteps and the knocking of his cane on the white, marble stairs. Sun, that was flickering through the high windows and reflecting in a crystal chandelier, was brightening up the hall downstairs, making lady Sarah's blonde hair look like gold, the impression intensified by the pale peach colour of her dress.

"Lady Sarah, I'm so sorry you had to wait," John greeted her and bowed, taking her gloved hand to place there a kiss. "I didn't expect you to visit, I thought I'll see you tomorrow at your parents' dinner party."

"Captain Watson," lady Sarah answered with a greeting smile, her voice was deep but gentle and lilting, and she had this kind of sophisticated accent that characterizes aristocracy, "this is exactly the reason why I'm here. I know we sent official invitations to all the guests, but I wanted to make sure you'll do us this honour and be at the party."

"Oh, my lady, I couldn't possibly miss it, I assure you. To give up such a delightful company of yours, I would have to be a mad man."

"I'm very glad. My parents are counting on you as well, please don't disappoint us."

"I'll be there, I would ask you to save the first dance for me, but you know…" John patted his leg with a cane to emphasize these words.

"Please, Captain Watson, I'll save every dance for you, even if it means that I'll be just sitting next to you on a sofa and listen to the music."

"I couldn't be happier," said John as he was seeing her to the door. "See you tomorrow, then," he kissed her hand again.

"Goodbye."

The second John closed the door behind lady Sarah his face changed. Forced smile disappeared and gave up the place for a grimace of discontent. Now he had to go to this party, and spend the whole evening accompanying lady Sarah as she did, after all, visit him especially to make sure he'd come. She was obviously interested in him, and he knew that her parents would approve of him, and he felt that it to be a really a big pressure on him. He didn't have much time to think about it though, because soon Michael appeared by the door.

"Hello old chap!" Michael said loudly. "What's with that troubled face?"

"Welcome, Stamford. Glad you could make it. It's really important for me that my father receives this letter."

"Oh, any big news you're going to announce?" Michael raised his eyebrows, smiling.

"Not really, on the contrary, to be honest."

They passed to the drawing room and sat on the sofas next to the fireplace. John rang for the butler and ordered him to bring the letter from the study.

"I know my father is starting to be impatient in the matter of my marriage, I'm kind of hoping that letter will calm him down for a while," John explained. "I wrote to him about lady Sarah LeBlanc. I don't really have any serious plans about her, but maybe such thing will please my father and it'll give me some peace for a longer while."

"John, maybe you should consider lady Sarah seriously?" Michael said. "You see, she's from a good, well respected family, like yours, she's young, beautiful, smart… well, no offence chap, but with your wound from India you're no longer such a good husband material like you used to be. Opportunity like this may not happen again. Isn't it the reason why you came here in the first place? To find yourself a lady whose parents would want to use her to make a connection with a rich English family?"

"No, this is the reason why my father wanted me to come here. I have never said I want to get married, and moreover, I have never said I want to be treated like damaged goods and that I only have an opportunity to marry because some French snob wants to have more money," John was noticeably irritated, but the entrance of Jacques interrupted him.

John took the letter from Jacques and handed it to Michael.

"Give my regards to my sister, would you?"

"Of course," Michael patted John's back and left.

John returned upstairs, to his study. He leaned his cane against the chair and took off his jacket. Looking through the window he was, once again, unconsciously rubbing his shoulder, and thinking about the sympathetic looks that dancing couples will be giving him the next day at the party, while he'll be just sitting there with that bloody cane in his hand.

"Maybe I should marry her…" John didn't even notice that he said it out loud. "Who else would want me?" The question sounded in the empty room as John took a look at his cane.


NOTES:

* Honore Daumier, Rue Transnonain
** Judith and Holofernes is a common art theme. The biblical story tell us about Judith of city Bethulia which was attacked by Holofernes' army. Further explanation will come in next chapters.
*** Salon de Paris was an official art exhibition for the members of the Academy of Fine Arts and Royal Academy, works shown there were restrictively selected by the jury.
**** Gustave Courbet, french painter, leader of Realist movement