Tessa learned early on—much to her unbridled joy—that weekends were hers. Since that first Saturday night (which had stretched into the sweetest long weekend of her life, when they'd barely left her flat-let alone her bedroom-as she tutored Sherlock in the wonders of the flesh) he choose to spend however much time as he could in her company, and best of all, in her arms. These days, from the moment she exited the stage door following the Saturday evening performance of Twelfth Night, until late afternoon Monday when she departed her flat to return to the theatre, (and often as not, Sherlock would accompany Tessa back to the stage door, although that usually interfered with his willingness to kiss her goodbye—so publically-with the ardor she preferred) his time was all hers. Unless, of course, he had a case that required his undivided attention, but Tessa had come to believe he made certain such cases would be resolved before the weekend arrived. It was a season of enduring bliss for Tessa.
And so life fell into the pleasantest of patterns, Sherlock being very much a creature of habit, and Tessa ever willing to accommodate his needs. That was not to say their time together became rote. Sherlock seemed to be making up for many years of missed opportunities, and Tessa was more than happy to indulge his appetite. Even with as much as she had schooled him in, there were times he would surprise her with a certain sort of touch or an unexpected, but wholly sensual, move. Tessa had to wonder, when such moments arose, just where they came from; he had a growing, remarkable knowledge of the pleasure points of the human body—the female body, in fact-and she thought it very possible he'd turned his considerable intellect to researching what might please her best. Whatever the case—however they played—his compass always led him, in the end, to her true north.
Spring had been generally mild this year, and had made a gentle transition to the slightly warmer days of early summer. It was Tessa's fourth June in London, and it amazed her how the climate dovetailed with her bloom of happiness. Even the rains were soothing, refreshing, and she couldn't mind occasionally being caught without her umbrella, grateful to be alive in such a vibrant city; grateful to be falling deeper in love this with this most spectacular man.
Closing night for Twelfth Night was fast approaching. Under ordinary circumstances, Tessa would begin soon to feel blue, but how on earth could she fall into that old habit when she had so much to be thankful for? She had started to consider increasing her hours at the store, to make up for the lost income the end of this production would bring, but was determined it would not interfere with her time with Sherlock. If necessary, she told herself, she'd even settle for a waitress position somewhere, until the next acting job came through.
Turned out she didn't have to wait for long. The Leicester Square Theatre was mounting a production of Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, and the Director had decided to put a new spin on it by making the young, naïve and unnamed waif who marries into Manderley, an American. The opportunity seemed to be have been tailor made for Tessa, and one that, out of the blue, came looking just for her. In late May, the Managing Director of LST had attended a performance of Twelfth Night with a group of friends, and fortunately for Tessa it was on one of the evenings she had filled in for the actress playing Viola. Having read her biography, he quickly recommended to the Producers and Director that they have her read for the role of Mrs. DeWinter. She had been utterly flabbergasted when she received the call; this was pure West End, something to which she had aspired, but never dreamed would come her way so soon.
The first week of rehearsals overlapped with closing week of Twelfth Night, but Tessa made easy work of burning the candle on both ends. If she nodded off too swiftly those nights, having only just laid her head upon his shoulder, Sherlock never complained, understanding precisely how important this was to her career, and easily seeing how happy the whole thing made her. He had never looked for romance in his life, let alone someone who seemed to know instinctively what he needed on so many levels. He marveled still that she could want him so, flawed and selfish as he was, and thus it was no burden for him to show her the patience that he lacked in so many other areas of his life.
It was soon enough, to her happy surprise, that Tessa realized she could afford to take a leave of absence from the store, and consider herself a fulltime employed Actress. Life couldn't be sweeter—a plum job to fulfill her artistic yearnings while enabling her to pay the rent, and the most amazing man to hold her at the end of most days, when she never dreamed she'd ever want to fall in love again.
It was Tessa's first free Saturday—no performance, no rehearsal—and Sherlock had planned a day of sharing with her the secrets of his London. Or at least make a beginning of showing her the world that could so easily be missed by eyes that didn't know what to look for. His favorite haunts, and some of the places of his greatest deductions. Not to impress her, as he knew there was no need for that, but to share those things that were part of who he was. He'd pictured what Tessa's reactions might be, anticipating the simple pleasure of the admiration in her eyes. The thought of Tessa placing her hand in his, or even just resting it upon his arm, as they traveled London's less trod paths, left him feeling eager about the prospects in store.
The sky was overcast, and the air a little cooler than it had been for several days, but not enough to deter the couple as they stepped out of the door of her flat. Tessa turned to the right, assuming their destination was the café a couple blocks away, while Sherlock stepped to the curb to hail a taxi. Realizing her mistake, she returned to his side, "But I thought we were having brunch," she said lightly.
"We are," he answered, focused on the cab as it pulled alongside them, "and I have the perfect place in mind." Sherlock opened the door and guided Tessa into the backseat. She settled back, curious—Sherlock wore his enigmatic smile as he slid in beside her, and she wondered, smiling herself, if there was a surprise of sorts in store. Whatever it could be, she knew asking would be of no avail, for he was clearly enjoying projecting an air of mystery.
Leaning forward, Sherlock gave the cabbie the address of their destination, than sat back and took her hand. He was now smiling broadly, looking very pleased with himself. Tessa laughed softly. "What?" he queried. Tessa squeezed his hand, telling him, "Oh nothing really," her expression as mysterious to him as his had been to her. Sherlock raised a single brow, his question unspoken, so she continued, "You look like a little boy with some sort of delicious secret." Tessa held up her free hand, as he opened his mouth to reply, "Don't tell me, though. Let me just enjoy the anticipation a bit." She trailed a finger along his cheek, biting her lip, her eyes full of mischief, then kissed him squarely on the mouth, before sitting back again to enjoy the ride.
Tessa soon realized their journey's end was clear across town in Hounslow, deepening the sense of something extraordinary in store. Either an intriguing surprise or a gastronomical treat. Whatever the case, her faith in Sherlock's choice was strong—Tessa couldn't recall a single time when she hadn't enjoyed new things he'd introduced her to.
Although it was a late Saturday morning, the small bistro where the cab deposited them, had plenty of open tables. Sherlock touched her elbow, prompting her to take a seat at a table outside, under the protection of a large umbrella. He pushed her chair in, and then sat across from her. Tessa wondered at his choice of outdoor seating, but supposed that if the clouds decided to open up, the umbrella would keep them mostly dry.
Their waitress approached them within moments, and Tessa insisted on mimosas to start their day. Sherlock acquiesced without objection, for it was a perfect way to start the adventure he felt was in store.
They had the patio practically to themselves. Tessa was telling Sherlock about the progress of rehearsals for Rebecca, when their breakfasts arrived. She expected to food to be exceptional—for why else would he have had them travel across town?—but a few bites left her somewhat disappointed. That perplexed her, but she decided not to mention it; he seemed happy enough with his plate, and she didn't want to spoil the moment for him.
Sherlock noticed she was rather picking at her food. "Is there something wrong, Tessa?"
She looked up from her plate, knowing she needn't fib to him; he probably already could tell she wasn't all that thrilled with the meal. Tessa shrugged and told him, "Well, it's sort of bland. And there's an aftertaste to these eggs that I can't seem to identify." She laid her fork down, leaning across the table, to ask him confidentially, "How are yours?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "Frankly, awful." He shook his head, snorting quietly, "I don't remember it being this bad."
"Sherlock," Tessa asked, as amused as she was astonished, "'this bad' implies it was bad to begin with. So why did you bring us here, when there was a perfectly yummy little café down the road from my flat?"
He looked at Tessa benevolently, the picture of patience as he told her, "We're not here for the food, we're here for that." He pointed directly across the street, where stood a somewhat dilapidated cinema. The marquee read The Winslow, and though the condition of the building was more than well-worn, the sign indicated it was open nights and weekends, and specialized in presenting "The Best of Film Noir, Past & Present". There were several movie posters, most in black and white; it appeared as though they rotated through half a dozen or so movies each week, often showing them as double-features. Tessa hadn't expected Sherlock to be a fan of old Hollywood pictures, but she supposed he enjoyed the mysteries they depicted. She would never have guessed he'd planned to take her to a movie, but she was happy to go if that was what he'd had in mind. "We're here for a matinee?" she asked, finishing her drink.
"No, no," he answered good-naturedly, "nothing as pedestrian as that. That building was a key to solving a case a few months back." Tessa adored the way his eyes and the corners of his mouth crinkled with his proud smile. This shouldn't have been a surprise to her; in fact, she should have guessed that sometime soon Sherlock would want to share the stories of his favorite victories. She found it entirely sweet and entirely in keeping with his nature, and took very seriously her role—to ask him for the details, and listen attentively.
And so she did, pushing her plate aside, to rest her elbows on the table, chin in hand, content as he outlined the case and his resolution. He explained that a 15 year old girl—Amanda Hubbard—had gone missing from her bedroom one February night, following a terrible row with her parents. Scotland Yard had failed miserably to come up with even a clue as to the girl's whereabouts, or worse, her fate, so her father eventually came to Baker Street, hoping Sherlock could find her soon and safely. He immediately set out to learn what he could of the girl. Following her online footprints was easy, for someone with Sherlock's skill and deductive reasoning, and interviewing her friends was fairly straightforward. (Tessa grinned at this, for surely girls of such an age would be very beguiled if he approached them in the right way, and she knew herself that Sherlock was a chameleon of charm, when he set his mind to it). On the whole, the girls gave the impression of being worried about Amanda, but he noticed signs which told him otherwise; meaning they likely knew where she was and that she was indeed safe. Having discovered one of Amanda's keenest interests was the old black & white films of the 40's (he deduced that she fancied herself a potential femme fatale, after reading some of her online fan fiction), he set out to observe what he learned were some of her favorite places in the city.
In short order, he discovered The Winslow—which had reported a series of break-ins over the course of the previous two weeks—was her happy hideout. Amanda had managed to make herself a few areas to bed down in, careful to alternate among them enough so she hadn't been spotted. She spent most evenings in the balcony, enjoying the films she venerated, sneaking out when she could for supplies, and even keeping in touch with her closest friends—without revealing her location—via social media accessed on computers at several public libraries. Sherlock had been quite impressed with the girl's ingenuity and resourcefulness. He and John retrieved the girl themselves, returning her to her parents, who were relieved beyond words. Sherlock warned them she was bright enough to pull another disappearing act if they were too extreme with their punishments; he actually sympathized a bit with the girl, living with parents who didn't quite understand her motivations or appreciate her advanced intelligence.
Tessa applauded the conclusion of his tale, glad for the happy ending, and enjoying the warmth Sherlock exuded in the telling. She hadn't needed the tale to find him heroic, but she was wise enough to know that a man's ego (especially this man's) needed such from time to time.
By now, the clouds had darkened even more, and neither Tessa nor Sherlock were surprised when it began to drizzle. Sherlock settled the bill, and Tessa hoped they would find their way soon to a warmer, indoor location. Her flat, in fact, seemed ideal, to build a small fire and ward off the damp that had settled over the city. She refrained from asking, interested still in what other plans he had for the day. Instead, Tessa pulled a compact umbrella from her bag, though it wasn't big enough to cover them both; however, Sherlock didn't seem to mind the rain.
"Where to now?" she asked him, trying to ignore the rumble of hunger in her belly. Her flat would be perfect right now, she thought ruefully, where she could fix them a proper lunch in lieu of the inadequate brunch they'd barely eaten. Apparently, Sherlock was determined to press forward with his plans, despite the wet. Tessa waited with him at the curb, as he again flagged down a taxi. When it arrived, it did so with a mighty splash, that soaked her shoes and hose and the hem of her skirt. In his eagerness to proceed, Sherlock didn't appear to notice her discomfort.
Tessa got in the cab, doing her best now to keep irritation and impatience at bay, but a small pebble of resentment settled inside, though she truly hoped the journey would be better, drier, warmer, than it was now turning out to be. She didn't want to disappoint Sherlock, but she expected he would realize soon that perhaps this adventure might be better spent on a sunnier day.
(to be continued)