II: The Golden Floor
Tell me that you want to dance,
I want to feel your pulse on mine.
Just treat me like a stolen glance,
To yourself.
A dark shape on a golden floor,
A sleeping planet with a molten core.
From above we'd cut a slow eight shape,
And much more.
…
"Since there's no napkin or glass on the counter in front of it, I'll assume that no one is sitting in this seat, however, I'm always being told that I come across as rude in polite society so I'd assume that the customary question at this point is, 'Is this seat taken?'" It was the same man I had been watching earlier.
"Um. No, go ahead…"
"Thank you."
There's silence for a moment and I desperate try to think of a way to fill it because there's something about this stranger that intrigues me, but he gets there before me.
"Bored with the party, then? Or just with your boyfriend?"
"Both…" And then, "How did you know?"
"You're a beautiful woman slumped over a martini. It didn't take a giant leap of deduction to work it out. I'd say you'd been together for a year, but the shine is wearing off."
"Sorry?"
"The gemstone in your necklace is a real diamond. Since it's set into a necklace, it means it's your birthstone and only someone who loved you would think to buy you something like that. Not your mother because it's fairly new and if she was going to buy it she would have done years ago, so a friend or a boyfriend, then. A friend wouldn't spend that much even if they were your best friend, so it has to be a boyfriend, then. It's fairly new so the relationship must be quite fresh, but he'd only buy something that expensive when he was beginning to feel insecure so you must have been together for at least a year."
I'm taken aback. "Ok, I'm impressed…but why would you think I'm bored with him?"
"It's a diamond necklace," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Yeah. What's that got to do with anything?"
"It's a diamond necklace, so it must have been an expensive gift and should logically be important to you, but the diamond has lost some of its lustre and the silver of the chain is dull, so it mustn't be regularly cleaned, which means that you forget about it and, logically, the person who gave it to you. You also don't fiddle with it. Usually when someone important gives a woman a piece of jewellery, she twirls it around in her fingers. It's a subconscious trigger when you have a pleasant thought about that person, but you haven't touched it all night."
"All night? How do you know?"
"I observe things," he replies coolly.
"Who are you?" The words come out ruder than intended.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes…" There's a pause as he watches me process the strange name. "Say what you like. I've heard it all before."
"Rose Tyler."
"Excuse me?"
"That's my name."
"Oh. Pretty." I swallow the rest of my drink, unceremoniously smacking the glass back down onto the bar. "Don't you just despise these society galas?" he says, his voice low. Somehow, I understand that it's not a question I have to answer because he can read it in my face.
"Are you here with anyone?" So much for nonchalance…
"Yes," he says with a sense of finality.
"Oh."
"My brother." He pulls a face. "Mycroft."
"Wow. Unusual name."
"Is it?" he asks, as if it's something he's never considered before.
I change tack. "So if you hate these things, why are you here?"
"He seems to think that I'm depressed because several of the strings on my violin are broken. Personally I believe he can't stand the things so he brings me here as a form of punishment for something. Can't think what though. I'm an absolute angel."
I giggle. Another pause, and then, "Would you like to dance, Rose Tyler?"
I sigh, holding out my hand for him to take. "I thought you'd never ask…"
The music feels dull and melancholic but somehow, my hand in his feels totally comfortable and I relax into the dance easily.
His breath tickles the wisps of hair around my ear as he says, "It's been a long time since I did something like this." I lift my head up to scan his face, but it's unreadable, much like His had been. I catch his double watching me from over Sherlock's shoulder; I stare right back. Defiant.
I settle my head back onto Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in the warmth and unfamiliar smell that makes me feel so comfortable; "I don't want to go home tonight." I mutter, more to myself than to him.
"Then don't."
I look at him, and I just know.