Being a man of much brains, questionable patience, and exquisite boredom, the detective was always looking for new things to entertain his intellect and tickle his interest. Sera Dubois would be a welcome distraction from his lack of cases, a distraction he would pursue just for the hell of it. He needed no reason other than he was bored and easily excitable.
Holmes walked lazily, never attracting attention, through crowded streets, following Sera's winding path through the market. A time or two she happened to glance his way, but he escaped her notice cleanly as he had much practice in tailing. Along the way, he added to his disguise. He stole an apple and kept walking, finishing it and replacing a stray flour sack with the core. This he put over his shoulder,conveniently hiding is face and, moments later, shrugged it off beside the bakery Sera had just passed, trading his newsboy cap for another hat off a sleeping bum without faltering stride. The bum never broke rhythm in his snores.
Along the way, he made observations about the new housekeeper. Strong walk, athletic grace, good core muscles: she worked as a dancer at some point. Right-handed, wiry forearms with prominent veining: she has experience as a laborer. Lustrous hair...wait, what? Holmes shook his head. Lustrous? He frowned and continued his train of thought. Lustrous hair, more than the norm: she ate predominantly fish in her previous area of residence. The latter deduction he could set aside, but the former two were delightfully puzzling. A labor-acquainted ex-dancer working as a housemaid? Strange...
The farmers and fishers and bakers and butchers all took a healthy shining to Sera. They seemed grateful to have someone who knew quality and would appreciate it. Holmes' ice chip eyes watched from under a bowler hat as she charmed the fishermen into a tidy discount for the red snapper he had tossed her. Wiley, she is. Mental note.
He stalked her from a distance, and sometimes circled in front of her so that she passed him without notice. His change in appearance was so marked from minute to minute that her eyes floated right over him.
Soon, it became harder for Holmes to blend, as people leaked away into the taverns and houses for the night. He watched Sera exit the butcher's, slightly off balance from the load. There is at least forty pounds in that basket. VERY strong woman.
She walked faster, sensing dark falling fast, and he stuck to shadows a ways off. A man started to follow her, soon joined by two others. Holmes could tell by the straightness of her spine that she was aware of their presence, and afraid. Holmes wondered if she would try to flee, or stand and fight. He decided that if worst came to worst, he would have to throw off his disguise and fend them off her. Though she was mere fodder for his mind, he did not want to see her hurt. All the same, he had his money on the flee option.
When she slugged the first attacker with enough force to send him reeling, and followed up with a clever use of her hair pin, Holmes was taken aback. When she broke the second's foot and dislocated the third's knee, he corrected his feeling to impressed. No woman (save for The Woman) he knew could dispose of three thugs, simultaneously, without receiving injury in turn. They may have been drunk, true, but they were all burly and mean. She picked up her basket and trotted off, glancing over her shoulder, as Holmes wandered through alleys parallel to her, like a shadowy guardian. Once she was safely inside, he shimmied up the drainpipe again and into his quarters. He shed his disguise quickly, mind whirring. Chin to violin, he set about to deciphering this new-found quarry, this woman who obviously had much she was not forthcoming about.
An hour and a half later, the smell of pot pie finally won Holmes' attention. The bow hesitated on the strings, just for a moment, and the detective pulled a deep breath. He opened his eyes, which had been shut to aid his mental faculties, and drew another inhalation through his nose with an unwarranted, appreciative groan. He snapped upright in his chair. "No," he told himself sternly. "Not even the most winning mix of spices and foodstuffs can break my concentration. I refuse to be had by my own stomach." With that, he went back to sawing at the violin like a man possessed.
Halfway through a composition of his own writing, Holmes' sensitive nose picked up another scent. Even as his mouth watered, he cursed mildly. Chocolate! Ooh, of all the low-blow weapons...! Homes looked down at his flat stomach, which complained loudly of emptiness with enough vehemence to cause a shiver under his shirt. Breakfast the previous day, that had been his last meal. The religion of the mind that he ascribed to demanded much sacrifice and penance, chiefly among them occasional starvation.
Frowning at the offending body part, he looked to the side table at his leather-bound case of syringe and 7% cocaine. Should he dose up now? His stomach shouted again.
To hell with his declaration that he would not eat dinner. The food smells coming from downstairs would surely be more rewarding than the needle. "Alright, you've won!" he said exasperatedly at his stomach. He flung the violin into his chair and strode across the messy room, weaving around piles of old newspapers and oddities.
The scents of heaven lured him down the stairs without conscious thought. He found himself standing at the entrance to the kitchen, unable to remember his last steps. His eyes drifted shut again, and he stuck his head around the doorframe to indulge his nose again. When his eyes opened, an aproned, ample bosom greeted him, and when he followed it up to its owner's face, he was given a raised eyebrow. "Mr. Holmes," Sera said, inclining her head to him with a pleasantly surprised expression. "If you will please choose a wine, we can eat." She swept past him, oven mitts bearing the source of temptation: a pot pie with a flaky, decoratively scored crust.
At the table, Watson said a simple, customary grace and Sera served up the plates of steaming, juicy dinner. Holmes uncorked the bottle of Merlot, and poured three glasses of it. As was his habit, he sniffed the drink for negative additions before drinking. He'd already sniffed the food for poisons, well and good, but had no reason to believe that Sera would want to poison him so soon upon arrival. "Thank you for letting me dine with you, Mr. Watson," said Sera as the doctor pulled out her chair.
"Mrs. Hudson did too," assured Watson. When she was mentally prepared, he added silently, glancing at Holmes, who was eating like an etiquette-trained wolf. "We live in the same house, and it is only right to encourage the camaraderie therein."
"It is a welcome change in attitude from some previous beneficiaries of my cooking," she replied, smiling shyly.
Holmes quickly swallowed a burning mouthful, gulped a sip of wine, and broke in, "Yes, who were your previous employers?"
Sera's fork stopped midway to her lips. She hesitated a beat. "A family of power."
"Nobles? Royalty?" pressed Holmes.
"Erm...royalty, I suppose."
"You suppose?" tutted Holmes like a teacher chiding a student. "Surely you would know for certain if a family is of royal blood or not."
"Holmes," Watson warned. "Eat before it gets cold."
There was silence for a few moments, sprinkled with clinking forks and knives.
"Where do you hail from, Miss Sera?" questioned Watson, breaking the uncomfortable quiet.
"Scotland," she replied, looking relieved.
"That explains the accent," interjected Holmes over his wine glass. "Though it is muddled."
Watson shot him a glance that said, 'behave yourself!'
"I left there when I was sixteen," Sera said, slightly defensive but smiling like she was unbothered. "Your accent would be muddled, too, if you had not been among its speakers for seven years."
"It also explains your green eyes," continued the detective, warming to his monologue. "Scottish, for sure. But the shape of your nose suggests you have Spanish blood, as well."
Sera choked for a moment in surprise, putting down her fork. "My nose?" she asked breathlessly from behind her napkin.
"And your Catholic last name."
Sera met his eyes across the table, haughty at being picked apart by a stranger. After a moment, she said in a controlled tone, "You are correct on both accounts, Mr. Holmes. My mother was Scottish, and my father a Spaniard."
"But that does not explain why you left home so early," said Holmes, leaning his jaw on one hand, eyes scrutinizing.
Sera opened her mouth and closed it again, a vein twitching in her forehead.
"Bread, Holmes?" asked Watson pointedly, passing the basket. Holmes ignored it, steepling his fingers. "But I must say, there is also something decidedly Asian about you, Miss Sera."
"I...travel. A lot."
"Where, exactly?"
"My father married my mother and left her soon after I was born," said Sera silkily, ignoring the last question. "But my life is hardly dinnertime talk. How well does you practice go, Dr. Watson?"
"As well as can be expected," replied Watson hastily, off-tempo at being pulled into the conversation. "My clients are enough to see to it I live comfortably. I require no more."
"I imagine Holmes' boxing makes him a frequent patient," said Sera, stabbing a potato chunk.
Now it was Holmes' turn to choke slightly. "What makes you say I box?"
"Your physique," she said airily. "You really do need some fattening up, sir." She met his eyes with an 'I got you!' look. "Salad?" she asked sweetly, passing the bowl and tongs.
Holmes rolled his eyes at this, returning to his plate. "And Watson does not. His waistcoats already lose buttons when he bends."
Watson 'dropped' his fork, and upon retrieval poked Holmes hard in the leg with it. Holmes jumped, banging his knee under the table, nearly upsetting the wine glasses.
When they had finished, Sera got up and cleared their plates, telling them to stay put for dessert. She disappeared in a flash of black dress and white apron strings into the kitchen.
Watson took the opportunity to chastise his flatmate. "Don't be so prying!"
"Prying is how I pay my share of the rent, old boy," replied Holmes dismissively.
"I pay your share of the rent nine times out of ten!"
"With money that I won for you boxing."
Watson struck Holmes in the knee with his cane under the table. Holmes glared at him, rubbing his kneecap.
Sera returned with three clean plates, forks, and a perfect chocolate souffle. Watson and Holmes murmured appreciation at the dish, to which she curtsied graciously and smiled. "I thought for sure it would fall."
"Like those thugs you beat off earlier this evening?" quipped Holmes with fake casualness.
The room suddenly turned frosty. Watson stiffened in his chair, and Holmes was compelled to pause his chewing to look across the table.
Sera's face was a potent mix of a viper's stare, a thundercloud's demeanor, and a hangman's grim mouth. She pinned him steadily, not breaking her gaze, and he stared back, expression blank.
"Mr. Holmes," she started coldly as the temperature in the room dropped to frigid. "If you are so curious about my life, perhaps you should wait until I am willing to disclose the details."
"The one whose knee you broke was the most impressive," continued Holmes, forking up some souffle. "Textbook, and quite effective. How long do you estimate his recovery time?"
Sera's face faltered, flitting to guilt. "Seven months," she said quietly. She broke his gaze. "I didn't want to hurt him. But it was either me or him go home injured tonight. I chose him."
Compulsively, she and Holmes reached for the serving spoon at the same time. Their hands brushed. Sera's eyes flared back to anger. "Why are you cross-examining me?" she snarled dangerously.
"Why are you hiding?" asked Holmes evenly, victory masked in his eyes.
Sera flung herself from the table, muttered something about cleaning up later, and exited the kitchen. The door to her room slammed moments later.
Watson sighed, rubbing his face. "Are you quite pleased with yourself, Holmes?"
The detective slid the souffle dish between them. "Very."
