In Which Holmes is Quite Protective
"Is there any instinct more deeply implanted in the heart of man than the pride of protection, a protection which is constantly exerted for a fragile and defenseless creature?"
~Honoré de Balzac
Both Holmes and I have done odd and outlandish things for a case. I have dressed as gypsy, boy, nun and grieving widower, while Holmes as dressed as gypsy, beggar, bishop, woman and cab driver (these are only a few of the many parts we have played over the years). We have played our respectful parts with strict guidelines that we dare not waver from, and often the parts are played with pride.
One event presents itself to me, and it was a rather complex case that called for our disguises once more. As usual, I was to play the dim-witted, doe-eyed woman to draw in our suspect with my innocence, while Holmes would be on hand as one of the wait staff in the party we were attending. I was to attempt to pry as much information from the party goers as possible while Holmes would collect gossip from the other waiters and servants.
This should have gone along with ease, but the host of the party—I will not disclose his name for obvious reasons, but to reassure the reader he has been detained and imprisoned for two decades on the account of crimes—was much more eager than either Holmes or I expected.
I remember that I was dressed in a horribly uncomfortable dress that would have made a Victorian gentleman (excluding Holmes, he dressed me in the damned thing!) drop in a dead faint. It was horribly atrocious but I attempted to lure my host over with feigned empty-headedness. I was not to be disappointed, for not even an hour after my arrival was I approached by the sly fellow. I offered him a shy smile and accepted the glass of champagne he offered me with tipsy grace.
"How is the fine lady this evening?" he asked with a grin. He leaned against the rail of the elegant stairs of which I was standing near, after having finished a pitiful attempt at dancing with a kind young man a few years older than I. I smiled at him, though the sight of his dark, insect like eyes made me want to grimace.
"I'm rather enjoying myself, sir," I said, adding a tiny giggle on the end for good measure. He looked pleased.
"Very good," he purred. He pulled closer to me; I did my best not to cringe. "What may your name be, my fine lady?"
"Violet Everseau," I said as I fluttered my eyelashes.
"Ah, Violet, what a beautiful name—I may call you Violet, yes? Ah, thank you. You are as beautiful as your name, Violet, it I can permit to say such things." While he spoke, his hand came across my body to rest on my hip and play idly with one of the beads strung onto my dress at my hip. He had successfully trapped me against the wall of the staircase, with his back turned to the crowd and his arm keeping me firm against the wall.
I smiled, pretending not to notice the possessive nature of his movement. His hand grazed lower as he spoke again. "I haven't seen you around, Violet. You've come out of town?"
He was attempting to distract me with small talk as his hands came ever closer to trapping me and luring me into his seductive trap. It wasn't working on me, but it was on Violet. I tittered with laughter and spoke with a smile and hooded gaze. "Yes, my sisters and I have come from London for a trip out of the town. None of them wanted to come with me tonight, a shame too, it's full of such nice people! And drink," I amended, smiling indulgently at the untouched champagne glass in my hand. My host seemed not to notice that I hadn't sipped yet.
His face came ever closer to mine and I was beginning to feel cut off from the crowd; I spotted a cluster of men standing in front of the host, obviously talking about a recent rugby match and unaware of the lechery behind their backs. I was out of the eyes of the general person, and I was beginning to feel trapped by the lewd host, whose hand was currently descending to my thigh. I covered the feeling of distaste with a tiny smile and lowering my head in an act of apparent shyness.
And then the host had pinned me against the wall, his hand grasping what I will politely callthe back of my hips, his face looming over me. He was nearly as tall as Holmes and had just enough height on me to be able to look down at me with predator like eyes. I contained a cry of indignation and just stifled the urge to bring my knee between his legs, and managed to turn the sound about to leave my lips to a gasp.
I managed to place the glass of champagne in my hand at the small table near me, and I attempted to push him off with my hands on his shoulders. I was unsuccessful in the stifling a cry of surprise and annoyance when his hands groped my body.
Before I could rightfully retaliate—after all, I doubt I would be getting much information out of the driven and lecherous host—there was a sharp, dry voice that sounded from partly behind our host and my attacker and to his left. "Excuse me, sir,"—the voice was so mocking it made the term of often civility sound like the lowest insult.
The host turned around to scowl at the tall, graying waiter that stood before us. My eyes had hardly landed on his cold—angry?—grey eyes before the waiter spoke again, with much more ice and contained fury than before. "Get your hands off of my wife."
And then Holmes's fist had collided with the host's scowling face and the host fell to the floor with a broken jaw. My husband stood firm even when there were shocked gasps when the man fell, but I had only eyes for my husband—and who was only looking into my eyes. I didn't resist when he collected me in his arms and led me away.
I stopped him when we were alone in a hall that would lead to the back of the house—where, no doubt, an automobile was waiting to take us home, or the nearest police station—and without hesitation, grasped his face with both hands and pressed our lips together.
The kiss was passionate, sloppy and all too short. I pulled away and smiled—this time truthfully—at the man who was looking down at me, if only because he was taller. Holmes looked dazed and then smiled, almost sheepishly. His hands were on my hips and holding me possessively, and I felt rather at home.
"I saw him come onto you and…I didn't enjoy the sight," Holmes admitted.
"I'm glad you didn't," I responded with a small smile. "Thank you, Holmes. Protectiveness is a new trait. It looks good on you."
Holmes grimaced and I chuckled to myself as we swept outside and into the waiting automobile.
There. Whoop. Sorry if its OOC or forced, I was tentative with the conversation between the host and Russell. Anyways, sorry for any mistakes and reviews are love. Did anyone catch the Enola Holmes reference? Or the resemblance of a line to one in the Harry Potter movies? Heh heh, I'm bad.
I'll see you all next update!
-Spirit-
