chapter 10
i could have danced all night

Jeanette and I were dazzled by the sumptuous elegance of the ball. Dr. Watson and Mary introduced us to several friendly ladies and gentlemen, but at the beginning of the second dance I found myself somehow without a partner. I sipped a glass of punch from the refreshment table as I looked around the room. Dr. and Mrs. Watson were twirling together in a lively manner near the grand staircase, and Jeanette was waltzing most elegantly with a nice-looking young gentleman who had introduced himself as a Mr. Carroll. I was firmly warning myself against indulging in self-pity when I heard a familiar voice just behind me.
"Miss Ingham, may I have this dance?"
I turned around to see none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes, smiling at me in a more congenial manner than I had ever seen from him, and looking most dashing in a spotless black suit. I was suddenly conscious of a dozen flaws in my appearance--the few unruly hairs out of place, the slight wrinkles on the sleeve of my gown, my 21st-century mannerisms that, despite all my efforts to hide them, I so often feared appeared crass and ill-bred to the people of this century. I felt my face grow warm as I replied, "It would be an honor, Mr. Holmes."
The next moment, Holmes and I were whirling about the ballroom as if we'd been waltzing together all our lives. His dancing was so sure-footed and fluid that even someone with as little experience as I found it easy to follow him.
"Why, Mr. Holmes, you're a wonderful dancer!" I exclaimed, unable to contain my surprise.
He gave me a wry grin. "And why should I not be, Miss Ingham?"
I smiled sheepishly. "I know how much you hate society, Mr. Holmes. It was a simple deduction that you should not care for dancing, it being such a social activity."
Sherlock Holmes replied with a long and hearty laugh, which, me being used only to his canonical silent chuckles, utterly surprised me. Holmes' entire face changed when he laughed; his eyes exchanged their cold glitter for an infectious twinkle, and his teeth flashed handsomely.
"I suppose Watson's stories would lead you to believe I am the sort of fellow to shun diversion entirely," he said. "But you have forgotten one of his kindest compliments to me. 'Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching his mind at will.' The Hound of the Baskervilles, I think was his sensational little title."
"That is true," I replied. "Dr. Watson often writes about you going to the museum or the concert hall. But he never mentioned dancing."
"Dear old Watson," said Holmes. "He is the best friend a man could ask for, but I must confess he does not give credit to all my abilities. Do you know, Miss Ingham, I believe his reluctance to write about our dancing experiences is due to the fact that he was not always so skilled at the activity as he is now."
"Is that so?" I asked, much amused.
"Truly," Mr. Holmes chuckled. "This must be our little secret, Miss Ingham, but until I myself gave him some proper instruction, he was quite clumsy indeed. I remember a certain New Year's ball we both attended early in our acquaintance. Watson danced the first dance with a very pretty young lady, a Miss Thurston, and he trod on her poor toes to such an extent that she refused to speak to him for the rest of the evening. He was very sorry to have their acquaintance so early broken off, but of course that was before he meet Miss Morstan."
I had to smile at this picture of an awkward young Watson.
"So you see, Miss Ingham," Holmes concluded, "Although I am of course a very busy man, my life is not entirely without its little diversions. I thought I should have to miss this one, however, but the case has just taken an unexpected turn, and I find myself, as it were, resting in the eye of the storm. So you see me here, as detached from a case as ever a man could be."
I thought of asking Holmes what the development was that he had alluded to, but I too felt that this was a brief moment for us to put all other concerns aside. We fell into a silence more poignant than words as the lovely violin music sent us gliding through a sea of elegance. Dancing with Holmes was more wonderful than even I, in my silliest fancies, had ever dared to imagine. But all too soon, the dance had ended, and the couples were dispersing arm-in-arm about the room. I stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure if Holmes would want me to take his arm or not. But in fact he offered me his arm most gallantly, and, indicating several couples who were retreating to the elegant outdoor garden for a breath of fresh air, asked if I would care for a bit of a moonlit stroll.
"I would love to, Mr. Holmes," I replied, and we slipped out into a world of silvery coolness. There was not a sound but the crunch of our feet on the gravel, the muted music floating out to us from the ballroom, and the brighter, sweeter notes of the occasional nightingale. The garden path led us to a stone bench, near a small fountain which looked like liquid silver in the moonlight. Holmes seated me on the bench and then sat down at a respectful distance from me.
"What an absolutely perfect evening," I remarked. "In the 21st century we will never have anything so nice."
"Come, Miss Ingham, you do your century too little credit," said Holmes genially. "I admit I have been the chief among its fault-finders, but its drawbacks are by no means unique in the vast span of history. Every era has its faults, just as it has its accomplishments."
"Yes, but…" I began, somewhat at a loss to describe what I what trying to say. "Everything in my time is so…bland, so washed-out, like the last stale crumbs left unwanted in the bottom of a cookie jar." That wasn't a very poetic simile, but it would have to do. "Here it is so different," I continued, gesturing skyward. "I mean, look how bright those stars are! Sometimes I feel I could just put my hand up there and touch God!"
"Yes, but viewing the issue rationally, one comes to the inevitable conclusion that God, being omnipresent, is equally accessible to all mankind, despite their location in time. Time is merely a by-product of human existence; it is far from invincible, as the time machines have given us ample proof."
"Yes," I agreed, "Perhaps it is only discontentedness that makes me exalt every other century above my own. Yet you have seen my day and age, Mr. Holmes, and you cannot deny that the world is growing steadily worse."
"The darkest hour is just before dawn, to borrow the clique," said Holmes. "I see no reason that the people of your century have not the same sporting chance as any other. Not while the sun still rises every morning in a blaze of color that can exist for no other reason than the goodness of its Creator. Not while there are such things as friendship and music and laughter. Not while the world is still so full of beauty. For whatever its flaws, Miss Ingham, you cannot convince me that the twenty-first century is entirely devoid of merit." I felt a thrill in every fiber of my being as Holmes gently took my hand in his. "Miss Ingham--" he began. "Miss Ingham!" he shouted suddenly, his keen eyes darting behind me into the shrubbery. "Get under this bench, immediately!"
"What?" I exclaimed.
"Obey me at once, woman!" he ordered, running at top speed into the shrubbery as I bewilderedly carried out his instructions. The next moment, Holmes emerged back onto the garden path, locked in combat with a gruff-looking, black-mustached man. Even in that moment of panic I recognized his face immediately from seeing it on the internet--he was one of the Swiss scientists who had worked with my Uncle Mordred.
With a mixture of fascination and terror I watched as Holmes dealt his opponent several swift blows and then pinned him to the ground, calling for someone to bring him a rope. I thought the danger was over, but there was suddenly a scuffling movement from the trapped man, and he escaped onto the garden path, leaving Holmes writhing upon the gravel and clutching his arm in pain. But the next moment, Holmes was up again, and charging after his foe. Suddenly time seemed to slow to a crawl as I realized that the Swiss scientist was heading in the direction of the building, and framed in the open doorway, blocking his way, stood none other than my cousin Jeanette. I screamed and ran towards them as the scientist drew a pistol from his pocket and fired at Jeanette before Holmes or anyone else could stop him! Jeanette cried out in agony and crumpled to the ground.
The next few moments were very confused--through dizzy eyes I saw white-faced people crowding round my cousin's prostrate figure, heard her whimpering with pain and saw the blood, ugly and red, appearing on her gown. It was at that moment that I realized just how much I had come to care about my little cousin.
I don't quite remember what happened after that, but the next thing I knew, I was in a carriage with Holmes, Watson, and Mary, Jeanette unconscious and spread out across our laps. We flew at top speed through the streets of London, Holmes repeatedly urging the driver to go even faster. At one point Watson cried out that we had missed the turn to his house, to which Holmes replied that we were going to Baker Street instead, as it was much closer. But other than that, no one spoke save Mary, who was holding Jeanette's limp hand and whispering fervent prayers.
In the silence a thousand dark thoughts were crowding into my head. That must have been the "unexpected turn" Holmes had referred to--finding out that an agent of my uncle's would be present at the ball. Probably the entire time he had been waltzing with me, he had been scanning the room for a sight of the man in question. Even what I had mistaken for a romantic moonlight walk was merely another chance for him to draw the net closer around his prey. All his fine talk of protecting Jeanette and me by bringing us to Victorian London now sounded in my ears like a hollow mockery. Sherlock Holmes knew no other love but the love of his detective work, and I had been a fool, a silly, stupid, naïve little fool, to ever suppose otherwise. And now my own cousin was lying at death's doorway, all because of him! Anger at Holmes, myself, and the world in general whirled in my mind with terror over Jeanette's condition. I did not speak a word as Holmes and Watson carried Jeanette into the guest bedroom at Baker Street, and Mary Watson fetched hot water and bandages from a much alarmed Mrs. Hudson.
I sank into the one of the chairs in the sitting room and stared into the crackling fire for what seemed like an interminable wait. I did not even look up when I heard a door open behind me, and Sherlock Holmes entered the room and seated himself in the chair across from me.
"Don't worry, Miss Ingham," he said, ignoring my sullen silence. "Watson is as competent a physician as ever existed, and both he and his wife have your cousin in excellent hands."
"Well, that's certainly a change," I said sharply, turning a pair of blazing eyes upon the detective.
"Pray explain your meaning, Miss Ingham," he said with a look of distress.
"I'm sorry, I thought it was elementary," I replied, my voice dripping sarcasm. "You have used my cousin and me, Mr. Holmes. For some reason my uncle is determinedly after us, and you have brought us here as bait to drag his agents here, so that you could catch them more easily on your own turf! Jeanette is lying wounded in that room because of you! And you call yourself a gentleman!"
Holmes' eyes flashed angrily. "You mistake the situation entirely," he said sternly. "I brought you to London first and foremost to place you under my own protection. The fact that you served a double purpose by drawing your uncle's attention here does not make the first purpose any less legitimate. He would have come after you and your cousin no matter where you were, and I thought I could protect you best in my own city and century. At any rate, if your uncle's men are not drawn here, I will never be able to solve this case, and thus your entire family, as well as countless others, will be in danger for the rest of their mortal lives. Furthermore, the fact that your presence in London was crucial in solving the case does not mean that I have not taken…" his voice faltered briefly--"a very great pleasure in your company."
"Oh, so now you're exploiting me as a sexual object as well as threatening my physical safety!" I retorted.
"No! Nothing of the sort!"
"Then why did you bring me here?"
"I already explained to you--"
"You have explained nothing!" I cried out. "Why did you not explain to Jeanette and me about the danger present at the ball?"
He looked at me in astonishment. "Miss Ingham, do you sincerely believe for one moment that I had any idea your uncle's agent would be anywhere within a 30-mile radius of you or your cousin? I had every reason to believe that he was in Sussex; that was the reason I postponed my case to take an evening off before going there by the earliest train tomorrow morning. I have been deceived, Miss Ingham, very cleverly deceived."
"Well, now you know how it feels, don't you?" I exclaimed. "You have been lying to me ever since you brought me to London! Why didn't you tell me all that was at stake before bringing me along with you?"
"Miss Ingham, it is merely the exaggeratedly militant feminism of your generation that causes you to feel taken advantage of by my failure to consult your personal opinion in every decision that I make!"
"You never consult the opinion of anyone but yourself, Sherlock Holmes!" I shouted, tears starting from my eyes. "That's why the only woman you'll ever know is a flat little photograph laying in your fireplace cabinet!"
With a start I realized how close Holmes and I had unconsciously stepped towards each other in the heat of our argument. At the same moment I was startled to see in his eyes a look of deep hurt, and I realized that my angry words had touched something vulnerable in him. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, I was seized with an uncontrollable fit of laughter, laughing so violently that tears gushed from my eyes and I found myself crying hysterically. The next thing I knew, I had collapsed into a sitting position in the window-seat, and Holmes was sitting next to me, his arm placed tenderly around my shoulders, his other hand gently grasping both of mine, his voice speaking close to my ear. "Miss Ingham, please forgive my idiocy," he was saying. "Miss Ingham, you don't know how it pains me to distress you!"
The only answer I could manage was another stifled sob.
"Shh, shh," he said softly. "Don't try to speak." In a sort of daze I realized that he was leading me back to one of the fireside armchairs. He fumbled in his pocket for a clean handkerchief and handed it to me graciously, and he poured some brandy into a glass which he lifted to my lips. I sipped the calming spirits gratefully, trying to stop myself from having a fit of hysterics in front of Sherlock Holmes.
"Forgive me, Miss Ingham, you are not well," he said, staring into the fire with his brows knitted anxiously.
"I'm fine, Mr. Holmes," I replied weakly. For I was feeling better, now that I could breathe again.
"I owe you a very sincere apology," he said, still looking into the fire, and pressing his fingertips tightly on the mantelpiece. "You are right, it was wrong of me to try to justify myself in this matter. By my actions, however well-intentioned, I have put the lives of two very worthy ladies into danger, and I alone am responsible for the injury to your cousin."
He turned his grey eyes in my direction, and once again I was startled by their exp​ression. Gone was the cold-blooded reasoner, the cynical bachelor of Conan Doyle's canon. In his place stood a deeper and a truer version of that great man, whose incisive, analytical mind stood in direct juxtaposition with a heart that was deep, emotional, and dangerously vulnerable. I remembered the words that Watson was one day to write, "It was worth a wound; it was worth many wounds; to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask…For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation."
"Mr. Holmes--" I began, but was cut short as the sitting room door was flung open and Watson burst into the room. "Good tidings, my friends," he cried, running over to us. "Miss Jeanette has made it past the crucial point. I have removed the bullet which inflicted her; the wound was not deep, and, thank God, was not near enough to her heart to cause any real damage. The shooter must have been panicked in his attempt to escape, or else not shooting to kill. I see no reason that she will not completely recover."
"Excellent, Watson! Excellent!" cried Holmes, rubbing his thin hands together. I was too overjoyed to speak, but greatly surprised the good doctor by giving him a huge hug.
"Is there any more that we can do for her tonight, Watson?" asked Holmes.
"No, my friend," replied the doctor, "She needs only to rest for the moment."
"Then you and I shall take it turns to catnap in this sitting room, and sit up to keep watch over Miss Jeanette," Holmes directed. "But this has been a very trying evening for us all, and I think it imperative that the ladies should have an unbroken rest."
"Of course," Watson agreed. "Mary has already arranged to room with Mrs. Hudson for the night, and the two of them have prepared Holmes' usual room for you, Miss Ingham."
Well, that's not awkward at all, I thought. But I knew my friends were only trying to extent hospitality to me, the guest, but offering me the nicest room for the night. "Thank you so much, Doctor," I said.
"I saved the bullet for you, Holmes," said Watson, "I knew you would wish to inspect it."
"Naturally," replied Holmes, who upon Watson's entrance had snapped back into his usual self. I sensed that the two men wished to be alone to discuss the night's events, so I withdrew to my assigned quarters.
Holmes' room was even more cluttered than the sitting room was, but I could see that Mary and Mrs. Hudson had put a set of fresh linen on the bed and attempted to tidy up the mess a little. An old-fashioned nightgown, probably a spare one of Mrs. Hudson's, was lying on top of the bed. As I changed into it, a profound exhaustion sunk into my mind and body. Without another thought, I climbed into bed and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.