Disclaimer: I own nothing from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's brilliant mind.
Chapter Eleven: Memories of the Past
"What business brings you to Paris?" Rebecca asked, setting her eyes forward again upon her store which was still slowly burning.
She heard short footsteps in the dark alley before the voice answered," Simple trepidation is all."
"I never wished to speak with you again," She said, her tone bright, but her intention obviously much more chide and sharp, sarcastic rather.
A chuckle escaped his lips," Ah, but dear Rebecca, surely you know that you could not keep me out in the dark for such a length of time as this. A, seemingly, effortless change of the last name does not erase the relationship that preceded such foul play."
"Foul play?" She asked with a raise of her brow before spinning on her heel to look at the shadows in which he hid himself. "Is that what you still think my marriage to be?"
"Your prior 'marriage'. I do not know if you realize this, but you are no longer bound to that man, but perhaps you never truly were…emotionally that is…or was, rather," The quirky fellow spat out all the words at a pace rapid to the rate at which Rebecca's blood was boiling.
All she simply did was stare into the shadows in which she presumed his body to be leaning against the wall of the establishment. Oh, the days when they could freely quote the lines of Shakespeare and trust one another as any healthy relationship, whether it be romantic, casual, or family-oriented…deserved.
"And to think that for a moment I was pleased to hear your voice," The seamstress spat at him before turning away from him, beginning to walk away. "Go back to London, Sherlock! I've no interest in playing your little games of deduction as I presume that you have come to do with me in my current situation."
Just as soon as she began to walk quickly away, was the moment she heard quickened footsteps from behind and the detective sprinting after her in the dark roadway of Paris," Suppose that my 'little games of deduction' could save your life? Hm? Have you considered that, dear Rebecca?"
She stopped as the silence filled the air compassing the both of them. Had she wished to see the arrogant, eccentric, and periodically, downright rude Sherlock Holmes again, then she would have gone to visit him, but his coming to her was, in all honesty, unexpected. Deep down, she knew that for him to express concern for her again, must have meant that the danger presenting itself was quite severe. Although she would never admit that aloud, she did allow for herself to pause and respond to his statement.
"Sherlock," She sighed. "Last time that I trusted you…"
He interrupted," You did not hear what it was that you desired to hear."
At this she spun around, looking directly at the dark-greasy-messy-haired detective with whom she would have once trusted with her life. She couldn't help but be taken aback by the sight of him once more. Many years had passed since she had last seen this man and it took all of her will power to bite down on her tongue and keep from lashing out at him.
"No!" She yelled defensively as she pulled her arms over her chest. "You were…you were absolutely horrendous! You broke nearly everything that we had been taught as children. Not to mention that you placed my life at risk. You played games with ideas that should never be meddled with!"
He tilted his head at her, looking her straight in the eye," In my defense, I was protecting your name. I was protecting someone whom I actually…. cared for. I was protecting your future to be able to pursuit a career without persecution."
She chuckled, very dryly, before yelling and pointing a finger at the store" And look where your defense mechanisms got me!"
He shook his head with a very tight jaw," Do not blame this on me! This is the work of a Professor by the name of Moriarty. If you want the root of the problem, or the origin, mathematically speaking, then you should look at yourself. Or let me restate that, look at those whom you link yourself with."
She swallowed hard for her was right. Rebecca Dubois could not stand it when Sherlock Holmes was right, especially in her presence. Unfortunately, it happened that he was accurate a high percentage of the time and it was for that reason that she had to answer his statement with an honest answer.
"With whom I link myself with should not involve yourself," She answered, still clearly very stiff.
He looked down, before looking up and meeting her eyes," It just so happens that they do…in this particular instance."
The seamstress did not know whether to take this comment seriously or to simply walk away, as she had many years ago, to the police station so that they would no longer worry of her. For some reason, her heart was urging her to stay put and not to move anywhere. She simply looked at him, blinking slowly.
"Sebastian Moran is quite possibly the second most dangerous man in London. Coincidentally, I have been studying Moran and his 'colleague', Moriarty for awhile now and have put together a theory of my own as to their intentions and since you are one of their main targets…then I suppose that means that you and I would be destined to meet again eventually," He rattled on, moving his hands about in a casual manner before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out what she presumed to be a cigar. "One day, I happened to be following Sebastian and his men only to see that my old…companion was being followed by my current specimen. Strangely enough, I delved deeper to find that this old friend of mine was being targeted by these precarious men."
"How did you-?" She started, but he simply continued speaking, but her eyes gazed down to the shoes that he was currently wearing.
Being a woman of clothing, she remembered this same style of shoe on the strange man that she had been rescued by whilst in London. Feeling as though she had just run into a wall of futility, she shook her head in disbelief.
"Though it was quite the challenge, I managed to take away from them what wasn't theirs to take and also managed to track down their next planned movement against dear Rebecca Dubois. Though it would seem men such as themselves would be more secretive about their tactics, they were nothing of the sort…though they may not have thought a simple beggar would have been eavesdropping on their conversation," He babbled on, lighting his cigar before softly blowing smoke into the night air.
She folded her arms over her chest," You are still playing dress up, then? I suppose that if you are to play dress up, then I may as well offer my advice-be more inconspicuous with your choice of shoe. You have been wearing the same style since I last saw you many years ago. Had you not been wearing such an obvious exclamation of identity, then I may not have even recognized you."
The pieces of the evening in London were all starting to make a little more sense in her head.
He blinked several times before nodding, affirming his mistake solemnly before smirking," Only a Holmes would recognize such a negligible detail."
"Unless you've forgotten, my last name is no longer such," She responded curtly, tempted to turn away from him. She had heard all of the information she wished to hear at this point and now was better able to understand the events of London. Anything involving Sherlock seemed to turn into a larger ordeal than it need be.
"Ah, but you are surely not so foolish to believe that a last name changes one's heritage," He told her, to which she turned on her heel and began walking away once more. He jogged to keep up alongside her before speaking again. "Though I am not sure that the name 'Dubois' fits you any better than 'Holmes' did. Both figuratively and…literally."
She allowed the air to settle in the awkward moment, saying nothing, but walking briskly toward the corner of the road. Just before she could turn the corner and say farewell for what she would have hoped to be good, the English detective literally threw himself in front of her before grabbing her arms.
"Bon sang, Sherlock!" She exclaimed, fighting his grasp briefly. "Savez-vous pas de limites?**"
"Trust me, Rebecca," He said, looking down, but breathing steadily, more than likely in order to keep his calm. "If you turn around that corner, then you will more than likely be…in a situation which you will not be able to charm your way out of. Or deduce."
She narrowed her eyes at him, though she half-heartedly believed him," You've already knocked me from consciousness once and sent me through on a wild, gun-firing chase all through the city of London. Why should I believe you?"
"In more simple language, I have saved your life once…what is stopping me from doing it once again?" His words were true…even though Rebecca did not wish to hear such words. The bluntness of his speech rang in her ears for several moments before she took a step away from the corner.
"Only that you will keep me informed…unlike the last time in London," She said, avoiding eye contact with him.
He chuckled before releasing another puff of smoke," It was for your own good, Rebecca."
"Under a concoction that was not made by a medical doctor? Was that suppose to be for my own good? Even for someone as brilliant as yourself, it seems-" She was interrupted by Sherlock pulling her into the nearest alley, with no regard to her statement. "Sherlock!"
He shoved his hand over her mouth to silence her from speaking any further, what he had seen from the corner of his eye was the movement of more of Moran's men coming around the corner. Had he moved her a split-second later, then they would have been seen. The severe look in his eyes told her that something had clearly happened.
Slowly, he moved his hand from her mouth and placed a finger upon his own before pointing to the street. As she looked, he migrated behind a stack of crates stacked in the corner, a shipment more than likely, for one of the local businesses.
A troop of well-dressed men strolled down the street, saying nothing, but simply walking along.
"You wish to be informed?" He asked, or rather breathed under his breath. "Those are the men who wish to kill you."
"They've come to see what's left of my shop," She confirmed, needing no explanation for their whereabouts.
"Precisely," He affirmed. "More than likely, they seek a valuable document of yours…something you would hide in say, a vault hidden beneath the floorboards of your home?"
Her eyes widened as she gazed on him. No one knew of her vault and she had intended to keep it that way. She hadn't known what was more dangerous, the idea of Moran getting his hands on the papers inside her vault or the idea of Sherlock Holmes knowing of its contents. Of course, Moran would have been worse, but Holmes being able to figure out such a thing truly did prove her lack of attention to detail.
"H-how do you know-?" She spluttered, looking at him as though he was some sort of alien.
At this moment, he pulled his cigar from his mouth and set it up one of the crates before reaching inside of his coat pocket and pulling out the documents, clothed in a tightly sealed envelope. As of a couple hours before, they had been locked in the safety of the vault and yet, there they were…in the hands of her estranged relative.
She swiped to take them from his grasp, but he shook his head, tutting her as if she was a small child," Now, now-"
"Sherlock Holmes, I demand-" She spoke a little to loudly for their current predicament and toned down her volume. "Sherlock Holmes, I demand you divulge the details in which you discovered those documents."
Taking the whole situation rather lightly, he smiled and sat upon one of the crates, looking up at her," Ah, I will tell you that just as soon as you tell me how you were able to escaped unscathed from dinner with Moran."
"I'm surprised you can not deduce such," She spat at him, her eyes set on the papers in his hand.
"Just as I am surprised you cannot deduce how I came upon these," He waved the papers about in his hand before tucking them back in his coat. "And how you knew that my concoction was not of the most innovative medical technology."
If he wanted to play this game, then she could force herself to play such a game with him. She returned the smirk before leaning against the cold, hard wall of the alleyway," I suppose it is the one gene of a Holmes still remaining in me."
Sherlock smirked back at her as a final puff of smoke was emitted from his lips," Dear cousin, I'm sorry to hear that you've lost nearly all of your intelligence after marrying that Dubois bloke."
For the first time in many years, Rebecca Dubois was forced to accept the fact that she did indeed still have some family surviving. Two…geographically and relationally distant cousins living in London. One of them standing in front of her, Sherlock, and the other, Mycroft, whom she assumed to be living back in London, happily and safely.
A/N: So, reactions? Predictions? I still can't commit to a strict updating schedule, so please bear with me!
curlycue- Ah, so you have read the description. I should write "eventual" on there because any romance really will not occur until later in the story and the OC mentioned may not even be the current one you are referencing. :D
French Translation (roughly)
**Good grief, Sherlock. Do you know no limits?