Pieces of a journal
My evening walk with Michael is awkward, to say the very least. He apologizes for his careless words the night before and I accept passively, still unsettled by his degrading attitude to Sherlock. I daresay I think he is intimidated by the knowledge of who my brother is. It seems to be a trend among the male persuasion to develop an unhealthy rivalry towards those who excelled in any important area. My brother is world renowned, his pocket book is well fed, and his services and attention are coveted and elite. I fear Michael envies such things, particularly if Sherlock's relatively younger age is taken into account. He mocks the detective's reputation, though he is quick to apologize when he sees how it angers me.
He tugs his bowler hat down onto his auburn hair and smiles sweetly at me as we walk down The Strand. We haven't yet decided if we will take in a show, and if I am perfectly honest with myself, I do not really wish to prolong the evening any more than necessary. My thoughts are disconcertingly focused on my stepbrother - his scarred arms and the way he looked as he licked clean his calloused thumb.
"Is your mystery solved?" Michael thankfully cuts into my thoughts.
I take his arm with a deep inhalation that coincides with my inner resolve to think not on Sherlock again this night.
I easily fall into step with him. Michael's height barely tops my own. It was something that actually aggravated me a great deal when he'd first asked to court me. Despite his looks, it bothered me that I could look him in the eye without effort. In all truth, I'd actually considered rejecting him on that point alone, before my common sense kicked me squarely in the shins.
"Not yet. But we are coming along nicely, I believe." I answer with a wide smile that I hope masks my inner restlessness.
"Really? Is that so?" He murmurs, staring at the Gaiety theater and its advertisements for their production of Dorothy. "Doesn't your brother usually claim to finish cases much quicker? Some within a day, I heard." He states as he move away from the doors, apparently not interested in attending the show, which relieves me considerably.
I studiously ignore the implication of his calculated wording - as if Sherlock's redoubted reputation was all brag and bounce; carefully concealed ballyhoo created by the detective himself to advertise his wanting skills.
"It depends on the case. You can't expect each problem to follow the same course. And in all honesty, Michael, nothing criminal has taken place. In fact, I suppose you could even say that any stagnation in the case is due to my own vagueness…" I sigh and look away, uneasy with my role as defender. "On another note, he has finally asked to make your acquaintance."
"Well, I will be sure to oblige him as soon as possible. After all, I would not want to make a bad impression on the great Sherlock Holmes. Especially knowing how devoted you are to your him."
I hope he does not notice my smile falter.
He wraps his thick arms around me. Due to the cold of the winter afternoon, we are quite literally alone on the street. I rest my chin on his shoulder and am once again unsettled by his height. I'd settled myself to this issue; become accustomed to it a long while ago but suddenly...Sherlock was tall. I had to strain my neck to look up at him if he stood to close to me during conversation. Sometimes during our more intimate moments I felt I was addressing the soft underside of his chin more than I was addressing him. I would never have been able to rest my chin on his shoulder.
Once I start, I can't resist the temptation of further comparisons. Michael is much stockier; I can easily slip my arms about his shoulders but cannot very easily reach all the way around his broad form. Sherlock I had always been obliged to hug about the waist. Though he had spontaneously lifted me under the underarms once to kiss me without leaning over. I felt overpowered by Michael, but not as secure as with my over towering brother.
Michael is also quite fair. He reminds me of the balmy summer, with its vibrant colors and long outstretched, lazy days. His freckled face and auburn hair are like the wheat-fields near my home, the texture of which is comforting despite its roughness. He is constant. A northern star in temperament. Even if I grow frustrated with him, he remains calm. Sherlock would no doubt term it "humouring". And he would not tolerate it as I do. Sherlock is keen to argue, and to be patronized so, even in an effort to keep the peace, would not be allowed without a verbal dressing down.
In that way, Sherlock always reminded me of the winter, just as it was fading into the first few days of spring. He is temperamental and inconsistent. He can be warm if he wishes to. But even his warmth is offset by a constant chill. He suffers no one, except the few he loves, to whom he is doggedly devoted. But he will not humour me. The full storm of his thoughts and feelings are not held back but rushes through the brightening January days with all the force of a dimming but hardly dead winter.
His hair is the black, shimmering night-sky; his skin the pale, soft blanket of snow. His eyes are the damp patches of grass that still peek out of the lawn and the moors. He is cold.
I always preferred the cold, though.
His sheets had been cool; almost bitingly so as I slipped into them. It refreshed me to feel the icy material against my legs and arms as I slinked into his bed with him. The first time I'd felt any stirrings inside my feminine soul, it was upon awakening to see Sherlock's sleepy eyes staring at me, his face half smothered by his comfortable pillow. His eyes had been dark, unfocused and abyssal. I knew then that if that was how he looked upon waking in the morning, I was doomed to to hold onto him, even to my own detriment . . . perhaps even for the rest of my life.
"Are you quite certain that there is no other reason for his sudden interest in me? Why does he really wish to meet me?" Michael's breath faintly stirs my hair.
"He just wants to meet you. You are to wed his sister." I reply, trying vainly to keep the exasperation out of my voice.
It doesn't matter in any case, seeing as Michael is adept at ignoring my tones and moods."You're not really his sister."
The very truth of that statement cuts me, but for many reasons, none of which I can verbalize to the man in front of me.
"Yes well…"
We fall into a silent spell. A light snow is falling, brushing against the awnings of the storefronts.
"If your brother wishes to discover the truth of who is following you," Michael starts suddenly, "he could simply follow you and see what if there is any truth to your story."
"I did not think the validity of my story was in question." I whisper frostily.
He puts an arm about my shoulder, "You knew very well what I mean, darling. I just think that this petty problem could be easily solved. But perhaps your brother simply prefers to go about things the hard way."
I am tempted to be derisive and tell him that he should take up detective work but restrain myself. It will not be ladylike. I stare instead at the dull cream-colored siding of the building next to me.
"He has followed me, actually, but to no avail. I'm beginning to think I should just push this from my mind and move on." I volunteer instead.
He stops and takes my shoulders, forcing me to face him. "I have been hoping you would come to this conclusion for some time. I think you're worrying yourself for no reason. Besides, I am perfectly capable of protecting you."
I pat his hand, removing it from my shoulder, not wishing to upset his fragile masculinity. "I do not think he will give it up now, though. He is surprisingly stubborn when something piques his interest."
Michael kisses me on my temple, "I'm sure he'll come around soon and see things from our point of view."
