Chapter Twelve

Why has your heart carried you away, and why do your eyes flash, so that you vent your rage against God and pour out such words from your mouth?

Job 15:12-13

There was a witness to that conversation in the garden, an inconspicuous gardener working on the flower beds near one wall. Holmes had cleverly disguised himself and had a gift for blending into his environment and not drawing attention to himself; almost a talent for being invisible.

Once back at Baker Street late that afternoon, he contemplated the new information now at his disposal. He had been very surprised, quite displeased and definitely disappointed that Sarah had even accepted the invitation when she had turned down so many, until his own researches turned up that the Waverleys were financial supporters of the arts and his irregulars reported that Vladimir had made her accept. The pieces then fell into place and his original impressions of Sarah were restored, if not confirmed as yet.

Holmes had overheard the entire conversation in the garden with a growing and inevitable and inescapable sense of desolation. He was sure that Sarah was about to find herself not only her first real suitor but an extraordinarily good one. As it was, he was astonished and profoundly relieved instead. Why would she think of this privileged man's interests ahead of her own? She had far more to gain from the alliance than Waverley had to lose. Even the family was not interfering. In fact, they were helping, if anything. Yet, she had turned him down. She had done it kindly and sensibly and gently too. Her arguments had been sound. She knew her place in the world and she knew she would be imposing on this family to accept his suit.

Although Sarah claimed to come from a distant time and place, she had a very good grasp on where she fitted into the strict social structures of England. She knew her fame allowed her access to Britain's first families. In fact, in time it would give her access to first families all over the Continent and probably royalty one day too, he predicted. At the same time, she knew her place. She would have access but she would never be one of them. Not even a wedding ring would make her really one of them. Still, most women would not think that far ahead or even care as long as they had the appearance and privileges of being one of 'them'.

Holmes felt restless and he threw his pipe onto the mantel. He did not have enough information still and so his brain was rattling along the track of the mystery of Sarah without enough data to feed the engine. It was burning him out. He unfolded his tall, spare frame from the chair and threw on his cape. Sarah should be back from her evening performance by now.

He walked to Sarah's flat in Oxford Street. It was only a few of blocks away from Baker Street. To his surprise, she was sitting at her window at this late hour. He supposed it would be hard for a dancer to recover from the adrenalin rush of performing until quite late at night. It might explain why so many of the theatre crowd went out to the local pubs after a performance. It may be a way of winding down or running through the last of the adrenalin.

He ducked into the shadows when he saw her face at the window. He did not want Sarah to realise how closely or how often he was tailing her. It may cause her to change her habits deliberately if she was trying to keep secrets from him and Watson.

She was obviously in her dressing gown and was leaning her face against the cold glass, looking out into the street without really seeing anything.

It struck Holmes that she looked both depressed and lonely. He couldn't understand why she would need to feel either. She was a celebrated ballerina. She could gain entrée into any social circle in Britain at the moment. There was no need for her to be at home alone and depressed.

Unless she chose to be but why would she choose that?

He glanced up at the window again to find that Sarah had gone and the window pane was dark behind the now drawn curtains. Sarah never stayed up late. He stretched himself after standing still for so long then he walked the short distance to the Diogenes Club. It was still early enough that Mycroft may be lingering over his after dinner port.

"A ballerina did you say, Sherlock?" Mycroft said with a mixture of mystification and disbelief, "but why should you care about the origins of some ballet girl?"

"Because of the way she arrived in London, Mycroft," Holmes replied impatiently and went on to describe every detail, down to the contents of Sarah's backpack, the 'odd' clothes, short haircut, accent and mysterious 'iPod'. "She says she has no memory of how she came to be on the shores of the Duke's lake."

"Well, the girl is lying of course. Why should you care?" Mycroft said dismissively with an edge of impatience. He tired of trifles easily, somewhat like his brother.

"I don't know if she is," Holmes replied, irritated with his brother, "What would be the advantage to her? She is a distant relation of the Duke, but refused to make this known to him. She has never returned to his estate. She is earning a very hard living and is not asking for anything from anyone," he added, pointing his pipe at his brother for emphasis.

Mycroft tilted his head to one side and examined his younger, more energetic brother silently for a few moments. His pale, almost colourless eyes were speculative.

"It sounds like this young woman has somewhat earned your respect Sherlock," Mycroft said with a glimmer of interest, "not an easy thing to do. That fact on its own makes her interesting."

Holmes was a bit shocked at Mycroft's observation. Had he given himself away so easily or was it just because Mycroft knew him so well?

"Yes, Miss Mounteney is resourceful, practical, has a great deal of common sense and learns quickly," Sherlock acknowledged smoothly, deliberately casual. "You know something else odd? She turned down an actual proposal of marriage from young Waverley," he added.

"Turned it down, you say? Why would the girl do that? What are the chances that another opportunity for a lifetime of security will come her way again?" Mycroft said, his massive forehead crinkling in confusion.

"I'm not entirely sure, Mycroft. You know the motives of women are so inscrutable! Who can work with such unreliable data?" Holmes said, his incisive voice sharp with frustration, his heavy brows drawn together. "She said she didn't want to ruin his opportunities in life by tying him to a ballet girl which shows both good insight into society and a large degree of unselfishness, but why be unselfish? She owes this Waverley nothing. Does she want to live this hard life? And it is a hard life, Mycroft. The hours she works and what she puts her delicate frame through is horrendous," Holmes said, shaking his head in confusion.

"You can't talk about the hours other people work when you do little else yourself, Sherlock," Mycroft said wryly.

"But I have to work, Miss Mounteney could have given it away and lived a luxurious life," Holmes said with a shrug.

"Maybe she didn't like the fellow although I don't know why she wouldn't. He's a polite, handsome and promising young man from what I understand," Mycroft said.

"No, I don't believe Waverley was at fault in any way," Holmes replied broodingly, refilling his pipe.

"Hmmm… Well, I don't think I can offer you any greater insights than your own investigations have produced. I know you like puzzles for their own sake but the origins of a ballet girl hardly affects the state of the nation," Mycroft said dryly.

"No, but I mean to solve it nonetheless," Holmes said leaning back and puffing comfortably on his pipe and then went on to describe the recently solved case of the speckled band to his brother.

Sarah found herself getting quite adept at avoiding young men who wished get her on her own to make propositions of all kinds. It was almost always at the teas she was invited to in the homes of wealthy patrons of the arts. Vladimir put a lot of pressure on her to attend them, but it was becoming a problem. She learned not to venture too far into the small gardens of large homes and how to make excuses to avoid strolls in conservatories with a young, male escort. If left alone in a room with a young man, she learned how to control the conversation by asking endless questions about the family or the antiques in the room or the personal hobbies of her companion. If the young men were both persistent and insensitive (which unfortunately was more often than not the case), she simply pleaded that she was so occupied with her dancing as to leave no time for anything else including the attentions of any young man. If she sounded regretful enough, she would sometimes get away with it. On several occasions, she had to get very frosty and lecture the young man concerned on his loose morals and presumption. There were days she went back to the theatre feeling very dispirited and depressed at being treated like little better than a 'high class' harlot, if that was not a complete contradiction in terms.

The final straw for Sarah came one afternoon at yet another tedious afternoon tea with a family called the Highburys. The young Duke, who was repulsive in both looks and manners, managed to corner Sarah in the music room and be particularly insulting.

He bluntly proposed to pay Sarah a stipend to be his mistress and didn't bother dressing up his language in making the suggestion. When Sarah protested with arctic coldness he had indignantly and rudely replied that "someone in your situation should be grateful for the attentions". Sarah responded, "If I am so far beneath you then perhaps you should turn your attentions to someone of your own class," and stormed out of the music room and the house without another word leaving Highbury sputtering behind her and the rest of the family in a state of confusion.

That same night, Sarah was at home practicing in a small, bare room that she used as a studio. It contained nothing but a barre, a roisin box, a wooden chair, a small sewing basket and a plain brick fireplace.

Suddenly all the months of insinuations, innuendoes, propositions and domineering behaviour suddenly piled on top of her.

Sarah didn't understand why she should feel grateful to be treated like a lower class of being and why she should want to give up her freedom for a life of degradation.

Like a tide, Sarah could feel anger that had been building for a long time sweep over her. Red washed over her vision. She kicked over the chair and sewing basket. Then she picked up the fireplace poker and gave the bricks a thorough smashing.

Sarah spotted her large sewing scissors sticking out of the basket and grabbed them. She pulled the pins out of her hair. If being pretty and desirable made men treat her like a piece of trash, perhaps it was better to be considered 'ugly', she thought. Cutting her hair off again would do the trick. Sarah grabbed a thick lock and was just about to hack off a few inches at chin length when her arm was grabbed in an iron grip and her hand pulled away from her head.

It gave Sarah a bad fright until she saw it was only Holmes.

"What are you doing here?" she asked angrily, "and let go of my arm!" she added, trying to tug it away from him. Sarah was so furious, she had to fight the impulse to turn on him. She had been in blind rages before and knew they were dangerous.

"Calm down, Miss Mounteney," he said unperturbedly, "you do seem to be in a state. What is the matter?"

Holmes sounded icily calm, but his heart was pounding. Sarah was in such a fury, he wasn't even sure she could see him. Her eyes looked sightless, like she was looking at something not in the room. Her eyes had changed colour in her passion too. Usually quite dark, they shone a bright green.

Not only was her violent mood deeply unnerving, but it was the first time Holmes had been this close to Sarah since their first meeting at Baker Street when he had examined her short hair and odd clothing. Now her dark, thick hair had grown and was as glorious as he had predicted it would be. They were standing so close that as she tried to tug her arm away from him, her hair brushed like silk against his hand and face leaving a faint scent of roses behind. A prickle of pleasure skittered across his skin where it touched, distracting him momentarily. The bones of her wrist felt as fragile as a bird's in his hand and he felt a sudden fear of actually hurting her inadvertently. He realised he was holding his breath and slowly let it out.

Sarah soon brought him back to reality.

"It's none of your business. Why are you here?" Sarah demanded ferociously.

"I dropped by to ask you something and when your landlady let me in and I heard the unholy racket, I thought there was a fight going on in here," he replied composedly, his heart still racing.

"Didn't I tell you to let go of me?" Sarah said, glaring at him through strands of her hair.

Holmes had not seen Sarah with her hair down since it had grown. Women always wore their hair up and half hidden by a hat. With her face framed by her dark hair, Sarah looked softer and even more feminine than usual. She looked younger and vulnerable. Holmes felt an absurd desire to protect her – clearly absurd as she was currently in a dangerous temper.

"Not until I'm sure you're calm," Holmes said implacably.

That's when Sarah kicked him in the ankle. He let go of her then and gasped in shock or pain, Sarah wasn't sure which. She didn't much care either.

"Bloody men! I'm sick of the lot of you," Sarah said with feeling and sat on the floor in front of the fireplace with her back to him.

There was nothing like sudden pain for clearing the head, Holmes thought wryly. He had let his senses and his attraction to Sarah distract and disorient him. He needed to refocus. There was silence for quite a time while Holmes tried to figure out a strategy for the situation. For the first time in his life, he was at a total loss. He felt perplexed by her outburst and distracted by his reaction to her earlier proximity. In the end, he decided that sympathy would be the most helpful.

"Why don't you tell me what is troubling you?" he finally said in soothing tones.

"No," Sarah replied flatly. She wasn't fooled. She knew perfectly well that Holmes was only looking for more 'data' to solve his mystery. He was not genuinely concerned, it was merely a tactic.

Holmes gave a quick, impatient sigh. He hadn't really expected the first attempt to work anyway. She was too worked up. He walked around to face her.

"It might help in some way," he said with utterly delightful empathy.

Even as Sarah turned her back on him and glared into space, she reflected that what Watson had written in his stories was quite true. Holmes could be disarmingly charming and understanding when he chose to be. The problem was that Sarah knew it was an act and knew it was fundamentally manipulative. It just made her angrier. Why couldn't Holmes just be genuine for once? Why couldn't his sympathy and caring be sincere? Sarah bit her lip hard. If she believed that the way Holmes was behaving had any authenticity at all, she would find it hard not to confide everything. Sarah hardened her heart, however. She knew Holmes' tactics and she knew the coldness, calculation and self-interest that dictated his every move.

"You're being rather rude," Holmes observed, deliberately keeping his voice mild even while frustration clawed at his brain.

"What is your point? You're rude whenever you feel like it," Sarah replied bluntly. She thought it would serve him right to have a taste of his own nasty medicine for once. She almost smiled to herself when silence greeted this irrefutable truth.

Holmes suddenly realised with a sickening feeling that no amount of charm and sensitivity was going to undo the damage that all his previous coldness and suspicion had wrought. He had insulted her even more than he had either appreciated or intended. It was obvious that he was not going to be forgiven. She was not going to turn to him in any kind of trouble. The knowledge was sharply painful but he had no-one to blame but himself.

"I can see that you do not wish to discuss whatever is troubling you, Miss Mounteney," Holmes said. He did not mean to, but his voice suddenly cooled as consciousness of the distance between them sunk in.

"Well spotted," Sarah muttered sarcastically.

Holmes would have winced, if he had not been standing right in front of her at the time. Instead, his face froze into a mask.

"I apologise for bursting in on you unannounced just now. I will visit at another, more opportune time," he said stiffly and left as swiftly as he decently could.

After he had gone, Sarah burst into tears, but she really had no idea why.

Sarah never did find her sewing scissors. She had to buy another pair the next day.