A/N: Well – it does sound a bit like it could be a unisex name...Additionally, the canon timeline the following implies may conflict with the history of classical music, which the author does not care about.
Mahler's debut symphony had so far failed to impress me, though it seemed very much to have entertained Holmes ("He writes music however he likes, Watson," had been the verdict, "So do Debussy, Ravel, and every other composer of this modern school," I'd argued. "Yes, Watson – but, unlike the impressionists, Mahler does not even try. Surely you noticed that the third movement was only Frere Jacques in a minor key?"). While such musical delinquency appealed to my friend, I was glad when the intermission finally arrived – and must have shown it, for I managed, as was a rare occasion, to convince him to step out to the lobby for a glass of champagne with me.
Of course, I soon lost him in the crowd of similarly-minded patrons. Holmes was forever wandering off when he felt his presence was not required, or it did not interest him to stay. To date I had lost him in the British Museum, several train stations, on one disastrous occasion a department store, and knew better than to expect to find him by my side in the strand if I felt his hand slip free of my elbow. Therefore, it surprised me not at all to glance up as I took my place in the queue for refreshments and see that he had gone.
What did surprise me was to scan the crowded lobby and spot him in a far corner, talking with a woman.
No, not talking – chatting.
I blinked, somewhat taken aback. He was smiling at something she had said, which wouldn't have been entirely out of the ordinary – except that I recognized this expression as the one I had categorized as his 'genuine smile,' that quick flash of teeth which he almost had to be surprised into showing. He had another which he wore when he was being purposefully charming, and this was nowhere to be found on his features.
I experienced the fleeting urge to approach the lady and congratulate her on the feat she had accomplished by inspiring such a reaction in him, but was startled out of the impulse when the couple behind me nearly trod on me as the queue advanced and I, my attention on the strange tableau unfolding in the corner, was too distracted to notice.
Moments later, my dignity recovered and a drink somewhat closer within reach, I resumed spying on the new acquaintances and could not help grinning to myself. Sherlock Holmes was conducting a conversation with a woman. A conversation which he was apparently enjoying. A conversation with a woman who, I deduced from her own carefree manner, had probably not brought him some sordid tale of woe to be unravelled. Nor, it could be seen from his reaction, did he suspect her of committing some crime herself.
Could it be?
Could it really be true that nothing but normal, pedestrian interest in another human being, as a person and not a variable in an equation, could have drawn him into conversation with this lady?
She was, I appraised, rather lovely – delicate and artistic as a cameo portrait in profile, shining dark amber tresses coiled elegantly at the back of her head to expose the swan-like curve of her throat, a green silk gown that would otherwise have been demure for its lack of adornments tailored perfectly to compliment the graceful, statuesque lines of her form. True, her subtle dress and modest figure rendered her no paragon of what was considered fashionably pretty, but nonetheless, it could hardly be denied that her attributes spoke plainly for themselves. She was no Aphrodite, but a Diana.
Was it possible, I wondered, tapping my chin with a forefinger thoughtfully, that all this had not been lost on my cold and unemotional friend?
Perhaps, I considered further, something like hope beginning to grow in the back of my mind, the lady was not only beautiful, but intelligent. Perhaps she was a charming and witty conversationalist, quick enough to keep pace with my friend and, if his sudden genuine-smile was any indicator, at times surprise him. Perhaps she was well-travelled, well-read, or well-educated. Perhaps she was all three. Perhaps she took a particular interest in the natural sciences, or enlightenment philosophy, or impressionist music. Perhaps she was a musician herself, and she and Holmes were currently entangled in a friendly debate over the finer points of Mahler. It was possible.
Perhaps, I crowed internally, she was an avid student of criminology!
This, however, brought the train of thought I'd been following to a sudden halt, as the somewhat disturbing image of this unique beauty and my unusual friend enthusiastically discussing the recent Whitechapel murders, or some other grisly atrocity, dawned on my mind.
In any event, as I had been thinking on all this the queue had advanced several times more, and I shortly found myself in possession of three glasses of champagne. There was only one thing to do then, I determined, and set off for the corner of the room where the conversation I'd been observing was taking place. Admittedly I had insofar been theorizing on relatively little data. I intended now to make use of the opportunity to gather some.
"...Which amounts to nothing but the plainest of tautologies, after all," Holmes was lecturing as I approached. Miraculously, his pedantry somehow amused the lady rather than putting her off, and she gave an incredulous little chirp of laughter as though in ridicule of the apparently inadequate philosophy upon which he'd been expounding.
"So this is where you disappeared to," I scolded Holmes, taking the opportunity to interject and offer him one of the glasses I held. "Here you are, old boy. And," I continued, turning towards the lady and offering her the third glass, "If I may be excused for taking the liberty, miss...?"
She smiled charmingly, and reached out to accept, saying "Of course, thank you. My name is Broadhusrt – Sherlock Broadhurst."
I am afraid I dropped the glass.
Holmes choked on his own champagne, then proceeded to stare in shock and affront.
The lady, needless to say, responded by looking somewhat taken aback herself. "I beg your pardon," she attempted to recover after a moment, favoring us with another smile. Indeed, through her good graces, our burgeoning acquaintance may even have been repaired, had Holmes not suddenly found his tongue and blurted:
"It is most certainly not."
The smile melted. She blinked. "What is not?"
"Your name, miss," said Holmes coldly. "Sherlock is a man's name."
"Why - of course it isn't!" she scoffed. "It is my name."
At this juncture, the sounds of tuning emanating from the concert hall signaled that the intermission had ended, and I was quick to seize Holmes by the arm and drag him back to our seats before things could go any more wrong.
He sulked for the entire remainder of the evening.
"You know," I tried at last, unable to endure the tense silence any longer as we rattled home along the dark, rain-damp streets in a cab, "I'm sure it isn't really a woman's name."
Holmes, who had until now been sitting with his head sunk upon his breast, deep in thought, straightened up and barked angrily: "Of course it isn't!"
His next action was to sink wordlessly back down as he had been, and resume sulking.
Another long silence stretched between us, I scrutinizing him from the corner of my eye and trying to imagine some other way to lighten the mood. "You know," I attempted eventually, chuckling, "had you wed, you both would have been named -"
The look he turned upon me for this may very well, had my health been in any weaker state, have killed me on the spot, and was no doubt intended to do so.
I scowled at him as he slouched into his seat once more, crossing his arms, every inch of him radiating sheer pique.
"We're never going to marry you off, Holmes," I complained.
His reply to this, I am afraid, was not fit to record in print.