"Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil."
Alder's eyes slid open slowly and tentatively, more a shivering flicker of flesh than a cohesive motion, and she breathed deep the London morning. The window was open from the night before, the morning breeze rustling softly the white curtains that floated in like ghosts, billowing up above the desk placed just beneath the sill. It crept across the floor, brought chills to her skin, but she did not move, only watched the ceiling.
Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.
It was six in the morning. She knew that from habit, from the thudding footsteps of Mr. Stonestreet next door, clunking his way down the stairs. She waited with bated breath for the scratching sound of his struggles with the door, ancient and unruly, but too much a hassle to replace. When it came, with a muttered curse that caused her to raise her eyebrows in a momentary bout of amusement, she sucked in another breath, raised herself slowly, straight-backed, till her eyes fell upon the flat across the street. She watched a moment the activity inside, her head cocked a little to the side, her brow furrowed.
Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.
He was up early, though she found herself unsurprised. It was becoming more and more common, the late nights and early mornings. He was already at the violin, standing stiff and tall in the darkly-colored room, governing the instrument with some strange amalgamation of romance and tyranny, though she was beginning to wonder the difference. Her eyes followed his swaying movements with cat-like focus, her expression curious and clear, the bright glow of wonder bringing life to her pale cheeks. She seemed frozen in place, watching with growing trepidation, a burning fear of trespassing, the way his lips seemed to mouth the notes as he coaxed them to life. She could almost imagine she could hear them, and her heart waged war the way it did nearly every morning, tugging her gaze from discovery, desperately worried she might loose the music if she even blinked.
Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.
He was inching his way closer to the window now, moving in a swaying, rotating motion to the podium placed nearly out of view, only a small golden corner visible. Any second, he would raise his gaze to scan the page, catch a glimpse of her steady, silent eyes. She clenched her fists beneath the sheets, her nails digging into her palms, but her expression remained mute, and her gaze unwavering, waiting with bated breath for the moment to look away. But she was caught off guard, and he glanced up suddenly, ahead of schedule, taking a step toward the podium. His eyes were brilliant, bright, intelligent, a remnant of the sea in the landlocked street, and she gasped, slipping from beneath the sheets and out of sight in a swift motion.
Taking refuge behind the wall, grateful for the curtains that obscured even more of the room, she tensed, clutching at herself, shivering, her toes curling in the cold, thin carpet, stretching tightly over the flooring. She sucked in a breath, soft and cold, felt the chill spiderweb through her lungs, traced its movement, let her eyes fall upon the desk pressed against the wall before her, met the gaze of the bust of Socrates there, traced the hollow carvings where his eyes might be. She counted the heartbeats that rocked her bones, reached ten, breathed deep, let her lips fall open, let out a small, shrugging laugh.
"Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil."
She let her arms fall to her sides and moved forward to the dresser beside the desk, reaching for the desired drawers, pulling from it the desired clothes for that day, glancing over her shoulder to the bathroom, the closet of a bathroom, with a shower cramped in its corner, behind her. Affordability for a native Londoner must have been wealth for a foreigner.
Balancing her shoes, some boots Jordan had bought her for Christmas a year or so ago, atop a pile of clothes, she padded back across the room, let her gaze wander back up to the neighboring window as she passed her own, saw with a sinking heart it was empty. He'd vanished, and she clenched her jaw, but forced herself forward, picking her way through piles of books, carelessly and randomly stacked against walls for lack of shelf space.
The carpet fell into tile and her bare skin recoiled against the cold touch of it when she reached the bathroom, and she hurried to seek refuge in the shower, turning the faucet to a comforting warmth, careful not to push it too far, remembering her last conversation with Mrs. O'Connor, the way the woman's face had gone hawkish and severe, what was left of the dying embers of compassion in her eyes failing entirely as they turned dark and despotic. She smirked. There was no romance in Mrs. O'Connor's tyranny.
The remaining sweat from the night before slipped from her shoulders and her limbs with the warmth of the water, and she leaned herself against the tile of the wall, her skin tender against the grooves of it, gasping a little at the violent contrast, then settling into it, looking up into the faucet, her eyes loosely closed so that some of the droplets still slunk just beneath her lids, wetting her eyelashes gently. She breathed then, let her limbs go limp as they could, smiled into the falling rain.
Time crept on, and the itching of it could not be ignored as long as she'd have liked. With a grimace, she lifted herself from her repose, shook her head, sent water pattering against the shower-curtain, and began to wash, casting her thoughts forward to the future, but only as far as her shift for the morning, resting in the remembrance that she'd be on duty with Jordan and Kirsten, as opposed to being alone with solely Kirsten. She smiled into the water, fumbled with the tap, and found herself thrown into the cold air of the apartment as she stepped out of the shower.
Five minutes later and she'd stationed herself before the mirror of the small bathroom, painting carefully the makeup upon her face, gazing into her own eyes. They were blue, too, but not the breathtaking blue of the man's across the street. The thought of him brought dread to her gut again, and she paused, lowering her mascara, resting her wrist on the edge of the sink. She glanced down, saw it trembling, the coated black bristles a blur. Her breath caught in her throat, and she bit her lip, hard, drawing blood.
Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.
Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.
Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.
She sucked in a breath between her lips, parted just barely, forcing it into her lungs with a shivering effort, exhaled in one great, thin movement, the way Jordan would let out the nicotine cloud during their lunch breaks outside when Kirstin had taken over the counter with her huffing and puffing. They'd laugh about it in the chill, and she'd find comfort in the familiar tobacco scent. She forced her eyes closed, squeezing them tight, counting to ten. She nearly forgot about the man in the window, the violinist, the eternal musician.
She decided she liked that name for him, "the eternal musician". She poured herself into it, matching it with his eyes, his face, a Michelangelo, ethereal life within his lungs.
Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.
Exhaling, cigarette-style again, she looked up to the mirror; her eyes flickered to attention, noted the mascara on her cheek from where she'd prematurely closed her eyes. She turned on the tap, wetted a fingertip, smudged it into her skin, where it disappeared into her pores; it served only to darken the rings beneath her eyes, the purple-grey skin. But she'd moved on, hurried from the bathroom to the door, glancing at a small watch as she strapped it hastily and clumsily to her wrist, only able to fully secure it when she'd made it out the door and into the cold London morning.
Hissing in surprise and cursing herself for forgetting a jacket, she pulled her bag, a tote from a nearby bookshop, heavy with the odds and ends she could not bring herself to leave behind, close to her body. She glanced up, met familiar eyes across the street, and a brilliant smile stretched across her features. Jordan was holding politely open the door of Speedy's, an amused grin on his lips. She raised her eyebrows in a short, jerking motion, a wordless greeting, and glanced side to side before jogging across the street.
Reaching the opposite sidewalk, she slipped an arm about him, pulling him close just as he did her.
"How are you?" he asked as she stepped past him into the sub shop, and she glanced back, shrugging.
"Not bad," she said before nodding to him. "You?"
He shrugged in turn. "'Bout the same."
She smiled and nodded in understanding, her eyes glinting a little in laughter before she was cut off by Kirstin, the harsh sound of her shrill voice cutting through the shop's relaxed air and bringing a tense wince to hers and Jordan's features. They met eyes, a current of mutual dread running between them before they turned to the woman, standing before them, a limp rag in the fist pressed mercilessly into her hip. A disappointed twist to her lips brought a deeper severity to her face than it'd already possessed.
"About time, you two. We're supposed to be busy today." There was a bitter scold to her tone, and she jerked her head in the direction of the counter. As Jordan and Alder moved toward the counter, hurrying back behind it for their aprons, they met gazes, eyes flashing but lips twisted upward in amusement. Rude and domineering as Kirsten was, it was the morning ritual, and they'd come to the conclusion, that there was no better way to start off the day. Kirsten's bitterness was shallow, and her bark had no bite, and provided nothing but fodder for jocularity. Not that it meant they didn't miss the old man that had once run the shop; Mr. Chatterjee had gone off to Islamabad on short notice, left her in charge.
As the day began, and Jordan placed a warm hand on her shoulder, slipping about the counter and to the door to flip over the sign and alert the world they were opening, Alder's dazed eyes took in the small shop, the hopelessly dirty black and white tiles, the slick silver table-tops and red trim of the beige-ish walls, and she breathed deep one more time, pushed the eternal musician from her mind, exhaled cigarette-style, and smiled gently and sadly.
Seeing it was impossible to be a Russian, I became a Slavophil.
She logged into the cash register, and the day began.
- - -
Lunch break was a relief, for Kirsten's prophecy had come true, and they had been busy all that day. Rather than recline against the shop's wall, they'd elected to repose upon the curb in the back alley. The familiar nicotine of Jordan's cigarette filled Alder's lungs, and with a sigh, she leaned back against the wall. Thumping base filled her right ear, Jordan's left, the cord hanging between them, and her eyes rested upon his face, tracing the features she'd grown to know so well in her time here, and the faded tattoo just behind his ear. He'd told her it was some drunken dare he'd taken, but the cost to remove it had been too much, and so it sat, a grey splotch that was once the abstract geometric shape of a diamond, dim in his skin.
His skin was tawny, with all the smooth cascading look of sand, face lit with large brown eyes that somehow seemed an amber green when the sun hit them just right, as it was now, making them almost translucent, like the stained glass of Westminster Cathedral. His jawline was firm, his hair short and spiked some, coming up off the high brow.
Jordan had been her first friend upon moving to London, training her for the job and then taking her under his wing for a few months or so as she adjusted to life outside of the familiar. Not that he knew what familiar was for her. He'd asked no questions, simply guided, silent and kind, and she'd followed willingly, contentedly, dazedly. Within the first two weeks, she'd already decided she'd trust him with her life. Him and the eternal musician.
As if reading her mind, Jordan spoke.
"It's almost noon," he told her.
She nodded, grunting her response, letting her eyes slide closed, the sun warm her face as much as it could in the alley. He smirked a little, a corner of his lips rising momentarily as he glanced back at her, taking in her features, the strange, grim frown to her lips.
"I can't tell if you're scared of him or if you really like him," he told her, and she smiled amusedly, her lips twisting across her face, a toothless smile. She slid her eyes open, fixed them upon his and shrugged.
"A little of both," she told him, and he raised his eyebrows, nodding.
"That's fair." He turned back to studying the graffiti on the wall opposite them, dragging on his cigarette once more. It was almost finished. Alder's lips were tighter now, and she no longer reclined against the wall, now joining her hands above her feet, resting her elbows on her knees, letting her eyes fall to the street.
"You know something, Jordan," she started, not meeting his gaze when he glanced over, brows raised, curious. "I'd trust you with my life."
Jordan nodded, his lips pressed together as he pondered her words, a smile slowly forming upon his features, already sitting in his eyes. "I'll say the same," he told her, looked back to the wall, paused, and turned to her. "Why?"
Alder shrugged, glancing up to his eyes, her own clearing of something suddenly as they did, no longer so grim and sad. "I don't know," she answered honestly, "Just felt you needed to know."
Jordan smiled kindly. "Thanks," he told her.
"Thanks to you," she returned, but was distracted suddenly by the song ending, falling off into silence before moving on to another one. Startled out of the moment, the peace between them jolted a little, and she glanced to her watch, frowned.
"One minute," she told him, and he nodded, his eyes flashing as he dropped the cigarette and ground it firmly into the pavement, sighing.
"Into battle," he muttered as he removed the earbud, mirroring her movements, and stood, coiling the cord about his fingers, slipping them into his pocket before holding out his hand. She frowned exaggeratedly, and breathed a nervous laugh. He chuckled in turn, and helped her to her feet when she took his hand.
Together, they adjusted their aprons, met eyes once more in a flash of camaraderie, and pushed through the back door, moved past Joey and Frank, the two cooks, with nods of greeting, and back into the shop. As the kitchen door swung shut behind Alder, and Jordan moved from her line of vision, letting the light of the sun that filtered through the glass storefront into her eyes, she found herself absorbed for the second time that day in the great ocean depths of the eternal musician. She bit her lip, stopped herself from gasping once more, and moved without betraying emotion to her position behind the counter.
Jordan, moving to the table of the eternal musician, glanced to her, an amused, knowing smile suffusing his features. She curled her lips in a mock expression of anger, her eyes flashing. She pressed down the laugh forming and rolled her eyes.
"Fight me," she mouthed, and he rolled his own eyes in turn, shaking his head and looking back to the table as he approached it.
Alder grinned to herself as she readied her register, forcing down the cold sorrow that rose like puke in her heart. The vibrancy of the sunlight seemed somewhat dimmed, and her smile fell by force of a gravity within to a gentle, troubled frown.
Across the room, the eyes of the eternal musician never left her features, the same troubled expression mirrored there.
- - -
"Someone in Surrey says they're dating a psychopath. She says he doesn't sleep and is always muttering things beneath his breath. Tried to strangle her in her sleep once."
"Hallucinations from LSD. She needs to see a psychiatrist, not a detective."
"Bloke in London says someone broke into his flat, stole a diamond ring of his ex-wife's, left without stealing anything else."
"Her current lover or she didn't take it, and he wants the insurance."
Sherlock stood tall, silhouetted against the brilliant daylight that slanted through the windows, casting bold shadows upon the carpet and against the walls, hands clasped together behind his back as his eyes seemed to bore through the glass of the window, his weight shifting distractedly from foot to foot, his brow furrowed in confusion, lips tight in something of a curious frown. John continued to read off the entrees in the blog, voice lilting a little as he attempted to throw something of interest into the path of his friend, but each suggestion was met with, if not a quick conclusion, then the bypassing comments of a mind distracted.
From behind John, reclining in the low armchair, Mary watched the pair with growing interest, her eyes riveted specifically on Sherlock's back, which was straight and taught, and implied that his distraction was not from some indifferent lull brought on by the London summer, but the symptoms of his intent study of something across the street. She shifted her weight in the seat, adjusted the book in her hands, peeked above the edge of it, straining to catch a glimpse of what had so captured her friend's attention.
It was something that puzzled him, she could tell. The corners of his lips, downturned slightly, said as much, and she couldn't help but admit she was relieved at the sudden revival of energy in him. With the date of the wedding looming ominously for him on the horizon, she was grateful for any and all distractions that could pull him out of his stupor. Her eyes drifted to John, who had also noticed the change in Sherlock, and was now glancing to her, brow furrowed in confusion, between each request.
Having caught her eye this time, he nodded his head, barely perceptibly, in the direction of their friend at the window.
"What's he doing?" he mouthed, and she raised her eyebrows, shrugged.
"No clue," she mouthed back, and the troubled look in his eyes returned as he looked back to the blog site, but his voice was removed now, distracted from their original concentration on the words that he read. He started slowly once more, and Mary resumed her efforts to catch a glimpse of the source of Sherlock's engrossment. She lifted herself agilely on one arm, the book limp in her hand, stretching her neck out to see over the desk, past the window frame, and then a brilliant smile lit up her features.
From the computer, John glanced back to her, recognizing the knowing tilt to her grin from all those conversations he'd had with her through the years when she'd been able to read directly into what he'd truly meant. He cocked his head, furrowed his brow, but she indicated with a gesture that she would let him in on it later, in the privacy of their own home, and so he went back to his former occupation.
"There's a little girl who says that her mother is two different people," he offered, opening his mouth to continue, but was abruptly cut off.
"Is it normal for someone to have access to experimental medicines?"
John faltered over his words, stumbling to a stop, before glancing to Sherlock in confusion. He was watching the two of them, specifically Mary, and she got the feeling he knew she had seen what he was studying. She hadn't exactly been quiet in her movements.
"What do you mean?" John asked, straightening in his seat, peering over the edge of the computer to his friend.
"Come," he commanded simply, and gestured John to stand and move to the window. As he did, Sherlock looked to Mary, noted that the smile on her lips had slipped into a frown of confusion. "You too, Mary," he added.
She rose quickly, catching up to John as they reached the window and looked through, following Sherlock's line of sight. Across the street, in the apartment directly opposite theirs, was a woman, standing tall in the light that poured through her open window and the breeze of the approaching summer that lifted the white curtains and sent them billowing back above her bed, tucked between two cheaply-made bookshelves stacked tall and sagging with books, mostly antique-looking, but peppered with splashes of color, fresh from the bookshops.
She was facing something out of view, her eyes absorbed into it, her lips downturned in a concentrated frown, and her hands working carefully at the lid of a pill bottle, finally opening it with a jerk of her wrist, and pouring into her hand two little pink tablets. With a grimace down upon them and a furrow of the brow, she raised her hand to her mouth and tossed them down her throat, reaching with a trembling hand for a bottle of water that she pulled into sight from a table hidden by the curtains.
At John and Mary's confusion, Sherlock looked to them. "She moved in last week, near the middle of the night, but you didn't notice, which is quite unfortunate as one's neighbors tend to influence one's lifestyle more than nearly anything else. The pills are an experimental medicine designed to prevent beforehand leukemia. She takes them every day," he elaborated, "but I've never heard of them being prescribed."
John shrugged, glanced to Mary, then back to Sherlock. "Maybe she's wealthy?"
"But do you see that shelving in her apartment?" Sherlock sounded incredulous. "And her furniture? It's hardly the type that a wealthy person would own." He paused, studied her once more. "And that's the cheapest apartment on this street."
A smile lifted the corner of John's lips, and he met Mary's eyes one more time as she moved away from the window in an attempt to give the neighbor some privacy. Understanding her motives, John inched his way back to the computer. Sherlock turned to them, taking in their expressions, the hidden smile in Mary's eyes, John's raised eyebrows. He opened his mouth, fumbling for his defense, but none came, and his eyes flashed in exasperation.
"It's not normal is all," he muttered, and lowered himself into the seat across from John with a frustrated frown on his lips.