Author's note: Fair warning, I will be uploading my chapters less frequently since I have started looking after my youngest niece and nephew while my sister is a teacher. Frankly, I don't see the sense of sending all the children back to school while this whole second wave is going on, it doesn't really make sense. Anywho, I want to thank you all for taking the time to read my story, it feels nice to know that you guys are enjoying it.
I had immersed myself into some Romani music while writing this chapter and it's one of the best kinds of music you could probably listen to!
"Do you think we should…forget the past? Start anew?" Sherlock muses in a raw whisper. I am laying in a bed in a stuffy cabin below deck with a cold cloth compressed against my aching head, begging to be off of this boat or for sleep to take over me, one or the other would be alright. Before he came to visit me, I'd tried reading a book, but my eyes couldn't focus on the words, they just blurred until they looked like nonsense, so I set it aside and just laid there in silence.
The moonlight trickles in through the tiny window, which is only loosely covered by plain checkered curtains. The horn of the boat is much quieter now, and I suspect that most of the passengers here are sound asleep.
Doctor Watson has been in and out bringing me water and medicine, and replacing the cold cloth with a new one.
"Yes, maybe we should…" I sigh and eye him sadly, feeling a bit pathetic at the state of my illness. "That would be the best, I suppose, but neither of us wants to…"
"I'm willing to." He looks determined; and we exchange mutual smiles. "But let's face it, we're both driven by what we want; we wouldn't keep that promise for long."
Chuckling, I couldn't agree more; he's right; it could never work out between us; one of us would give up in the end and the other would suffer for it. I roll off from the side of the bed. "Trust me, this is what's best for all of us." I slip on my shoes and begin to walk around the bed but his voice stops me short.
"Miss Adler, you're obviously not thinking correctly. Physically, your mind and body are weak. I've seen the same eyes in different people, I know that look. It's the look of a woman who wants to prove that she can handle things on her own and not have to depend on anyone else."
"Isn't that what I'm doing right now? I didn't think that I'd be spending half of the trip to Paris seasick with you on my deathbed, but here we are."
Sherlock cracks a bemused grin as I sit back down on the bed again. "You're not dying, Irene. I was seasick the first time I was on a boat, too. I will have Watson come and give you some more medicine in a moment." He places his cold hand on my forehead. "We're almost there."
His fingers brush back my hair and ties it into a ribbon he collected from my suitcase. I groan as I lay my seasick head back down on the pillow. "You can leave now if you wish to, I can manage. I'm trying to make it easier for you."
"If you wish to make it easier for you, let me aid you in your illness." I say nothing, but as the ship continues to sway back and forth, my stomach refuses to cooperate. "You need water. You're breaking out into a sweat and need hydration."
I shake my head firmly and after a minute, he speaks, but in a much more serious and high pitched tone. "Irene, this is Watson speaking…" I feel a smile instantly crack out onto my face. He sounds nothing like him. "I am insisting that you let me fetch you some water and lighter blankets."
"You're not very convincing," I whisper, hearing the laugh in my voice.
"At least you're smiling," Sherlock mumbles sincerely. "That's a good sign. But if you insist, as soon as I retrieve your medicine for you and then I will stay next to you and it will help you forget about the water."
"I'm sorry," I mumble, reaching for his wrist and frowning deeply. .
"It's not your fault that you're sick." He kisses the top of my feverishly hot head and as I close my eyes again, I hear the wooden floor boards creak while he walks away.
When I open my eyes what seems to be hours later, the sun that was shining just a day before, has disappeared behind the thick gray clouds that are full of rain. I need to blink a couple of times so that my eyes can adjust to the blinding white light of the sky. I am resting my chin on my hand, but it's starting to fall asleep, so I slowly sit up, put my hands on my lap and look around.
It takes me a while to reassure myself that the images I've just seen were nothing but a dream and recall what exactly happened between the rest of the boat ride and now, it is all a bit of a blur, although I do remember getting into the carriage and trying to recover from being so sick that I thought I was going to die.
Never have I had that bad or a reaction to being on a boat before, the worst has always been a bit of queasiness; I won't go into full detail because I don't think you want to read a whole chapter of me retching and all that at this particular moment, what was I talking about earlier?
France is beautiful, just as I remember it to be. I am even more thrilled when John informs me that we are heading into its countryside, rather than rushing towards the hectic city, that is if we can somehow manage to find our way without a guide. We did have a map, but unfortunately, the wind quickly carried it away from us. Therefore, we must rely on our own sense of direction and the signs pointing towards the different towns.
Greeted by miles and miles of grassy hills overlooking the river, I am in awe. I am no artist, but even the great painters of all time could never do justice to the mental picture I was capturing with my eyes and locking into my mind. Paper doesn't have the ability to bring you the sound of birdsong in the trees, or the smells of pine
We ride up the long and winding pathways in an exposed coach, led by a beautiful black horse. The only problem is, we're all crammed in beside one another in a single row.
My hair continues to fly about freely in the fresh air which my lungs yearn for, it's also peaceful all the way out here. I suppose I don't blame the gypsies for wanting to live the way they do. Surely it's not sanitary, but at least they get a sense of nature. You miss that when you live in a cesspool like London.
"I am not used to so much quiet, I'm sure that Mary would love it here." John mutters with a whip of the reigns. "We could find or build a nice little cottage by the lake and that way we could sit on the porch with a cup of tea and watch the day go by."
Sherlock lets out a fake laugh before redirecting his attention towards the mountains. "Trust me, Watson, if you were to live all the way out here, you would find it appealing at first, but you'd grow bored of it sooner or later."
John grunts and pops his collar further up his ears, then shakes his head irritably. I sit silently between them, turning to look at Sherlock again. His eyes are swollen and red, as if he has been crying. I've never known him to be the crying type, so the most logical explanation is that he's tired. His eyes close and he leans back against the seat a little.
As soon as we arrive at the campsite, my eyes widen in rapture. I had only met one gypsy in my entire life, not counting Simza, but my aunt was quick to pull me away from the seemingly sweet gentleman. Seeing their actual home, that eccentric universe, and hearing the music captivates me.
"Wake up." John's voice snaps him from his quick doze. I am about to tell him to let Sherlock rest, but suddenly, his fingers press against the bridge of his nose as the carriage pulls to a stop. "We're here."
"Brace yourself. We're about to be violated." Violated? What could he possibly mean by that? John gives him a warning glance, tells him not to be so cynical. Distrust is natural when you're in a strange place filled with strange people, but we're here on a case, at least try to be decent.
"They're taking my luggage!" John shouts above the noise of laughter. All three of us are being pushed ceremoniously towards a giant camp of tents, fires, chairs, and animals. John seemed to be having the worst of luck, but that was most likely because of his indifference. He struggled to fight against a gypsy reaching for his belongings, but eventually his strength won out.
Sherlock casually smirks to himself. "Laugh them away, Watson! I have her bag." He proudly lifts the bag trunk above his head. After announcing the same thing in French, the case is being taken away.
"Well, not now you don't." I pant, chuckling darkly as I struggle to keep my footing. Turning around, I smile at a group of gypsy children chasing a little white goat who is running around and bleating cheerfully and perhaps a little annoyed at his pursuers.
"Irene's right, you had her bag." John's face twists into one of displeasure as a mass of people begin to prod at his sleeves, peeling his only jacket from him without any struggle. "… Now they have my coat."
Sherlock smiles, trying to keep from laughing at his friend's current situation. His eyes lock onto mine and a grin breaks out briefly on my face, at least I still have my men's clothes on and left any valuables at home. I should probably have given John a fair warning, but with all that was going on on the train and my embarrassing spell of nausea on the boat, it slipped my mind.
As we reach the largest fire in the camp, the air begins to grow stuffier with the amount of smoke in the air; the smells of damp wood and some sort of meat greet my nostrils. When they finally let go of us,
I shuffle a bit closer towards the smoke, without any fear of being sacrificed, and bring my hands closer.
"Where is Madame Simza?" John speaks slowly, enunciating each syllable as though the French gypsies could not understand English. They all glance at one another, then at John, smiling in amusement, which tells me they must understand some words, but he tries again in French. "Où est Simza?"
The man, whose face is nearly as black as the burnt wood, points towards someone. "This is Simza." The three of us turn to see the spectacle, unpleased to find a sleeping elder holding a goose and nearly strangling the poor thing. The animal honks indignantly and flaps his wings, trying to escape.
My head falls onto my shoulder in bewilderment and slight pity for him. I quickly slip over and gently pry the man's fingers off of the goose's neck and another honk sounds in gratitude. He's obviously this man's pet because instead of jumping down, he then proceeds to curl up on the man's lap.
"I'm pretty sure you're not Simza, are you?" I ask him. He honks once again. "I'll take that as a no."
Joining Sherlock's side, he seems to be enjoying himself, and we watch as John tries ever so hard to remain patient and sane with the group. He's coming close to snapping someone's head off when the gypsy man begins to laugh, proud of his joke.
"Sim is a goose." John slowly nods his head and he turns to me, as if he's saying that we came all the way here to talk with a goose and a low hum of chuckles break out in the circle surrounding us.
"I am Sim!" The man proclaims and his fingers suddenly go for John's throat. "Nice scarf!" He gasps in admiration as he begins to peel the fabric away. "I like!"
John's fist goes flying towards the man's nose and he's soon lying flat on his back. Everyone stares at him worriedly and it's clear that besides me, no one was expecting him to lash out when all the man was doing was having a bit of fun.
No one dares to laugh now, a sudden quiet falls over them. John only shoots me a sullen look as he glances around him, uncomfortably, and perhaps a bit embarrassed, and wraps my hand around the hidden gun in his pocket, ready for anything to go horribly wrong. I can tell how tired he is and how the main thing on his mind is simply wanting to return to his lonely and probably frightened fiancée. I trust that she is in good hands with Mycroft, but there's no sense of telling him that right now.
Except Sherlock begins to erupt into a fit of giggles as I reach to help the fallen man from the ground. At least one of us is showing some dignity. "You're not helping, you know."
"Do I ever?" His lips spread into a bemused smirk and no matter how much I want to whack him and John upside the head for their lack of decorum, I can't help but laugh a little.
"That's true enough." Rolling my eyes, I approach him. "At least let them know why you are here, they won't see you as being so suspicious."
Apparently his French is much better than mine, because as soon as he says his next words, the crowd seems concerned by his words and Simza, the woman from the bar approaches us, still as beautiful and headstrong as the day we met. The look in her eyes tells us that she is neither confused nor overly thrilled to see us; if anything, a glimpse of hope shimmers in her amber eyes.
Perhaps she already knows why we're here; helping her brother is clearly all that matters to her. Upon seeing me and my attire, she raises her eyebrows, but dismisses whatever thoughts she has about me. She mutters quietly in our direction. "You hungry?"
"Famished," Sherlock replies and only then am I aware that I haven't eaten anything since being on the train, knowing my stomach wouldn't be able to handle much more than tea. But now, it growls loudly. I sigh in embarrassment and see Simza's eyes light up in amusement.
With a small wag of her finger, she motions for us to continue into her tent. Her long, patched skirt swings behind her like a warrior's cape, or like a sail in the wind. I am just as intrigued by her as the day we met and I can't take my eyes off of her, if she catches me staring, she doesn't acknowledge it, instead, she lifts the tent flap for us. "Go inside," she says softly. "I will join you with Tamas in a minute."
Tamas must be the one John punched in the face, I think to myself as I glance over my shoulder to see him glancing at me apologetically. He seems no worse for wear; and despite how hard that punch was, I'm surprised that I can't see any bruises. I smile at him and nod my head before going inside the tent.
"Will John be alright?" I whisper and Sherlock clears his throat, stepping back again. What's going on in that funny head of his? Why does he keep pulling away from me?
"I'm sure he'll be fine. He's been through much worse thanks to me. It won't be long until he's back to his regular self." Pressure cracks inside of his voice and there's panic dancing in his eyes. He paces a little while in the tent, and beneath the dirt lining his face, I can sense a fragility in him. I can only assume what he's thinking about because those same questions are going through my mind.
What if we don't find Simza's brother in time? What if something happens to him before we can intervene? Losing someone can crack and shatter even the strongest people.
Both of us are lost from our hushed whispers as Simza and Tamas join our side. Tamas and John look far from pleased with each other, but once the former's eyes shift to me, his shoulders drop and they both seem to calm down. Sherlock merely nods his head and follows the two gypsies further inside.
Sherlock stops in his tracks momentarily, looking around the place before leaning a bit closer towards me. The other three begin to speak without hearing us. His fingers lazily begin to ruffle his hair, a nervous tick.
"Do you think there's a chance that she has any clean clothes that you can wear?"
I manage a small smile, "Why? Are you suddenly finding me unattractive dressed up like a man?" Sherlock leans closer to me to whisper in my ear.
"Not at all, I'm just wondering what you'd look like in one of those loose-fitting dresses." Inwardly, I feel my mind traveling and thinking unholy thoughts; I pray that the blush on my cheeks isn't as obvious as it feels. I squirm a little and this only encourages him to smile.
"I didn't know you were so eager to get me out of my clothes." Though a fire is burning in the pit of my stomach, I stand my ground. My chin lifts itself a bit higher and the look in his eyes and the grin on his face tells me more than words ever could.
"Well, what do you know? Just our luck!"
Leaning over the pile with my hands on my hips, I regard the assortment of different sizes and colours of clothes, considering my choices carefully. Something tells me that we're going to be doing a lot of running therefore I will be needing an ensemble that allows movement.
In the end up going for a white blouse with long sleeves and a short brown skirt. They're a little warm when I pick them up, which means they must have been washed and then hanged to dry on a clothesline near the fire.
The boys quickly find something suitable also and then we all search for somewhere to change separately. Moments later, we are all properly dressed and ready for business.
"Sit here." Simza's voice distracts both of us from our conversation, allowing Sherlock to breathe out an enormously dramatic sigh as once again, I am squashed in between him and John. "This is for you." She holds a plate out towards us with a wary, almost uneasy smile.
My hands politely take the chipped plate away from her, eyeing the large, suspicious bits of meat on it; She then wanders back to her seat. Tamas sits alongside her and watches me carefully. None of them have a good reason to trust us and no doubt she's aware of the incident that took place only moments ago.
"Is this…?" John begins, looking up at her.
"Hedgehog," she says calmly from the cloaked caravan steps. Her arms flop lazily over her knees, and she sends me a smirk of amusement at my shock. I raise a suspicious eyebrow at her and she does the same. If she's trying to poison us with Hedgehog, I won't be surprised if I collapse right now; she's crafty and smart enough to know how to rid herself of her enemies. "It is a traditional goulash of my people."
"Hedgehog." My lip twitches nervously, and I only have to force myself to push away the poor creature's face from my mind and avoid offending our hostess as I scoop a spoonful in my mouth, preparing for the worst, however, much to my surprise, it's not that bad, a little bit bitter, could have used some salt, but otherwise alright. "It is honestly a delight. Send your cooks my thanks."
Simza only manages a diminutive grin, but I could tell that she believes me. Maybe she is warming up to us after all. I see her relax a little and for some time, no one says anything. With my plate set aside, I shudder internally, hoping that as satisfying as it was, I'd never have to eat it again, especially now that I am getting a strong aftertaste, but Sherlock on the other hand gnaws away at his like it's the best meal he's had in ages.
"Madam, this is a glorious hedgehog goulash." Sherlock's words even take John by surprise. "I can't remember ever having had better."
John, who doesn't find the exotic dish appealing at all, is now pushed past his limit. I can see it in his eyes before anyone else can, and shudders ring out all over my body as he clamps his fork down onto his plate. "Do tell me, when was the last time you had a hedgehog goulash?"
"I told you, Watson!" Sherlock's head bobs sarcastically. "I can't remember."
"Oh!" John chuckles bitterly beneath his breath. His voice softens as he leaned closer towards his best friend. "Then perhaps you've repressed it."
"Why are you two making all of this fuss?" I grumble and from the corner of my eye, my host and hostess frown at each other and shift uncomfortably. "You are like an old married couple and although you have plenty of other logical things to argue about, you choose this."
Sherlock seems to find both of these comments amusing as he lets out a snarky chuckle. "You see, that's where we differ. Unlike you, I repress nothing."
John sets his plate down. "Perfectly normal." Pathetically, I roll my eyes and listen to the two of them argue, much to my shame. Here we are trying to make a good impression, and it appears as if I'm being the most mature and actually serious about the task at hand.
"How dare you be rude to this woman," Sherlock grabs John's arm with warning in his voice. "… who has invited us into her tent… offered us her hedgehog…"
"Says the man who throws women from trains."
"Can you both please behave and stop being so immature?" My voice is not restrained. "I know it is very difficult for the pair of you, but do manage to try. In case you have forgotten the reason why we're here, I will be more than happy to bring you up to speed."
"Who are you three?" Simza's voice makes us all put on grinning teeth.
Sherlock lets his shoulders rise with a modest shrug. "Concerned citizens."
Her stare is sharp, demanding and almost cold enough to freeze me on the spot, but she's trying to be strong. "Why did someone try to kill me?"
John lets go of his previous argument, or maybe he just sets it aside for now and then takes care of the situation at hand. "Your brother has become involved with a very dangerous man," John continued. "Who clearly believes that René has told you something that you shouldn't know."
"I don't know anything." Simza sounds strong with her words, but someone who is innocent doesn't sound powerful; normally, they sound scared, a tremor in their voice, maybe tears, but then again, it depends on the individual person.
"It's alright, you can trust us. We're not here to harm you, or your brother. We're here to help, but we can't do that without you." My attempt to be comforting must have some influence on her because she sighs deeply.
"I've been looking for him for over a year. That was why I was in London." Her attitude begins to shift as she opens up. The actual worry is coming through, and the love for her brother is obvious. "That was the last place anybody saw him."
"It's clear that your brother loves you." Sherlock's affectionate words make my heart skip a beat. "He'd never send you a message that would put you in harm's way." Sherlock lifts the letter up slowly. "Any information, therefore, would be, by default, unintentional."
"Has your brother sent you anything else?" John steps in, setting his plate down on a nearby trunk and not taking his eyes off of Tamas, they seem to have put aside their previous argument, too. At least for the time being.
"Just a few drawings."
"Let's just see what they have to tell us." Sherlock is clearly going somewhere with this; Simza reaches up and takes them from another trunk. Passing them to Tamas, who brings them over to us.
"Unusual choice of paper…" Sherlock continues. "Thicker gauge, designed for a printing press." He begins to flick through the sketches, and I watch on with curiosity.
"A lighthouse?" My finger slams onto the top photo with a heavy thud and I am already thinking of places where there could be lighthouses, of course that could be anywhere. Namely near the coastline.
"Could be," John replies, handing it to me so that I could get a better look. "It's also the same stock as the letter."
I press it briefly to my nose before pulling away in disgust. My brows crinkle together at the smell. "They smell musty. Must have been stored somewhere cold and damp. What's that? Blood?"
Sherlock runs his finger of the stain then raises it to his mouth and licks it. "Wine. So a wine cellar located near a printing press. That should narrow it down."
"He said he would never go back," Tamas says to her.
"There is a wine cellar used by the anarchist group, La Pavert'. René was close to their leader," she replies.
"Who are they?" I ask.
"A bomb maker," John states.
"Claude Ravache," Sherlock clarifies. "We sampled someone his work last week."
"I was part of the movement so was René until it became too extreme for us. Ravache knows me. If my brother's back there, he will see us. He will send a message," She says to Tamas. He responds in French then walks out of the tent. She turns to us and translates, presumably for my sake. "He says he will set the meeting with Ravache." She grabs a bottle of wine and drinks from it.
Sherlock sits and whispers to us, "Whatever you do, don't let these gypsies make you drink." He stretches his hand out and I shrug as Simza hands him the bottle. He took a long swig and Simza glances over at the three of us. Simza nods toward the musicians outside and John starts to get up. "For God's sake, Watson, don't dance. It will be the death of you." He takes another drink from the bottle and then holds it out to me but I shake my head. I take the bottle from him and drink two mouthfuls, at first it's like fire, like a dragon breathing down my throat, but that feeling only lasts for a minute before it settles in my stomach. I place it down before I was tempted to drink anymore of the stuff, then Simza offers her hands to John and I and leads us outside.
"You know what happens when you dance!" He shouts after us, but we are already too far away to hear him.
The music starts and I have officially lost all control of my body; my hands begin to twist until they are high into the air, like a true Romani. As for my feet, they suddenly have a mind of their own as they make their way around the grounds. I can hear the fiddles getting faster, their notes nearly incomprehensible from the next. I am probably a mess, but I'm I having too much fun to care. With this feeling everything seems a little easier. My cheeks are warm thanks to the alcohol and the fire, and my hair is flying everywhere.
Laughing, I push my hair away from my face as John is being lifted onto another man's shoulders and being spun around. I've only been to three formal balls in my entire existence, one with the Holmes family, who didn't find it enjoyable whatsoever, and two others with my aunt, and they were gentle and polite and it felt as if people were pressured to fill the quiet with forced laughter and conversations. Things at the gypsy camp are not gentle and polite they are wild and fun, carefree and real. Everyone is smiling, laughing and enjoying themselves. People are dancing from their souls, not their instruction books and it's as if they are one big family.
Simza and I find each other in the fray; her moves are far from graceful, but at the same time, it's just as mesmerizing to watch her swaying her hips and moving her arms in just the right way. She sashays over to me and takes my hands, leading me to where she was dancing moments ago.
Lost in the cheerful atmosphere, all of my troubles slip away, just for a moment, and I allow myself to act silly, to let myself go and truly be apart of this world. Feeling something tapping against my shoulder, I turn around and find Sherlock standing next to me. He looks around for a moment then raises his hand out towards me. "Might I have this dance?" He asks, quirking an eyebrow.
"I thought you'd never ask." Smiling, he wraps his arm around my waist while the other hand holds my right hand and I place my left hand on his shoulder as we start dancing, spinning around without a care in the world and moving faster as one fast-paced tune slides into another.
I wish I could stay here forever, but unfortunately, we have lots more important things to worry about.