So... How about some Sherlock POV in next chapter? Would you like that?
Once inside the carriage she finally could have a look at him. It wasn't bad, just weird. She was used to see him in white shirts with unbuttoned sleeves, suspenders up holding worn out black trousers, and his each-passing-day-longer-hair either shaggy or pointing to all directions. That disheveled Sherlock Holmes wasn't the man in front of her. The man in front of her was in a three-piece suit; trousers held up not only by suspenders but a girdle too, all very well concealed under an embroidered vest. His black jacket had a shiny touch to it, as his trousers did, with the exception of the velvet filling on the big lapels. His attire was finished by a stripped black and white scarf around his neck, a freshly shaved face and a side parting hairdo. Overall this was the cleanest she had ever seen him. She had even taken a whiff of perfume on him when he had helped her into the carriage.
Her own attire consisted of a long dress with a little tail. It was light blue of sheer fabric underneath. Over it, there was another piece of cloth, like a long waistcoat that fell over her hips, with lapels that gave it the form of scissors as she had said. That second piece was a darker blue, sparkling and with golden needlework details, and it adjusted to her body highlighting her feminine shape. It was short-sleeved, which made it easier for her to work with her long leather white gloves. The ensemble was finished by the golden hair comb and a simple set of golden earrings. She didn't bother with make-up really, she only applied some powder to even out her skin tone and curled her eyelashes. In Victorian days the natural look was the fashionable thing. Dark lipstick or blushes came across as vulgar, a harlot's thing. Most women still used make-up but it was very light, and they pinched their cheeks and lips instead of applying any products.
"Do you mind?'' – He asked me taking his pipe out from the jacket's pocket.
"Not at all'' – I said.
He produced a match from another pocket and lighted it up swiftly by rubbing it over the wooden frame of the window. He took a few rapid puffs of his tobacco as he usually did to allow the oxygen to do its job. Then he crossed his legs and propped his right elbow on the edge of the window.
"You know The Royale?''
"Can't say I do.''
He was making small conversation now, but his eyes wouldn't stay on me more than a second each time.
"How so?''
"First time to London.''
"Oh, true. From Glasgow, right?''
"Correct.''
Of course he went through the papers I had to sign in order to rent Mrs. Hudson's apartment to find out whatever he could about the new nuisance downstairs. That and he probably heard me telling my fake story to the landlady. He never sat and have tea with us, but he would leave his flat from time to time, come and go, and I made sure to talk in those moments. He was famous for being terribly aware of his surroundings, his senses able to perceive even the most little detail and store it in his mind for later on. So whenever he crossed the corridor seemingly absent I would make sure he heard a new detail of my charade, give him a puzzle to put together. One that probably wouldn't win me his sanction. He wasn't known for being friendly, so why waste time trying to be his friend. I just needed to be close, and learn about his progress in the whole Moriarty thing. So whenever he would leave the flat with the aspect of a complete different person to attend Moriarty's lessons, I made my way upstairs to take a look at his board. He was close, he was so close… But he hadn't identify the lesser minions of the operation yet, and you can't get to the king without crossing the pawns. But soon enough he would start taking down gang after gang, making his way up to the Reichenbach Falls. Until then to him I would only be the spoiled brat of a late wealthy shipyard tycoon that was living the life in the City out of her parents' inheritance. Luckily, I would be that even after, when I'd be living the life in another country, maybe France. Or so they would think.
The rest of the way was in silence, and not a comfortable one, since I was feeling quite bitter all of the sudden. I knew what my job involved, I always knew. And yet sometimes the weight of it all took its toll on me. I wasn't entitled to any kind of recognition for my achievements as an Assassin, and that was fine. But playing the stupid girl part in the undercover side… Don't get me wrong. I chose that part. Being underestimated is a blessing, for that way they never see the blow coming. And yet I couldn't stop thinking that as smart and blessed as I was, nobody would ever know. Nobody would know of my accomplishments. Except for my own comrades, of course, but then again, I wasn't very popular amongst them either, not in a positive way at least… Loose cannon.
The carriage came to a stop right in front of a big building. With a first look you could see the similarity with the formal classical temple architecture of the Ancient Greeks and Romans. Superimposed portico, pillars at the entrance, total symmetry… The Palladian architecture one could see grow throughout all of Britain since the early 18th century. A sing of power and elegance for the Empire. Mr. Holmes got out from the carriage swiftly and offered me his hand once again. Outside I took advantage of my position closer to the coachman to pay for the ride with a double sovereign I had ready in my hand and told him to keep the change. His eyes widened when he saw what I put on his hand and he wasted no time herding the horses to make a hasty retreat before I could regret or the gentleman who accompanied me could protest. Man I was so glad I took lessons about 19th century currency before my travel… Prior to decimalization the pound was divided into twenty shillings and each shilling was divided into twelve pennies, which sounds crazy at first, but actually it makes sense when explained. Having a pound divided into 240 equal parts, instead of 100, does mean it can be exactly divided from halves to one-hundred-and-twentieths; whereas the decimal system only allows precise division from halves to fiftieths. Now, getting this into your head was merely a matter of practice. The problem comes when you are ready to practice, the person who is teaching you asks you for a penny and then you look down onto the table thinking ''well, that's easy'' only to discover there are no pennies there, only a golden coin called farthing. Then, he explains to you that a farthing is actually one quarter of a penny, so you give him four. Then you have to learn about crowns (five shillings), half-crowns (two shillings and sixpence, or an eight of a pound), sovereings (a pound), and guineas (a coin that ceased to circulate, but which name was still used to say twenty-one shillings, or a pound and one shilling). But the moment when I most thanked those lessons were my visits to the market. There, people of all social status mingled, and thus, you heard a lot of slang. If it weren't for those lessons I don't know what I'd had do the first time someone asked me two bob or a thrupp'ny bit. It really didn't take me time to absorb all the information, because it never does (blessed, remember?), but I wasn't expecting for ''Victorian currency 101'' to be one of the central pieces of my preparation.
"You shouldn't have done that'' – Holmes told me with a serious face.
"And why is that?'' – I asked grabbing distractedly the tail of my dress.
"It's customary for men to pay for any expenses when in the company of a lady.''
"Customary does not necessarily mean right, Mr. Holmes. Surely a clever man as yourself can see the difference. Now, shall we?''
Of course I also had attended Victorian customs 101 and How to behave like a proper Victorian lady, and yet, I was told to rebel from time to time since late 19th century was an awakening moment for feminism in UK and women's suffrage was to be approved before long. Of course by rebel they meant pay or have an opinion. What a joke… But then again, she wasn't one to talk. She spent her youth obtaining academic title after academic title just to make her parents happy. Lame…
They were greeted by the staff the very moment they crossed the door.
"Mr. Holmes! And Mrs. O'Donoghue, I presume'' – he addressed her-. "Come this way.''
Mr. Holmes extended his arm in a gentlemanly gesture telling her to follow first, and she did. As she walked around the place towards their table she looked around slyly. The Royale was obviously the place of the fancy ones, whether they were really fancy or they just pretended to be. First table to the left: seven business men toasting to a deal that would make them even richer. Second table to the right: a young man introducing his fiancé to his parents for the first time. She was dressed in fine clothes and jewelry, obviously bought by the guy for the occasion, since she was from a low social class. The father was smiling goofily, oblivious to the young couple's deceit, but the mother was onto their asses, judging by her passive-aggressive attitude towards the bride to be. Third table to the left: an old happy couple celebrating their millionth anniversary. Fourth table to the right: an old unhappy couple also celebrating. Fifth table to the left: the smiling faces of John and Mary.
She could count with the fingers of one hand the number of times she had met them, but every one of those times they always seemed to amaze her. The complicity between the two was so thick you could feel it in the air, even when they were yards apart from each other and not interacting at all. Bedelia was a misbeliever in the matters of the heart. Of course she believed in falling in love, it was a hormonal question. What she didn't believe was the romanticism people added to it, the part where the pituitary wasn't doing the job. She was convinced that once the hormones subdued the only thing keeping couples together was the fear to loneliness. When she looked around she didn't see happy couples, she only saw resigned people. But there were exceptions, like John and Mary, that made her question her own beliefs. But whenever that happened she just shook it of her shoulders. It didn't matter if she was right or wrong, she would never get to experience it first hand, because the human closeness that constituted a blessing for the majority was one of her worst nightmares.
"Oh, Elia, look at you!'' –Mary took her arms affectionately while Watson greeted Holmes in a manly way- "Let me see…'' - Mary continued admiring her outfit- "Is that hair brooch new?''
"Yes, a gift from Mr. Gaunt.''
"A gift? Well, maybe I should start spending more money in that store.''
"Like you need an excuse…'' - Watson interrupted her playfully- "Happy that you decided to join us''- he addressed me.
"Of course, thank you for the invitation.''
"Yes, well, I'm actually amazed that you received it, it often happens that my messages go missing in the hands of my best friend.''
"Then why do you insist on leaving them to me'' –Holmes grumbled under his breath.
"Because faith is the last thing you lose, Holmes. Shall we?''
At Watson's invitation to sit at the table Mr. Holmes promptly pulled out my chair. I accepted the gesture no problem. He knew how to behave like a proper gentleman, I knew how to behave like a proper lady, and this was the place for it. He pushed the chair in while I was sitting and then walked around the already sitting Mary to his own chair next to Watson, whose eyes never left his detective friend. The man of the mustache had a really deep daddy complex when it came to Mr. Holmes. Always watching his every move, ready to scold him and proceed with some damage control.
"So, tell us, Elia, how have you been?'' – The good doctor asked me while filling my glass of wine and then Holmes'. He didn't mention the incident with Adler's little welcome gift, but there was no need. The pointed look he gave to the three of us while asking was enough to know what he was referring to. A look Sherlock Holmes feigned to ignore terribly bad, and most likely on purpose. She had the theory that Mr. Holmes overacted in some situations in favor of those around him. Like now, where he was clearly pretending not hearing what Watson was saying to let him know he was not interested in talking about it.
"I've been fine, thank you.''
"Any soreness?''- He insisted passing me the menu.
"Well, yes, but nothing to worry about. I already worked the kinks out.''
''Glad to hear it''- smiled Mary from behind her own menu, to which John agreed with a soft hum.
We all went back to the menus in our hands. Well, not all. Mr. Holmes hadn't even looked at it, clearly resolute in his decision. He probably knew the contents of the menu from top to bottom. As did John and Mary, but these two were kind enough to re-read it to give their new friend the time to do the same leisurely. All the dishes were named and described both in english and french. She suspected the cooks were from France, going by the accent she picked up from the waiters and the obvious clues of the general place.
"Bonsoire, my name is Alain, and I'll be your waiter for the night. Are you ready to order?''- Interrupted a young waiter with a notebook in his hands.
"Foie gras with mustard seeds and green onions in duck juice''- ordered Mr. Holmes going immediately back to smoking.
"The lobster bisque and salmon terrine for us, please'' – Watson smiled ruefully to the waiter for his companion's bad manners.
"And for the lady?''- He addressed me.
"Oeufs au plat Meyerbeer, s'il vous plaît'' – I smiled at him handing over my menu.
"Tout de suite, Mademoiselle'' – he smiled back at me.
"So, you speak French.'' – Watson asked and answered his own question.
"Yes, I do.''
"How did you learn?'' – Asked me a curious Mary. Squeeze the language of love into a conversation with a victorian lady and watch her melt. Like bees to a honeypot.
"Your friend Jerome?'' – Sherlock Holmes had been quiet right up to that moment, and the inquisitive tone of his question wasn't lost to her, not even behind his casual removal of the pipe's ashes onto the table's ashtray.
"I used to spend the summers in the French countryside. We are childhood friends.''- I lied through my teeth. Keep it short and simple and everyone will buy it, as they did… - "So… what's the story behind The Royale?'' – I asked. Watson had also picked up on Mr. Holmes tone and his mustache was twitching dangerously. Time to deflect.
"What makes you think there's a story behind the place?'' – Watson asked me before sipping from his wine.
In that moment Alain returned with our dinner balanced in his arms. Bon appétite, he said before leaving our table.
"Well, from the outside the architecture of the building is similar to many other buildings in Europe. The Palladian style is strong. Reminiscent of Greece and Rome. But the interior is pretty much french. Not the french you see mostly outside France, you know, very Rococo and for the tourist eye. No, this is still grand, but cleaner. Updated. It's been reformed to match the style of the Second French Empire, with all the paired columns and wrought iron cresting.'' – I ended putting some liver and eggs in my mouth.
"Established by French people and for the French people''- Mr. Holmes chimed in drawing back Mary and John's attention, who had been looking around like taking in their surroundings for the first time.
"Exactly.''- I nodded.
When I looked him in the eye he seemed to be studying me for a second, and whatever he was looking for I didn't know if he found, because he went back to his food, with that sniffy face he did sometimes. We all ate in a comfortable silence after that. Until Mr. Holmes decided to break that silence again in a too sudden way. It took the three of them clearly by surprise, and poor Mary even dropped the spoon into her bisque splashing the table.
"Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, a French wine merchant. He fled France due to bankruptcy. He arrived in Britain with his wife, Célestine, and five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management and that of his wife… well"- he finished waving his hands around.
Then he emptied his glass of wine in one go. Mary listened while trying to clean the mess in the table with her napkin and then kept on working on the cleaning, while Bedelia finished her dinner. John Watson on the other hand was the living picture of bafflement. He leaned with one arm over the table scoffing at his friend.
"What?"
"How many times we've had dinner here, Holmes?"
"Many?"
"Yes, many." – Watson leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest. My, he was affronted.
"So?"
"So you never mentioned there was an actual story to this place."
They continued to banter like a married couple for what felt like forever, attracting stares from the closer tables. Bedelia could only imagine what they were thinking. With Watson's defensive body language and Holmes looking exasperated and feeling clearly obligated to explain himself. It was the kind of scene you expected to see when a woman finds out his husband's been flirting with another.
"Is this common behavior?" – She asked Mary, the both of them turning their heads side to side enjoying the match.
"It is."
"Don't you ever get jealous?"
"I used to. Now I think it's funny.''
Bedelia didn't expect the truth behind Mary's words. In her eyes she could see she wasn't joking, not entirely. At some point she didn't like the friendship between those two, but with time she had grown to accept it and then even enjoy it.
"You're unbelievable!" – Watson reproached just as the orchestra started playing music in the next room.
"Music!" – Exclaimed Holmes standing up and throwing his napkin on the table-. We have no choice but to dance!"
And then she thought she'd have a panic attack.
