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Sherlock Holmes didn't give his neighbor a chance to refuse him, he simply took her wrist unceremoniously and dragged her to the dance floor, like a mother dragging her kid home when he wasn't done playing with his friends. John Watson sat there watching the scene unfold before his eyes with his mouth agape. He was more than ready to get up and punch his best friend in front of the whole restaurant, the same way he was conducting himself in such an improper way in front of the whole restaurant. Only Mary's handgrip around his forearm stopped him.

"Let her deal with him"- Mary told her fiancé.

She saw it. Everybody saw it. But they were practically flat mates now, so it was only logical to let them deal with each other and set their own boundaries. Sherlock was a difficult man. Despite his awareness of social customs he was prone to make scenes, act on apparent impulses and be plainly rude - whether that behavior was for lack of caring on his part or an act necessary for one of his big schemes was for time to reveal-. But Elia struck her as a difficult woman too, at least difficult for their times, and strong enough to put a stop to Sherlock's wiles if she felt like it. So she took John's hand in hers and asked for dessert, ready to have a moment with the man she loved while her new friend had her own moment with the detective.

So, as Mary decided she felt like ending the night with strawberry macaroons, Sherlock Holmes loosened his grip around Bedelia's wrist just to take her left hand firmly in his right hand, and maneuver his other arm around her and onto her middle back. She was sweating. Not in an obvious way, but obvious enough for the detective to see and feel. He saw her eyes widening, back at the table, the very moment he snatched her up. He could swear, if she'd had and extra second to react, she would have leaped off the chair like her dress was catching fire. But she didn't.

Because she didn't have the time or because she was used to reign in her emotions?

She just allowed him to drag her –quite stiffly- all the way to the dance floor. And there, when he corrected their position, holding her hand in his for a ballroom dance, he saw her blink, square her shoulders and compose herself. He could imagine her denying everything if he were to ask her about her obvious discomfort just seconds ago. Hell, he found it difficult to remember the tension in her muscles given her actual and sudden composure. But there was something in her eyes before she composed herself, something akin to doubt.

A question.

And something very different once she met his eyes ready to dance.

A challenge.

No one was meant to notice any of those things, but he was Sherlock Holmes, and he was nothing but observant to a fault. He took the first step and she followed him swiftly, as expected from a well off young woman. That's what they do: they dress fancy, learn how to dance, play an instrument or two, maybe sing, spend their time painting, gardening, sewing, reading romantic novels… and just wait for a wealthy man to put a ring on them. But no ring on this one.

"Single, right?" – He asked her as they swayed back and forth, left and right.

"Yes"- she answered clearly tired of answering the same question again and again.

"I don't judge" – he clarified-. "I myself suffer social disapproval for being a bachelor."

"And how do you deal with it, Mister Holmes?" – She asked going back into his arms after a gracious twirl.

"I don't" –he smirked.

He didn't mean to compare their situations. He was lucky to be born a man, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to pursue his career as a detective. It was scary, really. Many of his accomplishments pivoted on seer luck from the moment of his conception. She was lucky too. Except extremely rare cases, women could not obtain a divorce, and if they ran away from intolerable marriages the police could capture them and return them to their husbands, who could have them imprisoned. Wealthy widows and orphans were an exception to the rule. If she were to marry, all her inheritance and earnings would belong to her husband, not to talk about her right to prosecute offenses and felonies, and the access to her body. Life gave her a chance to be free and she'd be a fool to throw it away for the illusion of romanticism.

"Well, don't you worry, Mister Holmes. You won't be receiving another wedding invitation any time soon" –she joked.

"You should expect one" –he said making her frown in confusion-. "They don't have that many friends, and they're already taking a liking to you" – he clarified nodding over her shoulder to John and Mary, who were now dancing a few feet away from them.

"That'd be flattering, and awkward."

"Then we shall be awkward together. Now, I think the good doctor intends to do us part" – he informed her of the obvious intention John and Mary had of switching partners.

He didn't expect her to get tense at that bit of information. But despite her –again- quick recovery he saw a flash of dread in her features. And, if that wasn't enough, the sudden surge on her body temperature and the way she seemed to cling harder to him spoke volumes.

"I feel flattered, Miss O'Donoghue, but I must say I think of myself as married to my job."

"I don't know if I should congratulate that job of yours or give it my condolences. I'll let you know when I decide."

"I'll let you know when I decide too."

"About what?" – She asked not catching his meaning.

"About you."- The detective fixed his gaze on hers.

They stopped dancing, but they didn't let go. They just stood there. Locked in each other's eyes. Locked in each other's arms.

When he dragged her into the ballroom a few minutes ago, right after he let go of her wrist and embraced her waist in the most improper of manners he saw something in her eyes.

A challenge.

And now he was replying silently with his own dark orbs.

Challenge accepted.

The silent match was interrupted by John Watson clearing his throat with intent.

"I think this belongs to the lady" – the doctor offered Elia her white leather gloves, the ones that should have never been left behind.

"Thank you!"- She took them immediately from him and slid her hands and arms inside the thick but soft fabric.

"May I?" – He asked offering his hand for Elia to take.

Sherlock Holmes offered his own hand to Mary.

"Mary, dear, did John ever tell you who taught him how to dance?"

Elia and John swayed slowly, watching the other two as they danced away from them.

"Who taught you how to dance?" – Elia broke the ice.

Watson made a sound that resembled a scoff and a laugh.

"He did."

"Well, he did a wonderful job, considering…"

"Considering what?"

"Oh, you know what they say. He who knows, doesn't know how to teach."

"I don't think that statement applies in this particular case. He tends to feel the imperious need to show off, so he has developed the skill to explain his deductive methods for the common mind. Although I won't deny he gets carried away sometimes, losing students in the process."

"Oh, then I can't wait to be patronized." – She said ironically.

They kept on dancing to the music of the violins and cellos amidst the other couples in a comfortable silence for a few moments.

"Don't do it." –Elia spoke suddenly, breaking said silence again.

"I beg your pardon?"- Watson asked confused.

"You are about to apologize for Holmes' behavior. It's written all over your face. It's also the reason why you interrupted our dancing, is it not?"

"Guilty" – he smiled sheepishly.

"I appreciate your concern, Doctor Watson, but if he ever crosses the red line I will punch him myself. Don't take that pleasure away from me." –She joked.

"I won't"- he conceded-. "Mary stopped me from tackling him when he snatched you up from the table. She thinks you're more than capable of handling him. I see why now."


Elia put the receipt of the pictures they took before leaving the restaurant inside her purse while John and Mary stepped into the carriage after her and Holmes. After dancing for a while they stopped for some drinks. Mary, in true woman's fashion, asked for a cocktail called cobbler or sherry-cobbler, while the men decided on brandy and Elia herself surprised them asking for a ''Craig. Neat. No ice." When she put her lips on the rim of her glass of whisky the other three observed her like hawks, probably expecting her to choke on its contents, like she was bluffing. But she didn't. The first time she ever tasted whisky, years ago, she almost puked, but then again, it was some cheap crap. Later on she had the chance to try other brands, and she developed a preference for it over all the other beverage options. Especially for Craig. So, when she saw the bottle of liquid amber over the rack behind the bar she immediately dismissed the idea of asking for some regular gin and hope for the best. They all had a second round, Elia insisted on it after observing the effects of the first cocktail on Mary. She was a light weight, and Elia wasn't going home without having some fun at her expense. But before that second round she remembered her promise to Mister Gaunt of a picture for his advertising wall, she requested The Royale's photographer, and one simple picture became a bunch of them. Mary insisted she should take two of herself, one of the front, and one of the back, where her hairdo could be appreciated. They also took a group picture, one of Watson with Sherlock, Mary with Elia, the soon to be married couple and finally the 221 neighbors. It was fun.

Back in her time she was presumed death in the same attack that ended her parents' lives. Since then there was no record of her existence outside the Brotherhood, and they referred to their assets with codes. She couldn't remember the last time she took a picture with someone. Or the last time she heard someone say her last name, the real one. When she attended her first character briefing for the mission she proposed the committee to keep her real name for this one. Bedelia was an old-fashioned name, so they accepted her proposal. In a day to day basis, her full name was like a middle name, no one ever used it. Not even her parents, except for when they were extremely mad or disappointed at her. She thought she'd get to hear it more often in the nineteenth century, where it fitted, but she was wrong. Most people used the formal -and fake- address Miss O'Donoghue, and the closest to her, like Mrs. Hudson, Mary and John, favored the short form Elia.

Elia.

Elia.

"Elia!" – Mary's voice pulled her out of her musings- "I was asking you… Has Sherlock deduced you yet?"

"Deduced me?"

"Yes, he does this thing where he looks at you and he can tell all your secrets."

"He did that to you?"

"Yes."

"And…?"

"I threw my cup of wine on his face"- Mary laughed covering her mouth like a silly drunk while her fiancé controlled his own smile on behalf of his best friend.

The detective didn't seem that amused by their conversation, or interested, for that matter. He was sitting across her, very much like he did in their way to The Royale. Looking outside the window, chewing on his pipe. Elia didn't think he was a true smoker, like in an addict way. It was more like a habit, something he restored to do automatically when he was thinking. Of course she wasn't denying his use and abuse of many substances, but she was willing to bet it had to do with boredom more than real addiction. Anyway, going back to his abilities to deduce people… Yes, she knew about that, everyone who knew about Sherlock Holmes, knew about it. But he hadn't used his magic on her yet, and she had two theories as to why, so she threw the bait and hoped that he'd bite.

"Maybe Mister Holmes is still collecting useful information for my profiling. Or maybe he can't figure this one out…"

And of course he bit, being the cocky bastard he was.

"I figured you're not a ballet dancer."

It took her a second to catch his meaning, but once she did it was clear as the day. If he figured she's not a ballet dancer it's because at some point he thought she might be, but somehow, later on, he disproved the possibility. Her mind went immediately back to that morning, when she was in his flat with lunch on a tray. He made her tip-toe around the place until he decided where he wanted it. She thought he was being his insufferable self, as per usual, but he was steering her like a mice in a maze the whole time.

Smart motherfucker.

The first stop of the carriage was Baker Street. The detective and the assassin said their goodbyes to the engaged couple. She took the six steps up to 221's front door first, put the key in the lock and turned it twice. He followed her slowly, leaving a few feet between them.

"Good night, Mister Holmes" –she said as he closed the door behind him.


Sherlock POV

Her voice was secure and steady as she parted to her flat, but it was a front. She didn't look at him when she said goodnight. It was an automatic action on her part, but she was ignoring him.

Avoidance.

Her arms were in front of her body as she walked down the corridor. In the carriage she kept her hands secured onto her lap, fingers intertwined. Fidgeting.

Defensive.

He stood in the hall surrounded by a cloud of details that didn't make any sense. He looked around. He should have noticed before the absence of Mrs. Hudson, not because the place was neglected, on the contrary, it was cleaner. The landlady worked hard to keep the place in shape, but her age was starting to show in the details, like the dust setting for far too long on the upper side of the frames that adorned the hall, or the smudges she left behind with the mop when cleaning the marble floors. Now the place was impeccable, except for the remnants of cobwebs in the doorway. Removed with a broom, but not cleaned properly like the rest of the premises.

Afraid of spiders.

He went back to the memories of the morning. The way she tiptoed no problem with the tray on her hands. He didn't interact with her over the past weeks, but he had observed. Her stance was marvelous, and she was fit. It wouldn't be strange for a woman of her economic and social position to have been instructed in the art of ballet form an early age.

But she wasn't.

All the things he deducted about her were standard. Nothing interesting. Nothing to discover. She was average. And yet he found himself testing her that morning. Why? Because whenever he looked at her he couldn't keep his mind from quoting Shakespeare: by the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. He wasn't bored enough for his mind to play tricks on him, professor Moriarty was a wonderful distraction and a full time job. No, he was missing something… His unconscious was ahead of his conscious on the processing of data in this particular race.

That morning she was wearing a light summer dress. He'd seen her use it around the place in the warm days. It was too revealing to wear outside. Victorian society couldn't handle shoulders and calves, and despite clearly being a feminist Miss O'Donoghue knew the limits. His flat was a particular kind of messy at the moment with so much work –not that it was better when he was bored…-. Any person walking inside would have stepped onto something at some point no matter their efforts not to. It was that kind of mess… The floor was too crowded, many things to avoid and too little space to maneuver. But Miss O'Donoghue didn't. She conducted herself around with grace, avoiding every little thing without a second thought. A quick look around from outside the door when he invited her to come in was enough for her.

Observant. Too observant. Eidetic memory?

Her balance was that of a ballet dancer. But he skipped a bit when he saw her bare feet up close. Pretty. Too pretty. There was no trace of the usual damage in the feet of a ballet dancer. No corns, no blisters, no ulcers, no thick nails or layers of dead skin… She had broken the right foot toes at some point, but they'd healed nicely.

Not a ballet dancer.

The way she balanced the tray was also uncanny. The lemonade didn't sway inside the jar while she walked on her toes. Not even when he purposely dropped the glass and she had to readjust her left hand under the tray to catch it midair.

Quick reflexes. Too quick.

He caressed the palm of his right hand with his thumb unconsciously, lost in a haze. There were no corns in her toes, but there was a callus in her left hand. He felt the thickened skin under her fingers when they were dancing. It made contrast with her otherwise soft and manicured hands. Another little detail that he couldn't place, especially considering she was right handed and the peculiar place of the imperfection.

So, what was so interesting about a rich feminist woman with a great sense of balance? Nothing. And yet there he was. Racking his brain. It had to be something. His brain didn't obsess over nothing. Something. Something she was managing to keep from him. The thought filled him with dread but also sudden excitement. The thrill of the unknown. She was a good actress, he saw her switch between emotions like it was nothing that night, and yet for the life of him he didn't know what caused those comings and goings. He had the pieces, but he couldn't figure out the whole puzzle. His brain wasn't working fast enough. The detective closed his eyes and pinched his nose in frustration.

He exhaled slowly and headed up the stairs to change his clothes. He needed to get the blood flowing and a good night's sleep, and a few punches in the fighting pit were the perfect antidote.


So, what did y'all think? Any theories that may explain Elia's behavior at The Royale? Let us know in the reviews!