Note: I know I'm updating like a nutcase (seriously, I'm like writing day and night), but I really have to get most of this done by mid July because then I'll be going on a month-long vacation! And then I have to go to college! And then I'll have no time to write sappy fanfics, because alas, I'll be partying. And studying. Anyhoo. People have reviewed! Thank you, reviewers. Kisses go out to you!
HEADLIGHTS
By Hallospacegirl
Chapter Three
"You do realize you will not be able to return to the world of yours for some time, Miss Cooper," Holmes says solemnly to me after a long drag of his cigarette. He exhales, and the smoke wreaths chase each other to the top of the ceiling, where they catch the dimly moody sunlight and softly disperse.
The three of us are sitting at the dining table over a finished meal of thick beef soup and French bread, and outside the day is wrapping to a close with a red and violet sunset. Watson strikes a matchstick against the paper case and ignites the small lamp on the nearby end table as I give Holmes a slow nod. "I know." I pull the dark purple robe he has lent me closer around my body.
"This will sound harsh, but we cannot hide from the fact that there is a possibility of your staying here for the rest of your life."
"My dear Holmes, don't..." Watson admonishes under his breath, but I catch the doctor's eye in a steady, firm stare.
"There's no use hiding anymore. I have to be honest with myself."
"But perhaps, just perhaps, Miss Cooper, there will be a way back?" Watson replies with a sympathetic smile. "Perhaps in the same fashion you came?"
Holmes lets out a small scoff. "No, my dear Watson, the metaphysical possibility of another time jump is wholly infinitesimal."
"Holmes!"
"I only speak the truth."
"He's right," I say.
A long silence now hangs between us, which is only broken by Holmes coughing lightly into his open fist. "Forgive me if I may seem exceedingly forward," he says, faltering. "I am not accustomed to members of your – your – never mind. Of course, you are welcome to stay at my humble home for the time being, free of any charge, Miss Cooper. In fact, I insist. My dear friend Watson, who used to share these rooms with me in our bachelor days, has since married a Miss Mary Morstan, and now resides in a grand and lovely house where he may conduct his business and family life free from my eccentricities." He coughs again. "But I digress."
I smile faintly. "Thanks, Mr. Holmes. I don't think I have any other choice but to stay here."
"But I must add," Watson cuts in tightly, "and excuse me if I seem forward, but this is hardly a situation for polite trivialities – your residing here must not cause a wrong impression." His gaze is filled with meaning, and I quickly understand.
Holmes doesn't. "Whatever are you getting at, Watson?"
"The neighbors," the other man draws out with a roll of his eyes. "The neighbors will see that London's only consulting detective has suddenly taken an innocent, impressionable young woman into his lodgings, and there will be gossip if you are not careful. The rest of the world is made of emotion, Holmes, and few is as coldly calculating as you."
"What the deuce do I care about what the neighbors say?"
A thought pops into my mind and I interrupt the both of them. "Watson has a point. I'll pretend to be a maid. This way no one will suspect me or gossip about us."
"By Jove, Miss Cooper, you have echoed my idea exactly!" Holmes says to me with a laugh. He looks at Watson and continues, "It will be the perfect solution to this dilemma, even though Mrs. Hudson will be none too happy when she finds out another caretaker has replaced her dear spot in my heart. But Miss Cooper cannot cook in the least, so – "
"How did you know?" I narrow my eyes at the detective suspiciously, and for a wild, fleeting moment think that maybe the joke is finally over, and that my mother, father, and small circle of friends will jump out from behind the door with a huge bouquet of flowers and an apology for playing such a cruel prank.
"Your hands, Miss Cooper," Holmes is explaining. "Your hands are smooth and soft, and show no signs of having ever worked in the kitchen."
Oh. I sink back into my seat.
"This is quite a marvelous idea," Watson remarks to me. "As Holmes mentioned, I have a wife, who still possesses quite a number of plain dresses from her youth. I am certain to be able to 'borrow' several from her closets without her noticing their absence – after all, you certainly cannot wear your own black lace outfit in civilized London without arousing suspicion. In fact, I may endeavor to retrieve my wife's dresses right now and bring them to you tomorrow morning."
"But must you go at this very moment, Watson?" Holmes says, plucking the cigarette end from his mouth and extinguishing it on the edge of his plate. "It is true that we have talked the whole day with Miss Cooper, but my intuition tells me our discussions of the marvelous twenty first century are far from over."
Watson shifts in his chair and a blush creeps to his cheeks. "Well... I suppose I can stand to hear an hour or two more of your tales, Miss Cooper. Tell me once more about this particular 'cardio pulmonary resuscitation' technique. It is a shame and a disgrace that it has not yet been invented in the medical field, indeed."
His blush deepens as he shakes his head, and I have to smile.
..........
The woman in my dream is standing in the middle of a smoke filled dance floor, strobe lights jarring her features with vivid color flashes. Her lips are red, wetly shining, beckoning. "Sign this," she says without making a sound. She holds the paper out to me between her curving black nails. "Sign your soul away, Ada."
"Yes, of course." And I take it and smooth it and sign it with my blood.
And then she is gone, and the glaring white headlights of the car flood my vision until I am in a blank world without shadows. Pain fills me. Pure pain. I try to scream but I can't.
A man in white, somehow visible in my sightless vision. "Careful, give me three more milligrams," he orders, and suddenly the slaughtered body of Mary Jane Kelly is staggering towards me on dismembered legs hanging loosely from a disemboweled torso. She has no face, and I can see the white, blood streaked bones of her skull.
I squint at her, fighting my repulsion. No, she has my face.
And now she breaks into a loping run on those terrible, shredded legs, her skin sloughing off with every step, and she's yelling with a lipless mouth, "No, leave her here, Jack. Leave her here. She'll be good for business."
The scream that has been forcing its way to the surface breaks free.
And I wake up in a cold sweat, bolting from the bed. The wool blanket is entangled around my body like a suffocating serpent, and I kick and tug at it, gasping. The London night is as inky black as the darkest color of a painter's palette.
I feel myself almost falling to the floor when the bedroom door flies open, and the shadow of a man rushes in. Behind him, the study is dimly lit by a single kerosene lamp, and I thank God or whoever's out there for that tiny blessing of light.
"Tony?" I manage, still in a daze. "Holmes? Watson?"
"Watson left after supper, Miss Cooper. Are you all right?" It's Holmes. He gathers up the length of blanket that has fallen to the floor and piles it on the bed, at the same time easing me with his wiry arms away from the edge.
Before I have gathered enough composure to reply, he says, quietly, "Never mind. I can see that you are suffering from a nightmare. Take deep breaths, Miss Cooper. It will ease the hyperventilation."
I clutch at a corner of the damp covers. The image of my rotting face in place of Mary Kelly's on that rotting corpse replays over and over in my mind, and I feel the clammy wetness of newly shed tears on my cheek. I swipe at my face with the trembling palms of my hands. "I saw her. I saw..."
"Mary Kelly. Yes, I know."
I dimly wonder how he knew, but don't bother to ask. He has been startling me with little surprises ever since our first meeting. "She was coming to get me. Oh God. And she was saying, 'Leave her here, Jack. She'll be good for business,' like she wanted to sacrifice me to the Ripper."
"Ada, rest assured that the pentagon is complete, and that the Whitechapel murders are over."
"I saw a man I've never seen before. He was wearing all white," I hurry on, not caring if the detective can make any sense of my words as the nightmare comes spilling out of me. "And there was also this woman. I saw her first. She wore black and she asked me to sign my soul away on a piece of paper filled with scribbles I couldn't read. I signed it with my blood. There was so much blood everywhere. I'm sorry, Holmes. I'm sorry."
Holmes gropes about in the dim light, pulls up a chair, and lowers himself into it. "No, you must cleanse the nightmare from your mind by telling me. I pray you continue, Miss Cooper."
"And the headlights came, and it hurt so much, like every inch of me was on fire, and I couldn't move and I couldn't scream, and I was just paralyzed there as the man says something weird, like 'three milligrams,' I think it was. I must sound like a raving lunatic, but I'm so freaked out right now."
"Nightmares, while frightening, are but random conjectures of a pressured mind," Holmes murmurs softly. "The arrival of the Daily Globe newspaper in close succession to our conversation must have impacted you as greatly as it did me. You may note that I have not yet gone to retire, opting instead to read a coldly scientific book on the properties of chemicals." I think he is smiling.
I inhale the musky, tobacco tinted air with a shudder. "I don't think I can fall asleep again, ever. Death always gets to me, no matter how those Goths like Tony try to glorify it. I guess it's always fun and games until it hits you."
"Unreal city," Holmes says after a short pause. His voice sounds far away, like he's echoing thoughts from a deep recess in his memory. "Under a brown fog of a winter dawn, a crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many."
I slowly run my gaze over him as something familiar in his recital tugs at me. It is almost as if I had heard those words before. "Is that a poem, Holmes?" I ask.
He lifts his thin shoulders in a shrug, then seems to shake himself from his trance. "You must excuse me, Miss Cooper. When I am deep in contemplation I may break out into incomprehensible soliloquies that puzzle even myself. Perhaps what I have said is a portion of an obscure poem I heard in passing many years ago."
Unreal city, I muse disjointedly. Vienna London, unreal. "It's so... dark and beautiful."
"Miss Cooper?"
"Do you know any more of that poem? The way you said it was so beautiful."
"I beg pardon!" He sounded confused, but now he sounds almost offended. "It was but a rant in a moment of weakness! And now you must sleep, for it is late. Does the nightmare still haunt you?"
"I – no," I say, and realize that I have calmed down considerably from just a few moments ago. "I'm sorry for disturbing you. You must have been busy with your work."
"It is all right, Miss Cooper, it is all right. Do try to sleep."
As I close my eyes and let my fatigue overtake me, I am dimly aware that Holmes is still sitting in the chair by my bed, his elbows propped upon the armrests and his long fingers curled beneath his chin.
This time I dream of a single foreign word being whispered over and over in the silence. Shantih shantih shantih.
..........
Holmes is still sleeping when the knock comes at the door. He is leaning over the small desk beside the bed, his head resting on top of his circled arms. A lock of dark brown hair that has fallen across his closed eyes slightly wavers as the icy morning wind swirls through a crack in the window.
Pushing the covers off of me, I tiptoe from my bed to the window and pull it closed. The chill of winter has settled in, and I shrink my hands beneath the long sleeves of the purple robe as I begin to walk out of the bedroom and to the front door.
When I pass the sleeping Holmes I steal a glance at him, and pause in my steps as I find myself ruminating over his features, his intelligent forehead etched with a hint of a frown, his aquiline nose and strong chin. I notice with a small dash of amusement that even in sleep, the slight curve of petulance and arrogance hasn't left his mouth.
The knock comes again, louder, and Holmes stirs. Quickly I jog to the front door.
"Watson here," a familiar voice calls. "I have the needed items for Miss Cooper – "
I swing the door open. "Hush."
The doctor is standing in the short hallway with a top hat on his head and large white cloth bundle tucked under an arm. When he sees me his eyebrows dart upwards in surprise. "Why, Miss Cooper. I did not think that you would – where in God's name is Holmes?"
"He's sleeping," I answer quietly, holding an index finger to my lips as I step aside for Watson to pass.
He shuffles in carefully with the bundle. "Sleeping at this o'clock? When I left my house it was a quarter past nine."
"Last night he was working late," I reply, and wonder in curiosity just how long he kept vigil over me as he fended off my nightmares. I bite the inside of my cheek. "Here, I'll take the bag from you, Watson. Thank you and your wife so much for doing this for me."
"No, no, Miss Cooper, your gratitude is too generous, for this is the least I can do, I'm sure," he politely protests as he heaves the dresses into my arms. "I have managed to secure three, and I would have packed more, if it were not for the fact that you are to be under the guise of a maid, and in which case you will have no need for the more luxurious gowns that my wife loves so well."
"Watson, this is more than I can ever ask for." I walk to the bedroom and place the bundle of dresses on the bed. Holmes mutters in his sleep and a corner of his eye twitches, but he does not awaken.
The London winter is so cold, I think. I take the wool blanket from the bed and drape it over the detective's shoulders.
"It is quite odd that Holmes is neither in his domicile nor that old threadbare armchair," Watson is saying from the study. A moment later, I hear his voice closer behind me, "Why..."
I turn around to see that the perplexed doctor has stopped short in the doorway of his former room. "Keep your voice down. He's still asleep," I whisper.
"Yes, Miss Cooper, but in here?"
"Last night I had some nightmares. He came in and talked to me a bit, and I guess he was too tired to leave afterwards."
"Apparently so. Though I must say it is out of the ordinary for him, Miss Cooper. While he claims he is an insufferably lazy man, in reality he is able to be in high spirits after two full nights without sleep. That is, when he is on the scent of a particularly fascinating case. But perhaps... perhaps business is slow this time of year."
I can't think of what to say to that so I only smile. "Will you be eating breakfast with us, Dr. Watson?"
"Unfortunately I must decline. I have an appointment in two hours with a patient, and so I will need to be off. Good morning, Miss Cooper. You can be sure I shall drop by as often as business permits so that I may be enlightened by your unique knowledge of your times." Tapping the brim of his hat, he rises briefly off his heels and strides to the front door. "Oh, and Miss Cooper?" he says, his hand on the handle. He looks at me, and for a split second I see an unreadable expression flutter across the doctor's face, an expression that strangely reminds me of the sympathetic, almost pitying smile he gave me last night at the after dinner conversation.
"Yes, Watson?"
"Take good care of yourself, Miss Cooper, and be careful in this new world," he finishes swiftly, and is gone.
I am left standing in the study, shifting my weight from foot to foot and listening to the steady clicks of the clock on the mantelpiece. I don't know what to think about Watson's last statement, and I wonder if he feels sorry for me as he sees me settle into motions of this new life with a calm that surprises even myself. Or maybe he's seen the scars on the pale skin of my inner arms and is too hesitant to ask of the ways I've been trashing my body in what he calls the brilliant world of the twenty first century.
Shivering inwardly, I stare unfocused into the empty, blackened fireplace.
"Good morning, Miss Cooper."
I spin around, my heart jumping to my throat. "Jesus Christ!"
It's Sherlock Holmes, leaning on an elbow against the crimson patterned wall of the study and the wool blanket folded neatly over his forearm. He greets me with a small smile. "Your actions were brilliant, if I do say so myself."
I give him a sidelong glance. "What are you talking about?"
"Miss Cooper, I had deduced upon our first meeting that your peculiar accent of speech, your manner of dress, and your heightened emotional outbursts that is so common among the fairer sex would render you greatly apart from the majority of London. But upon my observing, or rather, my listening, to your courteous exchange with Watson a minute earlier, I must admit that you have succeeded in proving me wrong. With practice, you, a woman from the distant future, may soon improve to blend into this world with the utmost ease."
I stare at him blankly. "When did you wake up, Holmes?"
"Evidently when Watson first knocked. My sense of hearing is extraordinarily acute."
"And you stayed there, pretending you were asleep?"
"Ah, for that you must forgive me, Miss Cooper," he replies, looking very pleased with himself. "I decided to conduct what one might call a small, impromptu study of your behavior, and now I can safely inform you that you have passed with flying colors."
For some reason a twinge of irritation pulls at me, and I brush past him as I walk into the bedroom where the bundle of dresses lie on the bed. "Whatever, Holmes."
"Pardon, Miss Cooper?" he says after me. "I did not catch that."
I wheel around and tilt my head so I can stare into his gray eyes. "Watson just gave me some of his wife's dresses and I'm going to try them on. So now..." I quickly think up the appropriate Victorian vocabulary. "So now, if you please, Mr. Holmes, I pray you forgive me, but I must be alone, unless you would rather be sued and jailed."
"It is evident I am not the only one who has been pressing an ear to others' conversations, Miss Cooper," he replies softly as he turns his back to me and strolls out of the room.
"Well, thanks for your robe, but I'm going to have to return it to you, Mr. Holmes," I retort, untying the bundle of dresses.
"You are most welcome, Miss Cooper," he snaps back.
..........
To be continued...
The good news for some people and the bad news for other people is that this is about as much fluff as you're gonna get.
Do you know where the "unreal city" line comes from? If you do, good for you! Now keep it to yourself. You're already a step ahead from the rest of us.
Review, good people.
HEADLIGHTS
By Hallospacegirl
Chapter Three
"You do realize you will not be able to return to the world of yours for some time, Miss Cooper," Holmes says solemnly to me after a long drag of his cigarette. He exhales, and the smoke wreaths chase each other to the top of the ceiling, where they catch the dimly moody sunlight and softly disperse.
The three of us are sitting at the dining table over a finished meal of thick beef soup and French bread, and outside the day is wrapping to a close with a red and violet sunset. Watson strikes a matchstick against the paper case and ignites the small lamp on the nearby end table as I give Holmes a slow nod. "I know." I pull the dark purple robe he has lent me closer around my body.
"This will sound harsh, but we cannot hide from the fact that there is a possibility of your staying here for the rest of your life."
"My dear Holmes, don't..." Watson admonishes under his breath, but I catch the doctor's eye in a steady, firm stare.
"There's no use hiding anymore. I have to be honest with myself."
"But perhaps, just perhaps, Miss Cooper, there will be a way back?" Watson replies with a sympathetic smile. "Perhaps in the same fashion you came?"
Holmes lets out a small scoff. "No, my dear Watson, the metaphysical possibility of another time jump is wholly infinitesimal."
"Holmes!"
"I only speak the truth."
"He's right," I say.
A long silence now hangs between us, which is only broken by Holmes coughing lightly into his open fist. "Forgive me if I may seem exceedingly forward," he says, faltering. "I am not accustomed to members of your – your – never mind. Of course, you are welcome to stay at my humble home for the time being, free of any charge, Miss Cooper. In fact, I insist. My dear friend Watson, who used to share these rooms with me in our bachelor days, has since married a Miss Mary Morstan, and now resides in a grand and lovely house where he may conduct his business and family life free from my eccentricities." He coughs again. "But I digress."
I smile faintly. "Thanks, Mr. Holmes. I don't think I have any other choice but to stay here."
"But I must add," Watson cuts in tightly, "and excuse me if I seem forward, but this is hardly a situation for polite trivialities – your residing here must not cause a wrong impression." His gaze is filled with meaning, and I quickly understand.
Holmes doesn't. "Whatever are you getting at, Watson?"
"The neighbors," the other man draws out with a roll of his eyes. "The neighbors will see that London's only consulting detective has suddenly taken an innocent, impressionable young woman into his lodgings, and there will be gossip if you are not careful. The rest of the world is made of emotion, Holmes, and few is as coldly calculating as you."
"What the deuce do I care about what the neighbors say?"
A thought pops into my mind and I interrupt the both of them. "Watson has a point. I'll pretend to be a maid. This way no one will suspect me or gossip about us."
"By Jove, Miss Cooper, you have echoed my idea exactly!" Holmes says to me with a laugh. He looks at Watson and continues, "It will be the perfect solution to this dilemma, even though Mrs. Hudson will be none too happy when she finds out another caretaker has replaced her dear spot in my heart. But Miss Cooper cannot cook in the least, so – "
"How did you know?" I narrow my eyes at the detective suspiciously, and for a wild, fleeting moment think that maybe the joke is finally over, and that my mother, father, and small circle of friends will jump out from behind the door with a huge bouquet of flowers and an apology for playing such a cruel prank.
"Your hands, Miss Cooper," Holmes is explaining. "Your hands are smooth and soft, and show no signs of having ever worked in the kitchen."
Oh. I sink back into my seat.
"This is quite a marvelous idea," Watson remarks to me. "As Holmes mentioned, I have a wife, who still possesses quite a number of plain dresses from her youth. I am certain to be able to 'borrow' several from her closets without her noticing their absence – after all, you certainly cannot wear your own black lace outfit in civilized London without arousing suspicion. In fact, I may endeavor to retrieve my wife's dresses right now and bring them to you tomorrow morning."
"But must you go at this very moment, Watson?" Holmes says, plucking the cigarette end from his mouth and extinguishing it on the edge of his plate. "It is true that we have talked the whole day with Miss Cooper, but my intuition tells me our discussions of the marvelous twenty first century are far from over."
Watson shifts in his chair and a blush creeps to his cheeks. "Well... I suppose I can stand to hear an hour or two more of your tales, Miss Cooper. Tell me once more about this particular 'cardio pulmonary resuscitation' technique. It is a shame and a disgrace that it has not yet been invented in the medical field, indeed."
His blush deepens as he shakes his head, and I have to smile.
..........
The woman in my dream is standing in the middle of a smoke filled dance floor, strobe lights jarring her features with vivid color flashes. Her lips are red, wetly shining, beckoning. "Sign this," she says without making a sound. She holds the paper out to me between her curving black nails. "Sign your soul away, Ada."
"Yes, of course." And I take it and smooth it and sign it with my blood.
And then she is gone, and the glaring white headlights of the car flood my vision until I am in a blank world without shadows. Pain fills me. Pure pain. I try to scream but I can't.
A man in white, somehow visible in my sightless vision. "Careful, give me three more milligrams," he orders, and suddenly the slaughtered body of Mary Jane Kelly is staggering towards me on dismembered legs hanging loosely from a disemboweled torso. She has no face, and I can see the white, blood streaked bones of her skull.
I squint at her, fighting my repulsion. No, she has my face.
And now she breaks into a loping run on those terrible, shredded legs, her skin sloughing off with every step, and she's yelling with a lipless mouth, "No, leave her here, Jack. Leave her here. She'll be good for business."
The scream that has been forcing its way to the surface breaks free.
And I wake up in a cold sweat, bolting from the bed. The wool blanket is entangled around my body like a suffocating serpent, and I kick and tug at it, gasping. The London night is as inky black as the darkest color of a painter's palette.
I feel myself almost falling to the floor when the bedroom door flies open, and the shadow of a man rushes in. Behind him, the study is dimly lit by a single kerosene lamp, and I thank God or whoever's out there for that tiny blessing of light.
"Tony?" I manage, still in a daze. "Holmes? Watson?"
"Watson left after supper, Miss Cooper. Are you all right?" It's Holmes. He gathers up the length of blanket that has fallen to the floor and piles it on the bed, at the same time easing me with his wiry arms away from the edge.
Before I have gathered enough composure to reply, he says, quietly, "Never mind. I can see that you are suffering from a nightmare. Take deep breaths, Miss Cooper. It will ease the hyperventilation."
I clutch at a corner of the damp covers. The image of my rotting face in place of Mary Kelly's on that rotting corpse replays over and over in my mind, and I feel the clammy wetness of newly shed tears on my cheek. I swipe at my face with the trembling palms of my hands. "I saw her. I saw..."
"Mary Kelly. Yes, I know."
I dimly wonder how he knew, but don't bother to ask. He has been startling me with little surprises ever since our first meeting. "She was coming to get me. Oh God. And she was saying, 'Leave her here, Jack. She'll be good for business,' like she wanted to sacrifice me to the Ripper."
"Ada, rest assured that the pentagon is complete, and that the Whitechapel murders are over."
"I saw a man I've never seen before. He was wearing all white," I hurry on, not caring if the detective can make any sense of my words as the nightmare comes spilling out of me. "And there was also this woman. I saw her first. She wore black and she asked me to sign my soul away on a piece of paper filled with scribbles I couldn't read. I signed it with my blood. There was so much blood everywhere. I'm sorry, Holmes. I'm sorry."
Holmes gropes about in the dim light, pulls up a chair, and lowers himself into it. "No, you must cleanse the nightmare from your mind by telling me. I pray you continue, Miss Cooper."
"And the headlights came, and it hurt so much, like every inch of me was on fire, and I couldn't move and I couldn't scream, and I was just paralyzed there as the man says something weird, like 'three milligrams,' I think it was. I must sound like a raving lunatic, but I'm so freaked out right now."
"Nightmares, while frightening, are but random conjectures of a pressured mind," Holmes murmurs softly. "The arrival of the Daily Globe newspaper in close succession to our conversation must have impacted you as greatly as it did me. You may note that I have not yet gone to retire, opting instead to read a coldly scientific book on the properties of chemicals." I think he is smiling.
I inhale the musky, tobacco tinted air with a shudder. "I don't think I can fall asleep again, ever. Death always gets to me, no matter how those Goths like Tony try to glorify it. I guess it's always fun and games until it hits you."
"Unreal city," Holmes says after a short pause. His voice sounds far away, like he's echoing thoughts from a deep recess in his memory. "Under a brown fog of a winter dawn, a crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many."
I slowly run my gaze over him as something familiar in his recital tugs at me. It is almost as if I had heard those words before. "Is that a poem, Holmes?" I ask.
He lifts his thin shoulders in a shrug, then seems to shake himself from his trance. "You must excuse me, Miss Cooper. When I am deep in contemplation I may break out into incomprehensible soliloquies that puzzle even myself. Perhaps what I have said is a portion of an obscure poem I heard in passing many years ago."
Unreal city, I muse disjointedly. Vienna London, unreal. "It's so... dark and beautiful."
"Miss Cooper?"
"Do you know any more of that poem? The way you said it was so beautiful."
"I beg pardon!" He sounded confused, but now he sounds almost offended. "It was but a rant in a moment of weakness! And now you must sleep, for it is late. Does the nightmare still haunt you?"
"I – no," I say, and realize that I have calmed down considerably from just a few moments ago. "I'm sorry for disturbing you. You must have been busy with your work."
"It is all right, Miss Cooper, it is all right. Do try to sleep."
As I close my eyes and let my fatigue overtake me, I am dimly aware that Holmes is still sitting in the chair by my bed, his elbows propped upon the armrests and his long fingers curled beneath his chin.
This time I dream of a single foreign word being whispered over and over in the silence. Shantih shantih shantih.
..........
Holmes is still sleeping when the knock comes at the door. He is leaning over the small desk beside the bed, his head resting on top of his circled arms. A lock of dark brown hair that has fallen across his closed eyes slightly wavers as the icy morning wind swirls through a crack in the window.
Pushing the covers off of me, I tiptoe from my bed to the window and pull it closed. The chill of winter has settled in, and I shrink my hands beneath the long sleeves of the purple robe as I begin to walk out of the bedroom and to the front door.
When I pass the sleeping Holmes I steal a glance at him, and pause in my steps as I find myself ruminating over his features, his intelligent forehead etched with a hint of a frown, his aquiline nose and strong chin. I notice with a small dash of amusement that even in sleep, the slight curve of petulance and arrogance hasn't left his mouth.
The knock comes again, louder, and Holmes stirs. Quickly I jog to the front door.
"Watson here," a familiar voice calls. "I have the needed items for Miss Cooper – "
I swing the door open. "Hush."
The doctor is standing in the short hallway with a top hat on his head and large white cloth bundle tucked under an arm. When he sees me his eyebrows dart upwards in surprise. "Why, Miss Cooper. I did not think that you would – where in God's name is Holmes?"
"He's sleeping," I answer quietly, holding an index finger to my lips as I step aside for Watson to pass.
He shuffles in carefully with the bundle. "Sleeping at this o'clock? When I left my house it was a quarter past nine."
"Last night he was working late," I reply, and wonder in curiosity just how long he kept vigil over me as he fended off my nightmares. I bite the inside of my cheek. "Here, I'll take the bag from you, Watson. Thank you and your wife so much for doing this for me."
"No, no, Miss Cooper, your gratitude is too generous, for this is the least I can do, I'm sure," he politely protests as he heaves the dresses into my arms. "I have managed to secure three, and I would have packed more, if it were not for the fact that you are to be under the guise of a maid, and in which case you will have no need for the more luxurious gowns that my wife loves so well."
"Watson, this is more than I can ever ask for." I walk to the bedroom and place the bundle of dresses on the bed. Holmes mutters in his sleep and a corner of his eye twitches, but he does not awaken.
The London winter is so cold, I think. I take the wool blanket from the bed and drape it over the detective's shoulders.
"It is quite odd that Holmes is neither in his domicile nor that old threadbare armchair," Watson is saying from the study. A moment later, I hear his voice closer behind me, "Why..."
I turn around to see that the perplexed doctor has stopped short in the doorway of his former room. "Keep your voice down. He's still asleep," I whisper.
"Yes, Miss Cooper, but in here?"
"Last night I had some nightmares. He came in and talked to me a bit, and I guess he was too tired to leave afterwards."
"Apparently so. Though I must say it is out of the ordinary for him, Miss Cooper. While he claims he is an insufferably lazy man, in reality he is able to be in high spirits after two full nights without sleep. That is, when he is on the scent of a particularly fascinating case. But perhaps... perhaps business is slow this time of year."
I can't think of what to say to that so I only smile. "Will you be eating breakfast with us, Dr. Watson?"
"Unfortunately I must decline. I have an appointment in two hours with a patient, and so I will need to be off. Good morning, Miss Cooper. You can be sure I shall drop by as often as business permits so that I may be enlightened by your unique knowledge of your times." Tapping the brim of his hat, he rises briefly off his heels and strides to the front door. "Oh, and Miss Cooper?" he says, his hand on the handle. He looks at me, and for a split second I see an unreadable expression flutter across the doctor's face, an expression that strangely reminds me of the sympathetic, almost pitying smile he gave me last night at the after dinner conversation.
"Yes, Watson?"
"Take good care of yourself, Miss Cooper, and be careful in this new world," he finishes swiftly, and is gone.
I am left standing in the study, shifting my weight from foot to foot and listening to the steady clicks of the clock on the mantelpiece. I don't know what to think about Watson's last statement, and I wonder if he feels sorry for me as he sees me settle into motions of this new life with a calm that surprises even myself. Or maybe he's seen the scars on the pale skin of my inner arms and is too hesitant to ask of the ways I've been trashing my body in what he calls the brilliant world of the twenty first century.
Shivering inwardly, I stare unfocused into the empty, blackened fireplace.
"Good morning, Miss Cooper."
I spin around, my heart jumping to my throat. "Jesus Christ!"
It's Sherlock Holmes, leaning on an elbow against the crimson patterned wall of the study and the wool blanket folded neatly over his forearm. He greets me with a small smile. "Your actions were brilliant, if I do say so myself."
I give him a sidelong glance. "What are you talking about?"
"Miss Cooper, I had deduced upon our first meeting that your peculiar accent of speech, your manner of dress, and your heightened emotional outbursts that is so common among the fairer sex would render you greatly apart from the majority of London. But upon my observing, or rather, my listening, to your courteous exchange with Watson a minute earlier, I must admit that you have succeeded in proving me wrong. With practice, you, a woman from the distant future, may soon improve to blend into this world with the utmost ease."
I stare at him blankly. "When did you wake up, Holmes?"
"Evidently when Watson first knocked. My sense of hearing is extraordinarily acute."
"And you stayed there, pretending you were asleep?"
"Ah, for that you must forgive me, Miss Cooper," he replies, looking very pleased with himself. "I decided to conduct what one might call a small, impromptu study of your behavior, and now I can safely inform you that you have passed with flying colors."
For some reason a twinge of irritation pulls at me, and I brush past him as I walk into the bedroom where the bundle of dresses lie on the bed. "Whatever, Holmes."
"Pardon, Miss Cooper?" he says after me. "I did not catch that."
I wheel around and tilt my head so I can stare into his gray eyes. "Watson just gave me some of his wife's dresses and I'm going to try them on. So now..." I quickly think up the appropriate Victorian vocabulary. "So now, if you please, Mr. Holmes, I pray you forgive me, but I must be alone, unless you would rather be sued and jailed."
"It is evident I am not the only one who has been pressing an ear to others' conversations, Miss Cooper," he replies softly as he turns his back to me and strolls out of the room.
"Well, thanks for your robe, but I'm going to have to return it to you, Mr. Holmes," I retort, untying the bundle of dresses.
"You are most welcome, Miss Cooper," he snaps back.
..........
To be continued...
The good news for some people and the bad news for other people is that this is about as much fluff as you're gonna get.
Do you know where the "unreal city" line comes from? If you do, good for you! Now keep it to yourself. You're already a step ahead from the rest of us.
Review, good people.