HEADLIGHTS
By Hallospacegirl
Chapter Six
"I'm going out now."
Holmes, sitting in his armchair with a morning cigarette in the corner of his mouth, peers up at me from his newspaper. "I beg your pardon, Miss Cooper?" he says with a smoky exhale. "May you repeat your sentence? I must have heard incorrectly when I heard you say that you wanted to go out."
"You heard correctly. I'm going out now, and I want to be alone."
"But why? You have not yet breakfasted. Mrs. Hudson will be bringing up her signature scrambled eggs shortly. You seem to savor those more than anything else she concocts, save for the apple pie."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not hungry today."
"Then I welcome you to join me in a chat beside the fireplace, Miss Cooper. Unfortunately, last night we were not able do so, due to our... minor disagreement. But I sincerely hope that after a good night's sleep you are feeling well. Here, come and sit with me. You must tell me more of that invention called the 'laptop computer.'"
The windows and curtains that are barring out the chilly autumn air keep the pungent tobacco smoke hovering inside the small, confined study like an oppressive drug. Unwillingly I think back to the 'good night' of sleep that Holmes mentioned, and shudder inwardly. The strange faces and conversations are still replaying vividly in my mind, but mostly I remember the waltz and the hypnotizing music and the way he swept me so breathlessly against him...
I make a move for the door. "Maybe at a later time. I'm going out."
Holmes holds up a thin hand and I freeze in my tracks as if a string has pulled me back. His voice is serious now, having lost its previous cheerful undertone. "Miss Cooper, for your safety, I do not advise you to leave this building. You are from another time and place, and you are wholly unfamiliar with these often dangerous streets of London. You will not be able to deal with situations should they arise, and you will cause undue harm to yourself."
I want to tell him the truth that I'm simply hoping for some fresh air and that I won't stray far, but what comes out is: "Look, Holmes. I've already accepted the fact that I'm going to live in this world for the rest of my life, and I want to live a normal life, or as normal as a life can be, given my history. I need to step outside and face the real world. You can't keep me in here like I'm your personal private oracle of the future, Holmes." My eyes are stinging from the cigarette smoke. "Look, can you put that out, please?"
"The cigarette?"
"Holmes, you want to know what we discovered in the twenty first century? We discovered that everything you smoke now – the ten different pipes and cigars and cigarettes – is going to give you lung cancer, heart disease, stroke, and high blood pressure, not to mention an early, sudden death. That's what we discovered."
Holmes looks distinctly confused. Hesitantly he takes the cigarette from his mouth and crushes it in the ashtray on the coffee table. "Perhaps you should tell our good doctor friend about this, Miss Cooper."
"I will, after I come back from my walk. See you in an hour – "
"No, Miss Cooper, I forbid you," Holmes interrupts tightly, hopping to his feet and cutting in front of me. "I have told you the logical reasons."
"Yes, I know. But I still choose to go outside now."
"Miss Cooper, you are obligated to listen to me."
I raise my eyebrows. "Excuse me? Why am I 'obligated' to listen to you?"
"I have lived in London most of my life, and therefore I know more about the city than you. In addition, I am older than you, and coincidentally the wiser. Also – "
"Also, I bet you are going to add that you're a big, strong man, and I'm only a weak, fragile lost woman." I blurt out before I can check myself. I take a step closer to him and glare up into his face. "I don't believe that. I'm not your docile little wife, and I don't ever want to be. You know, what Watson said to me earlier had a point."
Holmes narrows his gray eyes. "I gather that over the weeks you and Dr. Watson have been sharing countless discussions on the topic of my person, Miss Cooper. Judging from your previous reticence of the subject, I also deduce that few of these discussions have been particularly flattering to me."
"We only shared one – "
"Ah, so the truth reveals itself," he says, an unmistakable wounded bitterness tinging his words. "My exaggerated conjecture has suceeded in drawing it out of you."
"Well, if you wanted to know what we were talking about, why didn't you ask me directly?" I retort, crossing my arms. "It wasn't as if we were spreading rumors behind your back. I was actually defending you. Ridiculous to even think of doing that now."
"And is this the reason why you are blushing so forcefully at this moment, Miss Cooper?"
It takes me several tries to find my voice. "I'm blushing because I would rather live in an insane asylum than to be your human fact book. Now let me go." I sidestep him, but he swiftly mirrors my movement and I end up walking into his chest. His purple robe smells faintly of soap, sandalwood, and tobacco, and I'm once again reminded of my dream.
"Tell me where you will go," Holmes is demanding as I backpedal away.
"None of your business," I snap. "Maybe I'll go to Watson's and never return here again."
"Surely he and his wife will enjoy the manner in which you pry into other people's possessions and ask deeply personal questions, Miss Cooper."
I smile, a little harshly. "You wanted Irene Adler to be your lover, didn't you? But she slipped right through your fingers. Actually, if you had only tightened them a little bit, she would have come to you, Holmes. But she left right under your nose and you didn't do anything about it. Even after she gave you her picture – and do you realize how beautiful she is? – you didn't do anything about it."
Holmes is deathly silent.
"From your expression, I deduce that I'm right," I declare. "Some of your analytical skills must have rubbed off on me."
"You may believe your fanciful delusions if that is your wish," Holmes replies, stepping aside to open the front door. "I welcome you to leave for as long as you prefer."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." I stalk past him and out into the short, dark hallway. "And you don't need to save breakfast for me."
"Rest assured, Miss Cooper, that I hold no intention of doing so. Good day." With a stiff bow he shuts the door in my face. I stand there for a moment, my heaving breath echoing loudly in the hallway, and with one last glare at the door panel I gather my skirt above my ankles and descend the steps that lead to Baker Street.
Outside, the slate gray fog-infused sky presses dully overhead. The brick buildings that line the road seem like a continuous, mud colored wall pockmarked with curtained windows, and the cobblestones of the street glisten with watery condensation.
An elderly couple in black passes me in the sidewalk, the pinched, wrinkled woman looking as if she was refraining from staring at me cautiously, and the man tilting his top hat and muttering a perfunctual, "Good morning, miss."
Suddenly I hear the shouts of children as up ahead, three boys with brown faces and tattered clothing spill out of a narrow doorway, kicking a black rubber ball in front of them. The ball shoots off of the sidewalk, bounces into the road, and rolls into the path of a horse and carriage that has just rattled in from around the corner.
The portly, mustached driver yanks the reins just as the boys come dashing after the ball in a flurry of skinny arms and legs. "Aye, watch where yer goin', ya heathen nincompoops!" he shouts.
"Go buy yerself some pastries, fatty!" one of the boys return as the carriage clatters past. The children share a laugh, and a second later, the incident is forgotten as they resume their heated ball game.
I have to smile. I watch them for a little while longer, and when I feel the chilly air seep through the fabric of my dress, I start a brisk walk down the street in the first direction my feet takes me.
It's when I pass an intersecting alley that I feel the odd prickling sensation in the nape of my neck that someone is watching me. A black shadow flutters into my peripheral vision, gone as quick as it came. I wheel around, only to see a tiny grocery store etched out among the residential buildings. In the doorway is a gawky adolescent boy, slouching drowsily behind a rusty metal grill that holds a dozen or so burning oval red things.
The boy brightens when he notices me. "Care to buy a honeyed sweet potato, miss?" he says in a newly deepened voice. "Only a penny each."
"No, no thank you. I don't have the money." I backtrack closer to him. "Listen, did you by any chance see... someone... following me when I walked by?"
The boy responds with a wide grin. "I'm afraid I haven't, miss. Folks come and go as they pleases, and I hardly pays attention to any of them, lest they buy themselves a sweet potato. Well, I can tell ya right now, miss, across from us there's Mrs. Annie takin' out the laundry, and comin' down the street a ways is that loafer who shows up in me dad's shop once in a whiles to buy himself some cocaine. Unfinished business with any of them ya worried about, miss? Ya afraid they be followin' ya?"
"No, no. I just..." I shake my head. "Never mind. Thanks."
"Hey, ya sound like yer not from here, miss. Well, keep in mind that if ya start seein' ghosts and strangers followin' ya, good old detective Sherlock Holmes lives right down at the end that a ways, and he can solve yer cases for a flat fee, guaranteed, and less if the case is trivial. Solved me dad's case of the missin' grain fer only a half a shillin'. Said the buggerin' culprit were some rats."
"Thanks, I'll remember that."
"Hey, miss." He regards me with a slightly cocked head. "Yer very pretty. Tell you what. I'll sell ya a sweet potato fer a ha'penny."
"Thank you, but I don't have any money on me, not even a half penny. Maybe next time."
"I'll sell one fer a kiss," he replies with a mischevious twinkle in his blue eyes.
I can't help letting out a laugh. "Next time, mister, I promise."
"Yer loss, miss!" he calls hoarsely as I walk away, "And a jolly good morning to ya!"
I wave back at him and continue on my stroll. I pass the corner Chinese laundry when I feel it again, that eerie prickling at the base of my neck. My arms break out into goosebumps beneath my sleeves, and my heartbeat tightens.
"Want to see my magic book?" a ragged voice whispers from directly behind me.
I halt in my tracks and spin around in surprise. A short, bearded man dressed in filthy rags and a misshapen hat is peering up at me. Even through my shock, he seems familiar, and it's when he breaks into a snaggletoothed grin that I remember he is the man who leered into my carriage during the night I first went to see Sherlock Holmes, only now, the yellow, feverish dilerium in his eyes has been replaced by the glittering redness of alcohol.
I swallow down the panic that is rising in my chest. "What do you want?"
"To show you my magic book, pretty lady," he says, spittle flying. The cold, stinking odor of cheap whiskey wafts to me in the icy air. "No one wants to see it. No one understands it. You look different, so maybe you can understands it."
"I have no time to see it. Please leave me alone."
He takes a shaky step closer to me, and I find my strength and break into a run.
"It opens up and makes letters by itself, pretty lady!" I hear him shouting as I round the corner.
This stops me dead. I freeze for a second, letting the wild, insane implications of the description sink into my brain, then bolt back in the direction I came, my clumsy skirts flying behind me.
The old man is still standing beside the laundry, a satisfied grin plastered onto his gaping mouth when I skid to a stop before him. "Ah, interested now, pretty lady?"
"Did you say it made words? How? Show me!"
"No, no I did not say it made words," the old man interrupts, pointing to himself with a swollen, peeling finger. "I says it makes letters. If you press on the wee letter blocks on one half of the inside you can make them show on the other half. I suppose it can make words if you – "
I grab the drunk's threadbare sleeve as stars shoot into in my vision. I feel so faint that I'm afraid I'll fold in upon myself and collapse to the ground. Taking a deep breath, I manage, "Show me. Show me your magic book."
The man's grizzled expression drops from startled amazement to something of suspicion. "You don't wants to take it away from me, pretty lady?"
"I just want to see it, please!"
"Promise you won't takes it?"
"I promise. Please, please show me this book of yours."
The man sighs theatrically, and takes my wrist in his sweaty, swollen grasp. "Very well. Come with me, pretty lady."
He pulls me after him and leads me to a nearby alley almost invisibly situated between two indentical buildings. Here, the weak morning sunlight has ceased to make its way through, and the air is significantly murky and cold. Thirty feet in, a massive pile of rotting wooden crates blocks off more than half of the width of the alley, and the loud scrittering of rodents remind me that insects, slime and mold aren't the only things making their residence in the darkness.
The man makes a ragged flourish. "My humble abode," he announces. "I gots the magic book hidden in the boxes. Inspectors come around so often to take my pretty things, you know."
"Can you bring out the book now?"
"But I told you, pretty lady, that the inspectors will see!" he whines impatiently. "You wants to come with me behind the boxes so I can show you safely."
"I..." I'm going to see a book in which a I can punch in letters on one half and have the letters show up on the other half, I tell myself. Does that sound like anything familiar, Ada? A feeling that has long surpassed curiosity wins over my fear and revulsion of the drunken man. "I'll go with you," I say.
He grips my wrist tighter between his hands, and we walk into the alley, our footsteps slapping wetly against the broken cobblestones and mud. When we reach the jumble of crates, a chorus of squeals resounds from within, and seven or eight large black rats scatter out from the crevices and disappear into the distance.
I hold back a scream.
"Aw, they's just rats, pretty lady," the man coos, laughing. "No need to be frightened. Here, I'll go in first to show you."
The space between the crates and the opposite wall is so narrow that he can only barely squeeze his squarish body through to the other side. "See?" he says when he has accomplished the task. "No more rats. Now you come in."
The bottom inch of my skirt rips loudly by an unseen nail or splinter as I slowly follow him, but I barely notice. The man is squatting in the darkness, fumbling through pieces of stray wood and planks. "It's under here. Just a minute and I will show you the magic book, pretty lady."
He tosses out more planks. "Ah, here – wait, where is it? It's not here." He looks up at me with round, intoxicated and confused eyes.
"Is it gone?" I demand. "Maybe it's in some different boxes."
"No, I puts it here ever since I found it in the old cupboard of the empty house, I did!" the man spits back indignantly. "I puts it here for ten whole days, I did! Someone took it! It's gone!"
"No, no, no. It can't be gone! I'll help you look!" I lean over beside him to bat aside some loose pieces of wood, but the old man's next words lodges my heart in my mouth.
"You took it, pretty lady," he says, quietly.
I hastily straighten up. A cold, shivering sweat has started to break out on my forehead, and I realize how hidden I am to the rest of Baker Street. "I did not take your book, sir."
"Yes, yes you did! It's gone now, when you comes along!" He jumps to his feet and grabs both of my arms before I can dart away, violently shaking me. "Give me my magic book!"
"I don't have it, I swear! You're drunk! Let go! Help! Oh God, somebody help me!"
His nails are digging into my skin like ten crescent knives as he forces me to the crates. A small avalanche of rotten wood tumbles down, sealing off what is left of the narrow path out. My back is exploding in fiery agony, and I feel the warm sticky wetness of my blood on my skin.
The drunken man has crushed himself on top of me, and suddenly I realize through my numbing panic what he's planning to do. I kick at him with my heels and pummel him with my fists, screaming, and when he finally howls in pain and releases an arm, I fumble for the nearest wooden plank.
I almost bring it down into his shoulder, but he wrenches it away and presses it to my throat so viciously I can't breathe. "Where's my magic book!" His filthy stinking whiskey spit and sour sweat drip into my face. "Where's my magic book!"
I choke something out, but already black voids are exploding like painful fireworks behind my eyes and I am struggling to keep conscious. I think of Tony and the times he fought with me in his drunken fits, violating me and hitting me and choking me until I prayed to die. Too bad that I am going to finally die here in a dreary London alleyway, forgotten and lost.
Pain is pleasure, I say to myself almost sarcastically. I give the man one last kick with the remainder of my energy, and fall back limply as the desperate fire in my lungs envelop my limbs. Pain in pleasure. I close my eyes and surrender. Let him do what he wants.
Then suddenly the pressure at my throat disappears. A split second later, I feel that the man is no longer pressed like a boulder on top of me, as I hear a savage punch being delivered, a strangled shout, and a loud clammoring of boxes. "Get away from her!" an all too familiar voice roars, and is answered by the sound of footsteps retreating frantically out of the alleyway and into the street.
A short silence, then: "Ada, Ada." And then a pair of strong hands are around me, lifting me from the jagged bed of crates.
"Holmes," I whisper before I even open my eyes. When I do, I find myself staring into the raw, gray gaze of a man in a dirty, tattered suit and dilapidated brown hat. "Holmes?"
"Do not speak. Your throat is damaged by the weapon," Sherlock Holmes says in the even tone he uses to address business clients, but I can hear the emotion behind it, fighting to break through.
He lowers himself to his knees, gathers me to him, and with me still in his arms he falls back to a sitting position against the damp, brick wall. He's breathing hard, and I feel his heartbeat pounding in a forceful rhythm next to mine. The obvious questions float through my mind, for the moment unheeded. How did he know I was here? Why is he wearing the clothes of a destitute man? I am too exhausted to ask, so I rest my head in the space between his chin and shoulder blade, and revel in the feeling that I have been rescued.
And then I remember the magic book. I snap my head back up, making a move to stand. "Holmes! Where is he! Where did he go?"
Holmes continues to hold me down. "Ada, do not struggle so! You are injured and you cannot possibly walk. Now do not speak!"
I ignore him. I grab the front of his shirt despite the pain in my fingers, and shove my face so it's an inch in front of his. "Remember, Holmes, our little conversation this morning, and you said that you wanted to know more about laptop computers? Well, this man has one. He didn't actually show me but he described it in perfect detail. He said it was a magic book that opened up, and you could type the words in on one side and have it show up on the other. Holmes, he was describing a twenty first century invention! Now I don't know how or why – "
"Ada, I beg of you. This man has harmed you. If you please – "
"No, damn it, Holmes, listen. Another object out of my time has fallen into this century! I need to find the man again. I need to go to that empty house where he found the laptop and see maybe if – "
"Ada," he says softly. His serious gray eyes are so dialated they almost appear black. "The man had described a typewriter, my girl, and nothing more. And now you must think no further of this heathen drunkard's words."
"No, he said it was a magic book! A typewriter isn't shaped like a book! It's far too big and it doesn't open up like one!"
"A typewriter is often packaged inside of a box with a hinged lid. It is highly probable that he found a discarded typewriter in the refuse of the deserted house you mentioned. He opens the lid and presses down a few of the keys. The corresponding letters are imprinted on the paper that is still set within the machine. Ada, let us talk no more of this matter at this time. I will take you back to our lodgings and I will inform Dr. Watson immediately of your condition."
"But why didn't he say it was a typewriter? Why did he call it a magic book?"
"Because that is the name of the particular brand of typewriter that hails from Liverpool." I feel him sighing heavily, and suddenly for a dreadful moment I think I can see a small shimmer of wetness in his eyes. He quickly turns his gaze from me and glances up at the faraway strip of sky above the alley. "It is the truth."
I have collapsed once again like a rag doll against him. Holmes's usual perfectly logical explanation leaves me numb, and I'm not sure if I should feel incensed or relieved or thankful. There is a gaping hole in my heart where fragile hope used to be. "I don't know anything anymore, Holmes," I whisper.
"Know that you are now safe."
"I know that I am incredibly stupid."
"You are in the wrong, Ada."
"Holmes, if you didn't come, I would be dead right now. But after I left you put on a disguise and followed me, didn't you? Oh God, I should be angry at you, but I'm not."
In reply, Holmes gently lifts one hand away from my back and brings it between us. I see that his knuckles are swollen and bruised, and that smeared on his palm are dark, crimson streaks of my blood. He raises his hand to my face, and with the tips of his long, tapered fingers where there is no stain, slowly strokes my cheek. His skin is dry and warm.
"It never has been – and it never is – my intention to cause you pain. Though I am a deeply analytical man, a fact which you are well aware, I lack certain insights, and for every wrong I have inadvertently committed against you during your stay, Miss Cooper, I beg of you to forgive me."
..........
Holmes carries me back to 221b Baker Street, stoically avoiding the shocked glances of the passerby. When we walk past the grocery, the adolescent selling sweet potatoes yelps to me, "What in God's name is the good fer nothin' loafer doin' with ya, miss? Miss? Miss!" The children playing in the cobblestone street stare unabashedly at us as we approach, and their rubber ball bounces forgotten into a hidden crevice between the buildings.
When we enter the house, Holmes places me gently down into my bed and lays a warm blanket over me.
"I will seek Watson immediately," he says, nodding and turning to leave.
"But your clothes..."
"Watson is familiar with my guise, Miss Cooper. And besides, your need is more urgent than mine. Do try to rest and sleep."
After he's gone, I hold my hands to my face and cry quietly, not out of fear for what has happened, but for the little bit of false hope that sprang up so naively in me and then quickly died.
..........
To be continued....
Note: The "Magic Book" brand of typewriter from Liverpool is something I made up completely. Haha. Thanks to all of you who keep reviewing! You guys are awesome. I hope I'm keeping you guys on your toes.
By Hallospacegirl
Chapter Six
"I'm going out now."
Holmes, sitting in his armchair with a morning cigarette in the corner of his mouth, peers up at me from his newspaper. "I beg your pardon, Miss Cooper?" he says with a smoky exhale. "May you repeat your sentence? I must have heard incorrectly when I heard you say that you wanted to go out."
"You heard correctly. I'm going out now, and I want to be alone."
"But why? You have not yet breakfasted. Mrs. Hudson will be bringing up her signature scrambled eggs shortly. You seem to savor those more than anything else she concocts, save for the apple pie."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not hungry today."
"Then I welcome you to join me in a chat beside the fireplace, Miss Cooper. Unfortunately, last night we were not able do so, due to our... minor disagreement. But I sincerely hope that after a good night's sleep you are feeling well. Here, come and sit with me. You must tell me more of that invention called the 'laptop computer.'"
The windows and curtains that are barring out the chilly autumn air keep the pungent tobacco smoke hovering inside the small, confined study like an oppressive drug. Unwillingly I think back to the 'good night' of sleep that Holmes mentioned, and shudder inwardly. The strange faces and conversations are still replaying vividly in my mind, but mostly I remember the waltz and the hypnotizing music and the way he swept me so breathlessly against him...
I make a move for the door. "Maybe at a later time. I'm going out."
Holmes holds up a thin hand and I freeze in my tracks as if a string has pulled me back. His voice is serious now, having lost its previous cheerful undertone. "Miss Cooper, for your safety, I do not advise you to leave this building. You are from another time and place, and you are wholly unfamiliar with these often dangerous streets of London. You will not be able to deal with situations should they arise, and you will cause undue harm to yourself."
I want to tell him the truth that I'm simply hoping for some fresh air and that I won't stray far, but what comes out is: "Look, Holmes. I've already accepted the fact that I'm going to live in this world for the rest of my life, and I want to live a normal life, or as normal as a life can be, given my history. I need to step outside and face the real world. You can't keep me in here like I'm your personal private oracle of the future, Holmes." My eyes are stinging from the cigarette smoke. "Look, can you put that out, please?"
"The cigarette?"
"Holmes, you want to know what we discovered in the twenty first century? We discovered that everything you smoke now – the ten different pipes and cigars and cigarettes – is going to give you lung cancer, heart disease, stroke, and high blood pressure, not to mention an early, sudden death. That's what we discovered."
Holmes looks distinctly confused. Hesitantly he takes the cigarette from his mouth and crushes it in the ashtray on the coffee table. "Perhaps you should tell our good doctor friend about this, Miss Cooper."
"I will, after I come back from my walk. See you in an hour – "
"No, Miss Cooper, I forbid you," Holmes interrupts tightly, hopping to his feet and cutting in front of me. "I have told you the logical reasons."
"Yes, I know. But I still choose to go outside now."
"Miss Cooper, you are obligated to listen to me."
I raise my eyebrows. "Excuse me? Why am I 'obligated' to listen to you?"
"I have lived in London most of my life, and therefore I know more about the city than you. In addition, I am older than you, and coincidentally the wiser. Also – "
"Also, I bet you are going to add that you're a big, strong man, and I'm only a weak, fragile lost woman." I blurt out before I can check myself. I take a step closer to him and glare up into his face. "I don't believe that. I'm not your docile little wife, and I don't ever want to be. You know, what Watson said to me earlier had a point."
Holmes narrows his gray eyes. "I gather that over the weeks you and Dr. Watson have been sharing countless discussions on the topic of my person, Miss Cooper. Judging from your previous reticence of the subject, I also deduce that few of these discussions have been particularly flattering to me."
"We only shared one – "
"Ah, so the truth reveals itself," he says, an unmistakable wounded bitterness tinging his words. "My exaggerated conjecture has suceeded in drawing it out of you."
"Well, if you wanted to know what we were talking about, why didn't you ask me directly?" I retort, crossing my arms. "It wasn't as if we were spreading rumors behind your back. I was actually defending you. Ridiculous to even think of doing that now."
"And is this the reason why you are blushing so forcefully at this moment, Miss Cooper?"
It takes me several tries to find my voice. "I'm blushing because I would rather live in an insane asylum than to be your human fact book. Now let me go." I sidestep him, but he swiftly mirrors my movement and I end up walking into his chest. His purple robe smells faintly of soap, sandalwood, and tobacco, and I'm once again reminded of my dream.
"Tell me where you will go," Holmes is demanding as I backpedal away.
"None of your business," I snap. "Maybe I'll go to Watson's and never return here again."
"Surely he and his wife will enjoy the manner in which you pry into other people's possessions and ask deeply personal questions, Miss Cooper."
I smile, a little harshly. "You wanted Irene Adler to be your lover, didn't you? But she slipped right through your fingers. Actually, if you had only tightened them a little bit, she would have come to you, Holmes. But she left right under your nose and you didn't do anything about it. Even after she gave you her picture – and do you realize how beautiful she is? – you didn't do anything about it."
Holmes is deathly silent.
"From your expression, I deduce that I'm right," I declare. "Some of your analytical skills must have rubbed off on me."
"You may believe your fanciful delusions if that is your wish," Holmes replies, stepping aside to open the front door. "I welcome you to leave for as long as you prefer."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." I stalk past him and out into the short, dark hallway. "And you don't need to save breakfast for me."
"Rest assured, Miss Cooper, that I hold no intention of doing so. Good day." With a stiff bow he shuts the door in my face. I stand there for a moment, my heaving breath echoing loudly in the hallway, and with one last glare at the door panel I gather my skirt above my ankles and descend the steps that lead to Baker Street.
Outside, the slate gray fog-infused sky presses dully overhead. The brick buildings that line the road seem like a continuous, mud colored wall pockmarked with curtained windows, and the cobblestones of the street glisten with watery condensation.
An elderly couple in black passes me in the sidewalk, the pinched, wrinkled woman looking as if she was refraining from staring at me cautiously, and the man tilting his top hat and muttering a perfunctual, "Good morning, miss."
Suddenly I hear the shouts of children as up ahead, three boys with brown faces and tattered clothing spill out of a narrow doorway, kicking a black rubber ball in front of them. The ball shoots off of the sidewalk, bounces into the road, and rolls into the path of a horse and carriage that has just rattled in from around the corner.
The portly, mustached driver yanks the reins just as the boys come dashing after the ball in a flurry of skinny arms and legs. "Aye, watch where yer goin', ya heathen nincompoops!" he shouts.
"Go buy yerself some pastries, fatty!" one of the boys return as the carriage clatters past. The children share a laugh, and a second later, the incident is forgotten as they resume their heated ball game.
I have to smile. I watch them for a little while longer, and when I feel the chilly air seep through the fabric of my dress, I start a brisk walk down the street in the first direction my feet takes me.
It's when I pass an intersecting alley that I feel the odd prickling sensation in the nape of my neck that someone is watching me. A black shadow flutters into my peripheral vision, gone as quick as it came. I wheel around, only to see a tiny grocery store etched out among the residential buildings. In the doorway is a gawky adolescent boy, slouching drowsily behind a rusty metal grill that holds a dozen or so burning oval red things.
The boy brightens when he notices me. "Care to buy a honeyed sweet potato, miss?" he says in a newly deepened voice. "Only a penny each."
"No, no thank you. I don't have the money." I backtrack closer to him. "Listen, did you by any chance see... someone... following me when I walked by?"
The boy responds with a wide grin. "I'm afraid I haven't, miss. Folks come and go as they pleases, and I hardly pays attention to any of them, lest they buy themselves a sweet potato. Well, I can tell ya right now, miss, across from us there's Mrs. Annie takin' out the laundry, and comin' down the street a ways is that loafer who shows up in me dad's shop once in a whiles to buy himself some cocaine. Unfinished business with any of them ya worried about, miss? Ya afraid they be followin' ya?"
"No, no. I just..." I shake my head. "Never mind. Thanks."
"Hey, ya sound like yer not from here, miss. Well, keep in mind that if ya start seein' ghosts and strangers followin' ya, good old detective Sherlock Holmes lives right down at the end that a ways, and he can solve yer cases for a flat fee, guaranteed, and less if the case is trivial. Solved me dad's case of the missin' grain fer only a half a shillin'. Said the buggerin' culprit were some rats."
"Thanks, I'll remember that."
"Hey, miss." He regards me with a slightly cocked head. "Yer very pretty. Tell you what. I'll sell ya a sweet potato fer a ha'penny."
"Thank you, but I don't have any money on me, not even a half penny. Maybe next time."
"I'll sell one fer a kiss," he replies with a mischevious twinkle in his blue eyes.
I can't help letting out a laugh. "Next time, mister, I promise."
"Yer loss, miss!" he calls hoarsely as I walk away, "And a jolly good morning to ya!"
I wave back at him and continue on my stroll. I pass the corner Chinese laundry when I feel it again, that eerie prickling at the base of my neck. My arms break out into goosebumps beneath my sleeves, and my heartbeat tightens.
"Want to see my magic book?" a ragged voice whispers from directly behind me.
I halt in my tracks and spin around in surprise. A short, bearded man dressed in filthy rags and a misshapen hat is peering up at me. Even through my shock, he seems familiar, and it's when he breaks into a snaggletoothed grin that I remember he is the man who leered into my carriage during the night I first went to see Sherlock Holmes, only now, the yellow, feverish dilerium in his eyes has been replaced by the glittering redness of alcohol.
I swallow down the panic that is rising in my chest. "What do you want?"
"To show you my magic book, pretty lady," he says, spittle flying. The cold, stinking odor of cheap whiskey wafts to me in the icy air. "No one wants to see it. No one understands it. You look different, so maybe you can understands it."
"I have no time to see it. Please leave me alone."
He takes a shaky step closer to me, and I find my strength and break into a run.
"It opens up and makes letters by itself, pretty lady!" I hear him shouting as I round the corner.
This stops me dead. I freeze for a second, letting the wild, insane implications of the description sink into my brain, then bolt back in the direction I came, my clumsy skirts flying behind me.
The old man is still standing beside the laundry, a satisfied grin plastered onto his gaping mouth when I skid to a stop before him. "Ah, interested now, pretty lady?"
"Did you say it made words? How? Show me!"
"No, no I did not say it made words," the old man interrupts, pointing to himself with a swollen, peeling finger. "I says it makes letters. If you press on the wee letter blocks on one half of the inside you can make them show on the other half. I suppose it can make words if you – "
I grab the drunk's threadbare sleeve as stars shoot into in my vision. I feel so faint that I'm afraid I'll fold in upon myself and collapse to the ground. Taking a deep breath, I manage, "Show me. Show me your magic book."
The man's grizzled expression drops from startled amazement to something of suspicion. "You don't wants to take it away from me, pretty lady?"
"I just want to see it, please!"
"Promise you won't takes it?"
"I promise. Please, please show me this book of yours."
The man sighs theatrically, and takes my wrist in his sweaty, swollen grasp. "Very well. Come with me, pretty lady."
He pulls me after him and leads me to a nearby alley almost invisibly situated between two indentical buildings. Here, the weak morning sunlight has ceased to make its way through, and the air is significantly murky and cold. Thirty feet in, a massive pile of rotting wooden crates blocks off more than half of the width of the alley, and the loud scrittering of rodents remind me that insects, slime and mold aren't the only things making their residence in the darkness.
The man makes a ragged flourish. "My humble abode," he announces. "I gots the magic book hidden in the boxes. Inspectors come around so often to take my pretty things, you know."
"Can you bring out the book now?"
"But I told you, pretty lady, that the inspectors will see!" he whines impatiently. "You wants to come with me behind the boxes so I can show you safely."
"I..." I'm going to see a book in which a I can punch in letters on one half and have the letters show up on the other half, I tell myself. Does that sound like anything familiar, Ada? A feeling that has long surpassed curiosity wins over my fear and revulsion of the drunken man. "I'll go with you," I say.
He grips my wrist tighter between his hands, and we walk into the alley, our footsteps slapping wetly against the broken cobblestones and mud. When we reach the jumble of crates, a chorus of squeals resounds from within, and seven or eight large black rats scatter out from the crevices and disappear into the distance.
I hold back a scream.
"Aw, they's just rats, pretty lady," the man coos, laughing. "No need to be frightened. Here, I'll go in first to show you."
The space between the crates and the opposite wall is so narrow that he can only barely squeeze his squarish body through to the other side. "See?" he says when he has accomplished the task. "No more rats. Now you come in."
The bottom inch of my skirt rips loudly by an unseen nail or splinter as I slowly follow him, but I barely notice. The man is squatting in the darkness, fumbling through pieces of stray wood and planks. "It's under here. Just a minute and I will show you the magic book, pretty lady."
He tosses out more planks. "Ah, here – wait, where is it? It's not here." He looks up at me with round, intoxicated and confused eyes.
"Is it gone?" I demand. "Maybe it's in some different boxes."
"No, I puts it here ever since I found it in the old cupboard of the empty house, I did!" the man spits back indignantly. "I puts it here for ten whole days, I did! Someone took it! It's gone!"
"No, no, no. It can't be gone! I'll help you look!" I lean over beside him to bat aside some loose pieces of wood, but the old man's next words lodges my heart in my mouth.
"You took it, pretty lady," he says, quietly.
I hastily straighten up. A cold, shivering sweat has started to break out on my forehead, and I realize how hidden I am to the rest of Baker Street. "I did not take your book, sir."
"Yes, yes you did! It's gone now, when you comes along!" He jumps to his feet and grabs both of my arms before I can dart away, violently shaking me. "Give me my magic book!"
"I don't have it, I swear! You're drunk! Let go! Help! Oh God, somebody help me!"
His nails are digging into my skin like ten crescent knives as he forces me to the crates. A small avalanche of rotten wood tumbles down, sealing off what is left of the narrow path out. My back is exploding in fiery agony, and I feel the warm sticky wetness of my blood on my skin.
The drunken man has crushed himself on top of me, and suddenly I realize through my numbing panic what he's planning to do. I kick at him with my heels and pummel him with my fists, screaming, and when he finally howls in pain and releases an arm, I fumble for the nearest wooden plank.
I almost bring it down into his shoulder, but he wrenches it away and presses it to my throat so viciously I can't breathe. "Where's my magic book!" His filthy stinking whiskey spit and sour sweat drip into my face. "Where's my magic book!"
I choke something out, but already black voids are exploding like painful fireworks behind my eyes and I am struggling to keep conscious. I think of Tony and the times he fought with me in his drunken fits, violating me and hitting me and choking me until I prayed to die. Too bad that I am going to finally die here in a dreary London alleyway, forgotten and lost.
Pain is pleasure, I say to myself almost sarcastically. I give the man one last kick with the remainder of my energy, and fall back limply as the desperate fire in my lungs envelop my limbs. Pain in pleasure. I close my eyes and surrender. Let him do what he wants.
Then suddenly the pressure at my throat disappears. A split second later, I feel that the man is no longer pressed like a boulder on top of me, as I hear a savage punch being delivered, a strangled shout, and a loud clammoring of boxes. "Get away from her!" an all too familiar voice roars, and is answered by the sound of footsteps retreating frantically out of the alleyway and into the street.
A short silence, then: "Ada, Ada." And then a pair of strong hands are around me, lifting me from the jagged bed of crates.
"Holmes," I whisper before I even open my eyes. When I do, I find myself staring into the raw, gray gaze of a man in a dirty, tattered suit and dilapidated brown hat. "Holmes?"
"Do not speak. Your throat is damaged by the weapon," Sherlock Holmes says in the even tone he uses to address business clients, but I can hear the emotion behind it, fighting to break through.
He lowers himself to his knees, gathers me to him, and with me still in his arms he falls back to a sitting position against the damp, brick wall. He's breathing hard, and I feel his heartbeat pounding in a forceful rhythm next to mine. The obvious questions float through my mind, for the moment unheeded. How did he know I was here? Why is he wearing the clothes of a destitute man? I am too exhausted to ask, so I rest my head in the space between his chin and shoulder blade, and revel in the feeling that I have been rescued.
And then I remember the magic book. I snap my head back up, making a move to stand. "Holmes! Where is he! Where did he go?"
Holmes continues to hold me down. "Ada, do not struggle so! You are injured and you cannot possibly walk. Now do not speak!"
I ignore him. I grab the front of his shirt despite the pain in my fingers, and shove my face so it's an inch in front of his. "Remember, Holmes, our little conversation this morning, and you said that you wanted to know more about laptop computers? Well, this man has one. He didn't actually show me but he described it in perfect detail. He said it was a magic book that opened up, and you could type the words in on one side and have it show up on the other. Holmes, he was describing a twenty first century invention! Now I don't know how or why – "
"Ada, I beg of you. This man has harmed you. If you please – "
"No, damn it, Holmes, listen. Another object out of my time has fallen into this century! I need to find the man again. I need to go to that empty house where he found the laptop and see maybe if – "
"Ada," he says softly. His serious gray eyes are so dialated they almost appear black. "The man had described a typewriter, my girl, and nothing more. And now you must think no further of this heathen drunkard's words."
"No, he said it was a magic book! A typewriter isn't shaped like a book! It's far too big and it doesn't open up like one!"
"A typewriter is often packaged inside of a box with a hinged lid. It is highly probable that he found a discarded typewriter in the refuse of the deserted house you mentioned. He opens the lid and presses down a few of the keys. The corresponding letters are imprinted on the paper that is still set within the machine. Ada, let us talk no more of this matter at this time. I will take you back to our lodgings and I will inform Dr. Watson immediately of your condition."
"But why didn't he say it was a typewriter? Why did he call it a magic book?"
"Because that is the name of the particular brand of typewriter that hails from Liverpool." I feel him sighing heavily, and suddenly for a dreadful moment I think I can see a small shimmer of wetness in his eyes. He quickly turns his gaze from me and glances up at the faraway strip of sky above the alley. "It is the truth."
I have collapsed once again like a rag doll against him. Holmes's usual perfectly logical explanation leaves me numb, and I'm not sure if I should feel incensed or relieved or thankful. There is a gaping hole in my heart where fragile hope used to be. "I don't know anything anymore, Holmes," I whisper.
"Know that you are now safe."
"I know that I am incredibly stupid."
"You are in the wrong, Ada."
"Holmes, if you didn't come, I would be dead right now. But after I left you put on a disguise and followed me, didn't you? Oh God, I should be angry at you, but I'm not."
In reply, Holmes gently lifts one hand away from my back and brings it between us. I see that his knuckles are swollen and bruised, and that smeared on his palm are dark, crimson streaks of my blood. He raises his hand to my face, and with the tips of his long, tapered fingers where there is no stain, slowly strokes my cheek. His skin is dry and warm.
"It never has been – and it never is – my intention to cause you pain. Though I am a deeply analytical man, a fact which you are well aware, I lack certain insights, and for every wrong I have inadvertently committed against you during your stay, Miss Cooper, I beg of you to forgive me."
..........
Holmes carries me back to 221b Baker Street, stoically avoiding the shocked glances of the passerby. When we walk past the grocery, the adolescent selling sweet potatoes yelps to me, "What in God's name is the good fer nothin' loafer doin' with ya, miss? Miss? Miss!" The children playing in the cobblestone street stare unabashedly at us as we approach, and their rubber ball bounces forgotten into a hidden crevice between the buildings.
When we enter the house, Holmes places me gently down into my bed and lays a warm blanket over me.
"I will seek Watson immediately," he says, nodding and turning to leave.
"But your clothes..."
"Watson is familiar with my guise, Miss Cooper. And besides, your need is more urgent than mine. Do try to rest and sleep."
After he's gone, I hold my hands to my face and cry quietly, not out of fear for what has happened, but for the little bit of false hope that sprang up so naively in me and then quickly died.
..........
To be continued....
Note: The "Magic Book" brand of typewriter from Liverpool is something I made up completely. Haha. Thanks to all of you who keep reviewing! You guys are awesome. I hope I'm keeping you guys on your toes.