Chapter Nineteen: An Unexpected Greeting
When I crossed the threshold, a very agitated Sherlock Holmes looked up at the door. He had evidently been pacing and was in mid stride when the door grabbed his attention. A glimpse of relief passed over his face, but it quickly turned to anger.
"Where the devil did you go?" He roared, quickly advancing towards me. "What the devil do you think you were doing?"
I was suddenly frightened by the wild look in Holmes's eyes. I've seen plenty of people get mad at me, but none ever fixed me with such a venomous stare. As he advanced towards me, his ferocious eyes and something in his expression made me instinctively back away from him.
"I-I didn't mean…I never meant….Look I--"
"You didn't mean to do what? You didn't mean to worry me? You didn't mean to worry Watson? Damn you!" He suddenly raised his hand high as though to strike me. "I…Watson instantly feared the worst had happened to you! What else were we suppose to think when we were in the fifth cellar and you were gone? I don't believe you ran off like that!"
I backed as far away from him as possible, until my back hit a wall. His rage was very slowly increasing and I was never more frightened of anyone in my life.
"Listen, I'm sorry," I said, my voice little more than a whisper.
"You're sorry? Damn you!" With that, he struck me full force across the face. Tears instantly welled in my eyes and I'm sure his handprint was a livid red on my pale cheek. I opened my mouth to speak but I was too dumbfounded for any words to come out.
Suddenly, the detective paled and looked down at his hand. "Dear Lord," he murmured. His hand was shaking slightly and his eyes remained glued to the appendage, looking at it as if it sprang to life and struck me on its own accord. "What have I done?" He looked into my eyes, his filled with uncertainty.
"Holmes?" I asked, finding my voice. The sting in my cheek disappeared, leaving only a slightly numb feeling. "Holmes, are you all right?"
He swallowed several times and nodded. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. "I-I didn't mean to strike you. It's just--"
"Holmes, it's all right," I said putting my hand on top of his trembling one. "I more then deserved it. A human being can only take so much and after all I've done to you, especially deriding you, I certainly warranted it."
He nodded mutely and proceeded to stare at me, as though he was unsure why I was forgiving him. Realizing he was staring, he cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "What happened to you? This is a very deep knife wound," he said gently touching my throat, where the gash was. He gently fingered the wound and when he pulled his hand back, it was covered with blood.
Sheepishly, I removed the jeweled knife from the band of my jeans. "Caused by this," I said handing it to him. "I had a slight altercation with the Persian. You will be happy to learn that I found out some very interesting information from him."
Holmes raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a white handkerchief. He gently pushed the piece of linen against my throat to staunch the bleeding. "Hold that there," he instructed, removing his hand. "Watson will have to examine that."
"Don't you wanna hear what I found out?"
He nodded.
"Well our Phantom of the Opera alias the Angel of Music has an interest in Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. But I am not sure what that interest is."
"I'm sure all will be clear to us soon," he replied.
"You've solved it?" I couldn't hide the skepticism from my voice.
"I have a theory that covers the facts as I know them so far--"
"And this theory is?"
"I will not tell you or anyone else until I can completely confirm it."
I was about to argue back when I heard Watson's voice calling to his friend. I turned around and saw the doctor and my best friend hurrying towards us.
"Good you've found her," Watson said, anger was evident in his voice. He spied the white handkerchief I was holding to my throat. "What happened?"
"Nothing," I muttered.
They reached us and Watson pulled the linen away from my throat and examined the wound. "Very deep, I'll have to stitch that." His eyes traveled up to my face and he saw the pink mark on my cheek put there by Holmes.
"What happened here?" He asked pressing a finger against my cheek.
"I was struck by the Persian," I said stealing a glance at the detective, who was avoiding my eyes. "It's not a big deal."
Watson glared at me. "When you get your medical degree I will allow you to decide what is important to your health and what isn't. Until that time, I will be the one deciding, understood? Since we finished our tour of the opera house, it is best if I bring you back to the hotel and tend to that wound properly. Then, we should get a good dinner and rest. Our train for Brittany leaves early tomorrow morning."
Considering
I was in enough trouble already, I decided not to argue with Watson.
Instead, I grudging agreed and went with them to the hotel.
"Tell
me exactly what transpired," Watson said as he poured antiseptic
into a bowl of boiling water.
"Well, I followed the Persian and we got into a little altercation. Nothing major. He went at me with a knife and I fended him off as best I could. This," I said gesturing to my throat, "is the result of my fight."
"You're very lucky to come out that alive. He nearly hit the jugular. Now hold still," he said rubbing the water/antiseptic on the wound.
"Damnit! What the hell are you doing? That hurts!"
"You should have thought of the consequences of your decisions before acting upon them," Holmes said, smugly inhaling the smoke from one of his ever present cigarettes.
"Like you should talk," I murmured angrily. "I didn't strike you and I don't indulge in cocaine, now do I?"
My remark had the desired effect and Sherlock Holmes choked on the cigarette smoke.
"Both of you stop bickering," Watson interrupted. "Holmes not another word out of you that will antagonize her while I am stitching this gash. Mackenzie," his green eyes stared at me with both a mixture of amusement and anger. "You are not to say one word until I am finished. Understand?"
Without moving my lips, I replied in the affirmative. The next fifteen minutes were the most agonizing and painful minutes of my entire life. Tears welled in my eyes as Watson pushed and pulled the needle through the flesh of my throat. My teeth ground together in vain attempt prevent myself from crying out in agony.
Sherlock Holmes, much to my surprise, sat next to me and held my hand in his in a comforting manner. He didn't flinch as I squeezed his hand in pain and he spoke soothingly to me, in attempt to make me more comfortable. Once, he even wiped away the silent tears that were running down my cheeks.
"All finished," Watson announced, cutting the thread and wiping dried blood from my skin. "So long as you do not get into another altercation that involves a sharp blade and your throat, you should be fine."
Despite the pain I was still feeling, I forced a smile and very gently murmured a thank you. He smiled and affectionately rumpled my hair.
"Although I should be angry with you, I cannot help but compliment your tenacity."
I smiled but said nothing.
"It would be best if you refrained from speaking for about thirty minutes. This way the stitches will set properly."
"Watson, I daresay I wish you would have done this earlier," Holmes piped in.
"What the devil are you talking about old boy?"
"If I would have known you could force her to be quite for any length of time, I would have taken a blade to her throat myself." The earlier kindness he had shown me only seconds before to be replaced by his sarcastic, biting wit and condescending attitude.
So much for Mr. Compassionate! I flashed him a venomous stare and I stood up, determined not to let him see how much his remark stung.
I stalked out of the sitting room, with Watson's rebuking remarks toward Holmes echoing in my ears. I hurried into the room I shared with Becky, thankful to find it empty and flopped down on my bed. I had to figure out why those moments Holmes showed me some kindness caused my heart to pound against my wounded ribs and cause blood to rush to my head. Why did I feel like I could stare into those deep grey eyes for all eternity? Fragments of anecdotes I heard from my mother and many of my older friends whirled around in my brain as it tried to find a way to rationalize these odd bodily responses.
"'I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on your father Mac. I lost myself in his eyes and I knew it was love at first sight'… 'Mac there's no better feeling then love, when you find your face flushed and you find yourself longing to see him, then you know you've found someone special.'"
Suddenly a thought entered my mind that succeeded in frightening me. Could it be possible, could it be just possible that I could be in love with Sherlock Holmes? It wasn't rational…but then again neither was time travel. What about Shawn? What about him? One side of my brain was trying to bring up images of me and Shawn, trying to show memories of feelings when I was around him. Mac you know as well as I do that you've never tolerated Shawn's belittling you. You're pulse has never raced the way it does around the detective for Shawn. You've never wanted to just stare into Shawn's eyes have you? You never had the desire to…
I shook my head in attempt to cease the seemingly endless tirade of questions and emotions assaulting my mind. I could not love Sherlock Holmes. There was no way in hell he would ever reciprocate my feelings, mostly because he was, at times, a misogynistic bastard! But then again, could I really choose who I was going to have feelings for?
Feeling extremely frustrated at my inability to deduce the tangle of emotions I was feeling, I buried my face in a pillow and allowed myself to scream silently, my teeth biting the fabric in anger. Of all people, me the one who is always so confident and self-assured never unsure of my feelings, was reduced to frustration that I never felt before, frustration at my own inability to know what I was feeling.
I took several deep breaths in attempt to calm myself and at that moment I realized I needed to talk with someone, but whom? I certainly couldn't talk to Becky, she'd laugh too hard and would never ever let me live down my insecurity. Sherlock Holmes was certainly out of the question, he'd never understand and besides he was the one who I was in confusion over. That left Watson. Could I talk to him about feelings for his best friend? How would I breach the topic? How could I…
Further contemplation was ceased when the bedroom door opened and the very man who I wanted to speak to entered.
