Chapter Forty One: Returning to Paris

We filed out of the door and clamored into the waiting four wheeler. Once the cab was bouncing along the cobbles, Holmes turned to me.

"Mackenzie, what were you so eager to tell me about last night?"

It took me a minute before I realized what he was talking about. "Oh yeah! I came up with this theory about whom the Phantom is and why he is infatuated with Christine Daaé."

The detective raised his eyebrows and signaled for me to continue. Taking a deep breath, I related to him my theory of the Phantom viewing himself as a fallen angel. When I concluded, Sherlock Holmes was silent for several minutes.

"What do you think?" I asked, hoping he would at least think it was logical.

"It's absolutely absurd."

My face fell at his dismissal of my well thought out theory. "What is absurd about it?"

"The entire thing is utterly ridiculous! There are no facts holding it together, just wild conjecture on your part."

"Yes but--"

"You also make references to Catholic teachings, when we have no evidence to suggest that either Mademoiselle Daaé or Monsieur de Chagny are practicing Catholics. The very little we do know of this Phantom fellow does not include his religious beliefs. Now I suggest you put that wild fancy out of your mind at once, and learn to give illogical theories the same amount of attention you would give a grain of salt."

Well you certainly feel strongly about that don't you Monsieur? I don't see you coming up with anything better.

"Do not look at me reproachfully," Holmes said his grey eyes boring into my own. "You asked for my opinion and I gave it to you."

I sighed. "Well then buddy, what exactly theory are you working on?" I countered.

"I have multiple theories at the moment, each fits the facts known so far, however I will not divulge them until I have sufficient data to support one of them."

"Vous etes ici!" The cabbie shouted, altering us that we arrived at our destination. Quickly we boarded the train with only five minutes left to spare.

"You certainly make close calls don't you?" I asked once we were comfortably seated in our first class cabin and the train was slowly pulling out of the station.

"What the devil are you talking about?"

I looked at Watson who was getting much better at understanding twenty first century slang and expressions.

"I think she meant you pay no attention to your Bradshaw," Watson said uncertainly. He glanced at me and I nodded.

"Humph!" Holmes muttered irritably.

"What the hell is a Bradshaw?" Becky asked.

"Timetable," I answered. "Tells what time trains and boats leave and arrive as well as possible routes that they take."

"Oh," she said unenthusiastically.

The rest of the train ride was spent in silence. Holmes sat moodily in the corner, his knees drawn up, his head sunk upon his chest, eyes closed. He might have looked peaceful if it weren't for the constant grinding of his teeth, showing his aggravation over something.

I tried to draw Watson into conversation, but the frigid air settled in his war-wound causing his leg to ache horribly. His sentences were spoken in quick staccato, indicating the pain he was experiencing. Becky too would not tolerate any type of exchange, for she was still feeling embarrassed over her erroneous deduction of Holmes and me in bed.

I will not bore you with the details of the uneventful train ride, for anyone reading this would most likely loose all interest in my narrative.

When we finally arrived in our hotel in Paris, a telegram was waiting for Sherlock Holmes at the front desk. I accompanied him to the lobby to retrieve his note and waited impatiently as he read it. When he groaned, I realized the message was not favorable.

"Bad news Holmes?"

"We are invited to attend a performance of Faust this evening," the detective said with asperity.

"Well that's cool, aint it?"

"It depends what your definition of 'cool' is," Holmes replied, making my speech sound ridiculous as he threw it back at me. "Ordinarily I wouldn't mind attending an opera, especially a production of Faust, but I am not looking forward to spending intermission pacifying the angry management."

I chuckled and looked at him again. There was something he was not telling me. "What else does that telegram say?"

"The management has received a threat from the opera ghost, but refused to take my advice and accede to his wishes. If 'a disaster beyond their imagination occurs' than they deserve it!" He growled, angrily crumpling the paper. "They want my advice but refuse to take it! I daresay I am tempted to drop this entire investigation and return to Baker Street on the morrow!"

"Holmes you can't do that!" I said, suddenly realizing that he would not allow Becky and me to accompany them back to London.

"And pray, why not?"

"Because you never give up and if you drop this case then you'll be admitting to the management that the opera ghost is too clever for you to catch."

Anger from my comment radiated from him and I instinctively backed up. "There is NO investigation that is too difficult for me to solve! How dare you even suggest that!"

Wow! Okay buddy, you're slightly arrogant.

"I didn't mean I thought it was too difficult," I amended quickly. I didn't need him to go psycho on me. "It's just if you drop this case, that's how it will look."

He shook his head hotly. "Do you have something suitable to wear this evening?"

"You've seen the wardrobe Watson bought me," I said with a slight grin. I was happy he decided to listen to my reasoning. "What do you think?"

As an answer he removed his wallet and handed me several bills. "Buy something nice to wear."

"What about Becky?"

"She's fine. Just do as I say," he said dismissing me with a wave of his hand. "Oh and Mackenzie?"

"Yeah?"

"Go shopping alone won't you?"

Puzzled I agreed. "All right," I replied, taking the money and hurrying from the lobby onto the Parisian streets.

I liked my new found freedom, to be able to walk around Paris by myself, allowing my thoughts to drift in and out without being hampered by communication. My thoughts however, continued to return to the strange treatment I received from Holmes. Why the hell did he give me money and insist I go shopping alone?

My mind turned over the conundrum until my head hurt. Men, I decided, are unfathomable, especially men like Sherlock Holmes.

I stopped in one of the many dress shops on one of the crowded Parisian streets.

"Bon matin," the woman said to me from behind the counter.

I returned her greeting and proceeded to look at the rows and rows of dresses she had in her shop. After about fifteen minutes of searching I gave up and was heading out the door when a crimson gown caught my eye.

It was long, with a low collar and was what one would call slightly provocative for that time period. There was cream lace at the wrists and a cream colored sash that went around the waist, accentuating the wearer's womanly curves. (Not that I have many 'womanly curves to accentuate!)

"Madame," I said indicating the dress. "May I try it on?"

The lady nodded and took me in the back where she helped me on with it. The dress fit me beautifully and I knew I had to have it, no matter the cost.

"It suits you," the woman said.

"I'll take it," I replied quickly, and then shyly I told her that I needed a corset. She helped me find one as well as a pair of matching shoes. When she rang up my purchases, I realized that Sherlock Holmes had given me the amount of money that I needed. It was almost as though he had found the dress and wanted me to buy it. Mac, that's impossible! He would not be looking at women's clothing!

I sighed and knew I was right. I paid the woman and exited the shop feeling extremely happy. I stopped at a small café on the Rue de Scribe, and bought myself a small cup of tea and a croissant with some pocket money I had saved from a few days ago.

Sitting outside, staring at the people on the Rue de Scribe, with nothing but my snack and new dress for company, I felt quite comfortable. I wasn't plagued by confused feelings and emotions, I didn't have to put up with constant ribbing, and I could just sit and allow my mind to drift away forcing on everything and nothing. Brief flashes of memory appeared before my mind's eye, but they disappeared so quickly that I could barely register what they were. For the first time in days I felt completely comfortable in my strange surroundings.

I can't recall how long I sat there, just enjoying my own company, but all too soon, the waiter appeared and asked me if that was all. I started nodded. As he cleared away my dishes, I asked him the time and he told me it was a little after four o'clock in the afternoon.

I didn't realize how long I had been out! I gathered my things and started walking back to our hotel, where I arrived roughly fifteen minutes later. When I entered the sitting room of the adjoining suites, I found Holmes half dressed, pacing wildly.

"Hey," I said closing the door behind me.

My entrance startled him and he jumped slightly although he regained control of himself before I could register that he lost it. "Bonjour," he said cordially. He eyed me once and then said in an offhand matter, "it appears that you were successful in finding something to wear this evening."

I nodded. "Yeah, sorry I don't have any change for you, but--"

"I assumed as much when I gave you the francs," he replied. He glanced at the clock on the mantel and sighed. "You should--"

"Yeah I know I'll go get ready, because I know you are in a hurry to leave," I said with a small smile.

He appeared startled. "Yes but how did you…"

I chuckled at his nineteenth century ignorance. "You're a guy; guys are always in a rush, especially when women have to get ready. Trust me Holmes, I've heard the 'let's get a move on' speech from my dad more times than I want to remember. So you're no different. Now I'm gonna give you the same answer I give him. I'll be ready in about forty minutes," without looking back, I walked into the bedroom I shared with Becky and closed the door behind me.

"Where the hell were you?" Becky asked when I threw my parcels on my bed.

"Shopping," I replied with a weary air.

"Well you could of invited me," she said indignantly.

"What are you up to?" I asked, wanting to change the subject.

"For the past ten minutes I've been trying to figure out what the fuck I do with this," she said holding up a corset.

I chuckled and shook my head good humouredly. "You wear it under your dress of course. You done in the bathroom?"

She mumbled something unintelligible and nodded. I entered the bathroom and after taking a hot bath, attempted to fix my hair so it looked somewhat decent.

"I'd kill for hair gel and a blow dryer right about now," I said to my friend as I endeavored to spike my short hair.

"Tell me about it. These people live in the damned stone age!"

I laughed and ran my fingers through my blond locks. "This'll have to do," I said looking at myself in the mirror. Granted I've seen my hair look better, but I've also seen it look. The next thing I had to do was to get myself into the corset, which proved more difficult than I originally thought. After about five minutes of struggling, I was obliged to call Watson for help. After all, he was married and should therefore have some experience with the infernal fashion of the nineteenth century.

Red-faced with embarrassment, Watson successfully managed to help me into my corset and the crimson gown that I purchased earlier.

"You look stunning," Watson said when I was finally dressed.

I smiled at his compliment. "You don't look too shabby yourself Doc," I said, admiring his tuxedo.

The doctor smiled and left the room, only to be called back by Becky, who was having more difficulty with the corset than I. Not wanting to hear any of my friend's off-colored remarks, I walked into the sitting room, only to find Sherlock Holmes standing fully dressed, in a black tuxedo which fit him beautifully, in front of the blazing fireplace. He held something that resembled a box in his hand, but from my view point I couldn't see what it was.

Keep yourself together Mac. I know you fall for guys in tuxes but please, try and keep your hormones at bay, just for one night!

"You look pensive," I said, trying to focus on anything but his handsome figure.

He turned and gasped in surprise when he saw me standing before him. To this day I am not sure if he gasped because I surprised him, or if he gasped because of the way I looked. He offered me a slight, Brettish half smile. "You look very ladylike."

Realizing that was as much of a compliment as I was going to receive from the man, I smiled gratefully. "Merci Monsieur Holmes," I said with a little bow. "You look totally awesome."

He nodded to me. "You look plain."

My heart sank at his off-handed observance of what I was painfully trying to hide. Although the dress looked nice on me, and the ivory gloves made my hands look elegant, I was wearing no jewelry whatsoever; wearing nothing that would make me look stunning.

"I guess I'm destined to be outshined by all the women in Paris tonight," I said with a sigh.

The detective crossed the room and in three long strides was standing before me. I looked into his face and saw suppressed excitement as well as an impish glow in his eyes. He pressed the small box he was holding into one of my gloved hands. "That last deduction was erroneous."

I raised my eyebrows in confusion. What sort of game is he playing?"What's this?"

"Open it!" He said with boyish enthusiasm. "I know it's not much but…"

Curiosity got the better of me and I untied the hastily tied ribbon and opened the small box. I gasped in surprise when I saw the contents.