Looks like y'all are getting an early Christmas present, another chapter!
It took a little bit of inspiration and after re-reading Lock And Key, by MistroStrings, one of my most favourite authors here, I found the motivation to write a super fluffy bit that's almost 5,000 words!
Whoop whoop!
I have to admit that I had my doubts, seeing such incredible and talented people here and not seeing myself as one of them. But I saw that this story is OVER 100,000 WORDS! It's astounding that I was able to write something this long considering my habit of abandoning projects halfway, it just goes to show how much dedication and hard work can pay off.
Also, I have never seen Don Giovanni, mostly because I have never heard of it until recently, when I saw A Game Of Shadows, and also because I don't think it's even played once in Canada. *Le sigh*
Anyway, without further ado, here's *drumroll* Chapter 27!
Believe me, I'd tried.
I tried so hard not to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes; tried to deny it. I lied to myself that it wasn't meant to be, and any feelings that I felt were not real love. And when the feelings were reciprocated, we both downright refused it. But, I couldn't escape it. The facts were clear.
I was falling for the notorious detective, who was labelled an oddity or cold-hearted because he kept his heart chained and locked away, but they didn't know him like I did. Not that he cared entirely, at least not that I knew of. He knew that the people closest to him appreciated him. Myself and of course John Watson were included in the small list of people he kept at arm's length.; Even Mrs. Hudson who served as his landlady, and who he squabbled with on a regular basis, cared enough to keep him fed and rested for his mind to stay in perfect condition. And although he hated to admit it Mycroft was added, maybe at the bottom of the list, but there nonetheless.
The monstrous fluttering of my heart when I spotted him. The haunting images of him as I slept. The cold clamminess that shivered over my body when he would smile at me or say something smart. The dryness in his mouth when I spoke of him. He had me helpless, but just as the sun and moon set and rose again, it was inevitable that we would be together.
There was no turning back now, nothing could change what had happened and nothing could stop what would happen next, but I was willing to go all the way.
And nothing prepared me for the sudden attack.
"What are you doing?" I asked, flattered but otherwise a little confused. "Where is all of this coming from?"
"Honestly, Can't a man show his wife a little affection without reason?"
"Well-" I began, but my thoughts were once again cut off by a kiss.
"Alright, you caught me," he panted. "I'm doing an experiment."
"On what?" I asked, folding my arms across my bare chest.
"How display of affections affects your state of mind." He stated matter-of-factly before stepping behind me. A blush crawled up my neck as I squeezed his hand gently. His hands were so warm. "Subject falls quiet after holding hands and there is an increase in heartbeat," he noted with a sly smile.
"Oh, shut up," I grumbled as my blush darkened. I had always known that he was handsome. His strong jaw, his large eyes, and all of his dark features. They were all evident, with a single look.
"Subject does not like when I point out the obvious. Side note: she's rather adorable when she blushes."
"Two can play at this game, love." I moved slowly, carefully and let my instincts take over as he pulled me closer to him, and I sighed, trying to will my body not to tremble under his touch. I leaned forward ever so slowly, but Sherlock pushed me back on the bed, practically forcing me to stay there, and somehow managed to move my legs so that they were framing his hips, and so that I was more accessible to him; He smiled wider, keeping his eyes open.
"Enjoying the view," I asked, burying my face in his neck. "I know I am." He looked even better from this view; his high cheekbones and cheeky smile contrasted with his messy black hair. His eyes matched warm glow of the candles, and his calloused hands and slightly chapped lips brushing against my skin were gentle and featherlight.
"Immensely," he whispered, sending a ghostly chill down my spine. "You are so beautiful," Sherlock purred and with that, I was lost in a dark and wicked fantasy as we continued our heated dance, and I knew that eventually, I would have to get back to reality.
"Your hands are cold," he commented; He took my hands in his, kissing them softly. I stared at him, mesmerized by his tenderness, something that was apparently only reserved for me.
"What do we do about that?" I whispered back, flirtingly; His forehead was pressed against mine as our noses threatened to touch.
"The fire is nice and warm. Why don't you sit there?" he offered his hand to me and brought me over and placed me down on the chair in front of the fireplace. "and I believe I promised to play my violin for you, did I not? Unless of course, you'd like to try it?"
All I could do was stand there as he carefully placed the delicate instrument into my hands, trying to remember how to properly hold it. Actually, I knew precisely how to hold it, I just loved playing coy; He seemed to pick up on that as he started guiding my hands into the proper position. "That's it." Sherlock muttered into my ear and he stood behind me with his hands on top of mine. The violin placed gently on the crook of my neck while the one hand held it up and the other had the bow ready to play. He then continued to guide my hands into play a few notes together. It was a short sequence. Yet, like any other piece I loved how the notes seemed to float into the air and linger leaving a sweet melody in its place.
Over the next few hours, Sherlock continued to teach me the ins and outs of how to play the violin from how to hold it, how to properly use the bow, how to tweak the strings, and how to read sheet music. Overall, my skills went from ear-splitting screeches to actual notes and music.
"Would you like me to take over for a while?" he asked, chuckling softly.
I nodded eagerly; I could listen to Sherlock play the violin for hours. The string of notes that created their lovely melody always put me into a wonderful mood. Not only was the music beautiful but watching Sherlock play was another added bonus. The way he held himself with his relaxed face, the way his body gently swayed to the music, and the overall calm and composed manner. It was utterly memorizing.
And so was he.
After an evening filled with bliss and passion, we laid beside each other in the bed, everything covered up by the blankets. This was the first time since the night before Christmas, that we had taken the chance to be intimate; something that neither of us were particularly experienced with or admittedly good at, at least on my part. Perhaps it was my inner self-consciousness that made me feel insecure, therefore, when it came to such things, I was cautious and timid. My makeup had vanished from sight, and my hair was lazily pinned up, some pieces falling against my pillow.
I pressed my ear against his chest so that I could hear his heartbeat, it was always so calming and had a way of reassuring me that even in the darkest moments, there was still hope that things would turn out alright in the end.
We didn't say a single word to each other, even after we'd settled down. Once in a while, we would exchange a weak smile or reach out to brush our fingers or lips along each other's skin, but mostly, we just laid there facing the other person and wondering what was going on inside their head.
I just so happened to be thinking about what would have happened if Aunt Lucy was on time to our scheduled dinner date and I wouldn't have had to sneak into the club in the first place; come to think of it, and I suppose that I should also be thanking Simza, for without her help, I wouldn't have been able to get in, and without either of those happening, I would never have met Sherlock. I probably would have been set up with another man like Mister Higgins.
My love for him was infinite and boundless, and nothing could stop it.
Our days in Switzerland passed by without incident; some days we would stay inside, reading by the fireplace wrapped in blankets and drinking hot chocolate, others we would spend it outside, having snowball fights and we built a snowman out of stuff we found lying about the house. And a majority of our nights were spent conducting a variety of experiments regarding affection and passion.
When I woke up on a Friday, it was almost noon; I sat up, feeling a little stiff from staying in bed for so long, I ran my fingers through my messy hair, and stretched, looking over at Sherlock, who was still sleeping. I glanced down at our clothes, tossed onto the floor by the window and got an idea.
I rose from the bed, and tiptoed across the floor and looked at the pile, only a faded white button-down shirt and my corset, stockings and petticoat were there, and I silently gave thanks to the decency of my husband to keep on the black trousers. With nothing much to go by, I opened the dresser drawer and pulled out a tweed sweater, just like the kind John wore, some brown trousers and a hat. Maybe John lent them to him in hopes that it would make for a good disguise.
The thought of being free from skirts, corsets and stockings excited me. I quietly dressed myself, then pinned my hair up neater so that way it would fit underneath the hat, which I tugged a bit more firmly over my ears and then double-checked myself in the mirror.
I looked young enough, and mother often joked saying that if I tried hard enough. I could make my voice deep enough to sound like a boy. I certainly looked like one, which was kind of the main idea. I sat on the chair and picked up a book, holding it over my face so that I could properly disguise my inner glee at my adorable and harmless little prank.
"Charlotte?" A voice rang out and soon enough, I heard the sheets rustling and saw a tangled mess of dark hair rising up from under them. I decided to step over to him and I cleared my throat and made my voice go as low and deep as it possibly could.
"I'm afraid that Charlotte isn't here right now, however, Charlie is here."
"I know it's you, love," he said groggily, but with a bemused smile. "You look a bit boyish, minus the fact that the sweater is a little stretched out." Grinning, he gestured to where the most obvious feminine quality was clear and I nervously tugged the sleeves of my coat further towards my wrist; I hoped the blush running towards my cheeks was hidden by the dim, morning light.
"They are really comfortable," I said, the words tripping over my tongue.
"I hope they will protect you from the cold."
"The cold? Why would I need to worry about the cold when we're inside, unless you're planning on opening a window, and I recommend that you don't."
"Don't you remember? We are going sight seeing, and shopping." He replied. "You told me on the train ride that you needed a new dress, and I think you're right. You've worn the same dress in both Germany and France."
"Says the man who wore the same disguise, Mister Florian; My clothes are perfectly fine, thank you very much," I said sharply. "But it wouldn't hurt to buy a new dress, if we have the means."
"Mycroft gave us some spending money the day before we left, and so far we have done a fine job of using it sparingly, we both deserve a nice day out. And since it will be our last day, I want to make the most of it. And we need a break from being stuck inside all day."
"For the record, we can go outside whenever we want to, it's just that we choose not to," I said.
"Fair enough." He grunted in amusement. "I just thought that because it seems to be a little warmer outside that today would be the perfect day."
"And I couldn't agree more," I smiled. "But first of all, we should eat some breakfast."
"Breakfast? It's past noon, I think you mean lunch."
I shook my head. "Nope, I mean breakfast, the first and most important meal of the day, one that we should never skip."
"Right then, if the lady insists."
My extra large boots were crunching beneath the snow as we crossed over the little bridge that separated us from one side of the city and the other, I couldn't help but look around. Switzerland was certainly more transfixing than any other place in the world; Everywhere I looked, gorgeous couples lingered on the other's arm. Only a few carriages drove on the roads, and as much as we could simply catch a ride in one of those, we needed the exercise. And it was a lot warmer outside than it has been all week.
I paused at one of the shops, right beside the bakery. In big, scrolling cursive above the door, it read his name. I recognized it as the shop we went to when we needed to get clothes for the peace summit and suddenly, I began to feel a little bit homesick and missed my friends, wishing that John, Simza and Jane were here.
"Whatever are you thinking about, darling?" He asked, drawing me away from my thoughts.
"I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet," I teased, forcing a laugh. "But I guess that even geniuses can be quite dense sometimes."
"That's very true," he muttered, moving as close to me as space would allow. "I can collect data on any stranger in seconds, I can understand any science and mathematics, I study endlessly all to widen my intellect to solve crimes. But, I may never fully grasp how people work."
"I wonder if people would question what two dashing young men would be doing in such a shop."
"You mean one young man, I'm not exactly as young as I used to be."
"I wouldn't say that, though with this disguise, you look like my father."
We slipped inside, a little bell going off as we did so; I found it charming. I began scanning the rack of dresses for a nice colour. Not something too harsh or too pastel. It needed to be a fun dress, but one that I could also wear to social events.
"Sherlock?" You asked, your eyes still perusing the rack. "May I ask why I need such a dress?"
"That's for me to know and you to find out," he said, and I could catch the childishness in his voice.
"Well then how will I know what to pick?" I smirked, hoping it would entice him to give me some kind of information.
But there was no reply, he must have gone to find something for himself.
I shrugged and scanned the racks some more and managed to find four dresses that looked nice and I took them into the fitting room. Shut away in the small closet-like space, I removed my boy clothes and began trying on dresses. The first dress I tried was a soft pale pink one, with a cinched waist and a white sash that wrapped around it. It was classy but pink was more of Jane's colour than mine. I muttered quietly to myself as I peeled the dress away from my waist. There were red marks left where the dress sat and I rubbed them delicately. They would have only hurt worse with the corset.
The next dress was a dark blue one, with an interesting strap formation and a relaxed skirt. The fabric was fitted, but delicate, the dress itself was maneuverable. But the colour and the price tag did not sit well with me at all.
Dress three was a floral-ish print and seemed a little too childish for the occasion, though it would have been perfect for Alice, had it been a little smaller.
Dress number four was the one I was looking forward to the most. Soft black fabric and a gently flared skirt, plus a square neckline for modesty. It fit perfectly. I admired myself from all angles. The waist cinched comfortably, accentuating whatever womanly curves I possessed. I twirled turning around, and the material swooshed about elegantly around me. This dress was an absolute dream.
I snuck out of the women's section, I was glad that no one else was around, if they were, I would have said that I am looking for a dress for my sister.
Which could have been true.
I didn't see Sherlock anywhere, and immediately, I started to get anxious. The store wasn't that big, so he couldn't be far. I stomped about irritably and paced about the aisles of clothes, becoming slightly distracted when I heard a rustling coming from one of the racks, I walked over, peeking behind it and then frowning once I noticed that he wasn't there. All I could do was pay for the dress, and maybe, by some miracle of God, he would show up.
It wasn't until I stepped out of the shop, and something cold and hard hit me square in the back of the head, knocking my hat clean off. I cringed as the freezing slush trickled down the back of my neck. From behind him, I could hear someone's hysterical laughter. "Holmes!" I roared, turning on the detective, both anger and amusement twisting inside me. I scooped a handful of snow off the pavement and began to form it into a tightly packed ball.
Sherlock began to back slowly away from him, his hands up in surrender. "Now, now, Charlotte. Let's not do anything rash. After all, you have no real evidence it was in fact I who hit you."
"But I don't see anyone else around," I said with my hands on my hips and with that as my confirmation and permission, I hit him square in the chest with one well aimed throw, and the force of it knocked him right into a snow drift.
"Oh. You think that's funny, do you, my dear?" He said, standing up and his eyes widened with the same amusement.
"Yes, I do."
He charged at me with a much rounder and much bigger snowball and I dodged out of the way, but instead of being hit with a snowball, I slipped on a patch of ice onto my back. While you gathered my thoughts, a palm to my head, Sherlock bent down to help me up, dusting the snow off.
"Are you alright?" he asked and began to guide me away.
"I'm alright, just a little surprised, that's all," I assured him with a smile.
"Are you sure? I could check you for injuries once we get back to the cabin and-"
"Sherlock!" I protested. "It's okay. I'm fine. The coat I was wearing cushioned the blow."
"Alright, as long as you're not hurt, then there's nothing to worry about," he said, muttering the last part to himself. "Did you find the dress you wanted?"
"I did," I said as we continued our pleasant outing. My other hand clutched the dress I had selected. "I would have gotten your opinion on it, but you weren't there. Where were you anyway?"
"Shopping is boring." Sherlock replied.
"It was your idea," I said shrilly.
"I just wanted you to have a moment to yourself, that's all," he looked like a scolded puppy and of course, I couldn't help but forgive him on the spot.
"Well as much as I appreciate that, this is our honeymoon and I love spending time with you."
"Really? You might be the only one," he said with a high-pitched laugh. "But if I'm being honest, I had something I needed to do."
"Does it have anything to do with the reason why I needed the dress?" I pressed, wanting an answer.
"I'm not telling you anything else," he said and tapped my nose. I pouted. "You can pout and cry all you want, but nothing will change my mind."
"Fine, you win." I laughed, brushing it aside for the time being. "Now, where to next?"
It wasn't until we had gone in and out of several shops, without really buying anything, when I finally got the answer I was craving.
"I was thinking; Don Giovanni was in town in November, but Watson and I never got the chance to go, mostly because he never seems to enjoy the operas I choose, but I can easily claim that it's one of my favorites."
"Yes, I will go with you! I've never been to an opera before."
Overjoyed, I couldn't resist grasping his hands in mine, trying to ignore the curious and perhaps revolted stares that people were throwing us as we turned the corner. Some of them smiled at us, and though I hadn't the slimmest idea what either of them said, I could distinguish the compliments from the insults. In a perfect, judgement-free world, everyone would be free to love and to be with the person they loved. I knew that I would never be able to sway their opinions, but I really just prayed that they would someday understand.
Why can't they just leave us alone?
Sherlock seemed to be less bothered than I was; then again he was probably used to people staring at him and talking about him. It bothered me for some reason.
We walked together, unashamed and laughing as my hair tumbled from underneath my hat. People might stare because of my common apparel, but that was the last thing I was thinking about. I was going to an opera! Did it matter what I was wearing or what I looked like?
When seven o'clock rolled around, I had changed out of my boyish clothes again, and into something much more suited for an evening out and brushed my hair to perfection. I had heard a great many things about Don Giovanni, but personally knew little about it. And I didn't speak a word of Italian, but I figured that the music and actors would speak for themselves.
I stepped into the living room to find Sherlock dressed in the same clothes he wore to the peace summit, and for a moment, my eyes filled with tears.
"I can't let anyone see you in that dress, do you understand? You need another one."
"Why?" I questioned, feeling my heart sink a little. "I thought you would be impressed."
"No, no that's not what I meant," he amended. "You look so very gorgeous, someone might steal you away."
"Never." I whispered with fierce determination.
Sherlock smiled. "Can you at least wear one of my coats with that dress?" He didn't hesitate to put one of his coats on, and it was warm, covered in his scent and I wrapped it tightly around me.
We kept our arms linked as we mounted the tall flight of stairs, not looking down at my feet, but watching the other elegantly-dressed people whispering and laughing as we all went in the same direction.
The night was going to be perfect, though my nerves were starting to get the better of me, all this time spent with just the two of us, it was a real stretch for me to suddenly be thrown into a huge crowd of people. The unsuitable scent of lavender hit me as an older woman walked past me; my hand subtly battered the smell away from my nose.
I slid my way through the aisle, trying my best to not squash all of the perfectly sewn hems. I got multiple stares, but ignored them as I slid comfortably in my seat. "This is all very thrilling, isn't it?" I whispered to my left without taking my eyes off the stage.
"Yes," a small voice replied. "I suppose it is."
My breath caught itself in my throat and I held it as I turned towards the speaker. It was an elderly man with eyes as big as olives. My lips attempted a composed smile. We must have somehow gotten separated in all the chaos. "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else"
"Close, but not quite there," Someone whispered in my ear. I turned around to see Holmes sitting in the aisle behind me. "You must have been far too excited to realize that you were in the wrong place."
Playfully, I nudged him on the shoulder. He smiled warmly, while my eyes trailed over his face. There wasn't much time to say anything else before the music came blasting into our ears. The show was starting. My first opera; and by one of the greatest composers of all time, no doubt.
It took me a moment to get the general idea of the play, but once I did, I was enthralled and unable to look away even for a second; it was a mix of comedy, drama, and the supernatural. The thing that astounded me was the upscale voices, and the technicality of the score. Mozart and Da Ponte certainly knew what they were doing. Each song clicked with a certain image. Each image clicked with a certain memory. And each memory was like a foreshadowing as to what was coming next. My forehead was suddenly hot and I was worried that my head was catching fire. I could feel sweat dripping down my back.
I must have looked bothered as the Giovanni ran off the stage, because I felt something warm brush against my hand.
I looked down to see Sherlock's fingers gently pressed against mine. Giovanni had just been accused by Ottavio to be the murderer, and Donna Anna was in grief.
How have I not gone to see this before? It's positively brilliant!
I vaguely remember that my parents always used to go to these shows when Jane and I were little and maybe once or twice they took us, too, but I didn't remember a single bit of it; probably because I was much to little to understand and didn't have a clue what was going on, either that or I must have fallen asleep. One of the reasons I was surprised when I saw two little girls, twins were staring wide-eyed, probably not understanding, but at least they seemed to be enjoying it, especially when nearly a quarter of the audience was asleep.
As the lights dimmed and the curtains closed, there was a very long silence until it opened and a thunderous applause was heard throughout the room, I was both laughing and crying at the same time, and I knew that was possible.
"Well," he said, once the volume toned down. "What did you think of it?"
"I think enchanting is the only word in the entire English dictionary I could use to describe such a masterpiece." My joyfulness was interrupted by a yawn. "but I don't imagine that I can keep my eyes open any longer."
"Then I shall fetch a carriage for you and we shall return to the cabin." He said, gently helping me to my feet and as we got into the carriage, I fell asleep on his shoulder.