Chapter 13: Forgotten Dust And Feathers Fallen
However, the relatively easy-going behaviour was not to last. Around 10 am, Sherlock had effectively given up on deleting the photo and had taken to fiddling around with the hand-gun. The safety was off, of course. John had gone shopping, leaving me with the falsely sociopathic man, if he could be called that. He was more childlike than any child I had met.
Around 5 minutes after John had left, Sherlock had taken to tossing the gun up in the air and catching it again, and I had had enough.
"So, what can you deduce about me?" I asked, and Sherlock froze before smiling.
"Everything, naturally," he said smugly in his baritone voice, "You were born and raised in London, mainly by your mother – your father, while loving you both dearly, I'm sure, spent most of his time at sea, eventually meeting his fate there. You did celebrate birthdays, no matter what you told John, not because you enjoy getting older but because you've survived another year. Someone close to you has died relatively recently, making you really notice the fact that people do die, and you don't like any of the family friends, mainly because they treat you as if you're stupid.
"Your mother died yesterday while trying to save you – a failed attempt, by the way, as you still died – but you don't feel any particular guilt over her death. You loved her but you aren't mourning her and that might make you just like me – a very good actor."
I froze. I closed my eyes very slowly, taking a deep breath. Another time, another person, another loved one lost and almost the same words came floating back to me and I remembered something.
'You loved her,' my brother told me after she had Fallen, 'but you aren't mourning her.'
My best friend, my only friend had Fallen, leaving me up There with only my brother. I'd loved her, more than anything, but it would never have worked. I knew that, at least. There was too much of a distance, too much of a gap. But once she'd gone I'd only wished I'd told her.
'I think that you're just like me,' he'd said with a bitter smile and a hug. 'A very good actor,' my brother told me, for he'd lost him also. And I cried into his shoulder, shuddering silently.
Then, I forgot. Like one would dust in the breeze, a fallen feather or a stranger seen once, I forgot. And it was as if it had never existed in the first place.
I blinked rapidly then jumped back. One thing I had not expected to see upon opening my eyes was Sherlock's face – well, more his eyes, staring into mine. He looked as if he was going to laugh at me, for I had fallen off the armrest of John's chair, then seemed to think better of it and cleared his throat. I made an odd noise through my nose then jumped up, shaking myself. Sherlock gave a slight smile at my antics, his wings stretching out, then looked to the side.
"You have... something, just there," he said, pointing to his cheek as a demonstration.
I reached up to touch my face; it was wet with tears I never knew I had shed. What was this from? I couldn't remember crying. What would I have to cry about? Probably many things.
"Tea?" Sherlock offered. I gave a nod and he moved past me into the kitchen, moving gracefully.
"You would be good at dancing," I told him, and he turned to me.
"What do you mean?" he asked, as if confused.
I rolled my eyes. "You know, ballroom dancing," I elaborated. And to my surprise, he seemed embarrassed.
"I... can'tdance," he mumbled. I only just heard the words, and I grinned widely.
"You can't dance?!" I asked incredulously, my childish voice making it seem like a tease.
"No, I can't dance!" Sherlock said, throwing his hands in the air in a dramatic show of revelation.
"What does it matter anyway? It's not like it will save my life, or anyone else's! It only makes sense to keep things in my brain that are useful, and dancing is not one of those things!" he said, irritated. I couldn't keep myself from grinning.
I ran over to him, avoiding his outstretched wing, and grabbed his cold hand in my equally cold one, tugging him into the lounge room. I pulled the table to the side of the room – for her size, Kayla was actually rather strong. Moving back toward the nonplussed Sherlock, I got up on the chair so that I was almost his height and grabbed his hands, putting one on my shoulder and the other one around my waist.
"This is where the hands go," I told him, and he nodded. I removed his hands and jumped off the table.
"A waltz is simple. You just rotate in a circle, moving your feet in time to the music. It's three four, by the way," I said and he rolled his eyes. "Hey! You are the one that's saving someone's life with this, you'd better pay attention!" I chastised and he went along with my demands with an amused air.
He started slowly rotating on the spot but even to me he looked strange. I jumped off the table and walked over to his violin. Once seeing my actions, he stopped, walked quickly over to the instrument, picking it up before I could.
"Hey!" I shouted, jumping up, trying to reach the violin, "I want to play a waltz!"
Sherlock paused. "You can play?" he asked smoothly, his voice belying none of the surprise his upright wings told me he felt.
"Of course!" I said, affronted.
He hesitantly lowered the violin, and I grabbed it off him gently but eagerly. It was too big for me but I didn't mind. I propped it up on my shoulder and moved my chin onto the rest. Picking up the bow, I moved out my fingers and began playing a simple waltz. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and I poked my tongue out, finishing the bar then beginning a more complicated andante tune. He nodded, somewhat impressed, then began practising his dancing with me adding tips every now and then. Next we would move onto some fancier moves.
John was in for a surprise when he got home.
Edit: 25.2.16