Arina Orlov always knew she could fly. From the time she could walk she'd been floating: fences, gutters, even clothes lines. Whatever she clamber onto and cross on her tiptoes, her mother would inevitably be pulling her off of. It was no surprise to anyone, then, that she'd began ballet before she could even read or write.
When she was a bit older Arina had decided she wanted to be a gymnast, but her mother had scolded her and said good girls became ballerinas and didn't fling their bodies about like some circus riff-raff. So instead, Arina had worked hard though sweat and tears and broken bones to become the best ballerina in her company, always exceeding beyond the others so she would be center stage. So she could be the one not only to dance, but to fly.
The fame never interested her, not even when she was taken to Saint Petersburg to train and then was chosen to tour across the world as a principal dancer with the best ballet company in Russia. To see the world had never been of interest to her: she wanted to fly, and she didn't care where or in front of whom.
In fact, she tended to dislike her audience more often than not. They were a distraction at the best of times, and she loathed how some men would leer at her openly. They tried to send wine and flowers and gifts to her dressing room to get her to go to dinner with them, but she never fell for it. Going to dinner would lead to being alone with them, and being alone with them was far too frightening. She always stayed with the safety of the other ballerinas. When she saw men, they were the ones of her choosing, and she trusted no others.
She pretended not to speak English whenever she was forced to meet men who demanded to see her before giving money to the ballet company. She often had to suffer through dinners with kings and lords and politicians as well. She had to remind herself it was worth it to be able to dance. To fly. Not only was it all she knew, but it was also her only plan for the future. When she could no longer dance, she would teach. When she could no longer teach, she would die. And everyone knows that after you die is when you really fly.
The man who came to meet her after a show in London seemed, at first, like all the others. He was holding a bouquet of flowers, leaning against the wall of the corridor as he waited for her. His head was bowed slightly, and she realized belatedly that he was young, only about her age, and his cheeks were flushed red. Was he nervous? Some of the men who came to see her were. Some were even sweet and asked nothing of her, only coming to praise her performance. She hoped this man would be one of them.
He looked up and saw she'd come into the corridor. He straightened himself and bowed to her slightly. "Good evening," he said. "Do you speak English?"
She hesitated. For some reason, this man seemed different than most of the others. "Yes," she replied softly.
"It was a wonderful performance," the man praised. "Please, I hope you will accept these." He held out the flowers, and she took them.
"Thank you," she said. He cleared his throat, and she inwardly grimaced. Here was where he asked her to dinner or brazenly tried to advance on her or…
"I've never seen it's equal," he said, and his face flushed even redder. "Your performance, I mean. When you danced, you seemed weightless. Like you were flying. It was magnificent." He hesitated, bowed again. "Good day, ma'am," he said. "Thank you for your time." He turned to go.
"Wait!" she called before she could rethink it. "What is your name?"
He turned back. "Sherlock Holmes," he said. "At your service, I assure you."
"Sherlock Holmes," she said slowly. "Thank you."
He smiled warmly. "Of course, my lady. Please know I meant what I said. I am, completely, at your service." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a card, scribbling something onto it. "If you are ever in trouble, if you ever need a friend, you have one. I will not let you down."
She took the card. "You are a detective?"
"I am, though not quite officially," he said, and looked at her oddly. "Do you have a problem for me?"
She looked around her. "Perhaps," she said softly. "The detective will step in?" She gestured to her dressing room, and for some reason the idea of this man coming into her space didn't frighten her.
"I will do whatever I can to serve you," Sherlock Holmes assured her, and she believed him.
"I will tell you," she said, "of an old woman who travels with this company but whose heart is neither for ballet nor any of the arts, and of the strange people who come to see her. If Sherlock Holmes can learn the truth of this, the ballerinas may be saved from her cruelty. But you must not tell anyone of this, no matter what becomes of this. Yes?"
"Yes," he assured her, and she began her story.
Sherlock Holmes never did tell, not even to Watson, only mentioned "The Adventure of the Old Russian Woman" in passing a few times. Even at that, however, Watson knew there was something he was holding back which was different from a regular case. It was some memory he was holding onto tightly, perhaps someone. And always, whenever they would see a ballet, Holmes would complain that even though the dancers were excellent, none of them really seemed like they could fly.
For the prompt from Book girl fan: Dancing Queen.
"Here's the record of the Tarleton murders and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club foot and his abominable wife." -The Musgrave Ritual