Do not attempt to parry with Mr Sherlock Holmes, for she who lives by the sword must also die by the sword.
Sign Two: Eros
Act II
Five days later
The British Library, the Socrates Chess Room
Sherlock Holmes is less than pleased.
His client is proving herself to be less punctual than previous experience had promised, and he has several more errands to execute this day. In addition to this particular pique, he finds himself in this venue (of her choosing) which holds a less than idyllic host of childhood memories, most of which involved his brother and a litany of repeated and almost masochistic forays in attempting to best him. In truth, Holmes quite detested chess. Admittedly, there were a thousand, thousand variations and fascinating stratagems which could have heralded a lifelong love of such a game, had it not been for Mycroft`s appalling assuredness that his younger brother would never excel.
"Your brain is quick and your logic impressive Sherlock, but you shall never acquire the patience and regimen needed to aspire to greatness. You shall be adequate at most, purely due to your race to the finish."
Words, perhaps, a trifle harsh for a seven year old to hear.
So, Sherlock Holmes had decided if he was not to play to win, he would not play at all, and after the seventeenth humiliating defeat at the hands of his brother, he never lifted another piece, and indeed could barely force himself to observe the machinations of others as they ruminated their next move. He could almost always see their next seven moves, but determined he would have much preferred to watch the slow crawl of moss grow up the window pane, or an algae spread across a lake.
Watson had laughed outrageously and dubbed him `dramatic` when he learnt of such prejudices, but it remained truth that he had never played since the age of seven and-
"Mr Holmes, I am desolate at my tardiness. I do hope you have been amusing yourself amongst the merry chessmen of the Socrates room, although the aching slowness of their moves must irritate you enormously."
He glances sharply at Irene Adler, noting in an instant that she has been delayed by prior appointment with a man, shorter than himself, but dark haired, well-attired and possessing a… love of apples?
Standing hurriedly, he inclines his head in greeting, only to be met by a raised gloved hand, which he grasps in confusion, and finds himself looking down at its pristine kid leather.
"Mr Holmes, I am disappointed- I imagined us to be… associates these days."
And he blinks, just once, and brushes his mouth briefly across her proffered hand.
"There now," she purrs. "Was that really so abhorrent?" A sharp, feline, closed lipped smile.
"I don't bite."
~x~
Tension, insinuation, anticipation.
A man shall never match a woman's social intelligence- however cerebral that man may be, she shall always best him.
He may have knowledge; logic and deductive abilities which lead from A to B and all the way to a summation of C, but a woman has awareness and insight that a man does not; a knowledge of that which is not immediately apparent and is not logical in any way, shape or form.
"Do you play?"
We sit adjacent to a large and beautiful board of ebony and onyx which is at least two hundred years old and glints invitingly beneath the flickering gas. I imagine those long, pale fingers holding a weighted piece, cupping it, agitating it, caressing it whilst deliberating.
"No."
I smile at his stiff, English propriety. Sherlock Holmes, aloof, superior, misogynist? I do not think so. Leaning towards him, my skirts rustle, a silken whisper as I utter words as thin as gossamer.
"Yes, you do."
I know he has news of Edward. It has not been intimated by spoken nor written word, but by his entire demeanour and impatience to be on his way- a job completed, a task achieved. But not yet, not yet. I am not done with you yet, sir.
I reach across and let my gloved index finger touch the black pawn; lightly, gently. I move it and then I look at him, allowing his eyes to follow my hand and its open invitation. All around us, aged gentlemen sit and cogitate from their armchairs and their armagnac, aromatic wisps of cigar smoke drifting upwards, wraith-like and sinuous and we are caught as a bubble in an opium pipe; waiting, suspended. And then, just as I suspect I may have lost him, he lifts his eyes to mine and I see acquiescence in their mercurial depths as he lifts the white pawn to oppose the black.
"Yes, I do." He replies, voice toneless and empty.
I nod, glancing at the board once more and allowing my fingers to play a little at my throat, since I wish his eyes to see the neck the Covent Garden critic dubbed `swan-like and eloquent.` I adjust my gloves, presenting pale, slender wrists before tapping a gloved finger upon the table and then the board, and finally, my lips, pretending the deliberation of my first move. His expression is still impenetrable, but I fancy his eyes flash briefly with a hot, blue fire as his gaze meets my own.
I shift the black Knight a few spaces and see his hand hesitate over the King, then the Castle. I tilt my head, thinking his thoughts, knowing the King to be the most important yet also the most impotent piece, an empty crown across the board. Black, white and back to black; the coarse and damaged and the untouchable purity, side by side. The lamp above his chair flickers, offering a warm glow across his beautifully planed face, illumined in light and shadow as he casts his eyes obliquely. Though I should never tire of touching that face, I know the woman who shall caress it will not be me.
"I met your little red-haired nurse upon the stair the other day, she seemed quite charming."
Immediately his eyes are torn from the board and his bloodless glance transforms into an eloquent cocktail of wariness and antipathy, which I absolutely cherish.
"It is admirable to find a young woman so unconsumed by vanity and the fripperies we are too often absorbed by."
He has relinquished all interest in the board, which I do regret, but I am unable to stop now.
"An orphan, I believe? Penniless, and bravely trying to forge her way into a man`s world of sawn bones and noxious disease. Heroic and - "
"You must stop speaking of her immediately."
His voice slices so swiftly and sharply across my own that I barely feel the sting, but it is there. He is angry. Beneath the gloss of his immaculate morning coat and golden watch fob, Sherlock Holmes is furious, and I smile, just a little.
"Come now, Mr Holmes," I continue quietly (although a storm of firecrackers would fail to rouse this room from its singular, self-imposed isolation), "you must allow for my surprise. I was of the expectation that you were a man who placed himself above such matters of sentiment and predictability. Such tenderness must place grit upon the lens of the reasoning you hold so dear - it seems less than possible."
As much as I have chosen to affect an appearance of aloof indifference, I am appalled to find myself giving a far too impassioned appeal, and I can no longer keep his vehement gaze.
"It is more than possible," he returns, his face a mask of stone, "it is probable."
A slight and utterly unpredicted panic rises in my throat as I see him look about to gather his stick and gloves, reaching for them beside the abandoned chessboard. I stand and it is all I can do not to grab his sleeve to halt this process, but I know that the game is over.
"I went too far," I offer, losing all artifice, all grandeur and pride. "I imagined we were only making a little sport with one another."
And he stops, eyes no longer crackling and brow untroubled. He stands above me, hand upon his cane.
"My evidence gathered at the scene has ensured the SS Appledore be interred by the Harbour Master until further notice, since its scandalous useage has been deemed irrefutable. The owner of the ship has not come forward and cannot be traced and suffice to say, whether guilty or innocent, he shall be doing all he can to distance himself from such an ugly discovery.
"Your husband used the ship as a vessel for smuggling and other deplorable purposes which saw him tainted by a very vengeful curse, bestowed on him by some of the slaves aboard the ship. Whether or not your beliefs, Ms Adler, tend toward the supernatural, it is clear that your husband set great store by such a threat and could only be brought out of hiding by my offer to meet with him and hand over the stomach contents of the giant rat of Sumatra. He could then perform the bizarre rituals required to cleanse him of such `country fetishes`(as the captain's diary dubbed them) and the curse would be lifted. Upon meeting with Mr Norton, my original plan was to apprehend him and bring him into custody, allowing a trial and inevitable divorce proceedings to take place."
"Original?"
He adjusts his ramrod straight stance, once more glancing across at the chess game, abandoned only eleven moves in.
"I now plan to have the artefacts delivered to Mr Norton, allowing him to perform his ritual, become `free' of the curse, and retain his liberty. My newly enlightened status has clearly inspired me to show mercy upon the weak-willed and ridiculous, and allow them the chance to flee and begin a new life elsewhere."
My heart beats out of kilter, but I know I allow no weakness to show, since the time for sympathy has passed. It will now be years before I am granted a divorce; I shall never be free, unencumbered by my tiresome husband. My eyelids flutter, despite my resolve, and I find I am a little faint. I am acquainted with the owner of that ship, and I know how less than pleased he shall be to discover his loss.
"It was merely a little acting, a taunt for amusement- the playing of a game!"
With one sweeping, devastating move, Sherlock Holmes slides his knight between the King and my knight, relinquishing the piece the next instant as if it were molten lead.
"I know," he whispers, leaning in close to my ear, "and this is just losing. Check-mate, and a good day to you, Ms Adler."
In a flash of tailcoat and desolation, he is gone, and I watch the heavy door swing shut behind him.
~x~