"Holmes," I cried, "how could you?!"
"Oh, Watson, do shut up."
I rose from my chair, well and truly angry now, and crossed to where the decanter of brandy sat on the table. I sloshed some into a nearby glass and drank it off quickly.
"Such things are just not done by the higher classes," I informed him, regretting now that I had not sipped instead.
Holmes looked down that aquiline nose at me with scorn. "Listen to yourself man, such things are abundantly done by the higher classes. A class, I might add, that neither you nor I belong to! If you can marry an invalidish American woman you met abroad, then why can't I form an attachment to a respectable woman who supports herself in the Arts? I may come from impoverished gentry, but my bloodline springs from artists, not titled aristocracy. I work for my salary, as you do."
He steepled his fingers in front of his face and stared into the fire for a moment.
I knew Holmes better than to think he was done, so I poured myself another brandy and a second one for him.
"You know as well as I do that society doesn't give a toss about what people actually do," he continued with some vehemence. "Only what they hear people have done. Then they moralize. Extra marital affairs are treated like sport for the gentry, while if the maids dare kiss below stairs their reputations are sullied forever."
He accepted the glass I handed him and nodded his thanks. He sipped it thoughtfully.
"This is why I prefer to retain my bohemian ways. I may be frowned on, but at least I'm not wracked with misplaced guilt."
"Alright, old chap, I think you've made yourself clear. You must know I'm thinking of the girl as well." I retook my place across from him.
He nodded again. "It was a confusing time. We were in a kind of social limbo, both removed from our homes, under different names. No one in the neighborhood had reason to think us anything other than a normal boring couple. I know the situation was rife with possibilities for scandal. But Watson, had you seen her, had you felt her shake…some things are more important than a man's reputation."
"Astounding Holmes."
He raised an eyebrow at me again. "I am not a monster, no matter what society might think. And to the other complaint of damage to our reputations; if you were going to act scandalized, then you should have started much earlier this evening. A woman cannot enter a bachelor's house unattended, let alone his bedroom without serious repercussions - if anyone were to find out-" He shot down my objection before I had time to voice it. "Whether we thoroughly debauched each other or not has nothing to do with it."
I choked on my drink.
"You see, Watson - that boat had already sailed. You'll just have to overcome your squeamishness. Look. Here I am. No harm done. Miss Rushford was not a fallen woman. Simply a better rested one."
He smiled devilishly at me.
"So, nothing happened then?"
His smile became enigmatic. I could swear I saw a flash of something that might be regret cross his face. "Unless you count the loss of blood flow to my arm for over an hour as a significant event - then no."
I sat back in my chair, and I finally allowed myself to smile back at him. It was no good reproaching him. He was as he was; terribly eccentric, and as I was starting to realize, terribly fragile.
"Alright, Holmes, I am won over. Tell me how you solved the mystery. I can't say that I'm exactly comfortable with your methods, but I am glad that you and Miss Rushford finally admitted your feelings for one another."
The smile slid from his face. "What does that mean?"
"Well, it means that you may not have known each other, but you did sleep together. It must have cleared the air somewhat. I'm please for you. It sounds as if you two were well matched. It's not just any woman who can put up with you and your antics. And I've never heard of you trying to comfort anyone. Ever."
"Assumptions, Watson. Assumptions. The next morning, I continued on in my usual, reasonable way."
"Emotionally austere, you mean?"
"Hmmm. And this 'well matched' person you speak of proved the perfect example of why women and men cannot be placed on the same intellectual level. She became instantly hostile to my superior reasoning..."
"Oh, no. Holmes, you didn't."
"Didn't what?"
"You didn't pretend nothing had happened, did you?"
"Nothing of the kind. I made sure my morning address was perceptibly warmer."
"Oh, God." My heart sank into my stomach. "You did."
Unlike Kit Rushford, Sherlock Holmes was not a stranger to the pleasures of the flesh. Such a trait in a man of his age and class was almost unheard of. Especially as the youngest of three brothers, he had ample persons in his life whose job in was to see that he was properly educated.
In Sherlock's case, it had been his father, Seiger Holmes, who upon his son's arrival at the age of his majority, had taken him to a woman of impeccable taste and flawless reputation to school his son in the necessary arts. The fact that his youngest and most erstwhile of children did not ever seem to want to repeat the experience was none of his concern. As a father, his task had been discharged with commendable efficiency.
Unbeknownst to his much-respected paterfamilias, Sherlock had repeated the experience, but only when absolutely necessary, and with women who cherished the same discretion he did. Such women did not accept money for their favors, though property, articles of clothing, or tickets to important social events were always welcome. Holmes kept no mistress, nor did he favour one woman above another.
He succumbed to the services of such women only when he noted that his efficiency was being negatively impacted by such distasteful bodily needs. It was not a situation that he enjoyed, choosing, of course, to see such things as a ridiculous human weakness. It was a necessary release, and acceptable to him, if only serving to keep the precisely tuned machine of his body functioning at peak efficiency, and therefore the population of London safer from the omnipresent criminal element.
So, while not a virgin, Holmes had never had the experience of laying with someone he cared about. It was an odd experience, and not one he was altogether convinced he enjoyed.
Kit's warm and pliant body remained draped over his for the whole night. Upon intermittent waking, he was free to run careful fingers down her back or shoulder. Once he even leaned a tired cheek against her forehead, and allowed himself the brief indulgence of a dream where he returned home from a case in the early hours of the morning, tired and cold, to find his bed already warm and occupied by this remarkable woman. She welcomed him to this quiet comfort without expecting anything in return. He assumed after this fantasy that he must be still delirious.
At the same time, and far more disconcerting, he became aware that one of the feelings he was harboring for Kit was lust. He assumed that as the night wore on, these unwanted feelings would suitably diminish. Unfortunately, this proved not to be the case, as stray thoughts of carnality only increased. By dawn he found himself ruminating almost obsessively on the texture of her skin, her near-perfect form and weight pressed against his side. He made educated guesses about how beautiful she would look transformed by pleasure, what glorious sound she might make as Holmes invested all his time and unlimited focus on finding the places that made her forget herself completely. He wanted the privilege of being the first to introduce her to a shared oblivion, one that would ensure she would never consider seeking it after with anyone but himself. In short, he wanted to give himself to Kit in a way that had never interested him before. It was a realization both intoxicating and nightmarish.
As a soon as the grey of dawn showed behind the curtains of the small bedroom, he extracted himself from the bed and fled to the living room with all speed. If he remembered correctly, he had a mountain of newspapers waiting for him.
Kit awoke to a strange noise. She was warm and comfortable. It took her a moment to regain her sense of the surroundings. This bed felt different from the one she was accustomed to occupying, and there was a faint scent surrounding her. Not an unpleasant one, it was somehow familiar.
Why could she smell Sherlock Holmes on her pillow? She started up suddenly, memories of the night before crashing in on her. Her head spun with the quick movement, and she put her hand out to steady herself on the bed. It was empty save for herself. Looking around, she spotted her chair where she had left it, but Sherlock was gone, only a cold indent in the mattress to show where he had been.
She checked herself over quickly, but nothing seemed out of place. She was still entirely dressed, all the way down to her boots. Her feelings of mortification were acute. Not only had she been a complete fool the night before, apparently passing out in some compromising position, but Holmes had obviously fled at the first available opportunity.
The strange noise intruded again, and Kit swallowed her embarrassment to listen harder.
The sound she heard was music.
In fact, it was Der Erlkonig, the Shubert rendition for solo violin. And it was being played very badly.
Kit held her breath for a moment, listening to the frantic drive of the piece, hidden beneath a cacophony of squeals and shrills, and she couldn't help a small smile. She assumed of course that it must be Holmes, but she had never seen him play, and up until now, had no idea his level of skill.
She crept out of bed and down the hall, pausing just outside the door to the sitting room.
High jarring notes galloped through the air, slurring together, and then crystalizing. His G was routinely sharp. He stopped suddenly and started over from the beginning. This time his tempo was inconsistent, he failed to pluck and bow at the same time. He was having trouble with the child's high range in the piece. She wished she could help him, explain that he was probably over intellectualizing it, and that if he slowed down a little he could learn to push the tempo later. He was indeed a very talented amateur, as he had told her, but it was obvious to her more trained ear that he preferred composition to faithful rendition.
The music stopped suddenly, and she heard a prolonged silence, followed by a frustrated sigh. Next was Bach's Sonata 3 Largo, and the much slower pace was soothing, if unexpected.
She put her head around the corner and nearly gasped. The room looked as if it was blanketed in fresh snow. Newspapers were tossed haphazardly all over the room, coating the armchair and couch, the floor, there was even one hanging from a picture frame on the far wall.
Holmes himself stood in front of the small window, facing out into the street. He was dressed in pants and a shirt, his waistcoat and frock coat missing. His feet were still bare. With the light streaming around him, Kit could see the outline of his body through his shirt.
Kit felt the colour rise in her face at seeing him like this. He looked both chaotic and unguarded and she disappointed herself further by instantly wishing to see more of him. The muscles she could discern were long steel cords across his shoulders and down his arms, and she knew from experience how safe it felt when they held her against him.
A moment later he broke off in frustration, dragging the bow across the strings with an unforgiving screech. What followed was a series of chords, each higher and more piercing than the last. Finally he gave up and tossed the violin through the air, where it landed with a thump on the couch.
Kit did gasp then. Who on earth threw a violin like that? Either money or madness must run in his family somewhere.
Holmes turned from the window, bow still in his hand. "Ah. Miss Rushford."
"Der Erlkoning? I am impressed Mr. Holmes."
"I prefer it played on piano." He said, tossing the bow onto the couch with the violin.
She felt her face flushed darker at the slight. "Still, I commend you on your attempt."
"You may cease your unnecessary politeness. We both know it sounded abhorrent." His tone was dark.
"Perhaps, if you'd like…I could help you?" Her flush only increased as his eyes bored into her.
"No, thank you." He turned to look back out the window. The silence stretched out. Kit glanced around the messy room.
"What are you doing, Mr. Holmes? It is not yet eight in the morning." Did she still have to call him Mr. Holmes after last night? She found herself at a complete loss as to where they stood right now, and he seemed unwilling to help.
"I was following your suggestion," he interrupted the flow of her thoughts. "I did not begin work this morning until well after five. I have been going through my files, and you will be happy to know that I have solved your case." He glanced at the small clock on the sitting room shelf. "One hour and forty three minutes ago."
She gaped at him. "What?"
He grabbed one of the papers from the floor and strode across the room with it, thrusting it enthusiastically into her face. "The Times, evening edition, eleven days ago."
She took the paper, more to defend herself from the flapping pages than out of understanding. On closer inspection she could see strain around Holmes' mouth and eyes. He was still pale. Sweat stood out on his forehead. She placed her hand on his cheek, noting how hot he was. He jerked his head away from her, snarling.
"Miss Rushford, you must desist your coddling."
"Coddling? You've been insensible for three days. Now you're up running around like a madman in your bare feet. You have a slight fever Mr. Holmes, you need rest. Have you eaten?"
He waved her off. "Womanish coddling. I will not allow you to interfere with my work, Miss Rushford. Read the paper."
She glanced down at the sheets in her hands, hurt by his comments, and bewildered as to what it was exactly she had done wrong. His calm of the previous evening had all disappeared, replaced by this frenetic wall, pushing her away. She had thought…well, never mind what she had thought. She was obviously wrong. She looked at the paper, raising it closer to her, but the print was so small, the page covered with it, and her eyes swimming for some reason. Her throat felt tight. She dropped the papers and sat in the nearest chair.
"Are you alright?" he asked briskly.
"I am. But I would prefer it if you simply tell me what it is I am looking for. I'm afraid I'm having a problem reading this morning." She refused to look at him. He scooped up the paper and pointed out an article in the center column, around the middle of the page.
"A follow up article stating that Lady Francis Atherby's emerald and diamond drop earrings have still not been located. This stunning pair of 9.9 carat pear-shaped earrings have been in the lady's family for three generations. They were rumored to have been a royal gift to her Grandmother in recompense for her indispensable and conscientious behavior at court," he added.
"She had a cart blanche, you mean?"
"Or kept quiet about others who did. The earrings are extremely valuable, and still missing it seems. There is a large reward for anyone who steps forward with any information."
"And what does this have to do with me?"
"Tilby was a page, was he not? Do you remember which household he was with?"
"I don't remember. Lucy did mention it. They were frightfully important."
"I believe that on this matter, I would be willing to take a bet." Holmes lifted the paper significantly.
"You think he took the Atherby's jewelry? It's ridiculous. How did he ever think he would get away with it?"
"Did you notice planning and introspection being high on the list of Tilby's attributes? I decidedly did not. He has gambling debts that have come due. I think desperation was the only thing he was feeling when he set himself to his task.
"He would have hidden the earrings after taking them, and I can think of no better place than at his sister's work. That way he could continue at his job without fear of discovery until he was able to have them changed and pay back the debts he owed.
"I assume he had plans for the extra money; otherwise he was genuinely ignorant of the worth of the pieces he stole. They are small - he may not have understood what he was taking. He told Harry Wilcox that he had the means to pay him back and sealed his own fate. And yours, I'm afraid."
Kit was too numb to react.
Holmes continued. "There was an uproar about the theft, I remember it. Harry might be odious, but he's not stupid, he would have put it together quickly."
"So where do I fit in, then? Other than the fact that I work at the same place as Lucy, and I know Davey, I have nothing to do with it."
"Really, Miss Rushford. I would have thought it would have become evident to you by now."
He scooped up the pile of papers and plunked himself down in the armchair across from her, drawing his legs up under him and searching about for his pipe.
"What does that mean?" She kept her voice level, stilling her rising anger. It seemed that not only were they going to ignore the events of the previous evening, but now they were going to ignore common civilities as well.
"Why assault you and hurt your hands?" he asked, stuffing his small white pipe with tobacco from a pouch wedged between couch cushions.
"I thought we had established that was something Davey was responsible for," she said.
"True, but incomplete." He leaned forward, jabbing a finger at her. "You have not carried your deduction all the way through to the end. Tilby is spineless and perverse, but not mad. There must have been some reason to send men after you in the first place. The hands, as we have ascertained, were extra."
Kit shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She didn't like where this was going, and she was starting to feel uncomfortable and claustrophobic.
"There was something else about your person that they were interested in. Can you think of anything else that was destroyed?"
"…My violin?"
"Exactly. I can think of worse places to hide small stones than inside a resonance box. Held fast with paste or sticking plaster. That is why the violin and you were deposited so disrespectfully outside the theatre door. As a message to Tilby that goods were not received."
"But…" Kit was still reeling at how he had come up with all of this, after seeing and hearing the same things she had. "Why would Davey tell them I had it if I didn't?"
"An honest mistake, just as he said in the tunnels. I think in the orchestra pit, worried that someone might come in; it's feasible that he put the earrings into the violin of the wrong person. Perhaps the person who sits next to you?"
"Lucy?" Kit's heart beat faster. If that was the case, then her friend was in danger. "We need to tell her."
"I sent off a telegram over an hour ago to warn her. However, I fear I was not in time."
"What do you mean?"
Holmes picked up the morning edition, one that he had managed to get his hands on during his brief trip to the telegram office, and held it up for her to see. The story was on the second page, close to the bottom. An opera house musician hardly warranted the front page, after all.
"I'm afraid she was found in Drury Lane last night. Her violin was missing. She's alive, but it seems my illness caused us enough of a delay that Harry was able to locate and relieve Lucy of the earrings. I don't believe she will be leaving the hospital any time soon."
"Oh, my God."
"I know. It is inexcusable. I should have realized this would happen days ago."
"How can you say that?"
He frowned at her, withdrawing the paper slightly. "What do you mean?"
"How can you talk about her like that? As if she was some sort of finale to a story you are telling?"
"I fail to see your point…"
"She's my friend! She reached out to you on my behalf, and all you have done is deprive her of the company of a brother…"
"Yes! A man who incited a group of bludgers to reduce you to this pitiable state."
"Pitiable?" Holmes winced as she continued. "Is that what you think of me?"
"I have precious little time in life to go around enlightening people as to what I really think of them." It took him three tries to light a match and bring the flame to his pipe bowl.
"Not even a friend, Mr. Holmes?"
"We are not friends, Miss Rushford."
She let that statement settle between them for a moment. It hurt, yes. She felt betrayed, yes. But more alarming, the pain made her feel reckless. If these were their final moments, then he would not be the only one to draw blood.
"Then what are we, Mr. Holmes?"
"You are my client."
"And this is how you conduct yourself with all your clients?"
He steepled his fingers in front of his face and closed his eyes.
"It seems strange," she continued, "that one minute you're frantic enough about my safety to attack a mere boy on the street after chasing him over hell's half acre, and the next your telling me that you don't want my justifiable worry for you to impair your ability to focus on your job. What job? Entangling yourself in the troubles of others? To what end? To sneer at them afterwards? What good are you to me? Or for that matter anyone else unlucky enough to come in contact with you?
"I ask you for help, you rudely deny me without any explanation. You then show up far too late, run roughshod all over my life, remove me from my home, order me around like you have some kind of right to do so, and then blithely tell me that I'm getting in your way."
Holmes reopened his eyes to find her standing before him, icy blue gaze pinning him to his seat. This was it. This was why woman were a liability. Never again, he told himself. They made one react in the most obscene ways. Henceforth intimacy was to be avoided at all cost. He should be outraged right now. He should stand up, make some imperious statement, and stalk from the room.
Unfortunately, cast his mind around as he might, he could think of nothing to say. His guts roiled with the hateful knowledge that she was right. He had done all those things.
And now, sitting here, instead of some biting comment or coolly constructed retort, he was instead completely occupied by the realization that he found her the most attractive woman of his acquaintance. Her anger had brought a high colour to her cheeks, and her blue eyes flashed at him. Only three to five percent of all people with dark hair had such light eyes.
He found her a rarity in so many ways. Her stubbornness, her inability to comply with even the simplest request, her courage, her unswerving loyalty, all of it frustrated him endlessly.
No doubt it was frustration he had to thank for his current state. He felt lightheaded and twitchy. His breathing was ragged. He tossed his cold pipe to the floor, and then immediately reached for his cigarettes before he realized that he had left his waistcoat in the other room. In fact, now that he considered it, he really was in a shocking state of undress.
"I'm waiting, Mr. Holmes." Her voice yanked him back to the present.
"And you shall continue to do so." He snapped. Realizing that he was still holding that morning's paper, he cleared his throat and opened it as calmly as he could. Funny. Today's news seemed to be written in gibberish.
"Are you so sure, Sherlock?"
His eyes snapped to hers like a whip crack. "Make yourself clear, Miss Rushford."
"Are you so sure that I'll wait? You may be feeling proprietary, sir, but that doesn't mean that I am."
"I am not, in any way, feeling proprietary."
"I beg to differ."
"How typical of a member of the opposite sex." Holmes was now convinced that if ritualistic suicide were an option, perhaps...but no. His Phurba was still back in his rooms on Montague Street. Instead he raised The Times to hide his face.
The paper was jerked from his grasp. Kit balled it up against her leg and tossed it over her shoulder to land with a bounce on the carpeted floor.
"I would prefer it if you looked at me during this conversation." Her tone was deceptively light. "If not possessive, then what? Certainly, you are in some type of palpable distress."
"What you interpret as distress, Miss Rushford, is in fact impatience."
"It doesn't look like impatience to me, Sherlock. It looks like something far simpler than that."
Holmes scanned the floor for another paper to pick up. Nothing came to hand. Why did she have to make this so damn difficult for him? Of course, he was proprietary and frantic to preserve her safety. Wasn't that what normal men became when they found something they treasured? Was he really so different? She was so sharp. Why couldn't she see past what he was saying to grasp the significance of what he meant?
He fixed his eyes on a single spot on the floor, determined to weather the rest of this conversation in silence. Or at least in monosyllables.
She circled around to the back of his chair. He tightened his jaw and kept his eyes trained on the carpet. He felt the warmth of her body at this new and disturbing proximity, even through the fabric of her dress, and remembered the feel of her hair on his cheek from the night before. His throat dried.
"You seem tense, Mr. Holmes."
"Nonsense."
She ran the tip of her forefinger in the barest whisper of a touch down from behind his right ear to the top of his collar. He felt the line burn into his skin.
Holmes was on his feet before he knew he was moving. He turned as he did, and the two of them stood facing each other.
The room was still between them. The light streaming in the window had turned from pale grey to the colour of yolk. Until a second ago the street outside had reverberated with baker's calls from shop to shop, the cries of paper sellers and costermongers, all silent now. Inside even the faded floral wallpaper seemed to disappear, leaving nothing but empty space.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but that's not impatience," Kit continued to hold his stare defiantly. "That's arousal."
He stood frozen. She had done it again. How did she always seem to have the upper hand? She – who must have so little knowledge of the art of seduction compared to him – had shaken him again, left him feeling raw and stripped of his will. He felt anger kindle in his chest, surging up to hiss through his teeth. He overturned the armchair between them with a swat of a single hand. Kit retreated. Holmes advanced until he had crowded her into the wall behind her, caging her there with his hands on either side of her head. They were so close their breathing mingled, their inexplicable electricity back, jumping between them.
"And you, Katherine? Do I not do something equally as powerful to you?"
Kit swallowed. The coil in her belly wound tighter, until she could not tell if she was more frightened that it would snap or that it wouldn't. A treacherously large part of her wished it would, that they would crash together into whatever came next and deal with consequences later. But such destruction was beyond her. Kit Rushford had too much compassion for her fellow creatures to damn any of them to such scandal. "You do, Mr. Holmes." She turned her head away. "You make me utterly exhausted."
He dropped his hands in defeat. It was sudden, as if all his will had deserted him. She left the room quietly. He could hear her moving around in her own room. A few moments later she came back down the hall and stopped at the main door.
"I'm going to see Lucy," she told him. Her voice was calm and even now, with no hint of reproach. "I can only guess that she would be relieved to see a friendly face." She stood waiting with her hand on the knob.
Holmes swallowed, but could not turn to look at her.
"I realized that I sounded ungrateful just now," she continued. "I'm very much in your debt for the help you've given me. Especially with my hands. I understand that it wasn't your fault I was hurt, and that you were not obligated to ask Mycroft for assistance. Thank you."
She opened the door. "Don't forget he wants to see you when you are able."
The door closed behind her.
Sherlock had still not moved.