Silhouettes Chapter 16
Originally this was a piece of chapter 15, but a split seemed necessary.
I'm sorry about my lack of replies. Besides working from about 8am-12am every day, most of my notification emails landed in my spam box. Just know that I thank you, and all (well, mostly all) shall be answered. Sometime.
-XXX-
The following Friday finds me in Pinstripes rushing around like a madwoman. We're two hours to open, and I've been given double duty. Our weekend manager, Luca, is out with the flu, meaning Harry has been called in. He's not going to be able to make the shift on time, though so the rest of us are picking up the slack until then. I've been assigned to clean the mirrors behind our booths and bar.
Precariously perched upon the ledged counter of the bar, I'm doing my best to wash the mirrored surface. Apparently some slob made a bit of a mess back there last night. Franklin didn't have time to clean it, and right now he's working on garnishes in the kitchen. Mustering all the balance I can I stretch to reach one upper corner.
That's about when the door opens with a slight jingle. Marion, the woman who is our evening hostess, is at the podium organizing reservation seating and waiting schedules. I hear her say, "Excuse me, can I help you? We're not quite open for dinner yet, gentlemen."
"Actually, we're here to see your manager," one of the men says. I think it might be John. I am tempted to turn around to see, but there is a small stain in the corner that just needs a little more elbow grease.
"He isn't in at the moment," Marion hedges. "But we've got –"
"Could you find out when he might be?" It's that other voice again. The one who reminds me of Ben.
A little flustered, Marion agrees. She goes to the back, where our office phone is located. In the mean time, I can hear the two men wander further into the building. They stop just near the bar. I take it John either doesn't recognize me, or is pointedly ignoring me. I bite back a sigh. Well, it was a long shot on both sides, anyways.
"Curious, that they wouldn't have a manager in."
"Maybe someone is running late," John says fairly. "Or ill. Not everything is a conspiracy."
There is bite in those words. Subtle, but definitely present.
A smile rises in the voice of the other man. "There is no such thing as a coincidence, John."
"Yeah, not where I'm concerned," John murmurs. A scrape sounds. He's sat down. The other guy is still standing.
Silence resumes, until the nameless man says abruptly, "Who are you looking for?"
"I'm not looking for anyone," John says defensively.
"Yes you are."
"Who?" John Watson demands.
There is a pause. I assume the man is scanning the room. I'm still working on that spot. However, I can feel his gaze settle upon me, boring into my head.
"Her."
It's then – finally – that I look up. I look into the mirror, back at the bar, to see Benjamin Holly reflected back at me. Our eyes automatically connect.
Being as I am precariously propped upon the ledge, I promptly fall.
It's just four feet or so to the floor, but nevertheless, the contact hurts. There is a cry from the bar, presumably from John. I gasp upon impact, air forced from my lungs in a brutal manner. I'd had enough sense to not land on my head, but fell twisted, on primarily on my hip. It's not a nice feeling. For a brief second I let my head lay back, closing my eyes with a groan. When I open them, both John and Ben stand before me. Marion and Elle are at the bar, curiously peering over. There isn't much concern in their eyes.
John offers me a hand. I accept it, wincing as I am set on my feet.
"Are you alright? What hurts?" he asks quickly.
"Ah, just my hips." That's just about all the attention I will allow him, however, before turning to Ben. But I say nothing, unable to find any words. I could strike him, but the cliché isn't appealing. So I just stare.
Ben gazes back with something akin to impassiveness. "Get her to a chair," he instructs John curtly. The doctor casts him a sour looks before guiding me out from behind the bar to the nearest table. I hear him quietly ask Marion for a glass of water.
Though I'm a little in shock, I can call out, "Make it a coffee."
He returns to me a little later. Ben has been sitting across from me since I've sat down, looking at me with those ever-clear eyes. I've been occupying myself with the bistro's décor, disinterestedly examining every abstract painting adoring our caramel-coloured walls. It's odd – shouldn't he, the one who left, be feeling awkward? Why am I not screaming at him, demanding answers?
But I cannot even hope to talk. I don't even know what I might say. That's a lie, I do – "Why?"
"Are you alright?" John asks, concern in his eyes. "Is your hip still hurting?"
"She's fine," Ben answers for me. I can't meet his eyes. "Bruised, but she'll be alright. Go ask the hostess for a few aspirin."
I wonder if he's imagining the bruising patterns on my bare hips. Those eyes are searing.
The doctor opens his mouth, pausing, then turns back to Marion without argument. Marion leads him to the back offices, where she probably keeps her purse. In a few minutes, he returns. I've waited miserably across from Ben. The décor being fully analyzed, I've turned to the tabletop. Marion shakes out a few pills, then retreats once I've swallowed them.
John stands beside the table, then, sensing some awkwardness, turns to me to ask tentatively. "Did he say something offensive?"
"It's not what I've said, John," Ben says. "It's what I've done."
I glance at him. He accepts my gaze fully, holding it.
"Viola."
Though said simply, I feel a certain weight to the way he say my name. It's very pronounced. I could throttle him. Or weep. Or both.
John looks between us. I'm sure the tension is reeking into the air. Even he could feel it. "Do you…know one another?"
Ben lets me answer, giving a small nod.
"Yeah." I look at my hands. "We do."
Poor John is utterly confused. Here are two people, one of which who virtually fainted upon sight of the other, now acting completely cold to one another. With only a halting explanation, at that.
"Sherlock?" John looks to the man across from me.
At this I jolt forward, choking. "Excuse me? What did you call him?"
Brow furrowed, John repeats himself. "Sherlock…Sherlock Holmes?"
Across the table, Ben – or should I say Sherlock – sighs. "Sherlock Holmes." The name rings in my mind. A manila folder. Reading quickly. The McLarney murder….That name I found, the one that was so familiar. He was the one. The one working for Scotland Yard. The guy in the deerstalker on the front pages of all the papers for weeks, the fellow who jumped after being caught fraud. The man who was on the radio last Sunday, having cleared his name and being used by the police to catch this Underground Kidnaper.
The man who has disappeared, it was rumored, to protect his friends and family in London from that criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty, only to return a few months later when he was given an "all-clear" by an anonymous fro benefactor.
The silhouette. The half-person shadowed in fire, removed to the country in secret, without friends, alone after being publically discredited as a fraud. The aloof, mysterious man who wouldn't say where he came from, what he did, or what he was doing in our small town.
I round on him.
"That was a detail you failed to mention," I hiss. "Disgraced consulting detective. Benjamin."
He visibly winces, but never breaks eye contact with me. "I was…unable to do so. You know why."
"What he means is he was dead," John says.
I turn to him. "He was in Sussex. With me."
John's brows raise, and he glances at Ben – Sherlock – who in turn says nothing. He's just…looking at me. Like I'm some kind of puzzle he's trying to figure out. When, in reality, it's he who is the enigma. Really, he has no right to be acting so cryptic and confused. I'm the one who has right to be nervous here. Not him.
The coffee arrives. John lets me have one sip before beginning his questions.
"How did you know one another? And why did were you calling him Benjamin?"
"Because that was how I knew him." I tap my fingers against the tabletop. The tablecloths haven't been placed out yet. The wood feels slightly sticky against the pads of my fingers. "Ben Holly. The mysterious man who lived on the top of the hill. Source of gossip and rumors about our village. My dad's quietest tenant."
"Oh? And what was he to you?" John crosses his arms.
This interests Ben – Sherlock – as well. I don't respond right away.
"A friend," I say softly.
At this, the man I once knew as Ben seems to almost deflate. But only for a fraction of a second. Straightening, he says, "I didn't except to see you here."
"Obviously."
His eyes flash. "You should be in New York. You're supposed to be in New York. Not London. After your inheritance…."
I look away. "I couldn't to that to Dad. Not after my mother." I pause. "I didn't exactly anticipate seeing you again, either."
"Can someone explain what exactly is going on here?" John asks loudly.
Sherlock and I exchange a looks of "well-I-would-rather-not" before I give John a summary of our acquaintanceship. "Ben" had lived in one of our rental cottages. I struck up a friendship and inadvertently given myself a heaping load of housekeeping duties. We'd gotten close. He'd disappeared without a word.
"Yeah, he has a habit of doing that," John adds at this part in the story, scowling. Sherlock doesn't even blink.
"Sherlock," I start quietly. "I've got a lot of questions."
"And very little time." He is rising, pulling on gloves as he does so. "Your restaurant will be opening soon, Viola. And you still need to warm up. You don't play nearly as well with cold hands."
With that he passes me by for the door, lingering long enough to turn back. "I will see you again soon," he reassures me coolly. "Visit me at 221b Baker Street. I'll answer all of your questions there. Come, John."
Stunned, I watch as he calmly exits the bistro. With a put-upon expression, John follows after. He pauses long enough to apologize for his rude friend, then disappears after him. I am left frozen at the table.
-XXX-
An hour into the dinner shift, Harry is called from the front to the backstage. He finds me curled up on the couch, Marion, Loren, our vocalist, and Chaz, our bass guy, hovering over me with concern. I'm trying to wave then off, but they sent someone to grab our manager. With great concern, Harry squats beside the couch. It's fifteen minutes to the first set. If his piano girl isn't out there, they may as well cancel half of the set.
"What's going on, Carters?" he asks. With his hair neatly combed and a pressed shirt and tie, he looks far too nice to be hanging out back here with us.
"Boyfriend problems," Marion pipes up. I shoot her a glare of daggers, which she ignores. "Her ex came in this afternoon. Wasn't expecting him. I didn't hear them talking, but I am guessing he was right nasty, the arse. Snob if I ever saw one, Harry."
"'S'more complicated than that," I mumble. "Just kind of shocked."
"And she apparently fell off the bar when she saw him," Chaz adds dryly. They're virtually ignoring me. "Landed on her legs a little hard."
I do have an inflamed, bruised patch of skin that is slowly turning purple, just on my lower left hip. I check it in the bathroom a little after the incident. It's pretty nasty. A veritable rainbow of bruising.
Harry evaluates me. "Can you stand?"
"Yeah." I push myself up into a proper sitting position. Loren immediately comes forward for my elbow. "I'm fine, I'm fine."
"I think you're in shock," Marion says. "Harry, she's clearly not doing well. Send her home."
Harry looks at me, brow furrowed. His hand finds mine, squeezing lightly.
"We can cover for her," Chaz tells him, bending down slightly to better reach Harry's ear. "We'll just have to rearrange the set for the night, but it's possible. Don't make her go on."
"I could cover piano," Loren says. He's not skilled as I am, but a decent player. It's not his forte, though, and I know how hard it can be to muddle your way through playing while also trying to sing. Plenty of recitals have given me experience in that.
"I would not make her go on if she didn't feel like it. But why don't we give Viola a chance to speak," Harry says, a hint of irritation in his tone. Of course, we're on dinner shift on a night he was supposed to have off, so he's definitely allowed to be stressed. "I've got three tables left to feed and a new busboy to watch."
"I am fine," I insist. "I am a little surprised, but I can play. I fell on my ass, not my head." I squeeze his hand. "I need some normal tonight, Harry. Please."
smile. Then he rises. "You're on in fifteen," he says, indicating me, Loren, and Chaz. "And Marion, unless you're on break, you need to be up front."
Marion looks affronted. "Harry, she is clearly not okay! That was a hard fall. She needs –"
"She wants to stay here," he tells her firmly. "And we'll just have to trust her. Now you go, get ready. "
"Thank you Marion, guys" I say quickly. "I appreciate it."
This softens her a little. Loren squeezes my shoulder, Chaz offers a slight smile. They depart for their respective jobs. Harry helps me off the couch.
"Tough day," he says quietly. "I know. But you're resilient. Going back to every day life will only help you. Let me know if you need anything."
With that he returns to the front. I unsteadily move to the keyboard set up along the back wall. We've got this and a baby grand, which we switch out depending on our needs. The keyboard is good for warming up, as you can put in headphones so as not to disturb anyone. I let my fingers caress the keys lightly before turning it on. I plug in earbuds, then start through my usual warm up drills. At first I am lethargic – my fingers are leaden against the plastic, notes sloppy; it's nothing like my usual crisp sound. Frustration drives me to warm up longer than I usually would, so long that Chaz, Tiana, Brian, and Loren are on the couches, waiting by the time I am finished.
"Ready?" Tiana asks. She plays violin, harp, and guitar. Basically anything stringed, she has it mastered. We've gotten together at my apartment a few times to work on improving my guitar. Of Welsh-Indian descent, she has creamy caramel skin and lush dark hair that waves down her back beautifully.
"Yeah."
Brian, our percussionist, offers me a hug. Though I've worked with these people for only two months we're already created something of a family unit. Last month, when Brian's girlfriend walked out on him, we all went out for drinks after our Saturday set. And I know Tiana has been bringing Loren casseroles at least once a week, as his mum has been in a bad state with her MS, forcing him to spend most days with her. We take care of one another alright.
Mercifully, no one asks how I am doing. They don't require explanations. We just continue with our Friday night set. I play with a focus I've never known before. Afterwards, Loren tells me I've never been so impassioned.
-XXX-
When I get home I elect to take a very long, very hot bath. When the water turns lukewarm I drain it to add more. This happens two more times before I've had my fill. After drying off I take tea in bed. I pick up my laptop off the bedside table to write a quick email to dad. Logging in, the news slideshow that dominates the homepage catches my eye.
"UNDERGROUND KIDNAPPER CLAIMS ANOTHER, RELEASES THIRD VICTIM," the bolded headline reads. "Yard claims a seventh won't be taken. Mr. Holmes offers no comment. Read more here."
Shivering, I pull up my duvet. I'm glad I don't have to ride the tube. The mention of Sherlock irritated me irrationally. Of course he's had no comments, if John was right, it sounds like the man has spent most of his time cooped up home in pajamas, or working on side cases like the one my manager is apparently tied up in.
Once I finish my email, I start on some classwork. Soon it's past 2. I gratefully welcome sleep. When I reach unconsciousness, I do not dream.
-XXX-
Well, this was certainly loaded with drama and angst and surprise. Don't worry, this isn't the last we'll see Mr. Holmes soon enough.
Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I answer them all eventually!