Silhouettes Chapter 17

I apologize for the delay. As I've mentioned before, I have a camp job. I'm working something between 18-15 hour shifts, so I tend to work on homework or sleep when I'm off. I will reply to reviews when I've got time, just know now that they are appreciated.

For the record, I have been consulting maps of the current London Sub system. However, I'm too lazy/busy to look up many details on the stops I'm mentioning, sorry.

-XXX-

On Monday the papers break the news – the Underground Kidnapper has been caught. I notice this as I pass a newsstand on my way to class. The words catch my eye, along with John and Sherlock's photos plastered on the front. I pause in my trek, causing a portly man walking just behind me to bowl me over. He curses nastily before continuing on. I ignore him, bolting for the stand. I purchase one paper, which I read after class, perched on a bench with a cup of coffee.

"Late on Sunday Mr. Holmes and his companion Dr. Watson apprehended the Kidnapper attempting to capture their seventh victim at the Queensbury stop. The victim was take to St. Barts for minor injuries substained in the scuffle. Two shots were fired by the armed Kidnapper. Both Holmes and Watson were unharmed. Officers were called after the Kidnapper was restrained by Mr. Holmes by the use of a belt. Three witness were present. One, a Mr. Crossly of Evan's Field stated, 'They were scufflin' in the corner, near the bathrooms. The tall bloke wielding this belt, the short one, tacklin' 'em. There was some shouting. I thought it was some kind of a stunt, put on by students, until I saw the gun. That got people screamin' and yellin', and soon everyone was on the stairs. I wouldn'tve thought it to be the kidnapper. '

"The suspect is described by witnesses as a slight, dark-haired fellow of an Eastern descent. The men who apprehended the kidnapper, Dr. Watson and London's consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes, declined giving a comment to any reporters. No further information has been released. A press conference is to be held at 4 pm today and will be published in our evening edition."

-XXX-

It takes me almost a week to gather up the nerve to visit Baker Street. Between my own curiosity and the encouragement of my Pinstripes friends, I some how convince myself to go.

In this week, Sherlock and his friend has been in the papers plenty. Every periodical in town is seeking an interview, apparently, though Sherlock is not biting. Any comment that does reach the press's ears is quickly published. London is going mad for him. Deer stalkers, the cap he so comically swept on in an attempt to avoid media attention, a becoming a common sight upon the streets. He is on the news every night – usually in recordings of various past press conferences. I've pathetically taken to watching the 10 o'clock, just to catch a glimpse of him on my screen.

Harry is the one who convinces me. Late Wednesday, while we take our breaks in the back pantry, he listens to my story quietly. We're sitting on crates, eating some of the fish the cook put on special tonight.

"You'll have to see him," he tells me after I finish.

Twirling my fork, I frown into my plate. "Why?"

Harry considers me for a long moment. "Because if you don't, you'll always wonder what the hell happened. And if you don't go to him, he might very well come to you…or not. Which one is worse, Vi?"

I cannot say. Both sound rather hellish in their own right. But I suppose Harry does have a point – I'd rather know than not.

-XXX-

Which is why Saturday morning finds me on the grey little stoop beside a sandwich shop – Speedy's the red awning reads– staring at the worn brass numbers of 221. Before coming to terms with my next course of action, I cast my gaze about. It's a grey morn, filled with drizzle and disgruntled Londoner passing at a brisk pace. The air in chilled. I've worn a jack, the collar turned up, but my umbrella is disregarded at the bottom of my purse. A bit of rain doesn't scare me. While I'd rather have my hair looking reasonable, I am already too drawn with nerves to care. I'm a stricken as a catgut cord.

The entire taxi ride over here was absolutely miserable. Traffic was terrible enough – the gloomy day seeming to have put all the drivers in a mood – and then I'd had to deal with a hold up at one of the crossings – some crime in progress at a fish market. Four blocks from the house on Baker's Street I'd asked to get out. I counted out the fare unsteadily, then strolled down the sidewalk on jiggly limbs.

Now, standing on his steps, I'm wondering if this perhaps was a horrible idea. Strangely enough, I'm not quite to angry as I am scared; for what cause I know not, only that my stomach is aching with these nerves.

"It's now or never, Carters," I scold.

With the greatest of trepidation, I lift the knocker and wait.

And wait.

So I try the buzzer instead, wincing at the noise.

There is finally a shuffling from behind the black door. My heart is leaping in my chest as the sound nears. A blonde, elderly woman opens the door slowly, peering out into the rain with narrowed (but not unkind) eyes. "Yes?"

"I knocked," I say dumbly. This is entirely unexpected.

Something alights in her eyes. "Oh! I thought I heard that, but then, I thought it might be one of the boys. They do make so much noise, all hours of the day and night," she says fondly. "Can I help you, dear?"

"I – I'm here to see Sherlock – Mr. Holmes. If he's in," I add timidly. I hadn't considered his absence. What I might do if he wasn't home. After raising up so much courage, how could I turn around and go home?

"I'm afraid he's out, dear," she tells me. "On one of his cases."

"Oh…."

Perhaps it's the sight of my disappointment, or maybe just her kindhearted nature, but the woman says after a beat, "But you can go wait up stairs for him. I'm sure he won't mind. Always looking for business, our Sherlock. I'll send him right up when he's in. Just…I wouldn't touch anything, dear."

I lead upstairs by the woman (who informs me her name is Mrs. Hudson, and that she is the landlady, no, not the housekeeper) to a crowded flat. Once settled, she offers to bring up some tea and biscuits, so that I might be more comfortable in my wait. She has no idea when the "boys" might be back in. In some vague sense, I am reminded of Dr. Potter.

Once alone, I have time to explore the flat. The parlor is cramped, though not in size, but in things; piles of books, papers, and miscellaneous objects litter all available surfaces. A pair of armchairs flanks the fireplace. On the mantle rests a grinning skull – real, too, I think. The black-and-white wallpaper is rather gothic, not what I'd picture to be in the taste of the two male flatmates.

The mess carries through to the kitchen. What might've been the dining table is covered, almost buckling under the weight of vials, petri dishes and beakers and all sorts of science-y things. A microscope sits center, regal amid the mess.

After doing my nosing, I return to the couch, pausing to examine the powder-blue portrait of a skull. It's apparently a theme.

Ten minutes pass before Mrs. Hudson brings the tea. She leaves me alone again, saying something about television and mystery hours. I simply smile as placidly as possible; being inside Ben-Sherlock's flat is ten times as nerve-wracking as standing outside of it. It's more real. I am terribly on edge.

Luckily, I don't have too long to wait.

It starts with a bang. Then a rustle of heavy cloth. I can hear, echoing from downstairs, a few deep murmurs – a pair of men, talking. Then, loudly – "MRS. HUDSON!"

Shuffling resumes, then a higher voice joins with the others. A few more rustles, then the sound of footsteps, muffled, coming up the stairs.

I'm unable to breath as the door handle rotates and the door opens with upmost casualness.

Sherlock stands, unphased, in the threshold for approximately three seconds. Not even a flash of surprises crosses his expression. He wordlessly enters, tossing his coat upon the nearest armchair, crossing to the kitchen. John follows him inside, only he does take pause to acknowledge me.

"It's you!" he exclaims. "Viola, from the bistro, in the band."

I cannot quite answer, though my mouth opens partially.

"We've been expecting you," he adds, sheepish of his outburst.

"I said five to ten days," a deep voice reminds from the kitchen.

"It's been seven, call it a draw."

There is no response. Embarrassed (and likely uncertain of what to do with me, as the person I'd come to see seems to be entirely preoccupied with his microscope), John says, "I see Mrs. Hudson has you all set up." He gestures to the tea things. "She's good about that."

I clear my throat. "Yeah. Yeah she is. For someone who isn't a housekeeper."

His eye crinkle with amusement. "Did she tell you of that, eh? Sometimes I wonder if she says it just to remind herself."

I chuckle weakly at this. Despite our efforts, however, silence reigns. We stare at one another, each a little embarrassed. I'm here to see Sherlock, who has yet to even acknowledge me. What I'm searching for John cannot provide; he is nearly as clueless as I am. After nearly five minute of awkward silence, he stands quickly, as though relieved by an idea.

"I've got to go to the corner store," he tells me. "I need some batteries. I'll be right back…make yourself comfortable…."

He ducks out. Flees. I don't know if ought to feel grateful for his abandonment. It won't mean anything if Ben doesn't choose to talk.

Several long minutes pass. The only sound is that of Sherlock fiddling with the microscope. Impatient, I sit, tracing my fingertips along the rim of the peony-patterned teacup. Mrs. Hudson had brought up a whole set. One of the teacups has a yellow rose upon it. Another, a sprig of spring violets. They're dainty. Just the sort of thing an elderly woman ought to have for company. I stand to refill my cup, then return to the chair.

Nearly fifteen minutes pass before Sherlock pauses in his observations to drift into the sitting room. He looms in the threshold between, eyes on me. I have turned to one of the many books scattered throughout, flipping through a listlessly. When I catch the slight of him out of the corner of my eye I take no pause, but continue reading. He approaches to sit in the nearest armchair, taking a moment to move his coat. A beat passes.

My book is lowered as Sherlock prepares himself a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson has left the tray on a small side table closest to the armchair he is now occupying. Without looking at me, or otherwise acknowledging me in any way, shape, or form, the consulting detective selects the violet-patterned cup, pouring some of the hot amber liquid until it nearly reaches the brim. Two sugars go in – plop, plop – unceremoniously, without a drop escaping the confines of the porcelain, and are stirred with a steady hand. I can entirely believe him to be a scientist with a measured grip like that.

Instead of catching Sherlock's eyes, I watch his hands, entirely transfixed with the process. He's got some of the most graceful limbs I've ever seen. To see him play, too, is a pleasure. The way he caresses the bow and neck of his instrument is positively divine; knowing him, you can guess that he's never touched a living human with so much gentleness before.

"Well. Doesn't usually touch living humans like that." Memory flashes of those pale, long-fingered hands dancing up my spine and smoothly down my sides. I feel myself heat at the thought. Now isn't the time to be considering sex. Provocative hands or not.

My gaze snaps from its focus when the cup is removed from the tray and pressed to Ben – Sherlock's – sculpted lips. There they smirk slightly as the white porcelain rests against them. I have no doubt he suspects my line of thoughts. I swallow, ducking my head down.

"Join me."

It's not quite a request.

In my lap, the book – Botany of the West Indies – snaps shut. I stand and cross to the opposite armchair, bringing along my cup and saucer.

I take this opportunity to observe him. Dressed in a charcoal suit set with a deep plum shirt (which, I note, stretches painfully around his thin chest – he has lost weight), hair falling in a sweeping wing of raven across his brow, immaculate, he barely resembles the robe-wearing tousled-haired Benjamin I knew.

"Viola," he finally states after a sip of the brown brew.

I finally meet his eyes. They're impassive, the color of ocean ice today. I want to say something. To respond with a profound statement that will make him understand that I both hate and miss and long for and desire to hurt him, all at the same time. But mere feelings well up in my mouth – no eloquent statements that will cause him to feel the gravity of my emotions. So, I sit in silence.

"I did not think I would find you here," he admits.

"You invited me."

"In London," he clarifies. "I thought you would go to New York."

Something hateful rises in my chest. "Well, you'd know differently if you'd bothered to keep in touch."

There is no wincing, but he does set down his cup. "I could not."

"You had my number. You know my address. There was nothing keeping you -"

"I couldn't," he insists over me in his baritone. "Not for my sake, but for yours. There were still people out for me, Viola. It wouldn't do to send them straight back to you."

I glare. "Assassins? Like they said in the papers? You expect me to believe that?" Since our reunion on Friday, I'd done my research into his demise and return from death.

"I expect you'll believe what you wish," he shoots back shortly, the ice in his gaze flashing. His voice has deepened, indicating a hint of annoyance. "Not even John knew I was alive. No one, at the time, could know where I'd been. He did not even know, until you told him. We were trying to establish if it was safe enough for me to return to the city for good. And once it was appropriate to reestablish contacts, I thought better of it."

"I think you'd just have preferred to come back here and forget about me," I hiss. "Sandwiches and a quick shag, right? That's just what you were looking for, and that wasn't so much to give up."

Another sip. His lips stretch. Pursing.

"No," he says quietly.

"Then what?" I demand.

"I wished to protect you."

This is said very, very quietly. I am reminded of the man in my mother's house, and his warnings to stay away. Surely he knew who "Ben" was. Were they on the same page? Wishing me to keep away for my own safety?

"I had not anticipated leaving the country for…years, Viola. When I was summoned back, told that if was safe to return again, I was surprised. Of course I left. I thoughtlessly prepared to leave, thinking only of returning home. When I did consider you within the equation, I feared telling you might send you after me. You wanted New York. It went against your desires to move to London. I couldn't know that you would end up here. Besides, as I said, my return was not guaranteed to be a safe one. The logical course of action would be to let you have New York, and not tell you. Step out of your life as quietly as I came in.

"Perhaps it was self-centered of me to assume my presence in your life would affect your decisions of leaving Sussex. But I thought it to be for the best. I wanted you to come with me, Viola. If I had asked, I have no doubt I would have convinced you to go."

"And…sleeping with me?"

This almost seems to pain him. The silence is long.

"I was foolish," he says distantly. "I succumb to more heated desires than logic and reason. I should have left you be…I should have never let you into my cottage, make me tea. In the end, perhaps it would not have made a difference."

My head is swimming. "So…it was a mistake?" I say thickly.

"Perhaps."

I allow my eyes to slip away, looking out into the greying light cut out by the two windows framing the table against he wall. "It was just sex."

Something brushes my knuckles. I retract my hand.

"I thought you might forget about me," he tells me. "You would go to New York. It would be best if you had."

"So then it would be all the easier for you to forget me."

His jaw tightens.

"Perhaps it would have been best for both of us."

"Perhaps," I echo.

There is a shifting, the hard sound of wood-on-wood. He has moved forward. "Viola."

I can't. I just…cannot. Setting the teacup down, I stand, shrugging on my jacket. Silent, I remove myself from the apartment. Down the stairs, through the small foyer, out onto the sidewalk. Leaving Sherlock, alone, in 221B.

-XXX-

I might've escaped into one of the black cabs bustling down the street, however, someone stops me.

"Viola?"

It's John. He's carrying a brown paper sack stuffed with groceries. Surprised, he stops in the middle of the sidewalk. "I thought you would be longer," he says. "You…Sherlock had a lot of explaining to do."

"Yeah," I say hollowly.

The doctor peers at me. "Are you…okay? Did he say something bad?"

I snort. "When does he not say something offensive?"

John smiles easily, but with some concern still in his eyes. "I take it today he said something quite spectacular."

I manage a pathetic attempt at laughter, but it dies all to quickly in the back of my throat. John shifts the bag.

"How…." He hesitates. "How about that drink, eh? Just as friends," he amends. "You look like you could use one today."

"It's barely noon." This does cause me to smile, properly this time. "Nah, I've got to go do some homework, then start my shift. Maybe later in the week?"

He agrees readily. If there is anything to be said about John, it's that he is wonderfully agreeable. And easy person to like. I can imagine that, being friends with Sherlock, it can be quite difficult to make relationships with others that are very lasting. The Ben I knew made it nearly impossible to bring other into the mix. Living with him, I cannot imagine it to be much better.

"You know, he doesn't mean a lot of the things he says."

"His deductions?" I raise a brow.

"Well. Those he's being honest about, yes but…he doesn't deal with emotions well. Sometimes…things get a little mixed up in translation."

I sigh. "It doesn't matter. I doubt we'll be dealing with one another again. But thank you, John. I'll see you next week, right?"

"Yeah. I will call this time, Viola. "

-XXX-

I wish I could say I'd researched the tea set Mrs. Hudson uses, but alas, I fear not.

We're still not getting all the answers, but at least this is something like interaction, right?