Silhouettes Chapter 19

I apologize for the wait. I got home Friday, and have been catching up on sleep/laundry since then.

-XXX-

November comes, cool and damp and full of fall colors. Aside from the slight niggling of Sherlock in the back of my mind, life is grand. I've not been this happy in ages. I have a job a love, independence, I'm living in a beautiful city, and I'm getting an education. I've never been busier, true, but I've also never been as content.

Dad came up for a weekend on the first of the month. Though not overly impressed with my schedule, he grudgingly admitted to seeing that I was indeed comfortable and safe. The reports of the Underground Kidnapper certainly had him on edge for a while there. Daily calls, warning not to use public transport, constant texting…it went on and on. Since the guy was caught, however, he has eased up considerably.

"You seem happy enough," he grumbled at that train station. "Healthy and…that's all a parent can ask for."

I haven't yet told him of Ben. He's not, somehow, found the pictures or footage of Sherlock the media has been pouring out. That, or he has not yet recognized the reclusive Benjamin Holly in Mr. Holmes.

So, I plastered on a thick smile. "I'm glad you're coming to terms with it," I teased.

Despite my lightheartedness, he noted an edge of sorrow as I looked down the tracks. The platform is bustling. I watched people pass, my eyes shadowed.

"You'll be alright, Vi," he reassured me quietly. "I had my doubts but you can do it. Anything, really."

"I'll be okay, Dad." I hugged him tightly. "Promise."

I don't know if it's a promise I can keep. But I will sure as hell try.

-XXX-

John and I have had coffee twice. Though I now know why he's kept an interest in seeing me, I keep meeting him. It's company. And it is nice to see someone who is moderately interesting and interested in me.

One time, when departing from one of these coffee dates, I thought I saw Sherlock out of the corner of my eye. A tall, thin figure in a black woolen long coat, ducking around a corner, the tail of the coat whipping out behind him.

But it was probably just my imagination.

The last time we meet, just after my father returns to Sussex, it's in Speedy's. John has been given a respite from Sherlock's latest case. He wearily waves at me from one of the back table. I duck into the slight-grubby sandwich place with a warm smile.

"Hullo," he says tiredly.

"Hi." I slip into the vinyl seat across from him. "Nice weather, yeah?"

It's colder than an iceberg out there, though we've not yet seen snow, the wind is so thick and so chilled it is almost visible to anyone's eye. I've taken to wearing winter jackets, woolly scarves, fluffy gloves, and the like. But I don't mind – I like winter nearly as much as I love summer.

"I've got no taste for it," John says dryly. "How are you?"

"Good. Keeping warm."

"Visit with your father go well?"

"Yeah. He's a little more comfortable with me living up here. Still not happy about it. But there isn't much he can do at this point."

"What's he so scared of?" John asks. He nibbles on a pickle.

I open my small bag of salt and vinegar crisps. "Oh, you know, the usual," I say airily. "People like your Underground Kidnapper, Moriarty, The Woman."

"Criminals. Well, you will find plenty of them here. Though, I don't think The Woman qualifies to be on that list."

"Oh?"

John steals one of my crisps. "She wasn't much of a public menace, as far as things went. More of a political threat."

"What exactly was she?"

"Irene? She was a genius," he says simply. "Dominatrix. Knew her way around a person's mind. One of the only people, I think, to get properly beneath Sherlock's skin.

The name makes me freeze. "Irene?" It's too much of a coincidence that this Irene is also a dominatrix who knows Sherlock. But he said he hadn't known her…then again, he said his name was Benjamin Holly. It's perfectly possible…..

"How?" I ask faintly.

"She used her wits. Sex appeal, I think, to some extent. When she died, the first time, was the first time I'd ever seen him even remotely hurt. He wasn't just bored –" Ah, a bored Sherlock. Now that is something I am more than familiar with. "—but perhaps depressed."

"Were they….?" I hesitate.

It takes a moment John to catch on. Once he does, he says hastily, "Oh, no. It was nothing like that. I think. There was attraction, perhaps, but nothing solid."

Something else has caught my attention. "What do you mean 'died the first time?'"

"Oh, well, she did 'pass away' last year, nearly a year ago actually. It was staged, though. Even found a corpse to match. She was gone for a few months, then reappeared to wreck havoc again. When he finally got to her, solve the case, it was too late to negotiate any kind of protection for her. She was dead in a few weeks. He doesn't know," he adds quietly. "We told him she was in America. Witness protection."

"Why?"

"He wouldn't have stood it. We thought it would be kinder."

I decide to not ask who the "we" is in this situation. Instead, I allow the story to absorb. My mother. He knew – and was possibly involved with – my mother.

Just another thing to add to the mystery and frustration that is Sherlock Holmes.

Thankfully, we move to different topics. John senses my discomfort and changes the subject subtlety.

Once we've finished lunch, we talk for a little longer before I return to the cold. When I begin winding my scarf 'round my neck, John stands. He crumples up our chip bags and sandwich wrappers. We walk the door together, then pause at the stoop of 221.

"Would you like to do lunch again next week? Or maybe a walk in the park?"

I give him a look. "You take that little job Sherlock's given you quite seriously, don't you?"

"What, you don't want to see me?" John asks, mocking offense.

"I'd be content with a walk. Maybe on Saturday, before I start work." I sigh. "It's not that I don't like these visits, except sometimes I feel like I am reporting in with a patrol officer."

"At least I'm honest with you. Told you up front what to expect."

"Fair enough. Listen, it's freezing. I need to get a cab, you go ahead and go in. I'll call you, yeah?"

I start down the block, hoping to hail a cab fairly quickly. One pulls up swiftly – thankfully – and I step to the curb quickly. Before getting into the car, however, I look back at John. But my gaze is almost immediately drawn away from the good doctor.

Striding down the street, nearly to the stoop, is Sherlock. He's clearly just gotten out his own cab.

It's the first time I've seen him in nearly three weeks. I'm frozen, clinging to the door, watching him approach his own front door. It isn't until the cabbie yells at me to get my ass in the car that I jolt from my staring.

The shout has caught Sherlock and John's attention. Sherlock's eyes meet mine. I begin feeling hot. Uncomfortably hot, even though it's terribly cold out here.

He inclines his head briefly. Terrified, I do not respond to his acknowledgement, but slide into the cab. I don't look back again.

-XXX-

The next time I see John, we're settled on a walk about the park. Before we stop for tea to go. As we're leaving the shop, paper cups pressed up to our noses, our hands happily warmed by the hot liquids. He's telling me a story about a fussy child at the clinic who had to be held down my eight nurses. I almost snort into my Earl Grey.

As we make our way around the path, I ask, somewhat grudgingly, "So…has Sherlock been eating?"

John raises his brows in surprise. Typically, I am not the one who brings him up, and actively avoids speaking of him altogether.

"I saw him, last week," I mumble. "He looked like a stick. Are you keeping him fed?"

The doctor suppresses a smile. "You know trying to feed him is like trying to teach a chicken to dance."

This surprises me. "I always managed. I practically had to come by once a day to make sure he had at least taken tea. Hell, I bought groceries for him."

"Odd," John says. "He barely eats, especially when he's working a case. And don't think I haven't tried to convince him. But you can only do so much…." He looks at me, eyes twinkling. "I'd say you have a way with him, Viola."

"Yeah, like any good babysitter," I growl. "The man is a veritable child. I'm well-rid of him. He's entirely your problem now, Dr. Watson."

"Is he?"

I feel heat rise to my face, and it isn't the tea's steam. "Yes."

-XXX-

The following Thursday, I'm left at the bistro later than usual. Someone – one of those rare, unruly customers – had chucked their glass of Dom Perignon at the stage, a majority of which landed on my baby grand and myself. I had to bite back a loud curse, then wheel the piano in the back to be replaced by the keyboard. The customer was escorted outside by Harry.

So, I am forced to stay nearly an hour past my usual shift, past closing, the clean the thing. Unfortunately, by the time I am ready to go, what had simply been your usual late-evening drizzle has turned into an all-out monsoon, with most cabs either off the streets, or resolutely parked along the curb. For the life of me, I cannot hail a single ride. With no other options, I poke my head back into the bistro to ask our barman for direction to the nearest tube station.

That's how I find myself, drenched, stumbling down the steps towards the platform. I flash my card – something Dad had advised I buy even though I wasn't planning on utilizing that particular form of the city's public transportation –then sidle up to the platform. It's relatively deserted; being nearly midnight, this is unsurprising. A homeless woman, squat and stern looking, rests on one of the benches. Aside from that, I'm alone.

Until, that is, another person comes in from the rain. I watch as the slim man with strawberry-blonde hair and grey cords pay for a ticket, then approach the platform. He lets his eyes, a cool brown, slide over me briefly. Something like interest alights in them.

He's young-ish, probably mid-twenties, with glasses and an artsy edge about him. Maybe it's the faded t-shirt paired with loafers and a messenger bag slung over his chest and shoulder.

Something about him gives me a nervous twinge in the pit of my stomach. I shrug my bag closer, keeping my gaze straight ahead.

The guy clears his throat.

I carefully ignore him.

But I can't when he asks, "Oh, hey. You're a musician, right? From that place Pinstripes?" He jerks a thumb in the direction of the stairs.

"Uh, yeah."

A menacing look flashes over his face. "Good."

Before I know what's happening, he is advancing with his bag held aloft. From within he removes a pistol, which is holds low, near his hips. Just out of sight of the CCTV cams.

"You're Dr. Watson's girl too, aren't you?" he asks conversationally. My eyes slide to the homeless woman, who is picking at her chin. The dude pointing a gun at me warns lightly, "Ah, ah, eyes on me."

But I ignore him, looking desperately towards the ticket booth. The blinds have been put down –

"There's nothing about fifty quid can't buy you on the underground," the ginger man says with a wide grin. "Now, Ms. Carters, if you'll kindly step closer to me."

When I don't move, he adds tilting the pistol, "This is loaded, by the way. And trust me, I am very experienced."

I shuffle forward a few feet.

"Closer."

I move until I'm almost touching his toes with mine. I can feel his hot breath brush my scalp. Feel his smile.

"Much better. Thank you, Ms. Carters. That will make many things from here on out much easier."

I look up, eyes flashing, ready to retort. Of course, that's when he raises the gun. And my world falls to blackness.

-XXX-

Well, that was a dramatic twist.

Thoughts?