Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (4 page)

“No, of course not.”
 
And let’s be honest, Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
 
the game is your life’s quest
.
 
“I mean, yes, I—“

“And when a real circumstance arises in which your life or the life of another is at stake and you are ill-prepared, will I have paid you a service to have cosseted your fragile, feminine ego?”

“No.”
 
If, indeed, I had such an ego
.

“Excuse me?” demanded Sherlock.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you did.
 
Your expression told me everything.”

I cannot be blamed for having a face.
 
God gave it to me, and He no doubt had a purpose in doing so.

“You are not invincible, Miss Belle,” he murmured.
 
“This attitude of yours is precisely what concerns me.
 
You must always be on the alert—and you rarely are!”

I know what that expression means.
 
He means to dismiss me.
 
Terror gripped her as she read the meaning in his dark countenance.
 

If I lose this position, I will be cleaning the privy—if anyone will have me.
 
I won’t make enough to live on and I’ll never go to university.
 

How could I have made this mistake again?
 
No one wanted a vocal, intelligent girl with ideas—no matter how good those ideas were, as her last position proved.
 

Well, technically the reason she had been dismissed was that she had started a fire in her former employer’s laboratory—but she had had an idea to help solve his formula, which had merely backfired.
 
Literally.
 
Honestly, could she be blamed for that?
 

“Pick up the whip, Miss Hudson.”
 
Sherlock’s silver grey eyes appeared almost slate today, considering her as he frowned.
 
“Describe it to me.
 
Once you truly understand the weapon, perhaps you shall be able to wield it.”

She sniffed, not making eye contact with him, containing her tears with great effort. “Y-you see these four leather strands come together to form the ball.”

“And the end of the whip?”

“T-the end of the whip is the popper,” she whispered.

“Hence its sound.
 
And what causes the sound?”

“The popper travels at some seven hundred miles per hour—surpassing the speed of sound.”

“Correct.
 
Speak up when you address me, Miss Hudson.
 
Now let us try again.”

She stepped forward on the opposite foot, her eyes glued to the post ahead.
 

Crash!
 
She successfully wrapped the whip around the jar, but it once again plunged to the ground and shattered.

It was the Great Detective’s turn to sigh heavily.
 

“When we return to Baker Street you are to pack your bags, Miss Hudson.”
 
Sherlock turned on his heel and began to depart the courtyard.

“Pack my bags?”
 
She dropped the whip where she stood and stared at his back, the reality far worse than her worst fears.
 
As much as she wished to run and never return, she knew that her heart would break were she to do so.
 
“But why?
 
I said I was sorry, Mr. Holmes . . .”

“As am I.”
 
He turned his head only slightly, his body still intent upon departure.
 

 
“Then why . . . why must I pack my bags?” she asked in a whisper, barely managing to add, “Where am I going?”
 

“The more appropriate question is ‘where are
we
going?’”

“Very well,” she gulped.
 
“Where are
we
going?”
 
In her anguish, her mind began playing terrible tricks on her.
 
She pictured herself being escorted to Millbank Prison where Sherlock would promptly leave once she was behind bars.
 

“Paris.”
 
He raised his left eyebrow at her, his dark hair curling around his strong features.
 
“I am taking you to Paris, Miss Belle.”

“
What
?!?
 
Do you mean . . . I am not . . . do I still have a position?” she asked, looking up at him through wet lashes.

“That is yet to be determined.
 
In the meantime, there must nonetheless be consequences for bad—no,
inexcusable
—behavior.
 
There will be punishment for your insubordination.”

Paris
.
 
Sherlock might have many faults—and he did—but he never lied to her.
 
He meant precisely what he said.
 
She was going to Paris
.

“You certainly know how to punish a girl, Mr. Holmes!” she managed to exclaim, astonished, clutching her hands to her chest.

“You don’t know the half of it, my dear,” he smiled, his raven hair waving around his face as he returned to her side and picked up the fallen whip.
 
Throwing the bullwhip forward, he perfectly wrapped it around the last remaining jar, pulling the glass jar towards him entirely in tact.

“You won’t be sorry, Mr. Holmes, I will double my efforts,” Mirabella promised as she attempted to remove the mud from her boots before stepping up into the Hansom cab.

“221 Baker Street,” Sherlock commanded before seating himself beside her in the cab.
 
He brushed his coal black curls now wet with perspiration away from his face.
 
“I already am sorry.
 
But it can’t be helped.”

She sighed.
 
Proof that her lovely memory of dancing with Sherlock was nothing but strange imaginings.

If it weren’t for Dr. John Watson who was always kind, always willing to offer encouragement, to laugh and to see the humor in it all—well she didn’t think she could have borne it.
 
Just as no one could be more infuriating than Sherlock Holmes, no one could be dearer or more charming than John Watson.

And thank goodness for her Aunt Martha.
 
Mirabella knew well that one needed some human interaction.
 
Though a man of principle and discipline and honest to a fault, Sherlock was definitely not human.
 

“This is important, Miss Hudson.
 
Please pay attention.
 
It could mean life or death for you
.”
 
Sherlock turned towards her, his expression pained. “In addition to your purported abilities in science, I admit that you do keep my laboratory well enough.
 
Your jar washing skills are excellent.“
 
He paused momentarily before a frown washed over his face, as if something were weighing heavily on him.
 
He muttered under his breath, “I wish we had left it at that.
 
Far less treacherous.”

“Left it at
what
, Mr. Holmes?”

“Much to my astonishment, your family wishes for you to continue under my tutelage despite the inherent dangers.”

“What does my family have to say to it, Mr. Holmes?
 
I am earning my own income.
 
And if I am to be risking my life, the question should be put to me, not to them, don’t you think?”

“Ah, yes, well in the absence of a husband to ask . . . ”

Ask the husband?
 
Of all the infuriating . . . !
 
She bit her lip, coming dangerously close to making it bleed before realization struck.

This was not the Sherlock Holmes she knew.
 
Was he attempting to dissuade her from going to Paris by using the tactic of enraging her?
 
She fingered her whip.
 

Well, it wouldn’t work!
 

At least not twice.
 
Not on this girl.

His expression was pained as he added softly, “Mrs. Hudson informs your family that she has never seen you happier.”
 

“She is generally seeing me when I am not with you, Mr. Holmes,” she murmured under her breath, as they turned onto Northumberland Street, near Charing Cross Station.
 
In her vision was the Northumberland Arms, a public house and restaurant.
 
She knew from Sherlock and John Watson’s conversation that it was always crowded and the ales were good.
 
Naturally she must rely on their assessment as such an establishment would not be appropriate for a respectable girl.

“True, it is difficult to always be in the company of one’s superiors.
 
Even so, it is terrifying to consider the state of your being if that which I see before me constitutes happiness for you.”

I am deliriously happy.
 
She fingered the whip beside her.
 
I have a weapon and you are unarmed, Mr. Holmes.

They approached another pub:
 
the Museum Tavern
.
 
She knew that Sherlock had lived around the corner when he first arrived in London.
 
And yet Montague Street is still standing.

“You’re still angry about the whip, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes I am, Miss Hudson,” he replied without the slightest pause.
 
“And yet, the incident provided me with some relief.
 
It illustrates that you are in possession of the anger, initiative, and reaction time which you will need to survive in my employ.”

“Oh.”
 
Her mouth snapped shut.
 
That was not what she had expected to hear.
 
She was, for once, speechless.
 

Almost.
 
“Did you . . . Mr. Holmes . . . did you incite me to anger . . . on purpose?”

“My dear girl, when will you ever learn?
 
Nothing
is an accident where I am concerned.”
 

Ask the husband?
 
She repeated the words in her mind.
 
She knew very well that Sherlock Holmes was forward thinking in such matters and believed that women should learn to both think for themselves and to protect themselves.
 
He might come to the aid of helpless women on a daily basis, but he respected those few who displayed independence.
 
Heavens, he kept a picture of Irene Adler in a prominent location and looked at it daily!
 
Mirabella had never met the female deity who held a unique and exclusive place in Sherlock’s esteem—a place Mirabella would have thought impossible to attain—but from all accounts Miss Adler was a woman who most certainly had determined her own destiny.

And Sherlock had said more than once that he had a high regard for her father, Henry Hudson, a curate and a man of God, who had even educated his girls at home and taught his children that the husband is to love and cherish his wife, not to possess her—unlike the dictates of many behind the pulpit.

The Great Detective turned abruptly towards her, his grey eyes suddenly smoky, as if he were pleading with her.
 
“Miss Belle, this is important!
 
This is not a game.
 
You must tell me, do you wish to continue working on my cases?
 
Or do you wish to remain our cook and housekeeper?”

“Of course I wish to work on the cases!
 
How can you not know that, Mr. Holmes?”
 
She laughed.
 
“For such a brilliant man, sometimes you say the most ludicrous things!
 
I am an open book.
 
If there is anything you wish to know you have only to ask.”

“There are things which are better left unsaid, Miss Belle.”
 
He looked away.
 

That would be a first for Sherlock Holmes!

“I must be assured that you understand the type of work we do.
 
And the inherent dangers,” he stated, adding softly, “And that you enter into them willingly.”

“I do.”
 
Mirabella received the very clear impression that her proximity was uncomfortable for Sherlock.
 
She who revered him so much and who was never so alive or inspired as when she was in his company.
 
“Do give me some credit, Mr. Holmes.
 
I did help to solve the case of the Sword Princess, after all.”

She determined not to let Sherlock pull her in with these moments of emotion—unfathomable and unreadable but emotion nonetheless—which tugged at her heartstrings.
 
She knew very well that she was like a fly to be lured in—and then to be swatted when it got too close to his lifeblood.
 
His cases
.
 
His work
.

They passed the Diogenes Club, Sherlock’s brother Mycroft’s club.
 
They were approaching Piccadilly Circus when she saw the Eros statue followed by the Criterion Bar, where Dr. John Watson had first learned of an eccentric scientist needing a roommate.

John Watson had his own demons as a result of his time spent as a military doctor in Afghanistan.
 
Was that why he took so many risks with Sherlock?
 
Throwing himself into Sherlock’s cases seemed to keep John’s memories at bay—until the night came.
 
Mirabella knew from Sherlock that John often paced the floors at night, the young doctor’s bedroom being on the third floor above Sherlock’s room.
 

Mirabella glanced at Sherlock.
 
Everyone was tortured in some way.
 
It seemed to be the human condition.