The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Seventeen

A crystal chandelier rained down soft, golden light onto a modest-sized, but luxuriously appointed lounge. Sumptuous sofas and plush leather chairs huddled together as if in secretive conference. Eight tables designed to seat two dotted the outskirts of the lounge. The generous space between each ensured a private dining experience. Cream-dipped tulips edged with plumb graced the surface of every linen-draped table, while the haunting strains of a cello hummed through the air. Just like with an orchestral piece, every single detail harmonized together to perfectly invoke a rich and inviting atmosphere. However, none of that was responsible for shocking Vivian into awe-struck silence.

No, one detail in particular elevated this opulent dining space from merely impressive to beyond compare: the outer walls were all made of glass.

Lady London sprawled out before them in all her nighttime splendor. And splendid she was, indeed. Streets and structures lush with life, she winked and sparkled, beckoning them closer so as to admire her more thoroughly.

Sherlock shifted Vivian's hand from where it still clutched his arm to the crook of his elbow. He took a step forward, but she didn't budge. The lift doors threatened to close, and Sherlock raised a hand to stop them. "Vivian."

Wide eyes jerked to his.

She didn't look upset, merely surprised by this unexpected turn of events, but he needed to know for sure. "Do you still want to go home?"

Her mouth clicked shut. A rapid shake of the head.

Relief filled him. Good. His plan could continue. "We should exit the lift, then." This time, when he moved forward, she did too.

A slender man in a tux approached and bowed. "Mr. Holmes, Madam. Welcome to Haven, the hidden jewel of The Shard. My name is Peter Walsh, and I'll be taking care of you this evening. If you'd please follow me." He guided them through the empty lounge, past the line of vacant dining tables and toward one of the massive windows.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up as their destination became clear. "You're not bothered by heights, are you?" he asked her.

"No, why do you-" Vivan's voice cut off as Peter opened a seamless door in the window pane. It appeared to open out into thin air, but it was only an illusion. A series of steps led down to a balcony completely enclosed in glass, all of it crystal clear except for the floor, which was covered in soft, soothing strokes of grey. Sherlock doubted anyone would have walked onto it if it had been translucent. The effect would have been far too dizzying. Despite Vivian's reply to the contrary, her hand tightened on his elbow as they navigated the stairs and walked out onto the balcony.

It contained a single table set for two. The pair of chairs were positioned side-by-side instead of face-to-face, offering an unimpeded view of the captivating vista before them. Sherlock pulled out a chair for Vivian. Once she was settled, he handed Peter his coat and took the other. It wasn't until he was seated that Sherlock realized how close the chairs were. It was as if the seating designer had been so horrified over the rudeness of not facing one's dinner partner that he'd decided to join them at the hip in compensation. Sherlock's entire left side, from shoulder to knee, was pressed against Vivian. The heat of her body was already bleeding through his clothes and sending curling tendrils of warmth through him. It was distracting.

He considered moving his chair over, but then his right half would stick out from beneath the table. He'd look ridiculous. He couldn't have that. His left side, perfectly content with the situation and thus not to be trusted, emphatically agreed and applauded his good sense. Vivian didn't appear bothered by the contact, but it was likely she hadn't noticed yet. She was distracted too, but not by him. Lips parted, eyes round with wonder, her gaze panned across the glittering city skyline, slowly taking it all in. The view upstairs had been phenomenal, but here -- here it was unparalleled.