The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Twenty

"Trouble?"

He shot her a sideways glance. "With the smoke."

"Oh," she breathed, lashes fluttering in surprise. She ducked her head, and a wry smile slowly spread across her face. "We must have, um, very sensitive eyes or something."

"Yes. Or something."

Her cheeks went pink, and Sherlock bit back a chuckle. Teasing Vivian Walker was fun.

She cleared her throat. "It's a bit of a shame though. I was looking forward to celebrating my victory. I guess we'll never know who won."

"I wouldn't say that." Sherlock carefully extracted his hand from hers, then turned and leaned over the ledge. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted down at the group of five homeless men, "Did you see who landed first?"

Heads bobbed, and a chorus of yeses followed.

Sherlock pointed at Vivian. "Raise your hand if she landed first."

Two hands rose.

Sherlock smirked at her, then looked back at the group. "Raise your hand if I did."

Two hands rose.

"Hang on. You all have to vote." Sherlock jabbed a finger at the bearded man who'd abstained. "You there! Who landed first?"

The man stumbled back and let out a high, manic cry, amber bottle falling from his hand. "They flew! They flew!" he cried. He began to flap his arms like a bird, then took off down the alleyway in a zig-zagging run.

Silence fell.

"Well," Sherlock said, nonplussed. "That didn't work."

A snicker sounded, and he looked over at Vivian. "What?"

She grinned at him. "We flew."

His lips twitched, and then they both burst into laughter. It stole his breath, twisted at his insides, and forced his arm across his stomach. Overcome with giggles, Vivian grabbed hold of him for balance. The reverberations of her laughter only added to his own, and Sherlock collapsed onto the ledge, dragging her down with him. They leaned against one another, cackling like a pair of mad hens. That intoxicated homeless man clearly wasn't the barmy one. They were.

Their laughter finally died away, and Sherlock released a sigh, abdominal muscles sore. Vivian wiped at her eyes. "Right. Well, it looks like we'll have to call this one a draw."

"I suppose I can afford to be generous."

"Why is that?" Suspicion filled her tone.

"I won the first round."

She shoved him hard in the shoulder, and he chuckled, unrepentant. After rising to his feet, he gave her a hand up. "We'd best keep moving."

He'd brought them to an old hotel that had been converted into a set of posh flats. They could wait in the lobby for a cab to come pick them up. If all went well, he could get Vivian back to her flat, then hole up in one of his more obscure hiding spots until Mycroft gave up on whatever he was planning. Sherlock knew he was only putting off the inevitable, but he wasn't about to just roll over, especially not when Mycroft had broken the rules. He and Vivian rounded two massive air conditioning units, then both came to an abrupt stop. Sherlock stared, trying to make sense of the strange tableau before him. Steam hung like a lazy cloud over the rooftop. Twenty inflatable, round, blue tubs filled to the brim with people sat in neat rows facing a large screen. Light from a massive projector glinted off wet heads, bare shoulders, and full wine glasses. Water sloshed over the side of one of the tubs as two people squeezed inside one that was already overly full. On the screen, a sailboat was just pulling away from a dock.