Stars glittered in the clear night sky, and dark waves lapped rhythmically against the side of the boat. A cool wind whipped at Sherlock's hair bringing with it damp, oil, and brine. Pleasant if not for the revelry around him. Whoever had decided to crowd six hundred guests onto a riverboat on the Thames should be tossed into a burlap sack and thrown overboard. Men and women way past their limit gyrated to raucous music on the lower deck. Their keening laughter and foolish antics grated on his nerves. He stood in the shadows, whisky in hand, and scowled. People were annoying.
He'd hoped the lingering chilly weather would have canceled the New Year's Eve event, but Scotland Yard had simply peppered the decks with heaters and then filled the empty spaces with people.
Sherlock wouldn't have set foot on the boat if Lestrade hadn't blackmailed him. His nostrils flared. This had to be Mycroft's fault. So what if Lestrade had only encountered his brother a handful of times? That was all it took for Mycroft to manipulate a malleable mind. While Lestrade might have followed through on the threat to revoke Sherlock's cold case access, it wouldn't have lasted long. A month at most. He could have survived, sanity intact until then. Possibly. That is, if all the murderers came back invigorated from their holiday and got back to murdering.
Naturally, John had jumped at the chance to spend time with Abigail and had left him to endure this agony alone. He glanced at his watch, but time refused to accommodate him by speeding up. His grip tightened on his glass. Thirty minutes until midnight. He only had to suffer through the fireworks, then the boat would return to the dock, and he could go home. He could manage that long. Movement caught his eye. Or not.
Sally Donovan swayed over to him, Anderson in tow.
Alcohol and idiots. Always a caustic combination.
"Hello, freak," Donovan sang out.
Anderson didn't bother to acknowledge him as he was far too busy staring at Donovan's cleavage, a flush staining his pasty face.
Sherlock remained silent. Perhaps if he ignored them, they'd shove off.
"No one will miss you if you slip Lestrade's leash and swim home," Donovan said, with an acid smile.
Anderson snickered.
Sherlock had briefly considered it, but he wasn't about to ruin a good suit. Tossing Donovan overboard was far more appealing.
She drained her wine glass. "God, you really are a freak, standing here in the dark, all alone. Are you even human?"
The breeze picked up again, and a hint of jasmine whispered through the salty air. Odd. Odder still was the hand that slid into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.
He swung around, prepared to berate whoever dared-
Vivian smiled, all lipstick bright and white teeth. "Sorry I'm late."
The boat rocked beneath his feet, and his internal compass spun. What was she doing here? He hid his surprise with a frown. "Tardiness to parties is becoming a habit of yours."
One bare shoulder shrugged, and her silver cocktail dress shimmered. "I nearly missed the boat before it left the dock and then got distracted by the food. Can you blame me?"
"Yes." He blamed her right now for throwing him off balance.
She invaded his personal space and set one impossibly long leg between his feet. Her hand rose to touch his shoulder, then took a lingering path down his arm. A teasing glance through long lashes. "I promise I'll make it up to you."
Time froze and so did the breath in his lungs. A faint pulse of pain throbbed in his temples like a warning. Despite his stunned state, the neurons in his brain continued to fire. He noted that while her body was very much facing him, her eyes had made a subtle movement towards Donovan. A muscle in Vivian's jaw clenched, and her fingers dug into his arm. Anger. It simmered and seethed beneath her flirtatious smile. And for once, it wasn't actually aimed at him. Sudden comprehension gave him back his breath.
Vivian had overheard Donovan. This was a charade.
Well. Only fair he play along.
Time resumed.
He slid his arm around Vivian's lower back and drew her close. "You'd best make it up to me, or else."
Her eyes went wide.
Good. Satisfaction thrummed through his veins. He'd surprised her by participating. Now they were even.
"Or else what?" She swiped the whisky from his free hand and took a leisurely taste.
He lowered his voice to a rumbling purr. "Punishment."
A rosy hue swept across her cheekbones, and her gaze dropped.
A second point to him. He smirked and took his glass back. He was winning.
But then Vivian smoothed a hand down his lapel, and her chin lifted, and he knew their little game wasn't over yet. Something decidedly devilish danced across her face. "Well, you'll have to try harder this time. The last punishment wasn't much of a deterrent." A slow, wicked smile. "You really shouldn't have let me eat the chocolate sauce."
Anderson made a strangled, choking noise, and Sherlock suddenly remembered why they'd begun this farce in the first place.
Vivian glanced over at Anderson and Donovan, and gave an exaggerated blink. "Oh, hello. I didn't see you there."
Donovan's mouth bobbed open and closed like an agitated codfish. "You're here with him?"
"Oh, she's good," Vivian said in a loud stage-whisper.
Sherlock bit back a laugh. This wretched evening had taken a turn for the better. Anderson, appearing completely incapable of speech, ogled Vivian as if he'd never seen an attractive woman before. Sherlock could hardly blame him, especially considering the company he kept.
Donovan's eyes turned to slits. "How much is he paying you?"
Vivian raised a brow, and her gaze raked over Donovan's tight dress and plunging neckline. "You appear more than familiar with the going rate."
"I'm still armed."
"And I'm still unimpressed."
A low hiss. Donovan's fingers whitened around her empty wine glass, and she lurched forward a step.
Anderson caught her elbow. "Sally - don't." He nodded at the second level above them. Guests and police officials crowded against the upper railing, waiting for the fireworks. If she got into an altercation with Vivian, Donovan's application for promotion would have been immediately rejected. Pity. It would have saved Scotland Yard time.
Glowering, Donovan backed off, and Anderson herded her towards the lower deck.
"I hope she chokes on her own vomit," Vivian muttered as they tottered away.
Amusement welled up inside Sherlock, and he laughed. It had been unexpectedly gratifying to watch her go up against Donovan, but she didn't appear to share his amusement.
Vivian glared until Donovan disappeared down the stairs. "What a horrid woman."
"Yes, she is."
"Please tell me she's only like that when she's drunk."
"Unfortunately not."
She rounded on him. "How can you be so blasé about it? Didn't you hear what she called you?" Her mouth twisted into a fierce scowl. "I'm not even going to repeat it."
"A freak? That's nothing new." He shrugged. "It doesn't matter." It wasn't as if Donovan were the first person to call him names; she certainly wasn't the last. He was used to it by now.
Fury blazed in Vivian's eyes. "It does too matter! I can't believe she gets away with that. I should have knocked her over the side of the boat and made it look like an accident."
Sherlock blinked, momentarily taken aback by her ardent defense of him. No one had ever bothered before. Not even John. He found himself smiling at her. "I wouldn't have objected."
"Oh really?" Expression calculating, Vivian strode forward a few steps, her gaze shifting to the crowd below, and his arm fell away from her waist. Startled, he realized he'd held her close for far longer than necessary. The night air bit into his side, highlighting the loss of her warmth. He drained his whisky, but the heat from the alcohol somehow seemed weak in comparison. He dismissed the irrational thought.
"Vivian."
"What?" She didn't look at him, still scanning the hordes of people for her target.
"Why are you here?"
After one final sweeping examination of the crowd, she turned back to face him. "Oh right. When I got off work, I had a message from John asking me if I wanted his ticket." Her lips twitched. "He seemed concerned you might commandeer the riverboat."
The memory of a cardboard box, a ratty sheet, and a poorly drawn skull and crossbones flashed through Sherlock's mind. "I just might, if Donovan returns."
"Shall we make her walk the plank, Captain Holmes?" she asked with a teasing grin.
His eyes narrowed. "John talks too much."
"Don't be mad. I think it's adorable you wanted to be a pirate when you were a kid."
"At least mine was better than John's. He wanted to be a potato."
"No way!" Her bright laughter rang out. "That's absolutely hilarious."
A waiter approached with a beverage tray. Sherlock returned his empty whisky, then took two champagne glasses from the man, handing one to Vivian. "What did you want to be?"
She huffed out a breath and shook her head. "Mine's silly."
"It can't possibly be worse than a tuber."
"It's not much better, really." A sideways glance at him. "I wanted to be a squirrel."
An incredulous chuckle burst out of his mouth. "That's absurd."
"Oi, shut it you. I liked climbing trees."
"And storing nuts?"
Her lips curved. "I stole the pecans for my mum's pie once, but my brother snitched on me."
"Ah, yes. Brothers will do that." Sherlock would have gotten away with a great deal more if not for Mycroft. Bubbles tickled his nose as he took a sip of champagne, and it fizzed across his tongue, refreshing and crisp. He faced the water, and the cool night air caressed his face.
Vivian rested her elbows on the railing beside him and sighed. "It's lovely here."
The London Eye loomed above them, deep blue lights shifting to white, then purple, and back again. Up ahead on their right towered Big Ben, resplendent in burnished gold. "Yes, it is."
This was his city, a terrible beauty. Her alleys stained with blood and death, her streets filled with the stupid, broken, and disturbed. The haze of exhaust, the buzz of traffic, the acrid scent of wet pavement. London teemed with life, gasped for it, demanded it. And oh, how she glowed, lights winking, beckoning him, her pull irresistible. His pulse beat in time with her, his work, his life - here. London was home. "I've never lived anywhere else, nor would I want to."
"It must be nice to put down roots. I'm not sure I'd know how." She spun her champagne glass between her fingers. "I moved around a lot as a kid. Our longest stay was a year and a half in Larkhill."
"The garrison in Wiltshire?"
One brow rose. "Yes. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you've heard of it. My father joined the army when he was sixteen."
Well, that explained her perfect posture and penchant for travel. He wondered if she made her bed with hospital corners. He frowned into his glass. What did he care about her bed or what she did with it?
The loud music on the lower deck faded, and a man's voice blared over the speaker system. "Ladies and gents, we have a pre-show treat for you, courtesy of Scotland Yard. Please turn your eyes to the sky!"
An anticipatory hush settled across the crowd, and they both looked up.
A sharp whistle tore through the air, and gold sparks exploded above them. Everyone cheered.
The sound of shattering glass tore his gaze from the sight.
Vivian's champagne glass lay broken on the deck.
She clutched at her head, eyes scrunched tight. Another set of fireworks screamed upwards, this time from all sides of the boat. She staggered back a step, then swayed. Sherlock caught her around the waist, his own ears ringing from the piercing noise. Vivian leaned into him and let out an agonized groan.
He had to get her out of there.
Half-dragging her, he shouldered his way through the crowd and into the dining area. All the doors were open to the spectacle outside. Vivian shuddered as another series of explosions went off, feet stumbling on the carpet. He scooped her up in his arms and strode down the closest corridor which led into a gleaming steel kitchen. The staff had their heads out the windows, completely oblivious as he carried Vivian past them. He hoped the next turn would lead him to the center of the boat where the insulation was thickest. It didn't. It took them left instead.
Fiery explosions and screaming whistles blared through the thin walls.
Vivian gasped and hid her face in his shirt.
He ground his teeth together. There had to be some place quiet on this bloody boat.
The door for the ladies' toilet caught his eye. It would have to do.
He carried Vivian inside and sat her upright on a small, low counter beside a long line of sinks. Her fingers whitened on her ears as the clamor outside increased another decibel. How much money had Scotland Yard spent? Swiftly, he turned on all the taps as high as they would go. The white noise from the water echoed through the room, though it wasn't nearly enough to cover the persistent cacophony. He grabbed a strip of tissue and rolled it into two small balls. Not perfect earplugs, but they might help. He tried to pry Vivian's hand away from her ear, but she jerked back, wild-eyed. The violent motion sent her head smacking into the mirror behind her. She winced, and her grip loosened long enough for him to slip the tissue between her palm and ear. Comprehension entered her gaze, and she allowed him to do the same to the other side before clutching at her head once again.
With a resounding boom, the main fireworks show began in earnest.
Multicolored lights flashed through the single long window in the bathroom, painting Vivian's pale face yellow, green, and red in quick succession.
Merda. Merda. Merda.
The Latin curse word burned the tip of his tongue.
A pained cry. Vivian curled in on herself and almost toppled off the counter top. He caught her shoulders and stepped forward, bracing her legs with his body.
Her eyes flinched open, glistening with moisture. "Sherlock." It was a tortured plea.
Another explosion. This time it resonated inside Sherlock's chest. Suddenly he was back in the Victorian pool house hurting her over and over while she begged for him to stop. He sucked in a shuddering breath.
No. This time he could soothe the hurt.
He released her shoulders and cradled her head, covering her hands with his. "Look at me."
Steam rose from the sinks and swirled about the room, fogging up the mirrors.
"Vivian."
Her eyes wrenched open.
His thumbs lightly massaged her temples. "Focus. Shove each of the sounds into your purgatory room."
"There's too many." A shuddering gasp. "The room is fading in and out."
His jaw clenched. Not good.
Fireworks, each shriller than the next, vibrated their window.
A strangled yell tore out of her.
He brought his face close until they were nearly nose-to-nose. "Breathe with me." He exhaled slowly, then inhaled. Bruised jasmine and steam filled his lungs. He kept his voice calm and steady. "In and out."
Sweet, champagne-scented breath puffed a rapid rhythm against his skin. She was trying.
"Good. Now bring a pleasant sound from your library to the forefront of your mind."
Panic rippled across her face. "I can't."
"You can. Focus past the pain. Hold onto the sound, and use it as a shield. Replay it in your mind."
Outside, the crowd screamed and chanted and cheered.
10
9
8
Her lips trembled, then a low whisper came, each word a soft cadence of displaced air against his mouth. "Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death. Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, to take into the air my quiet breath." Her voice broke. "Now more than ever seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain."
7
6
5
His throat constricted. She was using Ode to a Nightingale, the poem he'd read to her, as her shield. His voice came out low. "It's not midnight yet."
A pathetic facsimile of a smile contorted her mouth.
4
3
2
His thumbs swept down and caught at the moisture staining her cheeks. Her eyes, huge and dark, burned with misery. An overwhelming desire to steal away her suffering surged through him. He had to distract her, but how?
His gaze fell to her lips, the bottom one red and full from her worrying at it.
A shivering heat set his hands and head buzzing. Suddenly, the low-level ache slumbering behind his eyes awoke and lashed out.
A lance of pain stabbed at his head, and all the air left his lungs.
1
A great cry arose followed by a final triumphant cascade of fireworks.
Vivian collapsed into him, her face pressed against his chest.
He breathed through his own torment and somehow managed to keep his hands over hers to protect her ears.
"It's over," he murmured into her hair. The silky strands brushed against his chin.
The bathroom door swung open, and a snogging couple stumbled through, deaf and blind to their presence. The woman tugged at the man's shirt while he fumbled with the zip on the back of her sequined dress.
Sherlock scowled at them over the top of Vivian's head. "Get out."
The man tore his mouth from the woman's neck and blinked blearily at him. "Oh sorry, mate."
It was Detective Police Constable Crothers, a colleague of Lestrade's, and newly married.
The woman giggled and dragged her husband out the door. "Let's go somewhere else."
"That was Sherlock Hol-"
The door shut behind them sending wisps of steam whirling about.
The much softer strains of Auld Lang Syne whispered through the walls.
Vivian gave a shuddering sigh.
The sparking pain inside Sherlock's brain receded, leaving behind a persistent ache.
After a long moment, Vivian's head slowly rose, exhaustion in the lines of her face. "Happy New Year," she whispered.
He exhaled a heavy breath. "Quite. Are you all right?"
A weak smile. "I've been better." Mascara streaked her cheeks from where his thumbs had brushed away her tears. Her weight left his chest, and she straightened.
It occurred to him then that he was still cradling her head. He let go and took a step back. His gaze dropped, landing on the smooth, pale skin of her upper thighs. Her silver cocktail dress had ridden up. He spun around and stared at one of the toilet stalls. "You'll want to fix your dress."
A muttered curse came from behind him.
Keeping his gaze averted, he busied himself with turning off the running taps.
Heels clicked across the floor. Vivian splashed water across her face, then dried it with a paper towel. Tired eyes met his. "Thank you for helping me."
"Yes, well. Please don't say we should do this again sometime."
Her mouth quirked. "Oh, I don't know. Ringing in the New Year in this lovely loo with you? Not so bad."
"Right. Barring the agonizing pain."
She rubbed at her temple. "There is that."
"We need to determine what's wrong with your Mind Palace."
A shudder ran through her. "My purgatory room's never done that before. It started fading in and out during the fireworks. I think it stabilized there at the end, but it feels full to bursting now."
The fact that her purgatory room had faded at all was disturbing, but it wasn't her only problem. "Your hearing needs to be checked out as well." It was entirely too sensitive, dangerously so.
She stiffened. "I refuse to see any more doctors for testing."
"I'm not suggesting just any doctor. John will do it."
The reluctance in her posture diminished. "Alright. As long as he doesn't mind."
"He won't." A glance out the window told him they'd be docking shortly. He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"
She tucked her hand through his elbow, and they left the loo.
Cabs lined the streets ready to take on passengers. Sherlock approached one and opened the door.
Vivian slid inside, yawning. "I'll split the fare with you."
"No need. We're not going far."
"What do you mean? I'm going home."
"No, you're not. We need to take care of your Mind Palace."
She stared at him. "Now? I thought you meant tomorrow."
"It is tomorrow." It was thirty-two minutes past midnight.
"But what about sleep?"
"Sleep can wait. Your Mind Palace cannot."
Her brows drew together. "Is it that bad?"
"I've never had a room fade, especially such an integral one. While there's a chance the problem may not worsen over the next eight hours, I don't think it's worth the risk."
A weary nod. "I suppose not. Let's go then."
The cabbie rapped on the partition. "Where to?"
Sherlock smiled. "To the quietest place I know."
______________________________________
What did you think? Did you enjoy Sherlock and Vivian's interaction? Have you deduced their destination? Your comments and reviews feed this writer's soul, so please let me know!