Sherlock stared down at the napkin in Vivian's hands. Of all the ways he'd imagined this experiment going, blindfolding him hadn't been one of them. His stomach tensed, though he didn't know why. "That isn't necessary."
"Yes, it is. You'll peek otherwise."
"I will not," he said, affronted. "I'm a scientist. I would never sabotage an experiment."
Vivian looked like she might argue, but then her expression cleared. One alabaster shoulder exposed by the Grecian cut of her gown rose and fell. "Alright. We won't use it then." She set the napkin back down on the table.
Sherlock smiled, pleased with himself and the evident success of the meal. A well-fed Vivian was a cooperative Vivian. He was definitely going to carry around sweets from now on. And perhaps some sort of emergency food kit. It might save him from being throttled at some point.
She lifted one brow. "If you open your eyes though, you'll have to wear it. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Then let's continue. Please close your eyes."
Sherlock complied. He expected to hear the clink of the platter's lid, but it didn't come. All was quiet. Thirty seconds passed. His heart rate picked up. What was Vivian doing? Staring at him? He continued counting. One hundred twenty seconds. Still nothing. Understanding flashed through him. This was a test. Vivian wanted to see if he'd break the silence, open his eyes, or interrupt the experiment somehow. An internal snort. She was going to be disappointed. No one could out-stubborn him. Not even Mycroft.
Forty-five seconds later, he felt the weight of her knees shift against his thigh. She was moving. The sweet fragrance of jasmine grew stronger, and heat suddenly bathed his face like he'd approached an open flame. Vivian. Sherlock's heart rate accelerated further. She hadn't moved toward the table. She'd moved toward him. The tiny hairs on his face prickled. The tip of his nose tingled. If he leaned forward the slightest bit, he was certain he'd touch her. Strange. He couldn't feel nor hear her breath. Frowning, he strained his ears for --
"Boo." A puff of air against his lips.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Vivian was only a few centimeters away, a devilish glint in her gaze. She'd been holding her breath. Clever. His attention dropped to her mouth. Her lipstick was a different shade than the one she'd bestowed upon him in the electrical closet. This one was the deep pink of an English rose. He bet it was a different flavor as well. Pity he couldn't prove his theory. In the name of science, of course.
Vivian drew back, grinning like a vixen who'd lured a hunter into a bog. "So, about that blindfold."
Sherlock's mouth quirked. It was impossible to be irritated with her when she'd played the game so well. "Touché." He held out a hand for the napkin.
"No, no. Allow me," she said, all sweetness and sunshine. The vixen had vanished, replaced by an innocent fawn.
Sherlock wasn't fooled. Helping him was the last thing on Vivian's mind. She wanted to rub her victory in his face. Or at least tie it around his head. "You're too kind," he drawled, tone sardonic.
A smirk broke through her candied countenance. "That's me."
After folding the napkin and smoothing out any wrinkles, she brought it up over his eyes. Even with them open, the dark material fully blocked his vision. There'd be no peeking this time, involuntary or otherwise. He felt Vivian lean into him, elbows brushing his shoulders as she reached around him to knot the two ends behind his head. He inhaled sharply, still unaccustomed to the rush brought on by her close proximity.
"Is it too tight?" she asked, tone concerned. Wine-kissed breath caressed his ear.
Sparks sizzled across Sherlock's skin. Suddenly he was back in the electrical closet at Cubic with Vivian's mouth on his jaw and her body pressed against his, lost in sensation.
"Sherlock?" Her fingers slipped between the blindfold and his hair, checking it herself.
The gentle touch only served to fuel the fire rising in his veins. Somehow he forced his brain to focus through the heat. "No, it's...good." The word rumbled out of him like gravel at a rock quarry.
Her fingers stilled. "Oh. That's, um...good," she echoed, voice faint.
Sherlock's eyes fell shut beneath the blindfold. At least he wasn't alone in his incoherence. This thing that simmered between them -- all taut and warm and golden -- was a shared madness. Vivian pulled away, and the fire dimmed to a more manageable level.
He almost sighed in relief, but then his stomach clenched again like when he'd first seen the blindfold, but worse. His body didn't stop there. A cascade of physical reactions followed: elevated pulse; increased blood pressure; shallow respiration. This was nothing like what he'd experienced a few seconds ago with Vivian. What the hell was wrong with him? He gripped the back of her chair to try and anchor himself. It didn't work. Moisture formed between his palm and the wood of the chair. He was sweating. There was something vaguely familiar about the sensation sweeping through him. He'd felt this before. But when? Where? His mind raced, trying to place it.
Recognition sent a trickle of ice down Sherlock's spine.
Baskerville.
No. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't. He'd meant what he'd said to Vivian. He didn't scare easily. He didn't scare at all. Except when under the influence of a chemical weapon designed to induce terror and hallucinations. But this wasn't Baskerville. This was only a shadow of that horror. However, the chemical foundation was still the same and just as destructive. Adrenaline and cortisol. The two hormones were currently flooding his system, priming his body for fight or flight. The question was why. He wasn't under any sort of threat. Certainly not from Vivian. He had no intention of fighting her, and the idea of running from her was so ridiculous as to be laughable. Yet his body continued to defy logic. Nerves jangling, he sat stiff and still, every cell on high alert.
"Hey," Vivian said softly, knees settling back against his thigh. "I'm going to feed you, not execute you."
Wonderful. She'd noticed the tension radiating from him. Of course, people seventy-three stories below them had probably noticed. Sherlock felt like an overcranked Jack-in-the-box, ready to explode at any second.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
"Yes," he bit out, trying to bring his heart rate and breathing under control.
A long pause. Even the air around him seemed skeptical of the answer.
"Look, it's okay. We don't have to do this." Vivian shifted, and something brushed his temple.
He flung a hand up and captured hers, pressing it flat against the side of his head to stop her from removing the blindfold. "Don't. I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I am," Sherlock insisted. "Let's continue." He released her, then returned his grip to the back of the chair. He expected Vivian to drop her hand as well. She didn't. Instead, she slowly, almost hesitantly, slid her hand down the side of his cheek and cradled his jaw. Every nerve ending in Sherlock's body ignited. Her palm was like a brand against his skin -- skin that was now even more sensitive without his sight. She paused there, as if waiting to see what he would do. He didn't move; he barely breathed.
"You know," she said conversationally. "If you clench your jaw any tighter, you'll break your teeth, and then the only thing I'll be able to feed you is Jello." Her fingers began to move in small circles, gently massaging the rigid muscle.
It felt...better than good.
Heat spread through him, and an altogether different sort of tension took over his body. Vivian's touch was both soothing and stimulating, both burn and balm. That shouldn't have been possible, but of course it was with her. She was chaos personified. The physical laws of the universe crumbled at her touch. And evidently, so did every single one of Sherlock's walls. Walls that were there for a reason, although he couldn't quite recall what that reason was at the moment. A distant part of him demanded he sever the contact and rebuild his armor, but it was a very distant part. The darkness from the blindfold lent a certain unreality to the moment. It was almost as if he were fooling his brain. If he couldn't see Vivian touching him, then somehow it didn't count. Like a child who puts his hands over his face during a game of hide and seek and thinks no one else can see him. Sherlock knew it was illogical. For once, he didn't care.
"I should have known you'd hate being blindfolded," Vivian said, continuing to stroke his jaw. "You're not the sort of man who gives up control easily."
Sherlock blinked. Control. That was his problem, the reason for his discomfort. "I've never given up control in my life," he admitted. A lilting Welsh whisper in the back of his mind. Except once. Or don't you remember, ymennydd bach? Sherlock hurled the voice into his purgatory room so hard his temples throbbed. The fear from earlier resurfaced, eclipsing the comfort of Vivian's touch. His breathing grew shallow again. He felt exposed, vulnerable. She'd teased him about tying him up earlier. That would have been preferable to this. With the loss of his vision, his greatest strength had been locked away. He was left completely at her mercy.
Vivian's hand stilled on his jaw. "Trust me."
Just like that, she handed back the loaded gun Sherlock had given her outside the cab when he'd made the same request. He could say no. Wound her. Shatter this moment and let it cut her before it could him. He should. His stomach tightened. He took a steadying breath. "Alright." With his agreement, the remaining tension bled out of him, and he felt himself relax into her touch.
Her hand lingered there for a moment, then with a final caress, dropped away. "There. That's better."
His body disagreed. It told him to clench his jaw again to see if she'd massage it a second time. Or better yet, if he tightened every muscle, maybe she'd-- He fractured the thought before it could go any further. This was getting ridiculous. He needed to focus and prepare for the experiment ahead or else he was going to make a fool of himself. Vivian's fingers curled around his hand where it rested on his knee, and what little focus he'd gathered disintegrated. Right. Nevermind. She picked up his hand and brought it to rest on something both firm and yielding. And very warm. Curious, he spread his fingers out, gathering as much data as possible. Silky material slid like water against his skin. The surface rose and fell like a gentle swell in the ocean. His thumb froze mid-sweep. Vivian had placed his palm on her abdomen.
"Breathe with me, Sherlock." There was a hint of humor in the request.
He understood now. This was familiar ground. He'd done this very thing to her countless times while instructing her in the proper breathing techniques for meditation. Only this time their roles were reversed.
"So..." Sherlock said, voice low and amused. "The student has become the teacher."
Vivian's abdomen tightened for a split second beneath his palm, and he heard a tiny hitch in her breath. His eyes popped open beneath the blindfold.
"Yes, I think it's high time I taught you something for once," she said with a wry laugh.
Sherlock stared blindly into the darkness. She'd just taught him something now, and she didn't even realize it. Perhaps he'd read her wrong though. Best to double-check to be sure. "Then by all means, carry on, Professor Walker." He deliberately drew out the last two words, sent them curling through the air, low, slow, and smooth.
It happened again. A minor tensing of her abdominal muscles. The slightest catch in her breath.
A wave of startled pleasure and immense satisfaction rolled through him.
Vivian liked his voice.
Sherlock smiled. He'd known she was attracted to him on some level, but he'd thought it was a nebulous sort of thing for her, indistinct and unformed. He'd never expected anything so...gloriously specific. He savored the unexpected, choice bit of knowledge. It was far more delectable than any morsel he could have consumed. This was good. This was very good. Vivian had a weakness where he was concerned. Since he was beginning to suspect he might have a few of his own regarding her, he felt it only fair he know one of hers. He wouldn't use the knowledge right now though. Oh no. Better to save it for when he needed it the most. His smile widened. He was beginning to enjoy this experiment.
"There's no smiling in this class, Mr. Holmes," Vivian said in a pompous, playful tone. "Only breathing."
"My apologies." Biting back a chuckle, he quickly schooled his expression, then matched his breath to hers. They fell into sync like a single organism, and everything faded away. He floated there, comfortable and calm. After a moment, her hand, which had been holding his securely against her abdomen, moved away. That's when he heard the clink of the platter.
Wanting to prove to Vivian he wasn't at a complete disadvantage, Sherlock slipped his hand from her stomach and reached for his fork. Recalling its location from memory was simple enough. Right as his fingers clasped it, it was pulled away from him, and his hand was pushed back onto her abdomen. "I'll take care of that," she said. "Just relax. I don't want you distracted by the fork."
The fork? Vivian thought the fork would distract him? Sherlock wanted to laugh. She clearly had no idea of her affect on him. Good. He intended to keep it that way.
"I'm going to offer you a bite of something now. Try to focus on the taste and texture, and remember to breathe," she said.
"Understood." He hoped she wouldn't be too disappointed when her theory was disproven. A simple blindfold and a relaxation exercise wasn't going to magically change how he experienced food. Not after thirty-seven years. Fortunately, Peter hadn't brought out the final dessert course yet. Once it appeared, Vivian would forget all about the failed experiment.
"Open your mouth, please."
He did, and something soft landed inside it. Mindful of her instructions, he took a moment to assess the food's texture. It felt supple, compact, and round. He bit into it. His taste buds exploded. Rich loam, deep, dark, and earthy, burst across his tongue. A low noise of surprise sounded. It took him a second before he realized it had come from him. He swallowed, and the flavor changed, turned smooth, rich, and buttery. It lingered on his tongue, then slowly faded away. Sherlock removed his hand from Vivian's abdomen, pulled off the blindfold, then stared at her. All he'd had was a single bite. But it'd felt like a revelation.
He kept his voice carefully controlled. "What did you feed me?"
She looked back at him, a Mona Lisa smile on her face. "Did you like it?"
"I..." He licked his lips. She deserved the truth. "Yes. I did."
Her smile lit up the glass balcony.
"What did you feed me?" he repeated. Surely, this had to be some sort of one-off, an anomaly.
Vivian's green eyes glowed with satisfaction. "It was the very first thing you tried tonight." She nodded at a small empty saucer on the table. "Ravioli filled with liquid black truffles and butter."
Sherlock's organized world shifted on its axis. He remembered that first bite. It had been completely ordinary, nothing like this one. The breath whooshed out of him. What he'd thought was immutable, his attitude toward food, had just been irrevocably altered. And it was all because of Vivian. Something warm and anticipatory twisted through him as he gazed at her. This woman was neither boring nor predictable. She'd not only challenged a long-held perception of himself, she'd transformed it. She was... "Remarkable," he murmured.
She dimpled at him. "I knew you had unplumbed depths."
"How?" he demanded. He couldn't understand how she'd known something about him when he hadn't.
"I saw the way you devoured that chocolate croissant at Christmas. It wasn't out of hunger; you'd already had dinner before I arrived. When you were done, there wasn't a single crumb left on your plate. An indifferent eater would never do that."
He blinked. She'd deduced him at Christmas. If she'd chosen a career in law enforcement instead of corporate espionage, she might have given him a run for his money. "Impressive."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Did you just compliment me?"
"No. I told you I don't do that."
A smirk. "So, it's a fact that I'm impressive, then?"
"No, your bit of deductive reasoning was impressive."
"You think I'm clever," she sang out, eyes crinkling in delight.
"I'm beginning to question my judgment."
She laughed, and he couldn't help but chuckle. They smiled at one another.
Peter appeared. "Are you ready for your final course?"
Sherlock raised a brow at Vivian, and she nodded.
The remnants of the experiment were quickly whisked away, then Peter returned with a large covered plate, nearly as wide as their table. He removed the lid with a flourish.
"Wow," Vivian breathed.
Their dessert had been painted across the white expanse of the plate like a work of art. Three thick lines of different colored sauces swirled around squares of gleaming chocolate, fresh blueberries, and little mounds of something brown and crumbly. It took Sherlock a second before he made sense of the curving lines. They were actually a fancy script, spelling out the chef's initials, L.D. Peter pointed at the sauces. "Chocolate, caramel, and cream. The brown bits are peanut butter crumbs."
Vivian looked up at the man with shining, soulful eyes. "You had me at chocolate."
Peter smiled. "It's a pleasure to serve one such as you, Madam. Enjoy." He bowed and left.
Sherlock watched as Vivian scooped up a chocolate square and slid it through the various sauces. She collected some peanut butter crumbles along the way.
"This would be easier if we had utensils," Sherlock said. They'd only been left with their napkins.
"No, touching the food is all part of the experience." She dropped the bedecked piece of chocolate into her mouth. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let out a soft moan. "Oh yes. I could marry this man."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, amused. "You'd marry the chef? Sight unseen? Just for his cooking skills?"
A wide grin. "I could do a lot worse." She picked up a blueberry and dipped it in the cream sauce. "This man is patient, detail-oriented, creative, and understands the importance of chocolate."
"He's also exceedingly arrogant since he scrawled his initials across our plate."
The additional information didn't appear to bother her. "He's earned it." She tapped the plate, expression serious. "If he cooked like this for me every day, I'd let him tattoo his bloody initials on me if he wanted."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Yes, I would."
Sherlock shook his head. "That's ridiculous. You're far too easily manipulated when it comes to food."
"Everyone's got a weakness," she said, waving a piece of chocolate at him. "Besides, you're one to talk. Your weakness is puzzles."
"I solve murder cases, not puzzles. And I'm not manipulated by them in the least."
An incredulous laugh. "Right. So, you're saying that if some key evidence from, I don't know, the Jack the Ripper case suddenly came to light, but it was secreted away somewhere, you wouldn't do anything and everything to get your hands on it?"
He smirked. "I wouldn't."
"You are a big fat, bloody liar." She punctuated the last word with a poke to his chest.
He caught her hand. "I solved the Jack the Ripper case when I was ten."
"What? Are you serious?" Wide green eyes searched his.
"Yes." Except for a small bit of assistance from Mycroft, Sherlock had put the pieces together on his own. The answer had been both satisfactory and chilling.
"Why is it still unsolved, then?"
"If I'd proclaimed it to the world, it would have caused the killer's descendants, people innocent of any wrongdoing, irreparable harm."
Admiration and respect filled Vivian's gaze, sending a rush of heat through Sherlock's body. He felt like he'd been living inside a cold house all his life. The hearth had been there, but it had been dark and empty -- absent of light and warmth. Until now. He approached the fire with cautious hands, still uncertain it was real. "What?" he asked.
"That was very considerate of you," she said quietly.
The appreciation in her tone warmed him even further. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I have my moments."
Her eyes swept across the glass balcony and glided over the glowing city before returning to his. "You certainly do." Her thumb brushed across his own, leaving a trail of sparks across his skin.
Sherlock realized he still had her hand caught against his chest. Perhaps those moments he'd spoken of were ones of temporary insanity. He carefully released her and reached for his water glass.
Her hand fell back to her lap, and she cocked her head. "Does it bother you at all? That no one knows you've solved it?"
"The guilty party is long dead. It's enough I know who did it."
The beginnings of a smile tugged at her pink lips. "You certainly sound like a puzzle solver to me."
"I'm not."
She was grinning now. "Yes, you are. I'll prove it to you."
"Be my guest."
"Oh, no. Not now. I'm going to do it when you least expect it. It'll be more satisfying that way."
She seemed awfully sure of herself. He studied her, wondering what she had planned.
A chuckle left her. "I haven't even done anything yet, and it's already working."
He arched an eyebrow in question.
"You're already obsessing and trying to figure me out. It's not going to work."
"Why not?"
She flashed him an enigmatic smile. "I'm a woman."
"Are you?" He ran a critical eye over her. "I hadn't noticed."
"Liar," she said, voice low and warm.
He smiled, not denying the accusation. Doing so would only provoke her to mischief. And who knew what she might do to prove her point? Something reckless, no doubt. His body told him he was a moron and vowed vengeance for the next time he caught a cold.
Looking back down at the dessert plate, Vivian picked up a chocolate square and coated it with caramel. She offered it to him. "Here. I want to see if you like it."
Curious as well, he accepted it. Closing his eyes, he settled into a light meditative state like he'd done during the experiment. After taking a few deep breaths, he brought the chocolate to his lips and took a bite. A rich sweetness flooded his mouth, steamrolling his senses. Impossible, improbable pleasure crashed through him. It stole his breath and sent shivers down his spine. He understood now why Vivian groaned when she was eating at times. Before he could take another breath, a lance of pain stabbed at his temples. The chocolate slipped from his fingers, and he opened his eyes with a gasp. The flavor flooding his mouth immediately receded, but the pain barely dimmed.
"What's wrong?" Vivian asked, frowning. She reached out, and her fingers touched his hand.
The pain in Sherlock's head doubled, and he hissed, flinching away from the contact. "Stay back," he snapped.
Vivian recoiled like he'd burned her.
Taking in a series of slow, steady breaths, he shut his eyes and retreated from the sensory overload into a deeper meditative state than before. Like he'd hoped, the pain dimmed, however, it didn't disappear completely. It was still there -- a familiar band of iron around his head. So. He'd thought he could get away with slowly spreading out the time between his pain medication doses. Evidently not. He still hadn't been able to determine the cause of his headaches. There didn't appear to be any rhyme or reason to them. Just now, it had almost looked like the chocolate had triggered an episode and that physical contact with another person somehow worsened it. It didn't make sense. His head gave a throb. He'd better take a pain pill soon.
Six heartbeats later, he brought himself out of the trance. He could tell something was different. Something had changed. The warmth that had been pressed against his side all evening was gone. He opened his eyes, but kept his head bowed, making use of his peripheral vision. There was a gap between their seats now. A very reasonable gap. The gap one would expect between two dining chairs. So, why did it feel like a chasm? He could hear Vivian breathing. Her breaths were so perfectly measured he knew she had to be forcing them that way. One pale hand, the knuckles bloodless, gripped at her knee, bunching up the deep blue silk of her gown. She was either angry or worried or both. Since he'd snapped at her, he wagered it was the former. Sherlock bit back a sigh. Ending the evening by upsetting her hadn't been part of his plan. His head throbbed harder, reminding him he needed a pain pill now. Steeling himself, he raised his head.
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Hi loves! I'm terribly sorry for posting this so late. I've not only been dealing with the crazy end of tax season this week, but I also came down with a nasty bug. I may or may not have been under the influence of various medications while writing this... So, please forgive my lateness, the sub par writing, all my hideous mistakes, and the very unkind cliffhanger. I'm a right mess. *hides under bed*