When Sherlock raised his head, Vivian sagged back into her seat and released a long breath. "Thank God. Are you alright?" she asked, green eyes dark with worry.
Sherlock nodded. She didn't appear angry. Maybe that would come later. He slipped the pain pill from his trouser pocket, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed it down with a sip of water. "I had an unexpected headache," he said by way of explanation.
Her brow furrowed. "Like a migraine?"
"No, not quite that debilitating, but still...uncomfortable." His temples throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
"That's terrible." The pinched expression on her face made it look like she was the one in pain. "I'm so sorry."
"What for? It's not as if it's your fault," he said. "They come at random for no reason at all. It's annoying."
"Do you want to go?" she asked, setting her napkin on the table.
Sherlock studied her while taking another sip of water. Did she want to leave? Despite having been at dinner for three hours, he found himself reluctant to bring their evening to a close. "No, not yet. I'd prefer to wait for the pain medication to take effect. I'll be fine in twenty minutes."
There was a pause as she studied him in return. "Alright. As long as you're sure."
"I always am."
"It must be nice to be so certain all the time," she said, tone teasing, then nodded at what remained of their dessert. "Would you like any more?" The way her gaze lingered on the plate, it was obvious she did.
Sherlock shook his head. "It's all yours."
Vivian didn't need to be told twice. She picked up a piece of chocolate, slid it through a line of cream, then took a bite. Her eyes fell shut as she savored it with evident relish. A smile tugged at his mouth. Just watching her enjoy herself was enjoyable. Maybe he needed a brain scan.
"So, have I successfully ruined the chef's initials?" she asked as she piled caramel onto the last square.
"Yes. They're indiscernible now." The sweeping, cursive lines painted across the plate had long-since met their demise at her hand.
"What were they?"
"The letters L and D."
"Hmmm...I wonder what they stand for," she mused. "Larry David? Leonardo Dicaprio?" The names made her snicker for some reason. She popped the treat into her mouth.
"It's for Lucas Dubois," Sherlock said.
Vivian choked and fell into a violent coughing fit, hunching forward in her chair. He reached out and smacked her on the back a few times. "You're supposed to eat the food, not inhale it."
The next two coughs sounded rather like expletives. After a moment, her hacking subsided, and she turned to him. "Did you say Lucas Dubois?" she rasped, face red and eyes watering.
"Yes." Sherlock slid her water over to her.
She took a large swallow, then shook her head. "That's impossible. He has three restaurants to run. There's no way he came here to prepare a meal just for us. The cost would be astronomical."
Sherlock merely looked at her.
Vivian's eyes went huge. "You're serious."
"Yes. I acquired him for the evening."
"You acquired him? He's the godfather of modern cuisine, not -- not a collectible!" she sputtered. Her gaze dropped to their empty dessert plate. "Oh my God. I ate an 18-course meal made by Lucas Dubois." Her voice morphed into an awed whisper. "He touched my food."
"I take it you find him impressive," Sherlock said, tone dry. "I hadn't heard of him until this evening."
Vivian goggled at him. "Lucas Dubois has transformed the face of the culinary world. He's an innovative genius, a true prodigy. He's like -- like--" She threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. "--the chef version of you."
A smirk spread across his face. "Oh really?"
The pink in her cheeks darkened, and Sherlock grinned. She'd just used him as a measure for brilliance. "I suppose I should be suitably impressed, then," he said.
A sniff. "Yes, well. You're only ever impressed with yourself, so it was the best comparison I could come up with."
His smile remained. Vivian's attempt at retracting the unintended compliment merely served to confirm it. She liked his voice, and she thought he was brilliant. Sherlock didn't think it was possible to feel anymore pleased. He lifted a hand, and Peter appeared at his side.
"How may I be of service?" Peter asked.
"I'd like a word with the chef."
"Of course. Mr. Dubois will be out shortly." Peter took the empty dessert plate and headed back up the balcony stairs.
Vivian gaped after him, then swung around to face Sherlock. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed.
"Meeting my alter ego," he said, perplexed by her reaction. He'd thought she'd be pleased. "Don't you want an introduction?"
Judging by Vivian's poleaxed expression, the idea that she could actually meet the man hadn't even entered her mind. Her shocked face shifted to one of joy, then just as quickly to horror. She gripped his arm. "Oh God. What am I supposed to say? I don't want to sound stupid."
He cast her a sideways glance. "In that case, you may just want to smile and nod."
A glare. "If I humiliate myself, it's going to be your fault." Her fingers tightened on his forearm, and she gnawed at her lower lip.
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. She really was concerned. Strange. He'd always thought of her as so confident in herself. "You needn't worry. I'm certain he'll find you charming company."
"Right," she said, expression wry. "And why is that?" Her lashes lowered, but not quickly enough to hide the flash of vulnerability in her gaze.
The smart remark he'd prepared turned to ash on his tongue. Vivian cared what he thought. His opinion mattered, just like hers did to him. The air left his lungs in a slow exhalation. Considering the number of truths he'd learned about her tonight, perhaps it was time she learned one of his. "You made the point yourself."
Her gaze returned to his, brows drawing together. "What do you mean?"
"In your description of Lucas Dubois. You made a very specific comparison. What was it?"
"I said he was the chef version of you."
"Yes. And I just told you I was certain he would find you charming company."
"So?"
She wasn't following. He clarified. "Think of it as a logic problem: Lucas Dubois is the chef version of Sherlock Holmes. If he's certain to find you charming company, what can you conclude about Sherlock Holmes?"
There was a pause, then a slow smile widened across her face. "You think I'm charming company."
"No."
Her smile faltered.
"Only when you've eaten," he stated emphatically.
Vivian's smile reappeared, and she threw her head back and laughed.
Just then, a man wearing a white chef jacket approached their table with slow, graceless steps. Peter followed behind him like a dog herding a reluctant sheep. Lucas Dubois had wild silver hair, serious eyes, and the stiff body language of someone who hadn't wanted to be disturbed. Vivian beamed up at him, still alight with delight over their conversation. Lucas blinked as if dazzled, and the sullen cant to his mouth softened slightly. Two seconds. That was all it had taken for Vivian Walker to disarm the man, and she hadn't even been trying. If Lucas wasn't completely charmed in the next two minutes, Sherlock would eat his deerstalker.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle, Monsieur," Lucas said with a thick French accent.
"Hello," Vivian whispered, green eyes wide.
Peter moved to stand beside Lucas and cleared his throat. "My apologies, but Mr. Dubois speaks very little English. He insists he's far too busy cooking to learn it. I'm happy to translate for you though."
"That won't be necessary," Sherlock said. He addressed the chef. "Mon compagnon est amoureux de votre cuisine."
Surprise flickered across Lucas' face, briefly disrupting his solemn countenance. "Je suis content de l'entendre."
Vivian gaped at Sherlock. "You speak French?"
"No, Pig-Latin," he said, secretly pleased to have stolen her attention away from the chef.
She kicked him in the foot. "What did you tell him?"
"I said you're in love with his cooking, and he said he's glad to hear that. What else would you like me to say?"
The anxiety from before returned. "I...I don't know."
He held her gaze. "I know you enjoyed every course. Tell me why."
She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, then let it out. When she opened them, she appeared far more composed. "Our meal was like a journey through the elements. It began with earth: truffles, mushrooms, and asparagus. Then it shifted to water: the octopus and sea urchin. Wind was in the airy puffed pastry cups and the brioche foam. After that, fire, in the curried carrots and gingered pears." Her expression turned earnest as if she thought he wouldn't believe her. "There was even a hint of heat in the chocolate sauce. Chili powder, I think."
While none of that had occurred to Sherlock at the time, there was an underlying truth to her words. Their meal hadn't been just a series of flavors. Something deeper had tied it all together. Sherlock relayed her observations to the chef, curious to see his response.
Lucas stared at Vivian for a long moment. Face grave, he extended his hand to her, palm up. When she placed her hand in his, he brushed a kiss across her knuckles and murmured a few fervent lines of French. "Very few have correctly discerned my vision. It's an honor to have cooked for you," Sherlock translated for him.
Vivian's mouth fell open. "I'm the one who's honored," she protested. "Your food is phenomenal; it's the best I've ever had."
The edges of Lucas' mouth curved upward faintly. For a man this reserved, it was the equivalent of a broad grin. "You have exquisite taste, Mademoiselle."
She laughed, and the city lights sparkled in her eyes.
Taking a break from translating for Vivian, Sherlock smirked at Lucas. "I don't know about that. During dessert, she said she wanted to marry you. Perhaps she's had too much wine."
A flash of straight, white teeth. "If I weren't married, I'd steal her away from you."
"You could try." The words lashed out like an ice-encrusted whip. Sherlock frowned, surprised by himself. The harsh retort had been an instinctive, knee-jerk reaction -- ungoverned by thought. Well, the man had pricked his pride by implying he wouldn't be up to the challenge, not that there was one. And of course, Vivian was incapable of being "stolen" from him because she didn't belong to him in the first place.
"Good." Lucas gave him an approving nod. "You should be playing for keeps with this one."
Sherlock hurried to correct the older man. "You misunderstand. I'm not participating at all."
A chiding chuckle. "Foolish boy. You've already placed yourself on the board, or you wouldn't be here."
"This is dinner, not chess," Sherlock said.
"They're one and the same." Lucas' dark eyes gleamed. "You've made your move. Now you wait for hers."
Before Sherlock could form a reply, Vivian poked him in the ribs. "Hey, I don't speak French, remember? What are you two on about?"
Fortunately for Sherlock, Peter had left after he'd realized he wasn't needed, or else he might have translated their conversation for Vivian. He met her curious gaze. "I was informing Lucas of your marriage proposal."
Red suffused her face. "You what?"
"Sorry to disappoint you, but he's already married. He did imply he'd be interested if that weren't the case though."
The blush spread down her neck. "Oh," she squeaked, darting a glance at the chef. Lucas' sober expression broke, and he smiled. Gratification and embarrassment warred across Vivian's face, before the former finally won. She picked up her mobile and eyed Sherlock hopefully. "Do you think he'd let me take a photo with him?"
Five photographs and an autographed napkin later, Sherlock and Vivian were once again alone on the balcony. Vivian had gone quiet after Lucas had left, and Sherlock wondered if she was tired. It was half past one in the morning. He wasn't tired, but most people didn't sleep as little as he did. Vivian folded up the napkin like it was a holy relic and squeezed it into her clutch. There was a faint tremor to her hand.
Sherlock frowned. "Are you--"
Before he could finish, a red, white, and blue blur crashed into him.
The air left his lungs. He had a lapful of Vivian Walker.
Sherlock's brain went into overdrive, overwhelmed by the sensory input: the intoxicating scent of her perfume; the skin-warmed silk of her dress; the feminine curves pressed against his body, so different from his own; the smooth slide of her cheek against his. Naturally, it took him a moment before his ear realized there was anything else to process beyond the feel of her breath.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she was whispering over and over.
Relief swept through him. Vivian was happy. Not upset like he'd initially thought. Sherlock wound an arm around her lower back, preventing her from toppling off him. It wouldn't be a good end to their evening if she injured herself. With his free hand, he moved to pat her shoulder like he'd done with Mrs. Hudson in the past, but realized his mistake too late. His palm met naked flesh. Electricity zinged through his veins and set his head buzzing. Sherlock's palm decided it was quite fond of this style of dress. Taking advantage of his discombobulated state, it began to brush across her bare shoulder in a slow, exploratory stroke, intent on mapping out this new, fascinating terrain. The silkiness of her skin made her dress feel like sandpaper in comparison. There really should be a law against having skin this inviting to touch. Nowhere near satisfied with a single pass, his palm drifted back up to the top of her shoulder and repeated the movement. Vivian was still murmuring words of gratitude into his ear. If he didn't do something soon, she might never stop. His body thought that was a fine idea.
Uncertain how to halt the litany, but knowing he must, Sherlock forced his hand to still and put his mouth to her ear. "You're welcome." This time, the low rumble of his voice was completely unintentional.
Vivian fell silent like he'd pressed a mute button. A shiver ran through her, and gooseflesh broke out beneath his palm. He pressed his eyes shut, momentarily overcome. How could he feel both powerful and powerless at the same time?
She drew back just enough to meet his gaze, then cringed a bit. "Sorry for um, throwing myself at you." Despite the apology and her implied embarrassment, she made no move to extract herself from his lap.
"It's...fine," Sherlock said. While he'd loosened his hold on her, he did nothing to encourage nor discourage her current seating arrangement. In fact, he found himself quite incapable of moving at all. His body had mutinied. He wasn't going anywhere, not anytime soon. The building would have to crumble beneath him first.
Vivian shook her head. "I just can't believe I got to meet Lucas Dubois and eat a meal prepared by him -- with you -- in this fabulous place." Her eyes went bright, and she blinked a few times. "This is the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a long time," she said softly.
While he'd expected her to be pleased with his plan, he had no idea it would mean this much to her. "So, I take it I'm forgiven for interrupting your dinner with Victor Trevor?" he inquired lightly.
She cocked her head to the side and squinted at him in exaggerated puzzlement. "Victor who?"
Sherlock chuckled, and the dark creature inside him gave a contented hum. He'd made amends with Vivian and thwarted Victor's plans. Mission accomplished.
"Oh, before we leave, we need to take a selfie." Still on his lap, she twisted around and fetched her mobile from the table.
"A selfie?" Incredulity filled his tone. He'd never taken one in his life.
"Yes, we need one for Scott and Miranda's Facebook page. We haven't posted any photographs of us together yet." She held out her phone to him, the camera already on. "Here, you've got longer arms."
Resigned to the necessity of promoting their fake relationship, Sherlock accepted it without complaint. Arm around her waist, he held the phone out, framing the two of them on the screen. When she beamed at the camera, Sherlock pushed the button. "There." He offered it back to her.
She refused to take it. "Sherlock, you're not even smiling. You look like you're at a funeral."
"Scott doesn't smile in photographs."
"Oh, come on. Not even when he's on a date with his new girlfriend?"
"No, not even then." He pressed the phone into her resisting hand. He'd concede to taking a selfie, but he drew the line at looking like a fool.
An eyeroll. "You're ridiculous, you know that right?" The smile playing around her lips told him she wasn't really annoyed.
"I disagree. Selfies are ridiculous."
"Alright, I'll grant you that. How's your head?" She peered at him as if in search of any signs of discomfort. She wouldn't find any. The pain medication had done its job.
"I'm fine now."
"Good." Smiling, she gave his chest a pat, then pulled away from him and rose to her feet. He had to bully his arm into letting her go. It twitched in discontent.
"Ready to leave?" he asked.
She nodded, and Peter appeared with his coat.
"Thank you so much for the lovely service," Vivian said to their waiter after he escorted them to the elevator. "I do appreciate it. I know we've kept you up awfully late."
"Not to worry, Madam. I'm magic, remember?" Peter winked, and the elevator doors closed on her laughter.
Vivian's hand remained tucked in Sherlock's elbow as they exited The Shard. The building towered behind them, a glowing beacon in the darkness. Sherlock looked around but didn't see any cabs parked along the desolate street. That made sense in light of the late, or rather early, hour. "Shall I call for a cab?" Sherlock asked.
A nearby street light glinted off Vivian's hair as she lifted her face toward the cloudless sky. "It's so nice out. Can we walk for a bit, and then call if we don't find one?"
"Of course." He often roamed the abandoned avenues of London when he couldn't sleep. There was something strangely soothing about it. During the day, the city positively brimmed over with life, every space crammed full to bursting. At night, it was different. The city still pulsed with life, but it was hidden beneath layers of concrete, glass, and steel -- safely contained. Or at least mostly contained. Secrets stalked the streets; lies lurked in shadows; illicit meetings, whispered greetings, and the sound of running feet. Sometimes London slumbered in peace, other times she woke to blood-soaked sheets. Sherlock tended to her as best he could then, hunting down those who caused harm. She repaid him by giving him a thrilling chase and endless work. People lived. People died. Through it all, the city thrived. And so did Sherlock.
He and Vivian were halfway down the road when something stirred to life within the darkness. Or rather three somethings.
They were being followed.
************************
Dear Reader,
I'm very sorry for the late chapter again. I hate not posting them in a timely fashion for you. I assure you, it's frustrating for us both! My parole officer -- I mean beta reader -- has suggested I take a break from posting to give myself some time to get a number of chapters finished, so I can get ahead. I think her idea has merit. While I know it leaves all of you waiting a while for a new chapter, once I start posting again, it should be much more consistent. So, that's what I'm going to do. The next chapter won't be posted until Saturday, June 10th. I hope all of you will stick around until then. There's so much in store for Sherlock, Vivian, and John! I'm dying to share it all with you. This story is near and dear to my heart. I promise you it will be finished and finished well.
Thank you so much for your continued support, kindness, and encouragement! I love you all!
Love,
JD