nonelementary (nonelementary) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-02-25 18:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | john watson, sherlock holmes |
Who: Elias and Clare
What: Meeting and Artwork
Where: Bellagio Gallery
When: A little while ago - before the hotel opened
Warnings/Rating: No warnings
The day after her unsettling encounter with the woman in the park, Clare made her way home from work, taking the same path she always did, when something prompted her to turn left where she always turned right. When she realized it, she told herself she’d turn around at the next block, but the next block found her continuing on, until she turned another corner and found herself assaulted by glitz and lights. Even in the early evening, sun still in the sky, the lights were bright and overwhelming. Every door led somewhere she didn’t want to go, and she’d strayed far enough from her usual path that she wasn’t sure how to get back where she needed to be. People jostled as they passed by her, and she finally moved along a curved sidewalk, past fountains, hoping for a moment of peace to gain her bearings again.
When she turned her head, a door beckoned to her, a sign offering an art exhibition inside. She’d been to museums back in Ohio and remembered their quiet peace. Even if she didn’t understand what was on the walls, it would provide her with a break from the waves of people. She slipped inside, paid the admission fee, and found herself in a haven of stillness. She held her purse close to her body as she began to wander around the rooms, worried that she would somehow bump into something and break it or ruin it. She felt like she had to hold her breath inside, but it didn’t stop her from circling the rooms to look at the pieces.
Her slow circuit stopped in front of one piece, and she simply stared at it. She didn’t understand it, not at all, but something about it made her want to study it more, trying to find every detail. She pulled her cardigan more around herself out of nervous habit and in reaction to the cool climate control of the gallery.
Elias didn’t come to his exhibits to admire his own work. Once a piece was done, it was done, finished, and he set it from his mind because otherwise he would obsess over its composition and execution. The emotional drain of most of his pieces was also a deep sacrifice, and he often didn’t want to relive the experience. However, he enjoyed watching people react to his work. It was one of the things he enjoyed most about being a popular artist; more people saw his work and therefore more people reacted to it. He visited the Gallery often, though not every day, stopping by for a few minutes here and there during opening hours, just to see the expressions and hear the opinions. He wasn’t in it to make a spectacle of himself, and he’d asked that the gallery prevent his picture from appearing in the exhibit booklet. He also refused to comment on any of the pieces for their individual blurbs. The booklet, therefore, was not helpful at all, and provided no answers or interpretation.
Elias was having a rough few days. He’d discovered, that despite forty years of sanity, he had an alternate personality. He also had discovered that the alternate personality was an insufferably arrogant, blindingly brilliant British guy with the personality of a spoiled five-year-old. It was a hellish set of realizations, and only a great deal of experience in the more unpleasant turnings of life had kept Elias from seeking out therapists and easy outs. He welcomed the distraction. He liked the completely lost look on the young woman’s face, and he stepped up beside her where she faced the painting.
Sherlock was quick to supply information. Office worker, from her sleeves. Unmarried, from her left hand. Devoutly religious, probably in the long-term judging from the knees of her tights and the cross around her neck. Relatively new to the area, from the attire, which would be hard to find in the immediate Las Vegas area. Lives alone, no pets, spends very little time outside. Almost certainly a virgin. Elias was annoyed at knowing so much he had no interest in knowing. “What do you think of it?” He hid his annoyance with Sherlock from her, a friendly smile accenting a lined but clean-shaven face. All of his tattoos were hidden by a clean, unremarkable white cotton shirt with long sleeves and black jeans, and his hair could use a comb.
Clare was not one to be extremely aware of her surroundings, especially when so focused on something like she was on the painting, even when it involved someone else stopping close by, and she startled slightly at the low voice suddenly near her. She kept her arms wrapped around herself and took a slight step to the side, eyes wide when she looked away from the canvas. The blush nearly instantly stained her cheeks, guilty at being caught staring so blatantly at the piece of art. Her response caught in her throat when she saw the man addressing her, and she tried to swallow around it. “Nice,” she managed, unaware she was talking to the artist, “...I think.” Her words were uncertain, as she wasn’t even certain what her own thoughts were. She was unable to hold his gaze and returned her eyes to the canvas. “I don’t understand it,” she whispered, very aware of how loud her voice seemed in the quiet gallery. “But I think it’s nice.”
Elias looked down into the girl’s face. She was flustered, and by something so small as a mild question, by something so nonthreatening as his presence within an arm’s reach, and he was immediately struck with the feeling that he was a clumsy idiot trying to handle delicate blown glass. He eased slightly back several inches to give her room, his dark eyes faintly apologetic. He pocketed his hands. “Nice,” he repeated, smiling reassuringly. Elias had a generous smile and he gave it often. “What’s nice about it?” He glanced at the painting but the look was dismissive in comparison to his eyes on her. He had no idea what she had to be guilty about; he’d seen that look on the faces of shoplifters and men picking up a hooker, not on people in his exhibits.
Clare wasn’t even aware of how her body relaxed when the man next to her took a step back. Not that she could in any way be called relaxed, but there was at least a small easing of the tension that held her shoulders. She knew she could talk to people - had gone to school, had friends back home - but the bustle of a city like Las Vegas had taken her usually quiet self and increased it to the extreme in the past months, into the shy thing that had taken refuge in the gallery. She tried to find something within herself that would allow her to participate in the conversation without stammering and blushing, and for a brief moment, her shoulders squared into something more certain. It was something sharp, sure, that whispered of confidence and an almost military discipline, and it sat strangely stiff along her spine. She was able to hold it for only a moment before she softened again with her next breath.
“I like the... the yellows?” She began to reach out a hand, gesturing at the corner of the canvas, her hand delicate, as if she was reaching out toward something that would shatter with merely a thought instead of paint over heavy fabric. She pulled back sharply once she realized what she was doing. Her hand had been a good 3 feet from the painting, at least, but she flushed again guiltily, as if she’d actually touched the canvas. It didn’t stop her from staring at the painting though, focusing on that instead of the man at her side. She might not understand the art, but it seemed the lesser of two evils at the moment.
“The flowers?” Elias asked, figuring she didn’t mean any of the shades he’d used in the concrete of the sidewalk or the more prominent circles of the false headlights. This wasn’t one of his favorite works; he’d been experimenting with color and he didn’t often do that. He was more drawn to the blues, and the yellow had a garish, primary look that reminded him of that awful chain clothes store that sold a lot of sweaters. He was fond of his little flowers, though. He smiled at them, leaning forward for the first time that day and trying to see them how she saw them. He had to be within a foot of the surface of the paint. “Why?”
“All the yellows? I mean, I like the flowers, but I like yellow. It’s... like sun?” She made a face at herself trying to describe what she liked about the painting, certain that she sounded foolish and ignorant. She couldn’t just ignore his questions though, so she did her best. She watched as he began to move forward, her eyes going wide again the closer he drew to the canvas. Her gaze flickered nervously around the gallery, looking for the security she was certain would jump out at any moment when the man got too close. When he was closer than she thought would ever be allowed, she finally reached out a shaky hand as if she could be the one to stop him. “No, don’t!” Her words were soft but urgent, and she actually took a step toward him as she reached forward.
“Sunny,” Elias said, thoughtfully. Elias wasn’t intending on touching his work, because he’d actually forgotten himself and done that several times, in both Monte Carlo and Kyoto, setting off several alarms. People had come running and accused him of things; it was very awkward. Unfortunately he wasn’t expecting her to come near him and interfere, and in a sudden movement smelling of cigarettes and turpentine, he stepped back, collided with her, and went forward again. He nudged the painting and the alarms started wailing. “Shit,” Elias said, stepping quickly back again and putting an arm out as if to protect her from the sound--or perhaps retreat. This close he smelled a little better, though very male, which probably didn’t help in this circumstance. “It’s fine, they know me.”
The sudden contact with him drew a gasp from her, shocked, and she stepped backward in the opposite direction he did to get away. It didn't stop a pained, dismayed sound from her as the alarms started, and she looked around again for the security that she was certain would be coming at any second. She wrapped her arms even tighter around her body, trying to make herself as small and harmless-looking as possible. She wanted to either run away or hide behind him (no matter how nervous he made her), but as much as the alarms frightened her, she felt at least partially responsible for the wailing warnings. If there was going to be trouble, she needed to face it, even though she might not want to. She wasn’t sure what the man meant by being known by the gallery, but the fact that it was said while the alarms were still blaring didn’t give her much hope. She nodded, but it didn’t come out at all confident.
Elias glanced back at her and gave her a reassuring smile, but he had to refocus on a quickly approaching attendant with a Bellagio nametag. The attendant didn’t know him from Peter, and Elias didn’t want to throw his name around as if it was important. “Sorry, I tripped. I’m sure security saw.” Elias turned his head and looked directly at a camera that he probably wasn’t meant to see, but Sherlock had noted ages ago. He gave it an apologetic half-smile, and then refocused on the attendant, who was looking grim-faced at the landscape, which was now askew. Someone cut the alarm (Elias and his sidekick clearly didn’t look intimidating enough) and a woman with a sharp-cut suit was approaching at haste. She had “manager” written all over her and a wide smile was across her features. Elias realized he was about to get recognized and he turned quickly around with his arm curved into the air just behind Clare’s shoulders. “We were just on our way out. I think. Yes. Right?” He looked down at her.
The alarms were overwhelming, even when they cut out, the silence ringing through ears that still expected wails. The sudden quiet made her blink as she tried to follow the conversation between the man near her and the gallery security. As nervous as the attendant made her, the woman in the obviously expensive outfit was even worse, all sharp and smile. She couldn’t help the half-step back, wanting to put more distance between herself and the woman, but the shift brought her shoulders solidly into contact with the man’s arm. She wanted to shy away again, but while he made her stomach twist with nervousness, the man was somehow (inexplicably) preferable to the gallery employees headed their way. “Yes,” she agreed, barely thinking about her answer, voice soft. She was more certain than she had been though, something strange within her telling her that she should trust this man enough to follow him. It was a thought that disturbed her, frightened her, but that she couldn’t ignore. “Yes, leaving...”
Elias knew the gallery woman would love to make a scene about him being there just to attract attention and please her high-rollers, and there was nothing Elias wanted less than to be made into an exhibit himself. “Leaving,” he repeated, in a clipped tone that was not Elias and not particularly American. “You’ll want to work on the pressure sensors, they’re a few millimeters off...” And they were moving, Elias long strides in clean jean and confident presence. He didn’t touch her again and his arm dropped from the shadow of her shoulders before they even made it out of the gallery, but once they touched carpet and the ringing of the casino was almost audible, he stopped at the corner and smiled at her again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hustle you out. Did you get to see everything you wanted to see?”
Clare didn’t notice the different tone, but the off-hand comment and following Elias’ confident presence were at the same time strange and yet familiar. Her steps became certain in the wake of his longer strides, keeping a certain close distance that seemed somehow natural. Whatever comfort that had settled on her shoulders during their short walk disappeared again moments after they stopped moving, certainty fading back into awkwardness. The familiarity lingered in her gaze, trying to hang on, but it passed quickly. “It’s fine,” she finally replied, voice soft again. “I wasn’t looking for anything. I just...” The blush returned as she made her admission, “I got lost. On my way home. And I needed to get away from... everything.” It was a struggle, but she forced herself to look at him and give him an unsure smile in response to his own.
Elias, who had enjoyed several hours of silence because Sherlock had been cataloging the scents of different hotel soaps and musing at how easy it was to differentiate three star tourists from five, was suddenly barraged with noise, thoughts and sensation. He came to a slow stop as he prevented Sherlock from taking any kind of control, and then working out his feelings from Sherlock’s overdramatic urgency. Something about incongruous bearing. “I know what you mean,” he said, distractedly. Then, as if disbelieving that he could even be asking this, he added, “You’ve never been in the army, have you? In Britain?”
Clare lost the blush as confusion washed over her at the man’s questions. “No?” Her eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. It was a bizarre question, in her opinion, and she wondered if he was actually serious. She actually looked down at herself, as if to check that she still appeared the same way she always had. The sight of her skirt and simple shoes reassured her that she still looked the same, and she returned her gaze to his. “I’d never left Ohio before I came here.” She didn’t add that she hated the thought of fighting, that it made her sick to think of it.
Elias had the smile back and he was quick to reassure her. “I don’t know why I asked, you just had this... upright bearing that made me think of it.” He laughed to brush it off, again reassuring, and without thinking patted the back of her shoulder to one side of her neck. “Just ignore me. Artists have weird ideas sometimes, that’s what they tell me.” The black tattoo lines just visible as he stretched his arm away made his wrist and hand seem both longer and thinner. “I’m glad you’re getting out and seeing the sights. Try to avoid clumsy people in art galleries from here on, though.” His dark eyes twinkled at her with amusement.
Clare stared at him, but tried to respond with another smile. She still had no idea what he was talking about, but he was pleasant enough, even in his strangeness. The quick hand on her shoulder didn’t make her shy away until it was gone, as if she’d forgotten to respond to it at first. Instead, she studied his wrist, the black lines intriguing but something in her mind said that they shouldn’t be there. It was a long moment before she shook herself from her thoughts and nodded. “I... think I’ll just head home. Stop taking wrong turns.” Her own smile was uncertain and faded quickly.
“Sometimes that’s the only way to see the good stuff,” Elias said, rotating slowly in place on the finely decorative carpet outside the gallery. Wide doors that opened into the cement gardens of the Bellagio pool flooded the hallway, and he eyed it for a moment before orienting himself toward the casino. “Keep wandering,” he told her, smiling, and then he stepped away toward the hotel.
Clare shook her head slowly at both of his comments, and watched his back as he stepped away. When he was far enough away that she felt like she could catch her breath, she turned and fled the building, hailing the first cab she found and paying more than she thought was appropriate to take her home.