Warren Eliot (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} deductively) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} bellumlogs,@ 2010-05-03 21:59:00 |
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Who: Warren Eliot and Iris Thorpe
What: Holmes and Irene Adler go out for the night, then turn back.
When: End of the fables plot.
Where: Broadway, then Bellum
Rating: Language. This is Eliot, folks.
Irene was still laughing when they passed through the theatre lobby, out past the ticket booths, and into the street pressed with other musical lovers. "It was so fanciful!" she chuckled, as she pulled her hair off her neck to adjust the wrap against the new chill. It had been an extraordinarily late showing, some special encore, and many of those around them were in full Wicked get-up. A giggling teenager with a green face swept by, and Iris was hard pressed to conceal her mirth. She had no literary precedence to compare the show to, and though it had been filled with technological marvels and thrilling pyrotechnics that didn't exist in her day, she still found it fantastical bordering on ridiculous.
"I found it quite fascinating," Holmes said with a smile. "The costumes, the scenery, and especially those flying monkeys. My counterpart assures me that 'wire tricks' as he calls them are quite ordinary in this day." He loved it, having two distinct sets of memories to juggle. Made the entire experience more entertaining, especially because he had access to the emotions attached to Eliot's memories as well. The man had problems, that was for sure, but not to the extent Holmes was incapable of dealing with. "I wish they had thought to serve wine in our day, don't you? Would have made some of the performances tolerable, if nothing else."
"Can you imagine, wine at the theatre." Irene had a glass before the show, a glass during the show, and a glass after the show, going from a nice red blush to a very dry chardonnay by turns. She was, therefore, not a touch tipsy, to the point where she could be very silly if she chose and have the wine as a convenient excuse. (Iris and Irene both has a considerable tolerance for alcohol, but neither thought it was ladylike--or prudent--to show it.) She laughed again, musical and soft enough to be a giggle, if such a thing were proper. "It was spectacular, was it not? Everything they say the traveling circus troupes are supposed to be. I wish the singing had been more in the way of what I'm used to," she added, a little wistfully. Wicked had been nothing like operatic, though she admitted the songs would take some skill to preform with accuracy.
"The audiences would entertain even if the actors failed!" All in all, a proposition Holmes would have very much supported. His love of the performing arts was no secret, but he was discriminating in his tastes. While the musical Wicked had been nothing like either the opera or the stage that he adored so much, he had to admit that it had achieved a happy medium. "As much as I do love the Opera, I must admit that it was a pleasant change." He wondered how Irene would sound, singing one of those songs. He decided to ask her to perform, the next time the two of them were out and about. "Did it make you miss the stage?" Holmes wondered for a moment if the question was too familiar, but dismissed the thought. It certainly wasn't as familiar as they had been the last time.
"One never forgets the stage," Irene said, smiling. She pulled at the front of her wrap over the front of her dress, and slowed her step. When one is in a corset, one cannot catch her breath enough to walk with haste. This was a fact of life in Irene's time. "Though I very much doubt I could concentrate on singing with sparks and gunpowder exploding in my face." The theatre asked quite a lot of its worshipers, and Irene, as any of them, would do what was necessary. Once she adjusted, she probably would have been strung up on wires too. She was convinced that she needed no such measures to impress an audience, however.
She took his arm again, rather trustingly, to step off the curb.
In his own way, Holmes could relate. He appropriated disguises and identities as much as any actor, even if his performances were for specific people instead of large audiences. He would not have had the patience for the stage, he was. And even if he did, he would probably have no tolerance for the director. That was just how things happened with Sherlock Holmes. But Irene, now she was different. Everything he learned about the woman spoke volumes as to her dedication and determination. A woman who could dedicate months to a single job could certainly handle the modern stage. "I'm sure you could," he said with a smile. "Once you became accustomed to it, you would barely notice it."
They walked a few more blocks away from the crowds and the bright signs announcing the various shows playing this season. "Would you like to walk the rest of the way back or prefer another 'cab'?"
"How far is it?" It was a rhetorical question she offered to fill the space left by his question: a common polite conversational convention, and one that every Victorian lady was familiar with. She turned her head around to orient herself. "It's not so far," she decided. "Perhaps we shall stroll?" She tipped her head as if she still wearing her hat, showing him an inquiring glint in one bright eye. Iris had gray eyes, a handy feature because she could alter the color by wearing strong shades that cast the illusion of blue, or green, or even brown. When she wore black, her eyes were dark and unreadable. The soft pink just enhanced the natural gray, and turned them silver in the bright lights.
"That would be wonderful," Holmes said agreeably. He had been hoping she would choose the walk, as it would allow him more time with her before they had to end the night. "The City is beautiful at night." They had moved away from the hustle and bustle of broadway, but the streets were still filled with lights. "I can see why he likes it so much." Eliot's fondness for the City was one of the few things the man had no qualms hiding, and Holmes in turn felt some of the emotion seep in. "Not a bad alternative to London, I must admit." At the end of the day, Holmes would always be the Queen's man. His eyes became pensive, as his voice grew soft. "London must be magnificent as well." He had Eliot's memories of his homeland, but it wasn't the same when seen through a foreigner's eyes.
"He loves it?" Irene sounded surprised, and she didn't hide her interest. "I didn't know he loved anything," she admitted. Irene too had thoughts of London, which she liked very well, but she didn't have a place she truly thought of as 'home' unless it was the red velvet curtains and smokey lights of the stage. Her thoughts were largely speculative when it came to places. It was people that really captured her--that, and the pursuit of wealth and security.
"It's one of the few things he's not in denial about loving," Holmes laughed. Eliot was becoming agitated somewhere in the back of his head, but he ignored it. "He's fond of England as well, because of his mother, but not to this extent." He paused for a moment, turning to consider Irene in the electric street light. "How about her? Does she like it?" Holmes knew Eliot was perpetually curious about Iris's point of view, and couldn't help but share the feeling, to a degree.
Irene wet her lips and turned her chin as if she needed to watch her footing. "She likes... the weather. But not the food... or the people, really." She sighed. "She has unfortunate memories of the city, and it colors her view. All her views are colorful." Iris was absolutely right to be concerned about how chatty Irene would be about her. She liked Holmes, and talking with him, and she was fascinated with her state of being with the woman. This did not lend to keeping secrets. "She knows it is not quite reasonable, though."
Holmes sighed. "He seems to think he's a part of those unfortunate memories." He left out mentioning that he didn't agree. If Iris hated Eliot as much as he thought she did, there would be no reason for the woman to associate with him as much as she did. Holmes theorized that Iris had a certain fondness for the fool, even if the man was too blind to see it. "Given her history with him, that's understandable. He's not entirely reasonable either. Or perhaps, he is simply reasonable to an unreasonable degree." Holmes was dangerously close to revealing Eliot's most intimate thoughts about Iris, not for sport, but because he found Irene a good companion to discuss them with. Eliot could do nothing except watch, horrified.
Irene patted his arm. She wore no gloves, having stowed them somewhere in the pockets of her gown at her waist during the show. They were small white lace things, anyway, and would not have helped against the cold. "She doesn't think of him that way. Though we both agree with you on the unreasonable reasonableness." Here she smiled almost seraphically, largely because Iris would have her face in her hands by this point. The two women were not as divided as Holmes and Eliot (poor man), so Irene was a bit more mindful of what Iris might want because, generally, she tended to want the same things. "He is a very safe person to know, at the moment," she added, trying to be diplomatic for Iris' sake. Something in her eye invited Holmes to inquire a bit further, however. Maybe it was the wine.
"He would probably qualify as the least dangerous person in the building!" Holmes grinned, "I mean mortally, of course." That self-examining (so to speak) look returned. "Although I think he attributes less to himself than he should. A part of him knows what he is capable of, and he's afraid of it." The formerly crotchety tenant in his head grew furious, and Holmes knew that had they been standing face to face, Eliot would have taken a swing at him. Nobody was supposed to hear the things Holmes was sharing, and to Eliot this was the grossest abuse of privileged information. Holmes did not care about Eliot's feelings, and he chose to take up the unspoken invitation. "Why does she think he's safe?"
"Because he doesn't like her," Irene answered, readily. She seemed relatively cheerful about the topic. Iris' comfort with Eliot only made it easier for her to be with Holmes. Meanwhile, the both of them were theorizing away about what Eliot could be capable of (mortally, morally, or otherwise). "He is very capable, though, when he puts his mind to something," she said, as if they were both talking about a neighbor's dog who happened to be very well-behaved.
Holmes laughed. It was long and hearty, and probably the first time either of the two women had heard the men to do so. "Eliot doesn't quite know what he thinks about her, but I can tell you that he's developed a sort of fondness for her." His tone carried no indication as to whether or not this 'fondness' was anything more than what one would feel for a pesky, yet endearing distant cousin. He couldn't give away all the man's cards, now could he?
Irene's head whipped all the way around, eyebrows up. "Really?" As if disbelieving.
Holmes's paused, startled by the reaction. "After six years, it seems inevitable, doesn't it?"
"Not really. I--I mean, she--thought it was..." Irene paused, trying to find the line and whether or not she was crossing it, "professional in nature."
"Everything must appear as professional for him. Yes, years of chasing her has created a 'working relationship' between them, but between us," he paused, flashing a conspiratorial grin, "I believe there's a personal element as well."
Irene was stunned, and she looked down to hide it, blinking rapidly. "Oh dear," she said, in a much more modulated tone. "That does make things complicated." She reached down to pick up her skirts a few inches as they stepped off the curb. The next block stood in the shadow of the formidable Bellum Letale. From this angle, some of the greenery on the roof was visible.
Holmes had not intended to startle Irene. "There's nothing to worry about, I assure you." The grin vanished from his face, as he considered what to say next. "I just mean to say that he considers her somewhat of a friend." It was a lie, yes, but Eliot did not believe otherwise. And if it would help to sooth Irene's nerves, Holmes was content enough to push it.
"They have known each other a very long time," Irene replied, thoughtfully. She did not seem particularly soothed, and there was a small line between her brows that indicated some investment of thought that she wasn't sharing. "And she doesn't know very many--well." She stopped and began again, smiling. "Not very many people know her."
"It's the same with him. Apart from his parents, it's fair to say that she has known him longest." His expression cleared, his lips curling upwards at the corners. "The real him."
Irene's smile dug in deeper too, but she didn't say anything. She didn't really need to. Sobering, she said, "She hides quite a lot. He would do well to tread lightly." It was a friendly warning, and oddly directed at Eliot and not Holmes. "I think that Micah is attempting to help, but I am not sure how successful he is. It might be better if he did not meddle." Now she was speaking vaguely and staring off a little into space. "How odd!" she said, coming down to earth, "that he should be so inquisitive. It is very unlike Dr. Watson. And Eliot so... restrained... very unlike yourself."
Holmes straightened. "He has spent the better part of a decade trying to understand the workings of that woman. That is in the past for him, truly, even if she questions it." Eliot had long given up hope to ever actually understand Iris. He was completely aware of Micah's attempts to do the same, and if anything, amused by the futile attempts. She was right about Micah's inquisitiveness, and Holmes' restraint. "He thinks Micah is simply stubborn, and often wishes he were more like Watson. He is also more prudent than I am, which I find to be a waste of talent. It seems to suit him though."
"Micah is much more than that," Irene said, in that same distracted voice. "And the two of them--Eliot and Micah, I mean--are being completely ridiculous and egotistical about the whole thing." Then she said, cautiously, "I am surprised--she is surprised--that he has no professional interest. Why?"
"He knows that as well, but is much to stubborn to admit that." Holmes did not elaborate that Eliot felt a certain fondness, a very different sort of fondness than that which he felt for Iris, for the headstrong coroner as well. "It's a very long story. I've found that when it comes to things he insists on keeping to himself, it usually is. Unfortunately it seems like we will not have the chance to elaborate on it tonight." He looked past her to the building looming over them. They were back at the entrance of Bellum Letale.
Irene followed his gaze, and rather than pressing, swallowed her curiosity. Iris certainly had enough to chew on for the next month. "Ah, yes. Instead of midnight, sunrise makes more sense." She sounded rather wistful. "Well, shall we go in, so as not to startle anyone?" An abrupt change of wardrobe, she surmised, but she had absolutely no idea how Eliot and Iris would react, especially if they were out on the street. She pushed through the doors.
"This building is one of the few things he allows himself to remain curious about." He nodded, then followed her in. "We still have a few minutes. Would you like some tea?" Maybe something familiar would help dull the shock of changing back.
She cast him a look of gratitude, forgetting about Iris. "Yes, that would be lovely." She thought only of dulling the effects of the wine, really.
He guided towards the stairs, before following behind her. Eliot had heard from several sources about the temperamental elevator, and with only a dozen or so minutes until the moon set, he did not want to take any chances. "I'm afraid the place has not improved since your last visit," he said, as he searched his pockets for the keys. Many interesting things had happened during her last visit, and even though they had not discussed them that night, they had been very much in the front of Holmes's mind the entire time.
"I would think it odd if it had," she reassured him, casting a glance down the corridor behind them. The silence was a little eerie; perhaps the other residents had undergone their transformations and adequately come to terms with them so near sunrise.
Holmes opened the door to the chaotic apartment. Eliot had a water heater to help provide instant gratification to his caffeine addiction, which meant tea would be easy to make. "Please, have a seat," he gestured to the table before filling two cups with boiling water and dropping tea bags in. "I hope you enjoy Earl Grey."
"That sounds very nice." Happy to be off her feet, Irene swept her skirts out of the way gracefully and sat down on one of the available chairs, tidying the clutter on it before she did so. "Though I have tried some wonderful dark teas from the Orient before, and it is a nice change." She put her feet together and pulled them in, proper and relatively automatic. She took the opportunity to look around, noting little changes in the apartment and the items in it.
Holmes put the hot cup in front of the lady before taking a seat across her. Here they were, once again. "Does she have any theories as to why this - we happen?" Their time was almost up, in Holmes's estimation. It wouldn't hurt to ask something for Eliot, to earn himself some good will, perhaps.
"None," she replied, regretfully, picking up the cup with two fingers and blowing gently across the surface of the liquid. "Micah has theorized about souls and about religion, but none of it makes any solid sense to me." She shook off her wrap and laid it gently across the arm of the chair, then picked up the cup again. "Do you have any theories?" She tipped her head a little to one side.
"Only facts, no theories yet." Holmes said, taking a sip of the tea. It was blisteringly hot, just the way Eliot liked it. "There's the obvious connection to the building, and that the tenants are affected as soon as they move in." He stretched his neck from side to side, to relieve some of the tension that had build up due to the lack of sleep. "He's still looking for an answer that does not come from the realm of the fantastic."
"I see." Irene sipped. "I have nothing to offer, I'm afraid." She watched him think, however, clearly fascinated by the process. "I fear I have not done any investigating. It's been very dangerous." Distracted, she didn't notice the first person pronoun.
Holmes's brows shot up. "Dangerous? How?" There had been violence in the building, but none directed at Iris, as far as Eliot knew.
"The attacks on women have been particularly troubling." She chose that moment to inspect her tea, and did not meet his eyes. She kept her tone as casual as possible.
Holmes considered this. There had been attacks on both sexes, which meant there was something specific bothering her. "I see." Holmes chose not to push it further. He didn't want to make things too easy for his counterpart; Eliot could find out more the hard way over the next month.
Irene and Iris, practically one on this point, were relieved. To her, the most recent string of violence had seemed specifically focused on women, and her conversations with the woman staying in R1 had driven that point home. She did not think it was a problem easily fixed, and she was not equipped to do investigations of her own. Iris had never investigated anything; she had looked out for herself. Irene had a little more in the way of theatrical curiosity, but it wasn't enough to stay, if it hadn't been for the phenomenon that allowed them both to exist. "But clumsy," she said, strengthening her tone. "If you chose to accept the transformations as fact..."
"The actions of the tenants become much clearer," he finished. He opened his mouth to say more, but shut it quickly when he felt a now familiar lurch in his stomach. "Miss Adler," he bowed his head, "until next time."
By the time he finished the sentence, the grey suit had melted away to Eliot's standard cotton shirt and black slacks. He blinked a few times, still disorientated by the sudden shift. "Thorpe," Eliot said by way of greeting. He had no idea what to say next.
"Hello, Warren." Iris sounded tired, though she looked bright and keen in her work colors of mauve and turquoise. She brought her knees up in front of the table, smoothing her long peasant skirt down to hide her legs, and then curling them underneath her. It betrayed a certain amount of weakness, but she took it in favor of feeling a bit more secure. Stubbornly, she picked up her cup again, curling her hands around it as Irene had not.
Eliot felt as exhausted as she sounded. A full day of dread and anticipation, and there wasn't even any whiskey in his system to soothe it. If anything, he could feel a waking hangover coming on. Terrific. "That was," he paused, his eyes looking for hers as he took a large gulp of the tea, "interesting."
"Yes," she agreed, not looking up even when she saw his eyes searching. "It was a nice little jaunt." She sounded subdued, quiet. She was waiting for him to get angry at her for the things Irene and Holmes had said, sort of like listening to a fuse burn.
He grunted in response, focusing his frustration on the drink instead of the woman. "I hate the bastard," he stated flatly. "He's a prick and he knows it."
"He probably just does it to irritate you," she said, refusing to edge around it.
"He does, and it works." He smacked his cup on the table in frustration, but had fortunately drank enough to prevent the tea from sloshing out. "He does shit specifically to piss me off, the little fuck."
Iris flinched, hard enough that she squeezed the cup and it sloshed over her hand. "Ow, goddamn," she said, almost dropping the cup again and shaking scalding droplets off her hand. She hastily tried to mop it up without making more of a mess.
Eliot was on his feet before he had a chance to think about it. Grabbing a washcloth from next to the sink, he held it out for her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." his voice died, and he stood there, helpless. There was no protocol for this... whatever this was. He had no idea what she was thinking right now, after all the things Holmes had told her.
He hoped she wasn't getting the wrong impression.
"Just clumsy," she said quickly, keeping her eyes and hands busy mopping tea off of her skirt. "Lost my edge somewhere, I think." It was a poor joke. Iris would never have flinched on a job, and she had certainly never shown any sign of an unsteady hand or nerves before. Pulling herself together, she lifted her chin, put on a smile and offered the towel back.
"It's been a long day," Eliot shrugged, taking the cloth from her and dropping it in the sink. "And one hell of a night." He crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. Somewhere outside the window, the sky was showing the first signs of lightening.
Iris stood up and self-consciously brushed at the wet spot on her thigh. "I have to get to work," she said, chewing at her lower lip and looking around for a wrap that no longer existed. "I..." she looked up, blinked at him, and forgot what she was going to say.
"Right, of course," Eliot shook his head, pushing himself off the counter. "And I've been awake for over twenty four hours. We should probably..."
"Yes. I... uh. Goodnight." She blinked again, turned a shade pinker, and got the hell out of there.