Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “It is my job,” John shrugged. She caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, displaying his usual happy-go-lucky attitude. His long sideburns were pronounced underneath his brown top hat and his expression had an easy-going frivolity about it.

  Which utterly annoyed her. Ordinarily she would find that countenance most attractive, but she had seen a new side to John Watson which made her question the direction of her regard. It seemed to her that John Watson was a bit too enamored of feminine attention—and a bit too free and easy with his affections.

  She smiled to herself. Funny that Sherlock Holmes had no desire whatsoever for such attentions, and John Watson could not have enough.

  Mirabella glanced in the direction of the tiger cages. It seemed that she was destined to be surrounded by extremes.

  As for the tigers, her charges were all sleeping. It was becoming easier to manage them. Insofar as anyone managed a tiger. Her near death experience had actually increased her courage aground the tigers, a surprising outcome.

  Ashanti had taught her a great deal about loving the tigers—while reminding her that one must be on her guard at all times. Mirabella had most certainly not lost her fear, but that was the sign of a good trainer, Ashanti had said.

  She turned momentarily to face the indecorous doctor and he tipped is hat to her, smiling. She sighed. Almost instantly, he was able to work his magic. But at least now, she knew what was happening: it was all a lovely game. Which would be fine were she the only other player.

  Smiling at her, John Watson looked ever-so-dashing instead of guilty (as he should have!) in his white pin-striped shirt with pearl cuff-links, brown leather suspenders, and grey wool slacks. In fact, far from looking remorseful, he appeared to be having a most delightful time of it.

  “What? Are you angry because I’ve been spending time with Miss Janvier?” John moved closer to her and she felt a pleasant awareness of his proximity. “I didn’t know you cared, Miss Mirabella.”

  “It’s none of my affair, I am sure.” She stepped away, returning to her whip. She executed an overhead crack, circling her own head. “And I’ll thank you to return to your affairs so that I might attend to mine, Dr. Watson.”

  He took her gently by the wrist, willing her to look at him, his entire manner elegantly seductive. “There’s nothing to it, Miss Mirabella.”

  “Nothing to what, Dr. Watson?” She let out an exasperated sigh, letting her hand fall and turning to him.

  “To the whole thing with Miss Janvier,” he replied breezily. “Just following orders.”

  “So,” she murmured. “Are you telling me that you’re not enjoying yourself?”

  “Did I say such a thing?” he smiled boyishly, looking alarmingly charming.

  “Or that you haven’t . . . that you didn’t . . . that you aren’t . . . doing more than the role requires?”

  “Miss Hudson!” He winked at her. “A gentleman would never speak of such things—and, for a woman to do so is considered quite forward!”

  “What an odd turn of events that a forward woman should repulse you, Dr. Watson.” She yanked her arm from him and snapped her whip in a figure eight beside her, just missing him.

  “I’m not repulsed at all,” he remarked, moving closer to her in the moment her whip dropped. He took her chin in his hand, and she felt her heartbeat increase. “I am, Miss Mirabella, excessively flattered.”

  “And why should you be flattered, Dr. Watson?” she demanded breathlessly, backing up, even as she felt flushed. He took her into his strong arms, looking down at her, and she held onto the whip with some difficulty.

  “Because you, Miss Mirabella, are jealous.”

  “J-j-jealous?” she gasped, but she did not attempt to move away from him. Instead the whip fell out of her now limp hands as she gazed into eyes the color of the sea, utterly focused on her. “You can’t be serious!”

  He moved forward to kiss her.

  She thought about pulling away from him. Truly she did. But he was so focused on her. John Watson was a wonderful man and an incomparable friend. And so handsome.

  “Miss Mirabella,” he continued. “Would you like me to kiss you?”

  “Why?” she demanded coolly, but her heartbeat was rapidly increasing. “Are you not being kissed enough, John?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Miss Mirabella. I am being kissed. But I venture to state the warmth of those kisses are based on the state of my pocketbook. Were that to go empty . . . Well, enough said on that. I would prefer to kiss someone I . . . have some feelings for.”

  “And what feelings might those be?” she asked lightly.

  “Admiration. Affection. Fascination.” He took off his top hat and held it in his left hand. With her chin in his right hand, slowly he bent towards her lips even as she felt her chest rise and fall in anticipation.

  Stop! She knew she should stop him since she wasn’t seriously considering a relationship with the good doctor any longer. Only a strumpet would encourage a man in such a way!

  And yet—he was so dreamy!—what was the harm? She had wondered for so long what it would be like to kiss John. Would he think her a loose woman? Clearly that was precisely the type of woman he liked!

  Her lips were shaking she knew. But she shut her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the kiss—perhaps the only real kiss she would ever have.

  Which was quite wonderful to be sure. A magical foray into the unknown. She felt that she might melt as the softness of his lips touched hers.

  His kiss was teasing, enticing, exciting.

  But it felt more like playing around than love—or even desire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jump Ship

  “John,” she pulled away. “This wasn’t a good idea.”

  “It’s the best idea I’ve had all day,” he murmured. Boldly, he moved his arms around her waist. She was a beautiful woman, and her performances in every manner of shimmering and revealing costume had made him inescapably aware of that fact.

  And what a form! The girl was slim, but muscular, amply endowed, and with gorgeous long legs. Her chestnut brown hair sat atop her head, and her large, warm brown eyes were mesmerizing.

  How could I have not seen it before?

  Mirabella Hudson was also everything a man could want in a woman: pure, loyal, engaging—all this, and without airs. There was nothing manipulative about her.

  She wouldn’t know how.

  The fire in her eyes thrilled him. She was alive with a passion not yet expressed.

  A real passion. Not a contrived passion which Miss Janvier utilized to manipulate men. He sometimes wondered if the Russian femme fatale felt anything at all.

  He leaned down to kiss her again.

  “Watson!” commanded Holmes, entering the arena. “What are you about?”

  Holmes’ eyes moved from one to the other. Anger flushed his face, but he regained his composure almost instantly, one of his remarkable gifts.

  And yet, Holmes’ manner was even more brusque than usual as he moved towards them. “Miss Janvier is calling for you. Make haste, Watson.”

  As John reluctantly headed for the tent entrance, their paths crossed, both of them some twenty feet from Miss Hudson but within hearing range of each other.

  “Miss Belle is not for you, Watson,” Holmes muttered under his breath.

  “How do you know, Holmes? I never met a finer girl,” John replied. And so inexperienced. He would love to teach her the art of love. He had always planned to settle down at some point; he was not strange like Holmes. He wished for love and family.

  But the war had happened, then he had almost died, then Holmes had saved him. In the meantime, women found him appealing and he was not one to disavow them of the notion.

  The truth be told, he wasn’t ready to settle down yet, but when he was . . .

  Sherlock’s expression grew somber. “Do catch a clue, my good fellow.”

  “It appears I am without one,” John replied, ducking out of t
he tent.

  ***

  Ah, well, then let me provide you with a clue, my friend—but I warn you, I shall not repeat it, so you had best take note of it. Sherlock turned to move towards Miss Belle, furious. He knew she was not truly to blame with such an experienced ladies’ man as Watson, and yet Sherlock felt an intense anger which required a release.

  “What are you about Miss Hudson? Do you find it utterly impossible to behave in a professional manner?”

  Why am I so angry? If she wishes to throw herself at libertines, who am I to stop her? She shall learn soon enough.

  “Why? Because I like John Watson?”

  “Because we three have a professional relationship and you are to treat both Watson and myself as such. Do you have no sense of propriety, Miss Hudson? Do you wish to compromise every mission with your childish pranks and girlish whims?”

  Man, get a hold of yourself! You won’t be pursuing Miss Belle—that you have already decided—so it is nothing to say to you.

  “Oh, for heavens’ sake, Sherlock, it was only a kiss.” Disappointment crossed her face, which was even worse.

  “Only a kiss. Only a kiss? And what next? Is that how you regard being in a man’s arms? As a playful interlude?”

  “I suppose so,” she retorted. “Yes, it was rather like that.”

  “Miss Hudson!” he exclaimed. “I am sorely ashamed!”

  “No doubt you are, Mr. Holmes.” She raised her eyebrow at him. “But I don’t see how it is any of your affair.”

  Sherlock stared at her, aghast. The beautiful woman before him, no longer a girl. He recalled when he had held her in his arms at Miss de Beauvais’ Christmas ball, what an enchanted evening that had been.

  That was a lie—as all emotion was.

  Emotion and women were not to be trusted. Get a hold of yourself, man! You are eight and twenty years! These are the rules you have lived by all your life—with great success!

  This is no time to jump ship.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  On the Clock

  “Actually it wasn’t even a kiss.” Sherlock didn’t need to know that there had been a kiss before the second one which he had—thankfully—broken up. She had wanted to know what it would be like to kiss a handsome, wonderful, grown man—outside of a peck or two at home with a country boy when she was young, it was her first real kiss—and she didn’t regret it, marvelous as it was.

  She was unaccustomed to the attentions of men—much less worldly, debonair, handsome men—was it any wonder she had fallen for John Watson?

  Not this girl. Not any more.

  She was older and wiser now, and that was a thing of the past. She had no use for a man who was only playing the field. She would prefer to be alone than to pine over that type! Besides, she and John Watson would remain friends and colleagues, she had no doubt.

  Which was where she should have left it to begin with. She loved John as a friend, but she could not envision a more serious commitment—on either side.

  She could thank Joëlle Janvier for that lesson and for opening her eyes. Wasn’t it the oddest thing how so often a person one wholly disliked brought important lessons into one’s life?

  “Thank the heavens I was there to put a stop to this nonsense!” Sherlock pulled at his blue satin vest.

  Yes, thank the heavens Sherlock hadn’t seen the kiss. He was so often a mind-reader, she began to wonder if not actually seeing the act made the slightest difference in the world.

  “I had thought Watson was the one to watch, but perhaps it is you, Miss Belle!”

  “Sherlock Holmes!” Her mouth flew open in shock, her face now flushed. “How dare you!”

  “How dare I what?”

  “Oh, that is outside of enough!” She was furious. “I have the right to determine for myself whom I wish to kiss, and you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, have nothing to say to it!” He almost made her want to pursue John Watson again.

  Almost.

  “Miss Hudson, there is no employer in the world who would not dismiss you for kissing a man while on his clock, and well you know it.”

  “I am always on your clock, Mr. Holmes,” she fumed.

  “Good. I am glad that we finally come to an understanding.”

  “But John . . . Dr. Watson . . . he is kissing Miss Janvier—at your request, no less!” She felt a fury to match the look in his eyes. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but how can you be such a hypocrite?”

  “Romancing Miss Janvier is Watson’s assigned task—which, I might add, he has performed with admirable eagerness. Perhaps you should remind yourself of that before allowing Watson to take liberties with you, Miss Belle,” he retorted, his voice cracking as he spoke the words.

  “Remind myself of what?” she demanded.

  “That his services are for sale.”

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I greatly resent your taking that tone with me—not to mention talking that way about your friend!”

  “John Watson is the best of friends—perhaps my only friend. And you, my dear, are my only employee. Remember that. Your affections you may give freely to whosoever you so wish, but do not jeopardize my work. That I can never forgive.”

  “So you have said. I am well aware that nothing else matters to you but your work, Mr. Holmes.” She pursed her lips. “You are the most unfeeling man on the planet—almost a machine. And yet, I have the strange sense that you would not wish me to like any man.” He moved closer to her and she felt her skin tingle as she felt his breath on her neck.

  He loosened his necktie. “Naturally, it would interfere with my work. And, again, there is not an employer in the world who feels differently. Girls who become involved, shall we say, are dismissed. There are no married maids, only the upper servants would be allowed to marry.”

  “In the first place, I am not a maid, by your own admission,” she retorted. He had called her the world’s first lady detective! “And second, I don’t think that it is quite fair to expect me to have no warmth or feeling for anyone—as you do not.”

  “Would that it were so.”

  “You don’t wish to have any feelings, Mr. Holmes?” She studied him.

  “I do not.” He tipped his hat to her. “And nor should you. Good day, Miss Hudson.”

  She placed her hands are her hips. “Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  One's Patriotic Duty

  “There is no need to proceed to Miss Janvier’s dressing room, Watson,” Sherlock intervened, taking his friend’s arm, which required no small amount of force given Watson’s forward movement. “The case is solved.”

  Dr. John Watson’s broad smile diminished instantly at the news of their success. He carried a bottle of champagne and a large bouquet of red roses, a complimentary contrast to his olive green tweed three-piece suit. A brown top-hat and pearl cuff-links completed the doctor’s ensemble, giving him the appearance of one who was both eager and dapper.

  “Your services are no longer required, Watson,” Sherlock repeated.

  “What? Excuse me?” The good doctor’s fallen countenance was pronounced.

  “You have fulfilled your duty.”

  “Do you have all the answers you seek?” Watson asked, brushing blonde hair out of his eyes with his free hand. “Surely there is something else I can discover?”

  “No doubt, but it would be of no interest to national security.” Sherlock stared at his friend pointedly. “We have concluded that Miss Janvier murdered Beckham—the results from the lab conclude the match between Miss Janvier’s red rouge and a scent on Beckham’s body. The fact that the scent was in her room rules out Stanislav Afanasy and condemns her.”

  As well as the attack on Miss Belle by a person too slight to be Stanislav and the scent on Miss Belle’s cape. Sherlock had thought it better to keep the attack from Watson as any alteration in the good doctor’s behavior towards the femme fatale could have put Watson in immanent danger. Sherlock still held to this opinion until the resourceful Russian sp
y was behind bars. John Watson was loyal above all things, and he would be furious were he to be apprised of Miss Belle’s endangerment.

  Sherlock smiled to himself. As was he. But he intended to enact his revenge with a cooler head.

  “It’s difficult to believe Miss Janvier murdered Beckham,” Watson considered.

  “There are indications that she has designs on the Czar even though she is officially working for Okhrana,” Sherlock said. “We’re going to take her in for questioning. The British government wants her for Beckham. The Czar’s government is interested in her as a possible double agent. We believe she attempted to get information from Prince George to pass onto the Czar in order to gain favor and access. But none of this can be made known to Miss Janvier—yet.”

  “So I can still be of use, Holmes?” asked Watson hopefully.

  “No. You’re lucky to be alive, Watson. I want to pull you out while you still are.” Sherlock tapped his can on the ground. “At my insistence, Prince George has been advised in the strongest terms to sever the relationship.”

  “He must be quite disappointed,” sighed Watson.

  “He is bearing up as best he can,” replied Sherlock.

  Watson sighed. “Are you certain there is nothing more I can do? If there are unanswered questions, I’m sure I can oblige . . .”

  “We all appreciate the great sacrifice which you have made, old chap.” Sherlock bowed his head with reverence.

  “It was a regrettable piece of business.”

  “Indeed. Your feelings on the matter were obvious to even the dullest of observers, Watson.”

  Suddenly Watson’s countenance rose. “At least I should tell Miss Janvier I won’t be able to meet her this evening. We had a dinner planned. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  “Decidedly.” Sherlock sighed heavily, taking a step back. He removed himself from the pathway, doubting that he would be able to physically retain Watson without knocking him out. Thankfully Mycroft had placed a French policeman outside Miss Janvier’s door—for her safety or for the safety of her suitors was a question debatable.