Love never dies | Sherlock Holmes

Chapter IV ~ Miss Harrison

   The next day, as I was going over the final scores to teach my students while sipping my ginger tea, I was interrupted by Mrs. Smith, the mansion's head of employers.

   -Miss, you have a visitor!

   Thinking that the only person who could be looking for me was Enola, desperate for the presence of her brothers, I allowed the employee to lead the visitor to me.

   In a few moments I heard those thumping footsteps I recognized behind me, and when I turned my head, my eyes met Sherlock's face.

   I felt a twinge of embarrassment creep up on me as I was dressed in a blue satin robe and my hair was unruly down my back. I shouldn't, because within the confines of society I was decent and Sherlock was Sherlock, but I couldn't help my nervousness.

   -Good morning! he greeted. You have a very beautiful house, I've never had the chance to see it before.

   -Sherlock, good morning. Take a place! I say motioning to the couch in front of me. Who do I owe the visit to?

   -You remained as direct as always, I see, he says, and I feel my pulse increase.

   -One of the aspects I would never change, I reply.

   -Indeed, you remained as lovely as I remember.

   I don't answer him because for a fleeting moment I forget how to speak, it's impossible for me to articulate the words and I only mumble. But I recover, stubbornness and pride overcoming my weakness in beautiful words and tender flirtations.

   -Mycroft invited that woman to lunch to examine Enola, to see if she was eligible for... Whatever that boarding school is.

   -He can't be serious! I thought I convinced him last night that a finishing school was not a solution for Enola.

   -Not quite, not exactly. You wouldn't want to know what he said after you left.

   -He wouldn't want to know what I said after I left either!

   At my brutally honest last words, Sherlock chuckles and I smile in amusement.

   -On the other hand, he says, straightening his voice, you convinced me of Enola's potential. I can't get over Mycroft, she's his ward, but know that I'll support you whenever needed.

   -Thank you, I say between my lips with warmth.

   -What do you do there? he asks me after a short silence.

   The detective character does not leave him even on his free time.

   -Some sheet music for my students. Solfeges, rhythmic exercises...

   -Do you teach music? he asked in wonder.

   -You're quite behind, Sherlock, I chuckle.

   -The regret of my existence, he murmurs, but I understand every sound.

   Is he sorry for leaving me? Would he have wanted to keep in touch all these years? Would he have wanted more?

   I would like to tell him something, anything, to recite to him one of the dozens of poems I wrote for him consumed by longing, to recite word for word every monologue, every unsent letter and ephemeral thought on paper. To read my books to him so he may hear the words that hundreds have read and which were only for him.

   But all I do is keep quiet and sink my eyes into the score, locking my gaze on the whole note rest that was now the tense silence between us.

    Mrs. Smith enters the room, offering Sherlock a cup of tea, which he politely declines, making his way out.