The Case of the Waterlogged Violinist

Chapter 3

My dreams terrified me. I ran, seeking shelter and found none. The door to Baker Street beckoned to me—safety. My key wouldn't fit in the lock, so I knocked. Moriarty opened the door. "Tea?" He whined.

I took the cup, my hands shaking when John's eyeball popped to the surface. He's dead. It's my fault. They're all gone.

"Sherlock, wake up."

My eyes flew open. Irene sat on the edge of the bed, shaking my foot, being careful to stay out of kicking range. "Sherlock?" She asked again.

I sat up, disgusted when I looked down at my sweat soaked robe and sheets. "I'm sorry, you must excuse me. It appears I've had a nightmare." The room spun in circles when I attempted to stand up.

Irene took my arm, leading me back to the moist linens, where I sat down with a thud. She smoothed back my damp curls. "It appears you've had more than one."

I brushed her hand away. "I want to hear about the case, but first I need a bath."

"I've already run you one."

I grinned, allowing her to help me. We made our way across the room. I grimaced in pain. "Let's hang a detour and grab my cane." I grabbed the cane, but still allowed her to slide her arm through mine. When we entered the bathroom, I looked around at the pink, pearlescent walls in surprise. "I expected meat hooks and chains."

She smiled. "That can be arranged, if you wish it."

I smirked. "Maybe later." She helped me take off my robe, letting me lean on her, while I attempted to balance on one leg. My bloody leg feels as if it's made of lead. For Christ's sake it's just the side of a tub. Beads of sweat popped up on my brow. I gritted my teeth, breathing a sigh of relief when my foot splashed into the water with a plop. I then slid into the tub, groaning with pleasure when the warm suds enveloped me.

Irene smiled. "Such a low, sexy groan, if you weren't what you are and I wasn't what I am, we could be naughty."

I reached out and grabbed her wrist. "We could still be naughty, just not in the conventional sense." I leaned forward, handing her a sponge. "Wash my back, please."

She took the sponge, rubbing it in smooth circles over my back. "You've got such a lovely, long, white back. I would love to see it marked with a few red welts." Chill bumps rose up on my arms and I let myself enjoy the circular motions. A warm mixture of soap and water flowed over my neck, rolling down my chin. Tears welled up in my eyes. I wasn't sure why. I mustn't give into the fly in the ointment—emotion. When I spoke, my voice cracked. "Irene, tell me about Lucien."

She stopped rubbing my back. "Okay, but first things first." She turned around, holding out a cup. "Tea?"

I shrank back, closing my eyes afraid to look. Sherlock, STOP THIS!

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

My hands shook, when I took the cup, splashing some of its brown contents into the water. I watched it spiral around me. The room remained silent, while I studied its patterns. "I'm fine. Now tell me about Lucien."

"Lucien lived for his music. The violin was all that mattered to him. We didn't spend a lot of time together, but when we did it was wonderful. We would laugh and I felt like a child again. As he got older, he began to visit more, which I should have discouraged, but I was selfish and wanted him near me. I suppose his innocence appealed to me. Does that surprise you?"

I looked at her, thinking of how Rosie's smile could shed light on my darkest day. "No, continue. Where did things start to go wrong?"

"It happened when he fell in with a client of mine—Simon. Lucien used to play at his costume parties. Simon fancies himself a business mogul. He throws lavish galas, set in different time periods. He particularly likes to imitate American parties from the 1920's."