"It seems as if we've made a habit of running into each other, now haven't we?"
Her fear turned into mere shock, as she looked into the face of Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't speak, simply opting for staring at him wide eyed and mouth agape. Her face burned even hotter as he released her one hand, and used the other to draw her into the waltzing crowd.
"Shall we dance?" he prompted, even though his hand was already on her waist. She nodded, and stumbled as he lead her around the floor, twirling amongst the masses of couples. It had been at least a minute of their pitiful (on her part mostly) dancing, and still neither had spoken. Holmes had his eyes trained off into the distance, narrowed and calculating, while all Ettie could see was that godforsaken splotch across his chest. She could feel his hand on her waist, a strange warmth that she couldn't decide to be comforting or unwelcome, and everytime she tried to fight between the two she'd lose her concentration and-
"Ah!" Holmes hissed, clenching his jaw and blinking away the pain.
"Sorry!" Ettie piped, looking down and trying not to tread on his feet as they began to dance in time once more. Don't step there. Or there. Woah, not there.
"You were right."
Ettie, jolted out of her precise choreography, looked up in confusion. She furrowed her brow, unsure of what he was talking about, but not wanting to voice her concerns. Mostly from lack of nerve in that moment.
"About this ball," he clarified, casting a gaze once more around the vast room, "it is quite the event."
The smallest of grins tugged at Ettie's lips, and she met his eyes with newfound confidence. "I thought that you weren't interested in grand social events?"
"I haven't had a change of heart, if that's what you think," he shrugged, turning his attention back to the dance floor. "A colleague of mine received an invitation, and I thought it appropriate to keep an eye...on him." The pair came to sudden halt and Ettie's forehead collided with the bottom of her dance partner's chin. His jaw snapped shut and his hand followed, rubbing his chin with a groan. Ettie looked up in horror once more, bringing her hands to her face to cover her gaping mouth.
"Ouch." Holmes glared down at her accusingly, bringing his hand away from his chin to reveal a reddening spot. Surely that was going to bruise. And yet, Ettie couldn't find the smallest shred of remorse within her. Blood began to burn in her cheeks and she crossed her arms across her chest.
"Don't look at me like that," she scolded. His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, but Ettie wasn't finished.
"You can't just stop without warning in the middle of a dance floor, I mean what could you expect, really?" she hissed, sticking one finger to his chest. His eyes began to widen as Ettie's quick temper flared. "Don't you dare try to blame me. This," she slashed a pointed finger through the air between them, "is all on you, you inconsiderate, insufferable pr—"
"Okay!" She was cut off as Holmes wrapped a hand around her wrist and tugged her towards a conveniently close doorway to the adjoining drawing room. "How about we talk about it."
"My pleasure!" she scoffed letting him lead her through the swinging door. She stalked into the drawing room behind him, slamming the door behind her without a care. The soft glow of the gas lamps along with the smolder of dying, red coals in a nearby fireplace, painted the room into a cozy, intimate sort of picture. The sort of picture that Ettie wouldn't mind crawling into and escaping from the world, had she not felt the need to punch something. Or someone.
She narrowed her eyes and cleared her throat, a stringful of crude insults on her tongue and fire in her chest. The detective, however, caught on before her tirade had a chance to break free, and leapt towards her. The words died in her throat and turned into an awkward squawk as a rough, calloused hand sealed itself over her lips. Her anger quickly evaporated and was suddenly replaced by a far less savory sensation. Her eyes widened, and her hands came up, trying to pry him off her face.
"Shhh, I'm trying to help you." The fight within her died as she noticed an anomaly in his tone. A note of...concern?
"Wh...What?" she gasped, as his hand came away from her mouth.
"Someone has been following you all night."
"You mean, besides you?" she sneered, but she couldn't help but notice an unsettling chill in the air. Was someone really pursuing her? She hadn't noticed anything suspicious, and that made her feel worse.
"First of all, I have not been following you, alright?" he taunted, the corner of his mouth pulled taut into a smirk that made her want to slap it clean off his face, "If anything, it would seem as though you've been following me."
Her? Following him? Ridiculous.
"Oh, don't flatter yourself Mr. Holmes. As much as it pains me to tell you this, I'm really not interested." Her face contorted into something that she hoped look sickly sweet, with a hint of pity. It would be an honour to offend the great detective.
"Really?" he breathed, taking a step towards her. His dark eyes flickered over her in the dim light, and Ettie was entranced by the dancing flames within them. Ettie had always thought that brown was a warm colour, homely and inviting. Oh, how she was wrong. Brown had become sharp, and calculating. Brown had become a challenge. Brown had become...dangerous.
"Then why is it that you seem to be an absolute magnet for havoc?" he continued, cocking his head to the side and running a finger along the mantel of the fireplace. She hadn't realized how close they had gotten to the fire, and she looked down at her skirt.
"Perhaps I'm just unlucky," she mused, taking a wary step away from the hearth. She knew that she wasn't a magnet for havoc. She also knew that Holmes was a drama queen, and there was no cure for that. If he wanted to paint her as a martyr then so be it.
"Or perhaps, you don't attract it at all." His eyes narrowed menacingly, and he took another step forward. Ettie took another step back. "It can't be a mere coincidence that every time we meet, you seem to befall some near death experience or other."
"Yes, it can be, and that is exactly what it is!" she spat, her face heating once more. "You think I orchestrated this? You think I get a thrill out of tripping and falling and getting abducted?"
"Miss. Colt," he started, eyes wide as disks.
"I am speaking! You are absolutely sick if you think that-"
"Henriette!"
"What?!" she shrieked, flailing her arms wildly. Her blood was boiling, and suddenly the room seemed way too hot.
"Your skirt is on fire."
"I suppose I must have stuck it in the fire, right?" she sneered, crossing her arms over her chest. "I obviously—" a sudden waft of smoke assaulted her, and as she looked down she caught sight of the burning layers of her skirt.
"I'M ON FIRE!" she screeched, spinning away from the hearth. The blaze followed her, and she could feel the scalding heat by her legs. If she hadn't been preoccupied with the prospect of burning to death, she would have heard the door wrench open behind her.
"Henriette!" called a new voice, but a familiar one nonetheless. She looked up quickly, momentarily distracted.
"Jack!" she cried elated for a second, but panicked the next as another waft of smoke presented itself. Her focus was clouded by scalding heat and the acrid taste of smoke in her mouth. Her eyes watered and her nose stung, but all she could think was Jack. Fire. Jack. Fire. Jack. Fire. Fire. Fire. Where's Holmes?
Suddenly she felt the weight of something foreign hit her along her covered legs, and heard the crackling blaze submit to a hissing sizzle. She couldn't see beyond the smoke, but she could hear Jack's clear, worrying voice.
"My God, Ettie. Are you okay?" Hands wrapped around her forearms, and through the haze she could make out the familiar face of Jack MacMillan. She could recognize his ashy blonde hair and slightly crooked nose in an instant. His icy eyes seemed to glow in the grey, soot filled air and she couldn't help but smile. She was right before; home isn't brown, it's blue.
"I'm fine," she wheezed, before breaking into a fit of angry coughs. Her throat felt raw, and every breath she took made her lungs sting. Jack's large hand grabbed her own, and he lead her to the opposite end of the room. She stood and watched as he ripped back the heavy, velvet curtains and revealed the large window behind. The pane was pushed open, and in the next moment a rush of cool, winter air streamed into the room. The draft raised goosebumps along her arms, but the fresh air was welcome all the same. Ettie took a deep breath and filled her lungs with it, savoring the clean crispness it held. She allowed herself a sigh of relief, before she looked down. Damn.
From the edge, to around mid skirt, was an ugly, charred black section. Part of the skirt was even gone, left with crisped edges, the colour of charcoal. She kicked a leg out, and a poof of black soot and flaking ashes launched into the air. This was the second gown she's ruined in the past month, and she was sad to say that she had rather liked this one. The rest of her skirt was soaking wet. Her entire right side was splotched in a darker peach colour than the rest, and when she carefully prodded the fabric her fingers came back wet. A few leaves stuck to her gown as well she noticed, pinching one between her fingers and letting it flutter to the floor.
"You know this man?" Holmes' voice broke the silence, and Ettie looked up in confusion. He held a glass vase in his hand. An empty vase.
"Of course she knows me," Jack spoke up, striding over to Ettie, and putting an arm around her waist, "I'm her fiance! Who are you?"
Ettie could practically see the gears turning in the detective's head and watched as understanding settled in his eyes. If Ettie didn't know better, she would have thought that it was a blush that coloured his cheeks red. No, it must have just been the light of the fire. Machines don't blush.
"Uh," Holmes looked down at his hand, and the vase encased in it. "I am Sherlock Holmes." He set it back up on the mantle, strode forwards and held out his hand to Jack. Bewildered, Jack took it, then let it go after a brief moment. "And I am leaving," the detective proclaimed, turning on his heel and traipsed out of the room.
Before he left, however, Ettie let out a rushed, "Thank you!" She thought that she saw a nod of acknowledgement from him, but couldn't be certain.
As the door latched shut behind him, a stunned quietness filled the room. Ettie didn't know what to feel. Thankfulness for the detective's actions, or anger for the words that came before? With the adrenaline rush slowly fading, her limbs became heavy and her aching feet made themselves noticed. A groan escaped her as she sank into the nearest chair and rested her cheek upon her hand. Across from her, still standing, Jack looked thoroughly confused. His hands were planted firmly on his hips, pushing his tails aside slightly. Ettie gazed at his face, in a strange combination of admiration and curiosity. He seemed to be considering what had just happened for a moment, before he simply raised his eyebrows, blinked and swiveled his head to look at her.
"What the hell was that?"