Steps

I still haven't seen the movie (though I've seen lots of videos on youtube). I tend to get obsessive with movies and characters and I'm afraid of what will happen if I like this one. Iron Man is all I can handle right now.

And yet, I had to write this. I don't know how the movie ends, but for his story I'm assuming Watson got married and moved out.

Steps.

She didn't immediately react to the sound. She was so tired, and she had been huddling on that doorstep for so long, she had begun to feel like she could stay in that filthy alley forever. She would simply keep her eyes closed and burrow deeper into her corner and then maybe, with a little bit of luck, she would go to sleep. And if she was truly lucky, then she might never wake up…

But her sense of survival was still strong. Her eyes fluttered open when she realized those were a man's steps. Not a laborer's steps, she noticed; this was a man who wore good-quality shoes. A toff taking a short-cut, she thought. A visitor, more than likely; no self-respecting gentleman would think of making his way through this maze.

The thought encouraged her; a newcomer would be infinitely easier to handle, in her present circumstances. She was still young, but thin as a rail and sickly; not what the boys would call a choice morsel. But she had cunning, and if she stuck to the shadows, then she would be all right.

Hurriedly arranging her shawls around her, she rose and ventured a look at the man coming her way.

Not tall, she noticed; not big, either, which could work to her advantage. Handsome, in a way; dressed in clothes that were exquisitely cut -'but not cut for him' she thought, the seamstress in her taking note of little details –like how the coat was a few inches too long and clearly intended for somebody taller, for instance; or how the shirt cuffs didn't match the collar -

Looking at those clothes made her long for her sewing kit. Oh, the wonders she could do with that fine suit, if only they gave her a chance. How lovingly she'd cut every piece and how carefully she'd put it all back together, with the fine, even stitches that had won her a place at Mr. Cartland's shop... That suit would fit him like a glove then.

But she was no longer a seamstress -she didn't even have her kit anymore. She was what she was, 'and that's all right too,' she told herself firmly. This was not the time to start thinking of the past; she had to hurry if she wanted to get a few pence –enough for a bed, perhaps. Or a few glasses of gin. And a bit of laudanum to quiet down her aches…

She peeked again. The man was looking down, as if he were looking for something on the ground –had he lost something there, perhaps? And his hands were deep in his pockets… And there was a slightly larger bulge in his right pocket –a money bag, perhaps...

Filled with hope, she quickly arranged her hair so a lock fell coquettishly over the right side of her forehead, and stepped out of the corner just in time to block the man's way.

''Allo, dear," she said with a practiced smile. "Would ye like some company?"

The man stopped abruptly, gazed upon her critically and muttered, "Epidermal growth clumsily covered by forelock of hair; various spots and protuberances, all of probable venereal origin; blood spots on handkerchief tucked in right hand: time left, months; weeks, at the most." Then, as casually as if she had only been a lamppost, he walked around her and went his way.

The woman stood in her spot, too stunned to reply, or even move. But when it came, her response was raging and swift. She frantically looked around, and noticed the rocks piled by the walls…

Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes had turned his gaze back on the ground. He had been following a trail of dark spots for several streets now, and even though they weren't remotely connected to any case of his, (and they could very well have been innocent dye stains or even mud), once he noticed them he felt compelled to follow them.

He was so entranced, he didn't felt the first rock hitting him on the back; he didn't even notice the next. It was the scream that caught his attention –a high-pitched, heart-wrenching scream that rose above the noises coming from the busy street ahead.

He turned just in time to see the young woman hurl another rock at him. She was more pathetic than menacing; she was crying and coughing, her thin shoulders shaking from the effort.

Bewildered, Holmes took a couple of tentative steps in her direction.

"Madam? May I be of assistance?"

"You bloody -!" She hurled her last rock at him. "Fuck ye!"

In the seconds that followed, Holmes assessed the situation. Surely, the woman's reaction had nothing to do with his rejection of her services. Something else must have happened to elicit this strong emotional response –

And suddenly, he realized what he had just done.

He had voiced his deductions.

"Madam," he said mechanically; "I did not mean -" He didn't know what to say; he didn't mean to hurt her but he had, nevertheless. And everything he had said was true; she was ravaged by disease, and she had only a few weeks to live. If she didn't know before, she knew now. She was looking at him with a mixture of anger and horror.

He took a step towards her but stopped when he saw her raise her arm as if to protect herself. She was afraid of him.

"I did not mean to upset you," he said softly. He hesitated, then took something from a pocket and offered it to her. A gold coin.

She stared at the coin and then at him.

"You require medical attention," he explained, and he reached out and tucked the coin in her hand –the one that was still clutching the blood-stained handkerchief.

For a moment, it looked like she was going to throw the coin on his face –it would have probably satisfied her own sense of honor. But she was starving, and she was sick; what else could she do? She closed her hand on the coin.

"If I can be of assistance -"

"Go away!" she cried, shrinking away.

Bewildered, Holmes stepped back.

"Madam -"

"Just go –please!"

A window opened nearby, and someone called out, "What's going on there?"

Holmes looked up and the young woman took the chance to flee. She stumbled once, but recovered quickly and soon she was gone.

Holmes stared after her for a moment, then he mechanically turned his gaze back on the ground. The trail of spots was still easily discernible, but the thrill of the chase was gone. All he could think of was that poor creature, shattered by his reckless comments. For once, he could not be the objective observer of an emotional outburst: he had caused that outburst, in the first place.

He rubbed his eyes. He felt tired, all of a sudden. Exhausted, actually. He had been working nonstop for the past three days; he had had so little sleep – but that was only an excuse, and he knew it.

That poor woman…

"Holmes," he whispered. "What have you done?"

And so good is he at mimicking voices, that for a moment he could almost believe Watson had just spoken to him.