Myths, Tea and Gunshots

Chapter Three - Art Without a Name

The sun danced across Alice's face. She dragged her eyes open and tilted her head admiring the sunrise.

It decorated the tops of buildings with light. Like the sun was no more than a young girl with flowers in her hair.

A delicately painted cup of tea waited for her on the nightstand.

The book that she had been reading still rested in her hands. Its pages fluttered like those of a butterfly.

She had already taken sips from the tea the night before. Leaving with the promise to finish it later.

Books proved to be a much larger distraction than she would've hoped.

Her fingers wrapped around the elegant handle. It had cooled under the watch of the stars. She sipped from it despite the fact.

A window welcomed the sun to fall against the desk. Patterns of light glowing against the wood.

Books were stacked up against the glass. They balanced on the window sill.

A picture frame sat on top of one of the piles. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be no more than a stock photo.

Placed to create an atmosphere of normalcy.

The house had belonged to a friend of hers. Desmond, she recalled his name.

If she were correct then he had been arrested earlier. The details evaded her, but it was somehow related to butterflies.

A thin layer of dust settled on the items left behind.

Her keys to the house disrupted the dust that slept on the dark wooden stairs.

She drank the last of tea and placed it on the desk. It leant against a stack of sketchbooks.

Desmond had been a painter. He kept his supplies organized in the space between the two bookshelves. Her eyes raced across the colours for a few moments.

What paintings could've been created if he hadn't been caught?

She took a seat at the desk.

A vase of dead flowers at her elbow.

They gazed downwards. Their petals turned to ash at the edges. Deep colours clung to what little life they remembered.

Choosing one of the sketchbooks that waited near her she flipped it open to the first page.

For longer than she would've thought she leafed through the countless artworks. Patterns, texture and colour put to paper.

The world from an artist's eye looks much different from those of a prodigy.

When Alice was no more than a girl she used to enjoy painting. The brush held in her hand. The colours chosen, much more than a guessing game.

Her heart longed for the hobby again. But, the tools were not the ones of her childhood.

It was enough to live in a man's house. Stealing the supplies that he wished to be known for would be beyond cruel.

Before she was able to finish the last sketchbook the sun alerted her of the time.

Sherlock would be wondering if she would be returning.

Tucking the sketchbook into her messenger bag, she rushed through the house and to the front door.

Pinned butterflies kept safe in a frame shook as the door was closed.

The walk to Baker street was one of quiet thoughts.

She thought of Desmond for the most part. What had he done? Alice couldn't remember the details exactly.

Was she any better than him?

He had a stronger moral compass than her. Yet, he was the one thrown in a jail cell.

And she was the one that stole his life's work.

Walking to the door of 221, it opened as she reached for the knob.

"Hello!" An older woman said. The same one that Alice had seen the night before.

"Good morning." Alice peered behind her "I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes."

"Are you a client?"

"No, I'm a friend."

"Sherlock says he doesn't have friends."

"Ah! But he has me."

"Alice!" Sherlock shouted from somewhere in the void behind the lady. "Mrs. Hudson, let her through."

Mrs. Hudson did as she was instructed, stepping aside so Alice could pass through.

She hung her long coat the colour of trees smudged against the horizon. The sketchbook remained safe in her messenger bag.

She took a seat on the sofa holding the sketchbook in her two hands.

Sherlock walked off thinking of something. Thoughts could not be read. But, if they could, Sherlock could fill novels in days.

As she pulled the sketchbook out a dead rose petal fluttered to the ground.

Its edges crumbled over. Streaks like veins flattened out against the floor.

She continued her journey through the artwork. Fascination crawled across her skin.

More than her curiosity of Desmond's life. It became a haunting of the mistakes that she might have made.

Was this how Sherlock lived after she left?

Her eyes left the page and glanced at the ring. The teacup protected it with a shadow.

It was as though he created a bubble around the two objects. Refused to let the world reach its greedy hands towards it.

In case she was gone.

Like he wished the moment to be preserved, for it to rise above space and time.

But nothing could be preserved.

Gently lifting it from its place of protection. She admired the black onyx stone before slipping it back onto her finger. The weight was comfortable.

It was as though it had never left.