(no subject)
The hum of the house as its inhabitants prepared and cleaned for the New Year woke Shoshanna from a fitful slumber. She raised her cheek from the pillow a few inches, and drew a shaky breath. The first thing she did was fumble in the sheets for her Fansuwoth, the sleek gray cover left open when she fell asleep searching through the network late last night. She couldn't remember when sleep finally overtook her, but it couldn't have been that long ago; there were few new posts made between when she fell asleep and now. Frantically, through clouded eyes, she looked at the newest updates, and her heart sunk, stomach churned, when she saw nothing from John. His ID number had not come up since at least Sunday, and she hadn't spoken with him since Christmas day, when he gave her the necklace and the two of them shared a meal.
Four days. Four days, and no sign of him. She had sent him private messages, and had even considered going to Sazanka house and asking after him, but something had stopped her. A desire to give him his privacy? Or fear of what she might find, what she might learn? She was not sure, and she didn't want to know.
Really, it all came down to a sneaking suspicion, all revolving around a certain enigma of a man. John's friend, Sherlock. She saw all too clearly the way he had looked down upon her, even if it had been entirely indirect. She was used to reading subtleties of expression; it was something she'd had to learn in order to survive in a world full of people who would hunt her down and kill her if they only knew who she truly was. She'd seen the very deliberate way Sherlock had departed after he had interrupted her and John-with a few choice words, meant to disarm. His dislike for her was palpable. Shoshanna hated to jump to conclusions, but the man had died once and come back. What if he had done it again-and taken John with him?
Even worse, what if they didn't come back this time? Shoshanna was terrified of the answer to that question. As much as she wouldn't admit it, and as badly as she sometimes felt about it, she had become attached to John. She had not lied to him that day-she did like him, in the same manner as he liked her. Why, she couldn't rightly say. There was no one specific thing that drew Shoshanna to John Watson. By all rights, she shouldn't be laying neither eyes nor hands on any of the men in this place. Her heart belonged to Marcel.
...but Marcel was dead, or would soon be dead. And here she was, alive, in a completely different time and place. For all she knew, she would be here forever. And as strong-willed and stubborn as she was, nobody could wall their heart off completely. No, quite to the contrary, she had opened hers up, in a way she seldom could have ever since the Jew Hunter had wreaked havoc on her life. Once was to Marcel, strong, sweet, beautiful Marcel. Marcel, who had been willing to die for her cause, with the promise that they would be together in death, for eternity. And now, a second time, Shoshanna had opened up her heart to John, or at least begun to-and look where it had gotten her. Once again, she was to encounter loss. Could she be granted no peace, no sense of security?
Heaving a dejected sigh, Shoshanna dragged herself from the bed, limb by limb. She shivered in the morning chill, going to the wardrobe in the corner and pushing through the dresses which had been brought up for her to wear. She was grateful to live in Youfuu house, where the entertainers wore not the traditional Japanese kimono and yukata, but European fashions from the late nineteenth century up to what Shoshanna could only discern as the mid-1920s. Thusly, her apparel ranged from Victorian-style gowns to loose, relaxed shift dresses, depending on her clients and personal tastes. Today, she chose one of the warmer gowns available to her, long-sleeved and made of heavy blue brocade, fashioned in turn-of-the-century style, with a high neck and tight bodice. She rang a small bell by the door, and moments later two little girls appeared to help her dress.
Shoshanna sat heavily as they fitted a corset around her middle over the white chemise she slept in, grasping the bedpost as the strings were pulled tight. Not that there was much to cinch in; she was already quite thin, and her waist didn't need much compressing in order to achieve that waspish silhouette. Hollowly, she went through the motions of being dressed, lifting her arms and turning as she was prodded into the gown. That finished, the servant-girls left and she arranged her hair simply. Though she performed the routine, it was just that-she could care less if she looked like a ragamuffin, but her house owner and clients would. Her strong work ethic wouldn't permit her to slack.
Still, as she went about the house and prepared it for the coming new year, Shoshanna's thoughts were far from focused. She was worried, yes, but she was also troubled as to her own worry. Was it any of her business? Certainly, she cared for John, and he did her, but it wasn't as if she had any claim over him, or his actions. Upsetting, yes, if he had done something...if he was gone...but perhaps that said something about the state of their budding relationship. If he truly cared for her...would he have done something like that? ...No. She mustn't think that way. The silver heart pendant which shifted against her chest as she scrubbed the floor in the foyer gave her hope. From what she knew of John, he was far too kind a man to toy with her emotions that way. He told her that he didn't want to use her, no doubt feeling guilty for his actions following Sherlock's death. Shoshanna found it incredibly admirable, especially at those times when they'd both been so heavily inflicted by the curse that it was difficult to even brush against his hand without inciting a reaction.
Self-control had been the rule, not the exception.
Four days. Four days, and no sign of him. She had sent him private messages, and had even considered going to Sazanka house and asking after him, but something had stopped her. A desire to give him his privacy? Or fear of what she might find, what she might learn? She was not sure, and she didn't want to know.
Really, it all came down to a sneaking suspicion, all revolving around a certain enigma of a man. John's friend, Sherlock. She saw all too clearly the way he had looked down upon her, even if it had been entirely indirect. She was used to reading subtleties of expression; it was something she'd had to learn in order to survive in a world full of people who would hunt her down and kill her if they only knew who she truly was. She'd seen the very deliberate way Sherlock had departed after he had interrupted her and John-with a few choice words, meant to disarm. His dislike for her was palpable. Shoshanna hated to jump to conclusions, but the man had died once and come back. What if he had done it again-and taken John with him?
Even worse, what if they didn't come back this time? Shoshanna was terrified of the answer to that question. As much as she wouldn't admit it, and as badly as she sometimes felt about it, she had become attached to John. She had not lied to him that day-she did like him, in the same manner as he liked her. Why, she couldn't rightly say. There was no one specific thing that drew Shoshanna to John Watson. By all rights, she shouldn't be laying neither eyes nor hands on any of the men in this place. Her heart belonged to Marcel.
...but Marcel was dead, or would soon be dead. And here she was, alive, in a completely different time and place. For all she knew, she would be here forever. And as strong-willed and stubborn as she was, nobody could wall their heart off completely. No, quite to the contrary, she had opened hers up, in a way she seldom could have ever since the Jew Hunter had wreaked havoc on her life. Once was to Marcel, strong, sweet, beautiful Marcel. Marcel, who had been willing to die for her cause, with the promise that they would be together in death, for eternity. And now, a second time, Shoshanna had opened up her heart to John, or at least begun to-and look where it had gotten her. Once again, she was to encounter loss. Could she be granted no peace, no sense of security?
Heaving a dejected sigh, Shoshanna dragged herself from the bed, limb by limb. She shivered in the morning chill, going to the wardrobe in the corner and pushing through the dresses which had been brought up for her to wear. She was grateful to live in Youfuu house, where the entertainers wore not the traditional Japanese kimono and yukata, but European fashions from the late nineteenth century up to what Shoshanna could only discern as the mid-1920s. Thusly, her apparel ranged from Victorian-style gowns to loose, relaxed shift dresses, depending on her clients and personal tastes. Today, she chose one of the warmer gowns available to her, long-sleeved and made of heavy blue brocade, fashioned in turn-of-the-century style, with a high neck and tight bodice. She rang a small bell by the door, and moments later two little girls appeared to help her dress.
Shoshanna sat heavily as they fitted a corset around her middle over the white chemise she slept in, grasping the bedpost as the strings were pulled tight. Not that there was much to cinch in; she was already quite thin, and her waist didn't need much compressing in order to achieve that waspish silhouette. Hollowly, she went through the motions of being dressed, lifting her arms and turning as she was prodded into the gown. That finished, the servant-girls left and she arranged her hair simply. Though she performed the routine, it was just that-she could care less if she looked like a ragamuffin, but her house owner and clients would. Her strong work ethic wouldn't permit her to slack.
Still, as she went about the house and prepared it for the coming new year, Shoshanna's thoughts were far from focused. She was worried, yes, but she was also troubled as to her own worry. Was it any of her business? Certainly, she cared for John, and he did her, but it wasn't as if she had any claim over him, or his actions. Upsetting, yes, if he had done something...if he was gone...but perhaps that said something about the state of their budding relationship. If he truly cared for her...would he have done something like that? ...No. She mustn't think that way. The silver heart pendant which shifted against her chest as she scrubbed the floor in the foyer gave her hope. From what she knew of John, he was far too kind a man to toy with her emotions that way. He told her that he didn't want to use her, no doubt feeling guilty for his actions following Sherlock's death. Shoshanna found it incredibly admirable, especially at those times when they'd both been so heavily inflicted by the curse that it was difficult to even brush against his hand without inciting a reaction.
Self-control had been the rule, not the exception.