Not even bothering to knock first, I opened the door to 221B.
"Well, you were right," I said, my voice taking on a strange squeak. It was a phrase I'd practised in my head again and again on the way up the stairs, but it still didn't seem to come out right. I suppose nothing ever does, does it?
"Quite probably," said Sherlock, seemingly not at all fazed at my sudden arrival. Well, it probably wasn't sudden for him. He was in that tatty dressing gown, lounging on the sofa in that way he always did. "What exactly am I right about?"
I sat down heavily on the sofa just as Sherlock moved his feet from the cushion, my skirt billowing around me like aquamarine sails. On the coffee table stood a bowl filled with sablés, and I pinched a few, glad to have something of comfort. They always seemed to be around 221B, the sablés. At first I'd thought Mrs Hudson had bought them up, and assuming Sherlock would ignore them as he did with most other food, I'd helped myself to a few. Perhaps I'd made a comment about them being a favourite of mine; perhaps I hadn't. In any case, they kept appearing, and I made my mind up to thank Mrs Hudson for them.
"The what? Oh, those! No, not me, dear, I stick to custard creams. I thought you were bringing them?"
It had left me puzzled, that answer. The only explanation I could think of was that either he'd been given them as a gift, or he'd bought them himself on a whim (though I found it hard to imagine Sherlock whimsically wandering into a patisserie), and had decided he'd liked them. Just to make sure, though, I did a small investigation. Instead of turning up sporadically, as I usually did, I made sure to visit 221B for five days in a row. I counted each of the biscuits, examined them, and made a little mark on them with my nails when Sherlock wasn't looking. By day three, it was obvious. He never ate them when I wasn't there, he didn't even touch them; he bought them for me. I hadn't mentioned this revelation, and if he knew I had discovered it (and he probably did), he likewise held his tongue. I often imagined that one day I would ask him how he knew when I would be visiting as the sablés were never stale, but when it came to it, I never did.
"You were right about my love life, of course," I said, taking a bite from one of the sablés and savouring the sweet jam filling.
"Ah." He said, taking one of the biscuits himself, but not eating it, instead seeming to examine it for a while before putting it back in the bowl. "So, what exactly did I say…?"
"You said that he clearly has no true intention of getting back together with me, and that he just wants to keep me as a safe option in case he can't find anyone else. Oh, and you got all that from this bracelet he gave me," I said, holding up my wrist.
"Oh yes, I remember," he said, "Looks like it might be an expensive piece, but on closer inspection is actually rather average. If he was truly intent on re-engaging you in a relationship, he would have gone expensive; guilt will do that. However, neither is it obviously cheap, something you would buy for a casual friend. Ergo, he wanted you to think he saw your friendship as on the verge of re-blossoming into a relationship, to stop you from seeking such a relationship elsewhere, whilst actually having no intentions other than keeping you as a 'back-up' in case things go wrong."
"Yes," I said dryly, "That's what you said the first time. But thanks for the repeat performance."
I took the bracelet off and half-heartedly threw it onto the coffee table. The fire was burning low in the grate, causing the 5-carat gold to twinkle mockingly at me. Why did he have the fire lit anyway? It was a warm enough day outside. I took a quick glance around the flat, and realised he probably hadn't even been outside for the past week.
Sherlock said nothing for a few moments, then awkwardly asked: "So it's definitely off then, you and, er…?"
"Yep," I said, not bothering to fill in the name for him. Sherlock wasn't exactly known for remembering names, and it didn't seem to matter much now anyway. I could see Sherlock looking at me sceptically from the corner of my eye.
"Don't worry; I didn't come here to cry on your shoulder or anything. I got all that out yesterday." I said with a half smile, finishing my second biscuit in one bite and dusting the crumbs off myself and onto the carpet.
"Then why did you come here?" he said, and now his gaze was piercing, his eyebrows held in a frown, "I'm not exactly known for my sympathy, or compassion, or tact. Why would you come to me?"
"You honestly don't know?" I said, not hiding my surprise. He always had the answers, didn't he? Always knew what everyone was really thinking? But then, after all, we are all our own blind spots.
Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, frowning still, never removing that intense gaze. The light from the fire caught his eyes now, and they sparkled with a light more honest than that of the bracelet. I looked back at him steadily, trying to chisel out in my mind the correct words. You always needed the correct words, especially with someone like Sherlock. Though, of course, there was no one like Sherlock.
"Because you are alone," I said at last, "And I'm alone. And I will always be alone. And so will you. But it would be nice if there were someone to be alone…with."
The fire dimmed, the sparks faded from Sherlock's eyes, and I knew he understood.
(Author Note: I wrote this, more than anything, as an outlet for my own problems, not initially for ff. However, I thought I might share it with the world, because there's always a chance, however small, someone else might enjoy reading it.)