Author's Note: This is a series of missing scenes explaining what inspired the scenario that unfolded inside Sherlock's mind palace in The Abominable Bride. Each chapter is a scene that takes place sometime during His Last Vow and includes at least one line of dialog from TAB, although not necessarily said by the same character(s) or in the same context. I'll try to keep the chapters in chronological order. You may recognize Chapter 2, Poetry or Truth, since I published it as a stand-alone before I knew for sure if I wanted to write more to accompany it. I'm including it again here to keep everything together in one place. I think there will be four or five in all, but I may add more on if something else (like watching the special for the umteenth time) inspires me.
Summary: While he's in hospital, recovering after revealing Mary's past and the Watson's resulting domestic, Sherlock enlists a ghost from his past in hopes of gaining insight on Charles Magnusen.
Swimming on the edge of consciousness, not quite asleep, he's unsure which sensation finally brings him fully awake.
Possibly it's her perfume, distinctively hers, and immediately recognizable. Possibly it's the dip in the edge of the thin hospital mattress as she sits next to him. Possibly it's the way she runs her fingers slowly up the inside of his thigh, brushing his nether region through the blanket, and finally working her way over his abdomen to the wound on his chest.
She presses her fingertips around the edges of the bandage, producing an interesting sensation, pressure, not pleasure and not quite pain. She's humming a familiar melody, a Christmas carol he always associates with her.
"Oh, hello there." she says with a wry smile as he opens his eyes. "You recognize our song, dear?"
He blinks at the dimly lit room and tries to clear his thoughts. Everything feels surreal. He's groggier than sleep alone should account for, but he can't suss out why. He's slow, off guard. It's familiar, pleasant, and more than a bit not good.
She looks different than the last time he saw her. Her wavy brunette tresses and elaborate up-do have been replaced with a short sandy blonde bob. It doesn't suit her. Her eyes though, always large and expressive, and her lips, still blood red, haven't changed.
Her clothing is different than how he normally pictures her as well. It would be after all, she's usually naked when he thinks of her. Now, she's wearing a dangerously snug jumper, a distraction of riotous color, under a white lab coat. Something she said once about disguises floats just outside his mind's grasp.
"Oh, this..." she gestures down at her attire as if she's read his thoughts, "It's dreadful, but I know what you like."
She gives him a sad-eyed smile as he tries once again to shake off the fog that envelopes his brain and threatens to pull him back under. After a moment, he gives up and lets his eyes drop closed.
From somewhere far off, he hears her say "Oh dear, no, no, no..." and feels her body press against him, leaning across his torso. A stab of pain, from the ribs the paramedics cracked in the process of restarting his heart, jolts him back into consciousness and he realizes she's just turned down his morphine pump.
She straightens, pulling away from him and he immediately misses the heat of her body on his.
"Ah, that's better. Good boy. You can't go back to sleep yet. You haven't told me why I'm here."
"What do you know about him?" he asks, realizing as he says it that he's jumping ahead and adds "Charles Augustus Magnussen."
"The media mogul?" Her brow crinkles, "Tell me that's not why I snuck into a critical care unit in the middle of the night?"
"No." he replies, feeling a bit more like himself, "You snuck in here to see for yourself whether I'm dying. Again. Sentiment."
She narrows her eyes, standing to leave. "You called me, remember?"
"Yes, weeks ago."
His hand darts from beneath the blanket to grasp her wrist. It has the desired effect of drawing her back and the unintentional effect of sending a tingle up his arm.
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, there's business to attend to.
"I want to know what he likes." he says carefully, "His... pressure points."
"Pressure points?" she laughs without humor, "where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions?"
She's trying for nonchalance, but the way she casts her eyes away from his gives her away. He waits, knowing she's deciding what and how much to tell him.
Instead, she changes topics completely, "So, Dr. Watson got married. That must've been a blow. But I suppose that pretty little Irish liar used her big mouth to take your mind off things. Seven times a night, my my."
She pats his chest and he gives her a warning look which she completely ignores.
"You know, for someone who claims romantic entanglements aren't his department, you've had an awful lot of them buzzing about you lately. So many brides. John's newly beloved, a real pistol, that one! Your little lab mouse has got herself engaged. And, of course, your own fiancée..."
She pauses for effect, the word 'fiancée' dripping with sarcasm, before continuing, "A little...premature, wasn't it? Or was it, oh... what do they call it in the States?" she laughs, "A shotgun wedding?"
"That was for a case." he growls. He's gone from slightly irritated to completely annoyed, but in his current state there's little to nothing he can do about it save giving her an angry glare.
"I thought I was the woman in your life Sherlock." she says with a disappointed pout, but there's only the tiniest hint of hurt or jealously in it. Mostly she just looks amused.
He rolls his eyes, "For God's sake, Irene!"
He knows what she's doing, deflecting, baiting him, trying to distract him, derail the original question. He's fairly well versed in the technique. Yet it still works. Two things tug at the edge of his mind. Even with the lower level of pain killers, he can't quite pull one to the forefront, so he focuses on the other. Why is she keeping tabs on Molly?
"Why would I care about Molly Hooper's dull boyfriend?" He begins to ask before he can stop himself, then hides it by trying to sound bored, like always, pretending not to care. To act like he's not even aware that Molly broke things off with...Tim? Tom?
"You should, you know." she scolds "She's a woman of rare perception, not that you see her that way. I think she'd have to grow a mustache just to attract your interest." she chuckles.
He has a sudden vision of Molly Hooper outfitted as a man, then in a wedding gown, but still sporting a mustache. Its utterly absurd. And oddly...attractive? He shakes his head, curls his lip slightly, disgusted that he's allowed himself to be dragged down this particular rabbit hole.
"Magnussen." He growls, watching the woman's reaction closely. She tries to mask it, but he sees the fear in her eyes.
"He never indulged in my services." She tries yet again to dodge the question, but with less success this time.
"Even so, you know what he likes..." he leads.
She hesitates, but only for a moment. "Pain. Humiliation. Other people's." She lowers her eyes, blocking something she doesn't want to share with him.
"I know all that already. What else?"
"Nothing." she answers a bit too quickly, "...he brokers in secrets and scandals, but doesn't have any of his own. Scratch the surface, there's just more of the same underneath."
He waits for her to say more, but she seems content to let the silence hang between them for a moment.
"Well, now. Time to go." She says as she eases up off the mattress.
Only when she pulls her arm from his grasp does he become aware he's been holding her wrist the whole time. She gives him a bittersweet smile, smoothes her hands down the front of her lab coat and adds, "Don't underestimate him. He's more clever than he seems."
She leans in and brushes his cheekbone ever so lightly with her lips. Less a kiss than a whisper. He closes his eyes, savoring the scent of her perfume over the antiseptic odors of the hospital.
When he opens his eyes again she's gone. John is standing over him instead. He sets a paper coffee cup on the tray and leans down to peer at Sherlock, frowning with concern. "Good God, Sherlock. Are you alright? Bad dream? You're pale as a sheet and you look like you've seen a ghost."
A ghost? Ridiculous! There are no ghosts. But he registers the irony of the fact that he's just seen a woman who is legally dead.
Was he dreaming? He's not entirely sure. It certainly felt real. Never the less, its best for John to think it was just a dream.
"A dream, yes... the ghost of Christmas past." he murmurs.
"What?" John gives him a puzzled look. "What's that about Christmas?"
Only after John asks, does Sherlock realize he associates the woman with Christmas. Strange.
Then his mind jumps tracks and seizes the opportunity in what he's inadvertently said. Christmas. Christmas, indeed! John loves Christmas. It'll be perfect timing. Now all he has to do is arrange it...
"Christmas dinner..." he replies, striving to sound normal, cheerful even, "...at my parents', Will you come?"
John smiles and shakes his head with his usual confused acceptance of his friend's oddities. "You don't even like Christmas. Go back to sleep. Sherlock."
Author's Note: If you haven't seen it yet, it's well worth googling lovely Louise Brealey's photo of "when makeup and costume tests collide." It's the inspiration for the way Sherlock pictures Molly in his head in this piece, and it's hilarious! (Thank you Loo for providing the muse, and thank you JolieBlack for suggesting I let everyone in on the joke. :)