Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.
AN: I've had a long break from writing, some of you might know that my mother passed away. I hope to be adding new stories and finishing old ones. Thanks very much.
The East Wind Blows Fair
The East Wind blows fair, sometimes.
Mycroft has accepted that there are things Sherlock knows that he does not, and that this, the temperament of their mercurial sister, is one of them. Now Sherlock is the only person on this earth who is permitted behind that glass.
Euros hasn't spoken since that night. But she doesn't need to. Perhaps tonight the east wind truly does blow fair, as her demeanor suggests – perhaps tonight is one of those nights when she will twine her hands around his neck and step in time with him, her bare feet mirroring his polished black shoes, the music moving them as her huge eyes devour his, keeping count of every change in his expression. Tonight she seems warm and fair. Perhaps the human touch she is starved for is only the stroke of his hands through her hair, not the heat of his blood – their blood – on her teeth.
But there is only one way to know for sure. Every time there is this ritual: they play together, and that is how he knows how the east wind blows.
He plays the tune he wrote for another woman and Euros joins him, lilting, improvising, threading herself so thoroughly into the warp and weft of the song that Sherlock can never play it by himself without hearing an echo of her. She had known, the moment she'd heard it, that this song belonged to someone else. And she'd taken it. But he doesn't really mind.
When he is surest of her good intentions Euros's music tells him he is wrong. She doesn't know how to lie in her music. When his sister is possessed of her demon her music becomes sharper, more terribly precise, horrible in its diamond-cut perfection. Her bow is a scalpel and her hunger for him is a wail from her tortured violin. And it is seductive. Sherlock knows this about himself, that Euros's terrifying desire for him is a lure to a death he has wanted and feared his entire life. Some nights he can't help but respond to her, as her music weaves a spell around him saying Come, come and be undone, and he feels her madness spark his blood and tempt him to some unknowable, fatal consummation. He leaves her, frustrated and angry, knowing and not knowing what it is he has refused. He is as much a part of her as she is of him. He is as much a mystery to her as she is to him.
Some nights she is calm.
On those nights Sherlock can enter the glass room and sit with her. He talks to her, because she loves to listen to his voice. Every strand of his DNA is a thread Euros would like to pull at, to unravel him, to reduce him to his component atoms before her so that she might finally understand. To be the object of such a craving is a terrible, dizzying thing, a high like no other Sherlock has ever known. When he enters her room her world narrows and focuses solely on him. There is nothing in this universe but the two of them. "Euros," he says, because he likes to say her name. Sometimes he calls her name when she is not there. He thinks that maybe Euros knows this.
Some nights he likes to brush her hair. He can see the reflection of her eyes in the glass. Some nights she sits like a statue and allows him to tug gently at the tangled curls, letting his voice wash over her like waves. Some nights she lifts her head like a cat into his careful hands, baring her throat to position his fingertips over her aching temples. Some nights he lies down on her narrow bed and Euros rests her head on his chest. She listens to his heartbeat more intently than she listens to his words.
Some nights he wakes in his own bed, and for a moment it's as though she's just left.