A/N: I wasn't sure how to make my little breaks when time passes without the reader knowing what occurred during that time... (If I suck royal balls at explaining, you'll see when you get there.) I can't put a bunch of space there because the Doc Manager will delete it, so anytime you see ~*TheRiverRunsRed*~ it means a break in time. Thank you for bearing with my utter failure, and thank you for reading. If you have any tips or ideas for how to make these transitions in time smoother, they would be much appreciated!
~TheRiverRunsRed
Chapter Two
The rigid silence was amplified by Spencer's muffled whimpers and sniveling. Watson wriggled uncomfortably in the presence of a woman's tears.
"Please don't worry about Sherlock. You're welcome to stay here."
She whisked a spiteful glare at him, so fleeting that he nearly missed it, but the meaning behind it became very clear: Fuck off. Even the shadows seemed to wither away, as if they would become swept in by her exquisite ferocity. Suddenly she was up, moving to the door like a storm so that Watson barely near time to retaliate.
"You can't leave!" He cast his body between Spencer and the door. His heart faltered when her cool breath blew across his neck and her warm breasts brushed against his stomach. Her temperament so offset her stature that it was easy to forget how petite she was.
He felt her chest lift as he inhaled sharply. She was quick to slither back to widen the proximity between them. "And why not?" Her voice cracked less than halfway through the sentence, a definite frailer melody than before.
"Because Sherlock is being ridiculous. You've grown up with him; you should understand that this is merely one of his tantrums that he throws to gain attention."
Her shoulders shrugged, and her posture relaxed fractionally. He did not miss the look of fleeting deference that dissolved her abrasive shell, and immersed her in a sheath of soft charm. No, that was not right. It did not envelop her like a disguise, it severed her phlegmatic façade, mangled her years of indifference and detachment.
"No." She glazed over, renewed purpose springing to life on her fresh face. "I don't."
To say Watson was disappointed and even a bit frustrated was an understatement. "Oh," was all he said. Having cemented her verdict with a hand twisting the doorknob, she paused only to offer him a look of remorse before slipping through the small crack.
Thank you, John.
For all of his intellect and knowledge, it took John longer than it should have for him to realize she had said it aloud and that he had not misheard. A small, triumphant smirk graced his features. Baby steps, he reminded himself. He was dealing with the Holmes family, after all.
He sighed and moved to the opposite end of the room, making no move as to give chase. His last attachment had ended on a sour note as he had been angrily dumped the previous night. He could not help it, though. Pretty faces were like a drug to him.
Watson watched Spencer's alluring figure disappear into a cab, and her face briefly gleamed through the taxi's window. As she stared he lifted a hand and waved, slowly. If this was to be the last time he would see the lovely Miss Holmes... He could not afford to think like that now.
The burst of adrenaline pulsing through him led to a hasty departure from the window and a crack of the knuckles as he flipped open his laptop and quickly scrape together a new blog entry: 'The Sister of Sherlock: A Mystery Too Great for Her Brother'.
~*TheRiverRunsRed*~
"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS."
All John's hopes of relieving his stress with a shower followed by a cup of tea by the window dissolved when Sherlock burst through the door, rattling with groceries and depositing them hastily in the kitchen. Even without context, John knew exactly what he was referring to. He inhaled deeply, and counted.
One, two, three, four...
"It's just a blog, Sherlock..."
"A Mystery Too Great for Her Brother? How dare you, no mystery is too great for me. Have I ever met a case I couldn't solve?"
...five, six, seven...
"Yes," John answered cooly, "and her name is Spencer Holmes."
The detective froze, momentarily speechless, but being a Holmes, that did not last long. "What are you talking about?"
...eight, nine, ten.
"Your sister, the case you can't solve."
"What nonsense are you spouting now? On what grounds do you claim this?"
Watson leveled him with his regard. "Help her."
"What?"
"Help. Spencer."
Sherlock scowled. "I've seen how you look at her, John, so don't think I am out of line when I say you're thinking with the wrong head. Get a hold of yourself."
"Oh, shut up. If you really want to prove there's no mystery you can't solve, then help your sister. She needs you; you and Mycroft are all she has left."
"Don't act like you know her."
"God damn it, Sherlock, help-are those groceries?"
The plastic bags on the kitchen floor caught his attention. The prospect of actual food in the house was...odd...
"Ah, yes, I went shopping after my smoke. I needed to distract myself for a while and a menial task like groceries seemed perfect."
"You never go shopping."
"Well I do when I'm frustrated!"
Sherlock noticed the shift in the air; he heard the sound John made, so he turned towards his partner. "Are you laughing at me?"
"Because you're so predictable. You went shopping because you plan on finding Spencer and inviting her to stay."
"And why on Earth would I do that?"
"You feel genuine concern for another human being." Watson made certain to stress his words, still smiling.
"Absurd..." The break in the conversation signaled Watson's infallibility. Sherlock seemed to shake himself as he switched topics. "I'm going to draw a bath; my timing was barely off and the rain managed to catch me on my way here."
With a start, John glanced at the window. He had not noticed the intense downpour until now, not that it came as a surprise. London and rain seemed to cling to each other like death.
"Answer the door, John."
"What?" Knock, knock. "Damn it, how does he do that?" he muttered below his breath.
John pranced to the door, grinning cheekily at one of his few victories over the great Mr. Holmes. He unlocked the door with a customary how-may-I-help-you before his eyes travelled down. And he caught a flash of mossy eyes. And a silvery voice, now broken by chattering teeth, stuttered:
"D-Dr. Watson."
Despite her drenched state-shivering and dribbling with rain-and her lips stained blue that experienced difficulty wrapping his name around her tongue, she looked utterly delectable in her misery. He found himself amused and distracted by the way her clothes clung to her body, and the way she attempted to cache her more intimate parts by hugging herself. Though honestly, her arms wrapped about her bosom only caused it to enlarge and focus his attention intently on it.
She cleared her throat and forced his eyes back up to hers. "I'm b-back."
"Mm." Honestly, Watson was not sure how to respond. Part of him believed he was dreaming, and if he was dreaming he did not wish to wake.
"It's r-raining..." Her eyes darted everywhere but at him.
"Quite right," John blurted as he snapped from his daze. Images of her swirled in his head, completely inappropriate and completely enticing.
"Are y-you going to let m-me i-in?"
"Ah, yes." He stepped aside awkwardly. "Please, come in."
She smelled of apples, and John figured the scent matched her: tart and bitter with a splash of something sweet, something endearing. Her arms trembled under the strain of her bags and her current frailty.
"Did you put the groceries away ye-oh." Sherlock halted, wrapped in nothing but a towel, and took in his soaking sister suspiciously. A smug smirk tugged at his lips. "Back already, Spencer? I figured it wouldn't take long."
"S-shut up," she tried to hiss. She grew faint when the breath left her body, but John's strong arms gripping hers brought her back from the brink of darkness.
"She's too exhausted for this," remarked John as he noticed her drooping lids. "Give it a break for today."
"Fine. Help her into the bath. And for the record," Sherlock added when John guided her in the right direction, "I didn't buy food for her. I don't care what happens to her; that falls into Mycroft's division."
Watson hurried her into the restroom to block any more of his companion's comments. He studied her worriedly, hoping the cold hadn't affected her or her health too greatly. He rested her against the wall, her head lolling to one side, and ran the hot water. He permitted one last, cautious glance before he took a step towards the door. A shaking hand clutching the back of his shirt made him freeze.
"Spencer?" he whispered charily, and peeked over his shoulder. Her striking eyes beheld him foggily through languid lashes. It fostered a reaction in him, both physical and emotional, that was impossible to ignore.
"-lp," she muttered.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that?" He leaned closer to distinguish her words.
"Help," she murmured, "can't...move..."
He sucked in a sharp breath as her intentions became clear. "Spencer..." This time, his tone held a warning note, a firm admonition of what she was asking. She never wavered, even as her violent quakes stirred a coughing fit.
He braced himself before placing his hands on her shoulders and pushing down her jacket, revealing strong shoulders and a graceful neck. Refusing to let his mind stray, he moved his thoughts from her slippery skin that beckoned him subtly. However, no amount of his willpower could prevent his composure from lapsing, and he found himself fascinated with her sleek body as he unbuttoned her jeans and slid them from her muscled legs. He hesitated then, finding her in nothing but a tank top and her undergarments. Having been a doctor in the military, he had seen naked bodies many times, though they were usually male, and would have no issue disrobing Spencer. He briefly raised his head to look at her for any signs of reluctance.
She was staring with a risqué smolder; her cheeks lightly tinged with pink and her lips parted sensually. Her skin trembled under his touch, and he grew increasingly flustered with each article of clothing that was removed. He could not bring himself to remove her small clothes, and keeping his eyes averted like a gentleman, he lifted her smoothly and set her in the tub with a towel to prop her head. She moaned when he left her nearly all the way submersed in the steaming water. In seeing her with eyes closed and a mixture of pain and relief, his breathing hastened.
Don't do anything stupid, he told himself, and left in a flurry.
~*TheRiverRunsRed*~
An hour had passed, and it was well into the early hours of the dawn. Between continuing his blog, the drone of the crackling fireplace, and listening for her soft splashes as a confirmation that Spencer hadn't drowned, John began drifting in and out of consciousness.
"Dr. Watson."
He jerked into reality at the sound of her voice. She stood, in all her enigmatic glory, covered in nothing but a towel. Honestly, what was with the Holmes and only wearing towels? Spencer grimaced, most likely to disguise the flames creeping onto her cheeks. Her skin, although pale, harbored a much healthier glow. She could stand without assistance, so he deflated a bit, considering a small part of him hoped she wouldn't recover so easily and she would call for him to carry her off to bed.
"Please, call me John."
"Dr. Watson," she repeated with persistence. "Where am I to stay?"
He shifted to stand, but when she shook her head and gestured for him to remain seated, he settled lazily into the chair. "You will stay in my room, upstairs. I'll sleep here on the couch," he informed her.
She nodded thoughtfully and bunched the towel closer bashfully. "I could always make my brother-"
"Nonsense, it's not an issue. Besides, I'd rather not suffer another fit from His Royal Highness."
Spencer's sweet mouth contorted into a wry smile. "True. Goodnight then, Dr. Watson."
"Sweet dreams, Spencer."