The universe was exquisitely restless, and Sherlock Holmes, groggy from the milkshake of galaxies frothing in the underside of some gigantic bowl drifting above his eyes, tried to think of ways to slow down the cosmic pace. He was sure he was read something of the sort in the New York Trilogy. Or was that Calvin and Hobbes? Wait, he hadn't read Calvin and Hobbes since…wait, was he a Calvinist…?
"Sherlock.."
"Mmmm.." Why was the universe calling him? Did someone murder a comet? Did comets bleed light?
"Sherlock. Wake up."
Why did the universe sound familiar?
"Sherlock."
Why did the universe sound like John? Was John the sound of the stars? Did he spend his time with a demigod?
"Sherlock!" A proper shaking of his shoulders drove the detective through an arch of light, into strangely familiar scenes of billowing curtains and starched sheets. It took a moment, but he recognised his room.
"Wake up already. You've been out like a light." John leaned over him, eyes fraught with concern.
"What…? When..?" His tongue wrestled against its own weight.
"Nearly twelve hours. Strangest thing." John got up to leave. "You came back from Iran's and just popped out."
"I'm sorry…who?" Sherlock couldn't think beyond the wall of lazy pain trotting at his temples.
"Iran Adelia. Our new neighbour. We helped her settle in. Sherlock, are you all right?" He was being exceptionally frazzled this morning, uncharacteristic of an intellect that operated with vitriolic speed every second.
"Yes, perfectly fine but for this ghastly headache." He rubbed his head. "Wait, did you say I went to our new neighbour? Because I distinctly remember…ugh" He grunted as a sudden spurt of pain shot into his skull.
"Remember what? Sherlock, you're worrying me. Do you want some tea or something? Maybe a doctor?"
"Just get me an aspirin and I'll be fine." He grunted again. "I might need that tea, though."
John nodded, knowing better than to argue. "I'll set the kettle."
"I'll be in the drawing room in five minutes. Close the door behind you."
Once alone, Sherlock clambered out of bed. His entire body ached, and waves of agony seared through his nerves all the way to his scalp. His clothes, frightfully dishevelled, brought back his last conscious memory, that of telling their neighbour the impossibility of his lifting a finger to do anything resembling a mover's occupation. 'Then what on earth is John jabbering about?' He clasped his head, willing the throbbing to stop. No such luck. "Oh shut up." He muttered irrationally to the air and headed into the bathroom.
By the time he sat down for his tea, Sherlock was starting to see spots on the edges of his peripheral vision. He felt parched, and tasted sandpaper in his mouth. In fact, he felt rather suspiciously fatigued, his eyes watered and his eyelids weighing down. He was exhausted. After twelve hours of sleep, his body seemed as if it had just taken a beating.
"You look practically half-dead, dear." Mrs Hudson had been flitting about, tending to their household work.
"Must be the flu." Sherlock mumbled, still grasping his head.
"This is hardly flu season." John stirred sugar into his tea. "Did you manage to eat something out of the ordinary?"
"Of course not. And for God's sake, do shut up, both of you. Your voices lacerate my soul."
The other two rolled their eyes in unison, not too worried. Sherlock Holmes seemed perfectly himself, just sick.
"Whatever it is, I'll grab some medicine, just in case." Watson said, disregarding his friend's scrowl.
"Medicine? Who's sick so early?"
The voice carrying the last few words ripped through Sherlock's painful haze like a sword through a single hair. In seconds, every speck of contagion in his senses just…cleared. His head, throat, tongue, eyes instantly lost irritation and reverted to optimal functioning. He blinked quickly, trying to make sense of the change.
"Good morning, dear. You look quite lovely this morning." Mrs Hudson greeted Iran who stood near the doorway to the men's apartment, dressed in a red sweater and jeans that simple made her glow. Sherlock wasn't sure how she did it, but turning disastrous ensembles into runaway hits seemed her occupying hobby.
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. And also, the casserole you sent last night was delicious. I put the pot in your kitchen." She walked in. "I was just returning when I head John mention medicine. Thought I'd come in to check."
"What accent is that you've been sporting?" Sherlock asked with usual abruptness.
"Pardon..?" She rested her eyes on his neck, exposed again. He tried to ignore it.
"Your accent. Highly masked, but discernible to the astute listener. I would say you hail from somewhere in South Asia, India perhaps, but your coldness of tonality is reminiscent of a more…"
"Your eyes are absolutely bloodshot." She quipped.
All three pairs of eyes in the room zeroed in on possibly the only person, except John Watson, who had interrupted Sherlock Holmes. What was more, she did so with an absolute disregard for his deductive rant.
"Do you have a fever, Sherlock?" Iran reached out and lay her palm on the flabbergasted detective's forehead. "You feel a little warm. And your eyes.." She leaned forward and gently pulled downward the skin beneath his right eye to examine it.
Sherlock felt his heartbeat skyrocket in a nanosecond. Her hair billowed with the softest scent of jasmine, her lips exuded a sweet pink hue and he could see the edges of her collarbone descend from her shoulders to disappear beneath red folds of cashmere. He could almost feel their bluntness on the tip of his tongue as it outlined a path to the crevice hidden beneath that beautiful red.
She moved away. "It must have been that last scoop of ice cream last night."
"Ice cream..what..?" Sherlock was seriously beginning to doubt his sanity.
"We had ice cream and coffee at Iran's place last night, remember? After the cheese and peaches?" John replied.
"We ate what?" He couldn't imagine, by the farthest stretch of his naturally ductile imagination, cheese and peaches to constitute an actual meal.
"You've been acting very strange since morning. That's it. I'm getting you the meds. Be back in a whirl. Get you something, Mrs. Hudson?"
And then Sherlock was left alone with the girl who smelt like the undertone of a meadow. She eased into the sofa beside him. He could not help but appreciate the enmeshing of the black of her hair against the red sweater. There was something in her posture that reminded him of Edvard Munch's 'Puberty', a tender touch of ineffability in her persona. Sherlock realised that he wasn't deducting. He wasn't trying to dissect her identity by tell-tale signs every individual carries around on their person.
"You've been thinking of me." Her voice was quiet, and filled every corner of the room. Every last inch of his hearing.
"Sorry?" He knew she was right; even though he hadn't thought of her until the moment she had appeared, he knew she was right.
"You know what I said." A smirk, like a bolt of lightning, carved her lips.
"You said that I had been thinking of you. I find that assertion…open to question." Diplomacy was not at its best today.
"Hmm." She exhaled. "Come here." Her arm outstretched again, she reached into his collar. Sherlock felt the cool tips of her fingers graze his neck.
"What…?"
"Shhh!"
And he shut up. Her touch, only a butterfly whisper on his heated skin. He wanted to move away, but he didn't feel like it. Her nails scraped against him, and drew a low moan. Sherlock felt the blood race towards his extremities. His breath thickened and his eyelids fluttered to a close.
"Did it hurt last night?" She whispered, her breath tickling his earlobe.
He opened his eyes to find Iran's body pushed against his own. It was weight, warm and cold simultaneously. Her face was inches from his, their breaths mingling in the utter wantonness his body was beginning to crave.
"What are you..?" He began, but her finger brushed against them. "Shhh…" She repeated. "You are a difficult man, Sherlock Holmes." Her voice sent shock waves of desire plummeting through him.
Iran's hand trailed from his lips and neck to his shirt. He could feel the fabric part as she undid his top buttons.
'Is this really happening?' Sherlock whimpered incoherently. He couldn't think, couldn't fight the streaks of pleasure digging into his brain. His shorts tightened, and he…
"Please.."
"You must be taught how to beg. Amateur."
The touch of her lips on his neck, right above the skin protecting his jugular vein. His lips releasing a tortured moan. The prick of…something. And darkness. The same. Again.
"Sherlock. Wake up. Wake up."
He flailed into awakening, short of breath and wild-eyed. "Where is she? What..?"
"Calm down!" John grabbed onto his arms and held him down until he stopped. "Sherlock, what's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?"
"Nightmare? What do you mean? John!" Sherlock scanned his room frantically. "Where is she? Did I pass out again?"
"Where is who? And you only passed out once. You've been out for twelve hours."
Sherlock stared, dumbfounded. "Twelve hours? Continuously? Did I wake up in the middle of it?"
"Not as far as I know. We came back from Iran's flat, and you just went out like a light."
He froze. "Right after I returned?"
"Yes. Now stop being so strange. I'll make tea. Get up already. We have clients."
John left.
Alone. Again. But this time…was it really a dream? Had he dreamt…?
"You've been thinking of me."