Yeah, yeah, I know, you don't have to tell me! This part... pretty much sucks. Sorry! I tried to slow the story down a bit so I wasn't jumping from her not knowing anything about Sherlock or John to suddenly solving crimes with them, and it makes for a really awkward part. Oops. No, this isn't going to be a Twohn (as one of my best reader-friends so lovingly calls it), but later on it MAY become a Sherla (also my friend- if you can come up with better names than these, pleeeeease do!), even though she SEEMS to despise him. I guess we'll just have to wait and see!
I sit hunched over their table, staring at the steam rolling from my tea. Sherlock sits across from me, his cheek red and marked by my hand, and stares, the questions he has practically visible on his tongue. John leans against the fridge, watching both of us warily, ready to intervene if either of us act rashly.
I clench my fingers into a fist, glaring down at my knuckles. Neither Sherlock or I have apologized; I steadily refuse to unless he does first. My face is tight from the tears that have dripped, on and off, down my face for at least an hour, depending on how hard I'm trying to remember. A laptop lies on the table between us, but I've been too scared to open it and see the files they have on me. I'm still not even exactly sure who they are, except for the few facts John has managed to get in between Sherlock's cold observations about my blood pressure and bruises and such. I can't even bring myself to look at him, he disgusts me so. Everything about him is emotionless and removed, it hurts.
And yet, it's a welcome relief. I could do without emotions, today. I'm racked by waking nightmares, scared out of my mind and confused about everything. I don't know anything, nothing of importance anyway. I set my jaw and reach for the computer, flipping the top open.
A picture of me pops onto the screen, all smiles and movement. Everything about me screams alive: reddish-brown hair falls in waves to my shoulders, my hand is raised to push a stray lock away from my forehead, my cheeks are flushed, a deep dimple stands to the right of my wide grin, and my gray eyes glint with laughter. My body is turned like I'd just spun to face the photographer, the black sweater dress hanging attractively on my hips twisted in a spiral around my legs. I'm standing on tiptoe, like a bird poised to fly, with the same red converse as on my feet now on my feet then. A lump forms in my throat- I look so happy, so pleased to be breathing and living. And I don't even remember it.
I take one last long look at how I used to be and click away. A birth certificate slides onto the screen, the birth certificate of a certain Twyla Jane Emerson, born September 7th of 1990 at 8:43 am, daughter of Lane Joseph Emerson and Adalynn Reece Abram-Emerson. I swallow hard, blinking away the tears forming in my eyes, and click. Another picture pops up, again of me. I'm curled up in a big armchair, my skinny-jean clad legs tucked under me (and, of course, my ever-present red converse), holding a thick book. An almost completely brown Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with a few white splotches is cuddled up beside me, its head resting on my leg. I'm sticking my tongue out at the photographer playfully, almost as if they'd caught me by surprise. The dog stares straight at the camera, its head raised enough that its collar is visible. I zoom in on the tag: Amber Emerson. I smile, and click.
Dentist records, birthday pictures, first-day-of-school nametags on tacky dresses… I click past them all, absorbing a life I lived and can't remember and crying over memories I wished I could remember. And then I come to the newspaper articles.
Missing: Twyla Jane Emerson, aged 20. Red-brown hair, gray eyes, 5' 5", skinny. Reported missing from her parent's home 12-27-12. No signs of break-in or struggle. Last seen wearing a black headband, purple and black shirt, boot-leg jeans, and red converse. May have a ribbon around her wrist.
I glance down at my arm. I can see a paler area on my wrist in the long, thin shape of a ribbon, but there's not one there. I can tell without looking that the headband is long gone, and since waking up in Sherlock and John's house (the second time…) I've changed into one of Sherlock's long-sleeve white button up shirts with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. My jeans are ripped and bloodstained, my shoes have one or two odd splatters of scarlet, my hair is tangled and wild, I'm unnaturally pale… the girl from the pictures is gone. She left when she gone beaten half to death and lost her memories. But if she's gone, who am I? I stare, my gaze unseeing, at today's date. Then a weight falls on my shoulder and a pale finger points at the numbers, the hand on my shoulder squeezing and disappearing. The chair across me creaks as Sherlock settles back into it. I glance at him, and he nods. His emotionless façade has faded a little, letting something that looks distinctly like pity shine through. If even Sherlock is showing emotion over a couple numbers, obviously it's got to be pretty bad. I bite my lip and let my eyes fall back to today's date.
1-20-14
For a moment, I don't even process what he was trying to show me, then my eyes flick between the kidnapping date and today's. I moan, dropping my head into my hands. My hair slips over my face, and I let warm tears drip between my fingertips onto my jeans, leaving little spots of moisture. Two pairs of shoes appear on either side of me, and I slowly raise my head. John cocks his head and looks at me with concern, and Sherlock stands on the other side with guarded eyes, his lips pursed. I sniff, then shoot out of the chair and run to the bedroom, sobbing. The chair clatters to the ground, and John hollers my name, his footsteps echoing after me.
I slam and lock the door, collapsing onto the bed with a pillow hugged to my face to hold back the gasping whimpers that slip past my lips and into the air. John yells for me to let him in for a few moments, then his voice recedes and I hear pacing in the living room. I take deep, shuddering breaths, rocking.
oOo
I didn't know I'd fallen asleep until a soft knock on the door startles me awake. I roll off the bed and fall to the floor, still grasping the pillow. The knock sounds again, soft but insistent. I blink, groggy, and push myself to my feet. I unlock the door and swing it open, catching Sherlock with his hand raised. Two spots of pink appear on his cheekbones, and he lowers his arm. I glare at him, fully aware of how curls stick to my cheeks and a pillow is clutched to my chest. He pretends not to notice, but if I know anything about Sherlock Holmes, it's that nothing gets past him.
"Er- John told me to wake you." A film of non-feeling falls over his eyes, and he goes back to the cold, unfeeling man he pretends to be. Or, maybe, he's pretending to be the emotional one, and this icy façade isn't such a façade after all. "It's morning, and he was wondering if you-"
I gasp and my hand shoots to my hair. "Morning?!" I curse and slam the door, my eyes quickly skimming over the room. Then I open the door again, blushing, and give him an embarrassed half-smile. "Erm… do you have any clothes I could wear?"
oOo
I yank a hairbrush through a particularly tangled knot of hair and wrestle with the unyielding snarl for a few moments before finally giving up, throwing the brush down on the nightstand and glaring at myself in the mirror. Mrs. Hudson, their sweet elderly landlady, had gone shopping last night, after I crashed, and picked out some clothes based on the things I'd worn in the pictures, and had refused my sincere thanks, saying that she was glad to finally have another woman around. After finally taking a shower and getting rid of the awful blood stains, I could see once and for all just how bad my wounds were.
A long scratch stretches from my right cheekbone around my cheek and along my jaw, leaving a red streak that throbs every time I accidently tap it with something. My shoulder had to be wrapped up because of the deep knife wound I got right before Sherlock and John found me, but even with multiple layers of gauze blood seeps through when I wiggle too much. I'm covered in innumerous scrapes, bruises, and rashes.
I sigh and unwrap my towel, hastily pulling on my underclothes before I get cold. I yank a black tank top over my head and straighten it, then I inch deep red leggings up my legs. I hesitate between two shirts, then pick up a thick long-sleeve black and white sweater dress and drop it onto my shoulders. It settles over my hips and I cast a quick look in the mirror again.
I look like I'm trying to be someone I'm not.
I scowl at myself and flip my hair off my shoulder, silently repeating one phrase over and over: Twyla Jane Emerson. It's who I am, even if I can't remember it, and I sure as hell am going to fit the part. If I have to put up with a few misgivings for the next couple weeks, so be it.
I slip my feet into my new red Converse (Mrs. Hudson figured it wouldn't do to have bloody shoes), but they don't feel right, so I just shrug and pull on the original pair. Besides, you can only see the blood if you look reeeeeeally closely. I pause by the door, take a deep, shuddering breath, and open the door.
Sherlock stops bouncing his ball against the wall and looks up at me, his eyes glazed with boredom. "I tried to go and eat without you," He says. "But John wouldn't hear of it." He raises an eyebrow. "Can we eat now?"
I glare at him and ignore his rudeness, pushing past him into the kitchen. John grins at me and pulls a chair out from the table, offering it to me. I hesitate, but sit, and he pushes into the table for me, reaching around my shoulders to place a heaping pile of many different types of breakfast foods on the wood surface.
I hadn't realized how starving I was until I get a whiff of the food. I shovel pancakes into my mouth and eat as quickly as I can, not bothering to try and savor anything until my last couple bites. I sigh contentedly and lean back, my eyes half-shut.
John raises his cup of coffee at me from where he leans against the counter and takes a sip, his eyes creased from the smile that twists his lips. I turn and see Sherlock hunched on the big chair, glaring at the ground with his feet tucked under him and his arms crossed. Despite the early hour, he already has on a large black trench coat and a scarf.
He looks up at me, his blue eyes lit up, and the edge of his mouth barely turns up in a twisted imitation of a smile. He says something, his lips moving quickly, but I'm still too dazed from the sudden onslaught of more food than I've had in at least a month to hear him correctly. John does, however, and I hear him bark something in a loud, angry voice. Sherlock's grimace turns around and he scowls at us, then growls under his breath and disappears into his room.
I shrug and ask for some more breakfast.
See? I told you this whole part sounded all awkward and shit! I hate how it turned out, but I sure as hell don't have time to go back and fix all of it so here you go. Don't complain, I promise it'll get better soon!
~CTST
