Chapter 4

Thank you, again, to all who have been following this story.
Sorry this one took a lot longer. Many things happened these few weeks.
To all who have supported thus far and shared your thoughts in your reviews,
thank you from the bottom of my heart. x

In the cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock couldn't care for the beautiful London lights that streamed past his window. His jaw was clenched tight as he stared intently ahead, focusing on deleting all irrelevant information that had trespassed his mind. What seemed like a chaotic, flurry of events replayed themselves clearly in his sharp memory as he slowly removed each moment. In spite of his acute awareness of everything in his environment, Sherlock had neglected to notice that his mobile phone had been buzzing in his jacket pocket considerably since leaving the gala. He was only made aware of it when it buzzed on the cab ride home, snapping him out of his little mental rearrangement exercise. Reaching into his jacket, he was predicting a whole slew of texts and missed calls. Anyone could guess that Mycroft would be frantically contacting Sherlock. After blowing off his debt to Mycroft and blowing it off in such terrible fashion, Mycroft was sure to be livid. Sherlock took a deep breath as he swiped across his mobile screen, unlocking it. Sure enough, there were a few missed calls from Mycroft. After all, Mycroft always preferred to call. As Sherlock had not answered any of his, however, Mycroft had made an exception.

I've just spoken to Ms Lancaster. Can this be true? – M.

I must say I'm impressed. I was expecting worse. – M

I never imagined you would listen to me.
You've certainly surprised me this evening. – M

She was absolutely delighted and thanked me profusely.
You didn't use a decoy or something, did you?
Paid one of your homeless chaps to impersonate you or something? – M

In any case, I am grateful.
She's happy, her father's spoken with me and we can safely say the night was a success.

Your debt is no more. Goodnight, Sherlock. – M

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he read and re-read those last two messages. His heart couldn't help but beat a little harder against his chest as the same panic he had felt all evening crept into his veins again.

"How is this possible?" he whispered to himself. It was a good thing Mycroft seemed pleased. It meant months of peace, maybe even a year of peace, without his brother constantly poking about his business. But how Evelyn Lancaster could possibly have been delighted simply evaded the consulting detective. Sherlock shoved his phone back into his jacket pocket and stared out of the window. The harsh street lamps felt harsher still as they beamed down his face. Sherlock was in a dilemma. He wanted everything about this evening to leave his mind. Everything about the gala and Ms Lancaster, he wanted out of his mind. It was clear, however, that this wasn't the end. There was something terribly wrong and Sherlock could feel it seep into his bones. The dilemma that racked Sherlock was whether to pursue this feeling or not. Was she up to something? Was she going to interfere with him some more? These were things he never imagined having to think about and he certainly didn't want to. But it seemed he was at the cusp of something. Sherlock thought back at her feverish gaze whenever she looked at him and the chilling way in which she reached for him.

This dance mustn't end, Sherlock.

The words swam up to the surface of his mind as Sherlock analysed their gravity. No, he thought,you won't let it. He was going to see Evelyn Lancaster very soon. Sherlock sighed angrily as he clenched his fists. Everything he had put way neatly now came flooding back. The first time she reached for his bow tie, the way she had contoured her body to fit his, that soft but repulsive kiss she left on his skin. Sherlock shuddered at her unwanted proximity. The mad thirst for his attention unnerved him, but how dangerous was this madness going to be? Shutting his eyes now, Sherlock began to think long and hard about everything Evelyn Lancaster had done or said. Despite having put everything away, Sherlock's train of thought moved slowly and meticulously through each detail of everything that had occurred tonight.

In uncharacteristic fashion, Sherlock's thoughts swarmed him so much that he had not realised the taxi had stopped right at his door.

"Sir, we've arrived. 221B Baker Street, wasn't it?" asked the cabby.
"Hmm?" Oh yes, thank you." Sherlock muttered, clumsily pulling out a few notes and handing them to the cabby.

As the cab sped off, Sherlock opened the door that led to his flat. While peeling his long coat off himself, Sherlock trudged slowly up only to be met with John standing right at the top of the stairs.

"I promise I won't ask what the hell you were thinking just now at the gala," John began, "But I do want to know if Molly's all right."
"She's fine." Sherlock answered, walking right past John. He hooked his coat casually behind his room door and cricked his neck.
"How's her hand?
"If you're so concerned about Molly why don't you go see her at her flat?" Sherlock replied nonchalantly. He took his loosened bow tie out from his pocket and threw it on his desk
"Her flat? I thought you were bringing her to the emergency room?" John asked, walking up to Sherlock.
"Not for a few cuts." Sherlock replied, his back still to John.
"A few cuts? Sherlock, you rammed an entire wine glass into that poor girl's hand…"
"It's not like I'd killed her." Sherlock replied coldly, turning to face John.

John laughed, shaking his head.

"You… are cold-blooded. Really, you are."
"Say what you will. I have more urgent things to think about."
"Like what?" John asked angrily.
"Never you mind," Sherlock replied, pausing to check his phone. No calls, no messages.

John watched Sherlock as he continued looking through his phone. He could not believe how calm and collected Sherlock seemed after what was clearly a dramatic evening. John took a deep breath and attempted conversation again.

"Sherlock, why…"
"I thought you promised you weren't going to ask?" Sherlock interrupted, returning his phone to his pocket.
"Fine. I suppose it is pointless asking a crazy man why he does crazy things."
"It wasn't crazy."

Sighing, John sat himself down in his usual armchair. Unexpectedly, Sherlock sat down in the other armchair across from John, staring past Johns' head and into the kitchen. It was clear that the wheels in Sherlock's mind had begun moving and he was thinking hard. John knew from the way Sherlock's eyes, at first glance, seemed to glaze over but upon deeper inspection, could see just the tiniest movements in the iris as thoughts danced about in Sherlock's head.

"Well, then I'll ask you something else." John said, breaking the silence.
"There really is no need for you to talk at this moment, John." Sherlock replied. His eyes focused on something far away as his mind spun.
"Are you all right?" asked John.
"Yes, perfectly fine."
"Did you get hurt?"
"No."
"Did you help Molly with her wounds?"
"Yes. Well, sort of."
"Right, I'll just…assume you helped, somehow," said John, "Did you apologise?"
"Apologise?" Sherlock's eyes shifted from their far-off gaze onto John's face.
"Yes. Apologise." John replied. "It's what humans do if they've hurt one another."
"I offered to dress her wounds."
"Offered? So you didn't actually check on her wounds?"
"I went up to her flat, found the medical supplies…" Sherlock frowned as the scene replayed itself, "Then she lost it a bit and I was told to leave the flat."
"What did you say to her to make her chase you out of her flat?" John asked, incredulous.
"I don't remember."
"You don't remember? Are you Sherlock Holmes?"
"I might remember, later on." Sherlock said, as he reached for his violin, "Like I said, I have more pressing issues at hand."

Brusque and irregular notes burst out of Sherlock's violin as he ran the bow rapidly across the violin strings. John flinched from Sherlock's somewhat aggressive melody. Unable to stand it, John rose abruptly from his seat and yanked the violin out from beneath Sherlock's chin.

"You are inconsiderate to me, rude to Mrs Hudson and bratty to Mycroft. But you've never laid a finger on us. Never. You are as rude to Molly as you are to us but how could you have just hurt her like that? And without even a semblance of an apology after?" John exclaimed, staring hard at Sherlock.

"Go and apologise to Molly. First thing tomorrow." John demanded.
"I brought her home, offered to dress her wounds. Surely that counts as more than an apol-…"
"Are you stupid?" Is Molly some sort of rag doll to you, Sherlock?" John interrupts, angrily.
"A rag doll?" Sherlock said, "Why would you say that?"
"Are you sure you're the world's best consulting detective?" John asked sarcastically.

With a deep sigh, Sherlock rose slowly from his seat, placing his violin bow on the mantelpiece. Sherlock was in no mood to be lectured tonight and certain not from the moral compass himself.

"All right. I will apologise." Sherlock muttered reluctantly.
"Tomorrow."
"As soon as I can."
"Fine. You make sure you do that."

As John walked off to his room, Sherlock shut his eyes and tilted his head back. Rarely did Sherlock get plagued by headaches, but tonight, the tension gripped his temples. How he longed for a cigarette to help ease the knot, but no, this was no time to relax. Like he said, there were more pressing issues at hand.

Evelyn had her mobile phone pressed to her ear as she sat comfortably by her dressing table. She was wrapped in a black silk robe. Her dark brown hair was out of its chignon and flowed like waves down her back.

"Yes, it was lovely. They served your favourite champagne." said Evelyn brightly. With her free hand, she ran a brush through her hair whilst checking her reflection.

"It's a pity you couldn't come tonight. You could have met Sherlock too." When she said his name, Evelyn gripped the brush a little tighter, her eyes darkening.

"What's he like? Oh, he was charming, daddy. Just as I had imagined." Evelyn said with a slow smile moving across on her face.

"What's that? Will I see him again?" Rising from her dressing table, Evelyn sank down gracefully into her bed. Her brown hair lay sprawled around her, like a pool of dark bronze.

"Of course, daddy. Of course."