Hey! Chapter number 4! This one's a flashback... back to Karachi. There's a tiny bit of smut in here, but it doesn't progress all the way through. Bear in mind, it's the first time I've even attempted anything like smut, so there we go. Sorry if it's bad. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own 'Sherlock' or any of its characters.
In the end
Everyone ends up alone
Losing her
The only one who's ever known
Who I am
Who I'm not, who I wanna be
No way to know
How long she will be next to me
She sighs and runs her hand through her tangled hair, wincing at the knots. She is in her undergarments- plain and practical- which were meant to be white but are now a washed-out grey. Studying her body, she notes that her ribs are sticking out slightly and her vertebrae jut out. She has lost an inch and a half from her hips and waist and her hip bones protrude.
She runs her fingers over the flaky skin on her face and chapped lips, tracing the dark circles curving under her eyes. Her hair has been cut short, too short to be even considered beautiful. Suddenly, she is seized by a terrible anger at herself, at this wreck that she has become. Where has the strong, healthy, resplendent dominatrix gone? Her body has been replaced by a derelict shell that can barely even hold itself upright.
She hates this skeleton of a body that she has suddenly been thrust into.
Kicking the mirror in a sporadic burst of resentment at herself, at this wavering image in the cracks zigzagging across the trembling glass like a spider's web, she turns away bitterly and throws herself onto the stained sheets of the bed.
When sleep does come, it comes with a memory she both strives for and avoids.
"Why?" The tone of her voice is sharper than she'd anticipated and she winces internally.
He looks at her with barely concealed resentment.
"What do you mean, why?"
She knows he is bluffing- he knows exactly what she means and more. She doesn't answer, just raises and eyebrow and tilts her head to one side expectantly.
He breathes in loudly and half-turns away from her. "Most people would thank me for saving their life, much at the risk of my own, and go to bloody sleep!"
By the end of his sentence, he is almost shouting.
She stands up a little straighter and unfolds her arms. "So you admit that you risked your life... to save mine? Also, I'm not most people."
He lets out a sarcastic puff of air from his nostrils and faces her with that cutting glare. "Keep telling yourself that."
She notices he doesn't address her first point, but decides not to pursue it just yet. "What do you mean?"
His gaze flicks away. "Which part? Or all of it?"
She keeps her stare trained on him and ignores his scorn. "You implied that I'm ordinary, that I'm deluding myself with the image that I'm different. What did you mean by that?"
His upper lip raises in an almost vicious sneer. "I don't need to explain myself to you."
"No, you don't. But you of all people must understand that I am not inclined toward the notion of being normal."
He takes in a deep breath and squares himself up to her. "Fine! If it's that vital for your survival, fine!" He is striding to her now, heat from his fury radiating off him at every step.
"People- all people, even you- always, inevitably, leave. They all leave and forget and move on-" he is spitting the words out now, and she nearly recoils at the intensity in his face- "and you will do the same and so will I, and we'll both forget about each other and the memories will decay and soon we won't even feel the tiniest hint of recognition at the other's name."
She has the overwhelming urge to back away, to distance herself from this savage creature with the twisted features that holds the name Sherlock Holmes but isn't anything like him. The Sherlock she knows is controlled and calm and indifferent.
She holds her ground.
"So? What has that got to do with anything?"
He seems to wrench himself back to reality, back to the little dingy room with flickering yellow light and cracked walls.
"Do you not want to be remembered? By everyone you meet?" His tone is softer now, slightly confused.
She considers his question. "Well, doesn't everyone? We all wish to leave a scar on the face of the earth. We all wish to cut a deeper one, a wider one, a longer one, than the last."
A frustrated moan escapes his throat. "But they aren't scars! They are monuments, commemorating our victories, statues to live while we ourselves pass away, for future generations to admire. They are trophies!"
She shakes her head. "No. But what's so special about me? Why do you want to be remembered by me? Surely you have enough people to stare after your wake with wide eyes and open mouths- that adoring little doctor of yours, for one."
He stops fuming, starts frowning instead. "John isn't adoring. I'm not going to deny the second adjective, though."
She waits for the answer that isn't aimed to deflect her questions.
He lets the second breath out slower, exaggerating his annoyance. "You're- different."
She is expecting something more, but is only greeted by his silence and his bowed head.
"Wonderful deduction," she says, but she understands what he means.
He glowers at her and half-curls his upper lip. "I meant-"
She cuts him off. "I know."
He looks at her properly for the first time, and she almost blushes at the way her heart leaps. She's acting like a simpering schoolgirl.
But she cannot deny that there is a capital-S Something that passes through the eye contact. It's almost a mutual understanding, and there is a conversation being had- no, not a conversation, more of an acknowledgement of each other's minds.
It's completely new. And she's out of her depth.
So she switches to what she's best at. Taking the half-step that separates their bodies, she looks up into his face, cups his jaw, and kisses him firmly on his lips.
His lips are unresponsive at first, but she persists until they move ever so slightly and she moans in the back of her throat as an encouragement.
Her other hand reaches up to tangle its fingers in his curls and she tugs gently on his follicles. His mouth grows more confident, and his tongue brushes at her bottom lip for entrance. She hums in surprise and pleasure at his forwardness, and gladly allows him access. His hands rise to her waist, and he pulls her hips towards his to compensate for the increasingly demanding kisses.
She gasps at the hardness against her thigh and grinds against him, drawing a choked groan from deep in his throat and she smirks against his lips.
Of course, he is Sherlock Holmes and cannot bear losing, so he pulls away from her mouth to trail a burning path of moist kisses across her jaw and down her throat. She sighs in response and her eyelids flutter closed. She can feel his dark chuckle reverberate through her bones.
All at once, she cannot wait. She grunts, and pushes him against the wall, rejoining their mouths fiercely.
At least she takes him by surprise.
He moans in shock and reciprocates just as ardently. They are like that for what could be hours, or days, or weeks, trapped in a searing moment, before he grows restless and decides to swap positions.
He almost growls, a noise she never would have thought possible come from his mouth, and grabs her hips, digging his fingertips in so it is almost painful and in a way that she knows will definitely leave bruises. He shoves her into the wall, letting go of her waist to trap both her wrists in one hand to hold above her head as he presses his body length to length with hers, staring into her eyes with a flame she hadn't known existed in him burning in his pupils as their mouths crash together again, teeth clashing and cheekbones bumping in their desperate hunger.
She hasn't had this kind of fire in her stomach for ages.
He reaches down with his free hand to almost tear her shalwar kameez off and she grunts when she hears the sound of rending seams. He doesn't seem to hear, or care, and ducks his head down to tear the straps of her bra off with his teeth and quickly flicks his tongue around her hardening nipples.
She has never seen Sherlock like this before- fierce and wild and out of control. She vaguely wonders if this is what he is like when high on a drug fix, blown pupils and drawn brows with a visible pulse beating in his throat.
She can only moan and press against him harder.
As the early morning light streams in and tickles her bare shoulder, she senses movement. Opening her eyes a crack and turning her head to the right (and wincing at the slight twinge of pain) she sees Sherlock, standing there with his shirt in hand and looking at her as if she is a teacher catching him smoking behind the bike sheds.
She reaches up to rub her eyes, her arms screaming at her, and murmurs sleepily, "Where are you going?"
His voice is a rumble. "Away."
She almost rolls her eyes, and shifts so that she is in a sort-of sitting position. "Obviously. What I meant is why."
He looks almost pained for a minute, and his gaze slides away from her. "Because John will be missing me."
"No." She doesn't say any more, just stares at him through now-wide-awake eyes.
He sighs and the words seem to have difficulty emerging from his mouth. "Last night... It was a mistake."
She is surprised at the sheer hurt that his statement causes. "Pardon?"
"It was a mistake. A mere experiment that went wrong. I apologise for my misjudgement."
A laugh slips out from between her lips. It is incredulous and humourless. "You- you apologise? An experiment? Sherlock, are you alright?"
His face is impassive, and his eyes are cold. "I am perfectly fine."
She shakes her head. "No, you're not."
Taking the off-white sheet that covers her body, she wraps it around herself and crawls towards him. She grabs the shirt he is holding and pulls on it, but he doesn't let go.
"Sherlock." He doesn't respond at all, just stares in the general direction of the door. "Sherlock!"
When he does turn to her, his eyes are glassy and unfocused. "Sherlock, listen to me. Whatever this is, whatever twisted joke you're pulling or whatever drug you're on, stop this! It's not funny, this time. You hear me? Sherlock, it's not funny!"
He opens his mouth, and his words seem to come from a long distance away.
"I don't love you."
The words don't fully register until he has gone.
Not too sure about the ending, but it was the best I could come up with.
Should I raise the rating to an M? Only, it's not really full-out step-by-step, but I don't know? Should I, should I not?
I'm actually so annoying, asking y'all these questions that I should know. Sorry!
Thanks for reading!
~detectiveintheshadows