Chapter Three: The Painting
She laughed at the jokes Mycroft had fired off, and to her surprise, Sherlock laughed too. She had felt a part of the Holmes family since Sherlock's party in September, and she hoped to make it official someday. She looked at Mrs. Holmes, or Mummy as they all called her, who was pouring her another cup of tea and smiled. Mummy Holmes was like her own mother as well, and that was the best feeling in the world.
Mycroft sighed, standing after a moment. "Well, I must be off. Thank you, Mummy, for a wonderful afternoon. Sherlock, Alicia." He said, nodding to each of them as he made his way from the table back to the car that waited in the drive. Sherlock looked over at Alicia, smiling.
"I have a surprise for you, if you want to come with me." He said softly, taking her hand and stroked his thumb over the back of it. She nodded, standing when he did. Mummy Holmes smiled at them, and she knew the reason why everyone was so happy when she was around. Sherlock had fallen in love for the first time, and she was the object of his unwavering affection.
His eyes shone brightly as he led her into the mansion and up to a room that smelled horribly of pastels and paints. He dropped her hand when we stepped into the middle of the room and moved to a very large easel, on which was a covered up painting. Slowly, he removed the cover and she gasped at the picture that had been revealed.
It was of her, sitting in the flowers at Hyde Park on the day they met. Every detail was noted and made perfectly clear. The shading was as if the picture wasn't drawn from memory, but was taken by a camera and blown up to this size. The flowers were bright, but the main focus was on her eyes. They had the most detail, the most complex coloring. Sherlock pays attention to every detail, but the eyes had been the center of his masterpiece. It was the detail that he wanted everyone to notice.
The hair was a glorious red that made it look as if it had belonged to goddess of ancient times. She hardly believed the extensive time he spent on each strand of it, making each one its own color and direction. Her voice caught in her throat, but her expressions told everything; her excitement, her love of it, her feeling of wonder and surprise, all of it was written across her face. Sherlock only smiled, watching her eyes shift from one place to the next, dancing around the picture to take in whatever memory had been painted, as if she had never been in that memory at all.
After minutes of struggling, she found her voice again. "It's beautiful Sherlock, absolutely beautiful; the color, the detail, all of it. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen…" she paused slightly before asking. "Is this how you see me?" She looked at him, seeing him nod once. Her gaze dropped to his hands, picturing him drawing out the flowers in the park to drawing her, and it all seemed unreal in a way.
He smiled at her, moving across the room to pull out more of his artwork. A variety of flowers were drawn out in the upmost detail, not a single one was alike in color, or form. It was only obvious to see where Sherlock's talents lied, and Alicia's heart grew lighter as he moved towards her again, this time with a small picture in his hand.
"I drew this for you… I hope you like it." He said, handing her a small picture of the two of them. It hadn't been colored, but the detail of his work was still present. It was beautiful, more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen.
"You're an artist Sherlock, a pure genius. Are you sure you want to be a detective?" she asked as he stood closer to her than usual. He nodded, leaning in even closer.
"I'm most certain of it." He whispered, his breath brushing across her lips. A shiver went down her spine as their lips touched gently. His lips were soft and warm, and the kiss was perfect. He pulled away just at the right time, but it was still over to quickly for her.
"You're a great kisser, Sherlock." She said in a light whisper. He smiled, but waved it off. He wasn't one for saying thank you. She knew why. It wasn't that he wasn't thankful, but he just didn't know how to say it. He was the same way about admitting he was wrong or had made a mistake.
"You should probably be heading home soon. Your father said not to have you over too late." He said, looking at his paintings once more. She nodded and moved towards the door. Stopping just shy of the doorway, she looked to him.
"You'll come around to see me again, won't you?" she asked, knowing his reply already. He nodded once. "Then I'll see you soon, Sherlock Holmes." She said with a smile. He smiled lightly as she left the room. He looked over at the cupboard where he kept some art supplies. Opening it, his eyes fell upon the thing he desperately needed now. Grabbing the needle and the bottle, he left the room, heading in the opposite direction of her.
She went to the car that was waiting for her in the drive. She had noticed the needle marks on his arms weeks ago, but chose to ignore them. She didn't want to start a fight. But she knew the signs of addiction; her brother had been an addict too. Sherlock needed help. She sighed to herself as she got into the backseat. He knew he needed help. He was just too above it to ask.