This doesn't really fit directly within the plot of series three, but it's semi-important.

-XXX-

Another day, another text. Some weeks, it's only through Sherlock's demanding summons that I know he's alive. They're like…invitations to dates. Except, it's not dinner and a movie, but maybe a cup of tea I made myself before a chase through Kensington Gardens – and it's not Sherlock I am chasing.

Sherlock: "What are you doing today?"

Me: "Many important things that don't involve mystery cases."

Sherlock: "Somehow I doubt that."

I frown. He's right, but he doesn't need to know that. I'm free until about five, when I'm due to play at Pinstripes until about eleven. I'd planned on using that time to catch up on reading, maybe practice a few new pieces, watch a bit of TV. Nothing too exciting. Which is precisely what I wanted – a bit of peace and quiet.

Since John had settled into domestic life, Sherlock had been…edgy. He was less inclined to pull Dr. Watson into his shenanigans – likely out of some unexpected respect for the man's new family – and far more likely to persuade me into joining him. In the last month alone I'd ran from several people wanting to shoot me, broken into three residence, and retched at the sight of puddle of someone's sticky red-black blood. In one of those instances I'd even felt a little woozy at the sight of my own blood….

-XXX-

Somehow, we'd landed in the sewers – well, the rain sewers that run along the street, so while they're gross it's not nearly as bad as they could be. We were chasing a few members of a local gang. They'd been causing trouble, breaking into houses without stealing anything or committing any vandalism. It was stumping the Yard, meaning Lestrade came to Sherlock, a little desperate. We'd been watching the news, incidentally, listening to a report of the latest break in, when he rang.

He sunk on the couch, hands folded, clearly unhappy that he'd had to come down here to beg aid from the detective. "They're scaring people."

"People are always scared," Sherlock scoffed. He was buried in the paper, pointedly not looking at Lestrade. "That's nothing new."

"it's a violation of their privacy and sense of security, but most importantly, it doesn't make sense. They don't take anything."

"Then they must be taking something you miss."

"No." Lestrade shook his head. "There's something we're missing, but that's not it."

"Of course there is something you are missing," Sherlock agreed. "But I highly doubt you need me to find it. Look harder."

"We have –"

It takes another thirty minutes and three cups of coffee before Sherlock agreed to check out the surveillance tapes and photos of the crime scene. The next day, we found ourselves chasing a few of the ruffians.

That's when I was grabbed. Sherlock had run ahead, his legs longer and stride greater, meaning I was left behind. We turned a corner, and suddenly, he was gone. There were four tunnels diverting from where we're turned, and I'd missed seeing where he'd turned. The echoing splashes of hardly gave me a hint as to where he might be, but I peered down each tunnel nervously anyways, hoping I might spot him. It was when I turned my back, passing one tunnel, that I felt hands on my waist. One slams over my mouth as I started to scream. I struggled, pushing at the hands, nails tearing at the flesh of the one who was pinning me.

Sherlock doesn't find me for nearly an hour. By that time, I'd mouthed off enough to be slapped a number of times. When Sherlock cast a shadow down the tunnel in which the kids had gathered, I'm hauled to my feet, pressed again against the back of the one who'd found me – Cutter, he was called by the others, a kid with several bad, inky tattoos and a brutal scar twisting along his upper forearm, which was easy to see as he wore a shirt with the sleeves cut off. He held me tightly, flicking open a pocket knife that wasn't particularly impressive until it was pressed against my throat. My breath caught when I felt the cool metal's pressure. I suddenly comprehended the nickname.

"Come to get your bitch?" Cutter inquired lowly.

Sherlock advanced slowly. He was unarmed, I think. He was not looking at me. He did not answer right away, evaluating the group of three young men. They leer back. Cutter's arm tighten. My eyes were as wide as dinner plates.

"No," Sherlock finally says. His eyes flash. "I've come to take care of you. Viola is just a bonus."

Cutter shifts me. "Viola. Pretty name for a chit." One had rose to my right breast, squeezing. I closed my eyes, disgusted. "You shouldn't let such a pretty thing wander alone down here, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock's hand twitched. "She's usually not so adept at getting lost," he replied easily. "But I thank you for finding her for me. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'll be collecting her from you –" He reached out with one hand. "We have other business to speak of, and I'm afraid she'll only serve as a distraction."

The punk nosed my ear, tongue dragging along the shell. I contained a tremble. "Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. I do think she'll simply sweeten the deal. I can stand to hang on to her for a little while longer."

With a sneer, the detective reached into his coat to pull out a revolver. Cocking it at the boy's head, he tilts his head. "I think not. Be a good man, pass her over."

Cutter jerked suddenly, a thick hand replacing the knife, forcing me to extend my neck upwards. The blade was pressed to my side, where he pushed aside my coat and shirt.

"I'll gut her before the bullet hits my brain," he hissed.

"Very well," Sherlock replied evenly, redirecting his aim, firing into Cutter's foot.

He howled loudly, releasing me – though, not before he'd stuck his knife into my side, leaving a long gash to blossom red. I released a gasp of breath. Sherlock was on me in an instant, catching me before I fell to the ground. When I was in his arm, he held the gun up again between the three others. Cutter lay moaning just a little ways from us.

"I suggest you get him some immediate medical attention," the detective stated, eyes flicking between the three standing punks. "If you have any desire to see him walk again."

Shuffling quickly, two grabbed Cutter, and begin hobbling away as fast as possible. Sherlock didn't lower the revolver until they were out of sight. Then he swiftly dropped the gun to tend to me. My hands were pressed against the wound. He pulled them back, and I gasped when he prods the skin. Something flashes in his eyes.

Without a word to me, he pulls his cellphone out of his jacket pocket, dialing with quick fingers. "Prestoria Avenue and Coppermill Lane. My girlfriend is bleeding out. We're in the rain drains. I need an ambulance…."

Pain shot through me rapidly. The feeling of warm liquid spreading across my skin sends a wave of nausea through me. Sherlock's hand slips into mine, the other going to my brow.

"Viola." His voice commanded my eyes. I felt myself beginning to tremble. Shock. Shock was setting in. I was getting cold. "Viola, help is coming. I need you to breath. Stay calm."

"Sh-sherlock." My teeth chattered. "It hurts."

He stroked my hair. "You're going to be fine. It's not a bad cut. Stay with me. Viola. Stay with me."

I breathed shakily, trying to draw calm into myself. "I-I-I'm sorry. I should have – should have kept –"

"Quite," he hissed. "Save your strength."

My hand tightened against his. Together, we focus on breathing, eyes connected until we hear sirens ahead. I'm carried out of the tunnels and loaded onto an ambulance. Sherlock is nearly barred from riding with me, but I stretch out for him, despite the fact that the meds were making it difficult to speak. The emergency respondents reluctantly allowed him to sit beside me.

Later, I woke in the stark white hospital room of St. Bart's, alone. I could hear raised voices outside – the quiet kind, the sort of low yelling people do when they're in a library or other quiet place attempting not to disturb anyone. Except, they were failing miserably.

It takes me a few moments to recognize the voice as John Watson's.

"—this is precisely what happens when you drag people into your dangerous schemes, Sherlock!" He was angry. "It's one thing to ask me to join you, but Viola? She's not like you and me, she's a civilian, she's young and –"

Mary's voice cuts across her husband's, soothing. "He couldn't have known, John. They were some punk kids."

"Punk kids in a gang. We're lucky she walked away with a few stitches. She could have –" I heard John take a breath. "Her father will have a cow, he'll come up here himself."

"Only if she see fit to tell him," Sherlock replied. He was very quiet. "I doubt she will. She's shown no indication of wishing to introduce us."

"That would hardly be the purpose, Sherlock." John sounded as though he was at the end of his rope.

"It would likely deter her from telling him." A pause. "She's awake, if you'd like to go in."

"How do you know that?" Mary inquired, surprised.

"She's probably tired," John said. "Sherlock, you ought to go in."

"Nonsense. Go on."

Amusement colored Mary's tone. "Oh, he knows he's in the doghouse, John. See, he doesn't want to go in alone. Thinks he can't get yelled at if we're in there…."

They entered quietly. I turn towards the door, blinking slowly. Mary approaches first, taking up my hand. I squeezed gently.

"How are you?" she asked softly. Sherlock had moved to my other side, sitting on the chair.

"As good as one can be in this place," I said, one hand moving to my side to touch the bandages beneath which sat my stitches.

Behind her, John smiled. "Good. We were worried. You can't let this one – " He jerked a thumb towards Sherlock. " – drag you into these dangerous situations."

"It wasn't his fault," I protested mildly. "Besides, I wanted to go." Beside me, Sherlock shifted. I couldn't look at him. Not yet. "It's not so bad, really. The stitches and morphine are the worst of it. How much longer am I stuck here?"

"Overnight," John told me. He placed a hand on Mary's shoulders, squeezing. "You were hit pretty hard in the head, they want to make sure there isn't any bleeding or anything of that nature."

I sighed. "I suppose it could be worse." I sat up, flinching before I settled. The stitches burn briefly.

The Watson peered at me, concerned. Mary asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I smiled. "Just a little…uncomfortable."

"Should I get a nurse?""

"I'm fine," I assure them. "Actually, I think I'm going to try to sleep. My head hurts a little."

The both gave me light hugs, promising to visit after I've been discharged. John paused before heading out the door, glancing pointedly at Sherlock, who has not moved from his post beside my bed. John gestured to the door. Sherlock shook his head slowly. A silent conversation passed between the two men. Finally, John rolled his eyes, threw up his hands, and followed an amused Mary out the door.

Alone at least, we did not speak for several minutes. Then, Sherlock reached out, offering one pale hand. I accepted it wordlessly, letting the joined limbs fall to the blanket. I turned my head from my pillow to look at him. He was as impassive as ever. I wasn't expecting anything else.

When I began to fade into sleep, Sherlock rose, brushing my forehead with a gentle thumb. I close my eyes, nuzzling into his touch. Anything to purge the memory of -

The thought of another's hands upon me, touching my breast, hips, and neck brought bile to my stomach. I lurched forward. Sherlock, insightful as ever, had the bedpan ready. He watched me retch for several minutes, stroking my back. My stiches burned again, but I shove the pain aside. After I finish, Sherlock handed me a glass of water. I drained it, rubbing my stitches again, falling back against the pillow.

"Don't think of him," Sherlock said softly.

I looked up sharply. "How –"

"You've never had adverse side effects from painkillers before, and you only grew nauseous when I touched you. I took a guess."

"It was a right one."

"I know." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Viola."

"You couldn't have known."

"I should not have let you fall behind," he said.

"Maybe," I agreed. "But I'm mostly fine. It could have been worse."

He winced. "Yes. It could have."

I reached for him. "Sherlock, Sherlock, I am fine. This wasn't your fault." He accepted my hands, pressing his lips to my knuckles. "I'm not upset with you."

A sigh. He was being oddly pensive. With a squeeze of his hands, I settled further into the bed. My eyes were feeling heavy.

"Sleep," he murmured. "I'll see you tomorrow. I'm supposed to take you home."

"Mmmm," I mumbled. I was surprised he volunteered for it. It's not a Sherlock-like thing to do, to bother with delivering injured people from the hospital. My eyes close slowly, fighting to stay open and failing. Weariness and pain medications help slide me into a deep sleep.

-XXX-

Since then, I've been wary to join Sherlock on any of his adventures – not necessarily because I believe he might let me down, but because I simply do not feel as though I can keep up. I faltered once – it could happen again. Sherlock, however, was going on as though nothing had changed, much to John's protest. But he was not to be chagrined.

Nearly three weeks have passed since the incident, and as I sat with my fingers hovering over the screen, considering what I might reply with. While I'm thinking, another text lands in my inbox.

Sherlock: "Come on. You know you're having a dreadfully dull time, hanging around your apartment. "

Me: "How do you know I'm not out doing something crazy with friends, or working? I could be doing anything!"

Sherlock: "But you're not. Meet you at 221B in a half hour."

It's not a request nor a question. More like a command. With a sigh I rise from my bed and cross to the closet, preparing to dress is something other than sweatpants.

-XXX-

When I arrive at the flat, he's not even ready. Still in his dressing gown, Sherlock is parked firmly in front of his laptop's screen, his face bathed in blue-ish white light. He doesn't look up when I slip in, sinking on to the sofa with an incredulous expression.

"You're not dressed."

"Mmmmh, no," he agrees. "I wasn't sure how long you would take."

I roll my eyes. "So you were going to wait to get ready until I got here. Of course. Naturally."

Over the computer, he grinned. "I'm glad you understand."

With a sigh, I rise, planning to make myself some coffee for the wait. When I drift back into the parlor, he's still at the computer. I perch myself on the arm of his chair. He's currently browsing the BBC news site. When he finds nothing of interest, he shuts the laptop, setting it on the ottoman. He peers up at me, brows raised.

"Are you getting ready?"

"Maybe in a little while."

Taking the hint, I place a hand on top of his head, lightly scratching his scalp before twisting my fingers into the messy coal-black curls. "I hardly think we have time, Sherlock," I say sternly. "Did you have some grand adventure planned for us?"

His fingers migrate from where they rest on his knees to my legs, dancing upwards, resting on my kneecaps. "Oh, I'd hardly call it an adventure," he drawls. "More of a fieldtrip. But yes, we've got plenty of times, I assure you."

I scoot to better face him. Bringing me up one better, Sherlock takes the other arm of the chair so that we're leaning in, face-to-face. His brows rise, head tilted slightly. I purse my lips, a little too amused for my own liking. I draw my hands together, propping them up on my knees then setting my chin on my knuckles, watching the consulting detective intently. With a sudden grin, Sherlock shifts forward to brush a light kiss on my lips. I respond instantly, leaning in to deepen the contact. I can feel him smile against me, which reminds me of my vague annoyance. Making to pull back, I find myself held into place by Sherlock's hands, which have traveled to the back of my neck, one resting at the base of my skull.

It doesn't take long for us to stumble towards the bedroom.

-XXX-

Dressing again, I ask Sherlock, who still sits on the bed, "So, what did you have in mind? Aside from this, I mean."

"Planning sex, Viola? Really, you make me sound so stiff, structured." The consulting detective grins. "Molly called. Interesting corpse, down at St. Bart's. Some strange lacerations and contusions."

My stomach turns. I pause from pulling my shirt over my head. "Oh…I think I've had enough of Bart's for the month," I say quietly. I finish with my shirt, then stoop to put on my shoes.

From the bed, Sherlock frowns. "You've never been sensitive to bodies before."

"I just don't feel up to it today."

"Hmmm." He stands, crossing to loom over me, eyes narrowed. "You're nervous. Going to St. Bartholomew's scares you. Why…." His eyes alight.

I shake my head before he can go on. "Whatever you're going to say, we both know you're right. I just don't feel ready yet, okay?"

"All the more reason to join me."

"I don't think it will help."

"But it will help you overcome." He tilts his head, leaning in. "Come. I could use someone, anyways."

Skeptical, I raise a brow. "Surely John could be your sounding board for this?"

"At work," Sherlock replies shortly, sweeping past me to grab a pair of trousers from the closet. He selects a white shirt from the chest between the windows. Disappearing into the bathroom briefly, the detective emerges dressed. I have his shoes, socks, and jacket laid out on the bed. He smirks slightly, then proceeds to put them on – taking his sweet time about it.

We leave 221B, hailing a cab to take us St. Bart's. I stare out the window, watching the city pass. We sit at opposite sides of the vehicle, as always, not touching or even looking at one another. It's never particularly bothered me, but today I especially feel the distance. Just like I'd felt it back in the tunnels, watching his back retreating into the darkness.

I close my eyes. "Don't think on it."

One day, back when I'd first moved to the city, before Sherlock and I reconciled, John had taken me out to tea. We'd been taking about him – "Surprise, surprise." – and John had said something about always being a few steps behind his friend.

"That's the thing about Sherlock," he'd said, half-smiling. "You're going to be watching him waltz ahead of you more often than not. You've got to learn not to take it personally. It's either keep up or stay a few paces behind – either way, I'm not sure if he'll notice."

They were not heartening words.

For once, I wish he'd reach out. No, I wish he'd held back, waited for me. That would've been better yet. But he didn't – and I need to move on.

We reach the hospital and descent to the basement morgue. Molly is waiting for us. I haven't seen her since the wedding. In the stark lighting of the labs, she looks a little washed out, skin pale and lips thin. She blinks at me, seemingly surprised to see me here. I smile brightly, though nausea rises within my stomach. The mortician smiles back uncertainly.

She leads us to the drawers without much small talk. With no preamble, she opened the door and slid the body out.

"Mr. Mooresly. Forty-eight, diabetic. Found in his garage last night. There were some weird lacerations," she begins briskly. "Here, on the abdomen –"

I peer at the body, then look away. Mr. Mooresly's face has been beaten in brutally. He is fine, otherwise, like any other body – pale, stiff, carefully arranged. The bile curls unpleasantly in my gut. Sherlook looks down, gaze flickering over the ruined flesh. He frowns, concentrating. I can see a thousand options – tools, methods, markings – all going through his head until something clicks. Like a key in a lock.

"Do you need a moment?" Molly asks.

He hesitates. "Yes. I think so. Molly, would you show Viola where the tea is? She's been feeling a little peakish, I'm sure she could use the pick-me-up."

I open my mouth, intending to protest. But we share a glance – Sherlock's brows raised – and I let my mouth snap shut. "You know you want to leave," his upturned lips say. "Go on, then."

"Yes," I agree abruptly after an awkward beat of silence. "He's right. I'd love some tea, if it's not too much trouble."

"Right this way."

We leave Sherlock with Mr. Moorsely to walk down a long white hallway. Molly is silent until we reach the kitchenette. It's a sparse, clean space. Molly fetches a mug – yellow, with pink roses painted on it – and starts the electric kettle. I awkwardly stand for a few minutes before she invites me to sit at the small table in the corner.

I sip the Earl Grey Slowly. I can feel her watching me. Looking up from the rim of the mug, I attempt another smile.

"What's it like?" she asks suddenly. "Dating Sherlock Holmes?" As soon as the words are out, she colors.

Surprised, I sit back. "Oh. Well. It's…." I search for the words. "It's pretty difficult sometimes, actually. Well. Most of the time. He's a right pig-headed git, you know, and mostly oblivious. I mean, really oblivious – never mind people getting snatched right out from under his nose, it's more like friends being angry with him. He's utterly childish. Bossy and imposing and pretty damn rude to everyone he's ever met. So forget going out for drinks with friends. Or, really going out at all, unless that 'date' is going to chase criminals or look at dead bodies."

Moll blinks, a little breathless. I smile.

"Sorry," I say shyly. "It's just…he can be a bit of a pain. But a pain that I'm getting used to. He's a good man."

"I know," she says. "He certainly is. But I can imagine he's probably a less-than-easy to handle sometimes. And he does need 'handling,' I imagine."

I grin. "You're definitely right there. Between reminding him to eat and dress, sometime I wonder how, exactly, he's navigated so successfully into adulthood. I mean, I'm just twenty-one and I'm far more responsible." I begin to relax. I like Molly, I think.

"Sorry to be so nosey," Molly says, picking up her own coffee cup. "But I was just curious what kind of person he would let in his life. I know Sherlock Holmes. He wouldn't let just anyone live with him."

"We're not living together," I say quickly.

"Sorry," she repeats. Embarrassed, she sets down her mug.

"We're just not…there yet. I don't know if we'll ever be, you know. We're people who need space, you know?"

She nods. "I completely understand." She sips. After a pause, the mortician asks slowly, "If you don't mind, I was wondering, why…why do you stay? I mean, we're just friends, but I know that even I have the urge to slap him, sometimes. And…John's told me about what happened between you too. How you didn't even know his real name or anything. Then, earlier in the month." She blushes. "I saw you here, upstairs. You don't seem like the kind of person to keep going back. "

Her question takes me aback a bit. I take a moment before answering.

"I don't know," I admit finally. "You know, I don't think anyone could. I doubt even John could tell you why he hangs around – simply that they're friends. It's not so different with us." I pause. "You've ever had something you're addicted to? Something that kind of tears you apart inside, but you still kept going back? Smoking, tanning, eating too much chocolate, shite 1990s sitcoms? I suppose that's how it is. I know it frustrates me sometimes, but Sherlock isn't something I can give up on so easily. That pain-in-the-arse is worth it. Most of the time."

"But only most of the time," Sherlock drawls from the doorway. I start, not realizing that he was there. He smirks, slipping inside the tiny kitchen, opening the cabinet to pull out a mug. He pours himself a cup of coffee, leaning against the counter to peer at us, lips still twisted in a slight smile. "There's still a certain percentage of the time where I'm not?"

"What did you find?" Molly asks before I can retort.

"He was whipped," Sherlock says. "By someone who doesn't like snakes. Patterns were consistent with the scales of a Balinese Python."

Molly frowns. "He had a pet snake. A python. It was missing –"

"You'll need to charge them with animal abuse," he adds. "You'll probably find they live in the neighborhood."

"How can you tell?"

"The files said the garage was locked – always locked. I'm willing to bet Mr. Moorsely gave a neighbor a spare key. The snake was removed from the enclosure without the lock being broken, either, which means it was someone who knew where he kept the keys."

A few more questions, and Molly is satisfied. I thank her for the tea, then we leave, back to the world of living. Waiting on the curb for a cab – Sherlock has never been one for the underground, and since last autumn I've been uncomfortable around the subways – we're quiet. He's looking out at the street, eyes narrowed as cars whiz pass. My back is to the traffic. I'm examining St. Bart's architecture a little mindlessly. Sherlock doesn't look at me when he speaks.

"I heard most of what was said between you and Molly."

I freeze.

"Gave me some new insight." He tilts his head.

"Really?" I ask dryly. "I'd think you'd already have known everything I said."

"Not that I was your fix." Turning to peer at me, the consulting detective half-smiles. "And I didn't realize that you never thought we'd live together."

I blink. "Uh. Well, I don't know. Did you think we might?"

He shrugs. "I had not thought so far in advance."

"I wouldn't have thought you would, either."

"You wouldn't move in with me?"

Pursing my lips, I consider. "Not for a long, long time. Show me you can function like an adult, and I'll think about it. Though I highly doubt you'll be looking to that anytime soon."

The detective snorts. "And you say you're not deductive."

-XXX-

I've not had much of a response, but I'm going to keep on keeping!
Questions, comments, concerns, I take 'em all.