"There's a chip on your shoulder girl
and by God it'll make you fall
if you let it take a part of your soul."
~Mumford and Sons~
Airic:
The stairway to my room was dark and gloomy, especially having just come from a crime scene. The decaying floorboards groaned all the way to my door, and the whole building was quiet at such a late hour. The air was too eerie. In one quick motion, I opened my door, darted inside, and shut it behind me.
Almost immediately, there was a hesitant knock at the door as if someone had been stalking me. Looking though the peephole, I was surprised to see the warm, pleasant face of my new neighbor. I opened the door, wondering if the long day that I spent with rotting bodies and Sherlock would ever end.
"Hello," he said nervously as he rocked back and forth with his hands shoved in his pockets.
"Hi." I didn't know what to think of this meet-and-greet at - most likely - early morning. I would have been glad to socialize any time with him, but my eyes grew heavier with every passing moment.
He politely extended his hand, and I shook it. Slight callouses graced his first three fingertips and his strong forearms had desk marks on them. Despite the illusion of strength, he was definitely a journalist by his weak grip.
"I don't think we've met. I'm Brody. I just moved into the flat next door. I heard you and your… boyfriend trying to get in downstairs."
"Boyfriend," I chuckled. "Not even close. I wouldn't even go so far as to call him a friend. I'm really sorry if we woke you up or anything. It's just that I forgot my keys and…" I glanced to my desk where the keys lay in plain bloody sight, giving the impression that only a daft woman could not see them. "Thanks for letting me in, though." I wasn't normally the person to get embarrassed, but I hated to be known as the incompetent girl who has to break into her own flat. Looking at Brody, I couldn't help grinning. He smiled like a fool and leaned into me – my feminine instincts told me that he was looking for some sort of relationship.
He put his weight on the doorframe and gave a confident smirk that seemed to have come out of nowhere.
"Anything for my new neighbor." For a moment, it was silent, and I thought to myself.
My stomach twisted into a knot as I realized that the certain relationship he desired required hitting on me. He was what girls would often find attractive - short, copper hair; possessed a bright smile; and dare I say, quite a good body. Nevertheless, unfortunately for him, I was not looking for any romantic attachments.
"Nice to meet you, Brody," I said curtly as I started to close the door, only to be stalled again.
"Wait." He held the door, knowing fully well that I was not interested. "What's your name?"
"Airic."
"If you ever need anything, anyone to talk to - I'm a fairly good listener. Even if you need someone to go get coffee with…" Brody read the denial in my face, acceptingly smiled at his defeat, and sighed, "Goodnight, Airic."
My eyes followed him to his door, and then I shut mine, thankful for hushed solitude at last.
It was the next evening; one could easily tell that autumn was just settling in, calling England its home for two or so months until winter had finally evicted it. The sky was beginning to lose its light earlier in the day. Stars were just coming out to play, but daringly so as the sun would not yet go to bed.
My stomach was just beginning to talk to me as I headed out for the night, planning to try out the little café at the end of the block. I opened the door to find Sherlock posed as if he was about to knock and with a small bouquet of white daisies dangling helplessly at his side. He was no less surprised than I was.
"Good evening," he said without smiling.
I slowly nodded, still fazed by his spontaneous turn-up. "Yes, it is."
We stared at each other in silence for a couple moments and then, throwing a glance behind me, he asked, "May I come in?"
"I was actually just about to leave."
A trace of unrecognizable emotion played across his features, but the unpleasant thought quickly left his mind and he shrugged. "Well, then, surely it would be no problem if I were to accompany you. I haven't eaten yet, either."
I hesitated. A small, unintentional groan escaped my mouth, giving away my preference. Sherlock's dark brows raised and, in a way that was unexpectedly out of character, he lifted his arm for me to take hold of. Silently and with only a conceding smirk, I swept past him. Sherlock trailed close behind.
We ambled down the city streets, still quiet – as we always were – but there was something different about this time. Sherlock was normally quiet because he was not necessarily a man of words, and I cooperated because I had no want to talk to him. Now, the silence was like static – annoying, monotonous, and deafening at any volume.
Tossing a glance over at Sherlock, I realized how perfectly his appearance fit his character. He wasn't normal, but then, there was nothing wrong with him. His white skin was an unearthly pallor, but as lights flickered across his face, warmth would materialize and Sherlock seemed abnormally vulnerable. I had yet to see a light that made Sherlock human.
I smiled when he met my gaze and nodded to the bouquet that he still carried by his side. "I didn't think that you liked flowers."
He became aware of the bothersome little daisies and looked at them with the smallest bit of distaste. "John thought that you would enjoy them."
With a laugh, I took the token from his spidery grip and read aloud the tiny card that clung to them:
"Airic,
I'm so sorry. I would be glad to help anytime I can.
Hopefully, you'll appreciate these more than Sherlock thinks.
~John Watson
…and Sherlock."
"Why -?"
Sherlock began, oblivious of my utter confusion, "John has this theory that women will perk up at any chance to get flowers, as if daisies could solve almost any problem. Said that these in particular would brighten up your day."
"What's this about?" I tried again, knowing that he was stalling for some significant reason,
"I always thought it odd that women are so easily wooed with such short-lived things like flowers; they're pungent, severed plants on the brink of expiration. I don't quite perceive you as a flowery person, anyway."
"You're right on that," I remarked. "But it would be a crime to get rid of them after all of John's effort."
Sherlock smirked, taking the unloved, neglected daisies and tossing them into a nearby bin with accurate aim. Before abandoning them, he saved John's card – technically his as well - and placed it in my palm.
"What do people say? 'It's the thought that counts?'" he queried, standing tall with his hands folded behind his back.
He was smiling – well, hardly, but for Sherlock, every brief beam or smirk counted – and then began to go on about which little restaurant he was going to introduce to me. Sherlock recalled the same café where he and John set a trap for one criminal and waited all night for the blunderer. As I listened, a sickly feeling flooded my body. Sherlock and I had known each other for about two weeks – which was about two weeks of loathing – but I still knew that Sherlock was not acting like himself.
Something wasn't right. I ceased walking and thought, trying to avoid the worst possible ideas from creeping into my mind. Sherlock strolled ahead for a few moments until realizing that I wasn't at his side.
"Sherlock." My voice quivered, but then I continued with more strength. "Why are you doing this? Why are you being so kind to me?"
The ice blue of his eyes never warmed, never grew less paralyzing as he looked into my own and said in a terse, blunt tone, "Airic… your father died three days ago."
I blinked, inhaled, and exhaled for what felt like ten minutes. Nothing dropped inside of me, I didn't unravel at the seams. It couldn't have been true. There was no way three days could pass without me knowing that my own dad died. "No."
"He died in an accident, Airic – a faulty explosive."
I laughed.
"It happened on the job. He was lifted to St. Bart's because of the injuries…"
Sherlock continued in a low mumble. His dark silhouette began to fade in with the rest of the city structures behind him.
"…but the hospital didn't…" he resumed before his voice grew into an inaudible droning.
Again, I inhaled and exhaled, this time with more difficulty. The irony taste of blood was on my lips, though I was certain that there was none being shed.
"…think that something went…"
The strong, mineral blood seeped through the roof of my mouth, slithering its way up to my brain and warmly back down my throat.
"…Are you…?"
My lungs were filling up with water.
"…Airic, I'm…"
A lightness came over my body, overwhelming me with the desire to collapse like a paper doll and see if I'd drift away in the bitterly cold wind. I felt the darkness tug on my limbs when an agonizing pressure began to crush my lungs. Crunching down on me with a searing pain, smothering my chest with no consideration for my approval, the suffocating abyss swallowed me whole.
As I slowly drowned, a warmth caught my arms and held me up with ease, waiting until the storm had passed, until I could once again stand with a clear mind. All my attention focused on blinking away the cloudy haze over my eyes and stabling myself.
My hands moved to my face, the cold fingers shocking me back into my body as if I had been a balloon tethered to a melancholy corpse, recently popped and hurdling helplessly back to earth. Suddenly, I remembered where I was.
"I think… I'm not hungry," I murmured without meeting Sherlock's gaze. My steps were leisurely and careful as I made my way back to my flat, praying every step of the way that Sherlock would not come after me. Thank God he didn't.
I touched my cheek, expecting to discover tear-soaked lashes and wet eyes, but found none. I didn't even cry.
