Chapter 2
It was an ordinary morning. John was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and eating breakfast. Sherlock lay on the floor, all his limbs pointing in different directions, his eyes shut. He had lain there since the evening. John regularly checked he was still breathing and left him in peace.
They didn't hear her coming, as they never did. But there she was, in the doorway, her long hair undone today, flowing down to her waist like a golden fall and a tiny smile on her lips.
John's relief was almost sickening as he saw the girl. She looked healthy, yet pale and somewhat tired, as if she hadn't had enough sleep. In fact she looked like an angel who had stayed for too long here on Earth. He was just about to rush up and say something when Angel put a finger on her lips.
Sherlock hadn't noticed anything. He was still lying on the floor.
Angel sneaked into the room and moved, slowly, to the head of Sherlock's body. She grinned, knelt down and slowly bent forward.
Sherlock had heard, or more likely felt, light footsteps coming close, as he lay there half-sleeping, half-dreaming. He didn't open his eyes. If John thought he was asleep, so much the better. If he thought him unconscious, twice as good. If he thought him dead, perfect. He wanted to be dead. He would be dead, eventually, after some time, if -
Sherlock felt something gliding around his head. Something silky and fragrant. Something that made his heart jump to his throat and stopped his breathing. Breathing? Breathing was boring. No, it was not boring. Not now when there was that miraculous scent in the air. He inhaled the fragrance deep into his chest, and opened his eyes.
He saw her face upside down. No. He saw only her eyes, blue and deep and smiling. The dusk in her eyes had turned to dawn, so golden and bright that his heart ached. And he was still half-sleeping and half-dreaming wasn't he? Since he never thought things like that and it wasn't him who was thinking them now, either, was it? And did she have some green in her eyes? And was it only her hair or was the sun shining out there somewhere as the whole world had turned to gold.
And then she was gone. Standing up. And the scent was gone and the shine of gold was gone and he wanted them back right now and forever.
What? Did he just think that? What did he think and had he finally lost his mind, and why was John smiling so broadly and what the hell was going on?
Sherlock scrambled to his feet. He felt stiff and lightheaded. Of course, he had been lying there for an eternity and when, exactly, did he last eat? It was clearly time to eat something. His knees felt strange and his heart was hammering against his ribcage. Obviously due to far too much staying awake and very little sleep.
Obviously.
He stared at her. She was smiling, right there, in front of him.
"How's your shoulder keeping?"
He couldn't believe he just said that. It was probably the most idiotic thing he had ever heard anyone say and -
Something hit him lightly in the stomach. He groaned in surprise. Angel pulled her left fist back and raised it in the air.
"Better than ever," she smiled.
The punch dropped Sherlock back on the ground and he was hugely grateful for it. He felt more or less sane again and was able to smile at her. So he did, from the bottom of his heart.
Angel joined them for breakfast. It felt somehow as if it had all started from the beginning once more. And yet it wasn't the same.
Sherlock could tell the difference, well enough, and it made him hate himself. He hated himself for realizing how much brighter the day was now that Angel was around. He hated himself for feeling so unreasonable pleased at the sight of her free-flowing hair. He hated, no, he feared himself for wanting to glide his hands through and bury his face in that golden, silky fall and inhale the scent of her hair again. He had already forgotten what it was like, but only knew it had been something miraculous.
He hoped it would all pass soon.
And yet he didn't.
"You should have taken all the money, you know," John said in a quiet voice.
Angel glanced at him, smiling slightly.
"I'd like to give my -"
"No, John. Please don't. Let's not talk about it, right? I have all I need and that's that."
John looked at her and nodded slowly.
Sherlock didn't say anything. He was busy shooting down his ridiculous thoughts.
"So, where do you stay nowadays?" John asked and took a bite of his toast.
"I rented a small room," Angel said.
"Where is it?"
"Out there...," she waved her hand, vaguely.
"You should tell us the address," John said.
"Why?" she asked, smiling, pouring some tea into her teacup. Yes, into that cup.
"In case we need you."
"What you'd need me for?"
"Lestrade might need you," Sherlock said suddenly.
John snorted and glanced at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I've got a phone," Angel said calmly. "You can have my number."
"Well, that's better than nothing, isn't it, Sherlock?" John said and looked at him, amused.
Sherlock made an approving noise in his throat.
"So, are you ready for the torture, Mr Holmes?" Angel asked, putting her teacup on the table and turning her blue gaze at Sherlock.
"What?"
"The violin," she said, patiently. "I guess you consider it more a torture than actual teaching, don't you?"
"Er..."
"Well, that's your problem. I held up my end and now it's your turn."
Sherlock cleared his throat. He wanted to say it wouldn't be a torture, at least not all of it. And he wanted to ask why she called him Mr. Holmes and not Sherlock. Then he realised that she had never called him Sherlock. Not once. And then he realised he hadn't called her Angel, either.
"When do you want to start?" was all he asked.
"Now," she said shortly.
