Comatose - Skillet

Walk Away - Five Finger Death Punch

Hero - Skillet

Bad Romance - Glee Cast Version

Do You Know What it Feels Like - Enrique Iglesias

April 4, 1891

"I do not expect to be served by the lady of the house," Sherlock said the word 'lady' with a fairly cynical intonation. Not that he had the right to be angry. He, not I, was the one that ended our tryst before either of us had the chance to explore it further.

"Nor would you be," I told him flatly, my jaw set tightly as I placed the silver tray down on the sitting room table. "If you had not terrified all of the maids I would not be here." This was his fault and the sooner he learned the better. I had no need to carry the tray to and from the kitchen. I had no desire to do so either. If Mycroft had not asked me to I would never have done it. Apparently Sherlock said something to Baxter that almost resulted in the butler tendering his resignation.

Knowing this man was a walking contradiction made it no less extraordinary.

I felt dark soulful, pointedly hooded, eyes watch me as I went about tidying up the room. Being here less than a two full days in no way hindered him from being a complete and utter slob. In some inexplicable way Sherlock managed to collect several pieces of silverware, a pen from Mycroft's personal study, two books from the library and one of the pale blue swatches from the sitting room containing my wedding materials.

I shot him a glare as I gathered the swatch that Gemma picked out yesterday insisting it matched my eyes. His eyes were purposely elsewhere. Bastard.

And yet I couldn't genuinely be angry with him today.

"I don't recall telling you the name of the school Becky and I went to," I told him as I tucked the swatch of cloth into the pocket on my skirt.

The tea cup he held hit the table with a quick click! "I have no idea what you're talking about madam."

Liar. Heat rose to my face, my anger beginning a slow burn fueled by the raging tempest this man's presence seemed to ignite inside me. I turned my head away from him to pluck the two books off the fireplace mantle. My books. Jules Verne's A Journey to the Centere of the Earth and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Both in French. "I'm sure you don't," I couldn't help but snap the words at him, "and that is the problem."

"I thought Watson believed my addiction to cocaine and morphine was the issue." He shot back sounding far too pleased with himself for my boiling temper.

"Funny that," I sneered at him. I dropped the books on the table in front of him, "funny that you should read my books. The only two French copies Jules Verne's work in Mycroft's entire library." I snatched them off the table again when he reached to take them. "Funny Mister Holmes that you should have been into the sitting room where my wedding supplies are." I waved the pale blue swatch of silk in his face. "That you should steal the silk being used for my wedding dress."

If my anger got to him he didn't show it. Brown eyes that I had loved looking into watched me with the utmost curiosity. Was that a curl of a smile in the corners of his mouth? Smug bastard. Did he really think I was going to play along and let him enjoy this? He had another thing coming.

My anger turned to a cold fire wrapping around my insides like a coiled snake. Pure venom heated my veins. What was the saying again? "Funny sir," I leaned toward him, hissing under my breath, "that you should double your dose of narcotics after turning away the woman who you claimed was worth a thousand doses of any drug."

Ah. Yes. No fury like a woman scorned. And I am scorned.

That sobered him quickly. He had presence of mind enough to scowl at me. "Out of context."

Liar! I would have hit him if it wouldn't have forced me to touch him. I didn't trust my reaction to touching him. I didn't trust my hands, my mouth, my body. I didn't trust that he wouldn't catch my hand or my wrist and pull me to him. No. I didn't trust myself at all.

Besides, he had been goading me into fighting with him to make himself feel better. I knew it. I knew it and I would not, will not be used in that capacity again. He had no right. He had given me up. Turned me away from him with harsh words. He ripped out my fragile heart and danced a jig on it until it was an unrecognizable mess.

I stacked the books on the tray and jammed the swatch back into my skirt pocket. I sincerely did not care if he hadn't finished the breakfast cook sent up for him. Let him starve. He would deserve it after the way he's treated me.

Pushing back my icy fury I gave him a flat, uncaring look. "Frankly Mister Holmes there a great many things wrong with you. Your lack of human emotion and drug addiction aren't even the top of the list."

He said nothing while I exited the room. I wouldn't think about the broken, almost crestfallen look that crossed his face. I wouldn't.

Upon inspection of the library on the third floor I found that another two of my books missing. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There were gone from their spots on the second shelf near the window seat. Two books that in recent months had come to mean quite a bit to me missing the day after a mad-man that knew me all too well for my own comfort shows up. Coincidence? I think not. However there was absolutely no way that I would venture back up into his room for a single minute. I would not.

At least not while he was in the room. Once he left it all bets were off.

Of course Mycroft's books on society, sciences and government went completely unscathed.

Barely even tea time and my temper lost twice already.

Thankfully he didn't find the copy of Around the World in Eighty Days that he had bought me. I feared he would take it back. Or worse, destroy it like he had my budding love for him. I didn't think I could bear it if he did. He would have to go to my room and look under my pillow to find it. Something I doubted Sherlock would do.

What was it he had said about lacking that sort of emotion toward me?

A good month and a half and my brain had blocked out our fight that night at the Punchbowl. My heart throbbed painfully in response. One part of me remembered even if my mind didn't. Better this way I suppose. I remembered agonizing over those words for days. I remembered crying my eyes out and wishing my heart to stop breaking over and over again. The raw, unadulterated agony of being in love with a man who claimed he didn't love me in the slightest.

Wait.

That's right. He didn't love me. He said he didn't love me. That he never would.

I was a…an…

The words wouldn't come and yet I felt them there. Just beyond my memories. On the tip of my tongue. They wouldn't come to me though. My chest swelled excruciatingly with an ache that had nothing to do with physical wounds. Perhaps self preservation kept what Sherlock had said to me that night at bay. I didn't think I could handle my current stress, what made me think I could handle remembering what he put me through?

Flopping down on the padded window seat so that I could watch the goings on out on the back lawn and to some extent the stables, did nothing for my state of mind. I doubted it might in the first place but this had always been a favorite quiet place of mine. At least in this home. I watched as Jeremiah lead Buttercup around the lawns, Mary seated on the back of my paint horse. She smiled at and said something to someone just out of my peripheral vision. John or Mycroft more than likely.

The clock on the mantle of the unused fireplace chimed. Noon.

Mary made no move to come inside. Was cook serving luncheon outside today?

My stomach rumbled in response. I hadn't eaten much since last night. Too worried about how I might react to Sherlock when I delivered him breakfast this morning. There would be no repeat at lunch. He could starve for all I cared. It might save us all the trouble.

With the books returned to their place on the bookshelf I ventured outside.

Mary waved at me from atop Buttercup. "Your horse is simply wonderful," she patted Buttercup's brown and white spotted neck.

A small stab of jealousy went through me. I am the only one that had ever ridden Buttercup. "Thank you," I told her through a false smile. I settled in a chair, nodding at John who sat reading a newspaper.

He folded back one corner to look at me, "I was told you spoke with Holmes this morning."

If you can call it that. "He is as infuriating as ever."

The doctor's mouth turned into a short frown, "If he is still managing to annoy then I am afraid the narcotics haven't begun to work their way out of his system yet." He folded the paper down again so that it left whichever article he was reading facing up as he set it on the table. "I have told Mycroft this, but I should tell you as well Naoi." Mouth formed in a thin, grim line, "When Holmes' body begins to realize that there aren't any more narcotics to be had he is going to go through what we call medically as 'withdrawal.' I will not be able to give him sedatives or medications for the nausea."

For a moment worry blossomed to life in my chest. Part of me wanted to be there, to take care of Sherlock. The other part wanted him to suffer. I silenced both parts with a quick, deep, breath in and out again. "How bad will it get doctor?"

For once he didn't correct me to call him by his name. "Define bad."

Oh. No.

"The vomiting and irritability aside, he may hallucinate. He will have flashes of cold or imagine extreme heat. An escape attempt or violence is inevitable." The doctor sighed, a world weary sound that I knew all too well. "It will depend on his level of addiction at this point."

"At least you are here," I told him. "You are his oldest friend. Surely he will listen to you."

Watson shook his head slowly, "I am afraid my presence will only add to his ire. Holmes has been terribly moody for the last month and a half. Beside that he barely listens to me in the first place."

Why did I suddenly have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach? Worry and fear began to claw at my insides. Alright, I did not want him to suffer that much. Not really. Just enough for him to understand the kind of pain he put me through. Perhaps a little suffering.

Did he really deserve all of that?

No, perhaps not. But it was too late now.

April 5, 1891 (around five in the morning)

The detoxification process began later that night. During dinner. Sherlock had gone from the usual of mildly irritating to scathingly obstinate. The lash of his tongue brought tears to Mary's eyes over a comment on her parenting ability. Even I could not blame the tears on her pregnancy and the sensitive emotional condition she was in. When I rose from my seat to follow after her, comfort her, Sherlock turned his sharp tongue on me despite the warnings from both John and Mycroft.

My hand still stung from the cracking slap I'd given him.

Now I lay in my bed on the third floor, straining to listen for the sounds below. Earlier there had been the terrible sounds of retching. Before that muffled quarreling between Mycroft, Sherlock and Watson. The word 'restrained' was the only one I had been able to clearly make out. It sounded quite a bit like a threat. I had offered to help but was turned away at the door by my future husband and the doctor. They would handle this.

In the early morning the sounds of shouting, retching, and every other horrible occurrence finally died off. Unable to sleep I remained in my bed until the predawn light began to peek its way through my window. There had been no sounds of waking yet. I doubted there would be. Everyone else was probably exhausted.

I, on the other hand, could not contain my fear that something terrible had happened to Sherlock. I knew from what I had heard that last night had not been pleasant. I threw off the covers and slipped into a bathrobe before exiting my room and going to the floor below.

Quietly I tiptoed into the guest room given to Sherlock. The windows were open behind the curtains allowing air to flow through the room and take the stench of sickness out. He lay asleep in the bed, worn and pale looking but peaceful in slumber. Deep even breathing told me he slept. I took a step toward the bed needing to assess the damage with my own eyes. How bad had it gotten last night?

He groaned, eyes opening slightly, half lidded and watching me.

I froze in place. If luck were with me he would not see me.

"Go away phantom," he muttered, his voice deep, sleep roughened. "Go away."

Phantom? He thought me a ghost? A figment of his imagination come to what? Torture him further? Unable to stop myself I stepped closer to the bed, carefully watching him for any sign that he should wake further. Instead his eyes closed again, his breathing deepening once more. Gently I swept a few strands of dark, unruly hair from his forehead.

"Naoi," he murmured in his sleep. I stilled once more. He called my name again, softer this time, "Naoi."

My heart thundered in my chest. Should I answer him? Did he know it was me? Was he dreaming of me? Hope fluttered to life in my chest though I knew I was asking for trouble. This man was trouble. I leaned in, whispering next to his ear, "What do you want from me Mister Holmes?"

Dark brown eyes fluttered once more though they did not open at all this time. "I…" the word fell from his lips, drawn out by a long breath. Dark, soulful brown eyes opened slowly stealing my breath away.

How could I think I didn't love this man when he looked at me like that? My heart gave a sharp throb in my chest. Gently, ever so gently, I placed a kiss on his forehead. Salt. His hair had felt stiff and slick at the same time. He was no doubt covered in sickness still. Later I would have a tub and hot water brought up. For now I gave him the softest smile I could manage, "Go to sleep Sherlock."

"…real?" The question was barely audible. So strange that a man like him should be reduced to this. A barely coherent state after a night of horror I didn't want to think about.

"I'm real," I assured him. Reaching down I squeezed his hand. "And I will be here when you wake."

That seemed to be enough assurance. His eyes drifted closed again.

I wondered if he would remember this at all when he woke next.

I doubted it.

The first time Sherlock opened his eyes he thought that he might still be dreaming. There stood a phantom, much like the one he had seen months ago of Lord Blackwood. Only this one did not taunt him with words and hidden meanings. She stood a creature of beauty near his bed, watching him with eyes more grey than blue in the low light of the candle by his bedside. His delirious mind conjuring up the image of the one thing he had missed these past weeks.

Then he bid her leave him and cease wearing the face of a woman he wanted but couldn't have. He closed his eyes and tried to let sleep take him again. His body ached painfully and exhaustion clouded his mind. And yet, when he opened his eyes again there she remained, her grey-blue eyes so filled with concern. For him?

She shushed him to sleep.

He slept.

The second time he opened his eyes he felt as if he were inside a baking oven and someone had shut the door. A cloth, soft and thankfully a much lower temperature than his currently overheated state was placed on his forehead while the duvet was quickly pulled away. A gentle voice whispered nonsensical words. Exhaustion dragged him back into unconsciousness.

The third time Sherlock opened his eyes daylight glared past the heavy curtains. It had to be past noon. He shielded his eyes moments before someone closed the curtains with two rough yanks that left the rings jangling. His head ached wildly, a beating throb in his skull that wouldn't let up. His throat raw from things his addled brain only half remembered. Sherlock muttered out oaths that might have made even the most seasoned sailor blush and held his head in his hands.

"Here," a disembodied voice said while sun warmed hands thrust a glass of water into his hands. "Tea and toast when you're ready."

He took the cup gratefully and downed the clear liquid in a few quick swallows. The cool water eased the roughened feel of his throat. Feeling every bit like death warmed over he called the first name that came to mind. That of his doctor and friend.

"Watson."

The voice, now clearer through the lessening throb of his head told him, "Has gone back to London to see about a patient of his." The same disembodied hand reappeared to take the glass from him. "John left you in our care while he and Mary are gone."

It took him several moments (ones he would never admit to spending) attempting to remember exactly where it was he had woken up. Abducted from Baker Street. Mycroft's manor. Ah. Yes. His future sister-in-law waited rather patiently at the tea table that had not been in the room before.

"They should be back some time later this week." Naoi told him without actually looking at him. Instead she poured him tea that smelled wonderfully like Earl Greyer then went about buttering toast. "I am to write progress reports and monitor your habits for the next few days. Or," she said with deceptive sweetness, "Should I say that your brother and I are supposed to write progress reports and monitor your habits."

Warily Sherlock picked up his teacup and sniffed it.

"What on earth are you doing?" The red haired siren asked him.

Ah. Yes. That was what he had been calling her silently since her impromptu departure from his life. It was an accurate name as far as he was concerned. Siren that is. She had done something to him. That was the only explanation that came to mind when he went about recalling the time spent in her company. There was no logical reason why he found this unassuming creature absolutely entrancing. No valid answer to any of the questions he posed to himself the day after she and his brother left London.

Aside from red hair and freckles nothing separated this woman from every other woman. And yet when Naoi Edric found her way into his line of sight it was difficult to tear his gaze from her. He did name her accurately. Siren. A fascinating, distracting, irritating anomaly.

Without so much as a shrug to excuse his actions, "A woman scorned." Then he sipped his tea.

"Were I that kind of woman I might understand," the siren snapped at him with a scowl that contorted her pink lips and brought a faint blush to her gloriously freckled cheeks. "I am not however and I do not appreciate the implication."

He was fairly sure that he heard her mutter the word idiot at him under hear breath.

Once he had downed a good deal of the tea and no less than three pieces of perfectly browned toast the siren insisted he take a bath. Because she insisted he smelled to high heaven.

"I am having a tub brought up," she told him as she retrieved a pile of clean clothes from a chair in the far corner of the room. "Do you think you will be able to wash yourself?"

Unable to stop himself from smiling just the slightest bit. He had a fantasy that went something like this. A large bathtub, warm soapy water, the scented vanilla oils she used instead of expensive Parisian perfume and the red haired siren before him. Save her clothing. And that ridiculous ring his brother gave her. That he would have gladly dropped into the deepest abyss.

Despite what Watson insisted, Sherlock did have quite a vivid imagination.

"If I say no?"

Was it wrong to find the incredulous, yet somehow amused expression she wore completely alluring? He didn't think so.

"I'm sure Baxter would be willing to put aside your previous insults to help you wash."

He almost choked on a mouthful of tea. Once he drew in a breath and righted which way air went down and the way food and drink went down with his body he shot her a dark look. Which only seemed to amuse the siren more. "I will be fine on my own madam."

She smiled brilliantly at him, "Good."

Either her timing was impeccable or the servants were waiting on her cue. The siren opened the door to the room and there they were. Baxter, the somewhat elderly gentleman that Sherlock was sure fancied young men and another man carried in a fair sized copper tub into the room. Behind them came yet another man carrying two steaming buckets of water. Behind that was yet one more servant, female this time with one more steaming bucket, soap and washcloth.

"If I am needed I will be upstairs in my sitting room," the siren told the room collectively. "And Martha," Naoi said to the woman who set down the heavy looking bucket of hot water. "Could you please bring Mister Holmes something to shave with. He is growing brambles on his face."

Holmes smiled to himself. She missed him.

Fed, bathed, freshly shaved and now with renewed purpose Sherlock left the guestroom in search of the red haired siren. Granted he should probably not have been out of bed after last night's exhausting events but, as Watson would attest to, Sherlock was never good with doing as he was told. Instead he left in search of…her. She had said she would be in the sitting room but the way she had said it. Sherlock doubted that she was in the sitting room upstairs where he had stealthily procured a bit of blue silk the day before.

Her mother – he assumed it was her mother, they had the same red hair and shape of nose and mouth – insisted that Naoi's dress would be the talk of the town. Elegant yet simple. Demure. Unique. How many other women wore the palest blue silk to their weddings?

Eavesdropping was ever so informative.

After the two women were gone he took his time walking about the room. Examining. Assessing. Inspecting. There were a great many things about marriage and weddings that he did not know despite having already participated in one. Sherlock did not assume that one wedding was like the next. That would be folly.

The shoe samples were so small. Were her feet that tiny? Gloves the purest snow white silk sat atop lace and gauzy veils of various persuasions. He found the swatch of blue silk next to a larger cut of bone colored cloth. He took it. There was no rhyme or reason behind the action – not one he was willing to admit to anyway. Sherlock picked up the swatch, folded it neatly until it was small enough not to be noticed and then promptly stuffed it into his pocket.

The library. That was where he ventured next.

Two of the four books he had obtained the day before were settled back on the shelf spines out, titles printed in gold on worn red leather. Old copies. Well used. The spines no longer creaked when opened. Pages bearing the crease of bending. Finger print smudges on some of the pages. Carroll's work bore similar marking though notably more recent. The spine of Alice in Wonderland still creaked in certain places.

"Naoi!" A woman (approximately five foot four, perhaps five foot five, tiny scar over her eyebrow and another smaller jagged one on her chin – slight limp, possibly from a broken leg during childhood), dark haired (with honey color streaks – from the sun no doubt) with startlingly large gold flecked hazel eyes nearly knocked him down as he went up the stairs. She blinked at him, "Oh excuse me!" Then, "Have you seen Naoi? We need her to make a decision on some of the wedding plans and I can't find her anywhere."

Not in the sitting room. As he expected. "No, I'm afraid not." He moved past her up the stairs to the third story of the manor. "I'll tell her you're looking for her shall I?"

"Thank you!" The woman called to him as she continued down the stairs.

The door to the sitting room was left open, Naoi's mother (red hair, pale skin that would no doubt burn in the sun and a clear northern Irish brogue) and another woman (wheat colored blonde, long nose, brown eyes, skin a hue lighter than his own) with their heads close together as they talked. The door to the third floor library was closed but not locked. He turned the handle on the door quietly. He heard the barely audible click as it opened.

Sherlock stepped in, closing the white painted oak behind him just as carefully.

"Of course," her voice, a weary sigh from the far window seat. "You would be the one to find me."

"One of your many sister-in-laws happens to be in search of you," he told her while coming around the corner of the bookshelf blocking the view of the door from the far window. Her face remained turned toward the window allowing him a chance to take in the full view before him. Jade green skirt, long and voluminous meeting at the tops of well worn black boots that bore an intricate eyelet design. A warm, cream colored blouse that picked up the sunlight streaming in through the large bay windows. He had been right. Her hair, once adorned by natural light shown like the rose gold of sunset.

"Shall I tell her where you are?" Sherlock asked, remembering all too well how primal and gratifying, it was to yank out those pins holding her hair in place. He curled his hands into fists to stop the itching of his fingertips.

Her chuckle retained that weary quality, "blackmail Mister Holmes?"

He fought to keep the scowl off his face. "Of course not Miss Edric. Far be it from me to spoil your self-imposed solitude."

She turned her face to him then, skin much warmer than it had been when she left London in February. The freckles he never made mention of liking were faded, not quite a pronounced as they had been. A twinge of something he would rather not dwell on took him by surprise.

One red-gold eyebrow rose, "And yet you are still here."

Yes. That he was. Hands behind his back, Sherlock turned to examine the titles on the shelf directly to his left. Mycroft's books. He had looked at them while in here after procuring the four books that belonged to the red haired siren sitting on his immediate right. "You never corrected me."

From the corner of his eye he watched her sit up slightly.

"What?" She asked with a careful sort of tone.

"Your mother," he supplied. "During our initial meeting I inferred that your father not your mother was Irish." He shifted his gaze to her, watching her reaction with the utmost care. Her jaw worked in a slight tick. Not tightening per say. A small fluttering movement followed by a faint curl at one corner of her lips.

"And?" That sounded quite a bit like swallowed laughter.

"Typically," he pressed on, "the child is christened into the religion of the mother."

"Typically you would be correct."

"Yet you, madam, are British and Protestant."

The shine of private amusement in her eyes, "I never said I was Protestant Mister Holmes. I believe I said I am adverse to jewelry."

His gaze dropped to the ornate diamond on her finger, "And yet you wear your engagement ring."

The book in her lap snapped closed while the laughter drained from her face. "That is the third time you've said that to me."

Really? He thought it was the fourth.

"And I still have no idea what on earth you are getting at." That was anger speaking. "I explained to you, more than once might I add, that I must wear this ring. Just as I must marry your brother and I must go through with this farce of a wedding and I must-"

His mouth cut off her furious tirade. Sherlock swallowed the small cry of surprise that escaped her lips. Distracted as she was with her inflamed temper it was simple enough to close the few steps between them and silence her pretty mouth with his own. Was it wrong to appreciate how enticing he found her while she was cross? He didn't think so.

Naoi shoved her hands against his chest attempting to dislodge him after her initial shock wore off. He caught her wrists with one hand, pinning them in place while his other did what it had been itching to do. It yanked out those horrid pins that kept the feathery softness of her long red-gold tresses from his touch. His mouth moved over hers coaxing, nipping, gently teasing with the tip of his tongue.

She began to wiggle, to push and pull in an effort to get away. "No," she breathed heavily, pulling back, "you don't get to do this. You don't-"

He cut her off again because clearly he wasn't doing this right if she could think enough to protest. The hand in her hair cupped the back of her neck, fingertips massaging her scalp as he gently eased the tension there. He licked her lower lip once, twice, rewarded on the third time when her mouth opened under his. Her struggling stilled allowing him to release her wrists in favor of wrapping one arm around her waist. Drawing her nearer, pressing in. Her arms went around his neck, soft hands delving into his still damp hair, twining around the dark strands in handfuls.

A hair's breadth before he had the first button of her blouse open an insistent knock on the library's door stilled them both. "Naoi?" Her mother's Irish brogue called, "Are you in there girl?"

Her bosom heaving, breasts straining against the material of her corset and blouse in the most delicious and satisfying way. She watched him warily, one hand planted on his chest to keep him at bay though he stood no more than a few inches from her. "Yes mother," a pink, dexterous tongue darted out to wet her bruised lips, "I'll be out in a moment."

The sound of feet moving away down the hall followed after a wary affirmation from her mother. Naoi's blue-grey eyes, more stormy grey than blue at the moment narrowed on him. "Do not," she shoved at his chest with both hands, putting enough strength into it to move him backward a step. "Do. Not. Ever. Do. That. To. Me. Again."

There were a thousand different rebuttals he could have made. At least the same number of reasons he should do exactly that to her again. And again. And again.

Instead he let her leave the library without argument.

She missed him, he knew it. He read it in her mannerisms, reactions and responses. In the way she kissed him back with such fervor. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes to give himself a form of mental distance from the situation. Because, unfortunately for him, Naoi was also exceptionally cross with him.

Nine pages because while I might be getting bored, I'm not dropping this story. I already wrote the ending damn it. I do not give up.

I'm a little bit in love with Christian Kane.

Victorian era sex will ensue. At least twice before the end.

Rule #7 says: Don't touch the women. But they can grab whatever they want to.