Chapter Nine
"If Walls Break Down"

"So, you don't seem like the Sherlock Holmes I've heard so much about."

Sherlock jumps at the voice, spilling his freshly made tea on himself as he does.

"Daisha," he sighs as he turns towards her.

She gives him a toothy smile and a little finger wave.

"I mean, all I heard about was this asshole extra virgin who got himself killed and prior to death was only sometimes a "sweetheart"." She actually uses finger quotes. "I guess I can't really say much since I've known you for less than six hours. But whatever. They say you show your true self in first impressions, or something like that. So does that mean you're Ms. Moriarty's bitch?"

Sherlock stares at her curiously, ignoring her question. "Where is Christabella?"

"She's on this date thing that's not really a date, more like a mandatory luncheon with this mysterious dance partner that no one knew existed, let alone why she has one."

"Ah." He takes his tea and goes to sit in his chair, picking up a tabloid off the table beside it when he sits down.

"If you're not her bitch, then are you her knight in shining armor? Because you saved her yesterday. I mean, I've never seen her so scared and I've seen her behind a microphone. Don't get me wrong she's an angel once she starts singing and does she know how to work a crowd, but other than that," she winces.

"Shouldn't you be out doing touristy things?" He doesn't look up from his reading.

"Nah, there really isn't anything for me to see that I haven't seen already… So… I mean, I don't know what she did before she became a music teacher, but I know that it gives her nightmares. At least, that's what I think it is. I mean, she can talk about your death in vivid detail, but anything else, not so much. I mean, I get that she can't talk about it, State secrets and all that, mostly, but you would think she'd find some way around that. She won't even tell Missus Nemamiah, I mean you would think she would tell her mother…"

Sherlock looks up then. "Nemamiah?"

Daisha nods. "Yeah, that's her mother's name. Er, I meant grandmother. It's her grandmother's name. Her mother's name is Leotie. It's Cherokee for something, I don't remember. I mean, Missus Nemamiah might as well be her mother, I mean, she raised her. Missus Nema raised Ms. Moriarty, I mean. Missus Nema raised Leotie, too. "

"I thought her grandmother's name was Sylvia," the detective says with a confused tone.

"What? No, yes. Yes, it is," she says quickly, like you would if you were caught in a lie. She pulls her phone from her pocket, clicks it on, and then proceeds to fake a confused look. "Is that really the time? I promised Damien I'd take him and Payton to this little Italian place Ms. Moriarty and Mr. Doctor Watson took me the first time I visited."

"'Mr. Doctor Watson'?" Sherlock asked amused.

"Shut up," she squeaks as she leaves his apartment.

"Darling, sweetheart, love of my life?"

Christabella has her arms wrapped around herself tightly, her eyes are watering, rimmed with red, despite the cheery tone she used. Her hair is a mess, slightly oily. How many times has she run her fingers through her hair? Her nose is starting to run, or it has been for a while judging by the state of the tissue in her hand.

Sherlock sees all this as he steps out of the kitchen. Originally he had every intention of snapping back some sort of snarky reply, and maybe that's what she wanted, but upon seeing her he nearly drops his mug.

"Christabella?"

She chokes out a sob and rushes towards him, slamming into him and wrapping her arms around him tightly.

"I just can't be alone right now, please," she begs.

He doesn't say anything to her as he holds her with one arm around her shoulder, his other hand is slightly extended still clutching his mug. She doesn't say anything either, the only sounds she makes are snivels and whimpers as she draws her arms to her chest and curls into herself. And they stand like that. For a long while.

Christabella's calmed by the time Mrs. Hudson, who looks haunted by something, joined them.

"The glass in Ana's door is shattered," the housekeeper whispered as she takes the now cooled but still full cup of tea.

"What?" he questions and then nods at the girl in his arms. "How is she?"

"Asleep. She was crying? Do you think she knows? About her door I mean?"

"Possibly. It would explain why she attacked me with tears."

Sherlock shifts Christabella's weight, bends down to hook an arm behind her knees and holds her close to his chest as he takes her to his bedroom. Mrs. Hudson follows and is the one that pulls the bedding down. The detective lays her down and pulls the girl's stilettos (unusual for this "new" Christabella) off before he pulls the loose sheet and comforter over her. He brushes the hair from her face.

Mrs. Hudson looks at him with knowing eyes, though her face still betrays her worry.

"What happened?" he asks as he straightens and ushers the landlady out of the room.

Mrs. Hudson shrugs. "It's completely shattered. I heard Ana slam her door, and then storm up here, but there was nothing after that. The renovators don't work on Fridays."

"Renovators?" He's following Mrs. Hudson downstairs.

"Yes, Ana's redoing her flat, you know. Making it more livable, she said. Of course, Anabeth is a millionaire, as you know, so she's paying for it."

He glances sideways at the little woman. He did know, or suspected something as such, but it was never a fact anyone pointed out.

"I would've done it myself if I had the money."

By now they've reached the ground floor. There's tiny pieces of glass all over the floor of the foyer and the stairs leading down to the actual apartment.

"She offered to have mine done, but I said it was fine. And if you hadn't been pretending to be dead, I'm sure she would've offered to do yours, too." She says it with a biting tone that has him looking up at her.

She gives him a harsh indignant look before she disappears into her own apartment.

Later, after the glass was cleaned up and Sherlock finally helped himself to that cup of tea, Christabella creeps out of his bedroom with a yawn and a sleep bleary face.

"The increasing number of-" she yawns "-times I'm waking up in your bed with no recollection of getting there is startling."

"What happened?" he asks looking up from the blog post he was writing.

"Oh, no, that's alright go straight into interrogating me. Don't bother will how I'm feeling. I'm fine by the way. No need to be so worried. I know it's not every day that I come running to you of all people in tears, because I don't trust myself to be alone anymore. And last night? Earlier this afternoon? I don't even know the date anymore. How pitiful am I?

"Anyway. I came home and no one was there. And for a moment, it was like after you had-had jumped. After John moved out. Before I found out…" She wipes at the tears that cling to her cheekbones. "…about the kid. I almost – the last time I was alone like that, I-"

She shakes her head and goes to him, her arms outstretched. He sets aside his laptop and allows her in his lap, takes her in his arms. Her arms entwine around him and she buries her face in his chest. She needs the comfort, and perhaps that's the only reason Sherlock is allowing himself something so sentimental.

"You tried to kill yourself," he offers gently.

She nods, burrowing her face further into his chest.

"I'm sorry."