Chapter Nine

Sherlock heard the sounds Abigail made as she crumpled, a terrible thud as though her head may have hit the porcelain fixtures. Not sure what he might find, he softly called her name. Pause; no response. He opened the door, hoping she had been able to cover herself—slightly. She was on her side and facing away from him, the robe fell across her back and somewhat over her front. He knew he couldn't leave her here, passed out, particularly after she had taken such a beating today. Taking care to avert his eyes as much as possible, he pulled the robe all the way over to cover her front, but there was nothing to be done about how it had billowed out behind her. This meant her left side was naked against the floor, limbs tangled around her. He decided to lift beneath her knees and wrap an arm around her shoulder and set her in her own bed.

Straightening her legs to make it possible, Sherlock found himself breathing in the scent of lavender and roses, and enjoying it. His mother wore lavender and he had always found it familiar and even... sweet? Limbs now in place, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted, easier than he has expected; she was rather slight. He couldn't help that her gown was open in the front, but he tried his best to only look forward to the bedroom door; his goal.

Setting her down gently, and appreciating that she had not made her bed, he was able to cover her easily with one hand while he took her pulse with the other. He found himself glancing at the image of her half naked body as the sheet fell over her, although he had tried to resist, the curiosity within him was rising. Her form was quite lovely.

"You got overheated. Probably had some painkillers too, I would wager. Stupid girl; you should know better." She didn't reply, but her eyes fluttered. Her pulse felt regular. He took the opportunity to feel along her head for any signs that she had hit herself, and felt none. Opening her eyelids, his gaze studied her pupils and found both were even and responded regularly to light. He let them snap back, brushing his fingers over her face unconsciously.

"You will be fine," Sherlock whispered, still bent over her, taking in the way her face retained fragile innocence in this state. She was certainly beautiful. But he had seen beautiful women before, this was nothing new. And nude women too; The Woman, in fact. Abby began to stir so Sherlock decided it was time that he be on his way. She would be alright alone.

It wasn't until he closed the door and Sherlock stepped out onto the street, nearly desperate to get away, that he was engulfed once more in a world of stimuli that must be interpreted and understood, bringing stress. It shocked him momentarily, realizing, in Abigail's presence, he had felt complete peace.

Abigail woke to the sound of feet pounding above her head. She was confused for a moment, disoriented, and had to concentrate before she realized she was in her bed, in her room. The glowing digital clock showed that she had slept for several hours. She tried to remember getting into bed, but her brain was fuzzy. Stretching, she felt that her muscles were very sore and her head ached fiercely. Quickly, her traumatizing morning came back to her. Then, her cab ride home, followed by her bath to relax… then… Sherlock! He had barged in on her in the bath! Her cheeks burned at the memory, and she looked under the covers to see her state of undress. 'My robe? Did he dress me in this?' she wondered, running her hands over the silky material. No, she had put it on, and then passed out from the heat of her bath. She had thought her heart was pounding because she was embarrassed, and perhaps so, but the steaming water did not help. Abby ran through the physiology in her head, realizing most of her blood had been shunted to her extremities to help maintain a standard temperature in her core. Because she had stood quickly, there hadn't been enough blood available to pump to her head, an thusly the extreme lightheadedness unto syncope. But that would mean… Abby was slowly putting the pieces together.

"Sherlock must have carried me in here. I was almost naked, pressed against him…" Her face burned hotter, and Abby's hands covered her eyes as she fought feeling violated… and a little excited by the idea. "He is so handsome," she admitted to the empty room, picturing those eyes burning into her. His black shirt had fitted him so perfectly, while he wore an exquisitely cut jacket, absolutely meant for him. And those dark curls. Abby thought about running her fingers through them. They had looked so soft. She couldn't ignore that she had thought about him and heard about him constantly for most of the last year, now here he was, back from the dead. Abby could see so much in him, perhaps more than she had ever Felt about anyone before.

"He knew about the patient," she whispered to herself, shadows growing in her room, "I wonder what else he knew about me." She found that there was suddenly another ache in her body she was forced to ignore.