The day was surely very stressful, Wren thought. That would be her sarcasm talking, by the way. Pretending not to care was never a solution to any problem, since caring was all she could do. Wren took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what was happening in the room. A lot was, by the way.
Her poor 165 IQ was cataloguing so fast, that she could almost hear the rustling of files.
Sherlock… Since when had he been moved into 'first name' category?! Tense in his armchair, face cold, pretending not to care. See above about this particular futile endeavour, of course. Wren wondered what irked him so much. She could feel his irritation like her own. When didn't she? Was it… John? Apparently, here Wren still had trouble with the first name basis. Or the older brother?
Mycroft Holmes… One of the few people Wren had trouble reading. It felt like smashing into a wall while on a scooter. A person lacking her sensitivity would find it frustrating. She enjoyed it. The silence coming off him was so soothing! He gave her a cold, empty smile, and she nodded to him.
And finally, the man in the chair… Something clenched in Wren's stomach, above the navel. Of course, it hadn't been his words that convinced her of his honesty, it was that bloody empathy of hers. He was giving out a different vibe now. He had been relaxed that night, three weeks ago, happy, and reveling in it. He had felt to her… full of acceptance. The very acceptance her therapist was always preaching about. Take one moment at a time. Feel it. Appreciate it. Good, or bad. Especially bad, because it'd pass. He'd been having a good day, and he had been fully experiencing it. She had been a part of it.
At the moment he was so focused on her it made her skin crawl. Her mind thrashed. There was something she didn't understand, and she met his eyes, trying to catch it, when…
"Ms Leary, would you mind stepping with me into my room?"
The detective was on his feet, spine straight, eyes on her. Wren gave him a confused look and started slowly sliding off the sofa trying to stall. What was it about? The memory stick? Was she wrong to try to give it to the other brother?
And then the man in the chair - John, his name was John - shifted, and she saw his tense, icy eyes right in front of her. She blinked, and for a second it felt as if there weren't other two people in the room.
He was supposed to frighten her. Her common sense, which she'd always been so proud of, was screaming that a man who decided that a bird he hadn't even shagged was worth three weeks of torture by some sicko Russians clearly had 'run as fast as you can' warnings plastered all over him. And yet all she felt was… tenderness.
Walking by him - slowly, because she just couldn't gather her thoughts, and suss out what the detective wanted, and what she was to do, and what in the name of all deities was going on in her life - she brushed her hand to his shoulder. Because he needed it. And maybe, she did as well.
Maybe, getting tortured over a random chick was madness, but inviting a random bloke from a pub to her place was - fractually - the same madness. Why had she done it?
She needed a reminder, an answer, a confirmation. He felt scorching hot through the jumper, she felt the bone - acromion, her stupid photographic memory supplied - under her palm, and the shoulder rose under her hand.
It was still there - the sensation of familiarity, of comfort, of warmth. Weren't Wren an overdramatic, sappy dimwit these days?
The detective let her pass him, and then closed the door behind him. Wren lifted her eyes at him, preparing to ask him why they hadn't gone to the other room, for the memory stick.
"Ms Leary, I will presume that the person with your abilities does not require unnecessary explanations, so I will just state directly that I oppose to your moving to Hull. I understand all the elements involved - although the sentimental aspect of it is extrinsic to me - and as an incentive I propose to you a partnership, which includes being my flatmate, and at your leisure my assistant in the investigations. Among other things, I would encourage you to take several medical courses, were you to agree. I have full trust in you succeeding in them, considering your previous reaction to blood and injuries. I do not think bringing up the arguments against the alternative prospect are required here, your intellect and common sense have clearly processed the available information, and I do not believe I can contribute into your consideration further."
"If you speak any faster, I'll need a recorder to rewind and put it on slow to understand anything," Wren blurted out, and he blinked.
And suddenly Wren started laughing. Some small part of her mind - not that small - made her press her palm over her mouth, reminding her what her laughing happily would seem like to the man in the other room. Hunger, that was what she saw in his eyes. Hunger…
"Pardon?" The detective frowned, and Wren concentrated on him.
"Mr Holmes, out of what you just said I can discern a compliment to my intellect. To which I say... ta. And then you offering me to be your lodger. Also thank you. I'll think about it. I doubt I'd want to go back to my flat… But what was it about Hull?" Wren giggled. "Am I being forcefully relocated by your brother?"
"Mr Thorington is," the detective deadpanned, and Wren choked on her laughter.
"What?"
The man gave her a look over, and then sighed. She felt a painful pang of shame. She'd disappointed him. She wasn't a machine, like him, cold and calculative. Of course, she needed some explanation! But on the other hand, neither was he.
"Mr Thorington will be provided with a new life in Hull. He would want you to join him. I estimate the probability of your agreeing on it at around 57%."
"You can't estimate the probability of it!" she cried out. "We aren't talking about a bullet trajectory here! It's feelings… and no logic whatsoever... and what sort of madness is this idea even?" Wren tangled in her own hysterical squeaking, and plopped her backside on his bed.
And then jumped back up, because that was surely intruding into his private space, and he'd hate it. And then she suddenly felt angry. Why was she supposed to care about the comfort and convenience of everyone else, except herself?!
She wriggled her fingers, fisted and unfisted her hands, and took a few measured breaths in. The detective was watching her with an unreadable face.
"OK, help me out here, Mr Holmes. Are you offering me to stay because you want me to stay, or because you don't want me to go?"
"Your question is fallacious, Ms Leary. Both parts of it are false, or true at the same time, and answering one would be answering the other," he pronounced in a monotonous voice, looking haughty.
"And you're being evasive!" she hissed back. The thoughts in her head were jumping and bumping into each other like buttons in a tumble dryer.
"You're considering the prospect, Ms Leary, based on… sentiment I do not wish to understand and discuss. I'm bringing up logical arguments." He couldn't sound less interested if he tried.
And yet Wren took a step closer to him and studied his face. He looked at her down his nose.
Inhale, exhale. Imagine yourself in a calm place, go to your calm place. For her, it was a library - of course. Rows and rows of books, silence, after hours. The smell of dust, the old paper. Alphabetical order, familiar coding system. Inhale, exhale…
She'd never had anyone to talk to, to think of it. No one to discuss the tangled, daft knot of her emotions. To ask advice, to complain to. And equally, she never felt anyone keep up with her ridiculous mind, jumping from thought to thought, in zigzags, through random links, through the memories stored and classified. Until one day - it was just yesterday, you daft cow - she read that it was called a 'mind palace,' and apparently the eyes of the man currently standing in front of her moved just the same way as hers when he would go to his. She had previously freaked her colleagues out by doing it. He had been lucky to have a friend who found it fascinating, and even wrote about it in his blog. Maybe, Wren could use a friend like that as well.
So, if at least half of her needs - the intellectual one, not the emotional one - could be met, why would she say no? Maybe, she'd start sleeping better at night; maybe, it would hurt less. Maybe, she'd stop feeling like a freak every day of her bloody life.
Were she to go to Hull, she'd never feel that peaceful again, like she had dancing with him.
And again, it was clearly a madman sitting on that chair there… The mug had seemed so small in his fingers. She gave him his tea, and stepped to the detective with the second mug, and she still couldn't get rid of the image of the bandaged wrists, and the memories of those very hands on her skin...
"I propose an experiment." The detective's voice shook her out of her concentration.
"Yes?" Wren asked absentmindedly, still trying to imagine living on Baker Street, and visiting crime scenes with him, when a large, long fingered hand lay on her shoulder.
She had half a second to understand what was happening. The half a second wasn't enough.
The detective - Sherlock, his name was Sherlock - had warm, soft lips. And a surprising finesse for a person nicknamed The Virgin by a professional dominatrix. Or was it Moriarty who…? Wren's thoughts jumbled, and she lost the train of thought.
And then her eyes flew open. His hand was on her jaw, fingers splayed, tangled in her hair, his thumb on her cheekbone. The other hand lay on the side of her neck, with just the perfect amount of pressure. His eyes were closed, and he had fluffy lashes. Who didn't? Every person had fluffy lashes. That's what lashes were for!
And he was clearly performing. And experiment, or a play, or whatever the hell he thought he was doing - but she could bet her life that he felt exactly nothing.
She pulled back, and the slanted greenish-greyish eyes opened.
"And how was it?" she asked. Her tone was just as even as she was hoping. He studied her face, and Wren gave him a small melancholic smile. Maybe, if she tried hard enough he wouldn't hear how her heart was banging into her ribcage.
"Better than expected," the detective answered, and Wren snorted. It wasn't of course at all funny, but what could one do in this absurd situation?
"And what's your verdict, Mr Holmes?"
"I wasn't the one conducting the experiment."
It was Wren's turn to give the other person a scrutinizing look. Was he actually saying what she thought he was saying?
"Were you trying to show me that I would get equally infatuated with any other man who was to show me a minuscule of attention?!"
"Are you?"
She'd slap him, of course, but something told her he had been slapped so many times, and by so many people, that for him it would be like a daily cuppa. Wren exhaled sharply, and jerked her chin up.
"I am not desperate, Mr Holmes. Lonely, and insecure, I don't argue, but not desperate." She gave him a firm glare. "And none of your business, that's what I am. And what you did was cruel. And unfair."
She could see the cogs turn in that giant head of his, and Wren waited. She'd tell him a head was no help here, but would he listen? Exactly.
"Would you believe me it wasn't just for your sake?" he asked slowly, and Wren snorted derisively.
"Of course, not. Don't insult my intelligence." She turned away from him, and gave herself a moment to gather her thoughts. "If I stay you'll have to promise to never do it again. Manipulating me this way… it's hurtful, and again, below your intelligence, and mine. If I stay, you have to promise..."
"I promise," he interrupted her. And she believed him.
Wren sighed. Besides the obvious, she was also relieved. Had he not done it, she would've wondered. What it would've been like, and whether it would've been possible. And now she knew. It only showed her how similar they were; and how well they understood each other.
He did understand her, and she him. And despite the different approach, they both would find peace and comfort in this partnership. And she'd stay in the second bedroom. And chat with Mrs Hudson in her kitchen over tea. And he'd play his violin. And she'd never again have to feel like she was the only one like that.
Wren looked at the man, who was impersonating an Easter Island dummy, and then she nodded.
"I accept your proposition, Mr Holmes."
"Sherlock, please," he spoke warmly and smiled to her. Wren nodded again, and turned to the door.
"Could I have the same luxury, perhaps? A wee bit of privacy?" Wren felt shudder run her body from the low voice, the Northern accent now heard clearly in it.
"Please." Sherlock flamboyantly waved towards his bedroom, and Wren considered giving him the John Watson line of 'bit not good, Sherlock.'
She rushed to the room, feeling the eyes of the three men on her back. She caught the sound of the former SAS officer behind her, the confident steps, despite the limp. Inside, he closed the door behind him, just like the detective, and Wren turned, meeting his eyes.
**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**
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Also available on the blog:
romance webserial: Dr. T Series
Summary: Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.
Updated every Saturday!
JukePop: Katya Kolmakov
Blind Carnival, a parody on romance/erotic novels
Summary: Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.
Updated every Thursday!
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My book on Amazon!
CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER
{my first novel
inspired by the story initially written here}
Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!
Summary:
Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom.
John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm.
Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more.
Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?