Chapter 11

'The obscure we see eventually. The completely obvious, it seems, takes longer'

Edward R Murrow

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side," Sherlock muttered as he picked apart Mrs Hudson's collection of soppy romance novels. Mills and Boon, what nonsense. He picked up a battered copy of one of the collection from the middle shelf. It was at Mrs Hudson's eyelevel. A favourite. He skimmed the first page, "boring." This twaddle was a waste of his hard drive.

Harriet was still in the shower. She was alive. That was important. Sherlock had made two crucial mistakes. His first was in thinking she would listen to his request to remain in the house but in all honesty if they wanted Harriet they would have found a way inside. His second mistake had been that kiss. It should never have happened. He should never have allowed himself to suffer that contagious sentiment that humans suffer. Sherlock Holmes was above that.

As Harriet laid in one those uncomfortable itchy hospital beds Sherlock had climbed the walls inside his head. Why hadn't he realised sooner that Moriarty was involved? He was playing a dangerous game with the man and every time Moriarty came out on top. It irked him to no end. One day though he would get the upper hand. Moriarty would be finished whether Harriet was involved or not. He would not allow himself to care for the young woman. That would be easiest.

Oh the drugs they had been tempting. His mind needed the rest provide by the rush of escape. Mrs Hudson had taken his last packet of cigarettes with her and he had used the last of his nicotine patches. His violin was the only other alternative. Sherlock tried not to picture her bruised neck and raw wrists. She had been distraught when they found her. It was his fault she had given up all hope. All because for one brief moment he allowed sentiment to get in the way. Now she had been marked by Moriarty. It couldn't be denied and it certainly couldn't be swept under the rug. Her return home would mean nothing. Moriarty would not only try but he would succeed in breaking her. This thought alone ignited something Sherlock had been successful in repressing for so long. It was sentiment. Such a horrible word.

Sherlock waited for morning with nothing but his violin for company. It was not a very good distraction. The house sitter crept up on him like a shadow and seeped into his conscious. It was detestable. He winced at the sound his violin made as his thoughts strayed in that direction. It was a good job John had learnt to sleep through the noise.

The violin had been placed on the table. A new distraction was needed. If he couldn't get the teacher from his thoughts then he could at least use her to his advantage. That was more normal behaviour. Sherlock disappeared down to Mrs Hudson's flat. Even with the light off in the hall he knew where to find the spare key. It was sellotaped to the back of a hideous painting above the chair in the hall. He stepped into the flat. Harriet would hate this.

He flicked on the light and walked through to Mrs Hudson's bedroom. Sherlock had only ever been here once before and that had been more than enough. The walls were floral, the bed was floral, and the lining of the draws was floral and smelt of lavender. His nose tingled at the memory. His destination wasn't the draws this time but Harriet's bulging suitcase on the floor.

A maroon colour and very battered. Well-travelled. Harriet had spent a substantial amount of time abroad. He looked at the luggage tags that had not been removed, Hawaii. It had been a while ago though. Four years and forty six days ago. Harriet's clothes were unfolded and tossed in a heap on top of the case. Odd socks, Sherlock noted. Not a single pair in the case.

Sherlock could not pinpoint the moment that rifling through Harriet's case shifted from further deducing to a caring consideration of packing a bag for the hospital. It had just happened. He looked across at the bed where Harriet had discarded her pyjamas before she'd gone out for the Nytol. Those ridiculous owls again. He folded them neatly and placed them in the bag. She would be coming home tomorrow and would have no use for them yet they went in the bag anyway. They would now forever be associated with Harriet Thornton in his mind. The mental image of her standing shocked in the kitchen of 221B bought a sad smile to Sherlock's face. This was quickly replaced with his normal stoic mask. Sentiment was creeping up on him again.

Without realising what he had done Sherlock had taken the bag of overnight things and placed them on the table upstairs. John would have a field day with this. Sherlock resumed his violin playing and let his thoughts dwell on Harriet. It was like his mind was addicted and, try as he might, he could not shift the addiction. He wouldn't cave into the niggling addiction and go to the hospital.

When Sherlock heard the arrival of the taxi he had gone straight for the window. He had to see Harriet. Whilst she looked fine he could tell from her hunched shoulders, head cast down and rigid movements that she was far from it. She did not have the ability to remove emotion and trauma that he had. His eyes fell on the woman beside her. Fifties. Fifty six. Elasticated trousers and hideous floral top. Definitely a mother. Harriet's mother. Same bone structure. Manicured nails. Retired. No. The money had to come from somewhere. Divorce settlement. No wedding ring. Sherlock could continue his deductions but his attention was far more devoted to Harriet.

Sherlock had all night to think through his next course of action. If Moriarty was involved then Harriet should stay. She would be safer with him but Sherlock knew she had a job and a home that she would want to return to. It was this that meant his reasons for keeping her around were entirely selfish. It puzzled him that she should spend so much time occupying valuable thinking space. He had yet to figure out why. Something else to solve.

His plan of action was simple. He'd already phoned Mrs Hudson to say don't bother coming home. Now he had to charm Harriet's mother. All any mother wanted was to see their daughter settle down, any mother except his own, he would be that perfect someone. It was another disguise, one he knew he could pull off. John would not approve and neither would Harriet not that it mattered so much in the grand scheme.

Sherlock disappeared from the window and went downstairs taking on the role of perfect gentleman. It had been plain as day to Sherlock that Harriet's mind had flashed back to the abduction some twenty four hours ago. An unfamiliar emotion possessed him. Instinctively he reached out and placed a reassuring hand on the small of her back. There was no time to dwell on it as Mrs Thornton claimed his attention once again. The woman grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard despite this it was a sacrifice he had to make.

With Harriet in the shower and the poor excuses for literature being an inadequate distraction Sherlock dissected the alien emotion that had possessed him. Protection had surged through him like a tsunami destroying the barriers he had worked hard to build again. It was unnatural. His behaviour in the bedroom wasn't even worth thinking about. He's allowed himself to be pulled into the trap of sentiment. A far greater foe than Moriarty. Without hesitation he had taken hold of her hands and thought for a second that he might lose all control for the second time and kiss her. Thank fully he dodged that bullet. Those hands. Smooth skin. Perfect.

When she finally had the courage to look at him he had been rewarded with those beautiful eyes. Sentiment was just a view, an attitude, based on emotion not reason. All reason had gone out the window leaving behind the sentiment he despised and yet welcomed.

Sherlock noted his quickened pulse and flutter of apprehension as he stepped closer to her. He had to be near her. Harriet Thornton was intoxicating. She wasn't perfect like a case involving a serial killer but she was close. The idea of comparing Harriet to the enjoyment of a case was ridiculous. It should never happen.

John and Mrs Thornton returned. Sherlock and John left upstairs after Sherlock

"You are unbelievable, you know that Sherlock," John called from the kitchen where he was putting the shopping away, between the body parts in the fridge.

"Shhhh, thinking," Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa. He had exchanged his suit jacket for a maroon silk dressing gown.

"Sherlock, you can talk to me if, you know, you need to," John took a break from putting away the shopping.

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock retorted.

"Yes, why would you?" John went back to unpacking the shopping with a shake of his head. In all the time he had known Sherlock John Watson had never known him to have a relationship of any sort. There had been Irene Adler, the woman. Love is a dangerous disadvantage; Irene Adler had shown Sherlock that. She had just been playing the game. The game with Moriarty. Harriet Thornton, on the other hand, had stirred something in the consultant detective. Something that had remained dormant like an ancient volcano.

"Oh Sherlock is lovely," Harriet's mother said.

'Some one tie me to air chair again, please' Harriet muttered so herself, Sherlock Holmes was not lovely. She was curled up on Mrs Hudson's floral settee with a glass of water. Her mother refused her a glass of wine. After the afternoons conversation with Sherlock water just wasn't going to cut it. Mary Thornton was busying herself with fixing a meal and could not stop signing Sherlock's praises. She had been blinded by the genius detective much to Harriet's dismay.

"You should be grateful to him for his help, such a charming young man," her mother chatted away. She may as well have been talking to herself.

'He's an arse,' once again Harriet muttered to herself.

"Oh Harriet, it really isn't ladylike to grumble like that, No man will ever look at you if you do that," her mother fussed over the stack of books and magazines that Harriet had abandoned on Mrs Hudson's coffee table. She had nowhere to set down the tray.

"I can live without the male species," Harriet was no feminist. The whole thought of burning her bra disgusted her yet despite this she fought hard to prove that she didn't need her man. Unfortunately her mother was not of the same school of thought.

Her mother ignored her negative daughter, "we should ask them to join us for a drink later. As a proper thank you."

"I'm tired mum," she yawned for effect. If Sherlock could act then so could she.

"Well make sure you do something as a thank you," her mother had always been a stickler for decent manners.

Harriet had an early night and slept through till morning. It was a great improvement on the hospital bed the night before. She was far too tired to pay any attention to any noises that may disturb her sleep. Thankfully the upstairs flat was abnormally quiet.

Okay so I tried to delve into Sherlock's mind, easier said than done. Thanks to Gwilwillith and kie 1993 for their lovely reviews :D