Chapter Eleven: The Balance
Now that Sherlock understood what had truly transpired, he needed to formulate a solution to attain a proper balance between his heart and his mind. He had sealed away his heart long ago because he couldn't risk caring for anything too much. Sentiment often resulted in mistakes and in his line of work as a consulting detective, mistakes could mean death for not only himself but for John, for Mary, for Lestrade, for Molly, for Mycroft, and for his Artimes. He knew so little about emotions; true, deep, intense, and powerful emotions. He did not know where to begin or even how to begin.
He pushed off the door, only to fall against the wall. His entire body felt like jelly and his legs were having difficulties keeping him upright. Sherlock never knew that emotions could drain him so drastically. It was another reason why he had probably avoided said emotions; it made him weak. After a few moments, he was finally able to stand on his feet without toppling over. He needed assistance that was for certain, but he highly doubted that John would understand the full depth of the change that Sherlock was experiencing. He didn't understand it fully himself.
Artimes was more knowledgeable than he could ever be in the realm of the heart. Perhaps she could help him find the balance he so desperately required to function properly. He opened the door to the empty kitchen. He had not expected her to remain on the floor, so he headed towards the living room. Upon entering, he noticed the distinct lack of warmth in the flat. His home seemed so foreign to him.
Further inspection of his surroundings revealed three very important things to him. The first and most important was that Artimes was nowhere to be seen. The second was that all traces of her influence such as books she had acquired, small knick knacks she had bought at the market, the funny little hat for his skull, and all her belongings were gone. The third and final thing, also the most unusual of the three, was a single drop of water on the floor.
It didn't make any sense for it to be there in the first place. He knelt down and touched the droplet with his fingertip. He then placed the finger with the drop on it in his mouth. Salt water, he frowned slightly. He stood and looked around the room once more. There was nothing else out of place, but the cold feeling he felt before was becoming stronger and loneliness was beginning to seep slowly into his being.
Rationally speaking, there was nothing amiss, but his heart was telling him something very differently. His heart said that there was something terribly wrong and he needed to find out what it was immediately. He exited the living room and began his descent down the stairs.
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called as he rounded the bottom of the staircase.
The elderly woman that was his land lady exited her kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.
"What is it, dear?" She asked slightly worried.
"Do you know where Artimes is?" He asked.
Mrs. Hudson frowned in confusion.
"Isn't she still upstairs?" She asked.
"No." He answered flatly.
"Well that's odd. No one has come down the stairs since John left ten minutes ago. Oh you know how that old staircase creaks and moans. It's been perfectly quiet." The elderly woman informed.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock replied heading back up the stairs.
"Is everything alright, Sherlock? Did you and Artimes have a little domestic?" She called after him.
He didn't respond and his land lady, thankfully, did not come upstairs to get an answer. He walked back into the living room, intent on putting the pieces together. He looked at the floor where the droplet had been.
Salt water + single drop = Tear Drop
He looked around the flat.
The flat – alterations made by Artimes – her personal belongings – all traces of her presence = Environment Reset
He looked towards the stairs then to the windows.
Stairs didn't creak + windows undisturbed = Vanishing
Putting all the pieces together, he formulated his equation.
Tear Drop + Environment Reset + Vanishing = A writer's departure with extreme emotional distress implied
In other words, Artimes was gone. His Artimes was gone. He was completely unprepared for the intense surge of emotion that sent him to his knees unexpectedly.
'Stop resisting me.' Her voice rang out in his mind.
"How can I resist you when you are not even here?" He asked breathing heavily, his head falling back in fatigue.
'Silly Sherlock, I am always with you.' She stated quietly, soft giggling accompanying afterwards.
"How?" He asked as he fell onto his back, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Artimes appeared beside him, an illusion created by his mind. Her left hand cupped his cheek, her eyes full of such warmth and understanding. He remembered those eyes. They were exactly the same as they were when they first met.
"I'm in your heart." She spoke smiling softly at him.
Sherlock's eyes drifted close as he finally succumbed to his exhaustion.
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Artimes reappeared in front of what looked to be a small mansion, but she wasn't an expert or anything considering she didn't know much about British architecture. She was a born and raised American for crying out loud. What really wanted to make the young author cry was the fact that the heavens were not being particularly favorable to her at the moment. It was storming like mad and she was already completely soaked.
She ran towards the mansion with the intent of getting out of the rain, no matter who lived there, and rang the doorbell. While she was waiting, she thought about where she might be. She hadn't really been thinking when she shimmered out of Baker Street. She just left, without knowing where she was going to end up which she had to admit was rather stupid on her part.
She wrapped her arms around herself in a desperate attempt to stay warm. It wasn't exactly London's warmest time of year and being soaked was not helping matters either. Her right arm stung a bit from the sudden movement reminding her of why she was in this mess. She had mucked up big time with Sherlock and she needed to solve his case. If for no other reason than to try and make amends to the consulting detective she cared so much for.
She was giving serious consideration to ringing the doorbell again when the door opened suddenly. The light from the open door blinded her momentarily, forcing her to close her eyes.
"Ms. Blaine?" A male voice asked in surprise.
What the…she knew that voice. Her eyes snapped opened and focused on the figure standing in the doorway. It was none other than Sherlock's elder brother, Mycroft Holmes. Why in the world had she ended up here of all places? Apparently the surprise was mutual, because the elder Holmes looked quite stunned to see her.
"May I come in?" She asked shivering.
"Of course." He answered moving aside to let her pass.
Mycroft took note of her appearance as she entered his home. She was completely drenched, her skin was pale, and her eyes held a barely concealed pain and if he had to wager, desperation. He quickly closed the door to prevent the rain from coming inside and grabbed his overcoat from the hook next to the door. He draped it around her and he did not miss the painful wince when he brushed against her right arm.
"Oh…thank you." She said pulling the coat tighter around her tiny form.
He wondered briefly if she had been injured, but that did not explain her presence at his home. If she had been injured, she would have undoubtedly gone to Baker Street or to the Watsons' home. Why come here, given her very clear animosity of him from earlier that day?
"What happened?" He asked needing more information.
She looked down at the floor before answering him.
"I sort of shimmered out of the flat." She answered her tone barely above a whisper.
She was already at Baker Street, but then why does her right arm cause her such pain? Certainly, his brother would not have injured the woman, would he? Or was it the doctor that had harmed her? Moreover, why did he even care? Such displays of sentiment, even within his own mind, were very abnormal for one such as himself, who prizes logic and reasoning above all else. Yet somehow, he could not completely erase his growing concern for the young woman before him.
He still had too many unanswered questions and not enough data to form an accurate timeline of events within his mind. He took note of her shivering form once more and decided it was best to get her into some dry clothing before they continued their discussion. He motioned for her to follow him and she did so.
"Why?" He asked.
She did not respond for a few moments, meaning that the events were somehow traumatic, but what could rattle the young spitfire that could quite possibly be his match in intellect? For some reason, he did not like the idea of her being emotionally damaged, but he quickly dismissed it as a passing fancy.
"I'm not really sure myself. I wasn't really thinking when I left." She answered finally, her voice quiet and soft.
So she came to his home subconsciously then? That still left the matter of what transpired before she left Baker Street. The woman he met earlier that day did not run from anything and would no doubt walk into Hell if it meant helping someone she cared for, but the woman that trailed after him seemed so small, so fragile, and very, very vulnerable. In the recesses of his mind, the urge to protect the tiny female began to surface, but was quickly squashed. He was above sentiment and caring; though he was concerned for her health at this point.
"Well let's get you out of those clothes…" Mycroft began unaware that the red head was now smirking evilly.
"In your dreams, lecher." Artimes interjected.
The elder Holmes faced the young woman, a small smile on his lips. What a fascinating woman she was turning out to be? Perhaps she was not as broken as he once believed.
"It was not meant to be taken in such a vulgar context, Ms. Blaine. I simply meant that you would be more comfortable in dry clothing." He explained.
Artimes chuckled softly; her eyes alight with mischief and amusement. Her sudden change in demeanor caught the official off guard.
"I am well aware of what you meant, Mycroft Holmes, but it was a joke. You know a story with a humorous climax? Lighten up, dearie. You are far too rigid." She replied smiling at his surprised expression.
Mycroft was not entirely certain how to react to the woman. She was unlike anything he had ever encountered before and he found himself liking her more and more with every passing moment.
"I will endeavor to." He responded quite amused despite himself.
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Less than twenty minutes later, the duo was in one of the many sitting rooms in Mycroft's home. Artimes was now in dry clothing; her hair was slightly damp and hanging loosely down her back. She was sitting on a very comfortable love seat, her legs slightly tucked under her and her back was reclining against the arm rest.
Mycroft was on the opposite side of the coffee table that sat between them and was in a leather bound plush chair. He was currently pouring tea for her, his eyes glancing towards periodically. He was hyper aware of how she was clinging to her right arm and he was now certain that it had been injured in some way. He handed her the tea and she lifted her right arm absentmindedly to take it. She did her best to keep from wincing, but the pain in her eyes could not be concealed.
"You surprise me, Mycroft." She stated casually, her tea cup now resting on her left hand.
"Oh, how so?" He asked slightly pleased that he had somehow taken her off guard rather than she taking him by surprise.
Artimes's forest green eyes shined with dark humor.
"I never expected for you to have such an assortment of female apparel at your disposal. If I were anyone else, I might actually believe that you were a closet cross dresser." She answered sipping her tea to hide the smile creeping across her face.
Mycroft made face of disapproval.
"I am quite heterosexual, Ms. Blaine, and quite comfortable being a male. I simply prefer to be prepared for any situation that may arise, no matter how unlikely it might be." He countered.
Artimes giggled causing the official to become confused once more.
"Always so serious, dearie. How is it that you find anything amusing when you possess the rigidity of steel, Mycroft?" She asked her eyes taking on a knowing look.
The look in her eyes made his mouth run dry as his heartbeat accelerated. What was it about this tiny, little woman that brought about such strange and unusual physical reactions from him?
"It is not without difficult, I can assure you, but as you have stated before I live in a world of goldfish." He answered trying to slow down his heart rate.
"But even a goldfish can attract the eye if it is unique." She countered a soft smile playing on her lips.
Mycroft swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze away from the crimson beauty. The woman before him was, in fact, incredibly unique. She possessed intelligence, wit, humor, and something else, something that neither his brother nor himself could ever hope to obtain…heart. She had compassion, warmth, and love and by some miracle, she has struck the perfect balance between one's heart and one's mind. She was truly remarkable and Mycroft had to force down his slowly emerging emotions. It was time to focus on the matter at hand, the matter she was trying desperately to avoid. Why did Artimes flee Baker Street?
"I think it is about time you told me what happened after we parted company at Scotland Yard, don't you?" The official asked looking directly at the crimson haired woman.
Author's Note: The plot twist in this chapter about Sherlock's heart being awakened is a necessary evil. As stated in Chapter 1 by John, Sherlock is a very difficult character to write for and this plot twist allows a little bit more wiggle room for his character to develop in. It is always important to have a cause or in this case, catalyst to explain why a character has gone out of character. Don't worry, he won't change too much, but he will be a bit more open with his emotions than he was before.