The Man with Two Names
By the Salt Monster

Ch. 11
221B Baker Street—the next evening

I heard a rustling in Sherlock's flat and poked my head out of the kitchen, only to see him sitting up from the couch and rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"Oh good, you're up," I grabbed a hot cup of tea that was sitting on the counter and brought it over to him, bracing myself for what would probably be a barrage of questions.

"What happened?" He asked, massaging his temples. He looked paler than usual, and his hair was quite disheveled, but that was to be expected.

"Drink something; questions later," I told him, setting it down on the table in front of him.

"No. Tell me now." He demanded shortly, narrowing his eyes. I shook my head, indicating the cup.

"You get nothing until you've drank it." I said firmly. He scowled and made no move to take the item. I watched him with a hint of amusement, forgetting my inner conflict for a moment. "You really don't like it, do you? Not being kept in the loop?" He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl. I smiled slightly. "Of course, if you don't drink the tea then I'll just have to keep this violin I mysteriously found. I'd hate to un-string it but..."

He sighed disgustedly and picked up the mug, sipping at the hot liquid while I stood over him.

"What happened?" He asked again once finished his tea. I took a deep breath.

"Well, you were sort of attacked at the opera. I'm still not sure exactly what happened to you. I knew I had to find you, so I worked with Lestrade." Sherlock snorted at that and I shot him a cold look. Surprisingly, he heeded my warning. "We found you in the sewer but you were a bit…odd. At the hospital they said something about you being exhausted –-to be honest, I didn't understand most of it - but you've slept for about two days straight. I guess they were right."

We were both quiet for a moment before Sherlock changed the subject, speaking abruptly. "I was correct, wasn't I?" He asked eagerly. "It was the maestro and art director?"

"It was," I confirmed. He nodded knowingly.

"Good. Call Lestrade and tell him I'll be in tomorrow to talk to Signore Russo." Immediately, I felt a tightening in my chest. He still didn't know…

I bit my lower lip.

"Um, I… I don't know if that's a good idea…" I said hesitantly, clasping my hands.

"Did they get away?" He demanded, alarmed.

"No," I said vaguely. "They have Camilla - that's the art director - but not...Michele."

"The maestro is still at large?" I shook my head and sighed; I really didn't feel like going into it. I could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into my own, but I didn't dare meet them. I chose instead to stare at the floor, suddenly fascinated by the mysterious stains on the carpet.

"You killed him," Sherlock concluded after a long stretch of silence. It was a statement, not a question. I turned away. I couldn't bear to look at him; I didn't want to see his reaction.

"I didn't mean to," I said, trying to keep my voice level. I could feel a lump rising in my throat, and there was a traitorous prickle behind my eyes. "But he was about to kill you and then me. I didn't have much of a choice. I couldn't see any other..." I trailed off, squeezing my lids shut. Feeling a tear fall down my cheek, I quickly swiped it away. "I didn't even aim, I just wanted...wanted him to stop." I drew in a ragged breath, steeling myself to face his rebuke. Slowly, I turned back towards him. "It was either shoot or be shot."

"And I haven't just killed a man; I've killed a son, a brother, a friend… I know that sounds really sappy, but it's true," I exhaled through pursed lips, attempting to pull myself together. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd really appreciate not talking about it ever again." I said briskly, putting an end to the conversation.

Sherlock eyed me for a moment before turning his attention back to the television, though I doubted he was actually watching anything. Some Christmas special was playing, but the dialogue was muted.

"So you killed a man," he said. His conversational tone made it sound as if it was simply an ice-breaker. I huffed.

"Sherlock, please. Just leave it alone." I glared at him, but he persisted.

"You must've had some emotional trauma, yes?"

"I went into shock, if you must know," I snapped. "Passed out, low blood pressure, dilated pupils - the whole, great, stinking shebang. Can you please drop it now?" My voice was more than a little desperate. He tapped a long, pale finger against his chin.

"It's remarkably interesting to observe the effects of a murder on someone not accustomed to violence." He turned back to the television. "You're reacting differently than I would have predicted."

"Keep talking about it and I will be accustomed to violence," I threatened. "Now drop it." Sherlock raised an eyebrow slightly, but said no more on the subject. We fell into a long silence. The only sound was the rumble of cars outside.

"You almost missed Christmas," I blurted randomly, suddenly breaking the silence. "It's today." He shrugged. "And your brother came to check on you." He didn't say anything and instead continued to stare at the flickering screen. I moved myself in front of his line of sight, blocking his view. "Your brother," I said sternly, "Is the man paying me to spy on you." He glanced up at me, cocking a brow.

"Yes, didn't I tell you that?" I sighed.

"No, you didn't. And you wouldn't happen to know where my half of the money is, would you?" He looked at me innocently. I shook my head disbelievingly but continued. "John Watson's sister also called to tell you that his and Sarah's flight out of Germany is likely to get canceled, so they might not be home for a while."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?"

"He wouldn't be coming back here, anyway." Back to silence. I hoped this wasn't going to become a habit of ours.

"How are you feeling?" I asked for lack of anything better to say.

"Fine." He started to get up. "Oh, no you don't!" I said, pushing him back down on the sofa, feeling his forehead with the back of my hand. "Just as I suspected, you still have a fever. You're not going anywhere." He rolled his eyes and sank further into the sofa.

"Youngest child…" He muttered, scowling darkly. I went back in the kitchen for more tea. "You realize you're a complete contradiction to what you appear to be."

"It's okay; I'm an artist," I called back with a small smile.

I brought back another full mug and all but force-fed it to him. I sighed as I watched him drink it, one issue still weighing heavily on my mind.

"You have something else to tell me," He guessed, bringing the cup down from his lips. I blinked.

"I—well, yes, but I mean, it can wait," I stammered, suddenly flustered. He raised an eyebrow.

"Enlighten me."

"I..." I started but couldn't get the words out. I took a deep breath and plunged in. "I'm moving to France."

Silence. A blank stare.

"France?" He echoed tonelessly.

"Yeah, I was accepted to do an extra semester at an art school in Paris. After this whole ordeal, I need to get away—so I decided to accept. It's just a semester and I..." I trailed off as Sherlock's face darkened. I frowned at him. "Don't give me that look. I'll be back eventually."

"Well, of course it's up to you," He said stiffly, not meeting my eyes. "Congratulations. I'm sure it'll be wonderful."

"Oh that's unfair – don't do that. It's only five months—I'll be back," I assured him. Again, he didn't look at me. He had turned cold; as frosty as I'd first met him.

"Excuse me; I think I need more sleep." He retreated to the blankets on the sofa, curling up under them and completely covering his face.

"Oh, come on, don't act like a baby about this!" I said irritably, peeling the blankets away from his face. He snatched them back. Grumbling, I knelt down next to the sofa, across from where Sherlock's face was hidden under a layer of fluffy fabric.

"It's just a semester, Sherlock," I reminded him. "January to May - not that long! I'll be home before you know it, and in the meantime, Dr. Watson will be back-,"

"No he won't," The blankets said sullenly. "He has a wife now; he's not going to be interested anymore. He'll be a 'family man,'" He spat the words as if they were a curse. "All serious and boring."

"Oh, I doubt that," I insisted. "I've read his blog - he cares about you a lot. I'd be very surprised if that's changed. Why else would he blog about your adventures?" I gently pulled the covers away from his face. He was facing away so I could only see his curly black hair from where I was crouched. "He might not be living with you but you're still friends, right?"

"You're leaving too." The words were accusatory.

"I promise I'm coming back - same apartment, same everything. I'll be here." He turned around to stare at me.

I stood up, dusting off my knees. "I'm not apologizing, you know," I warned.

And then one small thing told me I had him: a flicker of a smile.

"Neither am I."

Author's note: Howdy, all.

This is the second to last chapter. Next week will be the last installment!

Make my day and tell me what you think!

Thanks.

~Salty