"You do realize that you are interrupting the most suitable moment of my life to have children?"
"Interrupting? John, the bearing of your children is not something that I would particularly like to take part in."
"Oh, you bastard!"
The sound of slurred shouting caused me to spring upwards in my soft bed. There was a painful ringing in my ears with a matching tightness in my head that could have only been from the shedding of tears and wine. I turned my head to the other side of the mattress, unsurprised to see the ivory sheets indented in the shape of where a body had previously been.
That night had been the first evening in six months that allowed me to properly rest. There had been no conversation dreams with Sherlock's voice telling me that he was alive, mocking me to the point of hysterics. He hadn't faded away from me again and left me in a bed nervous perspiration. He was with there. He was back. He was alive. Half of my heart was black from fury, and the other was uncontrollably beating with affection and gratitude. However, judging from the shouting occurring below, I assumed not all were as thrilled as myself.
As I continued to hear John's raised voice alongside Sherlock's soothing excuses, I managed to pull my sore and barely clothed body from the bed. The coldness of the air struck me in that moment, as if it were life's way of whipping me for my sins.
I had let Sherlock Holmes touch me. I had let him caress my naked body, and feel me in ways that I had never been able to conjure up, even in my loneliest of nights. Every since I was a girl, I was told that such moments were not for pleasure, but for the act of having children.
It is a sin to lay with a man before a ring passes your finger! It is a sin to flaunt your ankles and wrists, adorned with jewellery or bare, to married and unmarried men alike!
These were the words that priests had once shouted at me when I was a child attending church. Truthfully, I hadn't even understood how children were born at that time. With my fantastical mind twirling out of control, I had simply assumed it was magic. One day, you decided that a plump, smiling face would make you happy. You would simply snap your fingers, and behind you a child would appear. Occasionally, I would glance up at my mother as the priests droned on, only to find her giving amused glances to my father. I supposed they had been sinners as well. Apparently it ran in the family.
My feet brushed past the golden gown lying on the polished wooden floor. I did not care for the outfit any longer, as it continued to remind me of the anger that boiled in my skin upon the first sight of Sherlock Holmes. Instead, I went to my trunk and pulled out the simple blue dress that I had worn upon our first meeting. The colour had almost faded into a grey over the years, but the sentiment of the fabric was more important. I slid it over my bodice with a heavy sigh, buttoning up the collar just beneath my chin. The tightness of the clasp around my neck was somewhat confining. The dress hadn't outgrown me, but rather the opposite. Years had passed, yet in that moment I felt like that young girl who had just met the world's greatest detective for the first time. A maid. An inventor. A stranger. Whatever I had been to him, that had all changed.
Just before I left the room, a vase resting next to the door caught my eye. They were filled with fresh daisies and had not been there the night before. Surely Mycroft didn't have the sentiment to do this himself, I thought to myself. The long white petals of the flowers stretched out towards the rays of morning light, causing me to smile uncontrollably. Sherlock must have picked them from his brother's gardens; something the eldest Holmes was likely to be annoyed with.
As I made my way carefully down the stairs, I could hear John's voice deepen into a snarl. "I need a coffee."
"I can only find tea," Thomas muttered as he flicked through the drawers and pantries of Mycroft's kitchen.
John shot him a look of warning, not even acknowledging that I had joined them. "If it is black and caffeinated, it makes little difference."
Sherlock was the only one who seemed to care about my arrival. His eyes, blank from his argument with John, scanned over my bodice as if it were the first time he were seeing it. A redness that I was unfamiliar with rushed to his cheeks. He was no longer commenting on the drab appearance of my clothing, as he had done years before, but was instead thinking about what lied underneath. Upon realizing this, I also began to feel a flush pressing against my face. If the situation were to have become any more uncomfortable, it was cut off with John's sudden mocking sigh.
"Ah! Renadale, how lovely to see you on this…" His arms flailed about as he searched for the suitable adjective. "Splendid morning. Notice anything different?" His arm outstretched towards his friend, who made no effort to seem bothered by John's abrasiveness. "Perhaps you have noticed that a certain Sherlock Holmes has decided to join us again with little to no explanation."
I could feel a laugh bubbling up in my stomach, but it would only upset the ex-solider to mock him. His rage had become familiar to me over the time we had known one another, and I noted that he was a like a boiled teapot about to spill over. "When did you arrive?" I asked softly, already aware of the answer.
"Just this morning," Sherlock lied as a small smile began to curl on the edge of his pink lips.
"You are damn well lucky that your brother is not here," John chimed in.
"My brother's leaving was something that I was made keenly aware of." All three of us turned our heads sharply with curiosity. "My brother and I have been in communication since my arrival in London. He assumed that you would become slightly irritated with me, and presumed it best to leave." Without a care, Sherlock began to twist the stem of a nearby flower from the windowsill. "I also suspect that he is seeing someone and did not feel entirely upset for an excuse to leave. His nails had been finely groomed, his hair more combed over than normal… His shoes were also polished, and although my brother is a neat man, he had never been particularly concerning towards himself." Sherlock's nose scrunched on his face as he returned the flower to its rightful place. "Odd timing. My brother should not be happy while I'm not around."
"I am certainly glad to see that your selfishness hadn't washed away with the rest of you, Holmes." John's words were sharp and attacking. I wondered inwardly if he was still drunk.
Thomas quietly stepped out from the kitchen, holding a tray of tea with four cups. He offered his wide American smile to all of us as he rested it atop the coffee table at the centre of the room. I could feel the tension still lingering in the air, and clearly my friend had also. We would not be able to speak about the case while John was still so heated. Judging by the dark bags that lingered beneath his eyes, he had hardly slept. And this time, he had no office to run to.
"Thomas!" I said cheerfully, clasping my hands together. "Why don't you take John out for a view of the garden? I think he should properly admire it since we have had little time since our arrival in town." Thomas offered me a glance of confusion before finally picking up on my meaning. "I will prepare some food for us, and upon your return, we can discuss the case in further detail."
John sighed heavily. "That will not be necessary."
I shot Thomas a look of desperation. John needed a moment to himself; otherwise slurs and curses would continue to be hurled and my headache was already far too raging.
Thomas had always had a way with people. Despite breaking my heart, he could become awfully sensitive when he wished to. "Watson…" He spoke slowly as he reached into his pockets. "Would a Cuban cigar change your mind?"
John's oceanic blue eyes grew wide at the sight of the foreign delicacy. "I suppose I could spare a moment."
I waited until the two had quietly left the to the backyard to redirect my gaze on Holmes. He maintained his distance from me, something that I took as a minor personal offensive. "How are you this morning?" He asked slowly, his long lashes flickering over his pupils with an unclear expression. I chose not to answer until I properly understood where his questions were leading. "What I mean to say is… Are you well?"
Upon hearing his words, I began to fully realize the sensations of my body. My legs were extremely sore, as well as my shoulders. Although it was pain, it was pain of a positive type. I had never known that it could exist until that moment. My lips felt somewhat chapped, as it had been half a year since a pair of others had met them. With this conscious thought, I raised my fingers to lips for fear that Thomas and John might suspect something.
With this tiny gesture, Sherlock broke the gap between us. His fingers peeled my own away and into his hand. "I do not mean to make you uncomfortable or worry about your appearance." Upon seeing John so upset, I feel that he was trying to be extra cautious with his words. "In fact, you seem to have a calmness about you that some are said not to have afterwards." He paused momentarily, his eyes turning away from me. "By afterwards, I am referring to…"
I gently took his hands and placed them back down at his side, for fear that the others would see us through the windowpanes. "You have been gone for quite some time, Sherlock Holmes. Although some physical traits about you have admittedly slipped my mind, I never took you to be a man who worried so much. Your emotions have not escaped me."
"The last person I want to be upset with me is yourself, Miss Adkins."
The formal title made my stomach flip over itself. My hands clutched at my abdomen with the sensation as memories of the night before were brought to my mind. My eyes redirected towards him with shame in their gaze. "Do you regret what occurred?"
"Not in the slightest. Although, I fear it will continue to last in your subconscious."
I wanted to defend myself against his accusation, but I knew inwardly that he was right. I was never good at allowing myself a moment of credibility, but I had always excelled in criticism. If it had been a course taught at my school, I would have passed with flying colours.
"John loves you dearly," I reaffirmed. "He is simply angry with you. You know that anger passes with time."
"On the contrary, Renadale. He is not concerned about himself in the least." Sherlock's suitcase-brown eyes redirected themselves towards the Arabian rug sprawled out on the floor beneath us. The elegance of the room made me feel even more shameful about what we had done in Mycroft's home. "He is angry at me because of what I have done to you. He will not let me forget it."
"I do not blame him," I could feel an annoyed raise of my brow breaking out onto my face. "You did rip my heart out and take it over that balcony ledge with you." Sherlock said nothing in response. He was merely preparing himself a layer of thick skin for all of the abuse that was likely to be hurled at him for the next few weeks. "John barely sleeps anymore. Mary is often left alone, so she escapes through friends and parties. His work is suffering because of it. He published those papers about the war as a way to deal with his grief, and to talk about you in a safe and nurturing manner. There are more complicated things on his mind than his anger with you; do not take it all to heart. He may be using you as a way to release some of the tension that has been lingering in his soul for the past few months." My voice grew soft in an attempt to calm the detective. "You know better than any of us what it feels like to be surrounded by the threat of death. Someone has made it very obvious that it is coming to him."
"I have some news on that note." Sherlock raised his finger, his familiar scatter-brained nature coming back into view. He moved over to the coffee table, scooping up and finishing an entire glass of tea in one movement. One month he would hardly eat at all, and in another he would be consumed with a lust for food and drink. No matter what it was. Sherlock Holmes was the greatest enigma of them all. "I shall wait until the others arrive and then I will explain my findings."
"We also have things to discuss with you," I chimed in. He gave me a look of shock that I once again found offensive. "Sherlock Holmes, you are a very good detective. Surely you do not think that we learned nothing during our time spent with you?"
"That is not what I mean by my perplexing facial gestures." He fell back onto the couch, spreading his arms over the seat's back, as if he owned the place. His confident position made my face flush, and the thin white shirt that he wore stretched out over his muscular arms, making the spot between my legs feel warm once more. "I am more than impressed by your outstanding efforts and tribulations in relation to our cases. The reason that I am shocked, however, is because there is something about John's threat that I find somewhat perplexing. They have targeted him not only for his work, but because he is my dearest and closest friend. Truthfully, he is family to me." He shot me a look of warning. "That feeling can be kept private, mind you."
"Noted."
"It has recently come to my attention that someone has been following him. They are attempting to make note of the people who are closest to my heart, and yet they have failed to find… you." Sherlock's dark eyes redirected themselves to me. I took in a sharp breath, unable to find a response to his somewhat twisted, affectionate comment. We had been incredibly romantic with one another the night before, but I knew upon opening my eyes the next morning; his words would become retreated and distant. He would no doubt return to his reserved and socially inept persona before I even had the chance to catch my breath. "This surprises me, as I made no effort to hide you from the public eye."
"You died at a ball and revived at a ball, with me at your side both times." My words were sharp and accusatory. "Why do you continue to play games like this?"
Sherlock couldn't help but to smile with the memories of his dramatic decisions. "I tend to enjoy the perfect curvature of life coming full circle." He took one glance at my simple blue dress; the one that I had worn upon out first meeting. In his eyes, I could see that he remembered it. "It would appear that you do as well, Miss Adkins."
~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Thomas and John puffed their cigars as they stared into the yellow buds of the daisies surrounding them. The fresh, albeit somewhat smoggy air was what the doctor had needed to clear his thoughts. Furthermore, it was good to rid his head of the alcohol that was still lingering in his blood. He puffed out a breath of smoke, followed by a heavy sigh. "I suspect we will all be seeing my wife very soon."
"Do you?" Thomas was surprised to hear the man's voice soften somewhat. "She seems like quite a driven woman. Not unlike Renadale."
"Perhaps that is why I love them both dearly, albeit in different ways."
The word love made Thomas's smile retreat in place of a grimace. Now that Sherlock had dramatically returned, Thomas felt more displeased than he had expected to. Renadale had left him at the ball without a word. There had been no other man on her mind in that moment except for Sherlock Holmes. If John Watson hadn't been by the doorway, Thomas suspected that she would have left him there as well. There was a longing in his stomach to return home, but he had already promised the lot of them that he would remain on the case. If he left in the middle of the night without any explanation, he considered himself to be as much of a coward as Mister Holmes. She had already lost so many men in her life, and although he did not know what his exact worth was, he did not want to partake in even the slightest chance of hurting her.
"Rena informs me that you have done extensive research on our third case, have you not?"
John's question snapped Thomas back into the reality of the moment. He suddenly recalled the heat of the sun dancing on his face, making him sweat beneath his necktie. "She asked me to. It is as simple as that."
"You went the extra mile."
Thomas brushed away the comment. "Mycroft has a good lead with this Haraldson fellow. I am hoping that when he returns from his business venture, he could set up a meeting."
"The topic of the boy is what perplexes me the most. Someone so young committing such terrible deeds? It is uncommon, even in the worst areas of London. Not to mention; his work was somewhat of a mess. Disoriented. Jumbled. It was almost as if he were put up to it."
"You believe that this murderer had a boss?" Thomas's eyes searched John's face for an answer, but despite their discussion, they were no closer to a solution.
"I suppose there is only one way to figure that out." John let his words twist around a cloud of smoke. It passed his lips easily, like a wave of grey from a seaside not far away. As it was carried with the gentle weight of the breeze, the two men watched it disparate before them and turn into the blue sky of the summer morning. "We have to go back to our previous case in order to figure that out." He turned his soft eyes to meet with Thomas. There was seriousness in them that reflected the foggy image of the soldier left within. "It would appear that we are not quite finished with Professor Moriarty."
~.~.~.~.~.~
I will give an intro in the next chapter, but I just wanted to let you all enjoy the chapter and dive straight back into the story.
Oh, Renalock... how we have missed you.
xxx
