I've decided to finish this one off before I continue on "Mother Knows Best". I'm dreadful at working two at the same time. Luckily we're not far from the end on this one. Have patience, the next update won't be long to! Thank you for reviews and favourites! I hope you have the patience to follow this one until the very end. Thank you.
14: My Funny Valentine
My heart is pounding, breath rapid – you could say every single bodily function increases; I could feel the hair on my arms raise, as I stared on the bathroom door. I could hear the muffled talking on the phone - he sounded worried. Oh, we were in trouble. I sat down on the bed, still in my blue dress, and wondered idly what was going on. Was anything going on? He just thanked me, you know. Oh God. I end up slipping off the dress, changing my clothes into a nightgown, which I did not remember packing. I stared at it, holding it onto a finger; I don't even remember it really. My hand reaches automatically to the necklace around my neck.
He hadn't?
No, or?
Well, it was an odd form of thank you – that was for sure. I didn't know of anyone who'd get someone a nightgown. It didn't strike me as something he'd do for John Watson, however amusing the imagery is. John Watson didn't strike me as the man who enjoyed silk nightgowns really. He's still in the bathroom though. I was almost worried he'd be running out of it, while I changed - or not as worried about that really. Oh god. He's not going to stride out of the bathroom, door slammed aside, as he pushes me down on the bed – and and – you know I'm not even going to finish that thought. Let it go, those delicious hormones, you know. Probably PMT (I understand why the "t" stands for tension) on it's way, or something. Yes, that sort of thing. I take a deep breath, before I slip under the covers, in the new soft nightgown, while trying to avoid fiddling with the necklace hanging around my neck dipping into the – the door opens, I stare, he stares, but what do you think he says? What do you think he says? Come on - give a guess.
"I suggest you brush your teeth. Dental hygiene - Doctor Hooper – we mustn't forget," he says scathingly, causing me to gape at him a little bit, before shuffling off to the bathroom almost slamming the door behind me. The idea of Sherlock Holmes brushing his teeth is almost foreign to me. I'd almost just like to assume that he gets John Watson to assist him in such cases, but then again I never thought I'd see him eat. It's amazing to see him eat, playing as someone else – the plate always ends up being emptied for once, instead of nibbled on, before he starts nicking my toast. What am I talking about? Just brush your teeth. I stand in front of the mirror, not really thinking about the time, before I find the door being knocked on.
I open, and there he stands quirking a brow at me "A half hour to brush your teeth?" he inquires leaning on the doorframe.
I take the brush out of my mouth, before saying rather irritated "You said dental hygiene was important. You were in here an hour."
He looks at me in disbelief, before shutting the door again. It's not like he's waiting for me is it? I can brush my teeth entirely in my own time, can't I? No pressure, time-wise in the teeth brushing area. I end up finishing quite hurriedly, washing my face, before walking out. He is stretched out on the bed, with the laptop again, but he sets it aside as I show up.
"We'll get up nine o'clock tomorrow. Mycroft has sorted it out so you don't have a day of work. I suggest you be careful," he says, furrows in his brows.
"Do I need to stay in the flat all day? I thought of seeing Martin," I said. He'd been texting me the entire evening, and I hadn't really properly answered. I didn't want to write the almost obligatory "We need to talk." I've never really broken it off with someone before. It was easier breaking it off with Jim, because he sort of made the whole thing – breakable. Martin wasn't entirely in that department of a psychotic madman.
"That isn't an issue," says Sherlock who looks like it is an issue. I perch my lips a bit, before hiding under the covers besides him. We sit in complete silence, I glance at him, and he just looks pensive. I have no idea what he is thinking about, feels all frightfully familiar.
"So – goodnight then," I say gingerly, before turning my back to him lying in the bed.
"Goodnight," he almost whispers, still in an upright sitting position.
I just sigh deeply, trying to shut my eyes, and end up falling asleep despite myself.
The morning that came he woke me up, and I found myself in his spot for some odd reason. I ended up getting ready, and we left after breakfast, before driving off in complete utter silence. I could hear my own breathing; he was apparently very busy thinking about something, and I was busy thinking about what he could be thinking about, besides being all-too fixated on the fact that I was actually going to break it off with Martin – ginger Martin with the dimples and smiles. It's all really up in the air right now. I still want Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes is – well – fixated on a mystery, as usual. We just needed him to return from being dead, and everything would go back to being normal. I'd be his pathologist, he'd be the detective, and that was it. Or – or – I could – no, just don't.
We arrive in London, I avoid general conversation, and we just get back into the flat, dropping luggage, I go and fetch Toby, who seems pleased to be with me – my old neighbour is luckily in tact and so is the cat. I fondle him, before letting him run rampantly around the flat apparently glad to be out of the old woman's flat with all the pink (not that my flat is less pink, but you know – I avoid frills). Sherlock is sitting on the sofa looking deep in thought, fingers steepled under his chin, as he barely looks at me. Toby runs towards him, but he ignores him. I just end up making tea, just to have something to do.
I've been answering the text messages from Martin. We're going to have dinner at his place. I tried to dissuade him from it, but then I mentally thought that possibly a not-public scene was a better idea. Sitting in a coffee shop with him telling him it was off wasn't entirely my cup of tea. I could just picture his face, was he a crier? I don't entirely know yet, I can only imagine, god. I couldn't invite him here either, as Sherlock was still Benedict, who'd soon return to the public eye – and who'd soon be – well, you know – Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't know it yet, of course, but it was better than making it a bit more obvious. Yes, I'll just let my gay ex sit here in my flat, while I break it off with you – shan't I?
"He can come here, I'll be leaving the flat," says Sherlock who sits with the laptop typing as usual.
I look at him in surprise, two cups in my hand, and slowly hand him one "No, he's – err – making me dinner, and I think – well I think – a more familiar scenario would be good for him –then him coming here – to make food in my flat," I say drinking from my cup uneasily.
Sherlock looks at me puzzled, shutting the laptop screen.
"Are you sure that is a good idea?" he says, hands clasped, peering at me curiously.
"Err – wait – what?" I say blanching. He looks albeit a bit amused by my reaction, but he looks soon austere.
"I do hope you are not breaking it off, because of our present situation," he says raising his brows at me.
I frown in return, "What situation exactly?" Is he referring to us? Is he? Oh God, he's basically saying I'm mental. God.
"Of all people I think Martin least likely to be a target," he says.
Oh, oh, right. He's being considerate – of Martin's feelings. I still end up standing there, feeling like a complete idiot, because he's caught me entirely off guard as usual. "Yes, well – err – it wasn't why I was going to break it off. Hang on, how did you know?"
Sherlock just furrows his brows, "OK, fine – don't answer that, but – yes, well I am breaking it off. Problem?"
"No," he says giving a brief nod, before devoting more time to his precious laptop. I do hope he'll inform me of what he's doing there really – when it's all done, I suppose.
"Yes, well, I'll just go take a shower – so – right," I say, before walking off rather flushed into my bedroom. He'd figured out by just looking at me that I was breaking it off with Martin. I sort of hoped Martin would deduce himself too, so I just needed to show up, before he'd go "I understand," and I'd feel better, texts aside.
I shower, get dressed – not particularly well mind you – I didn't want to actually look good. You don't end things with someone and look good. I didn't feel like dressing up either way. The flat was empty when I got out of my bedroom; he'd obviously left, to God knows where, and so I went over to Martin's dreading our break-up. It's never good, you know, I'm not really used to crushing someone else's heart. Well, I'm glad I'm not used to it. I've never been one for that sort of thing anyway. So, there I stood breathing deeply in front of Martin's door, I was lucky that it was in fact open downstairs, so I didn't have to hear his happy voice through the buzzer.
Oh god, this was definitively not going to be a joyous occasion. I could just see him feeding me pasta, and then I'm blurting out that I'm in love with someone. OK, not love. Oh, good Hooper – pull yourself together. I knock, he opens the door, cracking a smile, and looking horribly well dressed in a suit.
Oh god.
"Is it a bad time?" I automatically say jarred by his attire.
"No, perfect," he just says giving me a quick peck, before pulling me into the room, which has been filled with candles. There's a table, and there's a perfectly good cooked meal placed beautifully on plates. Maybe I should have texted – we need to talk - before I came over. Oh god. Oh god.
"Sit down," he says pulling the chair out for me beaming happily, pouring some wine in a glass, which I hurriedly grasp chugging down most of the wine in a go. "A bit enthusiastic, then? Hard time with work?"
"Err – yes – work, Martin – I," I start, as he sits down looking at me cheerfully with his ginger hair and smile. Yes, do get rid of the fine man who fancies you.
"Did you have a good time?" he asks looking genuinely content to see me.
"Yes," I say agitated fidgeting there I sit, avoiding to touch the cutlery, and just leaning my elbows on the table awkwardly glancing at the hot meal in front of me.
He reaches for my hand, stroking my thumb, and looks at me pleasantly with his slightly freckled face.
"That's good. At least it wasn't an entire waste, you know. How's Ben?" he says. God, Benedict. I'd almost forgot. He still cares and asks. Oh Martin.
"He's brilliant, you know," I say rather red-faced, feeling the weight of it all push me further down.
"Let's hope that lover of his sorts his priorities straight. Wouldn't want him to be tied up," he says chuckling.
"Of course not," I say, not really sure what I'm answering or saying.
"You sure you're fine?" he says, his expression serious, as his brows connect. I feel like running out of the flat, right now, good plan, brilliant plan, but – no. I can't leave. I feel like my whole body stiffens, and I sit there tense.
"Martin, this isn't working out," I say rather breathlessly, and I almost shut my eyes waiting for the devastated reply.
"That's really not what I expected," he says gaping slightly at me for a moment. Obviously chewing on this bit of information. "But I'm not really surprised."
"Sorry?" I say.
"I suppose this has something to with Sherlock Holmes?"
I swallow at this, rather uneasily.
He cracks a smile.
"I'm not an idiot, you know," he says jabbing his fork in the steak on the plate rather forcefully, "Of course he is Sherlock Holmes."
Oh God. He knew? Jesus.
"Why didn't you tell me you knew?" I say aghast.
He perches his lips, dropping the fork, about to drink the wine that was already in his glass – quirking a brow at it, before putting the glass down on the table again.
"Maybe not a good idea to drink that – right now. That would create such a setback," he says sighing, "Well, obviously I knew – just like Sherlock Holmes knows who I am."
I stare at him for a minute.
"I'm not following," I say feeling a bit sluggish all of a sudden.
"I had hoped he was a bit more creative. He gives you a tracking device, as a necklace – very dull," he says eyeing the necklace around my throat. "Jim was always into his theatricals. I was more or less a bit more above that myself, but all for the good man's memory."
"What? Wait, what a-," but he places a finger on my lips, silencing me.
"Must I say it? I had hoped you were a bit more clever," he says grinning, laughing – not the sweet laugh I was so used to. This was not Martin Ames. He removes his finger from my lips, freeing me to speak.
"You're Sebastian Moran," I say hesitantly.
He raises his brows at me, picks up a napkin, dabs at his mouth, before throwing it on his plate.
"At least I hadn't underestimated you entirely," he says snatching the necklace from my neck, and I cannot stop him – I cannot move. My eyes flicker, from open to shut.
"What have you given me?" I ask, in almost a whisper.
"Your boyfriend David enjoyed it," he says clasping the necklace in his hand, looking at it smugly. He looks at me coldly. "I was very worried your mother might have tipped you off, but you didn't really think of it – oh she's just out and about so busy, you know – Really now, and that show for my benefit – the handcuffs. Oh, Sherlock was very against being put up to do something like that. All to fool his friend and when he said John was in Hull. Oh no, that was me – he did hold you quite tightly there. Are you caught up now? Possibly a bit better, at least."
I try to gasp for air, but I get nothing. I can't breathe. He looks at me wide-eyed in amusement, as I end up falling forwards gasping for air onto the table, but he soon pushes me forcefully back in my chair. I blink at his bored expression, which is the most I can do at this point. I can't move an inch – "I can't-," I start hoarsely, taking small laboured breaths, as my heart thumps rather erratically. I feel the blood rushing through me, light-headed, and weak.
"Minor side-effect. I'd try not to talk or scream, whichever you prefer. One of them will give you a quicker death though. I don't know which one appeals to you more. I do like quick and easy. Jim was always one for the pro-longed one. He used to call me an artist. Ironic, you know, being an artist for your behalf," he says amused.
I gape at him, blinking furiously, until all I see is darkness.