Wow, another chapter! I'm very proud of myself. This chapter is very descriptive… kind of setting up the scene for current relationship standings and drama. I hope you all like it. Reviews will make me write another one… possibly today.
-Ashley Marie
{014}
Filth.
Snow was falling over the streets of London. A pale brunette sat in the dark, staring out the bedside window as the large white flakes stuck against the glass. Her chest had a tightness to it that caused alarm, as the feeling never faded or relented she grew accustomed to the feeling that had started as soon as she retrieved her phone hours before. The day came and went, her phone eventually powered down, the constant texts and phone calls of 'Where are you?' went unanswered. She knew Sherlock would figure it out, she had hoped he would have done so earlier, but then again not.
Her body betrayed her and her mind was at war with the disgust she now felt. The disgust with herself. Her arms were crossed as a subconscious attempt to protect herself. The man who had caused such inner turmoil was dressing himself in the blue light of the television set. She was told to remain bare, the only safety was the sheet she had pulled to cover herself. He was talking, about what she did not care. The only attention paid to him was when his rough fingers tightly gripped her jaw and turned her face to his.
"Be a good girl while I'm gone." Were his closing words before he pressed his lips against hers and lightly smacked her face. He left the room and minutes after he left the flat. She could hear a high pitched ringing.
"Hannah what have you done?" She asked herself. Tears rose to her eyes and spilled over, down her cheeks. This was not silent crying, this was the desperate body shaking, choking, red-faced cries of a broken woman. All she wanted was to figure out who had killed her family. She wanted to live. She didn't want any of this. She missed her independence, her friends, she missed school.
She didn't know how long she has been away, how long it has been since John had called her for the first time after she left. She didn't know how many times she could hear her phone vibrating from her jacket pocket before it fell silent.
She slowly removed herself from the bed, dropping the sheet and stepping into the scalding hot shower to attempt to erase her misery. She had regrets. I should have never contacted Sherlock Holmes. The sentence went through her mind repeatedly. Jim Moriarty would have sought her out sooner or later. A revelation. Was this his plan all along? To put the two together so he can knock them down all at once? Finding Sherlock had been on her own accord... wasn't it?
Her poisoning had begun showing symptoms around the time Sherlock started getting public attention. He can solve any case presented to him. She was told. Poison Hannah, remind her of her childhood and put her life at risk so she will seek the one person who can solve every case. How could he have possibly known that Sherlock would become dear to Hannah? How could he have deduced that Hannah would become dear to Sherlock. She felt foolish.
It was about an hour later that found her tossing her sheets into the dumpster out back. She tightened her coat around her body and hailed a cab. This cab would take her back to 221 B Baker Street and into the deducing eyes of Sherlock Holmes and the question-filled mouth of John Watson. She wordlessly handed her money to the cabbie and walked into the flat, trying to close the door as quietly as possible was futile. John's loud yell reached her ears.
"Where have you been?" His quick steps to her from the sitting room of Mrs. Hudson's flat caught her off-guard. His arms wrapped around her. "We've been worried sick about you." Hannah's head dropped and she let her chin rest on his shoulder. Sweet, comfortable John, he would never hurt someone like Moriarty. He fought for what was right and believed in normalcy. He was so normal and kind. Her hands rested high on his back as she fought off tears. John could sense she needed comfort and didn't let her go quite yet.
"You're such a good friend." She whispered.
"I've got some tea dear, if you would like it." John slowly released her and Hannah gave a small smile to Mrs. Hudson who lifted the mug in her hands.
"Thank you." Hannah accepted the warm liquid and relished in its soothing quality.
"Where were you Hannah?" John asked. Hannah shrugged.
"I went back to my flat for a bit." It wasn't a lie. "I just needed to be alone for a bit" Lie number one. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where is Sherlock?" As if on cue, the dark haired detective barged into the flat, stopping when he saw the girl he had been out looking for.
"Where have you been!" It was less of a question, more of him yelling, his deep voice booming across the room. Hannah's hands shook as she placed the mug of tea on Mrs. Hudson's end table. It was John who answered him.
"She went back to her flat." Sherlock was in front of her, it seemed as though he ignored John's words as he knelt before her, pulling her coat sleeve up. Her skin was red an enflamed.
"Who was with you?" She felt chills down her spine. She imagined Jim Moriarty's 'friend' readying his gun. Hannah shook her head.
"No one." Sherlock glared at her.
"Liar." She pressed her lips together tightly.
"No one was with me, I wanted to be alone." She frowned. Sherlock scoffed.
"So no one let you in your flat, leaving it looking very satisfied a few hours later." Hannah could feel the anger radiating off of him.
"You don't know what you're talking about." She clenched her jaw.
"My homeless network never fails." John looked puzzled.
"If you knew where she was, why would you ask her?" Sherlock glanced over at John.
"I wanted to hear her lie to me." Hannah snatched her arm away. "She went out and met someone at her old flat, which we all know is where Jacob is staying… he finally got into your pants did he?" Hannah glared at Sherlock. John's mouth parted in shock.
"You know nothing about what just happened to me." She growled. Sherlock smirked.
"Well my informant so readily admitted that you were very vocal about what was happening to you." Tears spilled down her cheeks before a crack split the air. Sherlock's head dropped to one side. Mrs. Hudson gasped.
"What does it matter to you?" Her voice was low, the anger apparent. "I don't think I require your services any longer Mr. Holmes." She reached into her wallet quickly and grasped a couple of large bills. "This should cover it." She threw the money onto the table and stepped around him. Slamming the door on her way out, she shut her mouth tightly as to prevent from sobbing.
…
Sherlock Holmes played random notes on his violin, staring blankly at the wall, his feet resting on the table in front of him. John was angry with him, Hannah had left and he had no contact with her for the past week. John, he knew, was also being ignored, but with Sherlock's secret prying he found that she registered for classes due to start in January. His homeless network had been keeping tabs on her so he also knew that the same male visitor had returned three days in the past seven and on the third he stayed there for a period of about 48 hours.
John had given him the cold shoulder. Mrs. Hudson had given him hell for his actions. The only person who hasn't said anything yet was Mycroft Holmes, who was currently standing in the entryway to Sherlock's flat, staring at his younger brother whose mind seemed to be racing.
…
Hannah placed her recently bleached pure white sheets on her bed. The clean fabric made her feel a bit more at peace. She always changed the sheets when he came over. She was sure to use a cheap set she had recently bought for such an occasion. The set she was placing on her bed now was a rather expensive brand, comfortable and beautiful. She smoothed the wrinkles out and placed her duvet on top, tossing her multitude of pillows to follow.
Pasta was cooking on the stove, a thick meaty sauce in the pan next to it. In the living room her school books were spread across, next to her tablet of which was open to the blog of Doctor John Watson. She moved swiftly across the floor, removing from her mind that Christmas came and went this past week, ignoring the fact she spent it alone watching Miracle on 34th Street and drinking liquor infused eggnog. John, ever the sweetheart, left her a present down at the front desk, almost comically it was 'From: John and Sherlock'. The gift was currently sitting on her vanity, a silver box that came from an antique shop once visited by her and John on a day that she desperately pleaded to get outside. She fawned over it when she saw it and then frowned when she realized she had forgotten her wallet. She had decided to go and get it later, but when she went to buy it, the silver box was gone.
John must have bought it then. The silver box was next to a small vase of flowers that arrived the next day. She imagined they would be from Sherlock as an apology, then placed that as far from her mind as possible deeming it improbable.
She quickly drained the pasta and poured some of the sauce over top, bringing the steaming bowl with her to her living room where she turned on the television she was told to remove from her bedroom. She let the news anchor's witty banter act as white noise while she perused John's blog. He wrote something about her, Winter's Chill was depicting a very vague image of the time she was with the pair ending with a sentence that made her heart turn in her chest.
She had him acting almost human.
He was Sherlock. The Sherlock that Moriarty claims to be hers. The one she was trying to protect, only to have her actions blow up in her face. Sherlock's rudeness would not have her seeing him anytime soon. The picture of him in the paper, another one of him in the deerstalker hat sat under her school books. School would begin soon, in two weeks and her patience was wearing thin. She needed a distraction, a place she could go to lose herself in everything.
She even changed her major from Criminal Law to Journalism. She was sick of criminals, now she just needed something to distract her. Thick literature books and Introduction to Journalism, Psychology and Philosophy books ready to begin her first day of classes.
She finished her dinner quickly and rinsed off her dishes, placing them in the dish washer. A knock came to her door, which she begrudgingly opened. Jacob had told her that he had business to attend to and would come back when he could, leaving her to her flat by her lonesome. The man on the other side of the door was someone she could not refuse entry, mainly because she had curiosity as to why he would want to come see her personally without a call of warning. "Mycroft, how can I help you?" The older Holmes brother smiled.
"May I come in?" Hannah nodded and let him in, shutting and locking the door behind him as he removed his coat.
"Would you like some pasta?" She caught his nod and fixed him a bowl of the remainder of pasta and sauce, placing it at the small kitchen table she hardly ever used. Mycroft Holmes had visited her twice before. Once having his assistant come and fetch her, Hannah was told some information on his younger brother, Mycroft having listened to her rant once about his horrid behavior.
As Mycroft tucked in he began studying the poor girl. She knew that he was aware of things she wouldn't admit, his network more effective than the homeless network he had informed her Sherlock had trailing her. From his desk he could get into any surveillance camera in the city, possibly the country, but she didn't question it.
His assistant showed up on her doorstep not even an hour after she had stormed from 221 B and ushered her into the beautiful black car that took her to meet him. He offered her one of the many desserts he had laid across his desk, the two shared tea and he informed her of his knowledge of the situation. She knows that he doesn't tell her everything he knows, but she is pretty sure he also knows about Moriarty.
"My brother has taken on another case." She nodded.
"It's about time." She pulled her hair out of her face and tied it back.
"He left for Baskerville this afternoon." She leant against the counter.
"The military base?" He made a sound of agreement. "What's he doing there?"
"Investigating the appearance of a giant hound," Hannah's eyebrows rose, but she didn't reply. "Has he hurt you?" A chill ran down her spine at the mention of it. She shook her head.
"Not when I comply." Mycroft wiped his mouth on a napkin and settled back in his seat.
"There is not much I can do with this situation. We had to release him, we had no choice. Unless you were to take action we cannot help this problem."
"I know." She mumbled. She filled the kettle with water and lit the stove, placing it on to boil. She removed his bowl and rinsed it, placing it to be washed. "You also know why I cannot." Mycroft gave a curt nod. She crossed her arms and stared at the floor. "Mycroft… why do you keep coming to see me?" The kettle went off and she poured two cups of tea while she waited for his reply, cutting him a piece of pound cake.
"Whether you believe it or not, you mean a lot to my brother." She placed the tea and cake in front of him. "He doesn't believe it but eventually he will feel the need to come and see you, and I would rather you not be dead when he does." Hannah sighed and sat across from him.
"He won't kill me." She sipped her tea, watching him eat his cake. "Not right now anyway."