Chapter Twenty:
The realization that the end of an era was upon him and it weighed with the gravitated force of a ten pound block of cast iron in the ventricles of his heart. He discerned with great application that he could no longer bear it in front of John and friends. And so, Sherlock left the wedding reception alone and unobserved.
As it should be, Sherlock thought in a self-chiding mien. Alone is all he ever was. People come. People go. Some just stay longer than others. It was as simple as that. It was senseless of him to carry a frame of mind in which he felt he belonged and that someone somewhere might grow fond enough of him to want to stay by his side, solving crimes, and chasing adventure. As it should forever be, he revised. Just one person would have been enough.
Sherlock's time with John had finished with a party and laughter and cake and gay conversation. But a black undertone laden with companionless solitude waited in the corners of the room and in the crumbs of the cake and in the words of overjoyed family and friends. It anticipated the moment of Sherlock's return and prepared an escapeless ambush for him.
Sherlock grew bitter on his walk home. Having a heart was only everyone else's folly, never his own. A heart betrayed the body and mind and Sherlock proved countless times that he never let this happen—and most assumed it was because he didn't have a heart. But he did, and he was hurting and he hated hurting because he had no one else to blame for it but himself.
John's reassuring words that nothing would change between them now seemed empty to Sherlock, instead of their previous impact of giving him hope. Foolish John. Of course everything would change. Change was consistent. Their lives had altered long before he and Mary said 'I do'. In fact, their lives changed even before John and Mary said 'hello' for the first time—though John would argue that point for different reasons. So where did the switch, the conversion begin?
To be precise and completely forward, it began at the receiving end of a semi-automatic Beretta pistol handled by a woman who was much more than a woman. So, nothing could ever be the same again. Not even if he wanted it to be.
Sherlock raked his mind to figure out where he had gone wrong with Eve—as John expressed that it was his fault for her rapid departure. And due to his lack of experience on that front, Sherlock elected to trust John's judgment. So, Sherlock had driven her away. Surely it wasn't because 'I'm sorry.' were not the first words out of his mouth upon their reunion. Maybe it really was because he never died. Eve probably hated him now. Maybe he would never see her again. Maybe he lost her and John in the same day.
Sherlock had been so devoted to his thoughts that, before long, he realized he had arrived to his doorstep. Sherlock's hand lingered on the doorknob after he slipped the key in the lock and his stare reproved the grain of the wood in the door. He stood moments outside his flat, and then he finally turned the knob and entered.
As if it was something he gave up trying to avoid, Sherlock removed his outerwear and sat across from John's empty red armchair, hyperaware of his crumbling heart.
He lost Eve and John in the same day.
Eight months later:
The stadium was dark. The ill-disposed spirit blew out all of Wrigley Field's lights only seconds before—this included the lights in the tunnels to the spectator seats and the titan floodlights surrounding the baseball field.
"Damn," Eve whispered, coasting down one of the halls in the thick wall of the impressive structure. She moved closer to the wall and relied on her powers to make up for her loss of eyesight.
Sam and Dean were far from where Eve had chosen to go after they decided to split up and search the place. Sam was on the far side of the field checking out the area under and around the scoreboard. Dean was making his way onto the field after sweeping the other half of the stadium's seats for the ghost.
Eve raised her arm and a balloon of angelic light emerged from her palm. It was her built-in flashlight.
Eve walked slowly forward, following the concave wall, and shining a particular ray of her light on the ground in front of her. She could make out basic shapes and objects, as the light from her hand lit up the space around it like a bubble, and everything beyond the bubble was lost to obscurity.
Eve began humming the theme tune to Scooby Doo to calm her nerves. She could sense Sam and Dean because of their tangibility, but she could not sense the evil spirit because it wasn't tied to Earth in the same way Dean and Sam were. And that's why the Winchesters were here; they had to find what was keeping the spirit tethered to Earth. There was just one problem. Eve couldn't sense what that was either because of its connection to the ghost haunting Wrigley Field.
There was an indistinct sound behind Eve and she whipped around, startled, to shine a ray of her light where she believed the outburst had come from. There was nothing but an empty tunnel curving infinitely away from her.
Eve flashed around when she heard another sound similar to the one before and leapt out of the way as a figure with a tortured expression upon its translucent face dived onto her through the ceiling. Its screeching wails carried down the halls and as soon as the spirit appeared, it was gone and the stadium was silent again.
Eve got off the ground and brushed herself off. She could sense Sam and Dean running toward her, until another shriek echoed from the center of the field. When this happened, Eve could sense Dean sprinting in the opposite direction.
Eve teleported in-field and found herself running side-by-side to Dean. "Hey!" Eve said.
The enraged spirit raced after them, gaining on their tails.
"Hey! Little help?" Dean exclaimed breathlessly, still running with all his might.
Eve stopped short and in one fluid stroke, she whirled around and punched clear through the apparition.
The ghost gave out a terrible scream, this one noticeably angrier than the rest of her wails, and dissolved on impact.
Eve stood up straight, out of her fighting stance, and brought her fist to her mouth so she could kiss a ring made of iron on her middle finger. "Want one? Made of iron." Eve asked Dean, who just realized what factors came together to make the spirit disappear.
Dean walked the few paces back to Eve. "Who says you can't punch a ghost? Yes, please."
Eve tilted her head, pointing with her eyes to his hand.
Her brother flattened his hand and noticed the iron ring on his finger. "Thanks," he said, "Where's Sam?"
"Over there. He's coming," Eve looked across the field just as Sam became visible.
Sam looked as if he was running without the intention of stopping, but once he came into view and Eve and Dean came into his view, he slowed to a walk to catch his breath. When he joined Eve and Dean he asked, "You two okay? Where is it?"
"Yeah," Dean said, "Eve punched it."
Eve held up her hand with the ring on it and Sam said, "Iron?"
Eve motioned to Sam's right hand and Sam took a look at the ring she had given him. "Sweet," Sam said. Then he changed gears, "Did you find anything?"
"Nope," Eve replied.
"Nada," Dean exhaled. "You?"
Sam exhibited that he'd found nothing as well. "So I think our only option is to burn the bones. I can't think of anything here that would be significant enough for the spirit to attach itself to it."
"Where's the grave?" Dean asked.
"There isn't one," Eve stated, "Papers said she was cremated. Sam, didn't you read that she was hit by a foul ball?"
"Yeah but the doctors found she had brain cancer. It was so far advanced." He was about to tell Eve that the cancer was the spirit's cause of death, not the foul ball to her head.
"I know, but she loved baseball. She lived for it. Getting hit by that ball probably wasn't the coolest thing to have happen to her, but if it weren't for the ball, they wouldn't have found the cancer. It's significant in that way. I'm just saying, maybe, and especially because ghosts can't tell the difference, she attached herself to the ball."
"We just have to find it," Dean said.
It looked as if Eve and Dean had inspired Sam. He was digging in his jacket for his phone.
There was a shriek from off. Eve and Dean and Sam turned to the noise, and then Sam bent over his cell phone, trying to find the news article faster than what the three of them thought the ghost would permit.
The lights at Gate N flashed as the wailing started up again.
"Sam…" Eve watched as the lights at Gate N died and the lights at the next gate over, at Gate E, came to life.
"The broadcast box!" Sam said. "They hung it up as a memorial in the broadcast box."
With this information, the three began running toward the broadcast box, which was illuminated brightly and agonizing exclamations came from all around, as if on speakers and megaphones on their highest possible volume setting. The floodlights verging the stadium turned on all at once and shone sharp artificial light directly onto them and the field.
The Winchesters kept running toward the box when the floodlights started acting like a computer when it glitches. The bulbs flashed frighteningly on and off in each floodlight, and it was as if Sam, Dean, and Eve were sprinting through strobes.
Then began the climb to the top of the stadium. The seats overlooking the field gave waves of fierce, loud creaks as they jerked and contorted themselves into angles, and these horrific sounds followed them around the park.
When they made it to the tunnel system, they ran for the stairs. They turned a corner. Dean and Eve had made it through the doorway and grasped the railing of the stairs before a loud rumbling brought down structural beams and chunks of cement between the stairs and Sam. Dean instinctively covered Eve as the building came crashing down, and Sam ducked and fell back away from the aperture. After it was done, Dean lifted himself from Eve.
Dean shouted, "Sam!"
On the other side of the rubble, Sam coughed and waved a hand around in the air, trying to disperse the dust.
The position of the beams, bent, and blocking the path to the stairs made two things clear: one, Sam was separated from Dean and Eve and two, they'd have to move on without him. The ghost was just too angry and vengeful.
Sam coughed some more. "Dean! It's blocked! Go without me! I'll find another way around!"
"I can get y—" Eve grasped the railing and the back of Dean's coat as the metal stairwell gave a disjointed groan. Before they knew it, the floor beneath them was broke away in pieces.
Dean and Eve yelled out as their portion of the stairs swung out of coordination and dangled them several stories high over the stadium.
Eve's hand slipped off the metal railing in the moment of off-balancing transition. Her eyes widened in fear and in the next second, and her wrist was grabbed by her older brother's hand. Eve looked up to Dean and saw he still had his grip on the rail.
The stairway lurched with another unsavory grating of metal on metal noise in their ears, and the entire structure angled Eve and Dean downward. From this position, they could more clearly view the drop to their deaths.
"Let go!" Eve yelled.
"You crazy?" Dean said, exerting all his will to look at her and not how high in the air they were, "I'm not letting you go!"
"No, I meant let the rail go!"
"No can-do!" Dean shook his head, tightening his grip on the handrail. Despite his efforts, he was slipping. The weight with the added angle at which they hung was too strenuous for him.
Eve grabbed Dean's arm with her other hand, "I promise I won't let you fall!"
Dean looked at her and his heart jumped into his mouth as he released the railing…and immediately hit stone hard ground.
Dean grunted and blinked up at the ceiling. The ceiling! He sat up and held his shoulder. It hurt. He rotated his arm in its socket, feeling the muscles pull and groan.
Eve moaned on the floor beside him and turned on her side, lifting her leg closer to her chest in an aimless movement of ache. In this motion, her knee hit a swivel chair and she gave out a noise of pain. "Ow," Eve said, "See, that wasn't so bad."
Dean took his gaze from her and stood. He helped Eve to her feet, too.
Everything was still and quiet now. The stadium in its entirety was a graveyard.
Dean and Eve noticed this and looked out the broad window.
Dean said in a low voice, "It's over there. On the wall."
Eve cupped her hand and a pool of her light filled it. They stepped to the wall behind the bench of broadcasters' chairs and microphones and equipment where two whiteboards were hanging on either side of a small glass box.
In the box, a baseball sat on an engraved plaque. 'In memory of Sandra Carol' it said.
"Would you like to do the honors?" Eve asked, turning to Dean.
Suddenly, she yelled her brother's name, and the apparition opened its mouth so wide it looked as if the jaw was a swing on a swing set, freely moving this way and that. And the ghost wailed.
The windows shattered. Dean and Eve were thrown to the floor.
Dean rolled onto his stomach and hoisted himself up with his elbows. He saw Eve lying on the other end of the room with two picture frames broken beside and on top of her. She was covered in shards of glass, and her ears were bleeding.
The apparition kept screeching. It floated over Eve's body, its hair flowing widely out behind it as if the thing were underwater. It bent over Eve, arms extending to touch her…
"Hey! Sandra!"
The ghost snapped its head to look at Dean. It snarled and opened its mouth again to let loose murderous screeches when it realized Dean was holding her baseball.
He held the ball up by his head, shaking it a bit. Dean's expression turned threatening. "What's up?"
The ghost turned on him and advanced.
Eve stirred and shook herself awake. She looked up to see Dean was trying to fend off the spirit. His ears were bleeding and the ball was in one of his hands. He tried taking a swing at the ghost twice, but the ghost only disappeared to dodge and reappeared again for its own attack.
Eve stood as the ghost threw Dean back, and Eve yelled, "Hey, I'm open!"
Dean gathered his senses and glanced to the ball he managed to keep in his grip. Dean threw it over the ghost's head and it sailed right into Eve's hand.
The spirit charged at her and Eve smiled as if she were in pain as her hands erupted into flames, devouring the ball in heat and fire. The spirit of Sandra Carol screamed one last terrible scream as it, too, was engulfed by flames and was destroyed.
Eve let the ashy remnants of the baseball sift through her fingers.
Dean lay gasping, back against the wall, and when he understood the threat had been exterminated, he said, "What? Didn't want to play monkey in the middle?"
Eve smirked and walked to him. She grabbed him under the elbow and pulled him to the upright position.
The two met Sam running toward them in one of the tunnels behind the stadium seats.
Sam asked, "Are you okay?" He was out of breath. No doubt in their minds he had done everything he could to find another way to them.
"Yeah," Eve told him, "It's over." She healed herself and Dean on the spot. She went on, "No more players will die."
"Good," Sam's exhale was more of a relieved gasp. "The Cubs were down to four. And they need all the help they can get."
Dean laughed, and Sam smiled. Eve laughed some, too.
"Let's get the hell outta dodge," Dean said.
The other two agreed and the family left the stadium—but not after Eve replenished and repaired it to its pre-ghost-wig-out glory.
The next morning, Eve awoke in the back seat of the silent and stationary Impala. She stretched, sat up, and slid out of the car.
The Impala was parked in front of a Seven-Eleven, and through the window, Sam and Dean could be seen getting breakfast and coffee.
Eve shut the door and walked inside.
"Cas?" Eve said as she went down an aisle.
He was standing in front of the section of packaged pastries and held a bag of bite-sized doughnuts in either hand. He was staring thoughtfully down at the powdery white doughnut package.
"What are you doing?" Eve asked.
Cas awkwardly threw his hands (and the bags) down by his sides and his eyes flicked away. "Good morning," he said, looking at the unswept brown tile floor that is customary for gas stations. He looked back up again, "I came to see you but Dean sent me to get doughnuts." He held both bags aloft in a way that communicated he had no idea which one to choose.
Eve pointed to the bag with the chocolate covered doughnuts. "That one. The powder gets all over Dean's face and clothes and makes him look like a nut."
"Of course." Castiel put the powdered doughnuts on its shelf.
"Why did you want to see me?"
"There's an emergency meeting in Heaven. The angels require your presence immediately."
"Why?"
"It is best we speak in Heaven. Where we don't run the risk of being overheard."
"That important huh?" Eve inquired.
"Yes," Cas answered.
"Okay," Eve sighed, taking the bag from Cas' hands. She walked to the coffee machine where Sam and Dean were filling three cups with coffee.
Dean and Sam noticed her quickly. Sam handed her a cup with a lid, and Eve fastened the top on the cup.
Eve took a sip of her drink. "I have to go to Heaven. From the looks of it, it's pretty serious."
Dean and Sam looked to Castiel. Eve passed the doughnuts over to Dean.
"Well," Sam said, setting his hands on the counter next to his coffee cup. "If you're needed, you should go. You can catch up later."
"Sam and I will just head back home and look for a new job," Dean added.
Eve nodded. She looked at Cas. "Ready when you are."
Cas pursed his lips and the two of them vanished without so much as a rush of air from two pairs of flapping wings.
Eve entered the white office door first.
On sight, the seven angels standing and talking around a long table in the middle of the room silenced and stood at attention.
One of these angels approached Eve, "Mother—"
Eve held up a hand, "Please, Carra. I thought I made it clear that I want you all to call me by my name—"
"But—"
"—And I know it is informal, but we're all family, right? Formalities are for elected officials and rich old white guys…Which I just realized are the same thing. Amazing."
Cas stepped forward, "I think it is best to start the meeting."
Carra nodded and said, "Please M—Eve, your seat is at the head of the table."
Eve followed the angel named Carra to where she would be sitting. Carra pulled out her seat and Eve sat.
"Thank you, Carra," Eve said.
Carra smiled to herself and took her seat further down the table.
Cas' chair was closest to Eve's, and thus, he began the meeting. He said, "Marcus."
The angel addressed had dark skin, dark eyes, round cheeks, and a cleft lip. He put his hands together and spoke, "This morning I was scheduled to perform a miracle in an estuary not far from Sydney, Australia." He paused here.
"Yes, go on," Eve urged.
Marcus cleared his throat, "I was not aware Thomas was to accompany me. Nor was I knowledgeable of his likeness for being early, because when I got to the estuary, his body was face down in the mud. I turned him over and saw someone had slit his throat and robbed him of his grace."
It was clear by this time, by the expression on his face that relaying the news disturbed and frightened him, so Eve said, "Thank you, Marcus," to help ease his mind. Addressing angels by their name was good for them, so Eve did is as often as possible.
Eve asked the group, "Does anyone know or suspect who might've done this?"
"No," the angel beside Carra replied. This angel was female and looked exactly like Carra. She had a small nose and ears, blonde hair, and brown eyes, but lacked the timid bearing that Carra held. The two of them had taken twins as their vessels.
The twin to Carra continued, "There were no signs of struggle or any clues left behind by the assailant. And…"
"Yes, Arya?" Eve said.
"This is not the first attack."
"What?"
"There have been others," Carra blurted.
The rest of the angels in the room looked at her.
Carra lowered her gaze as if she felt unworthy. "We would not have summoned you if it was only one angel."
"Body count?" Eve's stare passed over the angels sitting at the table.
"Nine," Cas answered. "All of them found in similar conditions as Thomas."
"Grace stolen and everything?"
"Yes."
"Have you marked a pattern?" Eve questioned.
"The locations where we found the bodies are too far spread out to tell just yet," the angel across from Marcus announced.
Eve nodded, concern in her contemplative gaze.
This was a worrisome topic. As God, Eve was the leader. As God, Eve was (still oddly enough to her, as well as a number of angels) the Mother of Angels. Therefore, she was responsible for them. And to have their brothers and sisters murdered without explanation like this, of course they were afraid.
Eve declared, "I want no angel on the ground until I find out who is behind this."
This caused a disconcerted discord among the angels seated. They voiced their concerns and opinions and suggested other means of handling the situation. Cas, however, remained quiet.
"Hey!" Eve howled, jumping to her feet and unfolding her wings immediately in a display of dominance.
All of the angels were silenced.
Eve put her fists, knuckles down onto the table. She said, "I have a feeling that as long as I allow some of you downstairs, whoever is doing this has a chance and a way at claiming your lives. I cannot allow that possibility to become an actuality."
"Eve," Cas spoke, "Some of us should search for whoever is behind this. It is our lives they are taking."
The angels looked unto Eve and Cas. Some were waiting. Some looked appalled at Cas' direct way and ease of use in which he spoke God's name.
Eve gave a moment of thought. "Very well. I'll allow a team of three on the ground. Cas will be the head and keep me up to date on their progress." She turned to Cas, "Pick your angels."
Cas nodded dutifully.
Eve instructed the rest of the angels, "Castiel and the angels he chooses are the only ones with my permission to come and go from Heaven as they please. I'll station guards at the gates. Anyone who disobeys me will be reprimanded. Are we in an understanding?
Yeses were heard around the table.
"Any more concerns? Speak them now or forever hold your peace."
"What will you do?" Arya asked. It was apparent this question was floating around in the heads of the other angels as well as hers.
"Whatever I can to bring down our man."
This statement mollified a degree of their unrest.
"Meeting adjourned," Eve said.
The group of angels rose from their chairs and waited until Eve and Cas were out the door to leave the room themselves.
On the Earth plane, Cas spoke freely, "What do you really think it happening? What are you really planning to do?"
Eve filled her cheeks full of air, shrugged, and shook her head. "I dunno Cas. Whatever I can. I can't let someone pick your brothers and sisters off one by one."
Cas looked off to the horizon.
Mountains stuck out of the ground like great jagged teeth of some monstrous nightmare. The sun was behind the tallest peak, shrouding the area behind the mountains in warmth, but keeping their side of the mountains in darkness. This gave the land the look of being on the tongue of a beast, trapped within its bone-splitting jowls.
"Who did you decide to take with you?" Eve asked her older brother.
"Arya and Marcus."
Eve nodded. "We better get started."
Cas' eyes looked troubled, yet he understood Eve's notion and returned to Heaven to recruit his team.
Eve put her hands in her back pants pockets and strolled down the byway. Cars by the pair rushed past every few minutes.
She walked some yards when her cell phone started to ring. Eve answered the phone, "Hello?"
"Oh, Good! I had doubts that I'd actually reach you."
Eve knew that voice like it was a mosquito buzzing in her ear. In her point of view, the voice was exactly like that.
"And where the hell did you get my number?" Eve had half a mind to hand up right there.
Mycroft answered, "John is not as careful as he should be with his possessions."
"What do you want?"
"I need you to come to London. It is urgent."
"Can't. I'm busy. I'm all tied up here," Eve replied.
Mycroft took a moment specifically to breathe. Eve heard it through the phone. He stated, "You sound like Sherlock. It's unsettling."
Eve clenched her jaw.
"Anyway, find a way to get here. Cut the strings, buy a ticket, do whatever it is that is needed to be here as soon as you can. England needs your help."
"England? Or you?"
"Sherlock."
Eve's heart skipped a beat. "Didn't have the guts to ask me himself did he?"
"He has no knowledge of this. I intend it to stay that way."
"Fine. Let me think about it," Eve demanded more than requested.
"Time is of the essence, Miss Winchester," Mycroft said before Eve hung up.
Then, she started walking. She put distance between herself and that place. She walked for miles and miles and still beat Sam and Dean to the bunker.
Around noon, they descended the staircase into the belly of the bunker. Here, they found Eve sitting at the table with her nose buried in a book.
"Hey, when'd you get here?" Sam asked. He and Dean put their bags on the table.
"Few hours ago."
Dean took off his jacket, "When did you start that book?"
"Few hours ago."
Uh oh.
"Uh huh," Dean took extra care with hanging his jacket on the back of a chair, and his eyes did laps from Eve to Sam. "So what happened on Cloud Nine?"
Eve said, "Angels are being killed and their grace is being taken."
"I'm guessing you don't know by who," Sam assumed.
"No. I basically have Heaven in lockdown right now. Cas and two others are the only ones permitted to leave so they can find out who's killing the angels."
"And what're you going to do about it?" Sam asked.
"Probably end up killing another angel." Eve said, "I think it might be an angel with borrowed grace, only I don't know who or why they need another angel's grace."
"What do you want us to do?" Dean was at the ready.
"Keep an eye on the news for me. Tell me if you see anything suspicious. That's all you can do for now," Eve wished there was more. She closed her book and looked almost as if she would break—the change in her face was so fast. "And tell me if I should go to London."
Sam and Dean's faces altered.
"Mycroft said Sherlock needs my help. It has to be important or Mycroft wouldn't have called me. Just tell me what to do. What do I do?" Eve set her elbows on the table and shoved her head into the butts of her palms.
A similar look of thought fell over Sam and Dean's faces, though Sam was the first to say, "Go to him," he nodded up and down, up and down.
Eve raised her head and folded her arms on top of her book.
Sam wanted Eve to be happy. Sam wanted his sister to be happy. And she wasn't. Not in the way normal people could experience. Not in the way Hunters never got to be. Sam wanted her to at least have the chance to be happy.
Dean glanced to his brother.
Sam said, "You're going to have to face him sometime."
"What do I say?" Eve looked first at Sam, and next, to Dean.
Dean responded, "Words probably. I heard the lyrics to Dust in the Wind are a good ice breaker."
"Tell him what you told us," Sam said.
"Which time? After he 'died' or when I found out he didn't actually die?" Eve asked.
Sam made an expression. "Both."
Eve sighed a large sigh. Then, she stood. With one look, Dean and Sam knew she would carry through with it. There would never be a better time. It had to be now.
Dean stepped to his sister, set both hands on her shoulders, and placed a strength-giving kiss on her forehead. He winked at her and said, "Go get 'im, tiger."
Eve smiled, looked to Sam, who smiled back at her, and then she flew to London. However, before Sherlock, there was one other person she had to see.
Eve appeared on Mycroft Holmes' doorstep. She knocked on his door and a cleaning lady invited her in moments later.
Eve helped herself to Mycroft's study, despite the maid's incessant statements opposing that action. Eve walked into the room, chased by the cleaning woman, and Mycroft looked up from the paperwork on his desk.
Mycroft told the maid, "It's alright. She's an old friend." One of his small smiles saw the maid out the door.
The closing of said door caused the stale familiarity in the air to cram up in the room. It built up on itself, in layers, and without a filter.
"Please, take a seat," Mycroft said. "We have a lot to discuss."
"I prefer to stand, thanks. Why did you call me for help?" Eve moved closer, but permitted two yards of space between herself and Mycroft.
Mycroft slid documents into a file and closed the file. He buttoned his jacket while standing. "I need someone of your expertise to wipe out a threat to the country, and, perhaps countries everywhere."
"What makes you think I'd help you?" Eve viewed an interesting sculpted art piece by the wall and walked towards the pedestal upon which it sat.
"Because I have leverage," he said it as if he couldn't believe he had to tell her what she already knew. "You are a wanted criminal in a handful of states, and might I remind you, I know what you really are."
Eve traced the design on the artwork with her finger. "You like this pot?"
Mycroft seemed annoyed, "That vase is from Han Dynasty China. It is priceless and one of my most valued possessions."
"Hm," Eve made a sturgeon face, eyes skating the designs on the handmade antiquated vase. Then she watched as a giant crack split the vase down its center. Numerous smaller lightning-shaped cracks diverged from the main split in the vase like branches on a tree. They moved gradually, and the sounds of their growth were injurious to generations of collectors and historians around the world (had they heard them anyway). The final blow would have been how the vase was reduced to sand-like grain; and some of it fell like water from a faucet off of its stand.
Eve gave the minuscule leftovers of the vase a pout and drew a smiley face into the sand with her pointer finger.
"It is irreplaceable," Mycroft said. He spoke from paralyzed shock.
"I recognize you need my help," Eve situated herself in a taller posture, although seemingly comfortable that way, "As for leverage, you no longer have a leg to stand on."
Eve took a step advancing on Mycroft, impelling him to fall back onto his seat…
There were many times in whish Sherlock thought of Eve. For instance, the moment in which Janine spoke the unwitting lie, "I'm the only one who really knows what you're like, remember?" He thought of Eve whenever John mentioned her in conversation—most specifically in phrases such as, "You didn't factor 'emotion' into your equation correctly, then." And "Sherlock? Say you're sorry." And "Mean it." But he mostly thought of her whilst leaning languidly against a wall under the milky white glow of the moon, with the ash growing longer and longer on his cigarette until he casually tapped it off with his finger…
He heard her voice no matter the time of day or where he was or what he was doing. It was as if she were in the corner of the room or walking beside him. He hated it. A majority of all he heard from her was one sarcastic comment after another. They drove him mad.
But today, he was able to focus better, as he had something most imperative and extensive to think about. And as he chawed on it, he occupied his hands at the dials of a microscope in a lab at Bart's Hospital. His thoughts were too deep to stay idle in a chair, so he stood over the microscope and inspected specimen in a petri dish under the lens. His stillness was comparable to that of a cactus.
And in fact, his brain was so clocked up, that his senses did not perceive the other person in the room until she made a small noise. That noise was the fall of her boot on the linoleum flooring.
Sherlock turned his head to the door, and completely taken off his guard, he took a retreating step backward, knocking over a graduated cylinder with his elbow.
Eve prevented it from falling—the cylinder moved itself further back on the counter.
"Thank you," Sherlock said. "You—um—"
"Sorry," Eve hadn't meant to give him a start. "I came to…to see you."
Sherlock looked away, swaying as if to process, and looked back to her. "And John?"
"And John. But you first."
He flushed up with pleasure at her words. There she was; the one woman who mattered. Come to see him. And here he was, with his dodgy stare and his unremitting struggle to sort out which emotion or thought he was to have first, second, third, and so on. Not that he had the power to choose, because he thought and felt all things—what a lousy thing to have happen to you when you are Sherlock Holmes because then, in a spasm derivative of such a desultory condition, you'd grab the object closest to you (in Sherlock's case it was a beaker) and start acting as if you were far too busy to engage in interview at that very moment.
Eve was perplexed audience to this reaction for a fraction of a moment. Then, having collected her sentiments and predilection, she drifted across the room.
Sherlock was extremely cognizant of Eve's sudden immediacy. She was close enough to touch his arm, which she was careful to do; and she gently pulled his arm away from the tray of filled, half-filled, and partially filled beakers.
Eve voiced, "Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes flitted from the tray to his arm, where his eyes met the sight of Eve's touch. Here, Sherlock was terrified. Eve was here. She was not a hallucination or misconception. And as his mind registered her permanence, Sherlock let his eyes drag themselves higher.
"Eve," he spoke her name as if it was the strongest term of endearment imaginable.
"Hi," Eve smiled, showing teeth, and on the verge of tears.
Sherlock's face shifted, affected by the moisture in her eyes, while his own blinked into concern and his body preconsciously turned.
Eve took half a step more and then had him in a hug. She held onto him as if it was the last first time she'd ever get to do so.
They did not speak. Eve had such a hold around his neck that her face could rest on her own arm. See, the last hug she had given him was the result of overwhelming relief ousting its presence from her inside and migrating to her outside. The difference between that one and this one was that that one was an 'Oh my God, you're alive' hug, and this one was purely, a hug. In the simplest terms, it was one in which spoke multitudes without uttering a syllable.
And apparently, the feeling was mutual because when she felt his unaccustomed arms around her and his head sink to the crook on her shoulder, Eve said, "I was angry, Sherlock. You hurt me and I was angry. I could have helped you—I would have helped you. In a heartbeat. I wouldn't have thought about it. Instead, you did this—you made me miss you and you broke my heart—"
Sherlock had to interrupt her here, to make sure she perfectly understood one thing. "You had already done so much for myself and John. I couldn't ask you to deceive him as I did."
Eve pulled herself away, but kept her arms over his so that he grasped hold of Eve by the underside of her elbows, and Eve told him, "You wouldn't have to. We could've found a way. There's always another way, Sherlock. Jesus, I don't play this card a lot, but I'm God for crying out loud. Why didn't you come to me?"
She searched his eyes—really searched them, and said the next instant, "And don't give me any of that 'John' crap. I love him and care for him, you know that, but you and I both know you're also using him as an excuse."
Sherlock then had a peculiar look about his features, as if he hadn't quite thought about it but unconsciously knew it the whole time, and he was only just now delving into the confrontation, let alone the acceptance of this fact.
"I needed time." He glanced down, eyes oscillating to and from two points that had no specific location, and he began to speak swiftly, "Not only to dismantle the network Moriarty made for himself but for myself. For this very moment—and another," his eyes widened at that word, "that I completely botched like an idiot even though I planned it half a million ways and all of them ended with a heartfelt handshake and maybe a few tears on John's behalf yet," Sherlock blinked several times," instead, I was surprised to receive a few punches, called some unseemly slurs, and choked, all in a span of, what, two hours?"
"You have that effect on people," Eve discarded only semi-indifferently.
"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.
"You were saying?"
"Yes of course," he cleared his throat, "And in fact, I planned this moment half a million times in my head, intending to express to you the list of things in which I did not comprehend or perhaps I did not want to comprehend, in the time I was away, because in that time, I am fain and ashamed to admit that not all of myself was loyal to my task. In the past, I would have abhorred such behavior because when one's mind is not in focus, it is not in use, and it is wasted. I find myself unfocused more and more of late. Any ideas on how this could be?" Sherlock at last released Eve's arms and he turned to the microscope, adjusting it, while Eve dropped her arms and kept listening.
"It started when I realized just how far I was from London," There was more to those words, but he did not meddle upon them. "A man once said, 'Time is thine own enemy.'. Whether he was a schooled man or not, he was on to something."
"You aren't sounding like yourself, Sherlock," Eve said.
Sherlock smiled, eyes still on the dial of his scientific instrument. "Because I'm not. I haven't been in years. The fact that I'm saying this proves it precisely." He sighed fast, like he was in a rush to get it over with, and he raised his chin. "That brings me to my first question: is it…good, that I am…different?" He cocked his head to the side, knotted his brow, and looked on her with eyes flecked with the incomprehensible. "Different from myself?"
Eve's eyes shone, "You really are a magnificent puzzle."
"Hm. And you really couldn't have let me be," he went still.
"Blaming me? You were the one who decided breaking and entering was a fantastic idea! Really, Sherlock, all this talk—could you please get to the point? Before I have to throw something at you, please," she dissolved into giggles. He really really was not himself.
"I've changed," Sherlock said, "I love."
Just like that, the room had gone so quiet; the only thing that could be heard was the beeping of some machine in the next room over.
"It's disastrous," he stated; moving all at once, facing away from her. He said it as if it was killing him, silently, like a cancer, so he had time to come to terms with it, but it was beyond any treatment's help.
"I got shot on a case. In the seconds that surmounted to unconsciousness and ultimately, death, that surely awaited me, my first thought was to delay it as long as possible. Survival is what mattered most. But even my most primeval instinct began to fail me. My next thoughts as I was dying were of Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and Mary. My last thought was of John." Sherlock had looked off to some unknown place beyond the horizon unseen, but came back quickly, "I died somewhere in there."
"What?" Eve was tearing up now, but it was with a smile and a thawed expression.
"Mm," he verified, "On the table. Bit of a mess really. Bleeding everywhere. Not my most dazzling moment."
Eve chuckled, wiping her face. Why was she even crying? She cried too much. Eve 'Cry Baby' Winchester. Yep, that's her. Move over Johnny Depp, she's here as a replacement.
Sherlock gave out a noise of frustration, plopped down lengthwise on his couch, and lay there in his sour mood and his blue dressing gown and pajamas, curled up in 65% of a ball. Then, fed up, he smacked his hand on the nearest surface, his coffee table, and enclosed his cell phone in his hand. He turned back onto the couch and dialed a number.
"Mhm," John Watson groaned drowsily at the other end of the call. "Sherlock, this had better be good. It's two-thirty in the morning."
"How do you do it?" Sherlock asked, reigning in the whim to retort.
"What?" By his voice, John was still half asleep. He yawned.
"You know—" Sherlock said, "the thing with Mary."
"With Mary?"
"No, no! How do you show someone you—that you—y—How do you do it?"
Rustling of bed sheets could be heard on John's end of the phone call. John must've been moving to sit up in his bed, "Are you asking me advice. On women? You called me at two-thirty in the morning for advice? On real, breathing women?" John sounded alert. And he sounded like he was grinning.
"Yes, now stop saying it like that and help me, John!"
John waited a moment. "What's this about?" He waited another. "Is this about Eve?"
"Yes."
John smiled because he already knew the answer and actually, felt quite flattered that Sherlock would come to him for such a thing as this. "Well—"
"Yes?"
"If I were you—"
"Yes?"
"Sherlock."
"Sorry."
"Take her by the hand and kiss her like you mean it," John instructed.
Sherlock thought.
John asked, "Why the interest now?"
Sherlock inhaled sharply, staring off somewhere. "I don't know. It's unlikely that I'll ever see her again." His eyes came into focus, "Goodnight John."
"G'night…"
Sherlock hung up.
"When I awoke, my first thought was of you."
He and Eve met eyes, though she had watched him this whole time throughout his recollecting.
"I've changed. Is that good?" he asked. Oh, but it was so much more than a question.
Eve cracked a smile and nodded vigorously. "Yeah," her voice broke, but it was a happy break. "Yeah, change is good."
"Good," Sherlock said, "Then I have something that needs our immediate attention."
Eve swallowed, not ready for such an abrupt switching of the topic. "Oh. Yeah, yes. I do too. Mycroft called me. He said you needed my help. He said," Eve nearly held her breath, "Moriarty is back."
"Mine goes without mention. You are all caught up."
"Really? Just like that?"
"He survived. That's all I, or anybody else, know."
"Great," Eve said, "Looks like we've got work to do."
"I was thinking the same thing," Sherlock grinned.
To Be Continued...