Author's note: A suitable piece of background music for this chapter would be Massenet's Elegie (You Tube: Violin: Joshua Bell, video made by LaMarAzura). Might be that you have to play it twice... Enjoy!

Chapter 4

They took a cab and headed for the outskirts.

The journey was silent. They were both lost in thoughts which were not beautiful nor anything they wanted to share. Angel was staring out of the window, seeing nothing. She looked abysmally sad. Like one of those homeless creatures, who seemed to be sorry for what they were, sorry for existing at all.

Sherlock stole a quick side-glance at Angel's face and cursed himself. He couldn't believe he had been such an idiot! He should have understood never to let his lust come out in a moment like that. Or ever, come to think of it. Angel's experiences with sex had most likely been destructive. In her mind sex was, undoubtably, just a painful, raw and shameful act of cruelty and Sherlock wondered if any amount of love and caring would ever make it better.

His stomach tightened, painfully. Then, just like before, an image from childhood floated into his conciousness. That image of a lean boy staring out of the big window. Only this time, the boy wasn't staring at the Universe but into another room, shadowy and dark. And in that room there was a golden-haired, lonely girl handcuffed to the bed, lying on her back, eyes wide open, but motionless. And not only was the whole picture hearbreaking but, most of all, the fact that the girl did nothing; she didn't move, she didn't blink, she didn't cry. She just lay there, like an empty shell.

Sherlock wanted to reach out his hand and knock on the window. He wanted to open the window and climb into the room. He wanted to talk to the girl. To tell her that she was not alone, anymore. That she was safe. That he would take care of her.

He looked at Angel, there beside him, in the dark cab. Her face was so beautiful, yet so full of sorrow. Suddenly, she turned her eyes and looked at him, deep into his eyes. Sherlock caught his breath. He felt his footsteps stagger, even though he wasn't standing. He felt himself slipping and falling into something like water, only it was not wet and cold, but warm and bright blue, with amorphous shadows floating around and glitters of cold, sparkling everywhere.

Then she blinked and turned her face back to the window. Sherlock swallowed once, twice. He tried to focus on the present, but it was insubstantial and somehow slipped away. Tiny sparks of gold were still twinkling in his vision. He tried to blink them away but they stayed, like distant stars.

He tried to calm himself. He forced himself not to think about her or her past life or her suffering. He forced himself to forget what he felt for her, to concentrate only on the coming case. He felt his heartbeats slowing down and his head clearing again. The anger and the sorrow and the lust all faded away, until he was himself again; calm, calculating and sharp.

Angel glanced at Sherlock. The detective was motionless and looked distant. He didn't tinker with his phone, though, so there was something bothering him. She fiddled with her hem for a while and then seemed to make up her mind.

"Sherlock..."

Her voice was small and tentative. Sherlock's heart jumped and his concentration fell to pieces in an instant.

She had said his name. For the first time. And somehow it felt like she had touched him, gently, on his lips. Sherlock inhaled and swore. This was such a fucking mess, all of it! It wasn't going to work. She wasn't going to work! If she could break his concentration with one, single word, how would he ever be able to cope with the case and with all that observing and -

"Sherlock?"

He turned to her, sharply.

"What?" he snapped.

She blinked twice. Then she bit her lower lip, hesitated for a moment and started to talk.

"Please, don't be sorry for what happened there in the stairwell. I'm as sorry as you are, so there's no need to make any fuss about it. Every woman wants to be desired and I'm no exception, as long as the desirer is someone I love. I love you, Sherlock. I always did, from the very beginning. It's just... you know..." She made a short pause, thinking, glancing out of the window.

Sherlock stared at her. Did she just said love? I love you, Sherlock, she said, didn't she? But... he didn't know anything about love, for goodness sake! Well, of course he knew the biological basics, the chemistry of it. And he knew about his love for John. But this was different. This was about a woman. About romantic love, and of that he knew absolutely nothing! Well... it could be that these odd feelings he was having towards her indicated some kind of love, but they were his feelings, his thoughts, and he could keep them under control. He could -

"I tried to stay away, as I knew this was going to happen some day," she continued, cutting off Sherlock's chaotic thoughts. "And what I've been through, it just isn't that simple. I... I don't want to mess you up with those miserable memories from the past. I want to try to get over them first. And for that I need time. Will you give me time, Sherlock?"

Time? Time for what? He didn't quite follow now. The love-thing had messed up his thoughts and he just couldn't get to grips with it. If she really was in love with him, things had turned far too complicated...

Yet, wasn't it amazing? Wasn't it absolutely beautiful?

No.

But she loved him... Him? A freak. How sweet a thought it was... How warm it made him feel, warm and almost unbearable happy...

No. Stop it! It wasn't... he shouldn't... He... It would only cause much trouble! Yes, trouble. That was a word he understood. Because, honestly, wasn't it always so? Women wanting everything unintelligible; intime dinners and presents and roses and rings and... Sherlock felt panic raising its head inside him. He wouldn't be able to handle it. He couldn't do it! He didn't know how to... how to -

"I know nothing about it!" he bursted out, desperately.

"About what?" Angel asked, confused.

"About love," Sherlock said, now clearly panicking.

"Oh, there's nothing to be known about it, Sherlock. Love is only a need to keep someone in your life forever. It's as simple as that."

Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment, looking out of the window, unable to meet her eyes. Unable to breathe normally because there was something hot and beautiful in his chest, which was growing bigger and bigger, making his thoughts spin and the blood buzz headily in his ears. He swallowed. Then, forcing words out of his dry mouth he asked, suspiciously and with a hint of begging in his voice:

"No romantic dinners, then?"

"No, if one doesn't want to."

"And no presents and roses?"

"I myself never cared about presents, but I do like white roses," she smiled.

"And rings and... marriage?"

"Dear God, are we living on the 21st century or not?" Angel snorted, amused. "We can surely enough stay in our own flats and keep going like we did before. Having a life of our own and another life together. And I hate rings and jewels of any kind, if you really want to know. Look, Sherlock. For me love is something like John said before: 'to poke my nose into every stinking bin, bounce along the city in the middle of the night and behave myself like some bulletproof robot'. With you."

She looked at him, steadily, but the light smile on her lips was insecure, as if she had been fearful of the reception her brave outpouring might get.

Sherlock turned his head to meet her eyes. The bright blue was intense, almost violent. It was huge and deep and endless. It was no longer a pair of eyes, but a whole world of unexamined wonders and secrets and unpredictable reefs under the surging waves. And all he wanted to do was to sink into it. The compelling craving to let go, to surrender, at last, almost smothered him. His hand moved closer and then stopped. He held his breath. How huge were the waves, although the sky was bright blue and the wind mild and tender...

She touched his hand and then he smelled it, the salt. And he saw, through her eyes, across the immense sea into the horizon, where huge, gray masses of dolorous clouds poured down. Where tears poured down, continuously. Something cold ran down his spine, blending oddly with the warmness inside him. He quivered when the blue sky darkened. He saw how the waves became higher and higher and finally spilled over. He tasted the salt in his mouth and felt the drops on his cheeks. Vaguely, a part of his brain wondered how the rain was able to penetrate through the cab's roof, but what did it all matter, in the end? The rain would water everything, anyway. It would finally drown them both.

Afterwards he wasn't able to figure out how it happened but, at the time, all he could think of was her body in his arms, in his embrace. Light like a breeze, fragrant but so, so cold. And he felt in his heart that he had to make her warm, somehow, before it was too late.

He cried, silently, into her marvellous golden crown of hair. Every tear bit his soul like someone had trickled salty water in an open wound. And not until now did he understand, that he, himself, was also broken inside. Not only in her world were those gray, endless clouds and that continuous, sorrowful rain of tears. He had them too, inside him. And suddenly he knew what it would be like, to drown under that rain. Only he wasn't sure if he was able to fight his way back up to the surface, anymore. Or if he even wanted to, because, to drown together with her was a thought so alluring and beautiful that nothing seemed to matter beside it.