FOUR WEEKS AFTER MOVE-IN
"Sherlock."
"Hmm?" He replied. They were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and reading the newspaper. It was 10:10 on a Monday morning.
"Pourriez-vous aller à la cuisine et récupérer les biscuits au chocolat?" Annabelle asked.
Sherlock looked across the table at her, one eyebrow raised. She smiled back at him, blinking guilelessly.
"Madame Smith met les biscuits à une hauteur que je ne peux pas atteindre," she said.
Sherlock snorted. "You know, you are quite possibly the smallest adult person I've ever known. It's irritating. You should do us both a favour and consider installing one of those bespoke kitchens for little people."
"My height is irritating? What's it to you, then?" She switched to English.
"Besides the fact that I'm always having to fetch things?"
"At the moment you're not fetching anything. If anyone should be irritated, it's me, as I still don't have a biscuit to go with my tea," she said.
"Don't change the subject. You are constantly using your size to manipulate people into doing things for you-"
"-I do not-"
"You made John change the lightbulbs in the washroom yesterday."
"As I recall," she said, "I was attempting to change them myself, when you barged in and demanded that John do it instead."
"Your lack of forethought forced my hand. I ask, at what point did you think it would be wise to stand on a chair?" He gestured at her cane, which was hanging off the table.
"Well, you could have done it, instead of ordering him about," she sniffed.
"I detest changing light bulbs."
"No one likes changing light bulbs!" She laughed, then shook her head. "Listen, you're right, I should have just waited and asked Harry to do it the next time he came by for lunch."
Sherlock closed his mouth and looked down at his hands, then stood. "One moment," he said.
Annabelle smiled as he walked into the kitchen. She brought her teacup up to her mouth, then suddenly dropped it with a gasp, pressing her hands to her temples. Moments later, she heard the sound of Sherlock's quick steps approaching. He dropped a package of biscuits on the table, then placed a tentative hand on her shoulder.
"Is it a headache? Or a memory resurfacing?" He asked softly.
"Headache and...I'm feeling a bit light-headed," she muttered.
He helped her to her feet and they walked over to the couch and sat down. He pulled a bottle of pills out of his pocket, opened it, and handed one to her. She swallowed it reflexively, and then they both leaned back into the couch. He put his arm around her and she nestled into his side, relaxing, although her eyes were still clenched shut in pain.
"I don't mean to manipulate people," she said after few minutes.
"Are you familiar with the word 'adorable'?" He asked.
"Yes, but I only use my powers for good, so there's no need to be so judgemental," she pouted.
"Judgmental? Have you, or have you not been plaintively asking men for 'help' since you were able to walk?"
She sighed. "Oh, what the hell. You've found me out, Sherlock."
"All I'm saying, is that it's quite unfair of you to take advantage of an evolutionary imperative in this way. Nothing says 'bend-over-backwards' to the male hind-brain like a small female. And I detest feeling compelled."
"Well, if it makes any difference to you I always wished to be taller."
He huffed. "Yes, I suppose it's not your fault you're trapped in the body of a twelve-year old."
Annabelle turned sharply towards Sherlock, her eyebrows raised.
"Is that how you see me?" She asked.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.
"No." He said grudgingly.
She narrowed her eyes at him and poked him in the chest with one finger. He reached up and held her hand in place.
"Then why do you say things like that?" She asked.
He let his head fall back onto the spine of the couch. "I'm used to sparring with Mycroft, I suppose."
"Your relationship with your brother is probably not a healthy model for- for anything, really."
"I didn't have many positive interactions with people until I met John," Sherlock said.
Annabelle smiled. "Speaking of social interactions, the parade of visitors, well-wishers, and distant relations continues this afternoon."
Sherlock swallowed and nodded his head. "I don't have anything pressing today, so I could stay with you through the interrogations, if you like."
"Yes, thank you. And stop calling them interrogations."
"Debriefings."
"Sherlock-"
"Hearings? Appointments? Auditions? God knows most of them have wanted something from you, even if it's just to make themselves feel better by visiting you before-" he stopped.
"Yes, well, all the farewells have been tiring this week," she conceded. "So if you notice me fading, you have my permission to be rude until they leave."
"That's easy, I'll just be myself."
"And afterwards-" she looked sharply up at him, "-Sherlock was that a joke?"
"Why, was it funny?" He said.
She giggled. "Quite. As I was saying, afterwards, I want you to do that deduction thing and tell me everyone's real feelings about me."
"You just like hearing how much everyone adores you," he said, lifting up his hand and pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"You're not wrong," she replied.
"Well, that's a given."
FIVE WEEKS AFTER MOVE-IN
"Sherlock," Annabelle cried. She lay in bed, curled on her side, sobbing into her pillow. Sherlock sat next to her, one hand clasped in hers, the other carding through her hair.
"Stop it, stop lying!" She begged, but her voice was too weak to rise above a harsh whisper. "He's not dead, I don't believe it."
"I'm afraid it's the truth, Annabelle. I'm so, so, sorry," he sighed.
"He really was killed?" She asked.
"Yes."
"Do they know who did it?"
"Yes." Sherlock nodded slowly, his lips set in a grim line.
"Tell me!"
He hesitated. "...I can't. It's a police matter."
"Damn you Sherlock!" She slapped his hand away from her face.
"I'm sorry Annabelle. I know you cared for him." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
"I can't believe it! Why would someone kill George? Who would do that?" She sobbed.
Sherlock pulled the duvet up over her and rubbed one hand down her back.
"A very bad man," he said.
SIX WEEKS AFTER MOVE-IN
"Sherlock," she whispered, her voice hoarse, her eyes closed.
"Yes, Annabelle?" he replied. He was seated in a folding chair by the side of her bed, reading a book which he immediately laid down at the sound of her voice. She had a morphine drip attached at her left wrist, and a monitor connected by several wires to her chest. Bright sunlight shone on her prone form, and a light breeze drifted into the bedroom, carrying the muted sounds and smells of the city. She was dressed in a simple white cotton dress, her small frame swallowed by the double bed. One foot hung off the edge nearest him, and he saw that her toenails were painted light green.
She sighed, her eyes still closed, and he wondered if she had dozed off again. He reached over and maneuvered her foot back onto the bed, and under the covers.
"When do you paint your toenails?" He mused. "I've never see you do it."
"There's something that I need to tell you-" she started to speak, then stopped as her body was wracked by coughing.
"It's all right Annabelle, I know. Just rest now." He reached up and grasped her hand in his own, brushing his thumb across the top of her knuckles.
"Listen." She opened her eyes and fixed him with a steely glare. "I remember why I bought that sheet music."
His eyebrows shot up and a smirk threatened his serious expression. "Oh? I mean, what music?"
"Don't be stupid. I remember now, the first day I met you, when I was moving into the building. You were a right git- you stormed into my flat and started making all these ridiculous demands-" she was interrupted again by a spate of coughing.
He sighed and reached up his other hand to brush her hair off her forehead. "I had rather hoped that your memories of that day were gone forever. I certainly wish I could forget."
"-and you threatened me-" she continued, "-should I play anything from Les Mis, of all things, so I made Harry go out and purchase the sheet music."
Sherlock's gaze darkened momentarily. "Your revenge was quite appropriate, considering."
"Yes, but I had to suffer as well, playing through that ghastly, trite tune. It wasn't worth it."
"I'm sorry," he said simply, then looked up into her eyes, which were glinting with unshed tears. She continued speaking slowly, focusing on each word as if they were about to slip away from her.
"I didn't deserve to be treated that way, Sherlock. I know you've made it up to me since then, but now that I can remember it, it feels as if it has just happened."
Sherlock nodded and looked down. "When I think back on my behavior that day, I want to shake some sense into that man. I want to say, 'Don't you know who she is?' But how could I have known what you would come to mean to me? I didn't think it was possible, but you make me feel-"
He hesitated, his voice shaking. She lightly squeezed his hand and gave him a small smile.
He looked back up at her and swallowed. "You make me feel human, Anna. Don't look at me like that. I'm about as far from thankful as is possible. How do you people manage these...crippling sentiments? I never used to hurt, not like this. And I'm not a fool, you know. I'm quite capable of self-reflection. I'm currently experiencing the emotional equivalent of a deadened limb waking up, and I don't care for it." He looked up at her, a question in his eyes.
She squeezed his hand again and nodded slightly for him to continue.
"It was inevitable, I suppose. Drugs, or adrenaline, or the mental gymnastics of a case worked before, but-" he sighed, "-substitutions have ever decreasing circles of effectiveness."
"A substitution for what?" She asked.
"Being close to another person. It's literally a physiological necessity; humans are, after all, social creatures. It's only natural that we would evolve to need each other. But I do detest feeling compelled."
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what your brother says," she chided him.
"I'm not ash-" he stopped, then shrugged. "Alright, I'm a little ashamed at my attachment to you. I can't help it."
"I'm beginning to regret this conversation."
"Hush, I'm getting to the point, now. I know it's only natural, and I'm not so foolish as to think I could have been permanently exempt from this...compulsion. But why you? That's the real issue. You're-" He gestured lamely at her, "-completely normal. I've tried to parse it out. You're clever, but you're not a particular genius. You're talented, but you're no Mozart. You're pretty, but not beautiful-"
"Careful mister, I can still give you a smack," she whispered, her eyes closed.
"Sorry. Let me rephrase- you're beautiful to me, but that is by no means an objective assessment. Now where was I? Ah yes-"
She opened one eye and rolled it at him.
"You're not important, except to those who know you. You're not powerful, discounting the fact that when you ask for something no one can ever say no to you. You never tried to seduce me, so I can't accuse you of 'drawing me in'. You're not keen on my work, so I can't say that common interests have brought us together."
"We both hate Les Mis," she mumbled. He leaned in, frowning.
"Annabelle? I can't have you falling asleep right now, I'm trying to say something important."
"Say it then. God, you like to listen to yourself talk."
"Right. Stricting speaking, there's nothing special about you, so why do I feel this way? Is it the impending- separation - which has released me from practical concerns about commitment and domesticity? Did the dire circumstances of our meeting forge a false emotional bond? Is the very short amount of time we have left-" he swallowed, "-artificially sharpening my physiological responses?" He brought his hand up to his face and wiped away the tears that were now streaming down his cheeks.
"See what you've done?" He asked, his breath stuttering. "And you still haven't given me any explanation."
She patted his hand and turned slightly to her side, facing him, her eyes still closed.
"What is it about you that makes me so happy and terrified all at once?" he asked. "That makes me dread what is coming, more than I have ever dreaded anything? I can't bear the thought of you leaving me, not for an hour, not for a single minute, so how can I possibly survive your loss in perpetuity?"
He rested his forehead on the side of the bed, and her fingers skimmed lightly through his hair. He looked up at her, and her palm moved to rest on his cheek. She met his eyes, and her fingers wandered down to brush lightly across his lips.
"I love you, too, Sherlock," she whispered.
Joy and sorrow flashed across his face in quick succession, and he drew in a ragged breath and brought his lips to hers. His arms gripped her shoulder and waist fiercely, and her free hand moved from his cheek to the back of his neck. The kiss lasted only moments, yet he felt himself pulled into a strange timeless euphoria, an inexplicable delight flooding through him at the synchronicity of their breathing and the double pulse of their heartbeats. Then he felt a change come over her, a slight stiffening, and moved back to look at her, but her eyes were closed. She let out a long sigh, and her hand fell limply to the side of the bed. Then the heart monitor let out a high wail, and everything fell apart.
SEVEN WEEKS AFTER MOVE-IN
Mary was scrambling about in the kitchen, banging pans and cursing periodically. John sat at the dining table in the next room, trying to feed green mush to their daughter. She sat across from him in a bright pink and yellow high chair, slapping the tray with both hands and laughing at her father's attempts.
"I don't think - she likes - this stuff - whatever it is!" He stammered, at last darting a spoonful past the child's waving arms and into her open mouth. She looked at him in surprise, then smiled, the green paste squishing out between her lips and down her shirt.
John glanced over at the fresh bib still laying on the table, and grimaced.
"I don't think she's hungry!" he called out again to Mary.
"Just keep her busy so I can finish getting dinner ready. He'll be here at any moment!" Mary called back to him from the kitchen.
John wiped his daughter down with a towel and picked her up from the highchair. He walked with her into the kitchen, which was quickly filling with smoke. John waved a hand in front of his face and approached Mary, who was bending over the oven, pulling out a leathery looking roast chicken. When she stood to set it on the counter, he saw that there were tears in her eyes.
"All right?" He asked gently, laying a hand on her shoulder. The baby grabbed his tie and started yanking on it.
Mary sighed, wiping her face. "I'm fine, I was just thinking about Annabelle. He was so happy, and now, I'm just afraid-"
"Afraid of what?" he asked, trying the loosen the now-tight loop around his neck.
"That he'll just curl in on himself and go back to being heartless and self-destructive and alone."
John nodded thoughtfully. "We'll be there for him, but whatever happens next, is up to him. In any case, I don't think he can go back to the way he was before. Loving someone changes you."
Mary hugged her husband, squeezing the baby between them, who gave out a spirited giggle. "I know."
A loud knock reverberated through the house.
They looked at each other and John handed their daughter to Mary. "I'll get it," he said.
He walked past the dining room into the foyer and opened the front door. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets. He looked John briefly in the eyes, then dropped his gaze.
"John." He said tersely, then walked past him into the house. John studied his friend with a frown. Sherlock was pale and looked even thinner than usual. He hadn't shaved in a few days at least, and his hair was longer than John had ever seen, unkempt, and matted. There were dark circles under his eyes, and when he brought his hand up to push his hair off his face, John saw that it was shaking.
"You look like hell, Sherlock," John said.
Sherlock didn't respond. He glanced briefly about the sitting room, then paced over to the window and stood looking out, his arms crossed in front of him.
"What's the word on Garrett and the other doctors at the CRI?" John said quietly.
Sherlock sighed heavily, then answered without looking away from the window. "The press is still painting Garrett a saint, but her team's turned on her. None of them will come out of this practicing physicians, and they'll probably all get a bit of jail time." He shrugged. "Lestrade will sort it out."
"I should hope they get more than a bit of jail time, Garrett especially," John said.
"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said. His voice shook, and John saw him clench his eyes shut. Then, almost fearfully, he turned from the window and looked at John.
John knew that look, had seen it on soldier's faces when a mission went terribly wrong, when he had to tell gruesome truths: 'Your legs are gone. You're going to die. The rest of your unit was lost.' He took a step towards Sherlock, to do something, say something to comfort him, when Mary walked in with the baby, breaking the spell.
"Thanks for joining us for tea, Sherlock," she said lightly. "It only took asking a dozen times." She smiled fondly at him.
He turned away from John and met her eyes before glancing down to the baby. "I suppose I ran out of excuses."
"Good," she said, walking up to him. "Now, hold the baby so John and I can get everything ready." She held the child out at arm's length and looked expectantly at him.
His eyes widened and he lifted his arms to ward her off, but Mary took that as an opening, and before he realized what had transpired, he was holding John and Mary Watson's daughter.
"Oh, fine." He said, frowning. "What's her name again?"
"Jenny, for the hundredth time, Sherlock. My daughter's name is Jenny!" John said, irritation and amusement warring in his voice.
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. He moved to sit down on the couch and Mary motioned for John to join her in the kitchen. John looked nervously between his wife and his best friend a few times, before matrimony won out and he slunk into the kitchen.
Sherlock situated the child in his lap so that she was facing him. "Well, I suppose we shall have to humour your parents for the time being," he said. "Just don't cry, and we might both come out of this relatively unscathed." Jenny stared at him with wide, curious eyes as he spoke.
"No doubt they hope your infant wiles will have some kind of palliative emotional effect." He frowned, and looked up, trying to glare at the Watsons through the closed door to the kitchen. "Personally, I can't see what the attraction is, although your miniature features are strangely...endearing." She squeaked loudly, as if in response to his observation, and he looked back at her, continuing the one-sided conversation. "Another irritating evolutionary imperative..."
His bored monologue trailed off as Jenny grabbed his finger with a pudgy fist. He turned his hand over and she laid hers inside his own, the ends of her fingers splayed out, not even reaching the edges of his palm. He felt his breath catch as the sudden memory of another small hand flashed to the front of his mind, and he found himself leaning forward, gasping and clutching at his chest.
"Sherlock, would you like some- oh-" he heard John's voice and a quick bustle of movement, but he was frozen, unable to breathe, unable to see what was happening around him. Images were flooding his brain: soft, small fingers playing the piano, short blonde hair swept behind a delicate ear, a sideways smile, large brown eyes that could display joy, or sorrow, or love with such beautiful fluency-
He felt Jenny being lifted from his arms, and sobbed irrationally (a small voice in his brain insisted) at the loss of sensation, overwhelmed by this new, yet not-so-new need for human touch, at the terrible loneliness which pushed at his ever weakening barriers against the madness-
Then there were arms around him, two sets holding him, lips on his forehead, and someone leaning on his shoulder. Wordless comforting hums and murmurs in his ears, and a hand in his. Tension borne in restraint drained out of him and he wept, not knowing reason or propriety or even who he was. They were blessedly silent, not offering platitudes or advice, just their presence.
"How can I go on without her, John?" He asked, finally, when the delirium had passed, the tears rubbed adamantly off his cheeks (cheeks so recently touched by her precious hand).
John sat back and shook his head. "I don't know. But we'll do it together. You, me, Mary, and Jenny, too."
Sherlock stared at the selfsame little girl, who was now sitting in her playpen, looking at the three of them with a worried expression.
"And no more avoiding our phone calls, we want to see you for tea at least once a week." Mary said.
Sherlock looked at her askance, then at John, who nodded. "Why would anyone want me for tea?" He said quietly. "I'm thoughtless, and have no sense of humor."
"And we wouldn't have you any other way." John said, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Now what do you say we go out and have some Chinese?"
Mary cringed and Sherlock turned his head to look through the open door to the kitchen. A smoky haze was wafting toward them along with the smell of blackened chicken and overcooked broccoli.
"Chinese sounds...preferable." Sherlock said simply.
"There may be hope for you yet, Sherlock. That was almost kind." Mary admitted, squeezing his shoulder. "You two go on. I'll stay here with Jenny."
"Thanks, Mary," John said. He stood and gave Sherlock a hand up from the couch. The detective walked over to Jenny's playpen and reached down, lightly brushing his fingers through her blonde curls. She was standing at the edge, her arms lifted up in silent request, more eager to be out than to play with her blocks and dolls.
"Of course you want out, those toys are all rubbish." Sherlock said to her. "I'll get you something worthwhile- maybe a xylophone."
Mary was shaking her head, "Thank you Sherlock, but we prefer toys that don't make a racket-"
Sherlock continued talking to Jenny, ignoring Mary's interruption. "Mother says I loved drums when I was small. I had an infant-sized kettle drum, and when I was at it, you could hear me all the way down the street. Now that I think of it, it's quite funny." But he wasn't laughing.
Silently, he leaned over and picked Jenny up out of the crib. She stared at him suspiciously, looking over at her mother and whimpering. He leaned his forehead down and pressed it on the child's for a short, tender moment, then handed her to Mary.
"Right then," Sherlock said loudly. "Chinese. And on the way, John, I want to tell you about an interesting case I've just taken on. It's a hoax, but the client doesn't know that."
"Why would you take on a hoax? And how could the client not know?" John said, following Sherlock to the front door. Before he stepped out, he blew a kiss each to his wife and daughter. "Don't stay up - no telling how late we'll be out," he said with a small smile.
"Have fun! And keep him in line," she said, giving a little wave, and wiping a tear from her cheek.
"He's safe with me," John promised, and the door slammed behind him.
FIN
AN: And now, one last emphatic THANK YOU to all my faithful readers. Some of you have been with me since I first started writing T42, almost a year ago. I hope the story has been enjoyable for you!
I know some of you wanted Annabelle to have a miraculous recovery and I'm sorry if you are disappointed. I wanted to continue Sherlock's character development, as shown in seasons 1-3. So far he's learned (via baby steps) to open up, make/keep friends, and think about other's feelings. A la my story, he's learned to love and be loved as well.
But Sherlock Holmes can't EVER be anything but a bachelor in my mind. ACD would roll over in his grave. And I can't stomach the thought of Annabelle and he just breaking up, after everything I did to bring them together. ;)
So I gave my precious OC a death any TV girlfriend would be proud of. She was doomed from the start, so it's not his fault. And he's opened his heart up now, so there's no going back. John will be there, Sherlock will eventually move on, and day by day, he'll become a little less of an a**hole, all the while doing what he's meant to do, which is SOLVE MYSTERIES (not live happily every after with a house, wife, dog, and 2.5 kids, because that's John's job). Sherlock is married to his work, as he said in episode 1. That's what makes him happy, and that's WONDERFUL.
Love you all. And if you feel so inspired: FAV IT. REVIEW IT. TELL YOUR FRIENDS. Give me your honest feedback, I appreciate it more than you know!
Take care everyone. BTW, I'm considering either a Star Trek or a Dr Who fanfic next. What do you think?
French translations:
1) "Could you go to the kitchen and get the chocolate biscuits?"
2) "Mrs. Smith places them at a height that I cannot reach."