Chapter 29 - Qu'est que tu veux?

...

Robin had planned to retire soon after John left for his own bed. She had said she would, honestly, but she got a bit carried away.

She didn't even notice Sherlock come into the kitchen from his chair, staring at her as she typed away quietly. She didn't notice him trying to get her attention, or get himself a cup of water after he realized she was totally spaced out. She didn't even notice him going off to his bed.

As it were, the night progressed. Soon enough, though, Robin found herself snapping out of her working trance, finally hitting a snag. It was already around three in the morning. The flat was quiet and he could just make out the golden glow from the outside street-lamps. There was hardly a noise anywhere, and it pleased her greatly. Coming out of her trance, the quiet was quite welcome and appreciated. Honestly, Robin didn't even register what she had been working on.

This happened sometimes. She'd slip away from reality, into some sort of fugue, for normally about an hour. Sometimes a bit more. Robin knew what it meant, what her mind was trying to tell her, but honestly she didn't care. The state, though now rare, was welcoming and just another side-effect.

Mr Forester had always worried about her slipping away one day, finding the 'void' as he called it, more enticing than reality. She disagreed…but tentatively.

The next two hours progressed the same way, albeit she did not fall back into her working trance. By now Robin was a bit bored, she had found a nice little chat group, discussing the advantages of building one's very own home made generator.

"And here I thought that you had promised John you'd be in bed by now?" a bleary but rumbling voice suddenly spoke, startling Robin out of her musing. She might not have been in her fugue, but she sure hadn't thought she would be disturbed.

Jumping in her seat, she scrambled for a purchase. Wheezing, she cursed herself for being so frightful. She'd been so focus, Robin hadn't even registered Sherlock as he exited his room again. He was surprised to see her still awake.

Sighing, he caught Robin by the shoulders before she slipped out of her chair any further. Steadying her, he brushed his hands over her back. Had her shoulders always been this wiry? Had her cervical vertebrae always protruded so much? Was her skin always so sickly? He'd noticed recently a splattering of freckles appear on her face and upper torso, but now even they seemed to be loosing colour.

"Calm yourself, before you have an attack and wake everyone on the block," soothed the detective, patting Robin's back before moving to sit opposite to her. The only light source was a small kitchen bulb, casting an eerie light on Sherlock and the faint glow from a distant window. Robin, being slightly sleep deprived, could only chuckle softly, trying to brush the incident off.

Maybe the late night was starting to get to her. She was more susceptible to panic when she didn't sleep. It didn't help that there was a sniper on their arses, either.

'Ha, ha. And here I thought I might have forgotten about that…'

"I-I...I was distracted," she mumbled out as an excuse. "Anyway, I figured that since dawn'll arrive soon I might as well just stay up."

Frowning, Sherlock's stomach flittered with a touch of concern. Really, in all of Robin's apparent practicality, she had absolutely no sense for her own health. He wondered if this was how John felt whenever Sherlock got into one of his moods. He quickly brushed that thought aside, so as best not to disturb even himself.

"Your eyes are shot, you have not slept properly for over two days, there is a slight intermittent tremble in your right hand. You have already been suffering from previous nutritional disorders and a degraded mental health and yet you insist on forcing your body through increasingly strenuous situations," Sherlock deduced, crossing his arms slowly. "It is not only irresponsible, but plainly destructive."

Sighing, Robin rubbed her thin wrists as she averted his gaze. He was right of course, but what was she to do?

They'd had this conversation before, when he was hiding at her place. He'd brought it up a few times, actually. It didn't matter, though, to her. In the end, her life didn't matter, just her work. Sherlock couldn't blame her for her reasoning.

"And? It isn't as if anyone will care, as long as I get the job done-" she began to brush it off, waving her hand absently as she brought up her normal excuse. It had shut him up last time.

Sherlock, though, annoyed at his friend's behaviour, grabbed her wrist as it waved through the air, causing Robin to flinch. He hadn't reacted like this last time. He was getting used to her presence and so wasn't as disturbed at touching her. A light blush spattered her ears, gladly not reaching her cheeks.

"Robin!-" whispered Sherlock harshly, still aware that there were sleeping occupants of the flat. "If you continue on like this, you will be of no use to anyone. At the very least show some practicality. Furthermore, I don't understand you motivation-"

"My motivation, Sherlock, is to help the only friends I've been able to find for years before they are taken from me. It might be selfish, but some of us don't actually like being lonely. My working habits have been effective so far, so I see no reason to stop. I understand my place. Physically, I am expendable, as long as I keep you safe. Once my work is done I will see that both of you are safe, along with Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Mary. Blast my health until then," muttered Robin back, almost just as harshly as Sherlock.

Watching her now, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder about Robin. Again. Was she really an idiot?

"It would help," continued Robin, "if someone actually told me what was going on, of course." Robin couldn't help but press the matter. She needed Sherlock to trust her, without her forcing him. Obviously it wasn't working, though.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock huffed. "This again? I do not see why you can't ask John. I hate repeating myself."

"No. I'm going to get you to tell me because I need for you to see that you can trust me. I'm not going to keep going to John to get information, it's a waste of time -no offence to him- and just really, really annoying. If you don't see any reason to trust me with the information you have, then what use am I to anyone?" There it was, spelt out for him in black and white. If he couldn't get it now, Robin didn't know what to do.

"You think I don't trust you?" asked Sherlock, a bit surprised. He thought it was obvious.

"Obviously not, why else would you not tell me?"

Sighing, Sherlock ran a hand through his messy mop of hair. "Robin, I had thought it was obvious, or at least John would have told you, but being considered my friend implies that I trust you. It is, as far as I am concerned, a requirement." Again, there was that odd tug, right by his chest cavity. Friend did not fit Robin as a descriptive. So what did? "But I don't see how you can help if your body is in such a state! How can I trust someone who doesn't even take care of herself," he finished. And really, he had to start wondering what was driving her to be 'useful'. She practically obsessed over having some sort of purpose. Logically, it would be extremely inconvenient if he lost such an asset as Robin. But it was more than that. If she was just an asset, he would have cut ties with her long ago after he realized that she was compromised. She annoyed the hell out of him, she was a constant confusion, she didn't take care of herself, but she was a friend. He'd learnt the value of…friends.

"I-…." began Robin, realizing what he was getting at. They were at a stalemate. Bowing her head, she rubbed her wrists. "Don't…don't worry about me. I've managed without anyone for a while now…and I can keep it up. I've…I've been getting better."

"But you can't! Not anymore!" hissed Sherlock, frustrated and slightly bitter at needing to admit something he considered personal. "Against all better judgement you've involved yourself in something much bigger than yourself. You promised to protect people. You have given yourself a purpose but at a very high cost of your health. Even to normal people like John it's obvious that you can't last much longer. People now depend on you…I-I have to depend on you to be at the top of your game."

Blinking, Robin wondered if the Sherlock of three years ago would have ever spoken those words. Staring at the man in front of her, her heart racing, her chest constricted as she finally realized that he really did value her. When was the last time that anyone had really held her in their esteem? Her, not the awkward shy woman or the Quartermaster.

"T-Then why are you being an arse?" asked Robin, gaining an exasperated glare from the detective. His behaviour still confused her.

"Information, Robin. Do you not continuously say that it is power?"

Confused, Robin didn't know how to respond. What could he want to know? Something about her? She'd assumed that he had deduced anything important.

A deep seeded fear grew in her, her eyes widening. 'Oh no, please don't ask...don't ask,' she thought desperately. Her shoulder became stiff, she unconsciously leaned away. Sherlock, noting the signs of retreat, immediately tightened the grip he still had on her hand, keeping her in place. His hand was comforting, but Robin couldn't help as she drew away, not liking already the way that the touchy conversation was going. Neither of them was good at this, and maybe she had hit her limit for tonight. She just hoped Sherlock queued in.

"Outwardly, you present as an awkward, introverted woman with multiple issues both health-wise and mentally. Professionally you are a...what you call a 'ghost' and a high-grade hacker. Yet the distinction in skill does not bleed into your personality as it would others. And yet...signs do indicate that you had at least a partially normal childhood. But yet again, how did your prowess in the digital...arts...develop? What caused such...difficulties?" started Sherlock, brow furrowed as he tried to explain why he couldn't deduce the woman in front of him. He rarely had to explain himself like this, and he wondered why he was even trying. "I have had little material to deduce, and only then few answers appear. I do not often find the need to ask, but in this case I seem to find myself at a stale point. I-It is not that I cannot read you, it is that the signs are contradictory and I cannot say what is real and what isn't-"

"S-Sherlock, please don't-" interrupted Robin, trying to stop any talk about her past.

"Don't ask me these things. There's a reason why I'm...a ghost. I-If this is about trust...I don't mind if you don't know...I'd rather you not, actually," she begged quietly.

She could have sworn Sherlock's eyes soften, just the smallest bit. How much did he know? Knowing him, well...she couldn't guess at all actually. 'He's getting too close! He's getting too close! You're getting too close!'

"I respect your privacy, and that does not seem to hinder my trust, but I do ask that you answer a few questions. See it as a bargaining chip. I will tell you the plan if you answer some of my own questions," explained Sherlock. He really was curious. Really, really, curious. He hated unsolved puzzles. Robin, though, reacted even more negatively to his plan. She started to struggle a bit, her heart rate skyrocketing as she felt anger starting to burn slowly once again. He…he was using his trust as a bargaining chip like some sort of a gambling ploy. He wanted to manipulate her. She didn't like it. She really didn't.

"T-Then...then I'd rather j-just ask John," answered Robin stubbornly, trying to leave. She felt a bit angry, realizing that Sherlock had been stressing her as a game to get information. And, furthermore, that she had bought into it. Again, the hand on her arm tightened, moving up to her wrist.

"Your reactions are already indicative...but, if it of any consonance, I won't push you for anything you do not give willingly. I only have a few questions at the present, anyhow."

Robin glared at him. He really was a manipulator. But...he was fair. From what she remembered from John, Sherlock wouldn't have even thought of such an offer before his exile. 'He still has no right!'

Robin struggled for a few moments, hurt and scared of Sherlock. Her heart twisted and she oddly felt her throat burn. She wanted to hate the man, but she just could quite do it properly.

Sherlock must have seen her hurt and conceded a bit. He loosened his grip but moved it up to her elbow, tugging her lightly.

"You are scared. I will not force you to do anything you wish not to do."

Robin felt her anger dissipate a bit. She still felt cautious around the detective but at least he saw and acknowledged her discomfort.

Against her better judgement, Robin couldn't help but let into Sherlock's request. Damn him.

"F-fine."

Nodding, Sherlock moved his hand down to her wrist again, realized what he was doing, and finally let go of her wrist. Immediately, Robin felt the temperature difference. She missed the contact, damn her. She couldn't let it distract her, though.

"Do you have any notable familiar ties, apart from mother and father?" he asked first. Sherlock had seen little evidence from the flat but statistically speaking families from Quèbec tended to be big, if from a traditional background.

Robin, blinking, seemed to think over the answer. She didn't like the question, nor did she think he'd jump right into such hard questions, but she should have expected it. She was reluctant to give him anything, at all, about her family. Her past didn't allow her the time to think about them very much. She missed them, though.

She was reluctant to answer, instead just grimacing and giving him a shake of the head.

Frowning, Sherlock couldn't decide whether it was a no or Robin did not want to talk about it.

Sighing, he stowed the information for later. Maybe this would be a bit harder than he thought. Onto the next question, then.

"You speak multiple languages, correct? Along with the learnt programming and binary languages, of course."

Perking up, Robin nodded this time. Her mood seemed to improve greatly once the matter of family was dismissed. Interesting.

"Yep, right. Um...I'm fluent in German, English, Spanish, Russian, French, and Mandarin," Robin counted on her fingers, ticking languages off. "More or less…I'm relatively fluent, but not certified, in also Latvian, Dutch, Arabic, and Japanese. I sort of get Latin...and I started to learn Korean and Italian over the summer, though I haven't progressed far. And I can understand bits of Dholuo, too. Not really well, mind."

"Impressive,"

"It helps that I've got a talent for language, comes with the computer tech. Dunno...I just see it. It's like with the binary, I just automatically translate the code to its image or vice versa. They say you can absorb the most languages when you are young and I did learn a majority of them then…but I don't think I've ever lost that…elasticity…with my mind."

"Mmm-" hummed Sherlock. "While I was in your study, I noticed the majority of your books were either French or English. You had a collection of school texts from Canada, primarily in French as well," recounted Sherlock, his mind flicking through the selections he had memorized.

"I-I prefer them, yes," responded Robin, now weary. Maybe she shouldn't have let him in. Thinking it over, he would have been fine on the couch. The couch wouldn't have been, but still. Wounded or not, it seemed that his mind had been still clear at the time. She slowly closed her laptop fully, which had been left forgotten, darting to look at the time. Not quite dawn yet.

"No. You do not just prefer them. French was your first language, yes? There's not accent, well, most of the time. When you are emotional you seem to loose the British lit, but even I didn't notice at the start. Although you don't seem to have the indicators of a Canadian, let alone a Quebecois, you do originate from there." It was more of a statement than a question, but Robin reminded herself that he wasn't actually sure. That was new.

Hesitantly, after a few moments of silence, Robin bobbed her head.

Sherlock noted the clear districting between her relative ease in discussing work and academics versus discussing…what seemed to be anything from her past.

It was no use hiding. She...well...she trusted Sherlock enough anyway. Her family and what had happened to her was off-limits, but she could at least tell him where she had grown up. It wasn't as though those memories were all bad. The biggest reason she still hid her past wasn't out of mistrust is was out of fear of remembering, and what that remembering would bring up. As was with most of her other secrets, they were more to protect her than to hide from others. Of course, she had to watch what she says in her operations. The Quartermaster was a ghost.

"Please," added Sherlock quietly when he noticed Robin's hesitation. He didn't beg, but John had told him once that Robin was the sort to open up more if you were courteous. Robin knew what he was doing, obviously, but couldn't blame him. She held out a tiny hope, just the smallest, that maybe it was okay telling Sherlock something.

"Right...fine."

It worked.

If she was clinical about it, this shouldn't be too hard.

"I...um...I grew up near the northern tip of the St. Laurence, in Quèbec, near Sept-Iles. My family was a first-generation family. They settled originally with the Acadians way back during the split into colonies...they eventually integrated. We had a cottage house just by the waterside. I remember...I remember there was a big birch forest around the house and...and each spring we would go out and collect the sap for juice. Th-There weren't many people around, or at least not around the house...and I would..I-" she started, recalling what she knew. Her memories grew wistful as her mind ran away, remembering the seasons spent running around the house, loosing herself in the forest. How long had it been since she had let herself think of that cottage house? She trailed off, forgetting Sherlock and his curious gaze.

Before she could really get away, though, she remembered who she had run with, once. She hadn't always been alone, running through the birch trees until they eventually turned to maple and aspen. Those memories hurt, though, and she was able to shake herself out of her little fantasy. Robin cursed herself for the slip, especially when she saw Sherlock's odd gaze. She couldn't recognize the emotion he was expressing, but she assumed it was some sort of impatience.

Neither Sherlock or Robin noticed that his hand had once again reached for hers, only the fingertips brushing at this point.

'Keep it to facts, that's all he wants,' Robin reminded herself before continuing.

"I spent most of my childhood in Canada, primarily in Quèbec. I almost finish high-school, that's why I have some of the books still," A slight smile tugged on her face, remembering her adventures away from home. "I traveled a lot, but long story short I eventually ended up in Britain a few years ago. Blame Mycroft, actually. Or ask him, if you want details. I don't really care to share that right now. I got quite good at being British, honestly," she admitted. Slowly, she slipped her accent back towards its original inclination, smirking as Sherlock seemed to listen intently. She shifted her voice towards North American. "'Course, I did have the whole 'pip pip, cheerio, Smashing!' phase. It was kinda funny, really. A bit embarrassing now, though. Mr Forester kept correcting me."

Robin chuckled lightly, finding herself relaxing. Although she hated speaking about the past, this seemed to be fine. This was more about languages, her first love, anyway. She hadn't given Sherlock a direct answer, but he'd be satisfied. Speaking French also brought back rare good memories, one's that she didn't want to forget. It brought her back to a time when she was sure of herself, of her life. And honestly, she missed speaking it.

"Au commencement j'avais une habitude horrible de se rechouté a français. Je l'ai contrôlé maintenant, en voyant puisque j'ai un rôle pour me maintenir. Mais, vraiment, j'étais toutjours une petite meneuse," finished Robin, now breaking accents completely. Gladly she knew Sherlock was fluent.

'Obviously'

"You stopped describing your home, why?" inquired Sherlock. He didn't seem to really care that she'd gone back to her native tongue. Well, he did, but he didn't show it. Truthfully, French suited her much better than any other language. The way it rolled off her tongue was appealing.

"Ah, non, Holmes, c'est tout que je veux...et peux, vous dire aujourd'hui."

Frowning, Sherlock huffed, annoyed that he'd barely got anything out of her. Robin, though, seemed relaxed, enjoying her french. It was a bit refreshing to see the normally tense woman…borderline teasing. Odd, but good.

"Nothing else? You know I will keep bugging you about it," he pressed, hoping maybe to get something else. Or maybe just to hear her speak french again.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, I-I've given you enough."

Sighing, Sherlock nodded.

"Very well, but remember our deal, I will have more questions."

"And I will choose whether to answer then or not," replied Robin, knowing that Sherlock would just have to accept it. Information was information, but she was glad at least that in this case Sherlock wasn't judging her on her privacy. He seemed to at least accept her limit. Exceedingly well, actually. Or…no…that was just him going into his Mind Palace.

"Goodnight," she mumbled out, noticing that she was already losing the detective's attention.

Robin finally got up to leave, admitting to herself that she was too exhausted to continue.

'I really have to learn to sleep on a regular patternI really do,'

Sherlock was right, she did have to have her strength. Tomorrow was a really…really, important day. And she knew if she dwelled on it any further, her troubles will only grow.

The conversation was exhausting, her work had been exhausting, running around London was tiring. Her worry was eating at her in the inside. And she wasn't eating enough to begin with.

She was being foolish and she couldn't make a mistake.

Sherlock, just as Robin was leaving, realizing where his hand had settled as Robin got up, quickly retracted it, setting his heart at a fast pace. He let his gaze blur and his attention leave him.

He didn't think of his probably dilated pupils or Robin's, it was because of the light. He didn't wonder about her rapid heartbeat he had noticed when he first grabbed her hand, equating it to stress and panic. He didn't let his mind wander to Robin's blushes, chalking it up to her habit of flustering.

He did wonder, however, about whatever was going on with his rapidly pumping heart. The adrenaline racing through his veins.

He wanted to find out exactly why he felt what he did when he was with Robin.

"Robin," he called her quietly, just as she was about to settle on the couch. She turned in surprise, smiling softly as she normally did. Seems like he hadn't quite made it into his Palace yet before he had become curious again. "I see no reason why you cannot continue to speak in your native tongue, at least occasionally. It…suits you better, anyway," he finished awkwardly. Robin, smiling brightly now, nodded.

"Merci, Sherlock," she replied before climbing tentatively onto the couch, automatically draping a blanket over her lithe frame. Yawning, she closed her eyes, scrunching her nose and ignoring anything her own mind had to say, along with the world around her.

Author's Note: Let's start this off simply. Bit of fluff. Bit of french. Seems like my 12 years in immersion are finally paying off. I'M ALIVE! I'm just very busy. Boy, stuff's been happening.

Remember, kids, stay in school!

But hey, it's the holidays now and I'm treating myself (and yourselves I suppose) to some more of my story. I miss it. I missed Robin. I might change the ending drastically to fit with series 3. I am also thinking of ending this soon so that I can move onto part 2, which would be episode 1 of series 3.

Thoughts?

Cheers,

Elleari