Thirty Seven
Indelible

Sherlock wasn't there.

I hadn't really expected it of him – my brain had been yelling at me for the past six hours, reminding me that it would have been completely out of character for him – and yet a part of me, and not even a small part, had hoped.

It was testament to how very right Mycroft had been. A colossal part of me had changed. I wanted Sherlock there with me. Just a glimpse of his seemingly cold face through the crowd of police would have comforted me far more than the specially trained technicians removing the jacket from my shoulders. I wouldn't have felt so hopeless – so alone. I found myself admitting as I was wrapped up in yet another pink fluffy blanket and bundled into an ambulance what I had thought all my life was idiotic, pointless and amazingly self-centred. People just aren't supposed to be on their own.

I didn't want to be an island anymore.

Just as equally, however, I didn't want all these people around me. I didn't want to clutch onto them for warmth and a feeling of safety. I didn't want them to see me cry as they struggled to comfort me. I didn't want my friends or family.

I just wanted him.

And he wasn't there.

It had taken me at least an hour to convince them that I could leave the hospital. They obviously thought the only place suitable for someone who's been mentally tortured was a dreary, disease-filled, box. It was the shock, of course – I couldn't leave while that blanket was still around my shoulders.

They were itching to call my family. I could almost see the nurses' and police officers' hands slinking away towards the phone when they weren't paying attention. I wouldn't let them. I knew I'd have to tell my siblings and parents at some point, but right now having a raging brother grabbing my arm, promising never to let me out of his sight again, would not have helped me in the slightest.

The only person I wanted to see was probably busy lying on his sofa complaining about how he was so bored he couldn't possibly leave the flat.

I'd have to go to him.

The police weren't too keen on the idea of leaving me on my own either. They'd much rather have me under secure protection, which was in no way an excuse to question me some more on what had happened. Lestrade had only agreed in the end under the express requirement that two officers accompanied me to Baker Street and did not leave until they were certain I was in Sherlock's care. Apparently I needed that now – care. Like a child or pet.

I didn't bother ringing the doorbell, instead using the key Sherlock had given me to let myself in. The two officers, one of which was that woman I had talked to before – Donaldson? Donoghue? – followed me up the stairs of the small apartment. My fingers had almost caressed the banister as I trotted up. I'd missed this place, probably more than I'd like to admit, but the very notion of simply seeing it again touched somewhere deep inside me.

I slowly opened the door to the living room.

There, standing calmly not four feet away, as if he had been expecting me all this time, was the thing I had longed for most over the past eight hours.

The sight was too much. I had promised myself I wouldn't, fought in order to bottle up everything, sworn in vain that no one would see me like that, especially two strangers who would only pity me for it, but I just couldn't, not now, not with the tall, dark-haired man just standing there right in front of me.

Faster than I thought my reflexes could work, I had closed the gap between us. My head buried itself into the warm sanctuary, no doubt leaving salty marks where the tears struck the crook of his neck. My arms stretched upwards, my finger gripping as if my very life depended on it to the soft material of his shirt. I leant into him, fearing that if he moved my body may just collapse. It had been too terrifying, too dangerous, too difficult. Most of all, it had been too lonely.

He was here.

"Unless you have a search warrant, I'd advise you get out."

I felt the movement of his chest as he spoke rather than hearing the words themselves. I couldn't listen to anything right now. I didn't care what he said. It just wasn't important. Neither was the annoyed response from the policewoman or the officers' begrudging exit.

"Melanie."

My mind recovered a sufficient amount to concentrate on Sherlock's voice. There was something in it that comforted me. It was strong and resilient. It was apparently emotionless, and yet I was almost certain there was the tiniest of hints of something else to his tone.

"You're crumpling my shirt."

I pulled my head away from the safety of Sherlock's form, my sobs vanishing and an angry frown covering my features. It wasn't his statement that had me cross, however. I whacked my fist down swiftly onto his chest. "You bastard! Why'd you take your time like that?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock started, a deeply sarcastic scowl on his face, "Next time I save your life I'll make sure to act hastily."

I pouted at him for a second, debating whether I should hit him again, but in the end decided to do the next best thing.

The kiss was awkward. Sherlock hadn't been expecting it and I wasn't really in the right frame of mind to control my actions. My lips scrambled, my finger taking up place in the midst of his dark curls as I held onto him, desperate to reassure myself that this was real, that Sherlock was really here. If I had had any more tears left inside me, I was positive that they would have fallen.

I didn't notice the cough from nearby, but Sherlock did and he pried away from my grasp. I followed his gaze and turned my head to see what was stopping him. I couldn't help the weak smile spread across my jaw.

"John." I greeted as cheerfully as I could manage.

He returned my grin and stepped towards me, embracing me in a hug that was made uncomfortable by my reluctance t let go of Sherlock. He stepped back, a worried expression taking over from his smile. "You alright?"

I didn't know what to say to that. I couldn't even bring myself to nod in response. Because I wasn't alright, was I? How could I be?

"Yes, John, she's fine." Sherlock saved me from answering. "Now, if you'll excuse us."

"Wha-"

Before I had even sputtered out my 'what', I found myself being dragged out of the room. I kept my grip on Sherlock's hand tight, not wanting to be separated from him, as he led me up more stairs and away from prying eyes.

"I had a lot of time to think, you know, while I was in that park."

Sherlock's only response was a noncommittal grunt. I could tell he was listening, though. He almost always was.

"Moriarty," I had to force the name out of my mouth, the very taste of it was foul, "he's the one that set me up for Samuel Peterson's murder, wasn't he?"

"Clearly." Sherlock said. It was surprising how wonderful I found that egotistical tone.

I pulled the crisp duvet closer around me, finding the warmth did little to replace the security I had felt with Sherlock's arms around me. "And the reason he… kidnapped me… it was to antagonise you. He was judging how you would react."

Sherlock still didn't look up at me, instead choosing to focus his attention on the buttons of his shirt he was currently fastening. "Again – clearly."

I bit the inside of my cheek. Why was I so cold all of a sudden?

"What did Elliot Bran do?" I asked, trying to distract myself from the strange fear that was beginning to creep up my spine.

"Stole a highly prized Spix's Macaw from London Zoo." Sherlock answered plainly. He turned towards the door.

My heart rate accelerated. I grasped for anything that I could question him about. "Why and how?"

Sherlock sighed. He didn't, however, turn back to face me. "He is currently dating the security head's teenage daughter. Most likely, she asked him to do something drastic to not only show her the extent of his feelings, but also because she wanted to damage her father's reputation in revenge for a particularly harsh punishment he inflicted upon her for one of her many petty rule-breaks. Elliot has form for several small offences and so was her natural choice out of her five boyfriends. I had discounted him because he is supposed to be studying Film Making at Leeds University and he has no relatives this far south. I had not taken into consideration his flatmate's family. His father owns a pet shop nearby. It was simple enough for a common thief to break into the cage, replace the CCTV footage with his doctored version, and hide the animal taken somewhere where it would not seem out of place. It was all so terribly simple that I'm ashamed I didn't see it sooner. I was stupid."

I stared down at the ripples in the sheets before me. "You're never stupid."

"Very true," Sherlock boasted, "but compared to my usual level of intelligence, I was worryingly dim."

I rolled my eyes. Trust the man to come out with something like that.

I looked up in time to see him reaching for the door handle. He cold edged further up my limbs.

"Sherlock!" It slipped out of my mouth before I could stop myself. He paused, although I supposed he already knew why I had called him. "Please…"

At long last the detective turned and looked at me, his stare begging me to continue.

I frowned. I knew I shouldn't say what I was thinking. It was stupid, and not merely on a Sherlock-level of stupidity. He would hate it. He'd probably hate me just for asking it.

But I couldn't not… I couldn't let him… I couldn't be…

The words slithered out in a desperate whisper.

"Please stay."

This was originally going to be longer but my beta advised me to cut it down a lot. She was right, of course. The rest of what I wrote was a horrible mess.

Hope you're all watching Sherlock again on Wednesday nights on BBC1. Man, I have seriously seen the series too many times. Can't wait until autumn.

I hope to get a chap to go with this one up in The Game that We Play soon.

Trusia, if you do end up doing any fan art, I would LOVE to see it! Can you put it online or something?

Only one chap left now.

Please review.