Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (the show or the original works by A.C.D.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Ana.
37. One On One
The corner of the bed depressed slowly as someone seated themselves on it. The slowness was cautious. Careful, as not to wake up the occupant of the bed. Wrinkles appeared in the pale blue sheets as the person became fully seated. A moment passed where no movement was had and the room remained utterly silent. A second moment passed. A third. The person on the edge of the bed watched the sleeping occupant, watched as they shifted and tucked an arm under the pillow to get more comfortable. The mattress shifted again and the watcher stood, only to move up along the edge of the bed, towards the headboard. They sat approximately three quarters of the way up, shifting their body so their right thigh was pressed flush to the mattress edge. A gentle, musical little sigh left their lips as, once again, they sat and watched the sleeper. A hand stretched out and tugged the blanket up a couple of inches so it was draped over the sleeper's shoulders better. The hand then snuck upwards to brush hair out of the woman's face; the sleep-tangled dark strands were then placed gingerly behind her ear. She shifted in her sleep again, this time onto her side, making a little sound in the back of her throat. A chuckle, quiet but definitely present, overtook the silence of the room.
"Oh, Ana… Anabel Stuart…" the person sighed, laughter dancing in their lilting voice. The hand snaked its way to the back of Ana's head, fingers splayed out over her hair. The watcher leaned forward, the bed shifting under them, as they brought their mouth to hover just over her ear. "You'll never be as safe as you hope you are… how fruitless those little hopes are… dancing about in your head like little ballerinas… so pure and innocent… so breakable." A pair of lips descended and planted themselves against her temple, which roused Ana from her sleep even more. "We'll see each other again, you and I… we'll see each other soon."
Ana awoke with a sharp intake of breath, laying on her back in a mess of tangled blankets. She scrambled into a seated position, her back pressed to the headboard of her bed. With her chest heaving, her shaking hands fumbled to flick the lamp on. When the light dispelled the inky darkness of the night, it was revealed that no one was lurking anywhere in her bedroom. Her heart did drop, however, when she realized the window was open about five inches; it resumed its normal beating pattern when she remembered she had opened it before falling asleep, as the room was just a fraction too warm. It had just been a dream… Jim Moriarty hadn't just broken back into the flat to pay her a late-night visit. It hadn't been the first nightmare she'd had involving Moriarty. They'd originated after the pool incident, but often times those dreams were more flash-back like, remembering the way he had smiled at her as she fell unconscious and how joyous the situation seemed to him. The dreams had since progressed to the hypothetical––what if he broke in while she was sleeping? What if he showed up on the Tube while she was on her way back from one place or another?
Jim Moriarty was the person she most feared––probably the only person she had ever feared that much. In fact, she didn't think there was anything––person or otherwise––she had ever feared as much as the unsettlingly charming Irishman. There was always an underlying worry that he would be blending in with the city crowds around her, or that he could be lying in wait in the darkness of the flat when she returned home alone. His face was a pale ghost in her memory… frozen in that moment when a manic smile pulled wide across his face and his eyes had gleamed maliciously. There were aspects about him she couldn't forget––his snake-like smile was one of them. Then there was the way his cologne smelled… the way an eyebrow twitched upwards when his face went blank. How everything seemed like a game to him and how other people's pain appeared to bring him pleasure. Jim Moriarty was the monster under her bed. The thing she didn't want to peer into the darkness only to find that he was peering right back. It irked her, hurt her that one man could inspire such fear within her. That he had reduced her to scuffling back a few steps when someone swept out of an alleyway… that he had terrified her enough into listen to him.
Waves of dark, soft hair tumbled over Ana's hands as her head dropped into her hands. Her nose had started to sting and her eyes began to water; a sharp inhale flew through her nose, throat, and lungs as she attempted to banish the oncoming barrage of tears. With her chin raising and fingers still buried in her sleep-mussed hair, Ana looked towards the partially open window and the fluttering curtains. The scare of the nightmare had caused any intention of sleeping to flee, which left her feeling wide-eyed and unsure of what to do. Her bedroom suddenly felt as though it was the single most unsafe place to be at the moment. Even if it had been a nightmare––a figment of her imagination––Ana could still picture Moriarty perched on the edge of her bed… could swear that she could feel his lips pressed against temple. A second sharp inhale was dragged through her body and, on the exhale, she tossed off her blankets and rose to her feet. The door was pulled open and a cold flood of air from the hall washed over Ana's form. After giving an exhausted sigh and a glance up to the ceiling, she shuffled defeatedly down the hall.
With each passing minute it became less likely Sherlock would actually be going to bed. The clock would have shown that the time was three-fifteen in the morning, if the consulting detective hadn't removed its batteries and then tossed it into the far corner by the sofa. Its ticking had become a distraction while he tried to think two weeks prior. Its inner workings then became victim to an experiment revolving around devices that told time and their relation to explosives. Needless to say, both Ana and John had put an end to the experiment before their entire flat could go up in flames. Sherlock's eyes were dutifully locked on the fireplace, which was situated directly in front of him from his seat on the sofa. His fingers were steepled just under his nose, his pointer fingers gently cushioned by his lips; they were parted in the slightest, which let his breath gently pass between them as he remained deep in thought. The early hours of the morning––just as the sky started to brighten and the air turned sharp––were the best time to think. There was no traffic outside, Ana and John weren't moving about, and everything was perfectly at peace. It also allowed him the possibility of being able to sit uninterrupted for hours, and that meant he would have been able to get a fantastic thinking session in. In those instances, Sherlock was allowed blissful amounts of time to stride through the halls of his Mind Palace, ascend and descend stairs to the correct rooms, and extract the most pertinent information.
Unfortunately, the sound of an opening door meant that his session was about to come to an end. Drawn from the intellectual embrace of his thoughts, Sherlock listened as a set of footsteps padded the length of the hallway. The gait was slow. The way it paused when the floor gave a low creak spoke of caution. It was from that one little fact that the consulting detective was able to deduce that Ana had awoken. John had a tendency to just blunder through things when he was exceptionally tired, which was often. The footsteps approached the spot where the kitchen and living room met, then abruptly paused when the reached the junction. The sound of a foot scuffing backwards against the floorboards met Sherlock's ears after a long contemplative pause.
"You can stay," he murmured. His vision remained bathed in darkness as he started to extract himself from the passages of thought.
"Are you sure?" she asked, after a pause. "You were thinking, I don't want to interrupt you." Ana's voice was scratchy and muffled with sleep, which was corrected by a quiet clearing of the throat. Sherlock's lids slowly opened, revealing the softly lit living space to his eyes, which then immediately snapped to Ana. She blinked at him sleepily and then raised a hand to scrub at one of her puffy eyes. He was quick to note the pinkness around the rims of her lids, the lightly shadowed spots beneath her lower lashes, and the way she hugged her arms around her torso. In fact… she seemed to be completely collapsing in on herself. Ana's chin was ducked, her back was hunched in the slightest, and her hands clutched a sleepily donned white cardigan around herself. Ana was troubled about something. Something that was keeping her from awake as well as something that made her think poorly of herself… or perhaps that was fear he saw lingering in her pinched expression. Yes, it was fear––it was apparent in the pinch of her brows and the glassy appearance of her eyes. It was likely she'd had a nightmare or something of the sort––and a particularly nasty one at that.
"Yes. Quite sure." Sherlock's hands lowered but remained steepled just under his chin. After a minute of what appeared to be contemplation slowed by lack of sleep, Ana chose to take her usual seat. The cushion to Sherlock's left depressed when Ana seated herself. From the corner of his eye, he could see she still remained markedly stiff; her arms remained curled around her own torso and her shoulders had raised and hunched a fraction more. A low hum resonated in the back of his throat. "Relax your shoulders, you're too tense." Ana's wide blue eyes rose to stare at his profile, something akin to surprise apparent on her face. She slowly withdrew her arms from around her own middle and appeared to make a conscious effort to lower her shoulders to a proper, natural position. Both hands sat limply in her lap, fingers limply locked. Sherlock turned his head so he might look at her, eyes intently trained on her face. "I take it that your typical sleep schedule was interrupted by a nightmare?"
There was a twinge to the corners of Ana's mouth, lips parting when words threatened to spill forth. They were then mashed together to prevent an onslaught of words. Sherlock arched a prompting brow as they both sat there in silence, simply keeping their gazes locked. One might find it curious to discover that, in the progression of their relationship, there many moments such as the one that transpired on the sofa. Where the two simply sat in silence and just watched the other for any given period of time. Watched the way their expressions shifted or how they could find hints of emotion in specific features; such as how Sherlock discovered whenever Ana felt particularly happy or content, the corners of her mouth would curl upwards in the slightest and her gaze would soften. Or how Ana noticed that when Sherlock was particularly intent on something, or trying to deduce a certain phrase or gesture she had made, his brows would furrow. John once said he found it 'a bit scary' when their observations of the other would carry on for more than thirty seconds. He often said something loud enough for them to hear to tease them and always ended up breaking them out of their little staring sessions.
"Yes," Ana eventually said. Her eye contact with Sherlock didn't break. He made a sound at the back of his throat, acknowledging that he had been right in assuming such. Then, after a thoughtful pause, both of his eyebrows pinched together and his head cocked to the side a fraction.
"I believe that this is where I ask what it was that you dreamed of?"
A smile suddenly spread across Ana's tired face. Laughter bubbled out of her chest, but the bright sound was then interrupted by a yawn. She nodded and then pushed her fingers through her sleep rumpled locks. "Conventionally, yeah. Well, uh…" Ana diverted her gaze, then, casting it towards the skull on the mantelpiece, "it was about… Moriarty." It was clear that she had tried to pass it off as inconsequential. As though to further that fib, she shrugged and made a little, face, screwing up her mouth and nose. Sherlock, however, had gone stalk still at the mention of their current––but absent––adversary.
"Moriarty?" he echoed quietly. Ana made a sound of confirmation and then twisted a strand of hair around her finger in a show of nervousness.
"He, uh… in the dream he…" Ana stuttered, clearly struggling to gather her thoughts together. She gestured towards her bedroom door. "He snuck into my room while I was sleeping… watched for a bit before he talked to me. Said that… that I would never be as safe as I thought I was." Sherlock watched her face twist into a look of both disgust and pure disgust. "He called me breakable."
"Which you aren't," Sherlock interjected in a voice that was nearly impossibly steady. A fleeting smile curled at the corners of Ana's mouth, a pleasing look that quickly––and unfortunately––faded. "If that's what is bothering you so much, know that whatever it was your subconscious told you through the guise of James Moriarty is wrong."
"That… that isn't what's got me… got me like this." She waggled a hand at herself to indicate her weary state. Her head lolled backwards and thunked against the wall as an exasperated sigh fled her lips. Those soft pink lips then twisted into a grimace. Hesitation lit her face and for a fleeting moment––when her brows tugged together and she bit down on her lip––Sherlock though she may cry. That proved to not be the case when Ana cast Sherlock a glance, her guard seeming to have dropped. "I'm just… so afraid." Her mouth hung open soundlessly, jaw muscles twitching as words and thoughts teased her tongue but were then pushed back. Hesitation again. "Ever since… he… drugged me… I've been so scared he'll just… pop back up. That I'll see him when I'm alone and walking back home, or that he'll be smiling at me from across the Tube station. It's only got worse now that he's already broken into the flat; what's stopping him from doing it again?"
Sherlock remained perfectly still for longer than what was probably conventional in those sorts of situations. A voice––that sounded suspiciously like John's––prompted him to do something. Take her hand, place a hand on her knee, wrap an arm around both of her shoulders. But Ana sounded genuinely scared. It was an emotion he had only heard tremble in her voice twice before; once in the Baskerville laboratories, and the other time, when she stood before him in a jacket laden in explosives. The fear that crumpled her face made his stomach turn unpleasantly. An instinctive emotional jolt informed him that he did not want her to be afraid, did not want to see it infect her expression or cause her hands to shake, as they were now. It was a barely perceptible tremble, but her fingers did, indeed, shake gently in her lap. Slowly, Sherlock reached out and slipped one of his hands beneath the both of hers. His other hand fell atop them, holding her hands steady between his own.
"We're stopping him. So long as we remain vigilant and thwart any attempt he might make at dragging us down, we have the power to stop him. We will find out all there is to know about him and we will plan our retaliation. There is always a way to find a man's downfall," Sherlock told her quietly. His voice had fallen into a rumbling timbre that Sherlock had noticed always affected Ana in some way or another. This time, she pursed her lips and considered both his words and his hands, which remained curled warmly around her own. Slowly, she began to nod, but her expression didn't lighten. It darkened.
"I know…" she practically croaked, her voice broken and barely audible. "That's what worries me. He has a downfall, yes… but so do you. So does John. I do as well. We're playing a game of chess and we're at a stalemate… a pause that seems infinitely long… a break that will end in sheer destruction. I… don't want that to happen. I want us to win against him, I want… to squash him like the little bug he is and never have to deal with him again."
Ana's voice had strengthened. Her look became less fearfully wistful and more determined. Sherlock watched with interest, eyes tracking the ways the muscle shifted beneath flesh and formed new degrees of expression. Her face slackened, then, became soft and tired again.
"The stalemate will come to an end… we'll make our moves and, once all that is done, we will come out victorious," Sherlock assured. Tentatively, a hand rose to cup her cheek in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Ana's eyes fell shut and she leaned her cheek into his palm; the warmth of her cheek brushed against his skin teasingly. He made a mental note of her reaction. When her eyes opened again, he tried a crooked little smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I promise."
The corners of Ana's mouth twinged and then rose into a smile, and she shifted her weight so she could lean in to place a kiss to his lips. Reflexively, Sherlock leaned his head forward just barely, placing what pressure into the kiss he could before the brief contact ended. Ana then nudged her head just beneath his chin and rested it against his shoulder. He felt an arm curl around his middle, which prompted him to fully relax against the sofa cushions. In a movement that was becoming progressively more natural, Sherlock wound his own arm around her waist and held her against his side.
"I like it when you smile…" she murmured. He could feel her breath dance across the exposed skin of his neck, and he noted the pleasant chill that rolled down his spine. "You don't do it often." Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement of her comment but made it clear that was his only response. She didn't seem to mind.
As others had observed––'others' being John and Lestrade––Sherlock and Ana's relationship wasn't exactly conventional. The few dates that they had, often had some portion of it dedicated to Ana honing her deducting skills. John had found that particular aspect exceptionally out of the ordinary; Ana had yet to complain about it, though Sherlock suspected that, at some point, she would insist they go on a more 'conventional' outing. Displays of affection in public were few and far between. On occasion Ana would gently prompt him to hold her hand by letting their hands brush together a number of times. Kissing seemed to be reserved for the privacy of their own flat. There had been one or two times they had actually, fully kissed in public––excluding their date at Speedy's, it had happened once at Covent Garden and once while perusing the galleries at the British Museum. Otherwise, it was mostly cheek kisses that Ana liked to sneak in here and there. Every now and again the kiss would stray closer to the corner of his mouth, and Sherlock deduced that she was testing the waters. Checking boundaries.
The whole romantic relationship situation was entirely new to him. It was something that he was learning to navigate with Ana's saintly patience. Each day he learned and deduced and categorized something new; a wealth of information and references was building inside his Mind Palace. Every chance he had to test something––such as the way a simple 'accidental' touch affected either Ana or himself––he would. From the information gleaned from said test, Sherlock was able to piece together what it was a situation called for. Such as that very evening. He deduced that in her frightened, tired state, Ana would need comfort. Thus, he initiated physical contact and provided words of assurance. Words that he did, in fact, believe were true.
"Thank you for letting me interrupt your thinking session," Ana exhaled, snuggling closer to Sherlock. Yes, that was another thing he was getting used to. Intimate physical contact. He had practically abhorred most forms physical contact, and now found that, perhaps, it wasn't as terrible as he had initially thought it to be. Having Ana pressed closed to him was pleasing. Her warmth was surprisingly calming and her gentleness was welcomed. Nothing about her physicality towards him was overwhelming or overbearing, and she seemed to know when it was best to not initiate anything. In return, he was learning when it was appropriate to initiate things.
"This took precedence," Sherlock murmured in a tone that was very nearly distracted. His hand started to wander a repeating path up-and-down her back. "Besides, it would have been impossible to have any form of productive deduction session with you up and about."
Ana's response was to laugh sleepily. Sherlock carefully turned his head in order to gaze down at her. Her eyelids had shut and her breathing was starting to slow. He watched attentively as, over the course of a few minutes, she fell asleep. It was a peaceful endeavor, with little stirring and a couple of quiet sighs. Then his current predicament was that Ana was utilizing him as both bed and pillow; there would be no reason for him to attempt to return to his deductions. Based on the subject and location of her nightmare, it would also not make sense to return her to her room. Even if he could bring her to his room, he'd likely jostle her awake, as she was not yet in the deepest state of sleep. Thus, Sherlock reclined his head till it rest against the wall and shut his eyes. Perhaps, at three-thirty in the morning, sleep would find him after all.
OOOO
When John shuffled into the kitchen at eight o'clock, he expected Sherlock to be stood at the window as he sometimes was. But the distinguishable silhouette was markedly absent from the glass panes. The doctor's brows pinched together as he went about the usual movements of making coffee. Mugs rattled about in the cabinet as he grabbed for a piece of coffee stained porcelain, and the faucet chugged as it was turned on for the first time in hours. He heard a disgruntled sound from the general direction of the sofa. Sticking his head into the living room with a curious arch to an eyebrow, John stumbled upon a brand new, but admidably heartwarming, sight.
Sherlock was slouched sideways against the right arm of the sofa, legs awkwardly dangling and askew. His head was propped up by a combination of the wall and the back of the sofa, and his mouth hung slightly ajar. Nestled against his chest was Ana, who was held there by one of Sherlock's arms. Ana's pillow proved to be the crook of Sherlock's neck, just where it met the shoulder, and she looked perfectly content. Both were dead asleep. There did appear to be a slight hint of a crease between Ana's brows, which lead John to believe she had been the one to make the noise. A smile appeared on John's face. This was what he had wanted for his two best friends. He wanted them to experience that sort of comfort and happiness with one another. Sure, they would probably complain about cricks in their neck and aching muscles from sleeping so awkwardly, but they were together. And, together, in that moment on the couch they looked… perfect for each other. Perfectly fit together, perfectly comforted, perfectly… them. After a short moment of considering them happily, John turned back into the kitchen and made for his bedroom. It would probably be about an hour before he really felt the need for coffee; there was no need to disturb their slumber with the clattering of mugs.
OOOO
"Could I have a, uh, cappuccino, please?" Ana asked, fishing her wallet out of her purse. It was about three o'clock and, despite the coffee she had downed that morning, Ana was still feeling the lack of sleep. She also felt the way her muscles protested the manner in which she had slept, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Waking up pressed against Sherlock's chest had been pleasant and had certainly made her feel better than she had earlier that morning.
"Will you be sitting in?"
"Um, no––a paper cup would be fine."
"Anything else?" asked the barista, punching at a couple of buttons on the register.
"No, that'll be––"
"A medium black tea––no sugar, no cream, in your cleanest china cup, preferably," said a smooth and familiar voice, as a figure slipped up beside Ana. Mycroft Holmes was stood beside her, proffering the barista a ten pound note. The elder Holmes was lucky she hadn't reflexively made to punch him, as memories of the nightmare still lingered in her head. The barista nodded, took the cash, and handed back change, mentioning that their orders would be done in a minute. Ana stared at Mycroft in moderate surprise, glancing towards the door and the short line of people behind her. None of them exactly seemed disgruntled that he had pushed ahead of them, but, then again, Mycroft was one of those people that just seemed like someone you wouldn't want to meddle with. He smiled at her briefly, gesturing towards a quiet table in the corner. "I'd like to have a chat."
Once their drinks had been made, they sat across from each other at the small, square table Mycroft had chosen earlier. Ana had curled both hands around the paper cup, letting the warmth seep into her palms. Mycroft lifted the cup to his lips, took a sip, and then set it back down in its saucer; it clattered delicately as porcelain met porcelain in a practiced movement. He clasped his hands together and set them on the table, fixing Ana with a look she couldn't quite decipher.
"It has come to my attention, Miss Stuart, that you and my brother have decided to pursue a relationship of sorts," Mycroft said in a very business-like tone. Ana's mouth dropped open as though she might begin to speak, but no words came out. Of all the things she might've expected Mycroft to pop into her life to speak about, this was one of the last things she would have thought of. A smile appeared on his face, tight-lipped and false. "A relationship rooted in romance."
In that moment Ana suddenly felt a smidgen uncomfortable. She reached up and smoothed hair out of her face, attempting to figure out what the correct response would be. "Um… yes, we have," Ana confirmed simply. Her brows pinched together and she cocked her head to the side curiously. "Is that… really why you've commandeered my afternoon?" Mycroft took a packet of artificial sweetener and ripped it open, pouring it into his tea. His lips quirked to the side in the slightest.
"Of course it is. As I'm sure you know, my brother has very little experience in the field he is so valiantly venturing into. I'm just here to ensure that you are fully aware––and do not take advantage––of that."
Mycroft's spoon clinked against the insides of his cup as he stirred the sweetener into the steaming tea. Ana remained quiet and decided to fully take the situation into perspective. Boiled down to its simplest the situation could be described thusly: Mycroft Holmes was playing the protective older brother. Playing wasn't the correct word, that would convey a form of falsehood. He was the protective, concerned older brother. A smile appeared on Ana's face in an instant, the bright expression prompting Mycroft to arch a thin brow.
"You want to protect him," she voiced. "That's very sweet of you."
Mycroft seemed to murmur the word 'sentiment' in a distastefully wistful manner under his breath as he sipped at his tea.
Ana leaned her forearms against the table edge and she allowed her expression to sober. "I'm well aware that Sherlock doesn't have much, if any, experience in the field of romance. In fact, he and I have discussed that matter a number of times––"
"Oh, I'm sure you have," Mycroft interrupted in a drawl. A smile reappeared on his face. This one was significantly less false than the last one. It was amused, almost, like the smirk he had delivered to Sherlock in Buckingham Palace; the one that had accompanied the jab 'don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex.' Ana pursed her lips and allowed for a short beat of silence, in which she wondered whether she should feel embarrassed or annoyed.
"I knew that a relationship with Sherlock would be different. That there wasn't going to be anything dramatically and outwards amorous about it; and I'm not going to force him into that. I would never take advantage of his lack of experience in any way. I have no plans to lead him astray, to use him, anything of that sort. I really do care for him, Mycroft, I promise," Ana assured. Her brows had pulled together in sincerity and she had leaned forward some, her voice soft but genuine.
Mycroft had been watching her very, very closely. His sharp, observant eyes had flickered about her person as she spoke rapidly, deducing her movements. She was unfazed at being watched so critically, it seemed. Her time living with Sherlock had desensitized her to such looks. The elder Holmes sat backwards in his seat, his fingers interlaced atop the table, and suddenly, Ana felt as though she was being interviewed.
"Do you not fear that this is all an experiment to him? That it is a close, investigative look into the nuances and strategies of romantic relations? Many would." Mycroft's voice held a clinical tone, one that Ana wondered if he used when he worked with politicians.
"I did, at first. But… I don't anymore. Not really. I know that he mentally records new information the minute he discovers it, but that's just what he does. What he's always done. It's…" Ana paused as a smile appeared on her face, "part of his charm."
"Though, I must give you some credit," Mycroft informed loftily, bringing the tea to his lips again. "Sherlock is not the only one venturing into new waters. You are as well, Miss Stuart. No woman before you has managed to capture my brother's attention in the way you have. You are the first person that he has endeavored to begin such a relationship with; and that will prove to be an interesting field to navigate. I simply implore you to be weary. Understand that these things do not come so naturally to him as they do you or Dr. Watson. For lack of better phrasing…" Mycroft's fake smile returned, "be gentle."
But Ana wasn't so sure that smile was completely fake. There was a flash of concern in his eyes, a concern for his little brother. No matter how much Mycroft informed them he abhorred emotion, it was clear that he cared for Sherlock deeply. Despite initially being surprised and somewhat put-off by his arrival, Ana felt… touched that he would take the time to sit down with her and inform her of his concerns. In his not-quite-touching-the-real-subject sort of way. Ana reached out and placed her hand on Mycroft's wrist, which prompted him to glance down at the point of contact and arch an eyebrow.
"I will be," she promised. Mycroft gave a curt nod and was quick to extract his hand from beneath her touch. After a moment of very brief and uncharacteristic fidgeting, Mycroft took a long sip from his cup.
"I have discovered that one of the many reasons that Sherlock has taken such a strong liking to you is because of your compassion. It gives you such a peculiar viewing of the world. An emotionally enlightened one. Something both valuable to his profession and to his personal well-being, even if he won't admit it. Even if… I don't outwardly admit it, I am pleased there is someone who is willing to keep him out of trouble. To look after him. It just so happens that you may be the best person to do that. So I thank you." While his voice remained as impersonal as it could be, Ana thought she detected a quaver that betrayed the true emotion behind his words. She thought that she might say that she didn't need to be thanked for having feelings for his brother; she decided it would be best just to smile and nod. Mycroft rose to his feet, buttoned his jacket, and tugged it straight. "I do hope you have a lovely rest of the afternoon, Miss Stuart. Do send my brother and Dr. Watson my regards," he said, voice as lofty as it typically was.
He took up his umbrella, nodded to her politely and exited the café. Ana watched him go, disappearing into a black car with tinted windows. With a shake of her head and a smile, Ana took a long sip of her coffee. It had cooled to a drinkable temperature. Despite having once felt Mycroft was the harder of the two brothers to discern, she felt as though she might have been getting somewhere. The two Holmes brothers always seemed as though they detested each other in some regard; but it was undoubtedly clear that they cared for each other quite deeply.
OOOO
Anyone who knew the comings and goings of those that lived at 221b Baker Street would know that it was quite odd to see Sherlock Holmes return to the flat with a bouquet of flowers in hand. Albeit, he held them awkwardly and cast them scrunched-brow glances of uncertainty, which was a bit more in character. He had stopped by Covent Garden on his way back to Baker Street, and had picked up the offending––but beautiful––bouquet. He'd seen many men carrying flowers around London, rushing home for a forgotten anniversary or for a birthday that had slipped the mind. It seemed to be social convention. The difference with him, though, was that he hadn't forgotten anything. Ana liked surprises, and she seemed to have taken a liking to flowers as of late, what with it finally being spring. After some thought, it became perfectly logical that he, as her romantic partner, should take the chance to surprise her. That was what lovers did, didn't they?
Sherlock's fingers tightened around the flimsy plastic that sheltered the pale pink roses and baby's breath. He climbed the stairs and considered the bouquet for what seemed like the thousandth time. On the Tube a number of people had cast him little smiles. Some sympathetic––men and women whom thought he'd forgotten an important occasion––and some were wistful––men and women who wished their significant other would do such a romantic gesture for them. Their reactions meant he was doing something right. Sherlock did believe he was getting better with the nuances of being romantically involved with someone. John had once mentioned that it was 'the little things that counted the most,' so Sherlock had started to pay more attention to such things. Start acting on them when both the situation and his logic deemed it appropriate.
Ana had been stood at the table when he came in, back turned towards him. Her hair had been knotted into a bun and she was wearing a slouching sweater that was one of her prefered pieces on cooler days. She appeared to be rummaging through a pile of papers, looking for something in particular. After he had paused in the doorway for a moment, Ana seemed to note his presence and send him a quick glance over the shoulder.
"Evening, Sherlock," she said pleasantly. He slowly made his way towards her as she continued to speak. "You wouldn't happen to know where the bills have disappeared to? John said they might be on the table but I'm having no such luck." Ana turned around just as Sherlock stopped an arm's length away. He held out the flowers without saying a word, his arm completely straight as he proffered the bouquet. Ana stared at him, wide-eyed, then at the flowers, and then raised her gaze back to his. "What're these for?" Her voice was soft, surprised.
"I… I thought you would like them," he replied, clearing his throat. "You eyed a similar bouquet when we were at Covent Garden the other day, so I thought you might… want them." Sherlock tried to keep his voice in some semblance of casualness. As though the matter were simple. It was a feat that proved surprisingly difficult. He watched as Ana stared at the roses a moment longer, unable to properly read the emotion on her face. A sigh escaped his lips and his shoulders slumped. "You don't like them."
"What? No! Sherlock, why do you think I don't like them? I absolutely love them!" she told him with a grin. "Thank you!" Ana removed the bouquet from his hands and buried her nose in the array of petals. The color of the flowers matched the natural shade of pink that typically graced her cheeks. It would seem that her unreadable expression had been her processing that he had actually intentionally stopped and got her flowers. A 'little thing' that she seemed to appreciate greatly.
Sherlock couldn't help the pleased little smile that worked itself onto his face as he shed his coat, scarf, and gloves. He draped them over the back of his chair, and then began to head towards the kitchen; but after a beat, he paused and turned back. He made his way back over to Ana, who looked up from admiring the flowers. He stopped by her shoulder, leaned down, and kissed her on the cheek. Sherlock let his lips linger against her skin, his nose grazing her cheekbone before he pulled away. It pleased him, he found, to see Ana bite down on her lip at the brief, but intimate, contact. With that, Sherlock swept into the kitchen and removed his jacket, as he usually did when conducting experiments at home. He began to critically observe the items on the table, pondering where to pick up on the experiment he had been thinking of conducting the night before. Having slipped back into his Mind Palace, accessing information he had stored away early that morning, he hadn't realized Ana had followed him into the kitchen. The clinking of glass and the rushing of the faucet, however, did make it rather hard to concentrate. Just as he was about to ask her to be quieter, she spoke.
"Mycroft sends his regards, by the way," Ana mentioned. Sherlock's head whipped upwards, curls flouncing with the movement.
"What?"
Ana looked over her shoulder as she placed the flowers in the water filled vase. It was the only vase in the flat; made of white porcelain and delicate blue flowers, it was quite clear Ana had brought it from her previous residence. "I ran into Mycroft and he wanted me to pass his regards on to you." Her attention returned to the flowers, which she started to arrange with careful, contemplative moves. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the space just beside her, as though his elder brother was stood at her side.
"Meaning he commandeered your afternoon. What is it he really wanted?" Sherlock inquired stiffly. "He wanted to ask about the change in our relationship, obviously. I take it he took the chance to re-inform you of my lack of experience?" The words were practically ground out from between his teeth. Ana allowed silence and a little glance over her shoulder to be her answer. The consulting detective gave a disapproving cluck of the tongue when his lips pulled into a sneer. "Of course he did. He's always been presumptuous about my understanding of sex…"
"He actually didn't go into specifics…"
Although she had spoken, Sherlock didn't quite register the words right. In fact, it was just background babble, senseless noise that filled the back of his thoughts. He began to pace, speeding along the speed of his thought process. Sometimes moving helped. Sometimes it was just habit.
"Mycroft thinks me naive, slow, stupid… thought all of that ever since we were children. He believes that I had deleted any information related to anything related to emotion or basic, primal functions, but he's wrong. It's simply information that I stored away and never had to seriously access it for any other reason but for a case," Sherlock prattled off, eyes focused on nothing in particular. By the sink, he just barely registered Ana turning to face him, arms crossing over her chest.
"Sherlock, you're acting like you were in Grimpen the night you were drugged. That concerns me," Ana intoned. "Mycroft meant well, he's just being a concerned older brother, there's nothing strange about that."
Sherlock suddenly halted on his sixth turn and sharply turned his attention towards Ana, still continuing on the train of thought from moments earlier. He started to walk towards her, a purposefulness in his gait as he slowly moved forwards. She cocked her head to the side a fraction, a movement that often conveyed her curiosity, especially when paired with the slight raise of her right eyebrow. "No reason till now…" Sherlock came to a smooth stop directly in front of Ana, leaving but inches between them. Both hands were placed on the curve of her hips, pointer fingers curling around the belt loops of her jeans. To watch Ana's eyes widen made him smirk, as her positive reactions usually prompted him to do. He knew that just the slightest tug would bring her closer. Ana would give very little resistance, if any at all. So, he gave that tug and she stepped forward; their chests were no longer separated by any vacant space. Her arms were held somewhat akimbo, delicately floating in space, drifting ever closer to Sherlock's arms.
"You… you do know you don't have to… do any of this," one of her hands gesticulated at the lack of space between them, "just to prove a point, right?"
"Are you referring to our relationship or the current situation in which we find ourselves?" Sherlock inquired in a rumbling tone. He tucked his chin in towards his neck, ducking his head lower and closer towards Ana's. Finally, both of Ana's hands came into contact with Sherlock's sleeve covered arms. The warmth from her palms permeated the thin fabric and kissed the skin beneath. It was a pleasing feeling Sherlock could vividly remember experiencing back in Grimpen the night he became emotionally compromised. It was a feeling that he wouldn't mind experiencing again and again.
"The latter," responded Ana in a hushed tone. One of her feet, clad in a fuzzy grey sock, scuffed forward and planted itself just between Sherlock's. He could feel his heart beginning to race inside his chest, the rate at which it beat increasing exponentially. It was still interesting to experience and notice his own body reaction to intimate stimuli; to realize that by initiating a situation meant to bring about a reaction from Ana, he was, at the same time, doing the same to himself.
"I know… perhaps I'm only doing this because I want to…" Sherlock's lips were mere centimeters from Ana's. Their gazes were still locked despite their closeness, the look soft and personal. She slid her hands up his arms, leaving trails of warmth in their wake, a sensation that prompted a shiver to roll down his spine. As her hands moved, Ana shook her head from side-to-side only a couple of inches.
"You're a very good liar…"
"Am I?"
The kiss that ensued felt different. It wasn't tentative or exploratory, no reactions were being sought. While, yes, Sherlock did feel as though he had a point to prove––yes, to Mycroft, and yes, to Ana––it was not meant to be clinical and deducting. He kissed her in the way instinct drove him to; with a whole-hearted involvement and complete attentiveness. Deductions, in that situation, were meant to ensure and heighten the pleasure they both received, and yet, those deductions were quiet. Quick and accompanied by a pulse of instinct that prompted him to carry on. It was how he could tell that the slight arching of Ana's back meant she wanted to be closer––to have more physical contact. Therefore, his hands shifted position, so one remained flush against her lower back and the other traveled along the length of her back in a singular, languid motion.
Something shifted, then, as Sherlock's fingertips ghosted over the curve of Ana's neck; it was a touch so light it was barely there. A touch so delicate it teased the skin and made it feel more intense than the pressure that was given. An almost infuriating feeling, as it left them both wanting more. Ana's breath caught and a hand quickly appeared against Sherlock's jaw. The kiss was re-initiated, with lips drawing apart only to meet again with a palpable fervor. Sherlock felt his brows furrow as a sense of hyperfocus set in. He could feel the slight slickness of chapstick from Ana's lips against his own, could taste its faint flavoring of cocoa butter. The heat of her palm against his cheek was simultaneously not enough contact, not enough warmth and encroaching on unbearable. A sense of unbearableness that made him want to pull her hand away and place somewhere else––his neck, his chest, the spot just between his collarbone and his heart. A slight tilt of the head brought their lips together at an angle they had never met at before, and Sherlock felt the hand on his jaw finally––finally––slip away from his neck and into the hair at the nape of his neck. Her fingers curled and the hair was pulled in a way that wasn't painful but… pleasing.
There were many times since their relationship began that Ana had taken the lead, and as the kiss started to take on a new meaning, she gained control of the situation again. It was a shift in dynamic that Sherlock welcomed easily. Her lips started to guide his in a slow, sensual dance that never seemed to stop moving. It was a fluid kiss, very much unlike the more still, situated ones they had previously shared. It was like a passionate stream of conscious thought that didn't come to an end; it paused and its direction changed, but it didn't end. After taking in the way that Ana's lips slowly moved against his own, observing technique, Sherlock began to respond in kind. He had––obviously––known that the lips were considered an erogenous zone on the human body: an area that had heightened sensitivity and was especially perceptive to stimulus. But in experiencing what could only colloquially described as 'snogging,' he realized how true that was. Each brush of the lips was extremely pleasing. No words, in that moment, could coherently explain what it was he was feeling. It was nearly overwhelming––but in the best way. The part of Sherlock's mind that urged him to think logically had seemingly fallen silent. Something else had given over. Something that could only be base instinct.
A warm prickling feeling flooded Sherlock's system when he heard a peculiar sound. It was a sigh of sorts, voiced gently in the back of Ana's throat. A moan. Unlike the similar sound his phone had once been programmed to give off with a certain Woman's text messages, Ana's moan physically affected him. His muscles involuntarily tightened. He felt warmer. He wanted her closer, and thus she was pulled tighter against his chest and the kiss gained a fraction more fervor. He had inspired that sound. A sound so pleasing it made his heart pound harshly against his chest, so pleasing he wanted to hear it again––wanted to inspire it again. Sherlock felt the fingers in his hair tighten their grip and noted that she was shifting her weight into him.
Tap-tap.
"Um… yes, hello."
Both Sherlock and Ana jolted into stillness, the sound of John's voice managing to cut through the pulse of blood in their ears. Slowly, Sherlock straightened, breaking the kiss as he did so. But instead of looking to their flatmate––who surely stood in some form of a gobsmacked state––he continued to hold Ana's gaze.
"What is it, John?" Sherlock exhaled. Still, he did not turn his eyes away from the woman still pressed against his chest. Her lips were swollen, much like his felt, and her cheeks were flushed in a very becoming shade of pink. It was an image that was mesmerizing, especially as Sherlock's mind slowly reawoke from its pleasure induced stupor. John could be heard clearing his throat, clearly trying to dispel whatever awkward attitude he had towards the situation he found himself in.
"We've got a client, he's uh, just… just coming up the stairs; I met him at the door on my way up. It's, uh… rather urgent, that's what he said…" In a movement purposefully slow, Sherlock removed his arms from around Ana's body, letting his fingers slide across the back of her neck with that infuriatingly light touch. "Do I need to… stall for time to let you both… cool off?"
"That would be unnecessary," Sherlock informed. Both he and Ana had fully detached themselves from the other, with Sherlock having turned to face John. Ana, however, braced one hand against the sink and avoided John's gaze at all costs.
Said doctor was stood at the threshold of the sitting room and the kitchen, lips pursed, brows furrowed. Sherlock arched an eyebrow of his own in a prompting manner; the haze in his head was mostly cleared as the new situation was presented to him. John nodded and waggled a hand at the two stood by the sink
"Right. I'll go get him and, uh… you two should at least sort out the way you look. The whole… post-snogging rumpled look isn't really that professional," John intoned dryly before sweeping back into the stairwell.
Sherlock dragged a hand over his mouth and returned his attention to Ana, who seemed to be biting back a smile. She looked up at Sherlock from under her lashes as she reached up to smooth a few rogue strands of hair back into her bun. With half of a smirk pulling at the corner of his vaguely swollen mouth, Sherlock kissed Ana on the cheek for the second time that afternoon. There wasn't really much to be said. Their impassioned encounter in front of the sink––prompted by Sherlock's annoyance at his brother––seemed to have said a lot. Sherlock moved around the table to take up and shrug on his jacket, doing up the button on the front.
"If you were trying to prove a point… I think you did so fantastically," Ana said from behind him, a smile clear in her voice. Sherlock's smirk grew and a well of satisfaction grew in the pit of his stomach. He turned that cheeky look over his shoulder, only to find that she was reflecting the exact same look. Ana stood leaned up against the sink with her arms crossed, a smirk drawn across her face. "Not that you needed to prove it." She winked and took up the vase of flowers, moving into the sitting room just as John returned. With a brief ruffle of his hair, Sherlock went to meet his new client.
A shorter man with a balding head and a well put-together suit stood in the doorway, toting an umbrella in one hand. He politely smiled at Ana as she turned her attention to him, returning the smile gently. Judging by the fact his suit was both expensive and well-tailored, the man was wealthy––and judging by the garishly patterned tie knotted under the collar of his pastel blue shirt, he was in the art industry. But his hands were free of calluses and cuts, and paint and dried clay were not to be seen, which meant he was not directly involved with the making of the art. Just the upkeep and respect of it. An office job, most likely, spending his days talking on the phone, doing research, and keeping pleasantries with the public.
"Mr. Holmes, it's a pleasure––" the man began, but was swiftly and sharply cut off.
"What is it that an art curator would need me for?" Sherlock deadpanned. It would seem he had switched completely into work-mode again, any trace of being affected by the events in the kitchen having disappeared. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's brusqueness; he not-so-subtly sent Ana a look as they made to sit in their usual spots for client interviews. Ana snickered. The curator stared at him for half a moment too long before clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses.
"I would like to hire your services in order to find a stolen painting, Mr. Holmes. A particularly famous and rather expensive one. I take it you know of the Falls of the Reichenbach?"
Afterword: And after too long, I finally get this chapter up. I had some trouble figuring out what to write here, but I'd had a couple of ideas that were all one-on-one scenes I thought would work fantastically if I pieced them together right. I also toyed with using Sherlock's perspective in this chapter more. Especially at the end; boy, was that interesting/fun to write! And the curator man has officially started our transition into Reichenbach… prepare for the feels. They're a-barreling our way! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter!
Review Replies!
Cinder Fall 39: I'm very, very, very happy you enjoyed the murder mystery! It legitimately took me forever to figure out the nuances of it all and how to write clues for a simple, less complex mystery. When I was still in England and coming up with the idea, I legitimately sat in my local pub, ate dinner, and tried to think of how everything would play out––so Galahad's is somewhat based on a legit pub. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!
masoxrista: Don't worry, it didn't sound creepy at all––it's the truth. Their relationship is strange, and things are going to have to develop slowly. As an example, even though they were snogging at the end of the chapter, it sure as hell isn't going to be a daily occurrence for them. They're still figuring everything out. There will be much simmering, I can promise you that. And I'm super glad that you enjoyed the date, I figured that their first date would probably go awry in a perfectly Holmesian way. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
Skylar Winchester: I'm glad you enjoyed their chaotic date! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter just as must; thanks again!
mistressofdarkness666: Thank you! The mystery was hellish to write and I'm glad it was passable :) And Sherlock and Ana are headed on a strange, winding path towards their form of romantic normalcy, and it's such a joy to write. And I'm very happy you're enjoying reading it; thanks again!
The Redshirt who Lived: I really had such a blast writing the last chapter. It was fun trying to figure out how Sherlock would react to being on a date, and then being sucked into a case that he then qualifies as a continuation of said date. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!
Guest 1: Thank you, very much! I still strive to keep their relationship real, no matter how unorthodox it is. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
Guest 2: I'm glad you enjoyed the previous chapter! There were lots of little elements I wanted to put in there––like Lestrade being completely agog––and I'm really happy that you enjoyed them. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
Elva of Mirkwood: I cannot thank you enough for your lovely review; it made my day when I first got it, and it's re-made my day re-reading it again. First of all, I applaud you for reading the hundreds of pages that make up this story in one go. Even I, the author, couldn't do that. Mostly because I find a majority of the first chapters cringeworthy, ahaha! But, I cannot thank you enough for spending so much time reading the story, and for finding something special in it. This fic is very important and special to me, as it's the one I am most proud of. And I'm incredibly thankful that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy creating it; and I'm giddy to read the words 'best fanfiction' and 'superfan.' Those are both compliments I never could have dreamed of receiving. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter just as much as you've enjoyed the rest of the story. And thank you a million times over!
Goddess-of-the-Moon-39: Thank you! Your review was absolutely lovely, and made me smile. I couldn't have possibly written a story with someone being equally as/more brilliant than Sherlock, as I am definitely not brilliant enough to come up with deductions and pure, flawless logic. I still find it difficult to write Sherlock's reasoning now, 37 chapters into the story. Thus Ana came about, and I love her dearly. She was one of the first characters I legitimately sat down with and planned out in order to make her as real as possible; and I'm glad that still reads. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!
Guest 3: Thank you so much; I'm glad you enjoyed the story and continue to enjoy reading! Thanks again!
lol: I did take the criticism to heart––it really aligned with the fact that I, too, was not happy with that one scene and took the chance to fix it. And I'm glad that the edit of it read better! I'm also very happy you enjoyed the original mystery from last chapter. It took me months to figure out how to write it. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!
And thank you to those who added this story to follows/favorites; it means a lot!
That's that for this chapter! There will probably be a couple (not many) chapters spanning the space between the cases that are mentioned at the beginning of the Reichenbach Fall. Some more relationship development for Sherlock and Ana, and probably some appearances from Molly/Anderson/Donovan/Lestrade. I hope you all stick around for the next chapter! Thanks again, everyone!
~Mary