Who knows if that last scene was as heartbreaking to read as it was to write.
More emotions now. ;)
Sherlock was mildly shocked as he opened the bathroom door to see her kneeling in front of the mirror, her hand pressed against it with a look of awe on her face. He had heard some sort of commotion, and was puzzled to find the door open. Her cheeks were lined with tears, and she must have accidentally cut herself, because her hand was bleeding slightly.
He surveyed the room quickly. The chair has been knocked over, but it's been moved. It's slightly broken – she must have cut her hand on it. It was dropped relatively near to where she is kneeling – the mirror; the only thing that could be sharp in this room. She had a breakdown. She wanted to cut, fatally or just harmfully.
Upon this realisation, Sherlock moved over to her, put his hands under her arms and gently pulled her up. Her hand found his and she clung to it tightly, her eyes not moving from her reflection. He noticed John standing at the doorway, his expression concerned. He nodded – he had it under control – and John nodded back. He stayed where he was, however – he was the doctor, he knew what to do.
Fully aware that what he was doing went against every aspect of his personality, Sherlock guided Florence over to the chair, used one hand to turn it upright, and sat her gently on it.
'What's wrong with me, Sherlock?' she said eventually, pulling the hair from her face. It appeared she had snapped back into reality.
'I don't know.' he said gravely. 'Was it a breakdown?'
'I think so. It's strange. I never had them when I was living in the Warehouse, but I had them before, when I was with you. Now, though...'
'What triggered it?' John asked from the doorway. He walked into the room. It was now getting a bit crowded.
Florence cast her eyes down. Should she tell them about the paranoia?
'Flo,' Sherlock prompted.
'I panicked. I threw up, then my thought process began spiralling and I couldn't stop it. I tried to smash the mirror to...' she paused, wondering if she had gone too far.
'Carry on,' John encouraged.
'I tried to smash the mirror so I could use the shards to slit my wrists.'
Sherlock was angry. He was angry at Florence, for thinking he didn't love her nearly as much as he had before she had gone. He was angry at her for leaving, for not coming back for eight whole years, causing him to relapse back into his drug phase. He was angry at John, who had done absolutely nothing wrong. But, mainly, he was angry at himself, for leaving her alone so soon. He shouldn't have left her, even if it was just to go to his room.
'Sherlock.' John said, in an attempt to console him.
'Shut up, John.' he said, his voice not showing a hint of his emotion.
'Come on, Sherlock. You're pissed.'
'We leave her alone for an hour. An hour, John!'
'So you're not angry with her?'
'Yes. I am. But not nearly as angry as I am with myself.'
'That isn't fair, Sherlock.' John coaxed. He wanted the truth out of his roommate. He wanted him to admit he was in love with Florence Wood.
'Why did we do that? We knew she was fragile. I know what she's been through. That must have been enough for me to know. I shouldn't have had to learn.
'What do you propose we do about her?'
'Leaving her alone is out of the question. I've just got her back – there is no way I'm losing her again.'
The next morning, Florence found herself in an office in Scotland Yard – the office belonging to the man who had found her. Lestrade had nodded at her when she got in, and she smiled shyly back.
'She lives in Cornwall. Two men entered her home, wearing masks. Forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house, and phone you. He had her read out from this pager.' He placed it on the desk in front of John, who was sitting opposite him. He took it and inspected it idly.
Sherlock was pacing the room, hands by his mouth – he was thinking. Florence sat out of the way, on a chair near the door.
'And if she deviated by one word...' he said, and Florence grimaced. 'the sniper would shoot and set the whole thing off.'
'Or if you hadn't solved the case.' John said, and Sherlock sighed wistfully.
'Oh, elegant.'
John sighed, frustrated. 'Elegant?'
Lestrade's face contorted in confusion. 'What was the point? Why would anyone do this?'
'Oh,' Sherlock muttered, facing away from them. 'I can't be the only person in the world who gets bored.' his mind flashed back to day before last, where he had spray painted a smiley face on the wall and began shooting it aimlessly with a pistol. He recalled John's anger, and Mrs Hudson's astonishment, and smiled slightly to himself.
The phone in his pocket notified him of a message, and he found himself pulling the pink phone out rather than Florence's. He opened it, aware of all eyes on him.
Three short blips and a long beep sounded from the phone, and Sherlock walked back over to the desk as John's face fell. Florence frowned in confusion.
'Four pips. Next up.' Sherlock said, and showed the picture on the phone to Lestrade, then to John. 'Abandoned car?'
'I'll see if it's been reported,' Lestrade said, just as Sally Donovan opened the door, hitting Florence's leg. She withdrew it in pain, and Sally looked down at her.
'Oh, sorry.' she frowned as she studied her face a little more. 'I know you, don't I?'
'Donovan?' Sherlock asked as Florence turned her head away.
'Ah. Freak, there's a phone call for you.' she sounded surprised, as if no one would ever think of calling him ever. Sherlock walked over to her and took it, following her out of the room.
'Hello?' he said.
'It's okay, that you've gone to the police.' the voice was male again, and it sounded less hysterical than before, but still anxious and upset.
'Who is this? Is it you again?'
'Don't rely on them.' the voice said, quivering. 'Clever you. Guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing.'
'You've stolen another voice, I presume?' Sherlock asked, aware of Florence walking up to him from behind. He ignored her presence.
'This is about you and me.' the voice said, and it was clear he was crying. Hard. He was terrified.
'Who are you.' it wasn't a question, it was a demand. Sherlock was demanding him to answer. Alas, he did not. 'What's that noise..?' he asked, as he became aware of the sounds of traffic from the other side of the line.
'The sound of life, Sherlock. But don't worry,' the voice became more panicked, breathing heavier as he read it out. 'I can soon fix that.' his voice broke in fear. 'You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. But this time, you have eight.'
Sherlock's gaze shifted around the room, taking in what he had just said. The line went dead just as Lestrade yelled from the next room – 'we've found it!'
I'm so sorry, this one is absolutely tiny! I'm ashamed at how short these are - but I hope they're keeping you interested :P
Unpopular opinion: this next leg in the game is my least favourite. It is the most boring, I think.
I'm so so so looking forward to the pool! It was my favourite scene to write, absolutely ever.
Until next time :)
-H
