'Does he really think he can threaten me?' Sherlock growled, storming out of the warehouse with Florence in tow.
'Sherlock...'
'Me? John, perhaps. You, you're more likely to fall for that. But me?'
'Hold on!' Florence yelled, and Sherlock realised he was practically running. He slowed his pace. 'He's concerned. For both of us.'
'Don't start making excuses for him-'
'Why? Because you're jealous? You're jealous because I might have wanted to stay with them? The only reason I didn't was because I had missed you, to the ends of the Earth, and deep down I thought you did too. But no, you're more concerned about being threatened by someone who actually cares about me.'
'I care about you.'
'Really? Because recently, my mind has not been altogether healthy, and I need confirmation frequently-'
She would have continued talking, if Sherlock hadn't cut her off with his finger to his lips. 'You were in Year Seven. I was in Ten. You had just started high school, and you were absolutely terrified. You didn't want to seek me out because you thought I'd be embarrassed by you. So instead you suffered in silence whilst I had literally nothing better to do. When you told me this when we got home, you were crying. So I took you out, and we looked at the sky, and you told me that clouds were "visions of the sky" and I listened, but inside I was kicking myself, because I was angry with me for making you think I'd be embarrassed by your presence.'
Florence stared up at him, her wide eyes glistening. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock silenced her again.
'You were in Year Nine, and I had just left school. Summer holidays. I would be going to college that September. You were concerned about the wellbeing of your mother. You never saw her, and when you did, she was drunk. You wanted to live somewhere – anywhere else but your home, so I offered the Manor. Mother wouldn't have minded, and Father thought you were brilliant. You laughed quietly and said "living with Mycroft?" and I agreed. That night, you called me and you were whispering. I think you were crying. You said that she hadn't come home, and you were on your own. You were nearly fourteen and I didn't want you to be alone at night, so I went to your house and spent the night. Then we spent the next day together, regardless of the fact that I had an interview with the university I was going to.'
Florence was looking at her feet. They were still walking, but now Sherlock stopped her by putting his hands on her shoulders and spinning her to face him.
'You were seventeen. Two-thousand and three, the year you went missing. It was the day before your birthday. Your eighteenth birthday. The sun was just setting, and I told you for the first time that I was a high-functioning sociopath. You looked at me, and I could tell you were thinking it over. Then you shrugged, grinned, and said "well at least you're not a low-functioning psychopath." and I remember I laughed for five minutes, and whenever I thought about it I would laugh more. And I remember that you made me feel better about it. Because that was the only time I ever felt self-conscious, when I was twenty-two and discovered I was a sociopath.' He clasped her shoulders. 'Look at me.' he said, and she didn't. 'Florence. Look at me.' she reluctantly raised her head. 'Do you remember these times?' he asked, and she swallowed tears.
'I do,' she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
'Then don't you dare say I don't care for you. Because these times, and more, defined my life. And when you left, I turned into the emotionless dick I am now. You made me human, Florence. And when you went I wasn't a human anymore. I didn't want to feel. So I'm sorry if that trait of mine is still active, and I don't show affection like I used to. I'm not who I was. So I'm sorry, Florence. I'm trying.'
Florence looked down again. She was obviously ashamed, and something inside Sherlock felt bad, and something else felt good. He had portrayed his message well. On the other hand, he had made her feel bad. And that hurt him somehow. She wasn't answering him, and he could see the cogs in her brain trying to find a perfect way of expressing her feelings.
Instead of speaking, she raised herself to his eye level by standing on her toes, and leaned in slowly, gently kissing him on the lips. It lasted less than two seconds, and as she pulled away he frowned. He was going to say something, but Florence was already gone, heading in the direction of a cab she was hailing. She didn't wait for him.
On the taxi ride home, Florence was kicking herself mentally. What the fuck did she go and do that for? She had probably ruined everything. She knew what he was like now, he wasn't much of a feeler – he had just made that very clear. Now she had done that, he would probably shut her out. She didn't want that. She wouldn't be able to handle that – Hell, what if it sent her spiralling again? What if she went mad?
She was so wound up in her thoughts she didn't notice the driver take one wrong turn, then another, then another until she found herself outside a large building. She was about to ask the driver what the hell he thought he was doing before the door opened beside her and she was hit rather forcefully over the head.
Florence couldn't remember where she was. She had woken up in an unfamiliar room, and it appeared she was tied up. She could faintly hear shouts from a different room, but her head was heavy, and she couldn't listen. Her body ached. She remembered being kicked, hit, beaten like a badly treated horse. Her skin tingled and stung, and she could smell her own blood. The bonds tying her wrists were rubbing against them, and it hurt. She hurt.
Then, as she heard the terrifying boom of one of Michael's explosives, and she felt the building shake as it collapsed beneath her, she vowed that if she survived she would never have to be rescued again.
That didn't last long.
Sherlock knew something was wrong when he returned to 221B to find Florence was absent. He asked John, and he said she hadn't even come up.
That was odd, he thought – he had definitely heard her tell the driver to come here.
'Mrs Hudson?' he called, his voice booming around the building. It didn't take long before he heard her shuffling up the stairs, taking her time.
'Yes, dear?'
'Have you seen Florence? She didn't come home.'
'Ooh,' Mrs Hudson said, her facial expression darkening with worry. 'No, I'm afraid not, dear. Maybe she went up to Tesco's?'
'Without getting a list, or asking you what you wanted?' Sherlock said, moving to retrieve his phone from his pocket. 'Seems a little odd, don't you think?'
He was surprised to see a notification on his lockscreen – a text. He opened it hopefully, wishing it to be from her. It was. It did not seem right, however. His heart sank.
John caught his expression of worry, but it disappeared before he could question him. He thought nothing of it – he was probably just worried about Florence.
'Oh, it's okay – I've just got a text...' he trailed off as he read it. John looked at him again, and this time his expression lasted long enough for him to frown. 'John – come with me.'
'Can't, said I'd meet Sarah again.' Something told John that was not the right thing to do – but he had promised, and he was liking where this relationship was going.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and watched him go with an air of distaste. Then, spying the memory stick on the table John had left from the case Mycroft had given them, he had an idea. He picked it up, put it in his pocket, and moved over to his laptop.
Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.
He glanced at the text message again, reading the words – the instructions – the bomber had left for him. He nodded in satisfaction, and waited for midnight.
The second Florence woke up, panic began to rise in her chest. She was tied to a chair. Her head throbbed, and by the taste in her mouth it was bleeding, too.
'Ugh.' a voice said from behind her, and she instantly recognised it as Molly's gay boyfriend, except this time it was thick with an Irish accent. 'Don't you just hate it when blood gets in your hair?'
'What are... what are you doing?' she asked, realising it was a wheely, cheap office chair she was tied to, and wiggling her way round to face him. Every move hurt her.
'Sorry, I would answer with some type of seriousness, and / or a threat – but that was just too funny to watch.'
'Hilarious. What are you doing?' she said, her face emotionless. It was safe to say that inside she was not so calm.
'Holding you hostage, silly. What does it look like? All I have to do now is wait for little Sherlock Holmes to come rushing to your rescue. Providing he... makes it.'
'Don't you dare hurt him.' she growled, earning a hysterical laugh from her captor – Jim, she recalled.
'Or what? You'll kill me? I'm afraid, darling, you're not quite in that position.' he laughed. 'Let me go check if our favourite Doctor is ready. This is going to be so,' his voice was playful until he said 'so', where it took an aggressive turn, and he hit her in the stomach with the butt of a gun he had produced from his jacket. 'much,' he continued, kicking her hard in the leg – so hard, she heard it crack as she tried not to scream, 'fun.' he smiled a dangerous smile, before clocking her round the head again, causing her entire world to turn black.
Michael made his way steadily over the rubble of the building their explosive had just brought down. He claimed he was looking for survivors, but as he stepped delicately over shards of glass and huge slabs of grey concrete, he put his gun away. He had already done enough damage.
'You fucking idiot.' Arthur yelled from somewhere behind him, emphasising the first two letters of the last word for effect. 'You said this was a small explosive.'
'It was,' Michael said grimly, bending down to pick a piece of concrete up. Underneath was the very dead face of someone, so he replaced it harshly. 'compared to what else I have.'
'Was she still in there?'
'I don't know. If she was, she's long gone now, Arthur.'
The dust began to clear, but still not enough to see anything clearer.
'James!' Arthur called out, choosing to ignore Michael's last statement.
'She's here!' James called back, from somewhere within the dust cloud. Arthur breathed an audible sigh of relief.
'You were lucky there, Michael. If you had killed her I would have shot you, there and then.'
Enter, Moriarty. Yay!
