The aftermath. If this is a bit slow, I'm sorry, this is just a filler I suppose :)
Florence was talking in her sleep again. Murmuring incoherently, and Sherlock couldn't make out many words.
She had been submitted to the hospital the day of the pool, and had been in there for nearly a week. The doctors and nurses expected a full recovery, maybe not mentally – but physically, and that was a start.
Moriarty had broken her leg, and her ankle when he stepped on it. The hit to the stomach had broken a rib and caused internal bleeding, and her head had been hit hard in two different places. She had inhaled water when she was pushed in to the pool, and was violently sick when she had arrived at the hospital. She hadn't eaten properly in days, and it was beginning to have an effect on her physique.
John was constantly worried about her, but Sherlock had not seen her three friends since they left them at the pool. She barely spoke, just in her sleep, and the odd word – John said she was still in shock, and part of that Sherlock believed.
A different part of him, though, said that something had happened to her in that room with Moriarty. Something terrible.
He placed his tea on the table beside him, closed his laptop, and moved to go wake her up.
'Hey,' he muttered, taking her by the shoulder lightly and shaking. She shook her head in protest. 'Hey. It's okay.'
Her green eyes fluttered open, and she stopped fretting. She stared at him, crouching down beside her, and he saw her dig her nails into her arm as a way of trying to wake herself up. Satisfied, she smiled.
'Which was it?' he asked, but he already knew – he had died, again, and she was checking if he was still alive.
She shook her head, indicating she didn't remember. He smiled, and offered to make her tea. She accepted, silently.
'Heard from your... friends?' he asked, moving towards the little hospital kitchen to boil the kettle. He heard her check her phone.
'Not yet.' she said, her voice cracking with the words from disuse.
'Maybe they're waiting for you to contact them.'
'And say what? Thank you for pulling me out a swimming-' she didn't finish, and Sherlock knew it was because she couldn't breathe. Whenever she mentioned anything about that whole evening, she couldn't breathe. So, with her tea in his hand, he went to go sit opposite her, to engage her in distracting conversation.
'Remember when you got lost that time in the woods surrounding the Manor?' he said, beginning to smile as her breathing steadied. 'You were gone for hours, and I didn't notice because I thought you'd gone home already, and it wasn't until Mycroft told me he could see you waving from the top of a tree from his bedroom window that I noticed.'
She had begun to laugh, and she sipped the tea gingerly. Her eyes wanted to say thank you, but she could only stare and smile.
Neither of them had spoken about the kiss. Sherlock had wanted to, and one single question burdened his mind, burning at his brain and his skull. Why him?
James shut the window of his little room quickly, as the wind was beginning to pick up. Shuddering, he looked down at his laptop, at the code he was working on. He was trying to find Florence. Just find her. They had been watching 221B for days – and only Watson and Holmes had come out of it – never her. So, Arthur had resorted to stalking.
Michael was still being punished for his little stunt with the "trap", but the 'punishment' was nothing serious, just disrespect from Arthur. He knew that his two followers – and Florence, whenever she was around – respected him, and if he didn't want their company, they felt like disappointments.
Without warning, the screen blipped with a message.
'St. Bart's. Stop trying. FW.'
'How's it going?' Sherlock asked, placing a cup of tea before his best friend, and sitting on a chair beside her bed. The girl before him shrugged, placing the book and pen down on her lap. 'Is it boring?'
'Not really.' Florence said, and Sherlock nodded. He liked it when she spoke to him – mainly because she wouldn't speak to anyone else. 'This is, though.' she continued, spreading her arms around her in a gesture to the bed she was sitting in.
'You're healing. That's all that matters right now.'
'What about you? How are you?'
Sherlock shrugged. 'Pretty much the same. Little more on my mind than usual, but when has that ever been a bad thing?'
'When it harms you.' Florence replied softly, and Sherlock looked at her, dead in the eye. She stared back. 'Don't pretend you're not hurting.'
'Why would I be hurting?' Sherlock said, a little too aggressively for Florence to let go.
'Too much in your head. This has happened before, Sherlock. You nearly killed yourself.'
'I'm okay. Really.' Florence gave him a look that stated she clearly wasn't buying it.
'Talk to me. I'm all ears.'
Sherlock stared at her coldly for a minute, his arms crossed over his chest. She stared back, moving once to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, before he sighed. 'You know what I'm going to say.'
Florence looked away, staring down at her hands in her lap. 'Surprised you hadn't said it sooner. Look. Don't get angry with me – I didn't know what to say-'
'I wouldn't have gotten angry with you.' Sherlock said, and he uncrossed his arms. 'At all.'
Florence closed her eyes, using her two forefingers to rub her temples. 'I know.'
'If you had stayed, or if you had waited for me, I would have just asked you why.'
'Why?' Florence asked, letting out a shrill laugh and bringing her fingers down from her head. 'Why the fuck do you think?'
'I don't know. I'm not good with people.'
'You used to be. You got me to like you.'
'I wasn't trying.' Sherlock smirked.
'Bet you're glad, though.'
'Thrilled.' He paused. 'So, why?'
Florence just smiled weakly. 'Use your powers of deduction, Holmes. It'll come.'
Sherlock frowned, then sighed again as his phone buzzed from inside his pocket. 'It's John. Apparently I've got to go home right now. And he says I don't understand timing.'
Florence smiled slightly. 'I'll see you later.'
Florence stared down at the photograph in her hands. A tear splashed onto the paper, and she wiped it off with her sleeve. It depicted her whole family. Her father, her mother, and little her. Her mother looked so healthy. So happy. She was smiling. It made her feel sick.
She switched photographs, placing the one behind her on her bed. This one was slightly updated. Unsmiling Mrs Wood. This one was more familiar. Five year old Florence Wood grinned into the camera, waving.
The next one was more comfortable. Twelve year old Sherlock, stood with his hand on nine year old Florence's shoulder. Behind him was his family. They were all smiling – even Mycroft. They were all linked somehow – Sherlock's hand on her shoulder, Mrs Holmes' arm round each of her son's shoulders, Mr Holmes' arm on his wife's waist. If you were to cut this photograph up, you wouldn't be able to without cutting a piece of someone else. They had asked Florence to be in their family portrait. She had never felt more included.
The next was the last photograph ever taken of her mother. Just her and Florence. Neither smiling, neither happy. The resemblance was striking – both high, striking cheekbones. Both thin lips, and a small, straight nose. The only difference was that Florence's eyes were sparky, full of life. Her hair was longer, and a richer brown. Mrs Wood's was brittle, her eyes dead. Lifeless.
Florence needed a drink.
She thrust the pictures in a bag and threw it so hard across the room that it knocked the lamp off it's table.
Then she grabbed her purse and left.
Florence set down the pen she was holding, staring at the words she had written. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks. It was the middle of the night, and she was thankful for that, for it meant that no one could come into her room and see if she was okay – she could just cry.
So she did, and as she cried she recalled everything that had happened to her over her lifetime. This was a good time to feel sorry for herself – no one else was with her. Once she had let this out, there would be no more self-pity.
She mouthed the words as she thought them, cradling her head in her hands. Her breaths came out as rugged, wheezy gasps, and her hair fell in front of her face, sticking to the tears.
Mother. Drugs. Torture. Explosion. Drugs. Shooting. Michael. Roof. Pool. Pool.
Then she couldn't breathe. Pool. Pool. Moriarty.
Gasping, she pressed the button frantically on the side of her bed. The one that rang for help.
She didn't necessarily need the help. She just wanted to know everyone was still alive.
Florence was discharged three days later. She would have been let out earlier, but she had had the panic attack, which caused her new therapist to reconsider.
Now, she sat nervously in the chair opposite her new therapist, her hands fidgeting under the table, unseen by the man before her.
'So,' he said, placing his elbows on the desk, 'how are you liking being out of hospital?'
'I was only in there a week and four days.' she answered, feeling like a child in the presence of this man, who's superiority was obvious.
'That's enough to feel trapped. How's your leg?'
'It doesn't hurt anymore.'
'Good,' the man said, nodding. Florence tried desperately to remember his name. She had been told, but it was in a moment of panic as she was told she was going to start going to a therapist by the nurse looking after her. 'Would you like to tell me why you think you're here?'
There was silence for a few minutes, and Florence listened to the ticking of the clock. 'Because I was kidnapped and tortured by a psychopath?' she then remembered- 'Twice?'
The therapist smiled. 'Perhaps, but that's not why you're here. You're here because of the toll that your experiences has taken on your mental health.'
Florence nodded, slowly. 'Just those experiences?'
'Not if you don't think so.'
There was a moment of silence. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
'So. How is your relationship with your parents? Do you get along?'
Florence's hands froze, and she stiffened. She thought this man was supposed to know her past before helping her. 'They're dead.' she whispered. The man nodded. Something told her he already knew that.
'Okay. Tell me about that.'
Oh, come on, Florence. Get a grip. You're okay. 'My father died when I was very little, in a... in a car crash. I had just started school. My mother wasn't really the same after that. She didn't really want to spend time with me, when I was at home, anyway. I didn't make friends imme...' - she closed her eyes, and swallowed - 'immediately at school – only Sherlock, when I was six or seven. I went round his house almost every day, to escape what I thought back then was just boredom. It turned out I was just... I was just scared.
'This went on for years, maybe seven or eight. I can't remember. She would come home drunk, pour both of us a glass of whatever she brought home, and would... she would just sit there, tears just silently rolling down her face, unseeing, unhearing. Just taking the odd sip from her glass. I always poured mine down the sink or the toilet, along with the remnants of the bottle. She was, uh, never very happy about that.
'Some nights she didn't come home at all, so I would either spend them alone or would call Sherlock, depending on my mood. It was usually the latter, and he would always stay with me, or me... always stay with me or me with him – his father would come and collect me and take me home with them.
'Then, when I was fifteen, I think... she...' she broke off, unable to complete her sentence. She had noticed the stutter creeping up on her, one she thought she had lost years ago. The therapist kept listening, silently urging her to continue. 'she killed herself. Threw herself from a window, onto the pavement.'
He nodded. 'I asked you about your parents' deaths, however you strayed from the subject a bit before getting to your mother's death. Was that because you thought I wanted to hear that, or because you were trying to draw it out, so the blow at the end wouldn't be so hard?'
Florence looked at him, her eyes wide with realisation. 'Both.'
'Okay. Well, usually I tell people not to tell me things you think I want to hear, as it... hm. Have you ever left, say, a block of cheese out overnight?' Florence shook her head, slightly taken aback. 'Well, it goes somewhat transparent, hard, a and darker yellow. Then, even when you cut all that horrible hard stuff off, you're still aware the cheese still isn't right. That's what it's like. I need you to speak freely to me, saying only what you want to say, otherwise I'll always be aware the cheese isn't right.'
Florence cracked a small smile. 'So, what I'm saying is cheese?'
The therapist laughed. What the fuck is your name?! It was getting embarrassing now. Surely she would need to use it soon.'Yes. What you're saying is cheese. So, let's try that again – who is Sherlock Holmes?' His words were soft, but there was some urgency in his tone.
'He's my best friend. Or rather, the adult equivelant. I don't know if I'm his best friend too. I hope so.'
'And you said you've known him since you were six or seven?'
'I think so. We both got along really well – isolated, lonely little kids with odd brains. The only difference was he was so much older than me – both mentally and actually - I think our age gap is three years – and we were odd in different ways.'
'How are you odd?'
'Oh... I don't know. I'm floaty. My mind is often in other places, and when it's in the right places, I'm desperately wishing it was somewhere else. People at school used to say I was a witch. They thought I was...' she let out a nervous laugh and switched the cross of her legs, 'contacting people. The dead, and that. And I liked that accusation. I was that kind of weird.'
'I don't think that's weird. I think you were maybe trying to escape something. Maybe your home life. Does that sound about right?'
'Probably. But I had other things to distract myself. I had books, mainly poetry. I wrote it, too. Not very well, but anything that rhymed I sort of just wrote down.' she laughed again, running her moist palms down her jeans. 'I sung, too... and then there was Sherlock.'
'Ah, yes – Sherlock Holmes. I've seen him on the news recently – he's really something, isn't he?' She nodded. The therapist smiled. 'Tell me more about your relationship with him.'
