'How was that?' Sherlock asked Florence as she limped into the flat. She smiled, shrugging.
'It was as good as any therapy session would be.'
'I wouldn't know, I've never been to one.'
'Yeah, well, you don't want mine.' Florence said, still smiling. Sherlock's face darkened.
'Why not?'
'He's too smiley. Tries too hard to be funny. Compared the information I was giving him to cheese.'
'Huh. Maybe he needs his own therapy sessions.'
Florence giggled, placing her crutches beside her and lowering herself onto the sofa, wincing as she did so.
'Not feeling any better, then?' John asked, making Florence jump. She hadn't noticed he was in the room, but there he was, sitting in his red armchair. She shook her head.
'No. I doubt they will for a while – broken bones don't disappear overnight.'
Florence frowned, seemingly remembering something, and Sherlock eyed her carefully. He knew what she had said to him in the hospital when she had first come back. About all the pain from her broken bones being gone when she had woken up, the day after. Instead of speaking, she nodded, still frowning.
'Yeah.' she eventually said. 'Anyway, how's the case going? Figured out how that man died?'
'Yep, and got the photographs back.' Sherlock said, watching with a smirk as John frowned, still staring at his computer screen. 'Then lost them again by being drugged by an apparent evil prostitute who made a very interesting first impression. You'd have liked her, Florence. And by that I mean, you would have really, really hated her.'
'Wonderful.' Florence replied, grimacing. 'Where is she now?'
'Oh, we don't know. She returned my coat back to the flat, and now she's off hiding somewhere. Keeps sending me texts. I don't suspect we'll see her for a while, she's not leaving much of a trace. It's really quite annoying, because now I'll have Mycroft banging on at me until I find them.'
'Oh, yes – national importance.' John said, his voice smirking but his face remaining neutral.
'Oh, Mycroft.' Florence grinned. 'Haven't seen him yet.'
Sherlock snorted. 'You will. If I don't update him tomorrow he'll be 'round here, his umbrella taking up half the bloody floorspace.'
'Probably moaning at you again,' John chimed in, looking up from his computer.
'Then complaining about the quality of the chairs?' Florence offered, wondering if he still did that.
Sherlock's eyes widened with amusement as he remembered. 'Oh! Yes. He hasn't done that in a while. Either the chairs or my playing, both of which displeased him beyond belief.'
'Only cause he couldn't play.'
'He can't play anything. Only board games, only because it gets boring so I let him.'
'Oh, God. Remember that chess game that went on for four days?' Florence said, rolling her eyes.
'Wait, four solid days?' John asked, leaning forward in his chair.
Sherlock grinned as he recalled. 'He wouldn't give in. I had his queen, six of his pawns, his rooks, one of his bishops, and both the knights. I kept almost getting him in checkmate, but he would sit for hours at a time, pondering his next move. It was a ghastly situation to be in.'
'Then I burned the board.'
'Oh, yeah. Florence performed a little Satanic ritual, warning us that if we ever played chess again, she would personally rip us to shreds.'
'The question is, though, did you honour that ritual?'
'Of course.'
'Brilliant. Because I forgot.'
Florence didn't remember spending Christmas like people usually celebrated Christmas. She remembered sharing it instead with people she loved, drinking and eating and doing everything real people didn't do around the holiday.
She had only ever spent Christmas at the Holmes Manor, which was completely different to what normal people might've called fun.
Florence enjoyed every second of it. There were no presents, barely, just dinner and a hilarious array of different games, each one uniquely challenging, both mentally and physically (only when Twister, or Charades were involved, as Mycroft liked to do completely unknown stagewrites that he would be miming for ages), and no two were ever played the same. Each year, the rules would change, a new part added, something else that would leave Florence in stitches.
Then, in the evenings, were the songs – Mrs Holmes would play the piano, Sherlock the violin, Mycroft wound up on a tambourine and Mr. Holmes and Florence would sing. They would create rounds, harmonise and share parts. Mr. Holmes had an almost operatic voice, and Florence's was powerful, and both could reach unrealistic pitches. They would often compete – see who could go the highest, Mycroft judging. Sherlock usually won, doing some strange harmonic that would leave the room gasping or covering their ears in anguish.
However, when her mother died, it took a few years before she would sing properly again. Then she went away completely, and Sherlock suddenly hated Christmas.
Arthur wasn't really into fun – not in an Oliver Cromwell way, he just didn't really see the need, for festivities at least, so Florence lost the element that the holiday brought. She didn't remember enjoying herself.
But, this year, they were invited back to the Manor.
Sherlock had asked her with some dread, hoping beyond hope she'd say yes. He had missed Christmasses with her almost as much as she had missed them altogether.
She had accepted nervously, and for the entire journey was anxious about what Mr. and Mrs Holmes might think of her. She hadn't seen them yet, after ruining their son's life. She then reasoned that if they hated her, she wouldn't have been invited.
She had improved massively since the pool. Her sessions with her therapist were becoming fun. His name was Spencer, she had learned, admittedly after he had mimicked someone calling to him. They would play little mind games, ones that could help Florence remember, or overcome. Every single time, he would tell her that the thing she had cried about during the session wouldn't come back. She was beginning to believe him.
Her physical state was back to normal. She had cut a fringe, and it now completed her face in the same way it had done before. The little make-up she wore around her eyes brought them out, made the green almost shine. Her cheeks looked fuller. She looked healthy.
As well as this, her mental health was improving. Panic attacks had reduced to less than three times a week.
John had gone to spend Christmas with his family, as was expected, and Florence wasn't quite used to being alone with Sherlock for any amount of time, not yet. However, they were only there for two days, then had a little party planned at the flat with their closest friends when they got home, which she was quite excited about. She had missed celebrations.
'Remember,' Florence muttered as they walked up the little path of Sherlock's parents' little cottage, noticing that they had seriously downsized, 'no fucking chess.'
Sherlock smirked, and rung the doorbell. Florence found herself hiding slightly behind his tall frame and broad shoulders, and he sighed. 'I really wouldn't be worried. They missed you... to bits.' he said, imitating the phrases she said that he had found annoying.
Florence grinned and moved away, just as the door opened, and Mycroft stepped out.
'Oh, dear Lord. I hoped you wouldn't show up. We're not going to make this a thing, are we? A tradition?' he muttered. He didn't wait for an answer as he stepped past, nodding at Florence in greeting before pulling out a cigarette. Florence raised her eyebrows at Sherlock. There he was, having not seen her for nearly nine years, and he barges past her with a cigarette. Sherlock smirked back. Classic Mycroft.
'Ohh, there he is!' she heard the sound of Mrs Holmes' voice, and her heart instantly dropped to her shoes in a mixture between anxiety and excitement. She came out, dressed as colourful as Florence remembered, her pale blue eyes glinting with the joy of seeing her son.
He accepted her hug, if a little stiffly, and Florence was surprised to be hugged as well, as warmly as she had embraced Sherlock. Then, she held the girl at arm's length, surveying her.
'Well, my dear, haven't you grown?' she said, her face lit with a smile.
Florence grinned in return. 'Just a little.'
'Did you send her a text?' James asked, his voice bored. He knew the answer would be no.
'No.' Arthur replied, and James nodded. They were sitting on some plastic crates, fashioned in a circle around a small fire in a metal rubbish bin. They sure knew how to live.
'Are you going to?'
'It depends.'
'On what?'
'On whether or not she sends one to us. She told us to stop trying.'
'Oh, come on, Arthur!' James exclaimed, standing, and Arthur looked up at him in confusion. 'Just fucking do it. Two words. Means so much.' he said, and walked off.
Florence had never experienced joy like this.
She was sitting with people she very much considered her family, around a large piano in the Holmes' living room. She hadn't sung in years, but was pleasantly surprised to find she still had that power she had as a teenager, singing Christmas ballads with Mr. Holmes, Sherlock playing intricate violin solos that Florence could never dream of playing, Mrs Holmes playing a rhythm on the keys, and Mycroft uselessly banging a tambourine.
She felt at home again. The lighting was dim, lit only by a large amount of candles on the piano's top. The smell was overly familiar – spicy, the smell Florence associated with the colour red. The room was filled with noise, with smiles, and the occasional laugh, mainly when Florence's voice cracked or Mr. Holmes forgot some of the words.
At one point, Sherlock glanced up from the fret board of his violin and his eyes met with Florence's. Her eyes were shining in the candlelight, and although the look lasted for a fleeting second he could have sworn there were tears rolling down her cheeks. She was smiling, laughing – so he smiled too.
12:53 pm
Arthur: Merry Christmas.
21:19 pm
Florence: You too.
Arthur: How are you doing?
Florence: Okay, thank you
Arthur: …
Arthur: is that it? Just okay?
Florence: No. Today was good. I'm happy today.
Arthur: Trés bien.
Florence: I miss speaking French.
Arthur: speak it then
Florence: No. It feels forced now.
Arthur: You're weird
Florence: thank you
Arthur: I have to go. Á bientot?
Florence: are you trying to learn?
Florence: you forgot the accent.
Arthur: my keyboard doesn't support the accent
Florence: get a better keyboard, then!
Florence: Mais, oui, d'accord. Á bientot. You'll have to google translate that. x
Florence hadn't heard much at all about Irene Adler. She knew she was a sex worker, quite a popular one, who had... served a member of the royal family, taken some pictures, and that the royal family now desperately wanted those photographs back. Apart from all that, Sherlock had kept surprisingly quiet about it all. He even took on different cases, much to Mycroft's annoyance.
However, Florence still heard that text alert.
It wasn't daily, not any more, but it still made her shudder. She didn't even know why, something about the frankly inappropriate ringtone made her actually want to jump out of a window.
So, after Sherlock had made an utter fool of himself at their little Christmas party, she became slightly more upset by the fact that Irene Adler had texted him.
Again.
Florence was never one for jealousy – but now she had two girls, and John, to compete against for Sherlock.
Even thinking that sentence made her annoyed at herself, so she tried to think it as little as possible, which was easier said than done.
Sherlock's face, upon reading the text, had fallen, causing her to frown. She stood from her spot on the sofa, notibly the furthest away from the alcohol she could be, and shot him a look when he picked up one of the apparently decorative presents on the mantelpiece. He looked at it, and Florence saw with some dismay that it was wrapped exactly how Molly Hooper's had been wrapped, indicating, as he had deduced, a longing for him.
Not that that bothered her at all, their relationship was purely platonic. That's what she kept telling herself. It was a bit of a lie.
He excused himself quietly and she caught his eye. He shook his head slightly as John called out after him. Then John looked at Florence, frowning. She shrugged, and he pulled a face. He made to go after him.
'John-' she attempted to stop him, but he had already gone. All remaining eyes turned to her, and she closed her own slightly in frustration. Then she offered a quick, meaningless smile before following both her flatmates out of the room.
Sherlock was on the phone, and he held a phone in his hand. She didn't recognise it, but, having been told about the somewhat interesting case they were on, she had a pretty good guess as to who's it was.
'You're going to find Irene Adler tonight.' he said, his voice grim. If she listened carefully, she could here the whiny drone of Mycroft on the other end.
'No. You're going to find her dead.'
-
merry christmas :)
