Florence felt as though she was missing out. She desperately wanted to join in on Sherlock and John's case, but found that whenever she offered, John would shoot her down:

'You're not well enough. Rest up, please. You're not doing yourself any favours.'

Still, every time she stepped foot outside it would only take about an hour for her emotions to catch up, and she would have to go back inside. It was safe to say she was scarred for life.

After Christmas, everything died down a little. Apparently the Adler woman was dead, and that was taking it's toll on the man Florence thought she knew so well – as it was so clear he had some sort of feeling toward her, and not the utter loathing he portrayed.

This quiet time gave Florence time to get to know her best friend again. Every evening, she would sit and listen to him play, or yell at the television, and occasionally she would speak to him. She felt now as if she had to be his rock, instead of him being hers, as he had been for the past few months.

It was within one of these evenings they had one particularly interesting, rare conversation.

John was out. Florence didn't know where he had gone, she just knew he wasn't home, which was all that mattered.

Sherlock had just put down his violin. His final note rang around Florence's head, a swift flourish that had barely lasted a second. He had sat himself down forcefully on his black leather armchair, whilst she was on her spot on the sofa, where a sheet, some pillows and a blanket always sat, ready for her to use them. He had crossed his legs.

'I'm sorry.' he muttered out of nowhere, breaking the comfortable silence they had been sitting in for a few minutes.

'Sorry for what?'

'For not understanding your hints.'

Florence's eyes widened as her heart began to beat faster. She forced a laugh. 'What brought this on?'

'Irene Adler's death.'

'What about it?'

'It made me think of when you disappeared.'

Florence stood and moved to John's chair so she could see him better. His eyes had been cast towards the fireplace, but now he looked at her.

'I realised I can't afford to lose you again.'

'Why would you lose me again?' She asked, frowning. Sherlock uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in the chair. Florence mimicked his actions.

'I don't know. I just thought I should tell you.'

'I'm not going anywhere.'

'Which is why we need to talk about it.'

Sherlock didn't need to explain what he had just said. Florence knew. She sat back, feeling her cheeks grow hotter. That kiss was ages ago. Why did he only bring it up now?

'I wondered how long it'd take you.'

'It's not that I don't understand.'

'But...'

'But I don't understand why.'

'Because...' Florence trailed off, apparently finding the confidence to carry on. 'Because you mean everything to me. And all that time I spent away was just proof that I couldn't live without you.'

Sherlock looked away, at the fireplace. His hand moved to his face.

'I know that is probably hard for you to... digest.'

'I'm doing surprisingly well.'

Florence laughed. 'That you are.'

'It's just strange timing, is all. Because the other day I was thinking about the pool. If Moriarty had killed you,' Florence had looked away, and her heart rate had quickened. She breathed deeply. 'and what measures I would have gone to to make sure he died too.'

She looked back at him, her forehead creased. Then she looked back at the fireplace. 'I wish he were dead.'

Sherlock looked at her like one might look at a friend when they've just lost a close friend or family member.

'What did he do to you?' he asked, barely whispering. 'What did he do to make you so scared?'

He watched with some regret and guilt as her eyes began to glisten.

'It can't have been anything more physical, it would have shown up when the hospital ran those tests. It couldn't be drugs or anything related for exactly that reason – so what did he do?'

'It was... mental.' she said, closing her eyes. Sherlock frowned, surprised she was actually talking about it. 'He made me think you were dead. For an hour. Then, when I heard your voice, he made me believe I was imagining it. All this time, I was freaking out. Whenever I looked down I saw blood everywhere. I was tied to a chair, and a psychopath was singing nursery rhymes to me, and I-'

She had begun to cry now, properly. She brought her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them. 'I'm sorry. But I really believed you were gone. That's why it didn't matter when he-' she put her hand to her mouth, to stifle the sobs that were coming from it.

Sherlock slid off his seat, and knelt in front of her, placing his hand on her other hand. His eyes were still sad, but he really wanted her to open up. He figured that if she couldn't talk to him, he couldn't talk to anyone.

'What did he do?' he asked, slightly more forcefully than before.

'He put a gun to my head, and made it seem like he was going to kill me. I didn't care at that point, I wanted death. Then he didn't, and made me believe I was going to live. That's what scared me the most...'

Sherlock was frowning, and his grip on her hand loosened. When she didn't continue, he prompted her again. 'What scared you the most?'

'That I was going to live in a world without you.'

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, just for a second. He released her hand, and sat back on his chair. Suddenly, everything made sense. The kiss, her secrecy, her awkwardness. Her fear. Everything made sense. He had said he understood the hints, but now everything was far clearer. It made sense. And the worst part is, she had said that all before, not three minutes ago.

Florence Wood was in love with him.

He smiled, gently. Warmly, even. A strange, tingly feeling spread over his chest and into his stomach. He didn't like this feeling, but it made him smile anyway.

'Please say something. You smiling like that is actually scaring me.' she said, her voice deadpan. Sherlock started laughing.

Florence sniffed, a smile creeping across her face. She wiped her eyes with her jumper sleeve. The colour of the jumper made her tears look like blood.

Sherlock was still laughing, and Florence reached over to hit him. 'This is not how I want to remember this.' she said. Sherlock stopped laughing, but there was still a grin on his face.

'I'm only laughing,' he said, his eyes glistening. 'because I have felt exactly the same way about you for so long, I never thought I'd shake it off. Now I don't have to.'

Florence looked at him in awe. 'For how long?'

'I don't want to say.'

'Please. I've just told you everything.' she said, wiping another tear from her eye.

'True. It was... please don't think badly of me for this-'

'I won't. Don't worry.'

'It was when your mother died.'

Florence smiled. 'All that time.'

'I never stopped. Even when you were gone. I've never felt like this, nor will ever feel this again, about anyone. I've hated every second of it.'

'You're such a robot.'

'A robot that can smile?'

Florence laughed, and Sherlock joined in. It was such a rare occurance, them actually laughing together.

'Thank you.' she smiled sadly, once the laughter had died down.

'For what?'

'For telling me. I know this must have been hard.'

'You're the one that told me.'

'But you didn't shut me out. I know you, Sherlock. You shut people out, when they show even the slightest hint of emotion towards you. I keep thinking this isn't real, that I'm dreaming.'

'I would never shut you out.'

'I'm holding that against you for the rest of your life.'


Weeks passed, and nothing happened. Nothing at all. It was as if Florence and Sherlock's conversation had never happened. They never brought it up, not to anyone. Sherlock only asked about Moriarty occasionally.

He had, essentially, blocked her out. She knew it wasn't his fault. But what she had said scared him, she was certain - even though he felt the same way. She didn't even want to tell him what he said, about how he would never block her out. She didn't have the courage. Every morning, when she would wake up, he'd be on his chair – either toughening his bowstrings with rosin, or quietly tuning his violin, or reading the newspaper. Never something that would wake her up.

It was on one of these mornings, when she woke up to find not only John and Sherlock in their respective chairs, but another woman, the Woman, sitting on a wooden chair next to the desk.

Florence had never met this woman before. She had never even seen her. But the second she did see her, she knew precisely who, and what, she was.

She sat up quickly, pulling the covers of her makeshift bed – she had moved back down from her room to the couch, since she had broken her leg and couldn't get up two flights of stairs, but now she was better again she felt she just preferred it – tight to her chest. This was habit: once anyone unfamiliar was in her presence as she slept, she would become defensive.

'Morning, Florence.' Sherlock said, bow in hand. He was sitting quite casually in his chair, as if he was unaware of what was going on.

'What did I miss?' she asked, very aware she was wearing only a vest and some shorts. She wrapped the covers around her shoulders to hide the scars that adorned her shoulders and collarbone. Sherlock watched her with concern. He hated seeing those scars.

'Nice to meet you.' the Woman smiled. 'I'm Irene. I know a lot about you.'

'I know who you are.' Florence said, careful to keep her voice calm. 'and who told you?'

'No one important.'

Florence glared. 'Who. Told. You?'

'Now now, Florence.' Sherlock warned.

Irene smirked. 'It's okay. I didn't want to see him again. He wouldn't put his gun away.'

Florence had no clue whether she meant that sexually or literally.

'Why are you here?'

'That's a brilliant question.' Sherlock said, and flung his bow down on the floor beside him, standing hastily. He then walked into the kitchen and took something out of a test tube, ran it under the cold tap, and threw it into the fridge. Then he retraced his steps, fell back into his chair and stared intently at the Woman.

'Because people want to kill me.'

'And who's that?'

'Killers.' Irene sounded serious, and Florence smiled in amusement.

'It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific.' John muttered.

'So you faked your death in order to get ahead of them.' Sherlock stated.

'Mm. It worked for a while.'

'Then you let John know you were alive, therefore me.'

'I know you'd keep my secret.'

'You couldn't.'

Florence slipped out of the room, only earning a look from Sherlock as she did so. No one else seemed to notice. She had left her blanket behind, in a little heap on the sofa.


The streets spun. They weren't that same slate grey colour that they usually were – the colours were changing uncontrollably, the streets fluctuating. It was getting harder to walk. She wondered what the fuck she'd just taken.

Florence didn't want to go back her dorm. She couldn't face the snarky comments, the insufferable people. She didn't even want to see Sherlock.

Aware that Mycroft was probably watching her, she tried to act normal. She walked with a straight back, tried to ignore the ground moving. She made it as far as the alleyway leading to the next street before she threw up.

She checked her phone. It was only three thirty.

This wasn't good. She couldn't go back now. She couldn't risk seeing anyone she knew. Not like this. They'd start asking questions. Especially Sherlock... the way he'd been acting recently, he didn't want to see her at all, never mind as high as a kite. It would drive him up the wall. He might even get angry.

She thought long and hard about what she was about to do. Then, as memories from her mother's suicide crept up on her... she simply did not go home.


I love little heart-to-hearts like these. they're fun.