I'm so unsure if this chapter even flows, hence how long it's taken me to publish it. But I'm publishing anyway because I'm more than ready to move onto finishing up the next chapter.

Thank you to all who left a review on the last update. I love you very much.

When she woke the next morning, it was not the usual sight of her bedroom that greeted her. Neither was it the living room where she was ninety nine percent sure she had fallen asleep the night before.

"Do you know you steal the covers in your sleep?" A voice next to her made her slowly turn onto her side. She could feel his breath on her face and she wondered if they had slept that close together all night.

"No I don't." Her voice was hoarser than usual and her mouth felt fuzzy.

"I had to physically un-clench your hands from them to get some back."

"Why didn't you just leave me in the living room?" She grumbled. She could feel the headache fast approaching and couldn't be bothered to listen to his moaning.

"Your body would have been aching today if I'd left you there. I highly doubt you'd have managed to stay warm either."

"Not the end of the world."

"How's the headache?"

She hated that he knew she was already getting one, but she wasn't about to give in and let him know. "Don't have one."

"Not yet." Though he didn't believe her in the slightest.

"Pfft." She rolled over gently so she had had her back facing towards him but at the tug she felt on the covers, she turned back over. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to stay warm. What are you doing?"

"Trying to go back to sleep." She made eye contact with him and she couldn't decipher if the look he was giving her was annoyance or him teasing her.

"Didn't you sleep enough last night?"

"When did you last get some sleep? Enough sleep that is. Do you even sleep?" Not that she'd ever witnessed Sherlock ever actually looking tired, but she couldn't recall (off the top of her head) ever actually seeing him asleep either. (She didn't count the time Irene had drugged him.) But given the events of the night before, she wondered if perhaps the man beside her had managed to rest at all. Especially since he had willingly shared his bed with her. (According to her brother, when she had sometimes climbed into his bed with him after a bad dream, she was prone to fidgeting and kicking. Sometimes he'd even complain about her talking in her sleep. But that had been a long time ago and she liked to think she had got past that stage. At least, she hoped she had.)

"I managed to fall asleep rather quickly last night. It takes the average person around seven minutes to fall asleep, I did an experiment on Mycroft once. Lasted a whole month without him noticing - and he thinks he's the smart one - the time it took him to fall asleep ranged between ten and twenty five minutes - "

"Did you get enough sleep last night?" She interrupted, though she would have liked to hear more about his experiments - especially those he had conducted on his brother - she didn't actually have all day to lay around and listen to him.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." She shook her head, pulling the covers up to her chin a little more in order to try and keep the warmth in.

"Did you?"

She scoffed. "You tell me."

"You did talk though."

Great. "Anything interesting?"

"Hmm, something about your Mother not going in the kitchen?"

"Oh."

"Anything interesting in the kitchen?"

"Not that I know of. Probably all her booze."

"You sounded very panicked."

"Panicked?"

"Like it was a desperate situation she couldn't be part of."

"That's oddly specific."

"Bad dream?"

She couldn't actually remember dreaming about anything and wondered if Sherlock was talking about a time when he'd been in her room to think whilst he'd observed her sleeping but was only just getting round to asking her about it now. "I don't think so." She shrugged. "Out of curiosity. What was your Mum like after you'd had a nightmare?"

He frowned as if the idea was ridiculous. "I didn't go to either of my parents, I always calmed myself down, went back to sleep."

"Oh." She wondered what his parents were like. If he would do that because they were uncaring like her Mother, or just because that was a very Sherlock thing to do.

"What was your Mother like?" She felt he was only asking to appear polite and not actually concerned with a response. She wasn't going to bother giving him one until she opened her eyes and was met with his curious gaze, eyebrows raised as he awaited her response.

"You don't actually want to know surely? You probably already do know."

"I have an idea, but I want to hear it from you."

"Anything I have to say is surely boring."

"Nothing you have to say is boring."

She studied his face, noted the curls that had fallen across his forehead and the relaxed look across his features. "I never went to Mum." She admitted.

"You went to your half brother."

"Yes. He would always pretend to be annoyed with being woken up, but I think he rather enjoyed it; me being in the bed with him. I think it made him feel important. He would cocoon me in his arms and the blankets and whisper stories to me." Young Emily always enjoyed Jim's stories better, but she didn't want to bring him up at that moment in time. "He'd fiddle with my hair until I drifted off again. When I got older and wouldn't fit in his bed anymore I'd go and get him. I could never call out for him because it would have woken Mum up and she didn't appreciate that. He'd come to my room and sit on the edge of my bed. Tuck me back in and tell me things. He felt I was too old for stories by that point so he'd list off all the things he had planned for the next day, or what we could do at the weekend." Maybe it was the alcohol still in her system mixed in with not being one hundred percent awake, but Emily was feeling brave. "He would stroke my hair or my face," She bought her hand up from under the covers and slowly, so as not to alarm him, began to trace her fingers over Sherlock's cheeks. She waited for a sign that he wanted her to stop, but his eyes closed for a moment, before she felt him relax and open them up again so he was watching her. "He'd stay until I was almost asleep and kiss me goodnight again. Telling me it was going to be alright. Everything would be alright."

Emily blinked away the memory of one particular incident when Sebastian had had to stay with her for the duration of the night. Not once had he left her side. Not once had he taken his touch away from her, knowing she had needed the comfort.

Emily jumped slightly at the touch she felt on her free hand, resting on the pillow just in front of her face. Sherlock had begun to trace his fingers along her palm and she only realised now someone was doing it, just how long it had been since anyone had done it to her. Remembered just how nice it was, how soothing it was.

Had Sherlock not done this, she would have moved her hand away. However, his touch relaxed her, kept her present. She wondered if perhaps her touch was doing the same for him.

She felt as if she could fall asleep again to the feel of this. His hand on hers, hers stroking his face but she did everything in her power not to close her eyes.

"When do you need to be at work?" Sherlock whispered.

"Roid said I could go in anytime. As long as I did all my hours for today."

"Go back to sleep." He whispered to her, his fingers now tracing shapes on her palm. She didn't need telling twice. She was practically already half asleep. In her last conscious moments, she was fairly certain she felt Sherlock take the hand she had rested on his cheek between his own and interlock their fingers.

"Is everything ok?" Emily jumped at the sound of the voice at her office door. She hadn't even heard it open. Her sudden movement did nothing for her headache and she found herself wishing she had drunk every drop of water the kitchen tap had to offer that morning. "Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you." Molly's soft voice continued.

"It's ok Molly. You can come in." Compared to Emily, Molly had stuck to her usual work clothes and sensible ponytail. Emily, encouraged by John informing her that it was a day she technically shouldn't have been working anyway and that Roid wasn't going to be in, had chosen her jeans, converse, plain black t shirt under a jumper and her coat. Despite her hangover, she felt as if her shift was rather enjoyable, all because she was in her casual clothing. She felt warmer for it too. If only slightly.

Though Molly entered the room, she stood next to the door, leaning on it as she fiddled with the handle. Emily noticed immediately that her friend was looking at her shoulder instead of her face and she couldn't help but feel somewhat panicked that she really had made a fool of herself the night before.

"I'm sorry for how I was last night." She started the conversation when it was clear Molly wasn't going to.

The corner of Molly's lips lifted a little. "It's alright. You were quite funny."

"I guess 'quite funny' is better than pain in the arse." Another silence fell upon the pair. Emily had never felt so awkward around her friend, not even during their very first conversation. She couldn't help but wonder if Molly was feeling the same. "Thank you for my present. I loved it." She attempted to break the awkwardness again. The woman before her had gifted her a set of books that she had told Mike about one day a few weeks ago. Emily couldn't wait to start reading them.

"You're welcome." Molly beamed at her, finally making eye contact. "Thank you for mine." Emily had gifted her friend a pair of jumpers she had been eyeing up on their shopping trip; one had been decorated with cats and the other a striped one in bold colours. "They fit perfectly." As if realising what she was doing, Molly looked away back to Emily's shoulder. She wondered if maybe she'd got something on it and found herself pondering how to go about wiping her hand on it as discreetly as possible when Molly spoke up again. "I only wanted to ask if everything was alright?" Emily frowned and watched Molly being to fiddle with her fingers, looking down at the floor now.

"Yeah, I think so." The blonde chuckled. "My head hurts a little if we're being honest." Though if she was going to be completely honest she would have said a lot.

"I'm not surprised. You were holding the shampoo bottle rather tightly."

Emily blushed. "John assures me he's sent everyone the pictures he took of me."

"I might get one printed." Molly joked. "But I didn't mean with your hangover. I meant - well - I couldn't help but hear what Sherlock said last night. About your Mum?"

"Oh? You'll have to remind me?" She stalled for time.

"He said you had no idea where she is? I just wanted to make sure you were ok? And I suppose ask if you really didn't have any ideas?" She closed her eyes tightly, apparently regretting her choice of words. "No- I didn't - I just - "

"Molly. It's fine." The woman at the door released a long breath. "Thank you for asking. For caring. I really have no idea where she is. I think if she wasn't alright I would have heard something by now."

"Are you not interested in finding her?" Molly almost sounded as if she was accusing her of something.

"Well, it's not that I'm not. I want to know where she is yes, but where would I even start? There's not a single trace of her at the house."

"You could ask Sherlock to find her."

Emily, too caught up in the overwhelming feelings she was dealing with towards the Detective, hadn't actually thought of that idea. Would she really want her friend caught up in the woman that was her Mother? The answer was no. She wanted to keep her remaining family as far away from her life at Baker Street as possible. The silence that Emily failed to fill was answer enough for Molly.

"Oh, well -"

"It's not that I don't want to find her." The blonde finally found the words she was looking for. "It's just that, well, there's really a lot to unload about this particular topic of conversation and the workplace definitely isn't the place for it. Please don't think that I don't want to explain it Molly, it's just - "

"No, no, it's fine. I understand." Emily couldn't decipher if she actually meant that or not. "Have you got much left to do?"

"Only a few more things and then I'm off home until the new year."

"Well, I'll leave you to it." Though the only movement she made was to put her hand back on the door handle. "DoyoulikeSherlock?"

"Could you repeat that please Mol?"

Molly swallowed hard. "Do you like Sherlock?" Emily felt as if this question was the real reason Molly had come in and couldn't fight against the blush that grew on her cheeks. "I see."

"No - Molly -"

"I hope you have a lovely New Years." With that Molly was gone and Emily didn't need to get up to know her friend would already have made it down the corridor and out of sight, there was no point trying to discuss the topic with her.

Emily sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and squeezing her eyes shut. She had had enough of today and it was far from over. She still had yet to head back to the house and find out what Jim and Irene had left for her. Maybe stop at a shop and buy some paracetamol for her increasing headache. It was steadily getting worse again and staring at her computer screen wasn't helping.

She would have to talk to Molly soon; pull her to one side or invite her out shopping again if she really had to. She felt if she tried calling or messaging now, there would be no reply.

Gently slapping her cheeks to wake herself up a little more, she focused back on her screen and continued on with her job. Just a few more tasks to get on with and she could have a few days away from this place. The distraction of work would help her forget the feeling of sadness she felt bubble up in her chest at the thought of Molly not talking to her.

Emily was surprised at all the traffic around.

OK, so, Christmas was over, but she didn't think she'd seen so many cars on the road on a Boxing Day.

She was slightly concerned she would get a message from one of her flatmates asking where she was at any second, but so far, nothing had come through. She was about an hour late and she had yet to even think about how to get home to Baker Street. Train, or Taxi?

Perhaps they were out on a case?

Compared to the two houses that flanked it, Emily's looked thoroughly miserable. It was probably the only one on the street that had no lights on in any of the windows, and certainly had no tree in the window.

She pushed on, noticing how numb her feet had turned in her converse that were no doubt soaked from the snow and silently thanked John for advising her on wearing them to work instead of her heels.

With the torch on her phone, she lit the way so she could see what she was doing as she unlocked the front door and attempted to turn the lights on. Just as they hadn't worked before, they didn't work now and Emily could not help but feel a little frustrated.

Before she could allow the creepiness of the place to overcome her, she raced to where she had last left the heavy torch so she would have two sources of light and flew up the stairs, into her room, slamming the door behind her. She couldn't help feeling like a child that had been left home alone and was running from the ghosts her imagination had conjured.

The envelope rested on her pillow once more, but it was not the only thing waiting for her.

Sitting on the middle of the mattress was a beautifully wrapped box. A closer look revealed a tag that read: Love from Irene xxx

She almost didn't dare to open it.

She took a seat next to the box and thought about giving it a shake but found herself (though she wouldn't admit it out loud) a little excited to see what was inside. Carefully, she began to unwrap the box, mindful not to tear the lovely paper.

A shoe box awaited her. But not just any shoe box.

Emily's eyes widened at the sight of what was written on the lid and part of her wondered if this was some joke.

Lifting the lid revealed it was not a joke.

Gingerly, she picked them up, careful not to get her grubby fingerprints all over them. A pair of - how was it Irene had pronounced it? - Louboutin's; black with the red soles.

Before she could even really register what she was doing, she was slipping her shoes and socks off (no doubt she would regret this when it came time to putting them back on) and opening one of her drawers for an old t shirt to dry her cold wet feet on.

When she felt they were dry enough, she picked up the torch and padded her way to her Mother's room, closing the door in order to use the mirror she knew was on the back of it.

Holding onto the wall, she put them on, already feeling how perfectly they fitted her. She wished the lights were working so she could get a better view of how they looked but would have to wait until she got back to Baker Street. There was no way she could hide these, she could try to sneak them in, but how would she explain these to her flatmates? A secret Santa at work perhaps? She shook her head of that particular problem and focused back on the now and how a sudden urge to message the Woman overtook her. She wanted nothing more than to scold Irene for spending so much money on her but had to stop that train of thought too, when she remembered that any message sent to her would not get read by her.

With one last glance at her badly lit self, she maneuvered carefully back to her own bedroom and the envelope that still awaited her, walking closely to the walls should she need to steady herself.

She sat back down on the mattress and lifted the envelope from its resting place. No words written on the outside and she sincerely hoped there wasn't another cheque waiting for her.

The card itself was classic style. An old fashioned Father Christmas looked back at her, sack full of presents on his back and a snowy scene in the background.

She opened it slowly, hoping nothing would fall out. Her heart sinking a little when something fell onto her lap.

To my sweet girl. Let's see what this new year brings us.

Merry Christmas!

Lots and lots of love,

Jim.

XXX

P.S. Since you've no need to read the papers much anymore, I thought I'd give you this very interesting article I found.

Folded up and now resting on her lap, was a newspaper article. She unfolded it to find it wasn't a particularly long article. She had to wonder if anyone else had even seen it. Had the journalist that had written it even really cared, not wanted to write it in the first place?

Mother of Missing Boy Determined to Find Answers.

By Kitty Riley.

The title alone was more than enough. She screwed it up and stuffed it into her coat pocket.

But Jim had left this in here all those weeks ago. Just how old was this article? She wasn't going to dig it out again (not that it would even help) but she was certain the paper wasn't old. Did that mean it had been fairly recent? How recent?

She found herself wishing it had been a cheque.

Her heart was beating rather rapidly and she made an effort to keep her breathing normal.

She should burn it. Once she was home - no! She couldn't wait that long. She would have to find the matches or a lighter and destroy it. If this was a paper dated way before Christmas as she suspected, then all the other copies would be in the bin by now. Maybe even being used as chips wrappers down the chip shops.

In order to help calm herself, she pictured herself setting it alight, its smoldering remains when the deed was done. How free she would feel.

But she knew she would never be free. Not really.

She also knew that destroying it by fire wouldn't be what she would do, despite knowing it should be. No doubt she would fold it up neatly - still not reading a single word of it - and place it in her shoe box.

But was this 'gift' a warning?

Or a threat?

FB