Note: Sorry for not updating for a while, but I had writer's block on this fic when I didn't know which direction I wanted to plot to take. But now everything's figured out, so here we go.

HEADLIGHTS
By Hallospacegirl

Chapter Seven

My back burns with a thousand cuts and scrapes, my throat aches from the pressure of the wooden plank, and my twisted ankle swells painfully beneath a layer of newly wrapped gauze. I cringe into the pillow beneath my face as Watson applies yet another swathe of searingly sharp alcohol solution to my bare back.
"I am deeply sorry, Miss Cooper, but this procedure is crucial to your well-being," the doctor says. The cloth leaves my skin momentarily, and I hear him dip it into a liquid-filled enamel basin. "While the wounds themselves are but superficial, we must prevent any possibility of a more grave infection."
"I'm okay," I begin to assure him, but the renewed onslaught of the washcloth makes me cry out instead.
"Watson!"
Holmes. He has been standing by the window, his eyes staring blankly out into the sunless street and his lit pipe wrapping a little cocoon of smoke around his motionless body, but now he turns abruptly to us, and the smoke disperses like ghostly water droplets.
"Yes, Holmes?" the other man replies.
"For heaven's sake, do endeavor to be more... more..."
"More careful?" Watson guesses, sounding inwardly amused. "It is not a matter of my being careful. This medicine will sting our young friend dreadfully, regardless of the manner in which I apply it to her wounds. Trust me, my dear Holmes, I have successfully cared for patients on the battlefields of Afghanistan who have sported mutilations far more grievous than these."
Holmes doesn't reply. His clear gray eyes dart to mine for the briefest of instants before averting to the floor, and he wheels around, his arms crossed tightly in front of him and his shoulders slightly hunched. "She is not a hardened soldier of Afghanistan," he mumbles at last.
I can't resist. "Are you saying I have a low tolerance of pain, Holmes?"
"I say what is fact, Miss Cooper," he answers to the window, "and nothing more and nothing less."
"You can say all the facts you want, but I know what you mean. You think I'm weak and frail."
"Assume what you will. I have several cases of interest waiting for me in the study which merit my attention, and now if you will pardon me, Miss Cooper, I will leave you in the hands of the good doctor." Giving a small nod, Holmes steps away from his spot beside the window and exits the room without another glance in my direction.
After several minutes of quietly soaking my back with the fiery solution, Watson finally breaks the silence. "I do believe the man has changed quite profoundly," he whispers, as though to himself.
I twist my head around to stare at the doctor. "Changed? How?"
"If you recall, Miss Cooper, on that day several weeks ago when we were first introduced, Holmes paid almost no heed to the fact that you were – most inappropriately attired – for the situation. However, today he has kept a considerable distance from you for the past hour that we have been in this room."
"And... what are you suggesting?"
"Sherlock Holmes has learned respectable manners at last." Watson smiles wanly and rinses the washcloth in the basin. As he squeezes the excess solution from the cloth, I think I hear him add under his breath, "And perhaps something more."
"What did you say, Watson?"
"I said that you need one application more of the medicine," he replies. "Can you kindly turn so that your wounds face more directly toward me?"
"No, that wasn't what you said."
Watson regards me with a vaguely sad and pitying look. "You must try to exercise more caution, Miss Cooper. If you may permit me to say so, you are indeed weak and frail, but only as much as I, and only as much as Holmes. As a doctor and a widely traveled man, I have learned that we men and women are all bound in this world by the same weaknesses and frailties. Holmes's error is that he never believed you could be truly touched by the troubles of our times. To him, you are... the invincible Pallas Athena stepping down from Olympus to offer him all that his mind has hungered for. But with this unfortunate accident that has befallen you, he has finally realized – "
I sigh heavily into the pillow. "He realized that I'm nothing that a time traveler's cracked up to be."
"No, Miss Cooper. He has realized that you are a woman."
"Watson?" I feel my heart skipping beats inside of me. "What do you mean?" I demand.
"I... never mind. I have already said too much on a topic that barely pertains to me." The doctor gives a little shake of his head and a quick, apologetic smile. "Ready yourself for the medicine."
As he slides the cloth along my burning back, my mind drifts to that tall and gaunt detective named Holmes, and I can't push out of my mind the memory of us in the alley, his arms wrapped firmly around me, his cheek pressed to the side of my forehead, and his arrogant mouth drawn with something that almost seemed like fear.

..........

The days drag on more slowly than I could have ever imagined. On Dr. Watson's orders, I spend most of my time in bed, lying on uncomfortably on my stomach with my throbbing ankle resting on some pillows. At first I tried to sleep the hours away, but each time I closed my eyes the dreams attacked me in full force, filling me with images of the beautiful Irene Adler and the man in white and Mary Kelly. And each time Irene Adler would laugh into my face, goading with those horrible red, devouring lips, "I told so!" as the man in white slashes a glinting metal needle the size of a sword before me. Only Mary Kelly would call to me imploringly from the fringes of the headlights, "Please, do not lose hope, Ada. Believe!" and I see that she would desperately clutch a disintegrating black laptop computer in her shredded arms as if it is the only thing that can save her doomed soul.
I sleep as little as possible after that, preferring to waste away my time with Holmes's dry, densely written books instead. The only relief from the tedious boredom is when Watson stops by in the mornings for a visit and a brief chat, and when Holmes plays a simple violin tune from the study in the evenings. Holmes and I have stopped our conversations beside the fireplace, and I unwillingly find myself missing the way he gazed distantly at me as I carried on about the smallest and most familiar things in my life: guitar picks and buses and Gothic clothing.
In fact, we don't talk much at all anymore. We murmur the minimum hellos and thank yous when he comes to bring me my meals, but aside from those exchanges it's difficult to look into his gray eyes and not be reminded of the moment when he saved me in the alley. And sometimes I hear Watson's words in my mind: "He has realized that you are a woman," and a tingling thrill courses through my bones.
I'm aware of Holmes's presence and absence in the rooms as if a part of me has attached itself onto him. The dry crinkling of paper and the faint flickering glow of the fireplace seeping beneath my door tell me when he is reading the newspaper in the study, and the soft, even sounds of his breaths tell me when he is sleeping. When he leaves for afternoon investigations with a client, the curls of tobacco smoke that has been gathering all morning quickly evaporates, and the house is left silent and empty and cold.
Outside, the temperature drops as the winter settles in, and the rain spills over in frigid splatters upon the windowpanes and cobblestone streets.
One solitary afternoon in early December it's so cold that I ease myself from my bed and hobble into Holmes's room to borrow an extra blanket. It's only when I enter that I realize this is the first time I've ever been inside Sherlock Holmes's bedroom, and suddenly I'm nervous and excited like a small child who has just stumbled into an unexplored hidden wing of a castle.
Around me the wallpaper is in the same dark red design as the wallpaper in the study, but here the patterned extravagance is oddly out of place. Holmes's room consists of only an unmade bed, a simple table, a plain chair and a bookshelf holding more magazines and newspaper clippings than books. Blurry photographs of suspicious men, ominous houses, and seemingly usual objects are lopsidedly tacked to the wall with pins and small knives. Not surprisingly, Irene Adler's photograph is nowhere to be seen.
The chair beside the table is laden with Holmes's threadbare purple robe and countless pieces of other clothing. I walk to it slowly, nervous and unable to turn away, and run my fingers through the ragged velvet trim of the robe. I wore this once, I think unsteadily, and almost pick it up to press my cheek to the soft velvet before I remember whose this is and where I am.
I turn my attention to the other clothes, tossed and hung haphazardly onto the chair. There is a long black overcoat, a dark brown jacket, a pair of black trousers, and a white collared shirt with chipped ivory cufflinks. Beneath the shirt rests a large, neatly folded square of a familiar soft and black fabric, and it takes me a while to recognize the Goth dress I wore on the night I fell into this city. The bitter cigarette traces from Tony – a name that strangely holds no more impact in my mind when I whisper it to myself – and the streaks from the rain and mud have all been carefully cleaned away, and I gently poke the shiny silk with a curious detachment as if I am touching a preserved museum relic.
I pile the shirts and jackets back on the chair, but not before I wonder what Holmes will think when he returns from his investigation and sees that his clothes have been disturbed. He will immediately know that I'm the culprit, of course, and I imagine his ensuing line of questioning: "Miss Cooper, why were you in my room? And most importantly, why have you been running your hands through my garments?"
I smile a little giddily to myself. He will know of my presence, and he will analyze me suspiciously when my back is turned, but he will save us both from the unspoken implications and so he will never ask.
I leave the chair and limp up to the table. Holmes's violin rests crookedly on top of a pile of dusty books and yellowing newspapers, threatening to fall. I glide my thumb along the thin strings, drawing out an inexperienced and hollow chord in slightly dissonant fifths, and move the instrument to a more secure place next to the books.
That's when I notice the glass bottle on the corner of the table. The clear liquid inside is more than three fourths full, and I'm uncertain if this bottle is the same one I saw that day on the bookshelf. Behind it, a thin white and shiny gray object is partly concealed by the bottle and the edge of a small paper box. I push aside the box and bottle.
It is a syringe.
And suddenly the miniature drama plays out upon the table like the last episode of a television soap opera, and I remember what the adolescent selling sweet potatoes said to me – "comin' down the street a ways is that loafer who shows up in me dad's shop once in a whiles to buy himself some cocaine" – and I remember Holmes's ratty disguise, and now I read the label on the empty paper box beside the bottle:

Cocaine
In A Seven-Per-Cent Solution
One Glass Container

and everything makes perfect sense.
I think I was holding my breath, because now my chest aches and my head feels light and I suck in air hoarsely. I take the sleek syringe between trembling fingers and see that on the base of the needle there is a small black dot of dried blood.
"Why?" I gasp aloud to no one.
But as if in answer, the next thing I hear is Holmes's voice behind me, demanding harshly, "Miss Cooper, what are you doing in my room?"

...........

For a delirious second I wonder if I should simply throw aside the syringe and say that I was admiring his violin. It would save the scene and save what fragile thread of understanding remained between us. But it's too late, and I have already turned around to face him, brandishing the syringe in one hand and the bottle in the other. "Cocaine, Mr. Holmes?"
"Miss Cooper..." he says darkly. His face does not carry the irritated expression I have often seen directed toward me, but a look of complete shock and anger.
"Tell me this is evidence for a case, Holmes."
"Why are you in my room?"
"Why are you taking cocaine?" I sigh. "Holmes, isn't smoking enough? Tell me, what other methods are you using to slowly kill yourself? Staying up all night for two to three nights on end? Not eating? And don't forget that other drug that's so popular in this century. What is it called? Morphine? Are you using that too?"
From the way his eyes narrow to dark slits, I realize with a sinking heart that my wild guess is probably not too far from the truth. "None of this is your business, Miss Cooper, so do not presume you can treat it as so!" he shouts, making a grab for the syringe. I yank my hand away, ducking under his arm and hopping on my good foot out of the room.
I reach the bookshelf at the end of the study when he takes me roughly by my wrist and steps close in front of me. "Miss Cooper, I am not playing games. Give those items to me now."
"I'm not playing either, Holmes! This is wrong! I never, ever expected this! That – that..." That you are less than perfect, I finish silently, and my indignant anger surges to match his. "That you would sink so low!"
He smirks at me, without any humor. "I am a consulting detective, not a saint."
"Obviously!" I glance around me swiftly, and seeing that Holmes has newly lit a small fire in the fireplace beside the bookshelf, I fling the syringe and bottle into the flames.
We are both silent as we watch the bottle break into three pieces against the sooty back wall with a tinny, musical tinker, the liquid inside escaping and evaporating with a hiss and a wisp of steam. The body of the syringe shatters completely when it lands into the flames, and the needle flies free and lodges into a piece of firewood. In the heat, it glows red for a defiant moment, then wilts into a puddle that slides into the depths of the ashes.
"How dare you?" Holmes advances toward me, and I have no choice but to retreat the short distance to the edge of the bookshelf, stopping only when the wooden slats cut into my injured back like knives. His eyes bore into mine with a look of undeniable anger and something else I can't quite recognize. And then he raises his hand and I sickeningly think that he's going to hit me, slap me across the face like Tony did so many times before.
Holmes brings the heel of his hand against the side of the shelf, and the books give shuffling jolts. "How dare you, Miss Cooper?" He exhales, wearily. The anger drains out his stare and now he only looks lost. "How dare you."
I'm suddenly aware that he is standing almost fully against me. I sense the pressure of his heaving breaths all along my body, and I hear his heartbeat drumming in his chest like a muted drum. He smells of the cool rain and blustery wind outside mixed with the smoky essence of tobacco, and I know I'm crazy, or the damn weather and my twisted ankle has made me crazy, but I want to fall into his embrace and hold my cheek to his collarbone and breathe in his scent until the night descends upon us.
I bite my bottom lip. "Were you going to hit me, Holmes?" I ask in a wavering voice.
"I beg your pardon!" He jerks as though he has been shot. "No intention of the sort even crossed my mind."
Unwanted tears are stinging my eyes, and holding them back is a war I am quickly losing. I feel them slide down my face, one by one in little tickling lines, and I'm furious at myself for not being strong enough to prevent their quiet yet deadly attack. "Oh, I pissed you off, didn't I?" I snap at Holmes. "You looked like you were going to hit me. I think you really were going to, I really do."
"For God's sake, Miss Cooper, I am a learned man and not a – a brute."
"No, Holmes, all guys are the same. You pride yourself on being different, but now I know you're really not. You were going to hit me."
"Ada..." There. I've hurt him. It's written plainly in his tiny confused frown, his barely parted lips, and his haunted gray eyes overshadowed by a lock of hair. I stuck in the cruel knife of words and I twisted it and now I've hurt him ten times worse than he hurt me when I discovered his dirty secret. But instead of gloating in triumph, I can only let out a small, choked sob as the tears pour down my face in earnest.
"God, Holmes, I... didn't mean it. I'm so..."
But he beats me to it. In a barely audible, broken voice, he murmurs, "I am truly sorry, Ada. Forgive me if you possibly can, for I have caused you great pain."
My heart feels like it's falling apart. "No, Holmes, I'm sorry. It's all me – "
"You are ill and need to rest. Come. I will assist you." He steps away from me, and I shiver as though the temperature has plummeted thirty degrees. He wraps one arm gently and hesitantly around my shoulder and holds out his other arm to support my hands, and he leads me away from the bookshelf to my room.
By the time I collapse into the bed, my tears have blinded my vision with washed out, kaleidoscope colors. I tighten my hold on him, refusing to let him walk away. "Holmes, please. What I did was wrong."
"It is very cold in here, Ada. You will need extra covers," he says, lifting my hand from his arm.
"Don't go."
"I am simply retrieving the covers from the closet. I will return shortly."
When Holmes comes back he lays two wool blankets over me and wordlessly gives me a large white handkerchief. He stands there at my bedside for a second more, fidgeting his long and elegant fingers, until at last he shakes himself from his indecision and moves to go. His head is lowered, and in the dim light his face is somber and pensive and hopeless, as though he has surrendered to a force he was long trying to fight.
"You will be the end of me, Ada," I hear him whisper as he walks away.
I want to ask him what he means by that, but there are so many other things I want to say to him, so many apologies to give and confessions to make, that I'm overwhelmed by the jumble of words in my mind and I simply remain quiet as I hold the handkerchief to my mouth and watch him exit the room and softly close the door behind him.

..........

To be continued...

Ooh, the angst kicks in. Or at least I hope it's kicking in. Anyway, please review or flame, depending on your taste.

Pallas Athena, or just Athena, is the Greek goddess of wisdom.