Maxine
My head hurt. I curled into a tight ball on my side, aware that I was swathed in blankets that smelled familiar. My consciousness was fading in and out. I kept seeing that woman—the woman with the long legs, curvaceous form, immaculate hair and makeup...
I kept seeing her leaning over Sherlock and pulling my hand from him.
I kept hearing Sherlock's voice break when he begged the American man not to shoot me.
I kept watching the detective hand over the phone he found in the safe with a vicious fury in his eyes.
Finally, I managed to drag myself from the images and fully into the waking world.
I was in my bed, wearing the same thing I had been in when we went to Irene Adler's address. It was dark out; I could see the slight gleam of the street lamps outside my window. As my eyes adjusted, I realized that it wasn't just my sheets that smelled familiar. Someone had placed my scarf in a bundle by my head.
Knowing it had to have been John, I couldn't keep a small smile from my lips. I curled my fingers into the yellow fabric and pressed it to my face for a moment. All the madness that happened at Irene's place came back to me piece by piece. I sat up, wrapping my scarf around my neck as I did so.
My digital clock over on my desk told me it was nearly four in the morning. I was tired enough to go back to sleep, but my headache was too persistent to let that be easy. Pushing my sheets aside, I slid out of bed and turned on my bedside lamp. The sudden brightness pierced my eyes and shot more irritation in my head. I blinked it away as I stumbled over to my wardrobe, eager for something more comfortable to wear.
I clumsily changed into a nightgown and some loose night shorts. Then—grabbing my blue robe as I went—I headed out of my room and down the stairs. I took the steps slow, keeping my hand on the railing. The living room and kitchen was dark. With fumbling hands, I found the switch and turned the lights on.
Usually, I kept some pain meds in the cabinet above the fridge. Those were the ones Sherlock left alone since they weren't easy to access, even for someone of his height. I originally kept them in the bathroom, but they would always get moved.
I paused by the fridge and looked up at the cabinet while biting my lip. I was still not exactly steady on my feet. Typically, I'd just hop one knee up on the counter to reach it, but I wasn't sure if that would be possible. Rubbing my head, I sighed and grabbed one of the dining chairs and pulled it over to the fridge. Bracing one hand against the fridge door handle and the other on the back of the chair, I carefully stepped up onto it.
Once I straightened up, I reached over and pulled the cabinet open. As I reached inside, a voice spoke from the far end of the kitchen.
"Should you be doing that in your condition?"
I hadn't heard anyone approach, so the sudden sound made me give an embarrassing yelp of surprise and I nearly lost my footing on the chair.
Coming into my line of sight was Sherlock. He was in a nightgown of his own with his silken robe on. He held his hands out in order to catch me should I fall, but I managed to recover my balance.
"It's fine, I'm fine," I assured him with a hoarse voice. I cleared my throat and shook my head. "Did I wake you?"
"No," Sherlock replied. "I saw the light at the bottom of my door and figured someone was getting a snack."
"Pills," I corrected, looking back into the cabinet. "My head hurts."
"Is that where you keep them now?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, and don't move them," I told him. "John and I need a consistent spot to find medication."
Sherlock chuckled softly.
Finding the pills, I pulled out the bottle and opened it to tip two into my palm. I offered the bottle to Sherlock, but he waved me off. I shrugged and replaced them and closed the cabinet. After popping the pills into my mouth and letting some built-up saliva wash them down, I began to descend off the chair.
However, going down wasn't nearly as easy as going up. I lost my balance and cried out as I began to fall. Luckily for me, Sherlock was fast. He darted forward and quickly wrapped me in his arms to make my disgraceful descent into a smooth glide to the floor. I gripped the front of his robe out of reflex and found myself out of breath even when my feet were touching the ground.
"Thanks," I rasped. My body was trembling and I couldn't tell if it was from the momentary fright of the fall or remnants of the drugs in my system.
"You're too stubborn for your own good," Sherlock muttered.
"Coming from you, that's quite amusing," I countered.
"You're shaking," Sherlock noted, still with his arms around me.
I looked up into his face. "Still tired. I think. I dunno."
Sherlock perked a brow quizzically as he finally released me. I took an awkward step back and almost fell over again. He gripped my arm to steady me.
"Are you all right?" he asked in a surprisingly soft voice.
"Of course," I said, waving him off.
The images that kept playing in my unconscious mind flashed in my wakeful one. I closed my eyes and shook my head.
"Did she get away?" I said in a voice barely more than a whisper.
"Yes," Sherlock answered.
I opened my eyes to look at him. "With the phone?"
"With the phone," he confirmed. There was some regret in his eyes, but also some resolve.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have turned my back on her—I didn't expect her to..."
Sherlock shook his head at me. "You weren't the only one who underestimated her," he said.
I let a short breath through my nose as I examined his face.
"What?" he said, letting my arm go and taking a step back. He reached up to the left side of his mouth, though I wasn't sure why.
"Did you...?" I began, then shook my head and groaned, gripping my forehead.
"Max?" Sherlock prompted.
"Nothing, it's nothing," I assured him. "Just this headache. I'm sure I'll sleep it off."
"You should have some water." The detective moved over to one of the other cabinets and opened it. He pulled a glass from a shelf inside and went over to the sink to fill it.
"You seem oddly... calm," I told him.
Sherlock glanced back at me, frowning. "Do I?"
I nodded. "We did just lose a criminal," I said. "And we both know that she had more than just inappropriate pictures on that phone. Aren't you curious?"
"Well, yes," Sherlock admitted as he handed me the glass of water. "But I highly doubt that's the last we'll see of Irene Adler."
I grimaced before I could stop myself. Sherlock blinked and frowned at me.
"She's... an intense individual," I said and took a drink of the water.
"I suppose so," Sherlock said. "But aren't youcurious?"
I continued to drink the water as I thought of a response. Of course the case itself intrigued me. However Irene Adler... she was someone I could do without ever encountering again. I still couldn't shake the image in my head of her pulling my hand off Sherlock's arm.
Once I finally finished my glass, I carefully placed it in the sink and stared at it for a moment. I knew I couldn't stall for much longer; Sherlock surely already thought that I was acting strange.
"She's dangerous in a way that I'm not comfortable with," I whispered.
Sherlock leaned toward me. "What do you mean?"
I sighed and shook my head. "Sorry, I'm still blurry. I should go to bed."
"Let me walk you up," Sherlock said, reaching for me. "John would kill me if you fell down the stairs."
I was tempted to tell him no. A few days ago, he'd sat on me on the sofa and we talked about sparring together. Then, the idea of him being so close... of him touching me... was oddly appealing. However now, after that whole thing with Irene, I was suddenly wary of him being close.
In fact, I was scared. Scared that he would touch me and then he'd be pulled away.
Characters not realizing what they had until it was gone was a trope I used in my stories before. It was a plot point that I found very effective for character development.
But this wasn't one of my stories.
"Thanks," I said, and allowed Sherlock to take my arm.
Gently, he guided me up the steps. He seemed to have recovered from the sedation a lot faster than me. It could be because of our difference in body size, or he had experience with this kind of stuff before. After all, the first time that we met Sherlock, Lestrade betrayed the fact that the detective had been involved in drugs in the past.
We got to my room and Sherlock walked me all the way to my bed. As I laid down, he plucked at the scarf around my neck and let out a small, amused breath.
"Oh shut up," I told him, burrowing under my sheets. "I don't know why it gives me comfort, but it does. Perhaps the same way the violin helps you think, hm? Or how shooting a wall makes you feel better?"
Sherlock chuckled. "It didn't make me feel better. It just staved off the..."
"Insanity?" I supplied.
"We can go with that." Sherlock shrugged. He frowned as he looked down at me.
"What?" I said.
"Nothing," Sherlock said abruptly. "Rest up. John was worried."
With that, he turned and left the room, shutting off the light and closing the door behind him. I stared after him for a moment. It was odd; it was like there were two sides to Sherlock the past few weeks. There was the Sherlock I first met, who was standoffish and awkward. Then there was this other Sherlock who was soft spoken and smiled more. One that stared at me and let our legs be pressed together when we sat side-by-side.
My headache faded and I closed my eyes. Whatever was going on inside me, I'd have to deal with it in the morning.
The next time I woke, it was with a clearer head and much more balance. I pushed my sheets aside and got up to get dressed. It was a little past eight and I could hear some movement downstairs in the kitchen. Once I pulled on a striped long-sleeve shirt and some jeans, I headed down the stairs. I had my scarf around my neck; its presence gave my jumbled insides some comfort.
In the living room, I spotted John eating breakfast and Sherlock sitting across the table from him, the newspaper in his hands.
"The photographs are perfectly safe," Sherlock said, and it was only then I noticed Mycroft standing nearby.
"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker," Mycroft said irritably. He looked over as I reached the bottom of the steps. "Ah. Good morning, Maxine. You look quite lovely, despite your encounter with Miss Adler."
Sherlock looked round at me before shooting his brother a frustrated glare.
"They told you about the needle thing?" I guessed, deciding to pretend I hadn't seen Sherlock's sour expression.
"He wanted a full report," John said with a small shrug. He gestured toward the kitchen. "There's more eggs and sausage in there; you should eat something. Are you feeling all right?"
"Better," I said, heading into the kitchen. "Never been drugged before. It was certainly an experience." Spotting Mrs. Hudson near the counter, I gave her a small nod. "Morning Mrs. H."
"I'm glad you're feeling better, Maxine," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling gently at me. "Make certain you get some protein in you! You're already such a small thing, I can't imagine how heavily that medicine effected you."
"Irene Adler isn't interested in blackmail, Mycroft," Sherlock said, bringing the conversation back on track. "She wants... protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"
"How can we do anything while she had the photographs?" Mycroft demanded. "Our hands are tied."
"She'd applaud your choice of words," Sherlock said.
I rolled my eyes as John smirked. I began to pile some scrambled eggs onto a plate as Sherlock went on.
"You see how this works: that camera phone is her 'Get out of jail free' card," he said. "You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."
"Though not the way she treats royalty," John added, smiling.
Mycroft smiled humorlessly back.
As I headed back toward them with my plate, a strangely sensual female sigh filled the room. I paused just behind the detective, staring down at him with a frown that John and Mycroft mirrored.
"What was that?" John asked.
"Text," Sherlock replied casually.
"But what was that noise?" John pressed.
Sherlock got to his feet and went over to his armchair where his phone was. He picked it up and activated it to glance at the message. His expression didn't give anything away; he remained perfectly stone-faced as he lowered his mobile.
"Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent us three in there?" Sherlock said. "CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess."
I sat down next to John as Sherlock returned back to his seat. I stared down at my eggs and sausage, my appetite suddenly non-existent. The orgasmic sigh that came from Sherlock's phone could have only been put on there by one person. Why was she texting him?
"Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft," John said tightly. "They nearly killed Maddie."
"It would have been fine," I said with a wave of my hand. I forked some eggs and shoved them in my mouth. They tasted like nothing.
"The gun was pressed against the back of your skull," John replied, looking over at me. "Even you couldn't have gotten out of that."
"It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that," Mrs. Hudson said sternly as she headed into the room with her own plate of food. "Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."
"Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft replied bitterly.
"MYCROFT!" Sherlock shouted furiously as John and I both yelled, "OI!"
Mycroft looked at our angry faces and cringed before looking contritely at Mrs. Hudson. "Apologies," he said.
"Thank you," Mrs. Hudson said.
"Though do, in fact, shut up," Sherlock added.
I was about to flick some egg at him, but then his phone sighed again. Mrs. Hudson, who had started to head back into the kitchen, turned back, looking aghast.
"Ooh. It's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" she said.
Sherlock peeked at his mobile for a moment, then looked back at Mycroft.
"There's nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see," he said.
"I can put maximum surveillance on her," Mycroft said.
"Why bother?" Sherlock scoffed. "You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her user name is 'TheWhipHand.'"
"Yes. Most amusing." Mycroft still looked irate. His phone began to ring and he pulled it from his pocket. "'Scuse me," he said, before answering it and going into the hall.
Sherlock watched him leave, eyes squinted suspiciously. John looked over at him and pointed his fork in his direction.
"Why does your phone make that noise?" he asked.
"What noise?" Sherlock didn't meet his eyes.
"That noise—the one it just made," John said.
"It's a text alert," Sherlock replied. "It means I've got a text."
"Hmm. Your texts don't usually make that noise," John pointed out.
"Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise," Sherlock said.
"Hmm. So every time they text you..." John said.
The phone sighed again, as if on cue.
"It would seem so," Sherlock muttered.
"Could you turn that phone down a bit?" Mrs. Hudson asked wearily from the kitchen. "At my time of life, it's..." She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
Sherlock looked at his mobile briefly before setting it down and lifting the paper again. I stared at it, my hands itching to snatch it and read the messages. What could she possibly be saying to him? I bit my lip before stuffing more food into my mouth; it still didn't taste like anything and my stomach was becoming a nest of snakes.
"Why would she do that?" I murmured, narrowing my eyes.
"She seems to have grown a fondness for Sherlock," John said with a small chuckle.
I grimaced and poked at my food. I didn't even have the will to try and eat anymore. "She certainly likes to... flaunt her victory."
Sherlock lifted the paper so it obscured his face. "That she does," he said with a hint of irritation.
"Bond Air is go, that's decided." Mycroft strode back into the room, still chatting on the phone. "Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later." He hung up his mobile and Sherlock lowered his paper to look at him.
"What else does she have?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft frowned at him quizzically.
"Irene Adler," Sherlock clarified. "The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more." He stood up and faced his brother. "Much more."
Mycroft's expression was unreadable. Sherlock walked closer to him, narrowing his eyes.
"Something big's coming, isn't it?" the detective said.
"Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours," Mycroft said. "From now on you will stay out of this."
"Oh, will I?" Sherlock countered, locking eyes with his brother.
"Yes, Sherlock, you will," Mycroft insisted.
"That just makes it more intriguing," I said, glancing over at Mycroft. "Why can't you tell us?"
"There's nothing to tell," Mycroft said, shooting me a glare. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."
"Do give her my love," Sherlock said as he picked up his violin.
With swift and stunning accuracy, he began to play God Save the Queen and Mycroft rolled his eyes before turning and leaving the room. Sherlock followed after him, playing all the while. John and I grinned and exchanged an amused look. Even when Mycroft started heading down the stairs, Sherlock went over to the window and kept running his bow along the strings.
I'd always enjoyed Christmas. It wasn't so much the idea of gifts or the food or drinks; I was far more drawn to the atmosphere of the holiday. Fairy lights were strung around the window frames of the flat and outside the weather was cold and snowy. I adored how the sky still seemed to be lit even though the sun had long since set. The light from the city bounced between the clouds and the snow on the ground, creating a soothing gray glow.
Inside, there were festive decorations and cards strewn about. The fireplace was crackling gently and the cozy scent of burned wood and pine filled the living room. Sherlock strode about with his violin, playing We Wish You a Merry Christmas with deft fingers and smooth strokes of his bow. Mrs. Hudson watched him with a smile in John's usual chair, holding a glass of wine in her hand. Lestrade held one as well and leaned on the wall near the entrance to the kitchen.
John was wearing a Christmas-themed jumper. It was made of wool and primarily red with white snowflake-like patterns lining it. He strode across the room with a cup and saucer in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. His current girlfriend, Jeanette, had a tray of mince pies and slices of cake on it. She walked about, offering the treats to people as she passed, smiling unde her head of dark hair.
I remained on the steps that led up to my bedroom, biting my lip. Though I enjoyed Christmas, I did not enjoy parties. I was familiar with everyone down there—save Jeanette, maybe—but I still felt anxious. I went over all the things John taught me growing up, all the proper things to say, all the things not to say.
Don't comment on weight.
Compliment outfits.
Offer refreshments.
Don't drink too much, because that's when you lose your filter, Maddie.
Don't tell stories that might be embarrassing.
What do you mean, 'What qualifies as embarrassing?'
I considered going back up into my room and lying about a deadline or something, but I knew John would never buy it. So, I took a deep breath, and headed down the steps.
"Ah, there she is," Lestrade said when he spotted me. "Merry Christmas, Maxine."
"Thanks," I replied awkwardly. "You too. Er, Merry Christmas."
Sherlock finished his song with a fancy flourish and Lestrade whistled. Mrs. Hudson beamed. Her cheeks were flushed and I wondered how much wine she'd had.
"Lovely!" she exclaimed. "Sherlock, that was lovely!"
"Marvelous!" John added.
Sherlock gave a small bow to his audience. I wondered how much he'd had to drink to be so sociable.
"I wish you could have worn the antlers!" Mrs. Hudson said to him.
"Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied.
I clapped my hands and Sherlock spotted me for the first time. He blinked at my clothing, a smile capturing his lips.
"You and John have similar tastes, I see," he said.
I looked down at my green sweater that was adorned with snowflakes and little reindeer silhouettes. It was a bit too big on me and the sleeves went past my hands. I wore comfortable black sweat pants beneath, hoping everyone would mistake them for slacks in their drunken states.
"Mum sent them," I admitted. "She still thinks I'm twice the size I actually am."
"I think it looks cute," Lestrade said, smiling at me.
Sherlock set his eyes on the Inspector as he put his violin down. He strode over to us and offered me his arm.
"Care for some wine, Max?" he asked.
I blinked at his gesture and stared at his arm for a moment.
"What?" Sherlock frowned at me.
"Nothing," I said. "It's just... you're oddly cheerful."
"Tis the season," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.
I chuckled in slight bewilderment and took his arm. "All right. What kind of wine do we have?"
As he led me to the kitchen, I heard Lestrade speaking to Mrs. Hudson. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he wants Maxine for himself."
Heat kissed my cheeks at his words, but luckily it seemed Sherlock didn't hear him. In the kitchen, there were four bottles of wine: two whites and two reds. However, instead of reaching for them, Sherlock went to the cabinet over the stove and opened it. From the tallest shelf, he pulled down a bottle that was oddly triangular in shape.
"Sake?" I said, eyes widening.
"Mm, I believe this is a decent brand," Sherlock said, reaching back up into the cabinet to pull a sake set down. "You prefer it warm, correct?"
I laughed, stunned by the detective's thoughtfulness. "Yes. How did you...? Never mind, that's just a silly question."
"Well, you enjoy warm drinks in general," Sherlock replied as he opened the sake bottle and poured it into the server, or tokkuri, as it was called in Japan. "Wasn't a difficult leap."
He then grabbed a small pan and filled it with water before setting it on the stove. Turning it on to heat the water, he placed the tokkuri into the water so it could warm the contents.
"Merry Christmas, by the way," Sherlock said, looking over at me as we waited for the drink to heat. "I was starting to worry you weren't coming down."
"Well, I heard you playing," I said with a small shrug.
Sherlock perked a brow. "My playing brought you down?"
"I figured if Sherlock Holmes was playing a Christmas tune on his violin for guests, the world must be ending," I told him. "Best be with friends and family for that."
Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. As he quieted down, he glanced over at me, his pale green eyes flicking over my oversized sweater. He reached over and plucked at the long sleeves.
"I suppose Lestrade is right," he muttered. "It has a certain charm."
"Oh please," I said, waving him off. "Both of you have clearly had too much wine."
"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "Well, I haven't. Dunno about him."
I hopped up on the counter to sit near the stove and watched the water in the pot begin to boil.
"It's a little odd, seeing you so... festive," I said.
Sherlock met my eyes for a moment. "Well, this is our second Christmas together."
I put a hand on my forehead. "Dear lord, we've been living together for over a year. How have I not killed you yet?"
Sherlock laughed and shrugged. "Perhaps my charm?"
"Oh, yes, that must be it." I grinned at him. "You're far too personable for me to detest."
"It's a burden, to be honest," Sherlock quipped.
I chuckled and leaned back, observing him with a small smile. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."
He smiled back at me. "Merry Christmas, Max."
Once the sake was warm, Sherlock wiped off the tokkuri and handed it to me along with a small drinking cup, or a kiriko. I carefully poured myself the first cup and took a small sip.
"Mm! Coconut?" I said with raised brows.
"I recall you mentioning that the only time you enjoy coconut is when it's in alcohol," Sherlock replied with a nonchalant shrug.
"Thank you," I said sincerely. "It's an excellent gift."
"Gift?" Sherlock frowned. "Oh, no, that's not your Christmas gift—I just thought you'd enjoy that as your drink instead of typical wine. Your gift is under the tree."
I blinked a few times. "You got me something?"
Last year, none of us had gotten the other anything. Well, John and I got each other gifts, but other than that, the three of us just had a nicely cooked meal with Mrs. Hudson. I supposed a lot had changed in a year. We were... closer. I'd gotten Sherlock something this year as well, but I'd forgotten it up in my room.
"Of course," Sherlock said as we started to walk back out to the living room. "John too. I'd be lost without my Watsons."
Just as we entered the living room, Jeanette strode toward us with her tray of ordures. She offered it to us with a polite smile. I carefully put my sake cup in the crook of my arm to grab a pie.
"Cheers," I said to her.
When she gestured to Sherlock, the detective shook his head. "No thank you, Sarah."
I paused mid-bite on the pie at his words and looked worriedly at Jeanette as her face fell and she turned away. John—who must have overheard Sherlock—rushed over to her, his expression distraught.
"Uh, no, no, no, no, no," he said hurriedly. "He's not good with names."
Before John could correct him, Sherlock held up a hand.
"No-no-no, I can get this," he said.
Jeanette put down the tray on a nearby table and straightened up to fold her arms. She stared at Sherlock with a grim look in her eyes. I glanced nervously at Sherlock, wondering if he's be able to figure out her actual name before this got even more awkward.
"No, Sarah was the doctor; and then there was the one with the spots," Sherlock mused softly, looking Jeanette over. "And then the one with the nose, and then... who was after the boring teacher?"
Jeanette's jaw clenched for a moment. "Nobody."
Sherlock smiled falsely at her. "Jeanette! Ah, process of elimination."
John quickly shepherded Jeanette away as her expression darkened. I stuffed the rest of the pie in my mouth to excuse myself from saying anything. Sherlock sighed and looked across the room as the door opened.
"Oh, dear Lord," he murmured.
I followed his gaze and saw Molly stepping into the living room with two bags full of presents. She smiled shyly about the room.
"Hello, everyone," she said. "Sorry, hello."
John walked over to her with a grin.
"Er, it said on the door just to come up," Molly said, as if worried that she was going to get in trouble.
"Of course, Merry Christmas, Molly," John said cheerfully.
The rest of the guests happily greeted Molly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back toward me.
"Oh, everybody's saying hullo to each other," he grumbled. "How wonderful!"
I elbowed him. "You were perfectly cheerful earlier," I told him.
I downed the rest of the sake in my cup just as Molly shed her scarf and coat. Seeing what laid beneath, I nearly spat out my drink.
"Let me, er..." John started to take her coat and his jaw went slack. "Holy Mary!"
Molly was wearing a very fetching black dress. It hugged all her curves and flattered her breasts with a deep and tight V-neck.
"Wow!" Lestrade exclaimed.
"Having Christmas drinkies, then?" Molly said nervously, looking around at all the wine glasses.
Sherlock sat down at the dining table. "No stopping them, apparently," he said.
"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me," Mrs. Hudson said, "so it's almost worth it!"
"Oh, Mrs. H, come now, I make sure they're decent at least once a month," I said.
Molly giggled warily and looked over at Sherlock, who had grabbed John's laptop and started typing on it. I plopped down next to him and poured more sake for myself from the tokkuri. John brought Molly a chair over to the table.
"Have a seat," he said.
Molly smiled and sat down, nodding her thanks.
"John?" Sherlock said, gesturing with his head for my brother to come over.
"Mmm?" John walked around the table to look at the screen of the laptop.
As he did so, Lestrade gently touched Molly's arm. "Molly? Want a drink?"
Molly nodded nervously, and her eyes went back to Sherlock.
I downed my sake, uncomfortable from the strange sensation I gained to grab Sherlock's arm.
"The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," Sherlock explained to John.
He'd pulled up John's site and pointed at the number toward the bottom right of the screen.
"Ooh, no!" John exclaimed in mock anger. "Christmas is cancelled!"
"And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat," Sherlock said irritably.
"People like the hat," John replied.
"No they don't. What people?" Sherlock looked disgruntled.
I poured more sake as I glanced over at the screen. "The deer stalker? Heh, dunno, it's sort of unique, isn't it? Like a signature?"
"I wore it once," Sherlock muttered.
"Well, maybe wear it more often." I grinned at him before tipping back the cup of sake.
John sighed and walked away, heading over to Jeanette. As he left, Molly nodded toward Mrs. Hudson.
"How's the hip?" she asked kindly.
"Ooh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking," Mrs. Hudson replied.
"I've seen much worse," Molly assured. "But then I do post-mortems."
There was an awkward silence and Molly's face grew red as she shook her head.
"Oh, God. Sorry," she said.
"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock said flatly.
"No. Sorry," Molly repeated, looking mortified.
I glanced toward Sherlock with a small frown. He could attempt to be a bit kinder today. However, another part of me that was growing warm and fuzzy was finding it difficult to care. I poured more sake, biting my lip nervously.
Lestrade returned from the kitchen with a glass of wine and offered it to Molly. She took it with a smile.
"Thank you," she said. "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas."
"That's the first thing in the morning, me and the wife," Lestrade said with a nod. "We're back together. It's all sorted." He grinned.
"No, she's sleeping with a P.E. teacher," Sherlock said without looking away from the laptop.
Lestrade's smile became more forced and his gaze dropped to his feet. I wondered how Sherlock figured that out and made a note to ask him later. Molly looked over to John next, apparently trying to mold over the fresh awkwardness.
"And John," she said. "I hear you're off to your older sister's, is that right?"
"Yeah," John said. "Maddie and I head out tomorrow."
I grimaced and leaned back in my seat, drinking yet more sake.
"Sherlock was complaining," Molly said, but when Sherlock raised his brows at her indignantly, she corrected herself. "...saying."
"First time ever," John said. "She's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze."
"Nope," Sherlock and I said in unison.
"Shut up, you two," John snapped at us.
"I still don't want to go," I said, swirling the remaining sake around in the tokkuri.
"Well, it's a family event, isn't it?" John said, exasperated. "Harry hasn't seen you in years."
"Probably because she's a bitch," I replied with a shrug.
John's expression tightened into anger, but before he could respond, Sherlock changed the subject.
"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly," he said. "And you're serious about him."
"Sorry, what?" Molly asked, blinking in confusion.
"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," Sherlock said.
John sighed in exasperation. "Take a day off."
Lestrade took a glass of wine and took it over to Sherlock. He put it down in front of the detective and said, "Shut up and have a drink."
"Oh, come on," Sherlock protested. "Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag—perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best." He got to his feet and walked over to peer at Molly's gifts critically. "It's for someone special, then."
I saw the rising look of mortification on Molly's face. I looked between her and Sherlock as the detective stooped and picked up a bright red present. John was doing the same thing, his expression anxious.
"Sherlock," I said, trying to get his attention.
He ignored me as he looked over the gift. Sherlock was already in full deduction mode; there was no stopping him.
"The shade of red echoes her lipstick—either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage," Sherlock said, beginning to grin. "Either way, Miss Hooper has lurrrve on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him his clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all."
Molly squirmed in her seat, blinking rapidly as he cheeks grew more and more flushed.
"That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn," Sherlock continued, "and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing."
Sherlock smiled smugly toward John and me, as if this was just another case he was on. Molly kept opening her mouth slightly, as if trying to say something, but it seemed her voice was lost.
"Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..." Sherlock trailed off as he looked at the gift again, this time at the tag, and his face fell.
I already knew who the gift was for. Molly let out an anguished gasp and shook her head as she looked over at him.
"You always say such horrible things," she said in quavering voice. "Every time. Always. Always."
As Molly fought back tears, Sherlock turned to walk away. I could tell by his expression that he was horrified by what he'd done. Such a brilliant man and yet he couldn't see what was right under his nose; he couldn't comprehend the notions of in depth feeling.
Sherlock paused and turned back, staring desperately at Molly. "I am sorry," he insisted. "Forgive me."
Molly blinked rapidly and looked at him in slight surprise. She wasn't the only one—John appeared startled and Lestrade's eyebrows had shot up. Sherlock stepped closer to Molly, his posture stiff and slightly awkward.
"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said softly. It was the same tone he'd use to comfort Sarah during the Black Lotus case.
With slight hesitation, Sherlock leaned forward and gently kissed her on the cheek. Molly's expression went from bewilderment to awestruck. She stared into Sherlock's eyes as he pulled away, her mouth slightly agape. Some part of me twisted inside at the scene, but I forced myself to see it for what it was—a sweet and beautiful moment in which Sherlock owned his mistake and attempted to make amends.
A moment that was instantly ruined by the sound of an orgasmic sigh.
Molly gave a sharp gasp and shook her head. "No! That wasn't... I-I didn't..."
Sherlock straightened up, looking annoyed. "No, it was me."
"My God, really?!" Lestrade exclaimed.
"What?!" Molly squeaked.
"My phone," Sherlock clarified as he dug into his pocket for him mobile.
"Fifty-seven?" John guessed, narrowing his eyes at the detective.
"Sorry, what?" Sherlock looked up from his phone, frowning.
"Fifty-seven of those texts—the ones I've heard," John explained.
"Sixty-three," I corrected softly.
Sherlock glanced at his phone before striding toward the fireplace. "Thrilling that you two have been counting," he muttered.
As I poured myself more sake from my tokkuri, I watched as Sherlock reached up for something on the mantlepiece. The detective then turned and headed for the kitchen at a strangely brisk pace as he shoved something into his pocket. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.
"'S'cuse me," Sherlock said as he ducked into the kitchen.
"What-what's up, Sherlock?" John asked.
"I said excuse me," Sherlock said, his tone growing clipped.
"Do you ever reply?" John called after him as he went into his bedroom.
Sherlock's only response was to shut his door.
I let out a long exhale through my nostrils before downing my cup of sake. I could feel the alcohol starting to relax me, but even despite the warmth spreading through my from the steaming sake, I shivered slightly. There was something rising inside of me—a sort of pressure that I couldn't describe. I poured more sake and glared down at the cup, pursing my lips.
"Maddie, you all right?" John asked.
I looked up at him and forced a smile I hoped seemed convincing. "Yeah, sure. Just thinking. Oh! I forgot something upstairs, hang on."
Eager to get away from everyone, I got to my feet and walked to the stairs before anyone could stop me. Once in my room, I closed the door and headed to my bed. Sitting on it, I drained my cup and glanced over at the delicately wrapped gifts near my desk. There was one for Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and even Molly. Though after Sherlock's display, I was suddenly wary to bring them down.
Would he notice how I took a few extra minutes to perfect the bow on his? Or the doodle in his card? I bit my lip before drinking the rest of my sake from the tokkuri itself. It burned as it went down my throat, but the heat was soothing.
Ever since that case with Irene Adler, I'd been off. I would grow distracted while trying to draw or plot. I found myself glancing at my sketch of Sherlock, reliving the memories of when I drew it. My body itched for something, but I didn't think it was the danger and excitement it normally craved. There was something else calling me. Someone else.
I forced myself to my feet and went to my desk. Setting my tokkuri and cup down, I grabbed the presents and carefully stacked them in my arms. Once I was fairly certain I could balance, I went to the door and headed back downstairs.
John must have noticed how wobbly I was, for when I reached the bottom few steps, he darted forward and took some of the gifts.
"How much have you had to drink?" he whispered to me as we carried the presents to the tree.
"Only one tokkuri," I said.
"And how much have you had to eat?" John asked.
"Er, a pie." I smiled sheepishly at him.
John sighed and shook his head as we set the gifts down. "Honestly. Just drink some water before you go to bed."
I nodded and started heading back toward the dining table. Sherlock had returned from his room and his expression was both pensive and glassy. I sat down next to him and pushed my elbow against his arm gently. He blinked and looked over at me.
"What did she give you?" I whispered as the others talked amongst themselves.
Sherlock was startled. He leaned away from me and narrowed his eyes.
"How did...?" he murmured.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" I said. "Well, it is to me."
Sherlock looked down at the table, the glassy look returning to his eyes. "It was the phone."
I stared. "The phone? The one from her safe?"
Sherlock nodded tightly.
It suddenly clicked for me—the slightly horrified gleam and bewilderment in Sherlock's eyes. If Irene Adler gave Sherlock the phone she'd knocked us out for—the phone she held me hostage for—then...
"Oh..." I breathed.
Sherlock nodded, pressing his lips into a tight line. He got up from his seat and started to walk toward his room without a word.
"Sherlock?" I called after him.
He didn't even look back as he closed his door behind him.
About a half hour later, Lestrade got a call that a woman's body had been found with her head bashed in. Our awkward Christmas party was properly broken up as Sherlock, Lestrade, and Molly all set up to go to St. Bartholomew's Hospital to inspect the body. As I pulled on my coat, Sherlock shook his head at me.
"Stay here," he said softly.
"Why?" I frowned at him.
Sherlock met my eyes again. "Just stay here."
I exhaled sharply through my nose and put my coat back up. When the three of them left, my phone chirped with a text alert. I frowned and pulled it out to see it was from Mycroft.
Make sure he's clean this Christmas, please. I'll keep him here long as I can; I even brought a cigarette. —M. Holmes.
"Ah..." I sighed.
"What?" John looked over at me. He and Jeanette were trying to clean up the dining table.
"Time for a sweep," I said. "Apparently Mycroft is concerned."
Every so often, Mycroft texted John or me to make sure there were no narcotics in the flat. Mycroft often worried his little brother would fall back into old habits, especially around holidays and after Sherlock had to deal with highly irritating or upsetting situations. I always felt weird going through the flat and Sherlock's things behind his back; it was like betraying him—like I didn't trust him to keep himself sober.
However, I didn't want to ever see Sherlock go back to those sorts of things. I'd never seen him on drugs, but from what I gathered from Mycroft, it wasn't pretty.
"I'll start in his room," I said, getting to my feet and letting out a long sigh.