Sherlock
The woman's corpse laid on the metal cot before us, complexion pallid and gray. She's once had brown hair, but there wasn't much of it left. The skull had been bashed in by a blunt object, leaving any features completely undistinguishable.
"The only one that fitted the description." Mycroft tapped his cane to the floor idly beside me. "Had her brought here—your home from home."
I ignored his quip and glanced up at Molly, who stood across from us. She had changed into a classy Christmas jumper and pulled her lab coat over it. She still acted awkward and uncomfortable around me. Over and over I replayed my idiotic mistake with her and regretted it more each time. The expression on Maxine's face—so full of disappointment and horror—flashed in my mind.
"You didn't need to come in, Molly," I said softly.
"That's okay," Molly assured. "Everyone else was busy with... Christmas." She gestured awkwardly to the body. "The is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult."
I stared down at the mangled head of the body, already dreading the truth.
"That's her, isn't it?" Mycroft said.
"Show me the rest of her," I told Molly.
Molly grimaced and gripped the white sheet that covered the body collarbone down. She pulled it down, revealing the less-bashed up parts of the woman's body. I gave it a brief glance before turning around and walking a few paces away.
"That's her," I confirmed.
"Thank you, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said.
"Who is she?" Molly asked. "How did Sherlock recognize her from... not her face?"
By the time she finished that sentence, I was already outside of the room. It didn't take long for Mycroft to follow after me. I stared out the window in the corridor, observing the snow fall gently from the night sky. Why would she leave me her most precious item before her death? Why not just come to me for protection? Who had killed her?
Mycroft held out a cigarette to me. I blinked as I turned to look at it.
"Just the one," Mycroft said.
"Why?" I asked, narrowing my eyes in suspicion.
"Merry Christmas," Mycroft replied simply.
I took the cigarette and Mycroft dug into his coat pocket to find a lighter. As he pulled it out, I raised a brow at him.
"Smoking indoors—isn't there one of those... one of those law things?" I said.
Mycroft flicked the lighter on and offered the flame. I put the cigarette in my mouth and leaned forward, allowing him to light the tip.
"We're in a morgue," my brother replied. "There's only so much damage you can do."
I inhaled deeply from the cigarette. The tingle rushed up to my head and I exhaled the smoke slowly. It had been a long time since I had a proper smoke.
"How did you know she was dead?" Mycroft queried.
"She had an item in her possession," I explained softly, "one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up." I took another drag from the cigarette.
"Where is this item now?" Mycroft glanced toward me curiously.
The sudden sound of sobbing caught my attention before I could answer him. I turned to see a family of three standing on the other side of the doors at the end of the corridor. They were cuddled together and crying together; they were clearly mourning the loss of someone dear to them.
"Look at them," I said to my brother. "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"
"All lives end," Mycroft replied. "All hearts are broken." He looked round at me. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
His eyes bore into mine with those words. I furrowed my brow at him.
"What's that look for?" I asked.
Mycroft sniffed and adverted his gaze. "How's Maxine fairing? I heard she presented her new manga to her publishers."
My shoulders tensed and I took another deep drag from the cigarette. "You've seemed awfully interested in her," I told him.
Mycroft scoffed in amusement. "Am I?"
"Aren't you?" I countered.
"Just remember, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured, looking back at the weeping family. "Emotion is the rival of logic."
I glanced down at my cigarette with slight disgust as its taste caught up with me. "This is a low tar," I said, changing the subject.
"Well, you barely knew Adler," Mycroft replied.
"Huh!" I grunted and began to walk down the corridor. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."
"And a Happy New Year," my brother said.
When I stepped out into the cold, winter night, I pulled one last drag from the cigarette. It all made sense why Mycroft had been making all the strange passes at Maxine the past year. He was doing it to vex me. He was doing it because he knew—he thought—that I felt something for Maxine. That I...
I snuffed out the cigarette butt in a ashtray above a bin before tossing it. A slow breath left me, the lingering scent and buzz from the smoke filling the air around me. I had come to terms that John and Maxine were my friends—that I cared about them and about what happened to them. However, Mycroft was suggesting something more. Something I wasn't capable of.
Pulling out my mobile, I looked at the multitude of texts that Irene Adler had sent to me. They were suggestive and complimentary, and she regularly asked to have dinner. Her trying to tug my attention her way only forced me to realize how attached I had grown to Maxine. Every time Irene reminded me of her measurements, how she found me sexy, how much she wanted to have "dinner," I found myself thinking about Maxine instead. I thought about Maxine's petite form, her freckled face, her smile when I managed to amuse her.
The day before Christmas, I had replied to Irene Adler, desperate to escape these wretched feelings. I stared at the message now, wondering if the timing of the text was sheer coincidence, or somehow led Irene to her demise.
"Stop."
Running a hand down my face before shoving the phone back in my pocket, I elected to walk a few blocks before hailing a cab. After all, my flatmates would be needing more time to finish up their sweep of our home.
Maxine
"He's on his way."
When John's phone rang, he placed it on speaker for all of us to hear Mycroft. I paused my digging in Sherlock's chair cushions to look over at my brother.
"Have you found anything?" Mycroft asked.
"No," John replied. "Did he take the cigarette?"
"Yes," Mycroft confirmed.
"Shit," John breathed. He looked toward Mrs. Hudson and me. "Ten minutes."
"There's nothing in the bathroom," Mrs. Hudson said.
"Or his chair," I said. "Or his room."
"Looks like he's clean," John said into the phone. "We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"
"No, but then I never am," Mycroft admitted. "You and Maxine have to stay with him. At least one of you."
"We've got plans," John said.
"No," Mycroft said before the line went dead.
"Mycroft?" John frowned at the mobile before chewing the inside of his cheek. He looked over at sofa where Jeanette was sitting. He went over and sat down beside her, staring at her pleadingly. "I am really sorry," he said.
"You know, my friends are so wrong about you," Jeanette said.
"Hmm?" John blinked.
"You're a great boyfriend," Jeanette said, but her expression seemed like she didn't believe those words at all.
"Okay, that's good," John replied, seeming startled. "I mean, I always thought I was great."
"And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man," Jeanette added sourly.
John groaned. "Jeanette, please."
"No, I mean it," Jeanette snapped bitterly as she started pulling on her shoes. "It's heart-warming. You'll do anything for him, and he can't even tell your girlfriends apart."
"Perhaps because no one's been particularly interesting yet," I said softly.
Jeanette gaped at me in horror. John shot me a glare.
"Maxine, seriously?"
"Did I say that out loud?" I turned to blink innocently at my brother.
"Ugh—Jeanette, listen, I'll do anything for you," John pressed, turning back to his girlfriend. "Just tell me what it is I'm not doing. Tell me!"
Jeanette's eyes were bathed in fury and frustration. "Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes."
"I'll walk your dog for you," John offered. "Hey, I've said it now. I'll even walk your dog."
I ran a hand down my face. "She doesn't have a dog, Johnny."
"No, because that was... the last one," John said weakly. "Okay."
"Even your sister knows your girlfriends better than you and your psychopath of a flatmate!" Jeanette exclaimed.
"High-functioning sociopath," I corrected.
"Jesus!" Jeanette whirled to storm out of the living room and to the stairs.
"I'll call you," John said.
"No!" Jeanette barked over her shoulder.
"Okay." John's shoulders slumped as the front door opened and slammed shut.
"That really wasn't very good, was it?" Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically.
"Not at all," I said. "But she was dull, anyway."
"It doesn't matter what you or Sherlock think of my girlfriends," John snapped. "I liked her."
"What you liked was her soft lips and curves," I told him. "No point in either of us getting to know your girlfriends until we see that you plan on keeping them around."
John sighed in exasperation.
After fixing up any messes we made from searching, John sat in his chair and I sat in the sofa near the Christmas Tree. All the gifts were still beneath it and I slowly picked up the one I'd gotten for Sherlock. The wrapping paper was light blue with various white snowflakes scattered across it. A dark blue ribbon was wrapped around it and tied into a careful bow. Attached to it was a small, laminated bookmark with a drawing of a violin inside. It had elegant vines surrounding it, coiling out from end to end and holding the bow across it.
Irene Adler was gone now, but she'd left a shadow behind—a shadow that flooded me with strange and dark feelings.
Why'd she have to croak on Christmas?
I wasn't typically festive, but this was the first year I'd gotten Sherlock a gift. I'd been so excited to see his response to it, but now he was going to be caught up in a new case. Ordinarily I'd be ecstatic about another mystery to solve with him, but this time something was different. Irene Adler was going to be all the detective would think about until it was solved. Somehow, that didn't sit well with me.
Some small part of me attempted to prod my negative thoughts. It was the voice that John had instilled in my head long ago, when I was still a child.
A woman has died, Maxine, it said crossly. Now isn't the time to be bitter or cross about the fact that her death has distracted Sherlock. That's selfish—it's wrong.
Yet somehow, I didn't care. I replaced the present under the tree and stalked into the kitchen. Sherlock could open it in the morning—he and John would both have to. None of the gifts had been opened once Sherlock left for the morgue. I grabbed the sake the detective had gifted me and stared at if for a moment before refilling the tokkuri.
By the time I'd heated and drank an entire tokkuri of sake and was working on my second, Sherlock arrived home. He came up the steps and paused in the doorway of the living room. John, who was still in his chair reading, looked up at him.
"Oh, hi," he said innocently.
I was lying on the couch, one hand holding a small cup of sake while the other toyed with the ordainments on the tree. When I turned my head to look at Sherlock, his eyes were roaming all around the living room as if he were scanning every detail before him.
"You okay?" John asked.
I grunted and turned my attention back to the tree. When Sherlock finally walked back to the kitchen door and toward his bedroom, I wasn't surprised by his response.
"Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time," the detective said curtly over his shoulder.
"I didn't," I called.
Sherlock's bedroom door slammed shut. John put down his book and loosed a heavy sigh. He looked across the room at me and frowned.
"You're still drinking?" he said.
"You've only just noticed?" I replied, my voice only slightly slower than normal. "That book really must be engaging."
"I could tell you didn't want to talk," John murmured.
"Could you?" I poked a bauble that hung from one of the Christmas Tree's branches.
John groaned. "Maddie, I already have to deal with one sulky and passive aggressive flatmate, could you not...?"
"Not what?" I prompted.
"Not be like... whatever you're being like right now." John stood from his chair and walked over to me. "You don't normally drink this much. How much have you had?"
"I'm not turning into Harry, if that's what you're wondering," I mumbled before draining the sake that had been in my small cup.
John snatched it from my hand when I was done. I blinked up at him, scowling.
"That was rude," I said.
"You need to stop," John said. "Drink some water, or you're going to be a mess in the morning."
"You don't know that."
"Maddie, you're over twenty-five, of course I know that."
I flipped over to lay on my stomach and glared at the Christmas Tree. John sighed and I felt him sit down near my feet.
"I think I know what's going on," he said.
"Do you?" I muttered sourly.
"Considering I've never seen you act this way about any other man, yes," John replied.
I stiffened and twisted my head to look back at him with narrowing eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
John let out a long breath and shook his head. "You don't make friends, Maddie. You've only ever really gotten along with me and put up with everyone else. I would try to push you to make new relationships—to even date—but you always ended up straying away from everyone. Everyone—that is—except Sherlock Holmes."
My brother met my eyes and pressed his lips in a tight line for a moment. He ran his thumb over his fingers—that nervous habit he'd had since we were kids.
"You gravitated to him," John whispered. "Honestly, we both did. You and I have a lot in common, Maddie, but you and Sherlock have even more. I think... I think he understands you on a level I never could, and not just because he's a genius."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I grumbled, looking back at the Christmas Tree.
John sighed once again. He patted my leg and got to his feet. "I'm going to get you some water. Promise you'll finish it before you go to bed?"
"Will that get you to leave me alone?" I asked.
John clicked his tongue irritably and headed into the kitchen. As the sound of running water hit my ears, I shut my eyes and tried to shove away all the words John just spoke. I tried to ignore the growing pain in my chest and the longing in my gut. It was foreign and promised agony and darkness that I'd never encountered.
There was a soft clack as John set the cup of water on the coffee table. He put his hand on my shoulder briefly and squeezed.
"Merry Christmas, Maddie," he murmured before turning and heading toward the stairs.
"Merry Christmas, John," I said back to him without turning my head.
I heard him pause and imagined that he smiled before ascending the steps to his room. I stared at the lights on the tree for what seemed like hours. However, I knew not much time could have passed, because when I straightened up off the couch, the alcohol in my system still held sway—and plenty of it.
I gripped my head and bit my lip. What was I supposed to do with all these feelings inside me?
"You gravitated to him."
John's words pierced my mind and I remembered the first time we ever met Sherlock. I remembered being more curious about him than scared of Mycroft. I remembered how willing I was to sacrifice my own life in order to protect him from the cabbie. I rubbed my eyes when they began to burn.
"Moron," I scolded myself softly before getting to my feet.
I nearly lost my balance and my head swam. I shook out my hands and began to stumble toward the kitchen. There was some part of me that wanted to confront the source of all this unrest within me.
Sherlock Holmes. I could picture myself going through the kitchen and to his door, opening it without bothering to knock. He would be staring out his window, wearing a night gown and frowning in thought. His face would be illuminated by the street lamps from outside and nothing else because the room was dark. The detective would turn to face me and blink in bewilderment.
"Max?"
I frowned when Sherlock's voice hit my ears. It sounded so real—like it was coming from outside my head where I was imagining all of this. I swayed and gripped the doorframe to remain standing.
"Oh, I didn't mean..." I mumbled, suddenly realizing that I hadn't been picturing going to Sherlock's room at all—I'd actually done it.
Sherlock walked over to my side, looking me over with slight concern. "I thought I made it quite clear that I didn't want to be disturbed."
"Yeah, I got that," I slurred. "But it's Christmas."
"So?" Sherlock scoffed.
"So, it's meant to be the one time a year people are kind and... and giving and cheerful," I murmured. "When people spend time with people they care about."
"Well, I'm perfect to be alone, then," Sherlock replied.
I closed my eyes tightly and shook my head. "No, you don't get to do that," I whispered.
"Do what?" Sherlock replied. "Goodness, Max, how drunk are you? You can barely stand."
"You don't get to come into people's lives, make them care, and accuse them of not caring," I snapped, ignoring his comment about the drinking. "You don't get to just check out and... and act like we don't exist."
"Max, you need to go to sleep," Sherlock insisted.
"No, you need to listen." I made to step toward him, but I lost my footing and ended up falling into his chest.
"Max!" Sherlock complained.
I gripped his dressing down against his front as he gently grasped my arms to steady me. I burrowed my head against his collarbone as my eyes began to burn again.
"I've lived my whole life in this... empty, colorless world," I breathed. "There was just nothing. I had John, but he only brought light when he was around. Same with Miyako. But you... you've showed me how to keep the light on all the time."
Sherlock stiffened slightly, staring down at me uncertainly. "Max..."
"It's stupid," I mumbled. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be weird, I just... I wanted you to know, and I'm not sure how to phrase it. But when you looked at that woman, when you knew her... her measurements was the code to the safe... I... I realized..."
"R-realized?" Sherlock stammered, but then he shook his head. "Max, come on. Let's have you lay down."
I didn't want to lay down. I wanted to punch the detective. I wanted to grab his face in my hands and... and...
"Sherlock..." I whispered softly. "You're my best friend, but I just... I think I..."
Before I could finish, Sherlock's hand cupped the back of my neck. I blinked in surprise as he pulled me back into his chest and pressed his soft lips against mine. The sensation was foreign and new—something that was both scorching and soothing at the same time. I was startled and wide-eyed at first, but as Sherlock wrapped an arm around the small of my back, I melted into him.
I'd never kissed anyone before, and I wasn't sure if Sherlock had either. It was deliberate and hungry, clumsy at first, but as I closed my eyes and moved my lips against his, we started to get the hang of it. Just as I began to lose myself, my gut twisted with more than just the flutters of attraction.
Panicking, I pushed Sherlock away from me. He stumbled a few paces back, gasping. He blinked rapidly, staring at me with something between shock and hurt. I shook my head, opened my mouth to tell him that he wasn't the reason I shoved him away, and proceeded to vomit instead.
I gripped my knees as the mince pie and random pieces of candy I'd eaten spilled onto Sherlock's bedroom floor. Panting, I wiped my mouth as my whole body trembled. A hand touched my back while another gently pulled back my hair from my face.
"C'mon," Sherlock said softly. "C'mon, this way."
I took his hand and he guided me a few steps away from the mess I made. He then carefully put his arm beneath my knees and scooped me up off the floor. I huddled against his chest, my eyes closed and still trying to catch my breath. Sherlock laid me down on his bed and pulled the covers up around me.
My awareness was fluttering in and out. I snuggled against the fluffy pillows, breathing in Sherlock's scent. My gut felt much better now that I emptied it, but I was left exhausted and weak. Something gently wiped my mouth and chin clean at one point, and I drank some water after, but then I fell into a deep slumber that wreathed me with nothing but comfort.
Sherlock
I stepped back from the bed when Maxine closed her eyes and began to breathe the deep, regular breaths of sleep. My heart was still hammering in my chest and I took a few deep breaths of my own to try and calm it.
Idiot, I scolded myself.
My self control had collapsed so fast and abruptly that I didn't have a chance to fight against my urges. Maxine had been standing just inside my room, staring at me with eyes that were both glossy and clear at the same time.
"You're my best friend..."
Yet her expression said anything but friend. There was something more—there always had been. I ran my hands through my hair as I took a few steps back, staring at the petite ginger-haired woman curled in my bed. From the first day we'd met, she'd peaked my interest. I looked at her like I looked at a complicated case. I wanted to take her apart piece by piece to learn how she ticked—what she liked, what she detested, what her childhood dreams were, what she wanted to accomplish in her life.
Maxine Watson had been a question I couldn't answer from the moment she walked into that lab at Bart's Hospital. I was close to John as well, I considered him my best friend, but Maxine... she was something else, something more.
When we first went to Irene Adler's home posing as a couple, I recalled how odd it felt to have Irene pull Maxine from my arm and declare me defrocked—like having Maxine act as my partner was a crude disguise she could see right through. That was the moment that I realized Irene might be clever, but she wasn't nearly as clever as she thought.
I had stared at Irene's bare figure, knowing she intended to make a strong first impression, knowing she was a dominatrix in every sense of the word. She reveled in bringing people to their knees, both literally and figuratively. Toward the end of our stay in her home, I believed Irene realized the truth of how I saw Maxine. Using her as leverage was the smartest move Irene could have made—the only move that would make me give up her phone.
Her phone, which was now in my possession.
I reached into my robe pocket and took the mobile out to glare at the locked screen. Irene Adler had been smart and clever. Part of me was saddened by her death; I wouldn't be able to go against her again—not truly. All I had was this phone, the last test she'd gifted me. Unlocking it would be the only way I could best her now.
Exhaling slowly, I pocketed the mobile and headed out into the kitchen to find some cleaner for the vomit Maxine left on my floor. Luckily, it was still on the wooden floor and not on the area rug that covered the majority of the room.
After cleaning the mess, I sat at the end of my bed, watching Maxine as she snored softly. She slept like a rabbit—burrowed into the blankets and curled into a tight ball. All I could see was her closed eye and head of curly hair. I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to figure out what I would do when she woke. The kiss hadn't been something I planned—it just... happened. In all honesty, I didn't think I truly knew for certain how I felt about Maxine until that moment.
It was official... I had somehow fallen into something I never thought I was capable of. She had kissed me back as well. Granted, when she shoved me away, I was momentarily filled with an anguish that I couldn't describe with mere words, but she had only done it to save me from having my mouth filled with her vomit.
"Not the most ideal first kiss..." I whispered to myself, glancing back at the now gleaming spot where Maxine retched.
Deciding that it wouldn't be prudent to get in the bed with Maxine, I went out to the living room to lay on the sofa with a blanket and pillow. It took me some time to actually fall asleep. My mind was buzzing with what I had done and contemplating whether or not it was a good thing.
Logically, I knew that having a romantic partner wasn't something I wanted. It would distract me from any case I took on and muddle my mind with thoughts and feelings I'd never experienced.
"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," Mycroft had told me.
He'd been toying with her for so long—kissing Maxine's hand, inquiring about her on a regular basis, sending greetings to her through John—and as it turned out, he was doing it all to get at me. I had been too wound up in the idea of Mycroft trying to court Maxine to realize it; I supposed that should have told me how I truly felt about her.
When I finally managed to sleep, it was filled with dreams of Maxine in my arms and her gentle smile aimed at me. I felt so comfortable with her pressed against me—it was... natural. I dreamed about the time she refused to let me see a certain article from the paper about us. I had memorized which paper it was and found the article later that day. It had spoken about Maxine and I being a couple and romantically involved, about how John noted how much Maxine had opened up since he and his sister moved in with me.
The morning light woke me. I blinked blearily at the sunlight piercing through the window. My shoulder ached from sleeping on the sofa and I stiffly pushed myself up and stretched. For a brief moment, I wasn't sure why I was in the living room, but then I remembered Maxine was in my bed. I got to my feet and glanced warily around the flat. It seemed I was the first to wake.
I momentarily considered trying to carry Maxine up to her own room before John woke up and discovered his little sister had slept in my room. I glanced toward the sofa where my blanket and pillow remained and elected to leave them there and Maxine in my room. If John had anything to say, I'd simply tell him that Maxine was drunk and got sick, so I let her take my room rather than going up the stairs. There was no point in mentioning the kiss, at least not until I figured out what it meant.
I got some tea on the stove and periodically checked Irene's mobile, trying to discern the password, but nothing came to me. Just as the tea began to steep, I heard footsteps heading down the stairs. John appeared in the kitchen, his hair still messy and wearing some baggy pants and a loose Tee.
"Morning," he greeted sleepily. "Tea on?"
"Mm." I nodded to him and shot him a wary glance.
John had his laptop beneath his arm and placed it on the kitchen table before sitting down, yawning. "After I have a cuppa, I'll make us some breakfast, shall I?" he said. "Maddie always loved scrambled eggs on Christmas morning."
"Er, protein would be a good idea," I muttered. "She'll probably be hung over."
John looked up at me as he opened his laptop. "Oh, so you came out to see her?" he asked, grimacing. "She doesn't normally drink so much. Dunno what got into her..."
"Actually, she got sick," I said, glancing into the living room at the sofa.
John turned, following my gaze and spotted the bedding. He looked back at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Did you sleep out here?"
"Well, I didn't want to snuggle up to your sister after she threw up all over the floor," I replied, taking the kettle off the stove when it began to squeal.
John stared at me over his laptop, blinking rapidly for a moment.
"She's in your room?" he finally blurted.
"Yes," I replied, placing the kettle on a tray with some cups and bringing it over to the table.
"Right now?" John continued to look perplexed.
I put the tray on the table and leaned on it, staring at John with rising irritation. "Obviously."
"Sorry, I just..." John shook his head and met my eyes. "She got sick?"
I sighed in frustration as I sat down across from him. John closed his laptop's lid and pushed the computer aside to give me his full attention. If I knew all I had to do to gain it, I would have resorted to mentioning his sister and my bed a long time ago.
"I... heard her retching out here," I lied carefully. "So I came out and she was in the kitchen losing her dinner. She could barely stand, so I carried her to the closest bed and cleaned up the mess."
"Why didn't you wake me?" John asked.
"She was drunk and vomiting, I don't think a doctor could have done anything I couldn't," I said.
"Right, yeah, sorry..." John apologized again and glanced toward my bedroom door. "I, er... I just... She isn't lying in a pool of her own sick in there, is she?"
I briefly met John's eyes, realizing that he was trying to inquire whether I had done anything with his sister's clothing. I let out a sharp exhale as I poured myself some tea.
"She didn't get any on herself, luckily—well, except her chin," I assured him. "I wiped that off."
"I... I should probably check on her..." John murmured, starting to get up from his seat.
"Careful not to wake her," I said, knowing that if I tried to keep John from my bedroom, he'd think the worst.
John waved me off, acknowledging he knew full well not to do that. I sipped my tea as he carefully entered my room. I didn't know what Maxine would say when she woke up—if she'd tell John about our encounter or if she'd perhaps regret it. She was drunk, after all. It could be that she didn't truly understand what she was doing at the time. Yet, after all my time as a detective, I found that the drunk mind often said what the sober mind couldn't.
When John came back into the kitchen, he carefully closed my bedroom door behind him. He sighed heavily and sat down across from me, pouring himself some tea.
"She seems all right," he said. "Thank you for... taking care of her."
I nodded, avoiding my friend's gaze. "So... you've never seen her drink that much?"
"No," John replied. "She's watched what that's done to Harry and wants nothing to do with it. It's completely out of her character." He took a sip of tea and then glanced warily at me. "Did she... say anything to you?"
"What would she say to me?" I said, carefully avoiding my friend's question.
"I dunno, something to give an idea of what she was drinking so much for..." John said.
I glanced toward John and my gut began to clench uncomfortably. He seemed to be a little too knowing when he met my eyes. I cleared my throat awkwardly and sipped some more tea, stalling for time.
I wasn't familiar with the life of courting and neither was Maxine, so if she had been dropping hints of some sort throughout the past year that she... that she was interested in me... I hadn't noticed. Maxine wasn't like Molly, who carried out the traditional methods of trying to get a man's attention. Changing makeup, different hairstyles, a slimming, curve-hugging black dress... No, Maxine was someone who always had her curly ginger hair barely kept to be socially acceptable, didn't bother with makeup of any kind, and wore shirts that were too big for her and jeans that had holes in the knees.
Her mannerisms were bizarre at times, but she'd been bizarre since I first met her. Clever, unique, demanding my attention in a way I couldn't begin to understand. However, John had known her since she was born. He, above anyone, would be able to tell when she was acting differently. He even stated in his blogs that Maxine was closed off before meeting me—the only person she would hold a conversation with was John. I had, in some way, opened her cage and managed to beckon her out.
It was clear in that moment, that John and I were both thinking of the same thing. I couldn't get the kiss I shared with Maxine out of my head and he was surely wondering if the kiss occurred. We were both aware of the connection I shared with his sister and how something caused it to evolve last night, but neither of us wanted to talk about it.
Luckily, Mrs. Hudson saved us from doing so. She came up from downstairs with a tray of Christmas themed cookies and candies. As she came around to the kitchen, she beamed at both of us and set the tray on the table.
"Hoo-hoo!" she greeted. "I know it isn't exactly proper to have sweets so early, but it is Christmas, after all."
"They look lovely, thank you, Mrs. H," John said, smiling at her. He seemed as grateful as I was for the distraction. "I'll get started on some breakfast to go with it."
He got to his feet and went over to the stove. While he and Mrs. Hudson began to make small talk, I wandered into the living room, unable to sit still. I ran a hand over my face, wondering if a cold shower would help jolt me out of... whatever this was. I bit my lip and glanced toward the Christmas Tree. I hadn't managed to give Maxine her gift yesterday; in fact none of the presents had been given out because of Irene's demise.
I spotted a gift toward the top of the pile. It was long and narrow with deep white wrapping paper dotted with light blue snowflakes that glimmered in the light. There was a dark blue bow wrapped around it and attached to that was a laminated bookmark. On it was a beautiful drawing of a violin with vines wrapping around it and the bow. I recognized Maxine's careful and curvaceous art style. There were bookmarks on other gifts as well; a smiling bulldog on John's, a gorgeous rose on Mrs. Hudson's, an old vintage police badge for Lestrade, and a stylized heart—a human heart, not the kind that were on Valentine's Day cards—for Molly.
She had thought about each person and made something personal and custom for all of them... Maxine had only gotten John something last year, but now she felt connected to everyone enough to do this. I ran my hand along the gift in my hand and slipped a finger beneath the corner of the paper to rip it. As I tore the paper off and removed the bow and bookmark, I saw that it was concealing a long black box of some sort. The lid came off easily and a gasp fled my lips involuntarily.
It was a violin bow—an expensive one. The wood gleamed and down near the grip was an engraving.
SHERLOCK.
Maxine had gotten me a personalized violin bow. There were some blocks of resin and some high-end violin strings in the box as well, which I was running low on. I slowly sat on the sofa and picked the bow out of the box to hold it in my hand. It felt perfectly balanced. I loosed a long exhale as warmth spread through me.
"Oi, you could've waited for her to wake up," John called from the kitchen, spotting what I had done. "Maddie was really excited about that."
"Sorry," I said. "I sort of... did it before I realized..."
"Oh, that's lovely!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, coming into the living room. "And she had it engraved too! You know, Maxine can be a bit standoffish, but this really shows her heart, doesn't it, Sherlock?" She smiled and gripped my shoulder.
"Er, yes..." I murmured, still staring at the bow. "She got you something as well. But perhaps we can wait for her to wake before then..."
"Oh, are these all bookmarks?" Mrs. Hudson looked at all the presents and beamed. "They're delightful, aren't they?"
"Yes," I said, picking up my own and running my thumb over it.
"Maxine doesn't usually sleep in this late," Mrs. Hudson noted. "Not unless she had a deadline coming up."
"She's in Sherlock's room," John said.
Mrs. Hudson's head snapped up and she looked between John and me, wide-eyed.
"She drank too much," I explained quickly. "Got sick and could barely walk, so I carried her to my bed rather than all the way upstairs and slept out here." I gestured to the blanket and pillow.
"Oh, well isn't that so gentlemanly of you, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson smiled widely at me. "Though, I'm a tad surprised that Maxine would drink so much... she's never done that before as far as I know."
"Just got carried away, I suppose," John said.
"Yes," I murmured, getting up and crossing the room to pick up my violin.
I perched it against my chin and lifted the new bow. After whipping it through the air once, I slid it across the strings. It made them sing so smoothly and clearly that it made me smile. Yet even as the grin hit me, turmoil began to bubble inside me.
I can't think about this right now, I thought. The case. The phone. Focus on that.
With that, I began to play, running the bow across the strings as my fingers danced across the neck, letting an entirely new song bloom. I played on and on, even after John finished making breakfast and offered me a plate. I grabbed some blank sheet music after a moment, eager to focus on nothing but the music and the case of Irene Adler's phone.
And not about how much I wanted to kiss Maxine Watson again.
Maxine
My head pounded as I sat up, groaning and rubbing my eyes. The last time I felt this awful was when I'd caught a horrific flu bug and was stuck home for nearly a week straight in Japan. Miyako had to come bring me soup and crackers. I could still recall her teasing me the entire time she took care of me.
After a moment, I managed to put how horrid my body felt aside and examined my surroundings.
I wasn't in my room.
Blinking blearily, I tried to make sense of where I was. When it finally struck me, I gave an audible gasp and looked down at myself then around the room again. This was Sherlock's room and Sherlock's bed. I was still in my Christmas sweater and jeans, so I supposed that was a good thing, but how did I get here? Why was I here?
The last thing I could remember was telling John goodnight. Everything after that was a bizarre blur that I couldn't make sense of.
What the hell did I do?
Slightly wobbly and grimacing in pain, I slipped out of the bed and began to stumble toward the door. Part of me was tempted to grab one of Sherlock's robes as chills ran along my body, but I decided against it. I'd already imposed on my flatmate enough, waking up in his bed...
I opened the door and squinted in the light of the kitchen. The smell of scrambled eggs and sausage struck me and it was simultaneously delightful and nauseating. John and Mrs. Hudson were both sitting at the kitchen table eating. A rather somber-sounding violin song came floating from the living room, where I guessed Sherlock was playing.
"There she is," John said, grinning toward me with both amusement and concern. "How d'you feel?"
I paused, leaning on the wall and considering for a moment.
"Like I've had a good thrashing from that Golem bloke," I finally replied in a rasp.
Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "I remember the first time I had an awful hangover. One of the prices of growing older, I'm afraid."
"Mm..." I shook my head and stumbled into the kitchen before plopping down beside John. "I'm not sure I've ever had that much to drink in one sitting, to be honest."
"You should probably thank Sherlock for taking care of you," John said with a small laugh.
I blinked again and looked from my brother to Sherlock. The detective was in the living room standing in front of a stand with some sheet music on it. I could see that it was once blank and he'd filled several lines with his own notes. When his name was mentioned, he paused to make more notes on the paper, but didn't look toward us.
"Lovely tune, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said. "Haven't heard that one before."
"You composing?" John queried.
"Helps me think," Sherlock replied.
He put the pen down and glanced back toward me. "You should probably have some protein... John said you liked eggs."
"I-I do," I stammered before shaking my head, trying to make my thoughts make sense. "I'm sorry—you took care of me last night?"
Sherlock had raised his bow again, but at my question he froze in place for a moment. He slowly lowered his instrument and turned to full face me. His sharp pale green eyes searched my face intently and he tilted his head slightly.
"You... you don't remember?" he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Uh..." I glanced around at everyone as they all stared at me. "I remember John telling me 'Merry Christmas,' I replied in kind and... and that's it. I was waking up in your bed next thing I knew."
"Oh." Sherlock turned around, lifting the violin again. I wasn't certain if I was imagining things, but his expression had looked a bit disappointed and upset before he faced away from us. "Well, you drank too much of the sake and ended up vomiting out here. The sound brought me out and I saw you were in no state to get up the steps so I carried you to my bed."
"Oh..." I frowned and furrowed my brow. Something about Sherlock's words seemed off. Part of me could recall vomiting, but it wasn't out here... "Well, that's embarrassing."
"You've done worse," John assured.
I rolled my eyes at him as I grabbed a plate and shoveled some scrambled eggs onto it. "But Sherlock, where did you sleep?"
"Sofa," Sherlock replied calmly.
I looked toward the sofa and saw a blanket and pillow. I also saw that Sherlock had opened my gift—the wrapping paper and box were on the coffee table.
"You opened your present," I said.
Sherlock paused in playing. The tune had gotten oddly sadder and more lamenting. He glanced back at me while lifting the bow in his hand. "Ah, yes. I was curious, sorry I didn't wait."
"Do... do you like it?" I asked nervously.
Sherlock met my eyes finally. He gave me a brief but genuine smile.
"I do," he said. "Very much."
I smiled back, but he turned away again, raising his new bow to continue playing. I rubbed my brow before beginning to eat. There was something I wasn't remembering—something important. It was the same sensation I would get when going to the market and forgetting my list; like standing in the checkout line knowing there was something I was missing.
"Sherlock, you said composing helps you think," John said, looking toward him. "What are you thinking about?"
Sherlock abruptly spun around and put his violin and bow down on his chair. He strode into the kitchen, pointing at John's open laptop screen.
"The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," he said quickly.
"Yeah, it's faulty," John explained, looking confused. "Can't seem to fix it."
Sherlock pulled a mobile from his pocket—Irene's mobile.
The sight of it sent a crushing weight into the pit of my stomach and against my chest. Of course, that's why I couldn't stop drinking the sake last night. I had so desperately wanted this feeling to go away—to numb the pain that seemed to be getting worse and worse.
"Faulty, or you've been hacked and it's a message," Sherlock breathed, typing into the device.
"Hmm?" John looked more perplexed than ever.
"1895," I murmured. "He thinks it's the passcode for the mobile."
There was a warning beep from the phone in Sherlock's hand and his face fell. He exhaled through his nose and turned around, shoving the phone back into his pocket.
"Just faulty," he said.
"Right..." John sighed, casting me a look with a perked brow.
I shrugged in response and ate some more eggs, though they tasted like nothing now.
"Right, well, I'm going out for a bit," John said.
Sherlock didn't respond. He picked up his violin and began to play the lamenting song. I looked at his back and swallowed a mouthful of eggs with some difficulty. Was this sad tune for Irene? Was he mourning her?
"I should... I should get freshened up," I said, getting to my feet.
I managed to only wobble a little bit as I went to the bathroom, intent on sitting in a shower with hot water streaming over me. Perhaps the heat of it would make this horrifically cold feeling inside me go away.
A/N::: You have no IDEA how much I've been looking forward to sharing this part with you guys. Sorry I'm such a tease with the cliff hanger, but I hope you all enjoyed their first smooch! (Honestly it kind of just happened when I first wrote it, and I tried a version without it but I find this first kiss is just too perfect.)