John
It was New Years Eve and as I headed out of the flat to go grab some food for the evening, I frowned slightly. Ever since Christmas, both Sherlock and Maxine had been acting strange. Sherlock wasn't eating and he continued to compose music with his violin for most hours of the day. He would get into moods like this every now and then, but this was the longest one had ever lasted.
Meanwhile, Maxine was clearly worried for him. She would attempt to gain his attention or get him to eat. At first, the detective politely declined. Then, he moved to just ignoring her. And finally, just yesterday, he yelled at her to leave him alone. I'd nearly went across the room to break Sherlock's violin over his head. My sister appeared hurt for a brief moment, then her face steeled over to something unreadable.
It was like the two of them were going backwards, back to before Maxine went to Japan and was sealed off and indifferent to the world and when they first met Sherlock and he was cold and cruel.
I could only assume that Sherlock was in mourning. I'd never seen him react to any woman like he did Irene Adler. I'd even consulted with Mrs. Hudson earlier today.
"Listen," I had said, approaching her while she was in our kitchen and keeping my voice low. "Has he ever had any kind of..." I sighed, feeling a bit silly, "...girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?"
"I don't know," Mrs. Hudson said, frowning in thought and shaking her head.
I gave another more frustrated sigh. "How can we not know?"
"He's Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said. "How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head of his?"
I gave our landlady a sad smile. "Right. See ya."
I was eager to get out of the flat for a bit. Between Sherlock and Maxine, it was far too awkward in there. I always wondered if Maxine had developed a crush on our detective flatmate, especially after how much she drank Christmas Eve. She insisted nothing happened that night between her and Sherlock, but I had some suspicions.
"John?"
I was so used to people knowing my face by now that a stranger saying my name didn't really phase me.
"Yeah," I replied, "Hello."
I turned around to see a rather beautiful woman with long dark hair smiling at me. Her eyes were glimmering with flirtatious intent.
"Hello!" I repeated, wondering if it wasn't actually New Years Eve and in fact my birthday.
"Do you have any plans for New Years?" the woman asked as she strode closer.
"Er, nothing fixed," I replied hastily. "Nothing I couldn't heartlessly abandon. You have any ideas?"
"One," the woman said, looking over her shoulder toward the road.
I followed her gaze and then let out a sigh of exasperation when a black car pulled up and stopped beside us.
"You know, Mycroft could just phone me, if he didn't have this bloody power complex," I muttered sourly.
The car took us a good distance from the flat—more specifically to the empty shell of Battersea Power Station. When the vehicle pulled up in the building, the woman and I exited the car and she led me through the expansive, abandoned structure.
"Couldn't we just go to a cafe?" I asked. "Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere."
The woman came to a halt, typing on her phone as she gestured ahead of herself. Ahead, the building narrowed to a hall that led to another section of the building.
"Through here," she said.
I gave her an look that I hoped showed her how annoyed I was by all of this before continuing on. Now alone, I strode through the hall to the other side. When it bloomed open to a large, empty room, I spoke out before bothering to look for Mycroft to direct my words at.
"He's writing sad music; doesn't eat; barely talks—only to correct the television or yell at my sister," I said, walking further into the room.
On the other side, a figure began to walk out from the shadows.
Assuming it was Mycroft, I eyed it and went on. "I'd say he was heartbroken but, er, well, he's Sherlock. Other than the yelling at Maddie bit, he does all that anyw..."
I trailed off the figure came into full view.
It was Irene Adler.
"Hello, Doctor Watson," she said. Thankfully, she was fully clothed this time in a fancy coat and dress.
I stared mutely at her for several seconds before managing to find my voice.
"Tell him you're alive," I breathed.
"He'd come after me," Irene said, shaking her head.
"I'll come after you if you don't," I snarled.
"Mm, I believe you," Irene replied.
"You were dead on a slab," I accused, raising my voice. "It was definitely you."
"DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep," Irene said.
"And I bet you know the record-keeper," I countered.
"I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear." Irene clasped her gloved hands in front of her neatly.
"Then how come I can see you and I don't even want to?" I snapped.
"Look, I made a mistake," Irene said, a hint of pleading in her voice. "I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need you help."
"No." My tone was flat and uncaring. I glared at the woman across from me with growing rage.
She'd forced herself into our lives, causing nothing but distortion and chaos. Regardless if she was the object of Sherlock's affections, she'd forced him to care then made him believe she was dead. Everything she did was in an effort to shock—to steal the spotlight and deliver a spectacular and grandiose show.
"It's for his own safety," Irene insisted.
"So's this: tell him you're alive," I countered.
"I can't," Irene replied.
My breath was coming in heavy now with my rising anger. Was this woman truly so callous and cruel? Did she enjoy toying with people's emotions like this? Did she see this as just some game to be played?
"Fine," I snapped. "I'll tell him, and I still won't help you." I turned to leave the room.
"What do I say?" Irene asked helplessly.
"What do you normally say?" I barked, whirling to face her again. "You've texted him a lot.."
Irene pulled out her phone and stared at the screen. "Just the usual stuff."
"There is no 'usual' in this case," I told her.
Irene continued to stare at her phone. "'Good morning,' 'I like your funny hat,' 'I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner.' 'You looked sexy on Crimewatch,' 'Let's have dinner,' 'I'm not hungry, let's have dinner.'"
I gaped at the woman in disbelief. "You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?"
"At him," Irene corrected. "He's only replied once."
"No, Sherlock always replies—to everything." I argued. "He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."
"Does that make me special?" Irene asked with a slight tilt of her head.
"...I don't know," I admitted, eyeing her. "Maybe."
"Are you jealous?" Irene asked with a smirk.
"We're not a couple," I said tightly.
Irene's smile widened. "How about your sister, then?"
I knew that my face was flushing. I balled my hands into fists. "You said he replied once. What did he say?"
Irene's smug expression melted away. She pursed her lips and glanced at her mobile briefly before replying, "'Stop.'"
"Stop?" I echoed.
Irene shrugged. "I listened. I stopped."
"But why?" I said. "Why would he say that? Just that?
"Oh, come on, surely you know," Irene sighed.
"Know what?" I was starting to get frustrated with her little game.
Irene rolled her eyes. "I thought I could show him what a real woman was like. Mature, sexy, experienced... but even when I was naked in front of him, there was no interest, not in that way. I saw how he was when Neilson threatened to shoot her. I saw how he looked at her. Sherlock Holmes lost what little of a heart he has to your sister a long time ago, didn't he?"
My jaw went slack and I was at a loss for words. I knew Maxine's drinking on Christmas Eve had to do with Sherlock. I knew she was attached to him and it worried me. I'd seen how Sherlock treated Molly, I didn't want the same for Maxine. But if Irene was right, if Sherlock had feelings for my sister, that changed things. That brought it to a whole new level—one I wasn't certain I liked.
Irene typed away on her phone briefly then showed my the screen. "There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'" She pressed the send button.
I turned away, running one hand through my hair. I thought I knew Maxine better than anyone, but for the life of me I couldn't quite figure out what was going on with her and Sherlock.
Before anything else could be said, a female orgasmic sigh came from a short distance away—just outside the door and in the hall. I could hear footsteps quickly retreating, knowing it had to be Sherlock. I began to walk toward the door, but Irene held up a hand to stop him.
"He'll need time to digest all this," Irene said. "I'm sure he's always known, deep down, but for someone to say it out loud makes it a lot more real." She smiled humorlessly. "And a lot more scary for someone like Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock
I took long steps down Baker Street, my heart thrumming in my ears. I could barely take in my surroundings and let my muscle memory do the work for me. Irene had seen it before I had—or at least before I let myself feel it. That all this time I'd spent with Maxine something had bloomed in what I had assumed was my hollow ribcage. Turns out there was a heart in there and Maxine had somehow breathed life into it.
Running a hand through my hair, I debated on what to do next. Maxine didn't remember our encounter on Christmas Eve. I could tell she was speaking the truth over Christmas breakfast with her startled expression and foggy confusion in her eyes. I could tell her and see what her reaction was, but a large part of me shrank away from the idea. Doing that left me open—it was laying my soul bare before her to admit that I'd lost self control and...
Arriving at the front door of 221B, I pulled out my key and raised it to the lock with a slightly trembling hand. I had to figure out my plan before John got home. However, as I neared the key to the knob, I froze when I noticed that it didn't require to be unlocked.
The door had been jimmied open.
The fog in my mind evaporated and my gaze sharpened. I carefully pushed the door in and stepped inside. One quick glance around showed me that the interior door connecting our flat with 221A and 221C was also slightly ajar. I put a hand to the opaque glass window and swung it open as quietly as possible.
Not a thief. There was too much brute force in the opening of 221B's door—they used a crowbar of some kind. Thieves were more prone to using picks instead. I stepped into the hallway that joined all the flats and noticed that the door to 221A was wide open. Partway into the hall was a plastic bucket and I carefully walked over to it to inspect the contents.
Inside were various cleaning materials: rubber gloves, a duster, a bottle of disinfectant, and a few rags. I reached inside and grabbed the small spray can of sanitizer. After examining the warning labels on the side instructing people to seek immediate medical attention if the chemical got in their eyes or was swallowed, I slid the can into my trousers' pocket.
Turning back toward the stairs, I spotted a couple of scuff marks on the wall just above the risers. They could have only been made by someone who walked the steps awkwardly—someone who was going up backwards and having to feel their way up each step and a second set of scuffs that suggested they were walking forward, but something was throwing them off balance.
They were carrying something.
There was a small indentation in the wallpaper about waist-high off the ground. I went up a couple of the steps quietly and peered at it before putting my finger against it.
It was a nail mark; it had been made by someone desperately fighting from being hauled upstairs. Maxine didn't have nails long enough to make this indent, which meant it had to have been Mrs. Hudson.
The men weren't carrying something, they were carrying someone.
Three men total. I couldn't hear any sound of fighting or struggle upstairs and the front door had still been ajar. It meant they had guns, and they had both Maxine and Mrs. Hudson upstairs, waiting for me.
A slow, cold fury began to seep through me. I gripped the banister tightly for a moment before ascending the stairs. No point in keeping them waiting—in fact I was eager to meet the men who dragged my landlady up the steps in such a fashion.
Once I reached the landing, I slowly pushed the door to the living room open. In front of the fireplace, Mrs. Hudson was sitting on a dining chair facing the sofa. Directly behind her stood Neilson, the American CIA agent who led the raid on Irene's house. He held a pistol with a large silencer on the muzzle and was aiming it at the back of Mrs. Hudson's head. One of Neilson's men was standing at the window while the other stood near the sliding door to the kitchen. Both turned to face me as I strode into the room, my hands clasped behind my back.
Mrs. Hudson had been crying softly, but when she noticed me it turned into sobs.
"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!" she exclaimed.
"Don't snivel, Mrs. Hudson," I said, keeping my voice calm. "It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet." I lifted my gaze to glare at Neilson. "What a tender world that would be."
Mrs. Hudson continued to cry as she stared up at me. "Oh, please. Sorry, Sherlock."
I wanted to tell her she had nothing to apologize for. I wanted to grab Neilson by the throat and slam him into the dining table. Briefly, I allowed my eyes to search the rest of the flat. Maxine had been here when I left. Where was she?
The past few days, I tried to distance myself from her. She still didn't recall the night of Christmas Eve and despite the longing in my heart to experience that kiss again, I thought perhaps it was for the best. Sentiment... it was something that I couldn't allow. It led to mistakes, it led to disaster. So when Maxine tried to speak to me, tried to get me to eat or take on a new case, I declined. Then I ignored. Then I yelled. Admittedly, I regretted the last bit.
"Looking for something?" Neilson sneered. "So am I. I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes."
Oddly, Neilson had a blossoming black eye and a split lip. I didn't think that Mrs. Hudson could have done that. And the man over by the window had a tear in his jacket and his tie was loose while his sported some scratches on his face. When he moved, he held himself in such a way that told me he'd taken a blow to the ribs.
"Then why didn't you ask for it?" I asked coolly as I walked closer and held out my right hand toward Mrs. Hudson.
She instantly clung onto it, whimpering. I gently turned back the sleeve of her right arm and saw bruises on her wrist. My jaw clenched.
"Sher..." Mrs. Hudson sobbed.
"I've been asking this one," Neilson said. "She doesn't seem to know anything."
I lifted my head to see that the right shoulder of Mrs. Hudson's cardigan was ripped at the seam, exposing her skin underneath.
"But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr. Holmes?" Neilson snarled.
I looked up higher to see a cut on my landlady's right cheek. Flicking my eyes to the side, I noted the ring on the third finger of Neilson's hand holding his pistol. There was blood on it.
I lifted my eyes back up to meet Neilson's.
"I believe I do," I murmured.
I released Mrs. Hudson's hand and straightened up, placing both my hands behind my back again. I glared at Neilson.
"Where's Max?" I asked in a low, ice cold voice.
Neilson smirked briefly, but the action seemed to cause him some pain, for he winced. "The redhead? She put up quite a fight." He turned to nod at the man near the kitchen.
The third man, this one with a a slight limp, slid open the kitchen doors. My heart hiccuped when I spotted Maxine laying prone on the kitchen floor, her face bloodied. I could see the steady rise and fall of her chest, but otherwise she was motionless.
"Tough one, Maxine Watson," Neilson said. "I'm quite curious where she learned to fight."
Mrs. Hudson sobbed again, shaking her head and closing her eyes tightly. I was beginning to think that her tears weren't for herself, but for the woman laying in the kitchen with blood smeared on the floor around her.
"She'll wake eventually," Neilson said with a small shrug.
I took a deep, steadying breath. Slowly, I raised my eyes to look directly at Neilson, roving my eyes over his head.
Carotid Artery. Skull. Eyes.
My gaze dropped to his chest.
Artery. Lungs. Ribs.
Neilson would wish he never stepped foot in 221B Baker Street. I looked back into the kitchen, focusing on the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It seemed regular, but all the same...
"Get rid of your boys," I said, keeping my eyes on Maxine.
"Why?" Neilson said.
I turned my irascible gaze back on him. "I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room."
Neilson hesitated briefly, then glanced at his colleagues. "You two, go to the car."
"Then get into the car and drive away," I said tightly. "Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn't work." I clicked the k of the last work loudly.
The two men exchanged a look then both proceeded to leave the room. I waited until I heard the door leading out to the street shut before speaking again.
"Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me," I told Neilson.
He scoffed. "So you can point a gun at me?"
I took a step back and spread my arms to the side. "I'm unarmed."
"Mind if I check?" Neilson asked, but his tone suggested I had no choice.
"Oh, I insist," I replied.
Neilson came around from behind Mrs. Hudson. She whimpered nervously as she looked from me to the motionless Maxine in the other room.
"Don't do anything," Mrs. Hudson begged softly.
Neilson walked over to me, holstering his gun. He patted my breast pocket before flicking open my coat. I stood meekly by, my arms still spread. Neilson walked around behind me, patting for any hidden weapon at my back. I took this moment to look at Maxine again. She was moving—slowly lifting her knee up and shifting in discomfort.
I slowly began to bend my right arm toward myself. Then, as quickly as I could, I reached into my coat pocket that Neilson hadn't gotten to yet and pulled free the can of sanitizer. I sprayed the contents directly into Neilson's eyes. The man screamed, and as he stumbled, I reared back and savagely slammed my head into his face. Neilson collapsed back onto the coffee table, unconscious.
"Moron," I spat as I placed the can on the dining table.
"Maxine," Mrs. Hudson said as she got up out of her chair.
I was already rushing into the kitchen. I wanted to see to Mrs. Hudson's wounds as well, but Maxine's state seemed a bit more critical. The two of us knelt down beside her just as she groaned and began to blink her eyes open.
"Max," I said, reaching forward and gently gripping her shoulder. "Don't move just yet."
"Where's that bastard...?" Maxine rasped.
I ignored her question for the moment. I roved my eyes over her carefully. The blood on her face was mainly coming from her scalp and nose, though since the bruising wasn't awful there probably weren't any broken bones. Her T-shirt was ripped at the neckline, exposing the top of a modest blue bra, the left strap of which was completely visible. There wasn't any more blood, but her arms were bruised and it wasn't possible for me to tell if they hit her in the abdomen without lifting her shirt.
My free hand clenched tightly as I shot a glare over my shoulder at Neilson. He would pay, but for now I had to see to Maxine and Mrs. Hudson. Of course, there was no harm in being precautious.
"Stay with her," I said to my landlady and quickly got to my feet.
A few minutes later, Neilson was effectively duct taped to the dining chair he'd put Mrs. Hudson in. Maxine had managed to sit up, but she had a bad concussion at best. Her eyes were bleary and her expression was tight with discomfort. Mrs. Hudson got a glass of water and knelt down beside her.
"Here, dearie, take a drink," Mrs. Hudson urged gently.
Maxine allowed her to bring the glass to her mouth and took a few sips. She blinked a few times and her gaze fixated on Neilson.
"Should've had my dagger," she muttered.
I quickly grabbed a piece of paper from the desk near the window and wrote the words: "CRIME IN PROGRESS, PLEASE DISTURB" on it before quickly trotting downstairs and taping it to the door that led to 221B. John should hopefully be home soon and this would give him some notice. Once that was done, I headed back up the stairs two at a time.
Neilson's eyes were open now, but his mouth had a strip of duct tape over it, keeping him from making a sound. Maxine was now moved to the living room, seated on the sofa while Mrs. Hudson carefully cleaned the blood from her face with a damp rag.
"She's not bleeding anymore, thank goodness," Mrs. Hudson said. "She was out when they brought me up here. I remember hearing some sort of commotion but before I could come check, they were... they were in my flat."
I went over to gently stroke Mrs. Hudson's face. Not a lot of people put up with me, but Mrs. Hudson was one of the few who did. I appreciated her more than I could properly express.
"It's all right now," I assured her. "You're all right. There wasn't anything more you could do."
"When Neilson couldn't handle me alone, he had his boys help," Maxine said, her voice still weak. "Didn't want to kill me... they wanted the phone."
"Of course they did," I snarled as I turned to glare at the unconscious Neilson in the chair. "We best get Lestrade over here."
I pulled Neilson's gun from my waistband and my phone from my pocket. I punched in Lestrade's speed dial and put it to my ear as I aimed the gun at Neilson's head, more than tempted to pull the trigger.
"What's going on?"
John came trotting into the living room, his expression anxious. He spotted Neilson and blinked in surprise.
"Jeez," he breathed. "What the hell is happening?"
"Mrs. Hudson and Max have been attacked by an American," I said as the phone began to ring. "I'm restoring balance to the universe."
John turned and spotted Mrs. Hudson and Maxine. He instantly rushed over to the sofa and knelt down in front of them.
"My God, are you two all right?" he asked breathlessly. He glared over his shoulder at Neilson. "What did they do to you?"
Mrs. Hudson broke down into tears again. John looked back at her and gripped her knees as Maxine wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"Oh, I'm just being silly," Mrs. Hudson said, sniffling.
"No, no," John said, shaking his head. He looked over at Maxine. "Is that blood?"
Maxine managed a smirk. Just the sight of it made my heart jump in my chest.
"Well, when three grown CIA agents go for you at once, it's hard to avoid a cut or two," she said.
"Th-three?" John stammered, looking back at me.
"The other two drove off. Might be back eventually," Sherlock said. "That's why I'm calling Lestrade. You should take Mrs. Hudson and Max downstairs and look after them."
John nodded and turned to help Mrs. Hudson to her feet. However, when he reached for Maxine, she shook her head.
"I'll stay up here, thanks," she said, her angry glare fixated on Neilson.
"Maddie, we have to see if I can take care of you or if you need hospital," John said sternly. "If you don't let me check, then we'll just have to send you to St. Bart's."
Maxine grimaced and sighed. "Fine."
John tugged her to her feet and wrapped an arm around her waist to guide her downstairs. Just when he and Mrs. Hudson reached the door, he turned to look back at me.
"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" John asked.
"I expect so," I replied. "Now go."
John held my gaze for a moment, then we both set our gazes on Neilson. Now the CIA agent had two murderous expressions aimed at him. Then, John turned and helped his sister through the door and down the steps, Mrs. Hudson just behind them.
"Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade," a voice said from my phone.
"Lestrade," I greeted, irritated with how long it took him to answer his office phone. "We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance."
"An ambulance?" Lestrade echoed in alarm as I turned away from Neilson and walked over to the dining table. "Are-are you all okay?"
"Oh, no-no-no-no-no, we're fine," I assured him as I placed the pistol on the table. "No, it's the, uh... it's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured."
"What d'you mean?" Lestrade asked. "How badly?"
"Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull... suspected punctured lung." I glanced over my shoulder at Neilson, who now looked quite nervous. "He fell out of a window."
Still looking into Neilson's eyes, I hung up the phone.
Maxine
My head was throbbing when we reached the bottom of the steps and went around to the main hall to go to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.
"First aid?" John asked after he helped me over to the kitchen counter where I hoisted myself up to sit.
"Ah, in the cabinet by the fridge," Mrs. Hudson said, pointing.
John gathered the kit and strode back to us. He set it on the counter next to me and opened it, taking in its inventory. He then pulled out some cotton balls and antiseptic.
"Mrs. Hudson first," I told him when he started coming toward me with it.
"Oh, Maxine, you're far worse off than me," Mrs. Hudson argued.
"Who knows what was on that ring of his," I said, waving her and John off.
Before anything else could happen, a shape plummeted down past the window over the kitchen sink. There was a loud crashing sound, swiftly followed by an agonized cry.
"Ooh." Mrs. Hudson looked out the window nervously. "That was right on my bins."
I nearly laughed. Leave it to Mrs. Hudson to merely be worried about her bins and not about anything we just went through. John, knowing he wasn't going to let me look at him until he took care of our landlady, turned his attention to her and began to gently disinfect her cuts and inspect her bruises.
Pursing my lips, I glanced down and noticed that my shirt had been torn rather badly. My bra was exposed and at the sight of it my face burned with embarrassment.
"Oh, bloody hell," I rasped as I tried to tug my shirt back into place.
For Sherlock to come back and see me in such a state... I closed my eyes and tried to purge the image from my head.
"Maddie."
Startled, I lifted my eyes to see John standing in front of me with one of Mrs. Hudson's robes. I gave a humorless laugh and grabbed it, carefully pulling it on. My body ached and I winced as I pulled my arms through the sleeves. John sighed and pulled out a small pocket torch from his pocket.
"Mrs. Hudson's all taken care of," he said. "Let me check if you have a concussion."
I nodded and let John shine the light in my eyes while holding his other finger up for me to track with my gaze. He tested each eye twice, the second time with slightly more deliberation, then he sighed and turned the torch off.
"You do have a concussion," he said. "Which means rest. Lots of it."
I groaned.
"Maddie," John scolded, "you're lucky you didn't end up with worse. Did they injure you... anywhere else?"
He spoke the words nervously and suddenly I realized what he must think, what with my shirt being torn.
"No, no," I insisted. "A few punches to the gut... but Neilson smacking me over the head with his pistol is what knocked me out."
More specifically, Neilson's men had to hold me so he could actually land a hit.
"Okay," John murmured. "Well if you feel pain anywhere else, let me know, understand? Now let's disinfect this gash..."
I remained still while John fussed over me. I knew it did him good to take care of people, especially me. It reasserted him as the older brother, which was a role he always adored.
John cleaned away the remaining blood that was on the side of my face and hair before applying a couple of stitches in the wound above my left ear. He checked each of my bruises in searches for any broken or fractured bones. Luckily, I'd gotten by without even a broken rib.
After John finished, the three of us sat at Mrs. Hudson's table and snacked on some leftover Christmas candies she had. There was eventually a knock on the door and John went to answer it. Lestrade came in, looking distraught. He took in Mrs. Hudson and me, his expression tightening.
"Bloody hell," he breathed. "Are you two all right?"
"Peachy," I replied, then held out a candy to him. "Butterscotch?"
Lestrade smiled slightly as he took it. "Nothing seems to bother you, does it, Maxine?"
"Don't make it sound like a good thing, Lestrade," John pressed.
"I just needed your statements," Lestrade said, looking between each of us.
"No, no you don't."
Blinking, I looked around Lestrade to see Sherlock beckoning the Inspector from the doorway.
"They've been through quite enough today, you can have it tomorrow," Sherlock said.
Lestrade sighed and walked over toward him. "And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?" he asked.
Sherlock let out a long exhale and shrugged. "It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count."
Lestrade shook his head and walked right by him and toward the door that led out to the street. Sherlock wiped his feet on the welcome mat before entering Mrs. Hudson's flat, closing the door behind him.
"Mrs. Hudson will have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight," John said. "We need to look after her."
"No," Mrs. Hudson protested, shaking her head and looking anxious.
"Of course, but she's fine," Sherlock said.
"No, she's not," John insisted. "Look at her."
Sherlock opened the fridge and peered inside before picking something up. John let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head.
"She's got to take some time away from Baker Street. She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor's orders," he added, looking at our landlady.
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock said, kicking the fridge shut and walking toward us. There was a mince pie in his hand and he took a bite from it.
"She's in shock, for God's sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone," John exclaimed. "Where is it, anyway?"
"Safest place I know," Sherlock replied. He wiped some crumbs from his mouth and looked at Mrs. Hudson.
"You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot," Mrs. Hudson said with a small laugh as she reached into her bra and pulled out the phone. "I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."
I smiled lightly and leaned back in my chair. "She's a resourceful one."
"Shame on you, John Watson." Sherlock shot a glare toward John as he walked around and put a protective arm around Mrs. Hudson's shoulders.
"Shame on me?" John exclaimed.
Sherlock pulled Mrs. Hudson closer to him. "Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street?" he demanded sternly. "England would fall."
John smiled as Mrs. Hudson laughed and stroked Sherlock's hand. Sherlock chuckled before stepping away from her and toward me. He peered down at my face and gently lifted my hair to peer at John's stitching.
"It's not so bad," I assured him.
"Let's get you in bed so you can rest, shall we?" he said.
He held out his hand and smiled at me. I sighed and grasped his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. Back in our flat, Sherlock made sure to even escort me up to my bedroom. John went to making something for dinner and Sherlock mentioned going out to properly hide the phone, but for now he was seeing to me.
"So..." I murmured as I opened my bedroom door and walked inside, "...are you done brooding?"
The last time we spoke was yesterday, when he was standing near the window, staring out at the street. I'd come to his side, once again worried that he hadn't eaten his breakfast. John and I ended up staying home instead of going to see Harry because of how worried we were for him.
"Come on, you should have something," I had urged him gently.
"Will you just shut up, and leave me alone?!" Sherlock had shouted back, whirling to glare at me.
So I did. I was hurt at first, but then I reminded myself that this was Sherlock Holmes. We might have grown closer over the years, but he was still... him. Still insensitive to poor Molly, still rude to his flatmates, still stuck inside his own head.
Back in the present, Sherlock hesitated on the threshold of my room, which was something that he'd never done before. His pale green eyes darted about the walls and furniture, as if he were searching for any little thing to keep his gaze occupied. I sat down on my bed, frowning at him again.
"What's wrong?" I probed.
Sherlock sighed and stepped inside the room, gently closing the door behind him. After hesitating for another few seconds, he met my eyes.
"Irene Adler is alive," he said.
The contents of my stomach were replaced with stone. I blinked a few times, staring at him in astonishment.
"But she was... you saw her dead in the morgue," I whispered.
"She's craftier than we thought," Sherlock replied. "I saw her with my own eyes. She snagged John... she wants the phone back."
I let out a small breath of disbelief. "I suppose we shouldn't be surprised."
Sherlock shrugged. He was looking down at his feet for a moment before he finally sighed and lifted his head. He locked his pale green eyes on me and I froze in his gaze.
"I..." Sherlock began, but had to take a breath and start again. "I am... sorry I yelled at you yesterday. I know you just..."
"Care?" I supplied.
Sherlock furrowed his brows and regarded me with slight confusion for a moment. Then he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "You do, don't you?"
"Of course I do, Sherlock," I said, shaking my head. "You're my best friend."
Sherlock eyed me carefully and asked, "Do you truly not remember Christmas Eve night?"
The intent in his eyes was like fire. I blinked a few times, trying to dig into the fuzzy memories. Something important clearly happened between us, but what?
"I... I remember telling John Merry Christmas," I said slowly, furrowing my brow as I concentrated. "I was... I was looking at the presents—at your present I got for you. I... I got up..." I rubbed my forehead. It was like trying to piece together a dream that I could barely recall. "I went... to your room."
I said the last part with sudden realization. I lifted my gaze to Sherlock, who was still standing in the doorway. He was staring at me, clearly hesitant about something. His eyes seemed... pleading; like he was begging me to piece everything together so he didn't have to explain.
"I opened the door..." My voice dropped to a low murmur as pictures started coming back to me.
The detective took a few steps forward, staring down into my eyes with his piercing pale green gaze.
"And?" he prompted, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
"You... were cross with me," I said, giving a nervous chuckle. "Don't blame you. You said I got sick, didn't you? All over your floor, then?"
"Before that," Sherlock said.
"I scolded you," I replied. "For shutting me out. And then I talked about Irene Adler for a small bit... and... and..."
My heart began to accelerate. I clutched my knees as heat flooded my face. The sensation came back to me before the actual visual memory. There was Sherlock's strong form against mine, then his warm hand behind my neck, tilting my head back. Then his lips—soft and intent—against mine.
Sherlock slowly sat on the bed beside me, eyeing me warily. I glanced at him, a flurry of emotions rampaging through my ribcage.
"Then I almost vomited in your mouth," I finally managed to whisper.
Sherlock gave a small scoff that was both disbelieving and amused.
"That's what you take away from it?" he said.
"W-well what am I supposed to take away from it?" I stammered. "Y-you... we..."
"Kissed, yes," Sherlock finished for me. His wariness was starting to turn into impatience.
I blinked at him for a moment before letting out a sharp exhale. "S-so... so..."
Sherlock sighed and glanced down at his feet for a moment. He was only a few millimeters away and I could feel his body heat on my bare arm.
"When I saw you today..." he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "I felt something... snap inside me. Even if it had just been Mrs. Hudson who was harmed, I'm fairly certain I would have thrown the man out the window still, but... but seeing you hurt and so..."
"Helpless?" I offered, slightly bitter.
Sherlock gave me a pained look. "I don't want to say that, but..."
"What are you getting at?" I queried in a small voice.
"Okay." Sherlock suddenly got to his feet and started pacing around my room. "I've never had this issue before—I've never been fixated on a person like how I fixate on a case. You... you've always been this unanswered question in my head and I can't stand it."
He paused in front of me, turning to face me fully. He was panting slightly and his eyes looked manic.
"At first I thought it was the mystery behind you; you're past in Japan and with the Yakuza, but no. No, it was something beyond that—it was something beyond anything I've ever encountered."
Sherlock gripped my shoulders and leaned his head down toward me, his eyes darting between the two of mine as if searching for something. My breath quickened at his touch and I stared back at him, waiting.
"It took Irene Adler to make me realize the truth of it," Sherlock murmured. "Every time she texted me, every time I remembered her grand entrance, all it did was make me think of you."
His words dropped on me like a physical weight. It was both the cleansing sense of relief but also the flooding of some new, wild emotion I didn't understand. It beckoned me to press my lips to Sherlock's again.
"I didn't know what to think when you didn't remember Christmas Eve," Sherlock admitted. "I thought I was happy that you forgot; it made it like it never happened. I distanced myself because... because I was scared. Seeing you hurt today forced my mind to realize that's a possibility—something could happen to you one day and you could just be gone." Sherlock's eyes shimmered slightly. "I never want that to happen. I can't bear the very thought of it. Especially without knowing how much I..."
He released my shoulders and took a few steps back, shaking his head.
"Romantic inclinations is meant to just be a chemical reaction—something that sparks between people to bring about reproduction," he said. "Well... that's what I always thought it was. I always thought myself to be superior to that, to be immune to it. I thought it was a weakness, something to distract me from what's important."
"And... and now?" I breathed.
Sherlock met my eyes. "I must confess, being in the throws of it certainly forced me to at least consider alternate possibilities."
I gave out a small laugh that was more nerves than anything else. Sherlock smiled back at me briefly, but then his expression grew serious.
"What... what do you make of all this, then?" he asked hesitantly, as if he were afraid of my answer.
I looked him over as I clasped my hands together on my lap. "I suppose it's the same as what I told you last night. You brought color to my world, and you taught me how to make it stay."
"While I know that you're quite fond of your metaphors and similes—and your creative side is part of why I'm so fond of you—but could you..." Sherlock shifted nervously and took in a sharp breath. "Could you give me a clear response?"
"A clear response to what?" I countered. "You simply asked what I made of all this." A small, devious smirk started playing on my lips. It wasn't often one got the chance to tease Sherlock Holmes.
"You're really going to make me come out and say it, aren't you?" Sherlock sighed.
I merely kept smiling at him.
"Perhaps I should regret helping you come out of your shell, so to speak," Sherlock said. "You're getting more cheeky by the day."
He clasped his hands behind himself and looked to the side to let out a long breath through his nose. He stared at my drawings on the wall, including the sketch of him. Sherlock bit his lip, then faced toward me again.
"You should know, I've never done this before, and I doubt you have either," he said quickly. "So I'll just say it, then, shall I? Will you be my... my girlfriend?"
I knew what was coming, but at the same time, it robbed my breath from me. I stared at him for a moment before smiling again and nodding my head. Sherlock's face broke into a huge beam and he took a small step back while bending his knees. It was a triumphant gesture I'd seen him make when making a breakthrough deduction on a case.
"Ah, good," he said, giving a brisk nod as he tried to regain his composure. "Er, yes, very good. Really, really good."
I chuckled. "Are you all right?"
"Yes!" Sherlock replied. "Yes, I'm... everything's fantastic." He let out another sharp exhale, this time through his lips while saying, "Hooo!" like he'd just ran a marathon.
"Sherlock," I said, gaining his attention fully. "I'll be honest with you, I've no clue how to date."
Sherlock laughed. "That's all right, neither do I. We'll learn as we go."
Suddenly, Sherlock's face broke into abrupt realization and he held up his hands toward me. "Your gift! Your Christmas gift, you haven't had a chance to open it! I'll fetch it, just-just stay there."
I chuckled, giddy from his antics. As he rushed out of the room, I sighed contently and flopped back on my bed. The action was too fast and sent pain jolting through my head along with a wave of nausea, but it didn't bother me for long. I was flooded with euphoria, astounded and beyond pleased with Sherlock's confession. I didn't know how we were going to pull of dating, but I assumed our improvisation skills would help us.
"Oh," I said, suddenly thinking of an important factor. "John..."
I wasn't sure how John was going to react to the news of us dating. He seemed to have been giving mixed messages over the past few months in regards to me being anyone's girlfriend, let alone Sherlock's... We lived in the same flat, we were around each other constantly... I didn't know what this posed in the long run.
But I certainly wouldn't change a thing.