Chapter 63 - wow, when I started this story I thought it might be about twenty at the most, but look at me now... We are getting closer to Maynard! :D I'll have to see whether I'll be able to keep my promise or whether it'll be a few more chapters...

"What happened?"

"Oh good, you're up. How do you feel?"

"My head really hurts – excuse me, but who are you?"

"My name is Suzanne, but you can also call me Margery."

"Margery?"

"Second name, like it much better. And you?"

"What?"

"Your name?"

"Lena – sorry, what's going on?"

"You fell and hit your head pretty bad, and when I saw it and came down, you didn't want an ambulance, so I took you up with me."

"I – fell?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It's just – was a girl with red hair nearby?"

"Don't think so, it's after ten, the streets are mostly empty and I didn't see anyone."

"It's after ten? PM?"

"Yeah?"

"Dammit, I need to call my parents, the bus has left by now."

"Probably, yes, sorry – do you have a phone or do you want to use mine?"

"I have one, thanks. But are you sure there was no red haired girl anywhere close?"

"Quite – well, she could have walked away quickly, but the street is quite simple, she would have had to run..."

"Okay, my father will pick me up in twenty minutes. Could I-?"

"Yeah sure, I'll wait with you."

Sherlock's POV:

Sherlock curses when the straight blade of the razor nicks his skin slightly. He can't hold it with his right hand because of the carefully cleaned, inspected and stitched together wound, which still hurts every time he moves, even three days after the fight, being home for more or less two, just as much as in the beginning, and he never had to shave with his left hand before. The electric razor is right there, next to the sink, mocking him, but there is a reason why he chose the straight razor. And he can't give in now.

Trying again, he wills his left hand to obey perfectly, he sets the blade on the skin, and growls when he cuts himself once more.

Only his sense of logic stops him from throwing the razor against the wall – it might bounce back and hit him, and he'd like to avoid further injuries.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Kiara knocks on the door to his bathroom, and Sherlock nearly groans. The blood makes the foam go pink, and it hurts, so he decides to give up.

"Come in," he calls, and bows down to splash water onto his face. Only when she enters he remembers he is only wearing his pyjama-bottoms, but she doesn't look bothered.

"What exactly are you doing?" The amusement is creeping up in her voice, and Sherlock grits his teeth and straightens up to look at her, half of his face still covered with foam.

"I am trying to shave."

"You cut yourself."

"Not intentionally, but if you remember, I am right-handed and sadly can't use that hand."

"And now? Electric?"

"What else am I supposed to do? Don't shave at all?"

"I can do it for you," she says, sounding almost casual, but her lips have tightened minimally. Is it because she finds it embarrassing or because she feels uneasy about it? Why would she offer it then?

He almost considers saying that he'll just use the electric shaver, but he hates that thing. And besides, he wants to know why Kiara offered it.

"If you wouldn't mind," he replies, hoping for a reaction, but this time her face doesn't show anything. Nodding once, she motions to the sink for him to wash the foam off, obviously wanting to use new one, and drapes a towel over her right arm, taking up the razor and cleaning it carefully.

The lid of the toilet is cold as he sits on it to be smaller than her, as is the wall he leans against slightly, but there's nothing he can change about that so he blocks it out.

Her face betrays nothing as she carefully prepares the soap, finally using the brush to spread the soap over his skin.

Tipping his head back, he watches her as she puts it away, to take up the blade and set it to the high edge of the foam, his breath catching slightly as she draws it down.

It is still a strange feeling to not do it by himself, the last time he hadn't done it himself is years ago. Sherlock is unsure whether she is aware what power she has right now, and for a tiny, horrible moment he hopes he hasn't made a huge mistake in trusting her – and her ability to recognize when a panic attack might start. Right now she could kill him so quickly he wouldn't even have the chance to cry out.

But no, she just repeats the motion, her movements slow, but deliberate and confident, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

For a moment he just focuses on the feeling of the blade catching slightly on the hairs, until Kiara wipes the blade on the towel again.

"You've done this before." It's a statement, not a question, but she nods none the less. Waiting as she draws the blade down, he tries again.

"When?"

"Before we met," her answer is clipped, short, and Sherlock knows he is entering dangerous territory, but he wants to know what she is thinking right now.

"What happened?" He says it a bit too early, the blade is still on the skin of his throat, directly over his carotid, as she tenses and unconsciously presses the blade lightly into his skin.

"Don't." She looks calm, just her eyes are blazing and once again Sherlock is reminded of his vulnerability.

"Just don't." She takes the blade away from his skin and carefully wipes it on the towel, then sets the blade anew on his skin. Sherlock doesn't ask again.

When Kiara finally takes away the blade, cleans it carefully once again ad puts it away, his neck is aching and he has a crick in his back, but when he touches his cheek he can feel she did a good job.

She's still silent when she gives him a wet towel to wash the residues off his face, and when she leaves the room.

Sherlock knows there is something she doesn't say, something she doesn't want to remember. She is behaving like she always does when asked about Maynard, so was it him? What had he done to make her feel like that? Especially before they met, when Moriarty was still alive. Why didn't he prevent it?

As it happens so often in the last few weeks, his thoughts stray towards the relationship Kiara had with her father. The man had been an insane psychopath, organised crimes for a living and enjoyed killing people, and yet, he had a daughter who obviously loved him – and was loved by him, if Kiara's anecdotes are to be believed. So how did he do it? How had he managed to raise Kiara to the way she is now? Especially as he could only have been barely twenty when she was born.

Sherlock is pulled from his thoughts when Kiara comes back, in her hands a black shirt and trousers, her face still an emotionless mask, but her eyes a bit more relaxed than before.

He reaches for the clothes and is surprised when she keeps hold of it so they are both gripping the fabric. Looking up to her face, he sees resolution, something unidentifiable which he thinks might be worry or fear, and a peculiar lack of mercy, the promise of consequences should he not do what she said, something he had never seen on her face before, not even when they had fought against threads. It is an expression he only ever attributed to Jim Moriarty before, and right now, she resembles him more than ever.

"Sherlock." Her voice is cold and hard, making him think back to that Wednesday when she shot him, "Don't ever ask that again."

Letting go of the fabric, she turns around and leaves, the door closing behind her with a loud click.