Finally got part three up! Sorry it took so long; school and stupid technology and ugh! Anyway, things are heating up between our two favorite characters! No John in this chapter, though he is mentioned, just a whole lot of confusion and shit. This chapter may seem to be moving too quickly, but I promise that the sudden changes will be explained- in detail!- as soon as possible. Read, weep, smile, and enjoy! (Oh, and if you don't like romance... well, you'll skip some important information, but I suppose you can skip the last part, and some in the middle, though it makes me sad!)
I'm watching television absentmindedly, staring at the screen but not really seeing the scene, when a hand claps down heavily on my shoulder. I startle and immediately slap it off, tensing and spinning around with a deep scowl on my face. Sherlock holds his hands up and raises an eyebrow, grinning slightly. I frown at him and turn back to the telly. "What the hell do you want?" I say, crossing my arms and sinking farther into the cushions. I hear him cross from the back of the couch and he plops down beside me, one of his legs propped on the other. He shrugs.
"I'm going out, to work on a tiny little case." He frowns. "And John said I had to take you along. Something about it being unhealthy for you to sit inside and watch television all day like you have for the past three days. Personally, I have to agree- you've already started gaining weight, and-" I growl and slap a hand over his face, giving him my best don't-mess-with-me-I'm-already-pissed glare. He rolls his eyes and pulls my fingers off. "Anyway, are you coming, or not? Lestrade says everyone's dying to meet the 'mystery girl'-" He wiggles his fingers. "And I'm sure Anderson can't wait to get in your pants, but-"
"Sherlock?" I say, sweetly. I tilt my head and give him a blinding smile. "Shut the hell up before I shove a stick up your arse." He closes his mouth, then raises an eyebrow as if to ask me a question that I don't know the answer to. Should I go with him? Can I even handle going outside, seeing people other than John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson? The last time I tried to go outside I hallucinated and collapsed; can I do that again? Honestly, I don't think I'm even strong enough. "Yes," I sigh and set my jaw. "I'll go with you." He makes a weird face, sort of a mix between a scowl and a smile, then straightens his scarf and stands, stopping his moment of silence and launching into a detailed account of the murder we're off to solve.
oOo
I pull my hood over my head and hunch over, unconsciously scooting closer to Sherlock. I may not like him much, but at least I actually know him- and his coldness, in a way, is comforting. Never thought I'd stoop so low as to say that. He glances down at me and pulls me into a side alley, leading away from the crowds of London.
He stops, grabbing my elbow. "Twyla…" His voice is aberrantly soft, tinged with something sweet and very, very un-Sherlock-y. "Are you alright? Do I need to take you back home?" He blocks my view of the street; I peek around his shoulder and stare at the passing people with wide eyes, then shake my head. I'm incapable of speaking, so I start walking back towards the sidewalk, trembling slightly but still moving forward. There's a quiet swoosh behind me, then Sherlock appears beside me and his arm flashes towards me. He hesitates, then twines his fingers in mine and pulls me closer. I jump and glance up at him, but he keeps his eyes forward, though his cheeks have turned a little pink.
We reach the end of the alley and he looks down at me for a moment. "Focus on my voice, okay?" He says, his voice low. "Just listen to my voice, and you'll be okay. I promise." I gaze into his eyes, my own huge and terrified, and nod. He smiles slightly, and starts randomly talking about the people around us, pointing out little things on them and their belongings and how he uses them to figure out their lives. I stare either up at him, at our clasped hands, or at the ground unfailingly, only occasionally looking at those around us when he points something out. Only half of me listens to him; the other marvels at the twist of his lips, the way he talks, how our hands fit perfectly together, the warmth radiating from him to me, the clear and perfect skin on his wrist. He smiles down at me, and I suddenly have an urge to feel his thick hair. I shake myself out of my strange, unbidden thoughts and instead walk a little closer to him, so his coat swishes against my bare legs. He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.
We stop outside the police station and he releases my hand quickly, brushing invisible dust off his coat. The cold air fills in the places where his fingers had fit so perfectly. I blush and look away from him, pulling my dress down a bit and tugging at a lock of hair. He glances at me one last time, then sticks the hand that had been in mine in his coat and holds the door open for me.
The room he leads me into with a hand in the small of my back fills with whispers and creaks as I enter, Sherlock two steps behind me. A man with gray hair nods tersely at Sherlock and holds out his hand to shake. I can tell he's kind- laugh lines surround his eyes and mouth, his clothes are professional but comfortable, and a wedding band, shiny and well-worn, sits on his left hand like it probably has for twenty or more years- yet I can't bring myself to take his offered hand. I shrink backwards into Sherlock, grasping the side of his coat, and force a smile. Sherlock shakes his head at the man. "Twyla, this is Lestrade. Lestrade, Twyla, the girl John was telling you about." Lestrade lowers his hand and smiles, acting like my rejection hadn't confused, and probably insulted, him, but I can see it in the way his eyes flick across my face. The darker-skinned woman behind him is not so quiet about her disprovable; she wears it on her face like the hairspray in her hair. She notices my eyes on her and her frown deepens.
Sherlock notes this, too, and he stiffens beside me. His hand presses harder on my back, protectively. "Hello, Sergeant Donovan." She scowls at him, crossing her arms. "Oh, you-"
Lestrade clears his throat. "Sherlock-"
"-have been sleeping-"
"Sherlock-"
"-with Anderson again-"
"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade glares at him and motions for Donovan to leave. She uncrosses her arms and stomps away, her frizzy hair swinging.
Sherlock lowers his mouth to my ear. "Her knees are scuffed. Happens every time- and no matter how many times I point it out, she never learns." His hot breath tickles my ear, and I suppress a grin, elbowing him in the side. He smirks and straightens. "So, Lestrade, you said you had a case?"
oOo
Sherlock squats down beside the dead woman and scrapes his eyes over her body, muttering to himself. He stands and holds his hand out to Lestrade, still looking at the body. He places a file in his hand, and he flips through it before handing it to me. I pause, then open it and glance over the documents.
"Sandra Lou, half-Chinese immigrant daughter of the Chinese restaurant on 100 Walworth Road." Anderson drones from behind us, sounding bored. "Dragon Castle. Her mom owns it; her dad was from Ireland. He left when she was six, went and married another Asian woman. She was 36, had a boyfriend and a nineteen-year-old son named Charlie. He lives with his dad and stepmum, only sees her about once a month, when his dad forces him to hang out with her for a while. Bruises around her neck suggest choking-"
"Strangling," I interrupt, looking at a picture of Sandra and Charlie. He looks seriously upset to be stuck with his mom, who's smiling widely to make up for her son's deep frown. "It's choking when from the inside, strangling when from the outside. Any idiot knows that."
He coughs, embarrassed. "Right, er- bruises around her neck suggest strangling, and there are marks on her hands that suggest she put up a fight. We'll know more when we do the autopsy."
Sherlock and I glare at him at the same time and he shifts uncomfortably under our gazes. "So you brought us out here for a case you've already solved?" I say, my voice strained. I can't believe that I braved the crowds of London for something like this, and frankly, it pisses me off. Sherlock looks just as disgusted. "Why the hell do you need him for, then?"
Lestrade clears his throat for the millionth time, motioning for Anderson to back down. "Actually, we haven't solved the case yet. There are multiple, seemingly insignificant scratches across her stomach- but we're sure that they aren't insignificant in the least. First of all, there are no other cuts on her body, besides the few on her hands from grasping at her attacker. Second-"
Sherlock speaks up from his spot crouched on the ground, where he's lifted up Sandra's shirt with gloved fingers enough to reveal strange markings drawn in incisions and blood across her stomach. "Second, they look deliberate." He stands and pulls off his gloves with a snap. "Third, they were cut after she died." He pauses and looks at me seriously, a spark of pity in his eyes for a moment before dissolving as he returns his gaze to Lestrade. "And fourth, the same marks were found written in Twyla's blood on the wall of the basement we found her in."
Everyone's jaws drop, but none more so than mine. I gasp and my hand flies to my mouth, tears filing my eyes as memories of pain and horror fill my head. Blurry flashes of red on dirty white concrete swim across my vision, and I think I can make out the same six slashes on the wall as are on her stomach. I stumble backwards until I'm far behind everyone gathered around Sandra's body, then turn and run away, sobbing.
I stop beside a tree outside the dump where Sandra was found and lean against the rough bark with salty tears dripping down my cheeks and over my lips. Every part of me aches, like I'm feeling the aftershocks of all of the many wounds I got while captured. I struggle to calm myself down, my body trembling uncontrollably. Then warms arms wrap around me and I'm pulled into someone's chest, twisting as I do so my face is against their shirt. Sherlock strokes my hair and makes soothing noises, holding me close to him as I cry. I clutch as his coat and shake, my tears soaking the front of his shirt.
I cry until I'm unable to anymore, and my hands release Sherlock's shirt from their clenched fist. He rubs my arms for a few seconds, then one of his hands snakes into my hair and the other wraps around my chin and raises my eyes to his. Their clear blue has softened, and I lose myself in their depths, swallowed up in his sudden show of unfathomable emotions. I'm so lost in his eyes that I don't notice his head lowering until his soft lips press against mine and his eyelashes shut over the colors.
I stiffen, then relax into him. He pulls me into an embrace with his hands in my hair and around my waist and I wrap my arms around him, my eyes fluttering closed. He kisses me softly, sweetly, his lips tenderly exploring mine like the hand that's tangled in my hair. He pulls back first, leaning his forehead to mine with his eyes still closed. I study the lines and contours of his face while he stays still against me. Then his eyes slowly open and he stares at me with half-lidded eyes, his gaze gentle and filled with emotions I would have never accused him of having. A light smile dances across my lips and my cheeks are flooded with color, just as his are. I touch his porcelain cheek delicately with the tips of my fingers, and he turns his face sharply to press his lips to my palm. My skin buzzes where his meets it.
"Twyla…" He says, his voice so filled with love it makes my heart skip. I'm confused as hell, but giddy happiness pushes it to the side to make room for itself. "I don't ever want to see you cry." He kisses me once more, delicately, then gently pulls away just as my eyes close. There's a swish, and when I open my eyes again he's striding away.
I hold a hand to my lips and savor the tingling feeling, only smiling now.
See, I told you it was a Twylock Adventure/Romance story! Didn't you just love the last part? I was listening to A Thousand Years by Christina Perry and Say Something by A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera, so I mayyyy have gone a little overboard with all the sweetness and stuff, but what the hell? Sure, Sherlock would never, ever do something like that (well, maybe if he met Twyla...), but it's a fanfic, right? Besides, he'll only be a big ol' teddy bear in private, I promise!
~CTST
