Yeah, guys, I know… I suck. I mean, HOW long has it been since I uploaded? So sorry, really, I am. It's called I HAVE FREAKING WRITER'S BLOCK FOR BOTH MY FANFICTIONS AND IT'S PISSING ME OFF! But enough about me… The next few weeks pass without much incident, Sherlock keeping his distance and John doing his best to keep me occupied. I mostly read, popping out of the apartment for a quick walk only when my legs scream to be stretched. I finally catch up on my sleep and the scratch on my cheek fades to a tiny scar, which Sherlock says will definitely disappear within a few more weeks at the most. John introduces me to the wonderful world of cooking, which I happen to be terrible at, and within a few days of desperately trying to at least get me to make even some decent spaghetti, he throws his arms up and tells me to go watch the telly for God's sake before I burn yet another damn pot! Unfortunately, after a few more days sitting lazily in front of the screen my brain gets all muddled, so Sherlock intervenes and comes home from the public library one day laden with books. I quickly get captured by the works of Arthur Conan Doyle, spending hours curled up in Sherlock's armchair with a cuppa and a really fluffy blanket Mrs. Hudson bought for me. Lestrade stops by occasionally with news for Sherlock on the ever-developing case (whenever he comes, he and the boys spend an hour or so holed up in Sherlock's bedroom, muttering in low voices so I can't hear them), leaving with a tin of biscuits handmade by Mrs. Hudson every time. We all settle into a comfortable routine, and soon the only reminder of my lack of a past and my torturing is the nightmares I have nearly every night. Sherlock maintains his cold exterior at all times except for on these nights when I wake screaming, to find him rushing into the room to curl up beside me, stroking my hair and whispering sweet nothings into my ear, until I fall into dreamless sleep. Sometimes, though, when he thinks I'm not watching, I see him sneaking glances at me out of the corner of his eyes, his forehead crinkling with worry or the corners of his lips turning up just slightly until John or I divert our attention to him. I lose some of my fear of everything different, eventually going so far as to go shopping for groceries with John, though I cling to his arm the entire time- urging a comment from the cashier on how darling a couple we are, which seemed to amuse John to no end and annoy Sherlock when John mentioned it at the supper table. All in all, life seems to finally be going upwards for me… And then Mycroft comes for a visit. oOo Sherlock grins at me over the edge of his violin, urging a return smile from me over the top of Great Expectations, which I'd only just gotten into the day before. John moves around in his bedroom, probably preparing for work on Monday, and downstairs there was a distinct clatter as Mrs. Hudson dropped her remote yet again- something she did regularly whenever her soaps were on. The hum of the refrigerator sounds in the background- another thing that used to annoy me but now is a quiet reminder of home. But best of all, and one of the many things I've come to appreciate about living with Sherlock and John, sweet melodies fill the air, floating through the air and helping me relax even more, if that's possible. Sherlock's aced the art of putting me at ease with his violin, and I often notice that at times when I'm most frustrated he mysteriously starts playing like that was his plan all along. I return my gaze to the book just as someone knocks. Sherlock's music cuts off abruptly and he checks his watch absent-mindedly. "Twyla, be a dear and get the door, will you?" John calls from his bedroom, his voice muffled by the walls. I sigh and uncurl myself, setting the book down and walking to the door with a half-scowl that I quickly replace with a pleasant smile. Behind me, the violin music begins anew. I fling the door open, a man's serious face swimming into view. He smiles ruefully at me. "Sorry to intrude, Twyla, really, but it couldn't be helped." I stare at him, my mouth hanging open. "I expect Sherlock didn't tell you I was on my way?" I shake my head, my mouth slamming closed so quickly it jars my jaw. He shoots Sherlock, who has come to stand behind me, his body lightly pressed against my back in a way that I'm sure was innocent but makes my arms erupt in goose bumps, a dirty look. "Well, I suppose I should have expected no less. But enough of this, may I come in before I catch my death from the draft?" I glance over his shoulder- sure enough, he'd left the door open; I can just make out the shadowy outline of a texting woman. Mrs. Hudson huffs from downstairs, her voice incredulous as she mumbles to herself and closes the door. Sherlock pulls me to the side and the man sweeps in, his receding hairline glinting unpleasantly in the overhead light. "Mycroft," Sherlock says from behind me, sounding especially cold and keeping his hand clutched around my elbow. His voice sounds abnormally deep compared to Mycroft's, though his isn't exactly high. "You mentioned you were coming, however…" "…I failed to mention why. Yes, dear brother, I realize that." I start; Mycroft sneers. "Of course, he hadn't told you that unfortunate fact either. Why am I still not surprised?" I start to open my mouth to defend Sherlock, even though the sudden appearance of his considerable not-lack of a brother has me confused, but Sherlock presses hard on the small of my back in warning so I scowl at him instead. Mycroft ignores me, nodding at John as he leans out his door with a little frown. "Oh, it's you, Mycroft." He says, his frown deepening. "I thought I heard a-" "I'd rather you told me what you need from me quickly so that we can all get on with our day." Sherlock interrupts John before he can say anything stupid, giving him a chance to disappear back into his bedroom as Mycroft turns his back. His door slams shut behind him. "Need? From you?" Mycroft laughs bitterly. "My, my, my, we are conceited, aren't we? You'd have thought that after years of being overshadowed by me you'd have learned that not everything is about you, Sherlock." He raises his chin haughtily, looking at his brother down his nose. "Actually, I came to talk to Twyla. Alone." "No." He says it quickly, without hesitation, almost before Mycroft had gotten the last syllable out. We both look at him, incredulous, me turning my head sharply into an uncomfortable position to stare up at him. His hand pushes so heavily on my back I take a stumbling half-step forward. "There's no way I'm letting you alone with her." Mycroft gives him a strange look. "Bit overprotective, Sherlock?" He says, his voice lowered and his eyebrows similarly lower on his forehead. He shakes his head. He glares at his brother for a bit longer before returning to his regular voice. "I'm afraid you don't have a say in the matter, brother. Orders from the- er- my employer. You know who I'm speaking of." He gives us a twisted grin. "I don't care what you're employer says, you're not talking to her." Sherlock shifts so he's standing beside me, his hand on my arm. "And you can get out of my house, if you're going to be a pain in the arse, Mycroft." He starts to reply, his face angry, but then he composes himself and his face falls back into the unnatural blankness I've come to associate with Sherlock. "Very well… for now. But I will be back, Sherlock. Her story… it's very important to my employer that they hear it. Personally, if need be." Sherlock's grip tightens. "But… for now, I'll leave." His eyes narrow and he sweeps out of the flat, slamming the door behind him. oOo Soon after, when I'm curled back in Sherlock's chair, reading the same paragraph of Great Expectations over and over again as I mull over Mycroft's visit, John finally reemerges from his bedroom and announces he's going out to pick up some groceries and do we want anything? Sherlock grunts from his upside-down position on the couch, where he stares pointedly at the ground with a scowl, and I glance upwards only long enough for some ice cream. John leaves, and I'm left alone in the flat with a moody Sherlock, who's moved his gaze from the carpet to my face. I sigh and drop the book on the ground, turning to him. "Sherlock, if you're going to stare at me, at least try to be discreet about it!" He frowns at me, flipping himself right side up and sitting forward on his knees with his fingers tented. "Twyla?" He asks, his voice gruff. "Do you think I'm clever?" I start, leaning back for an uncomfortable moment in which his clear eyes stay glued to mine. "Er- well, yeah, I suppose. I mean, you can be a dick about it sometimes, but, yeah, I think you're rather clever." "No, I mean really, really clever." His gaze is almost unbearable; I flick my eyes away from him and stare at the wall to the left of his dark curls. "Do you think I'm really, really clever?" "Of course, Sherlock." I can't help but smile a bit. "You're really, really clever. And handsome, and creative, and bigheaded, and rude." I'm all-out grinning now. "Need I go on? I have many more adjectives I can use to accurately describe-" He practically flies off of the sofa and towards me, slamming his hands down on the armrests beside me and tilting forward so I have to scoot back in my chair to escape his blazing eyes. "I'm serious, Twyla." I nod, the little space between us electrified. "Am I clever?" His voice softens on the last syllable, and his eyes become more bearable to gaze into. "Y-yes, Sherlock." My own voice is abnormally husky. I bite my bottom lip, my cheeks burning. "Yes, I think you're really, really clev-" He presses his lips to mine, hard. I gasp, my eyes huge. He tangles his hands in my hair and gently pulls me closer and to my knees to we aren't as different in height, though he's still rather hunched. My breath hitches, then I lean into the kiss and close my eyes, wrapping my arms around his slim waist. He widens the kiss, exploring my mouth. Then I guess he realizes what he's doing and starts to yank away, but I tighten my grip on him and press harder into his lips, thinking desperately, Not this time, Sherlock. This time, you aren't going to leave me standing behind, dazed and confused. He ends our kiss and stares at me, his cheeks flushed. "Twyla, I- I can't do this, not-" "Hush, Sherlock." I whisper, my eyes still closed. "Don't end this." I open them. "Please, please don't end this again. I- I'm tired of waking up in the morning to find you gone, tired of avoiding everyone's gaze at the breakfast table so no one can see what I'm thinking. I want to be with you Sherlock, and I thought you felt the same," I turn my face so he can't see the tears welling. "but then you let me wake up alone, or you end the kiss, and I-" A hot tear slips down my cheek, and I whisper so my emotions aren't so evident in my voice. "I hate you. I hate you for hurting me all the damn time and passing it off like it's nothing." I open my mouth to say something else, but the words catch in my throat and I shudder. He leans his forehead on my shoulder, and I'm surprised to feel hot tears drip onto my neck. He whispers something- I know, I can feel his breath- but can't make out what he says. I pull my hands off of his back and run, sobbing, into my bedroom. I slam the door on him and lock it, leaning against the closed door and sliding down the wood, coming to a rest on the ground. I drop my face into my hands and cry. Why isn't the italics/bold thing working?! Gr! Ah well, I guess I'll survive. Sorry for the shitty ending- writer's block, remember? ~CTST
