Isabel walked into the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of red wine out of the fridge. She poured herself a glass, and got out ingredients to make sugar cookies.
As she was making the batter, she heard the door to her flat open, and she grabbed a small steak knife as weapon in case she'd need it. She walked towards the living room slowly, holding the knife tightly.
"Who's there?" She yelled, and as soon as she reached the front door, she saw no one. "What the hell?" She shouted. She felt a finger tapping her shoulder, and she screamed, jumping back, ready to stab whoever touched her.
"Well, I didn't think I'd enjoy being stabbed. That would hurt." She heard a deep velvet voice whisper. She looked to see Sherlock, walking towards her room. "Why is there a picture of a soldier in your room? I thought you didn't have a boyfriend or husband." He said. Isabel walked into her room, and picked up the picture.
"That's my dad. I told you he was a soldier the day we met. Now get out of my room!" She hollered, walking back into the kitchen. "Why do you care?"
Sherlock followed her, and sat in a chair at the table. "I was curious. Now, the victims of the scene we were at earlier..." He started, careful of what he was saying.
"What about them?" She asked, blatantly trying to hide her anger and annoyance, while putting the knife away. She put the batter onto cookie sheets, then placed them in the oven. She took a few sips from her wine.
"They were really close you, weren't they?" He asked, and he carefully watched her reaction. Her cheeks flushed, and all of her visible skin became very pales like alabaster. She placed the glass down, and took off her jacket.
"I'll be right back." She whispered. She walked into her room, and didn't come out for at least 5 minutes. When she did, she held a slip of paper. She handed it to Sherlock, who took it reluctantly, looking up at her with a confused expression. "Open it and read." She ordered, taking another pull at her alcohol.
He read the writing, which was just a reminder of an I.O.U for 20,000 pounds. "It's just an I.O.U." He said, like it was nothing of importance.
"You're a consulting detective, correct? You make deductions about everyone and everything you see. What can you deduce about this note, Sherlock?" Isabel asked.
"Well, from the coloring of the paper and the ink smudges, this was probably written 20 years ago. It's been handled quite a few times-you can tell by the creases and folds, and by the tears along the edges. But what does that have to do with anything?" He asked, confused.
"The amount I owed was originally 20 pounds. I was 10, so this was written 16 years ago. Eventually, the amount increased, and I owe Derek 20,000 at this point. He's making it seem like there's more to it, but that's all. Now he thinks I owe him, Sherlock." She said, finishing her wine and pouring another glass. "Do you want some?" She asked, holding up the bottle of Zinfandel.
"I suppose. Six ounces, though. I don't plan on getting drunk." He said, in a tone that didn't quite match his expression.
"I do. I plan on getting wasted." She said, sounding more serious than she intended. When he raised his eyebrows, she realized how it sounded. "I'm just kidding. I just plan on getting a bit tipsy." She said, smiling happily.
Sherlock noticed how her dimples only showed when she smile, and how they were so deep; how her cheekbones were high and prominent. He noticed how her eyes had a blue-green color, though she had not hazel, but gold towards her pupil-it reminded him of a supernova or nebula. Her lips were full, but they weren't too big. She had pale skin, though it was like a peach-color. Her auburn hair, layered and soft, looked like her-he couldn't imagine her with any other hair color.
For the first time in years, he felt something, but he didn't know what. He didn't recognize the emotion, if that was it.
Isabel looked back at him, and had a worried expression on her face. She handed him his glass, and bent down so she was face to face with him.
"You okay, Detective? Because, unless I'm wrong, you're staring at me. Something up?" She asked. He took the glass and smiled slightly. He took a few sips and put the glass down.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Why do you ask?" Isabel looked at him and shook her head. She sat down next to him and pulled her chair close to his. Putting her hand softly on his knee. She moved her hand from his knee to his cheek. Her touch was as light as a feather; her hand felt cold against his warm skin. Her expression changed from happy to worried within a minute. She promptly pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, where his skin felt hot.
"Oi, mate, you feel a bit warm. I'm going to grab a thermometer and I'll be right back, okay?" She said, touching his neck with her hand for a second before walking off into the bathroom. When she came back, she told Sherlock to relax. She pressed the thermometer right behind his ear, pushing his dark hair back. "Oi, you've got a temp. 100.5. Why don't you go lay down on my bed so I don't have to constantly run up and down the stairs until John gets home. Come on." She said, helping him up and making sure he was comfortable on the bed. She grabbed a pair of yoga leggings and a cami and went into the bathroom to change. When she came back, she threw her hair into a messy bun.
"Sit up and move forward a little." Isabel ordered, and Sherlock looked at her as if to ask why. She glared at him, making him do as she said. She sat right behind him, her knees on either side of him. She rubbed his shoulders gently but firmly, relaxing the muscles.
"What are you doing?" He asked, turning around to face her.
"My mum was a massage therapist. She taught me how to relax muscles and relieve people of stress and anxiety by massaging certain pressure points. Trust me, I've been doing this since I was 14 years old. Now let me do this." She said, laughing. Sherlock turned back around, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander. Isabel's hands moved to his neck, her thumbs softly pressing against the skin. After thirty minutes, her hands had traveled along most of his back, getting rid of all the knots.
When he opened his eyes, he realized that Isabel was softly singing to herself in French. He recognized the rhythm, but couldn't translate the lyrics. After a minute he realized she was still rubbing his back. When she stopped, she stood up and walked over to her vanity, grabbing a bottle of lotion. She smiled at him, showing that the lotion was unscented.
"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked, gazing into her eyes. No one had treated him like this in years, and he didn't know why someone would.
"I'm sorry? What do you mean?" She replied, hiving him a puzzled look.
"Why are you being nice?" He said, rephrasing the question so it was more clear. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it. She threw the bottle onto the bed softly. She sat down behind him in her original spot with her legs crossed. He turned around to look at her.
"Okay, why am I being nice. Uh, maybe because that's how people are supposed to be. Sherlock, I know people have been intimidated, because you're so smart. People may think you're arrogant and self righteous, because you get so mad when you're wrong because you're so used to being right. You've never had many friends, I know that. I haven't either, I know what it's like. You're anti-social, and it gets to you. You may think that there's nothing wrong with you. Maybe there isn't, but the fact that you don't understand why people are nice to you, that... That says something.
"Maybe Molly likes you, just like Mrs. Hudson and John and Lestrade and I, but people are giving up on trying to be nice, Sherlock, they are. They'll try and be nice, and then you either won't let them or don't realize it and think they have bad intentions. I would know because I've seen you while I was working. The way you move around people, your body language... It comes off as if you're constantly on guard. I realize theses things and I know them because I was like that too. Hell, maybe on occasion I still am, but that doesn't mean that's me 24/7.
"Your whole damn life you've been avoiding people. Maybe because you're afraid of rejection. Maybe because they aren't as intelligent as you are. Maybe no one understands. But I do, Sherlock, I do. I know what it's like to feel like an outcast. I know what it's like to be afraid of rejection, to be afraid that people will hate you because of who you are. I was for so long, and those were the worst years of my life. Starting in high school, with so much more people. With more expectations that are hard to reach. Groups that are hard to fit into. People that are hard to believe and to trust. But you need to let people in, to let people trust you. Because they do. That's why Lestrade is calling you for a case so often. That's why I'm here, trying to help you, even though you're refusing. I want you to know what it's like to have someone to go to. Because it sucks not having that one person." Isabel finished, trying to get him to understand that he needed to let people be nice.
Sherlock looked down, running a hand through his hair. What could he say? That he was fine, not having anyone to talk to when something was wrong? That he didn't need people to be nice to him?
Isabel gingerly put her hand on the back of his neck. He turned towards her, and she put her forehead against his. She closed her eyes, their noses just touching.
"Are you trying to tease me again?" He asked, his baritone voice hushed in a whisper. She shook her head, and pressed her lips against his. Her free hand ran through his hair, her fingers getting tangled in his curls. She moved her other hand from his neck to his hair, doing the same as the other, keeping him in place. His hands moved to her waist, gently trying to push her away.
She leaned back, her eyes opened wide, her lips forming a small 'o' in shock. She bit her lip nervously, standing up.
"Shit. Wha... What was I... Bloody hell." She muttered under her breath. She pulled her hair from its bun, letting it fall down her back and over her shoulders. She grabbed a brush, trying to brush out whatever knots were there. She checked her phone, all the while Sherlock remained completely silent.
When John came home he saw Sherlock laying on the couch, his fingers forming a steeple just under his chin.
"So, uh, Isabel messaged me." John said, walking into his bedroom to put his jacket away. "She told me you had a fever."
"Oh, right. Did she tell you anything else?" Sherlock asked, wondering if she mentioned their little 'moment'. John thought about it for a second.
"I can't remember. Just a second." He said, checking his phone to see if she did. "Yeah, Sherlock, she did."
"What did she mention?"
"Apparently she's sorry, but she didn't say why she is." John said, looking confused. "Do you know why?"
"Yes. I do. She doesn't need to apologize, though, because I don't blame her." Sherlock said, assuming John would know what had happened just a few hours before.
"What did she do?" John asked.
"She kissed me."
John had a look of utter confusion on his face. He looked at Sherlock, who still had his eyes closed. "Really? Did she say why?"
"No, though I'm assume it's because of her hormones. 'That time of the month' apparently." Sherlock said, as if it did not matter at all. "It is nothing of importance, and it never will be."
10 minutes had passed, and John still didn't know what to say. Why is a girl kissing Sherlock nothing of importance?
'He has no emotions whatsoever, does he?' John thought. A little while later, he brushed the thought aside and decided to go relax. He contemplated asking Isabel about what had happened between the two, but ultimately decided against it. Whatever had happened, it should stay between them two until they were comfortable enough to bring it up themselves. He went into his room, listening to the rain beginning to pour as he slipped into a deep slumber.
A/N: I tried writing this chapter (literally) 5 times, because the internet kept going out when I tried to save whatever I had written. Thank God that the WiFi decided to stay on as I typed, so I was able to save all 2100+ words. I originally had a fanfic that, on Microsoft Word, was FOUR freaking pages long. I used that to write a new chapter, then deleted all 4,000+ words, and tried to write this one. I've been trying to write this one since I published the third. Took long enough.
I'll try to update multiple times a week, but my WiFi gives out a lot, so it'll be a bit irregular. Anyway, please favorite/follow and review!