A/N: Everyone who said they weren't expecting the reaction the made for the previous chapter: I'm hoping it was a good one. I had asked my editor (who's my bffff) what I should have done for it. I told her what happened in the fifth chapter, and she asked if I was planning on bringing Moriarty into it. I said I wouldn't.

Whoops. I hadn't even thought about bringing him into it until she mentioned it, and the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like I needed to, to add some angst. I'll definitely bring in my own masterpieces who may or may not be evil too.

You'll just have to find out. Anyway, thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, and/or followed this story. I'm planning on making this a series, but we'll see how it turns out. More Sherbel (Sherlock/Isabel) fluff to come your way!

For the next three days, Anderson never showed up to work, and at that point, Isabel thought he'd been fired. As much as she hated to admit it, Anderson was one of the best forensic analysts Scotland Yard had. But she was somewhat happy, because now he couldn't bother her.

Two weeks after Derek Marshall was arrested, he was to go to trial. Isabel wanted to stay home, in fear she may have an anxiety or panic attack. Sherlock and John went in her place, though they didn't testify. It seemed like an easy trial: Derek turned himself in, confessed, pleaded guilty, and every single piece of evidence from every murder he committed all pointed to him.

An hour after Sherlock and John had left, Isabel started pacing around her flat, chewing nervously at her lip. Minutes later she finally noticed, but only because it was starting to bleed and was raw in some areas. She stopped, and searched the kitchen for gum. Not able to find any, she resorted to going to the corner store a few blocks away.

She threw on a hoodie, hoping the early October breeze wasn't too cold. She stepped outside, and started jogging to the little store. When she got there, she bought a few packs of gum and a pack of cigarettes. She wasn't addicted to them-she only had one here and there to calm herself of anxiety. She also bought a lighter, just in case. She started to walk back home, lighting a cigarette and smoking it. She dropped the cigarette, crushing it with her sneakers, when she reached the door to step inside. As she unlocked it, she saw two men running towards her.

Before she could see who they were, one of them had tackled her to the ground, and she noticed it was Sherlock, hovering over her, looking frightened.

"What the hell was that for!" She yelled, trying to push him off her. He stood up, offering his hand. "I can get up myself." She muttered, slowly standing back up. She walked a little closer to him, raising her hand slowly. Sherlock thought she was going to kiss him again.

But that wasn't what she had in mind. She slapped him in the face, and she noticed for the first time that John was right behind him.

"The trial's over. The jury already decided on a verdict." Sherlock said, bringing his hand to his face, rubbing the stinging skin of his cheek. "He' guilty."

"What's his sentence?" She asked, looking at John. He lowered his head for a moment, then looked back at her, scratching the back of his neck.

"5 years, no parole. He can be bailed out though. With 3,000 pounds, cash. But, with what he's done, I don't think that anyone'll try to save that much to save him." John shrugged, as if it didn't matter.

"He has henchmen, John. Do your research. This Moriarty we're talking about!" Sherlock exclaimed, making I clear that it did, in fact, matter. "What would make you think this isn't a big deal?"

"Whatever, just shut up, both of you. I'm sure that John believes Moriarty's henchmen are all dead. They may be, the may not. No one really knows, because they've all got some stupid secret identity. I would expect you to know that of all people, Sherlock. Now come on, lets' get inside." Isabel said impatiently. She unlocked the door, walking into her flat. The two men followed her inside, but John went into his flat.

Sherlock stayed with Isabel.

"Why do you smell like cigarettes?" He asked, closing the door. She looked at him and took the pack out of her sweatshirt pocket, careful not to give it to him.

"Yeah, don't think I don't know about your drug habits." She said, in a somewhat threatening tone. She put it back in her pocket.

"Lestrade?" He asked.

"Yup." She said, popping the 'p' with her lips. She winked and walked into the kitchen. "So, why aren't you up in our flat? Don't you have some case to work on as always?"

"I've been suspended for a few weeks..." He said, rubbing the back of his neck. He walked into the kitchen, leaning on the doorway.

"Why?" She had no idea as to what could have caused him to be suspended.

"Let's say that I happened to be in a horrid mood one day, and Anderson happened to be degraded someone I knew." He said, gazing at her with his signature emotionless look.

"Do I want to know who he was degrading? Or no?" She asked, laughing a small bit. She turned to face him and noticed his expression. "Oh."

"Yes. His injuries happened to be... Quite bad." He said, slipping his black coat off and hanging it on the coat rack in the living room.

"What was he saying that was so bad, that made you hurt him?" She asked incredulously. Anderson may have been bad, but he was never that bad. Well, to her, he didn't seem like it. Sherlock shook his head.

"Never mind. It is not important." He muttered, waving the conversation away with his hand. Isabel sighed, going to the fridge for a cold bottle of beer.

"Want one?" She asked, holding a second bottle out to him. He cringed ever so slightly.

"I do not drink beer. Nor do I drink any type of hard liquor. It damages the brain cells." He said, not bothering to hide his disgust. She shrugged, saying that there was more for her then, and opened the bottle.

"By the way, beer isn't hard liquor. Hard liquor is more whiskey, rum, vodka... Tequila too. I make really good margaritas." She said, smiling. She nursed the drink, and sat on the counter, putting the bottle down next to her. "No, I'm not an alcoholic." She said, showing Sherlock she knew what he was thinking.

"That's what Harry said, but she's one." He muttered, squinting at the bottle she was holding.

"I'm serious. I've only started drinking a few months ago. I don't... Rely... On alcohol. I'm not having a drink every ten minutes. Now would you kindly shut the hell up." She said jokingly, knowing he'd roll his eyes.

"Whatever you say." He said sarcastically. He thought about something for a few minutes, just staring blankly at Isabel. What she didn't realize though, was he was staring at her lips, her eyes. He was studying how her full lips were slightly swollen from the beer, and her eyes staring up at the ceiling, wishing for something she knew wouldn't happen.

She didn't feel the odd sensation people have when someone's staring at them. She didn't feel awkward or uncomfortable. She actually forgot that Sherlock was there, wishing that she could be back in Toronto with her mum and dad.

But as long as her brother was alive, she wasn't going to be going anywhere.

And that fact bothered her to the core.

Isabel was sat on the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her. In the past 2 hours, she downed 3 beers, just enough to make her drunk. Well, not exactly drunk, but not really tipsy. She felt a pang of pain in her head, and she struggled to stand up. She tried reaching for the countertop to support her. Once she regained her balance, she looked over at her bedroom, noticing a shadow in the dim light. She stumbled over, finally reaching the door. She noticed it was Sherlock, and she automatically tried to give him a drunken hug. Except, she stumbled and he caught her. He laid her down on her bed. She sat up and kneeled on the mattress.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close to her. He noticed that there was about half a centimeter of space between them. He looked down at her, reluctantly wrapping his arms around her waist loosely, just in case she fell again. She bit her lip, looking down at Sherlock's lips.

"I wanna tell you a secret." She said, her voice in a hushed tone. "I think that you look really good. Especially when you leave the first few top buttons open and I can see your chest. Your hair is like... Wicked soft too." She slurred, somehow able to sound kind of normal, even though she was drunk. Sherlock smirked, knowing she was only saying this because she was drunk. She threaded her thin fingers through his hair, tangling her hands.

Before he could say anything, Isabel's lips were on his. He thought he would have tasted the alcohol on her lips, but he couldn't. He Hough she would have been rough and forceful, but she wasn't. Her lips moved softly and slowly, not quick and harshly. Her eyes stayed closed while his stayed open. How was he supposed to react?

He wasn't going to do anything he'd regret in the morning, or anything she'd regret. He knew she was dunk, so she wouldn't even remember kissing him, once again, in the morning. He would, and he'd have to act like nothing happened. But what if she asked? She was going to have a hangover in the morning, even if it wasn't that bad.

She was going to want answers. But, quite frankly, she most likely wouldn't be getting the true one. He could lie to her, say that she got drunk and he could hear her crashing against the floor in her flat every time she took a step, so he put her to bed. Or John did. But he wasn't focusing on that.

He was focusing on the fact that, at this point, he was kissing her back. He had to admit, he liked the electric, tingly feeling he got. But this wasn't what he wanted. He didn't know about her though. So he slid his arms back so his hands were on her hips. He pushed her away, and he hoped for the same reaction she had last time.

She smiled instead though, biting her lip, hoping it would make him want more. He sighed and had her lay down, much to her dismay.

He was going to regret everything, wasn't he? No, he was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

He wasn't going to regret this.

Isabel awoke the next morning to a dark room, and heard rain pouring outside. She checked the clock: 8:30 AM. Thank God she had weekends off. Her head spun when she sat up too quick, and she felt her head well up with a splitting headache. She looked at the table next to her bed and noticed it had an ice cold glass of water and two aspirin. She gratefully swallowed the pills, downing the water as if she hadn't had a drink in years. Her throat was itching, and she laid back down, hoping the pain in her head would numb soon.

She heard footsteps walking to her room, and was surprised when she saw John standing in her doorway. He gave a look as if asking for permission to come in. She nodded slightly, wincing at the way it hurt. He walked in slowly and sat on the edge of her bed, with a knowing look on his face.

"How much did you drink last night?" He asked softly, knowing if he talked any louder she'd only be in more pain.

"3 beers..." She muttered, her voice hoarse and dry. Her throat was sore, feeling raw from the alcohol.

"I'd stay away from the drinks for now. Just so you don't do anything you'd regret later." He whispered, concern laced with his words. "Because, as much as I hate to say it, you did something yesterday. Not horrible, mind you, but it wasn't exactly good, either. Sherlock had a... hard time concentrating on sleeping." He replied softly. When Isabel gave him a confused look, he laughed quietly.

"Isabel... You kissed Sherlock. And he kissed you. Apparently, it lasted only a few moments." John murmured, looking at the woman somberly. She sighed as though she was disappointed and wanted to forget anything ever happened. She groaned, asking when the medication would finally kick in.

"When did you take it?" He asked, looking at his watch. Isabel noticed that it was the one she gave him a little over week ago. She grinned, knowing that spending a good amount of her money paid off.

"8:30." She moaned, obviously in pain. "You're a doctor, right? Can't you make it go away?" She asked, still sounding pretty drunk.

"No, I can't. Sorry, love." He said, walking over to her and brushing the hair off of her face. She gave a content sigh, and he smiled slightly. "Do you want me to bring Sherlock down so you can talk to him?" He asked, somewhat hoping she'd say yes. Sherlock had been a bit off since he came upstairs last night. He was distracted quite a bit, of course, but he seemed... Happier. Like when he got a new case to work on.

"Yeah, I think I should talk to him. Can you help me up?" She inquired, pulling the sheets off of her body and reaching her hand out to him. He took her hand, helping her slowly sit up, and within a few minutes, she was standing. He helped her walk into her kitchen, where she clumsily made a cup of coffee. "Does coffee actually help with hangovers?" She asked, looking at the doctor. He shrugged, saying it's not exactly a cure, per say, but it helps quite a bit.

He left with a wave, and went to go get Sherlock, who ran down the stairs and practically blew through the closed door. He rushed over to her sitting figure, sipping at the warm drink. He sat down next to her, with a furious look on his face.

"Why did you do that?" He shouted, his voice ringing with anger, making her head pound again. She clutched at her head, tangling her fingers in her hair.

"I was drunk, Sherlock. Now shut up, my head is killing me." She muttered, annoyed at his sudden but somehow expected outburst. He gave her an incredulous look, questioning how that was anywhere near an excuse.

"Isabel, you're obviously not dying. You're breathing, and you're not in the hospital. Don't say you are, it makes you sound like Anderson." He retorted, looking at Isabel's face, ghostly white. She appeared to be shaking, not so much to the point it looked like a seizure, but enough that it was clearly noticeable. Her eyelids were shut tight, her hands looking as though they'd shatter if she gripped her hair any tighter. She brought her knees up to her chest, laying her head between them. She wrapped her arms around her legs, gripping the thin fabric of her pants.

"Don't you fucking dare say that. He basically harassed me everyday and I don't fucking think it's a good idea for you to compare me to him because I'm nothing like that moron. Now tell me, were my friends in the hospital when they died? Was my dad in the hospital when he died? Everyone breathes, Sherlock, even while they're dying, unless they're suffocating. But that's different. No, they weren't my friends died in a god damned flat! My dad died in a hostage situation and if you think it's the best idea to tell me they weren't, I have three words for you." She said, raising her head to meet his eyes, standing up and closing the 4 feet of distance they had. She grabbed his collar, bringing his face towards hers. "Go to hell." She growled, letting go of him and forcing him backwards. He breathed in deeply, inhaling and exhaling as he thought about the night before.

His expression softened suddenly, completely opposite to what Isabel's. She started to walk into the living room, mug in hand, and sat on the couch. He slowly walked over to her, reluctantly sitting down a meter away from her on the sofa. She looked at him, tears in her eyes, and set the mug down on the coffee table. She sat back down, right next to him, and put her hand on his. He looked at her, hoping that she was still a little drunk. She rested her hand on his cheek, brushing his cheekbone, as if mesmerized by it. He felt some emotion, he didn't know what, and he recognized it.

He felt the same thing the first time they'd kissed. He still pondered, thinking over what it could be, and why he was feeling it. Surely, she wasn't infatuated with him. It'd only been... What? 2 weeks? She couldn't have possibly fallen for him. Sure, she'd seen him while she was working and they may or may not have made small talk on occasion while Lestrade was busy at the moment. But they never properly introduced themselves. He usually would voice his deductions about people bustling about the department, and she'd tell him what was right and wrong, as far as she knew.

"I didn't mean that," She said, and Sherlock realized she was still drunk, even if it was just a bit. She had an apologetic look on her face, and he gave a small smile. She rested her head on his shoulder. "I mean, I'm still pretty drunk."

"I thought you didn't plan on getting 'wasted'. Only a little 'tipsy'." He remembering the thought of her, drinking some wine, smiling happily as though she had not a single care in the world.

The difference here was she was extremely emotional, going from sad, to furious, to regret and hope, all in a few minutes. She was a mess, he had to admit. Her hair was knotted, giving some form of indication that she had a restless night with sleep. She was still wearing the hoodie and jeans from yesterday, the scent of cigarettes lingering on the cloth.

He wanted John to be there instead of him. Sherlock wasn't good with moral support, and he didn't have a clue as to how he could've helped in this situation. John, on the other hand, most likely would. She looked up at him, her head still against his bony shoulder. She gazed at his lips for a little bit, and he noticed her pupils dilated.

"Is something wrong?" She asked, looking up at him with concern.

"No," He said, realizing that he answered all too quickly. She simply nodded, knowing something was up, but not bothering to confront him. "I'm just thinking."

She still looked at him, her eyes gazing at his, then at his lips, then back, multiple times. He knew what she wanted, but she wouldn't voice it, because she didn't want to have to force anything.

He kept telling himself that she's only doing it because she's drunk. And yet, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to believe in the conclusion he'd just made.

A/N: I do realize Sherlock is lightly OOC (Out Of Character for those who don't know what it means :]), but I guess that was kind of why I was aiming for in the last 8-9 paragraphs I wrote. I did it so that he was somewhat IC, but I showed a different side of him-emotions. (DUN DUN DUUHNNNNNN)

This was kinda-sorta a filler, but I needed some angst Sherbel fluff. Not much, but this is Sherlock. He doesn't exactly do fluff. Unless I say so. And I ay no.

For now.

Oki doki Loki well I should *cough cough* not *cough cough* get some sleep. Please review and/or follow/favorite!

If you have any suggestions for the next chapter or for something to happen later in the story, please let me know via review or PM.

Bye, Darlings!