I don't own the Sherlock characters, but Andromeda (is she a Holmes?), John Watson Junior, Maeve Moriarty and Adeline are mine. THEY'RE OURS PRECIOUS. OURS. XD
Shall I stop with the cliffhangers?
Whoops.
Chapter Five
Remembrance
Rough hands released the soft fabric of Sherlock's pajama shirt outside of the hospital. The guard shooed him away, and the detective slipped over on the ice. His head smacked the hardened path, and he didn't rise again after that.
The man dreamed. Sometimes, your brain can recall exact moments of your past. Sometimes, exact conversations of past experiences.
"Sherlock! Wake up!" The detective's eyes snapped open and his sharp gaze focused on golden blonde hair as it fell in his dream self's face. He puffed air at the golden wall and it seemed to shatter into millions of strands before returning to its place. The woman that the hair belonged to laughed and stood from her kneeling position beside him on the pinstriped sofa. Her aquamarine eyes pierced him before she turned away, and Sherlock noticed she wore one of his over shirts unbuttoned over one of her camisoles. His conscious self deduced that they must have been fairly close for her to be wearing one of his shirts. 'I like that shirt,' he thought before the woman swished out of the room.
"You should go, your brother called for you," her voice traveled from the small kitchen that shared a wall with the sofa. Sherlock heard the faint rumble of a kettle boiling and knew she didn't mean it. If she made you tea, she wanted you to stay. Months of being around this girl had told him that.
More conscious thoughts broke into Sherlock's dream, 'who was she? Why am I in her flat? I don't remember ever meeting her! Why have I suddenly got a close relationship with her?' He had no time to crack that mystery before he was rushed into a dream state again.
The scene had changed; Sherlock leaned on the doorframe of a door, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze rested on a tall blonde woman, the same from the previous part of his envisage. Except now she looked older, probably seventeen, and had obviously grown her hair out because it was braided down her back so that the thin ends just barely brushed the base of her spine. Her eyes adopted the same devouring interest that Sherlock had when on a case.
She busied around her study, following the red yarn that connected images and newspapers tacked to the walls and throwing books around onto desks and the floor occasionally. A window, partially obscured by string and flanked by bookshelves, displayed a typical rainy day in London.
She had acknowledged Sherlock, but refused to talk to him until she found the information she was scourging for. At last, she cried out in joy and grabbed Sherlock by the front of his collar to come see what she had found. He stumbled into the room and observed what she had her eyes fixed on.
'MAN FOUND DEAD OUTSIDE OXFORD UNIVERSITY' the headline read. Sherlock scanned the rest of the page and deduced that the man 'killed' was a student there that had committed suicide via falling off of a tall building.
"Bollocks?" the girl questioned, looking up at him. The teenage Sherlock felt his chest flutter absurdly as her eyes scanned him. He then knew that she already had a notion about the suicide.
"Yes. It was Jim or someone right?"
"Yeah. I thought you'd guess that. He was always depressed."
"Adeline, I never guess, I know."
"Oh, of course. I forgot, you're so specific about stuff, aren't you?" She threw the words over her shoulder before ducking under a length of string and plopping herself down in an overstuffed armchair with a thick book titled "The Lord of the Rings". Sherlock wondered why she even bothered with things like fantasy books; they were useless to her work.
A few moments later, she slammed the book shut and looked up at the curly haired boy. Sherlock knew she was doing so, despite the fact his back was facing her. "By the looks of it, it could have been you falling off of Oxford rather than Jim!" she teased Sherlock about that school, although they had both graduated three years early, and it was too far away from her home for Sherlock to bother with it anymore. She seemed to know him better than he knew himself, so she obviously knew if he were to commit suicide, it'd either be much closer or out somewhere completely desolate; nowhere in between. He began to wonder if she would care if he died, and then snapped himself out of it. Of course she wouldn't, her mind operated like his, all intellect with no room for sentimentality.
He swiveled on his heels to face her. "Addie," the teen detective started, but stopped when he realised she was no longer in the room. He shut his mouth, shoved his hands into his jean pockets, and followed her out the door. The open door was part of a corridor that led from the living room to three other doors, one of which was the loo, the next his room and, at the end, her bedroom. He found her in the living area on a laid back, green plaid armchair by the window. The wide seat of the chair easily fit her in it, even with her legs crossed and book on her lap. Her long back was hunched over the book.
Footfall echoed through the large flat, Sherlock's. Fabric rustled as he controlled his lanky limbs to sit opposite her. He assumed the thinking position he had taken a liking to; hands steepled under his chin and legs sprawled out across the floor. His feet made contact with a book, and it skidded over the wooden boarding to hit Adeline's foot, which she had put down a few moments earlier. She sighed, placed her bookmark in the crease of the book, and stretched, making sure her foot smacked into Sherlock's. His head shifted from looking at the window beside her to raise his eyebrows at the blonde. She grinned and got up to make tea.
Again, the substance did not pass his lips, because he woke too soon.
He blinked. John came into focus, and he sat up abruptly. His head swam for a moment, and he realised he was on the floor of St. Anne's, not outside as he thought.
"Adeline," the word escaped without his approval.
"Who?" John asked. His nephew appeared next to him, also confused.
"In my dream, she was…"
"Sherlock, who did you dream about? Are you alright?"
"Fine, and she's… nobody. It's fine." John helped the drowsy detective up.
"Okay," The blogger mumbled, sharing a look with the other John and planning to ask Mycroft about this Adeline. "Sherlock-," he began again, but stopped when he saw him strutting off, his nephew trailing after him. He peeked in Andromeda's room, to assure she was safe.
'Good,' he thought, following the detective and his new admirer, 'Moriarty and Moran left her alone.'
As he followed Sherlock back to the cab, he realised how late it was, and he should have stayed with Andromeda. The younger John twisted on the ice to face his uncle.
"I'll stay with her," he said, walking back through the doors. John the blogger did not know what kind of relationship he and the sociopath woman had, but he allowed him to go.
"Ask for Mary!" he called after the lad. "She'll get you an extra bed in Andromeda's room." The boy nodded and let the door close behind him.
Sherlock allowed John to make him tea, and, when he faked sleep curled up on his armchair for the blogger's sake, to tuck a blanket over him. His toes stuck out of the blue fabric and he pulled them in after John left the room.
He contacted John's fiancé, Mary, and asked how Andromeda was. The text came back fairly quickly.
I don't want to alarm you, Mister Holmes, but I don't think you'll ever speak to her again.
Why ever not? -SH
We healed her, but her mind has gone quiet.
Do me a favour, Miss Morston, and do not waste my time by speaking in riddles. I will be there as soon as dawn breaks. -SH
Oh, I think you'll see me sooner. Goodnight, for the moment, Mister Holmes.
Sherlock looked up from the bright screen to see John.
"Go away," he mumbled.
"I knew you weren't asleep," the good doctor replied. "Did Mary text you?"
"Yes, I'm leaving. And yes, I'll make sure she gets home alright." John smiled at his friend.
"Thank you. But could you bring her back here?"
Sherlock blinked a yes, "Not on my bed, though!" he shouted at the door clicked behind him.
He was going to stay with John's nephew and the sociopath in a coma.
John walked through the hallways of the hospital, finding Mary already in Andromeda's room.
"Hello, nephew. Oh, can I call you that?" she smiled at the boy as he sat by Andromeda and held her hand.
"Yes, provided I can call you Aunt," he said the words without looking at the woman.
"Of course. And your bed is the armchair here, I'm afraid."
This time, the dark-blond boy smiled up at Mary. "Thank you." She only returned the beam and exited the room. John peeked out the window to see Sherlock driving Lestrade's cab, and the yellow blonde woman entering the passenger's side.
"Andy, I'm going to sleep, but don't die on me, okay?" he kissed the pale hand and snuggled up in the fold out mattress that was the armchair beside the bed.
And sleep he did, but not once was he disturbed by Andromeda's cries in the night.
Or the manic giggling coming from the hallway.