"All look and likeness caught from earth

All accident of kin and birth,

Had pass'd away. There was no trace

Of aught on that illumined face,

Uprais'd beneath the rifted stone

But of one spirit all her own ;-

She, she herself, and only she,

Shone through her body visibly."

- Samuel Coleridge, "Phantom"

"'The Gemini Parable'? And why does it say 'draft'?"

John jumped nearly three feet out of his seat at Sherlock's sudden voice behind him, scowling over the smaller man's shoulder. He'd been updating his blog draft about the case, what'd they'd gotten out of Dillion Cass and everything else. The ransom, the suspicion that their new friend was keeping more from them and speculations as to what that might be. Another death, something she'd done that she wasn't proud of, a deal – could be any number of things. What it truly was, neither man knew.

"I don't have an eidetic memory like you do," John reminded him shortly, trying to slow his heart rate after being startled. "We normal people have to make notes of things that happen, as they happen."

"Sounds exhausting," His flatmate said dismissively, drinking from his evening tea. John knew he should've heard the kettle. He checked his watch. Nearly seven in the afternoon.

Or was it that he was so absorbed in what he was doing with the blog to notice? John sighed. It had been a long day. It was now the twelfth of July, and both he and Sherlock had been tight to work trying to piece together Moriarty's plans. The detective was dissecting the crime scene back in Peebles. His partner going between picking Bridge's brain when something came up in the search, keeping Sherlock running well enough to work, and helping Bridge set up 221C, another flat in Mrs. Hudson's building.

Bridge had been hard at work renovating and bringing it back to being live-able. John knew she hated relying on people, as much as she and Mrs. Hudson had taken to one another, she couldn't live off another person forever and she knew it. She wanted to fend for herself on her own money, under her own roof that she was paying for. It hadn't needed much; just to get rid of the black mold seeping in, to get some new furniture, fix the broken windows, and give the walls some new paint.

It was just like Bridge, John had thought upon hearing what her plans were for the new flat. He knew that she secretly hated waiting. Truly and sincerely hated it. And it was the one thing about that John likened to Sherlock about her. When they both were forced to wait, they needed work. Problems. Something to occupy the mind until it was put to use. She was waiting for news or communiqué from Moriarty or information about the crime scene from the detective, so she was renovating a flat to live in. Sherlock had to wait between cases and it drove him mad to just sit there without things to do, so he'd perform all manners of experiments and calculations just to save himself from utter boredom. At least that was the excuse he gave.

Today had been the last day of the refurbishing, and Bridge had left him a note on her door this morning to take the day off. She and Mrs. Hudson were going to go out and get some paintings to 'dress up the place'. John remembered how much she loved art, his old friend. Couldn't draw to save her life, but she loved paintings.

Three knocks on the door to their flat broke John of his reverie, and noticing that the man holding a bottle labeled as formaldehyde hadn't shown any sign that he'd heard it, rose to answer it. He opened the door. A pale hand emerged from the dark of the hall, grasped the front of his shirt, and tugged him down the stairs. John struggled for a few seconds, about to yell before a note was shoved into his hands. The light streaming in from Mrs. Hudson's flat allowed him to see that it simply read: Follow.

"You could've just texted, you know," He said, the pilot shrugging as means of a reply. Her hands were in front of her, and he couldn't see what she had in them, but after a moment, she slid them into her jacket pockets.

His phone buzzed in his jeans, and John fished it out, laughing a bit at the ID. He looked up to step down from the building onto Baker Street, the dim lamp lights and the noise as familiar to him as his own voice now. There were two texts…one from Sherlock and one from Bridge. He read her text:

Where's the fun in that? In case you're wondering, my writing hand hurts from working and this is much easier.

"Ah," John glanced at Bridge in the low light, walking a bit faster to fall into step alongside her, "And where are we going, might I ask?"

She texted him again, and he kept his phone out to read it as it flashed onto his screen.

To the liquor store. We're about to have our first nightcap in my flat. The first of many, I hope.

John was about to say something, but stopped when he heard her begin whistling. For her to make any sort of sound was a rare sight to behold, and he wouldn't interrupt it. A somber smile spreading across his face, he offered his arm to her.

It wasn't like a nobleman holding his arm out to win the affections of a giggling girl he was courting. This was more a pair of old friends leaning on each other, growing closer and letting the other know that it was perfectly okay to admit you needed someone.

And it was for that reason that she looped her arm around his, feeling his warmth as she continued whistling. He didn't recognize it, but it was strangely jazzy and upbeat, a stark contrast to Bridge herself. He didn't argue, though.

His smile was mirrored by the slight upturn of her lips, and as he picked up on her tune, he found himself whistling too.

"Here we are then, eh?" John was saying as Bridge opened the door to her flat, and he gazed around with a solid look of approval on his face. "Now this is nice…"

He had seen it yesterday after the painting was done: the deep blue walls in the sitting room and bath, and the dark gray in the kitchen. However, this was just fantastic to look at. The furniture no longer had the white sheets thrown over them, and the comfortable white claw-footed couch that curved up like the petals of a flower now had a few blue throw pillows on it to match the walls. Along the windows were beige vintage drapes that went straight down to the floor, pooling on the maple wood. On one of the windowsills was a ceramic pot, and erupting through it in a fountain of yellow were sunflowers, Bridge's favorites. The flowers alone brought a light to the room that the already-present lamplight in the corner didn't have a hope of bringing.

John grinned, making an idle joke as he glimpsed her face out of the corner of his eye. "I don't suppose you'd want a flat mate already…?"

Bridge plucked up a dry-erase whiteboard from a stand by the door, as if she had prepared it, and wrote with a slim black marker. You haven't even looked at the paintings yet.

He raised his eyebrows and took another look around, puzzled. The walls were featureless, and bare, the richness of the color making his eyes attach to them like flies to tape. "I don't see…"

She grabbed his hand and forcibly led him to another part of the flat, her whiteboard in her other hand and the case of beers in his. It wasn't the bedroom or the bathroom, and distantly in his head, John recalled Mrs. Hudson saying that this flat had an extra room due to more space in the lot. Before she lead him in, though, he watched as she scrawled a single word hurriedly on the whiteboard and gave it to him to hold while she pushed the door open.

Library.

Indeed it was. She'd left this room white, but John could barely see it, as nearly every wall was cloaked in black bookshelf except one. The one for the paintings. There were four of them in all, and they were beautiful. John hadn't a clue what style they were in, he had little knowledge on the subject, but he did know that they were beautiful. Swirls of blue and green and yellow all over, and only two held known shapes, the others were abstract. One of the works was of what he had just seen: sunflowers with their vibrancy in a simple still-life. He tore his eyes away from the paintings to see the pair of armchairs in the center of the room separated with a wooden coffee table, meant for reading and observing, and the only light here was by means of a ceiling fixture and a small lamp behind one of the leather armchairs, shining over the shoulder. He could imagine why that would be there: even though the shelves were bare, John knew Bridge was an avid reader and there would be books packed in here by the end of the week.

They sat down across from each other, and John set the beers down in front of him, tearing the case open. He was giving her one along with her whiteboard as she crossed her legs. He chuckled as she popped hers open on the corner of her coffee table, and asked with a half-smile, "Is that why you bought it?"

Bridge flashed a sheepish look, and he said in earnest, "Really, Bridge. This place is astonishing. I almost wish Sherlock would've joined us."

The pink dusting about her cheeks was modesty at best, but she still wrote him a quick reply to that last part.

Be careful what you wish for, John.

"Well," He preambled, screwing the top off his beer and lifted it in a toast, "To Leonard's safe return…may he be with us again soon."

And all the playfulness and light-heartedness fled her eyes like water in a bathtub when the plug's been pulled. John instantly regretted it, and as they clinked bottles in silence, then drank…he found himself wanting to speak on the subject. He knew what she must be thinking. She gently laid her beer on the table and gazed off into a painting. That one was of a whirlpool consuming a pond of gray, blue and green. It seemed to consume her, too. Just past her half-open lips, John could see her tongue moving and he'd read patient's lips long enough to know what she was doing. She was repeating words silently inside her mouth. The same two.

Four days. Four days. Four days.

It's been four days since Leonard was kidnapped. For every day you leave him waiting, a single lash upon your brother's back. He remembered what Dillion Cass had said. There would be a fourth lash today.

"Bridgette."

He was the second of two people to ever say her full first name, the first being her twin. John only used it to get her attention, and it worked, she met his eyes. "I know you're hurting the longer it takes." He attempted humor against his better judgment. "I'm a doctor. I'm sort of the expert on pain."

She furrowed her brows, and was reaching for her whiteboard again, but John froze her mid-way with his words. "Listen…"

She stayed like that, hunched over with her forearms on her knees and her top jacket buckle glimmering metallically across her throat like a warning. Bridge only looked up at him through the short hair that framed her pixie-like face with thick black tufts of hair as thin as feathers, and with storm gray eyes. John met them with his hazel ones, his hair the color of salt and sand mixed together ruffled as one of his healer's hands ran through them.

"I understand," He said, though his voice seemed suspended as if he were talking to no one. As if she were a painting herself, and it was supported by how statuesque and still she was as he kept talking. "Your brother means the absolute world to you, more than me and more than the RAF, more than anything…more than air."

He stopped himself. "Let me start over…I realize though we've known each other for a while now, I hardly know anything about you. But…here's what I do know. I know you have a twin brother whom you love dearly. I know you're a very well-trained pilot. I know you like books and old rock music. I know you love words, the smell when it rains, whistling when you walk, and how wind feels going through your hair. I know you don't speak, and that forcing you to is futile and cruel to do."

Bridge's lips twisted, and he could sense her growing restless, wanting him to get to his point. So he did.

"What I'm trying to say is that I know what sort of person you are when you're with me, and I know who you've been in the military, when Leonard was there. But…" I sighed, scolding myself for still not getting it to come out right. "But I don't know what sort of person you'll be without Leonard. Or who you were before the Air Force. Or who you are when you're alone."

Her eyes narrowed, and her hands curled slowly into fists. The message was clear. John had to watch what he was about to say. He didn't want to anger her, but this was something he had to know.

"What's the part you're leaving out?"

Her face blanked, and she closed her eyes, gritting her teeth. John's guilt loaded his gut then, wishing he didn't ask at all. The hand around her beer tightened, and she slowly put it down on the table and picked up her whiteboard. She gripped it tightly as she put it on her lap and drew words with her marker, pressing harder. When Bridge turned it around, the words and the jaggedness and largeness of them showed just how angry she was beneath her thin veil of composure.

DID SHERLOCK PUT YOU UP TO THIS?

He knew there wasn't much point to lying. "Sherlock sent me a text shortly after we left…he thinks whatever you're hiding from us may be the key to finding Moriarty. Bridge," She looked at him then, her eyes a much stormier gray now, darker. "You know I would never ask this of you if it wasn't important. And I believe Sherlock, I think whatever you've got will help us."

She covered her face with her hands, and John whispered, desperate, "Please, Bridge…just talk to me."

At the word, Bridge glared at him. But as they held this gaze, her eyes softened gradually. She snatched the whiteboard again, writing quickly. John watched with worry as it took up half the board before she set it down on the table again, pushing it towards him. He bit his lip as he read.

Fine. I'll tell you. But not all of this goes to the detective. Just the important things. I trust YOU with this. Don't make me regret it.

Leo and my parents were murdered almost ten months before our eighteenth birthday and a lot of our money was taken in the process. My brother and I had no home, what I showed you in Scotland was the house we bought after we got out. A week after they were killed, I alone was approached by a man who said he knew our parents. I don't think I have to tell you who that ended up being. He offered me a deal he knew I wouldn't refuse. I was to take the money he gave me, recruitment papers for the service, and a bus ticket…and in return, years down the line, if he ever needed the soldiers we would undoubtedly become, we were to join his side and fight for him. I didn't refuse, we needed help. And John, it was the worst decision I ever made.

He had a hand over his mouth when he finished, and when he looked at her, her knees were drawn up to her chest and her glittering eyes were just visible above them. John was in shock. He would like to think that he wouldn't have made the same decision, but as he thought about it, he wondered. Without thinking, he stood up from his chair and rounded the table. John grabbed her hands and yanked her up to stand with him, then wrapped both arms around her in a hug.

Bridge tensed at first at this, before returning it with her face pressed to his neck. He said quietly, in her ear, "I'll only tell him about what Moriarty wanted in the deal, but I won't tell him what you wanted…and I won't tell him your parents were…yeah. He doesn't need to know. It'll stay between you and me."

You and me. Her hands held him tighter to her at those words…and they repeated in her head, in a broken record. Over and over. You and me. You and me. He was her best friend, and as they let go, she couldn't stop herself from reaching up on her toes. Her lips brushed his cheek and as she leaned back, both of his cheeks reddened.

"What was that?"

She shrugged, masking her temporary lapse of self-control and ignoring the pink rising to the tops of her ears. She bent over to get their beers and her whiteboard, before leading him back to the sitting room.

"And do you remember that one time? That git Phil was taking a shower because he was covered in sand and dust and Leo had this idea to throw ice in?" John giggled, his fourth beer in his hand and his face and nose were red. "And you and me were just outside the hall laughing our asses off, and he threw the ice in his shower and Phil screeched like a little girl! Hee-heeee, that was great!"

Bridge's teeth were shining in her wide grin, tilting her drink back and letting the last dribble of beer sail down her throat. The taste was smooth, a bit too smooth for her liking, she liked her beers with a kick. Her legs were thrown over an arm of the claw-footed couch and her torso was laid out in the seat, her eyes full of mirth as she looked over at him from the white base. Her hair splayed like black feathers under her head.

"Dear God that was funny," John said, finishing his bottle off too. She'd never seen him so giddy. He reached down into the case for another one, and frowned, lifting it up to find it empty. He reminded her of a very sad sandy puppy whose hands were too large for the rest of him. He always has, but this was one of those times that it was more pronounced.

He said, throwing it unceremoniously over his shoulder, "All out."

John slumped down into his seat, and closed his eyes. Bridge, with a small hiccup, wriggled out of her seat and collected their empty bottles with a slight teetering in her usually swift gait. She wasn't as drunk as John was, even though she'd drunk nearly as much as he had. Scottish blood was probably the reason for that.

As she was walking back, she heard the soft sounds of sleep coming from her friend. He'd fallen asleep, and in a deep one, too. She poked at him to wake, but he wouldn't, just brought his legs up into a little ball in the seat of the armchair. Her lips pursed; the prospect of carrying him up the stairs to 221B seemed somewhat difficult. She rubbed the back of her neck as she fished out her phone, having to concentrate to see the keys.

She'd gotten Sherlock's number through John, and had to admit, it made her nervous to think of talking to him. What he'd said on the train still unsettled her.

Mayday, need your hlep.

Hlep? She'd already sent it when she realized her mistake, and sighed. Maybe she was drunker than she thought. A ringtone that sounded like church bells alerted her to his reply.

Help*.

SH

She tapped through screens until she got to her camera, and snapped a photo of John sleeping, attaching it to a message.

I need another set of hands.

He seemed to be waiting with his messages open, because his answer was fast.

Why don't you let him there? I'm engaged in evaluating samples from your home. I'm busy.

SH

She rolled her eyes, before she had an idea. She knew what would get him here.

He has the information you've been badgering me about. Assist me, and he'll be a bit more lenient with you in the future with your poking and prodding. Maybe I will, too.

Not a moment after she sent it, there was a knocking at her door. Startled, she dropped her phone and gasped quietly as she saw that a huge crack had formed in it. Trying to cover her ears against the augmented noise of the knocks, she trudged across the room to open the door wincing.

"Next time, mention the important part first." Sherlock muttered forcefully, moving past her in a swish of black button-down and curly hair. He glanced around, finding the familiar pile of blonde-gray hair and going over to John.

Bridge came on his other side, as they put John's short arms around their shoulders and began to guide him out of the room. The stairs were a struggle in and of itself; it was narrow and although Sherlock and Bridge were both very slender, three of them had to fit in through. With her leading and them ascending in a slant, they were able to get up to 221B with little frustration and hassle. To their surprise, the doctor didn't wake.

The strong ammonia smell lurched in through Bridge's nostrils and yanked at her brain as they entered John and Sherlock's flat. Through her slightly drunken nerves, that smell yanked her into clarity. She almost dropped her friend to cover her nose, but fought it once they got to John's room, which smelled of warm spices like he did. Silently, they got him to his small twin-sized bed. She removed his shoes and the detective drew back the covers. Together, they tucked in their best friend and left him to mumble nonsense and sleep.

As they got back into the kitchen that smelled of death, Bridge finally could clamp her hand over her nose. Sherlock seemed unfazed, but once he saw her discomfort, he paused in putting his goggles back on. Something flickered in those crystal blue eyes of his, and she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Your brother may already be lost to us. She heard his voice, as if he'd spoken the words again now, and her expression hardened.

But when she heard him as she went to leave, it still put her in a dead stop. It wasn't wistful, it wasn't desperate, or remorseful in any way. It was just his voice, saying her name.

"Bridge…"

She only turned her head to him. His eyes were flitting between John's door and her, his hands behind his back but she could see the fabric of his shirt twitch with movement. He was fumbling with his fingers, as if uncertain.

"This beaker must be left simmer for another thirty minutes." He reported, and her eyebrows rose.

She had little to no knowledge of chemistry, save for the Mentos and Diet Coke reaction because her brother had performed it with hilarious results when they were eleven. Bridge hadn't a clue what the beaker with the blue liquid bubbling inside it was for.

"I'd like a word with you," Sherlock explained, and plucked a notepad from his work station, tearing off the first four pages and throwing it to her. She caught it in midair, staring at it suspiciously.

He was grabbing something else from the fireplace mantel, before placing it in his back pocket. Sherlock breezed past her and was about to go out through the door of 221B when he said, if a bit impatiently, "What are you standing there for? Come along. To the roof."

I remembered this one night in particular from Afghanistan. It was a warm night, practically every night in the Middle East was, but this one was different. The stars seemed brighter, like they had waited all day and gathered their strength just for someone on the ground to look up and notice them. I climbed into the cockpit of my aircraft that night, the glass shielding my from the wind as I stargazed until the golden rays of morning faded the rest of the sky.

As I got onto the rooftop after Sherlock, the stars were just as bright as they were halfway round the world a year ago. A breath in astonishment escaped my lips as my neck craned up.

"I know," A deep voice from in front of me agreed, as if reading my thoughts. The prospect of which frightened me, and as I saw him, my eyes leaving the sky, he held something out to me. "Consider this a gift."

I couldn't see what it was, it was too dark. The lights of Baker Street were choked by the raised ledge, and all I could see of Sherlock was his silhouette, his curls breaking up the streetlight around his head. I gingerly reached out blindly, and my fingertips met his warm fingers holding a very thin cylinder. A cigarette. He was returning the favor for the smoke on the train.

Sherlock's hands left mine for a second, and there was a clicking sound, sparks hurling light through the dark. They illuminated his face in strobes, his unreadable eyes photographed in fleeting blinks of sparks. At last, the flame caught and he held the lighter for me. I leant in and he cupped his hands against the wind as I lit the end of my cigarette. I glanced at him as I did, and all I saw was the curve of his lips. A smile in the dark.

I became more aware of his closeness as he lit his. I felt the heat coming off him, how his careful fingers were with flame and how its reddish gold danced along the planes of his face. How he smelled, too. The louder scent was of chemicals like burned sugar that clung to his clothes, but as he had leant close, an undertone of lemon soap revealed itself as the breeze blew by his hair and past my nose.

"I didn't think it would be so dark - wait-" Sherlock's voice was distant for a moment before I heard him flick a switch, and a light bulb above me flipped on. I could see him clearly now.

He waited as I opened his notebook and I fished a pen out of my pocket. The same four words I'd asked him in my head for the entire time I'd known him were all I wrote.

What do you want?

Smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke, "I hope to apologize. For what I said on the train. It was cruel of me... "

I didn't see that coming. I hadn't expected an apology, I expected another elaborate piece meant to be thought-provoking. But it didn't change my final verdict on what he'd said. His words were cruel and a part of me hurt to think they were true...As if my hands betrayed my mind, they disclosed what I really felt and believed, something I almost never do.

Don't. You don't need to. As much as what you said brought me pain, at the time it was what I needed to hear. And you were right. I shouldn't hold out too much hope and it was naive of me to do so. I should know the usual fates of prisoners of war. Thank you.

Through the beer buzzing through my veins, I saw Sherlock's shock measured in how long he stood there staring at me after he'd looked up from the paper. I continued to smoke, tapping ash onto the roof. Breaking his steely gaze, Sherlock jerked his hand and gave a hiss of pain, the cigarette falling from his fingers onto the concrete. He blew on his hand, grimacing. As he lowered his other hand, I saw the shiny red blister that'd formed on his pointer and middle fingers. Had he really been standing there that long and not even notice?

When I stepped forward to see if he would need salve, he waved me off and shied back from me. "Only burned myself, don't worry."

I sighed, holding my hands up like a defeated criminal surrendering to a police officer. Sherlock ignored that, questioning me, "Never mind that – did you just thank me?"

Being a mute, people had a knack for pointing out the rather obvious around me, and I would think that he'd grown tired of it too being a detective, but alas, here he was doing it…I nodded yes, stomping my finished smoke out. His shock only furthered, stumped by something pertaining to me.

"I was wrong." He said, exasperated. He was still moving away from me, as if I were an alien or anomaly that the laws of physics didn't allow. But it wasn't fear I saw in his eyes, it was fascination. Unrelenting fascination.

"Completely and totally wrong. That's never happened before, and I suspect that you're drunk enough to forget it come morning."

It's a possibility, I thought and I was growing quite irritated, crossing my arms. What? Wrong about what? What is he babbling about? Why is he looking at me like that?

"My deductions," He explained, and he gushed out the words like a continuous stream, like he couldn't hold them in any longer. "You've shot every single one of them down with two words. Every thing I guessed at, every thing I knew about your personality…you have ruined it….with 'thank you'."

I was frozen. Frozen by an invisible force I had no comprehension of being there. I stood, and watched as Sherlock tore everything apart. Everything I'd worked to make him think, make him believe so as to protect myself. My oldest trick. My vital rule. My failsafe.

"When I first met you, I thought you ignorant. You didn't speak because the rest of the world wasn't worthy of your words. John told me to stop it. 'Stop it Sherlock, be nice', he said. He said it because I thought you incompetent, I thought you rude, I thought you as the sum of everything I expel away from me," Sherlock shook his head, his epiphany fresh and flowing in his mind. I could tell from how his voice seemed so pushed, like he was thinking up everything he was saying as it was on its way out of his mouth. "Stupidity, incompetence, and passiveness. But…I think I realized it when you wrote to me on the train to Scotland…"

Sherlock advanced to my petrified body, his hands cupping my shoulders and shushed me, his voice unnervingly soft. "Don't be afraid, Bridge. You won't remember a word of this, I know it. The alcohol will burn the memories from your brain…That is the reason why I choose to say this now. You are the complete opposite, and John was right. He was right, how could I not notice?"

He shook his head again, scolding himself quietly with a smile upon his face. "This could be the past hour inhaling ammonia speaking, but…I think I've got it worked out. You don't speak…not because the world isn't worthy of your words. But because you don't feel your words are worthy for the world."

My gasp was audible, and his eyes lit up. I was seriously slipping now, and my nerves were live wires with danger.

"You're intelligent, modest, and you're a woman of action," Sherlock said lowly, and let me go. "Integrity, kindness…You understand balance and cause and effect. I appreciate that. Just as I appreciate it of John."

"He told me to look again and look hard at you. And I did. And oh, the colors I saw. I've seen more than I ever have in anyone. And I saw proof of a single fact. A fact that I've never seen before apart from my own reflection or John..."

I was feeling light-headed, my mind swimming as he said the last, the final three words. They may as well have been passing dreams, because my knees came out from under me, and my eyes rolled back into my head, strong hands catching me before I hit the ground. But his words stayed in my head like a mantra, his voice meandering in a river through my thoughts like music.

"You …are …brilliant."

I hope you all enjoyed that, this fanfiction's gonna pick up in speed next chapter and we'll get to some of the bigger stuff! Don't forget to review! Let me know what you think!

Yours,

G.P.