Warning: drug use discussed in this chapter.

A week had passed since the dinner that Sherlock and Rachel shared. In that time, Rachel had written and sent the eulogy that was read at her parents' funeral. Her father had been an attorney and had the foresight to plan a will in the event that something like this would happen to them. They had left Rachel everything. The partners at his firm had sent flowers that had now wilted on her dresser to her, via the forwarding address she had provided.

She had began to accept the reality of her situation. Her body was aching, her back especially sore. She had not felt this pain in quite some time, but she knew what it was. The scoliosis that she had been diagnosed with as a teenager must have been aggravated after the crash. Her body had felt as if it were screaming. Her mending arm especially sore. She reached for the Vicodin that Dr. Watson had brought her in anticipation of residual pain. Unfortunately, while the medicine did the job of numbing the physical pain, it did nothing for the emotional. Sherlock could do nothing to help her go back home, and Mycroft had been of little help. As he had explained, she was an unofficial detainee of the British government.

If she were to be honest with herself, she would not want to go home if she had to. In fact, that was enough of an explanation for her aunt to leave her alone. She had been calling her nearly every hour to see how she was holding up. It wasn't until Rachel had asked her to send her clothes and a few personal items that she had stopped calling nearly altogether.

Sherlock had been quietly observing her slipping into a deep depression. Her clothes had arrived three days ago, but she had been wearing the same jeans and an oversized sweater for over three days now. He had also observed the arching of her back worsen. He, of course, knew the signs of scoliosis and had mentally added that to his useful information regarding her case.

That morning when she had come down he was interviewing a client. It was another simple case of infidelity. She was able to catch a glimpse of him pacing back and forth in front of a man who was shuddering in tears in the black leather 'client' chair. She paused to listen to what the man said. "She comes home late, never wants to talk." The man sucked in another breath. "I never see her, and when I do, she makes up some excuse to leave again. I don't understand. We were so happy." The man's voice was indecipherable as he crumbled into tears.

Rachel observed the Armani suit, designer shoes and silver cufflinks. The man had brought a picture of what she had deduced as the wife, Sherlock had discarded it on the floor. She was much, much younger than the man was.

"I can't help but think that she's cheating on me."

Sherlock said nothing, but continued to pace, no longer listening to the man. It was then that Rachel had moved from the doorway and walked into the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of tea, and leaned against the wall. "Of course she's cheating on you, you oaf. You expected a happy ending by marrying a girl like that? Silly fool. There is no such thing as happy endings. Sherlock won't take your case, you're frightfully dull. Which is obviously the problem with your wife." She turned and walked back up the stairs to her room.

"She is correct." Sherlock gestured to the door, and the now wailing man left. He had made it just in time to watch Rachel turn and close the door behind her. If Sherlock was to be honest with himself he had been distracted since she had arrived. She had a brilliant mind, but she kept that hidden. The dismissal of his client had been her first display of her tenacious mind since the restaurant. She was younger than he, but her brilliance was obvious.

Rachel had spent most of the past week locked away in her room. Mrs. Hudson would bring her up a tray of breakfast every morning and leave it on the nightstand nearest the door. Rachel would eat as much as her meager appetite would allow, and fall back to sleep. Mrs. CHudson would later allow herself into Rachel's room to collect the tray once again.

Molly had visited several times, bringing her sweets or books or different trinkets to help her occupy her time. Rachel had already solved most of the crossword puzzle books that Molly had brought. Sherlock would find the discarded books scattered thought her room when he would check on her.

Sherlock would visit her room once a day or so, checking on her well being. Her arm was mending well, but her back was obviously causing her pain. He had also observed some signs of her beginning to get addicted to hydrocodone. He was all too familiar on what drugs could do to a body if they were allowed to proceed.

It was later that evening that Rachel had decided to take a shower. She docked her iPod and started her usual playlist for her shower. Sherlock heard the shudder of the old pipes as the water turned on. He had been sitting in his chair near the fireplace reading a casefile from Lestrade but tucked the papers in between the cushion and made his way up the stairs silently. Once upstairs he quietly let himself into her room. It took him a matter of seconds to find the bottle of Vicodin that was tucked into the drawer of her nightstand. He opened the bottle, took a single pill out and left it where the bottle was originally. He left a note:

Your next dose will be made available in 6 hours- SH

And just as silently as he had made his entrance, he left, carrying the bottle with him. He made sure to put them out of sight, and went to bed. He expected a long night was to be ahead of him.

Three hours later, Rachel found the note. She slammed the door shut other nightstand and stormed downstairs. She turned the corner and threw the door open to his room.

"What is the meaning of this?" She shouted at him, furiously throwing the crumpled paper at him. Sherlock pushed his body up, the sheets falling from his bare chest. She was momentarily taken aback. She had not expected him to be in such good shape. Her jaw went slack. Even in the dark with the scarce light from the street lightly illuminating the room she could see how well defined he was.

"You were beginning to form an unhealthy habit. I stopped it before it could get worse. You will continue to receive your medication, but on a schedule and I will be monitoring you." His voice was groggy, but somehow like velvet. He looked at her, the messy curls were untamed from the pillow. She felt as if her knees were going weak.

"You have no right, none at all." She was struggling to maintain the anger that she had walked in with. "You don't know what this is like, I need that, it helps." Her voice began to trail off when he reached for the bedside lamp. He clicked the light on, the brightness temporarily blinding her.

"You may think I know nothing, but your selfish pain leaves you blind to those around you who have only been trying to help you. Your selfishness has only caused you further pain, and you are feeding the pain by feeding your addiction." He held out his left arm showing her the scars from the years of drug use that haunted him. "You know nothing. You may think that what you are feeling is the worst pain that a person can endure, but I can promise you, there is far worse in this life." His voice was now near shouting.

She crossed her arms in defeat, she had no idea what this man could have possibly ever went through, but it was obvious to her that there were more than just the visible scars that were left on this man. Her eyes fell on his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing had calmed her a bit.

"I am sorry. I had no idea." Her face was red with shame.

"You see things, but do not observe." Sherlock stood, wrapping the white sheet around himself carefully as he rose off the bed. She averted her eyes, realizing that she had been staring. He checked the time, 3:30 a.m. blinked on the digital clock next to the lamp. Rachel had too realized what time it was. "I feel like some tea. Would you like to join me?" He offered a hand to Rachel.

"That sounds brilliant, as long as you won't be shouting for again". She accepted his hand and he placed it under his arm, and lead her to the kitchen where he pulled a chair out for her.

"Mrs. Hudson's medication keeps her oblivious to the world around her as she sleeps. London could come down around her and she would still be asleep." She laughed. He began preparing the tea cups as the electric kettle came to a boil, his sheet dragging behind him.

She rested her head in the good hand, using her left to shift the papers aside on the table to make some room. One of the files had opened, and the contents came spilling out. It was a case that Sherlock had been unable to crack for some time. A body was discovered in an alley way in central London, but it had been so bady disfigured that he could only say with certainty that it belonged to that of a male. Rachel began putting the notes away, but had hesitated when she saw the photos. She recognized the tattoo on the wrist of the body.

"Sherlock, what is this?" He spun around to see her holding up the photo and looked away in disgust.

"A case I have been unable to solve for some time now." His irritation apparent as he turned back to pouring the water in the cups.

"Did you know this tattoo was for a gang?" He spun round again.

"What?"

"Yeah, back in Florida there were on men who had lived in the Ocala forest. There was an ongoing case there where one of the men had been caught trying to abduct a woman, My dad was on the case for a while."

"Continue." He placed the tea in front of her.

"The man who tried to kidnap the girl got caught eventually, and had confessed that there were about thirty men in the group that would each kidnap a girl to keep for their personal use before murdering them and disposing of the bodies in the woods."

Sherlock was perplexed. This information had possibly solved multiple crimes. There had been a rash of abductions in the past year that had been unsolved with no apparent connections or patterns. He rushed over to the laptop, sheet billowing behind him, and sent an email to Lestrade, letting him know what files to pull, many of them now making sence to him.

"You have solved approximately 4 murders in the past two months." He turned back to her, oblivious to the fact that the sheet was now caught on the foot of the chair. Rachel said nothing, seeing the problem that was about to occur. The sheet slipped off his shoulder, and began to fall to the floor. His reflexes were slowed due to the lack of sleep, but caught it just in time. She had the answer to the question that had plagued her mind since she walked into his room. No underwear, interesting. She looked away, hiding the grin behind the teacup as she took a sip.

Sherlock said nothing, simply adjusting the sheet back to the appropriate position and sat across from her finishing the tea.

"Was no problem, Sherlock." Her voice deeper than usual. His eyebrow rose.

Did she fancy me? Certainly not. Her parents had only just died and she is depressed. Nothing more.

They finished their tea, said their goodnights, and went back to bed just as the morning light began to ebb in through the windows.

Hope you like the updated chapter. A bit of fluff really, but maybe Rachel and Sherlock have more in common than first suspected. Please, review!