Disclaimer: I own nothing.


Annabelle has a secret, and it might just kill Sherlock! Will it really kill him, or will he figure it out and prevent it from ever happening?

Sit back and find out!

Love always,

Avoline


Sherlock trotted up to her door, a bouquet of flowers hidden behind his back. He had only known her for a few days, but he knew deep down inside that she was the one. For whatever reason, he just knew, even if he couldn't figure it out. It was time for him to just accept that some things he will never understand fully. He knew this much, though: he had fallen in love with her, and fallen hard.

But did she feel the same? Did she share his feelings for her, or was he wasting his time and risking too much?

He shook his head slightly. If the light in her eyes was anything, she felt the same. How strong they were for her, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that she consumed his every thought, made his world a bit brighter, and was sweeter than any drug he had ever tried.

She didn't know about his darker side. She didn't need to know. He was certain that she would turn away from him if she were to find out. Someone as pure as her could easily do better.

Dear God, what had Moriarty done to him?

He gently knocked on the door, his heart pounding against his chest. He prayed she wouldn't turn him away. Not after that wonderful night at Harwood Arms. Not after he had poured his soul into the violin composition. Not when he had yet to even make sense of how he felt for her. Not when he had not even voiced his feelings for her to her.

That would change today. He would tell her how he felt in the only way he knew. He just prayed that she felt the same. If she didn't...

He did not want to think about that possibility.

The door opened, and he saw her face, but with an emotion that he had only seen on murder witnesses.

"Annabelle, what's wrong," he questioned as relief crossed her face. He reached for her hand, wanting nothing more than to ease her fears.

"It's nothing," she lied.

"Annabelle," he whispered soothingly. She glanced down the street each way, then opened the door to let him in. He stepped in and set the flowers on a nearby shelf, then turned and reached for her free hand. "Annabelle, what's going on?"

"I was afraid you were someone else," she began and she shut the door. "I... have a past that I'd rather keep buried... But I can't." He pulled her close, gently petting her hair.

"That makes two of us, love," he comforted. "But it doesn't matter. The past is the past. All that matters is now." She shook her head and pushed him away.

Why did such a mundane action hurt so much? It was like she was rejecting him, something he never thought he would be afraid of. But just being pushed away for even the smallest amount hurt like a knife to his heart. He didn't want her to push him away, not after he had opened up so much to her. Not when he was finally starting to feel again, for the first time since Redbeard was put down.

"Not this," she half sobbed. "This could kill everyone I know, and I can't risk it killing you."

An alarm went off in his head, putting the pieces together.

"Stop," he ordered, holding up the hand that wasn't still gripping hers. "You've got a secret so terrible that you fled here and made sure to keep your distance. All was well, and you had forgotten about the danger. But now you remember, and instead of worrying about yourself like anyone with nothing to loose would do," Her blue eyes met his. "you worry about those few that you know." He cocked his head to the side. "But why put me at the top of that list, unless..."

"Don't," she pleaded. "Don't say it, please."

"But if it's the truth, it needs to be spoken," he argued.

"It will get you killed, and she'll make me watch, and I don't want to have to watch you die."

"Why not?" Tears were flowing now. He hated making her cry, but he had to hear her say it.

"Sherlock, please, don't."

"Then say it. Why would my death hurt you so much?"

"Cause I love you!"

He couldn't stop the smile from crossing his face. His fears were laid to rest; she did care about him. Hell, she loved him! It didn't matter if their relationship lasted a year or forever. He could smile knowing that someone loved him.

"Oh, Annabelle," he murmured, cupping her face. "You will never know just how much it means to me to hear you say that."

"But now you're in even more danger," she reiterated. "She'll find you, Sherlock. She'll find you, and when she does, it will be because of how I feel."

"I'm a master of disguises," he soothed. "If I don't want to be recognized or found, not even my parents would know where I am. Don't fret over me, love." He kissed her forehead. "I doubt whoever you're running from even knows you're here."

He stayed at her flat that night, keeping guard on the couch.