Disclaimer: I own nothing.
So, just how protective will Sherlock be of Annabelle? Will her past win?
Sit back and find out!
Love always,
Avoline
He slowly awoke to the smell of breakfast. When had he fallen asleep? He felt the pillow beneath him, and the blanket along his long body.
Knitted, possible wool blend, medium weight yarn. A hand-me-down.
He sat up and looked over the back of the couch to see Annabelle standing in the kitchen. Her back was to him, so he stayed silent. He thought of how quickly he had grown fond of her, how much she had inspired him to be a better, kinder man, how he had taken time away from searching for the next case to be with her. He had helped her unpack, composed a violin piece for her, even stood guard over her while she slept.
Love. He was in love with her. And he was not sure when it happened, or how, but he could not, and would not, deny himself something he thought impossible. Sociopaths were not supposed to have room for love, but he had made room without realizing it.
Maybe he wasn't a sociopath.
"Oh, you're awake!"
He was brought back to reality by her voice, and saw her brilliant smile. Did she feel the same, or was he simply dreaming?
"How do you like your eggs?"
He smiled, thinking of all the mornings spent eating breakfast with his mum.
"If you know how to make eggs Benedict," he answered. She turned and smiled shyly.
"Could you teach me," she inquired.
And he couldn't say no.
He leapt over the back of the couch and trotted into the kitchen.
"First, we need bacon and toasted muffins," he instructed. "Then, you need to google Hollandaise sauce and get that going while I poach the eggs. It's a bit of a juggle if you're trying alone."
Turns out, she was a wonderful cook. The sauce was perfect, and they enjoyed a good breakfast together. He kept looking at her, realizing that she wasn't wearing her usual full face of makeup. There were faint scars along her cheek bones, and a few across her forehead. She had a patch of freckles on her nose, and a slight dip in her chin. There was a scar that blended with the lines on her lip that, had he not been examining her face, he would have never seen.
"Did she cause them," he questioned softly. She tensed and eyed him warily. "The scars. Did your stepmother cause them?" She tensed some more, and Sherlock could tell she was going to run.
He would not let her run.
"Annabelle, please, tell me," he pleaded as he took her hand in his. "I need to know what she's capable of. You are the kindest person I know. If she's willing to harm you, I need to know." She trembled beneath his touch, and he stroked her knuckled to sooth her.
"I look just like my mother," she began. "She hated that. She hated my father for marrying her when he wasn't ever going to love her. She was only there to care for me. The abuse started when I was five, and she always made it look like an accident." Her eyes met his. "She's evil. She truly is. She killed my father, I know she did! I just can't prove it!"
He got up and rounded the table, taking her into his arms. She was shaking now, her breathing ragged and tears flowing down her face. She was terrified, and he now had a good idea of what her stepmother was capable of.
He did not care that the woman might hurt him. If she came after him, so be it. All he would have to do is call Mycroft, and all would be taken care of.
He was worried that she might hurt Annabelle again.
Annabelle had dozed back off, admitting that she had not slept well the night before. He promised to not leave while she slept, which calmed her enough to rest.
He had work to do.
He grabbed his phone and opened his messages. A few quick words would get the point across to Mycroft, so calling would just slow him down and waste precious oxygen.
Annabelle King. Trace her family tree. Send me results. Stepparents included. -SH
He cleaned up the kitchen, then text Watson to let him know where he was. The doctor would be worried that he didn't come home last night. The brunette was surprised Watson had not called yet.
He didn't have time to wonder. Mycroft had gotten the information he needed, and he had someone to protect.
He looked at her father's most recent marriage license. Philip King married MaryAnn Rogers, an only child to a widowed factory worker. Philip died from his severe peanut allergy.
He stopped. Annabelle had asked the waiter one question concerning each item on the menu at Harwood Arms: does this contain nuts. They assured her over and over that nothing concerning the food had been near any nuts.
"Oh my god," he whispered. "She inherited her father's allergy to nuts. Her stepmother laced her father's food with nuts, and it killed him." He felt his heart drop into his stomach. There would be no more going out to eat until MaryAnn was locked away.
But the only way to achieve that would mean nearly loosing Annabelle.
Tears formed in his eyes. He couldn't loose her. She meant the world to him. As far as he was concerned, the universe revolved around his little red head. She had brought out his better side, made him want to be three times the man he had been. He hadn't been this happy since he was a child.
And now he risked loosing it all, one way or another.
His phone went off, and he glanced at it. Mycroft. The one person who could probably help him. He answered, too numb to care.
"Does she need protecting," came the words across the phone line. His lip quivered, but he could never let his older brother know how weak he felt.
"Her stepmother killed her father," he began, his voice even despite the turmoil within. "The man was deathly allergic to peanuts. She laced his last meal with them. It's been too long to prove it, but now she's after Annabelle."
"And what does she mean to you," Mycroft inquired. The brunette took a deep breath.
"She's my girlfriend," he answered. "She means everything to me."
"Good enough," was all the older man said before he hung up. Sherlock set the phone and started at it for a little bit.
For the first time in years, a tear fell down his face.
