This chapter gave me hell. Without the help of dancingtomumfordinmymindpalace, it wouldn't be nearly where it is now. And I'm still not happy with it. Writer's block be damned.

Just a little disclaimer for myself: My main focus isn't the cases or whatnot, though that is a main part of their lives. So while there is a case in this, please excuse the fact that it's shoddy and not very interesting. It really isn't the main point I'm trying to put across.

Also, thank you thank you thank you for the lovely reviews. I enjoy so much hearing from you beautiful people. I apologize if I don't always respond, just know that I read and appreciate every single one.

Warnings: This chapter contains brief mild torture. Nothing really graphic, mainly just remembering it.

Chapter 7 – The Case of the Aromatic Heiress

The life I had accidentally limped into is anything but stress-free. However, there are redeeming qualities, and nothing is more cathartic for me than watching Sherlock work. The energy that zaps through the air as he dashes back and forth, insulting Anderson and explaining again to Lestrade how the crime had played out—Isn't it obvious—helps to fuel me with the strength to continue on the way I am. He's like a giant conductor of electricity, or a brightly burning star, and the people around him are the wilting flowers bursting back to life under his, however unintentional, care.

I've gone all weird and soppy, haven't I? I've made myself cringe. Let me try this again:

I stand near Lestrade as Sherlock goes about his usual observations. It's unusually cold out today and my fingers are all but numb in my gloves. I'm extraordinarily grateful when Donovan comes over with two cups of piping hot coffee. The steam from the cup creates a foggy barrier between my eyes and Sherlock's as he glances up. His eyes narrow briefly, then he's back to studying the victim, Abigale Rochester. He probably doesn't even recognize the biting cold that is turning his nose and ears pink.

Lestrade seems content to stay back and sip his beverage patiently while waiting for Sherlock's deductions.

"John."

I look up from where I had been studying the dark contents of my cup. We haven't talked much since his outburst the night before. Fortunately, Lestrade had texted us this morning about a new case before the tension between us could explode in our faces. "Hm?"

"Come. I want your opinion." Sherlock sits back on his heels, studying the body.

Mumbling about being summoned like a bloody housedog, I make my way to where Sherlock is.

"Does anything seem…off about the scent of her skin?"

I glare at him for a moment. "I'm not going to sniff a dead person, Sherlock."

He gives me a look that says Come now, we both know you'll do it because I'm fantastic. When this doesn't immediately work, he groans in disgust. "John! I want to see if you recognize it."

Taking a deep, calming breath through my nose, I sniff the girl's wrist. "It smells like Mrs. Hudson," I say, surprised and a little disconcerted.

The detective grins. "Exactly what I thought." He stands and swivels towards Lestrade. "So why is a young woman like this wearing a perfume that so obviously belongs on a woman three times her age?"

I start to think that an awful large amount of cases lately seem to revolve around perfume.

Lestrade shrugs. "Why?" he asks, indulging the slightly deranged man in front of him.

Sherlock rubs his hands together. "I have no idea."

We break into the girl's apartment, and Sherlock immediately begins searching the place. I poke around a bit, but mostly just keep an ear listening for the police. I turn to watch the detective as I hear the fluttering of papers. He had found the victim's receipts—many, many receipts—and is now rifling through them quickly.

"She must have been rather obsessive to keep all of those," I comment.

Without looking up, Sherlock hums. "Not obsessive, careful. Nevertheless, it's our gain."

After a few more minutes, he finally holds one up. "Ha! Now we have something."

Before I can ask what that something is, he's out of the flat and on the street. I jog to catch up and we get in a cab.

After a quick visit and questioning at a local perfume shop, we head back to the flat, Sherlock contemplative.

I sit in my armchair, reading the day's paper while Sherlock lies on the couch, palms pressed together beneath his chin.

I pause in my reading when I catch a glimpse of a name in the obituaries. "Did you hear about the elder Mrs. Rochester's passing? Says here she died a week ago."

"That's it! John, you're brilliant!" Sherlock suddenly exclaims, jumping up. He runs to the door and grabs his coat and scarf, throwing them on before continuing out.

"Do you want me to…?" I lower the daily.

"Won't be but a little while, John!" The door slams shut.

Rolling my eyes, I go back to reading the newspaper and wait for my flatmate to return.

He watches as the tall one leaves. He knows where he's going and it's only a matter of time before the watcher is found out.

Silently, he hurries across the street to the door of 221 and knocks briefly. The landlady isn't there. She left an hour ago for the direction of the grocery.

There's the sound of feet on the staircase and then the door opens, revealing a short man with graying hair and smiling eyes. "Can I help you?"

Without hesitation, the watcher jabs a needle into the man's arm and watches as the startled expression relaxes to one of confused disillusionment. "I believe you can, doctor."

There is only so much pain the human body can take.

As a doctor and an ex-soldier, I know for a fact I'm not anywhere near the end of my pain threshold, but that doesn't mean the thin stripes carved into my arms aren't really fucking painful. They aren't serious, nothing I could bleed out from (more like giant fucking paper cuts than anything), but I can feel the trickle of blood slipping down my face and dangerously close to my eye from when my attacker had slammed my head into to side of the bathtub earlier.

"I'm only going to ask this one more time." The man, who is hell bent on his mission, roughly shakes my drug-addled body. "How. Much. Does. He. Know."

He's unhinged, not really making any logical decisions. There is no need for the face bashing and the knife slashing. Or the bitterly cold water.

The grip he has on my arms sends jolts of shocking pain through my drugged brain as if it had sensitized every nerve ending. He hasn't even bothered binding me. Considering the fact that I feel as if I couldn't toss a noodle, that probably wasn't too big of an oversight.

My head lolls forward and I mumble, "I don't know." I do know what's coming next, however. I can only pray Sherlock comes in time.

With an angry sound, my captor jerks my arms farther behind me, nearly dislocating a shoulder as the movement stretches the delicate knife wounds apart, and shoves my head back into my own bathtub, full of water. Whatever drug he'd jabbed into my arm earlier had made me weak and unable to fight back.

This has to be the poor girl's murderer. He smells like Mrs. Hudson, too, although I don't know what that means. Sherlock must have figured it out before rushing out of the flat earlier.

I wait for him to pull me back out, like before, but he doesn't, doesn't, doesn't and I start to wonder how long I can hold on until I pass out and ultimately don't wake up.

What a boring way to die.

Lungs. Burning. Need air. Must have air. I can't hold my breath any longer, can't control my body's need for oxygen. My brain stutters to a stop.

I wait to feel nothing, and then…

Coughing.

Breathing.

Air.

My body is shaking violently with the shuddering coughs as my lungs try to dispel the water from them. While I become aware of my surroundings, I recognize a familiar scent and the touch of a rough coat against my face.

"John. John! Are you alright?" It's Sherlock. His voice is panicked, even more so than the day by the pool. "Answer me!"

I try to speak, but cough instead. Holding up a weak hand to tell him to give me a moment, I'm surprised when a much larger, warmer one engulfs my small one and grips tightly.

"I'm okay, Sherlock," I finally wheeze.

"Oh, god." His voice is wavering and I realize I'm not the only one shaking now as he studies my face. "Oh god, oh god." He lightly touches my forehead and his fingertips come away red. He shudders and squeezes his eyes shut.

It feels as if his entire body wraps around me then as he pulls me so that my back is against his chest. We're sitting on the cold tile floor, both soaking wet and shivering, and I have absolutely no desire to move. Not sure I can, really.

I see my attacker sprawled out on the floor outside the bathroom, unconscious. At least…I hope he's unconscious. Sherlock must have pulled him out of the small room in order to get to me.

Sherlock has an arm wrapped around my chest, and with my free hand I grip his forearm tightly. "Sherlock," I breathe, panting in deep pulls of air. "Sherlock." There's not really a reason to say his name, but it grounds me, helps me realize the severity of the situation and all that could have been lost. I say it simply because I still can.

His head drops and our cheeks brush, his curls tickling my forehead and ear. I turn my head to say something, but…

I can't speak.

Trembling lips have stopped words as they crush against mine in a bruising, desperate kiss. It's shocking. Sherlock…what? Thoughts tumble together in my mind as it scrambles to catch up. I can't seem to get past the repetitive mantra of Sherlock Holmes is kissing me. Sherlock Holmes is kissing me?

It's rough, not at all tender, as if he's trying to meld our mouths together. He doesn't try to take it any further than lips against lips, and for a brief moment of clarity, I wonder if he's ever kissed someone before. It's sloppy, uncoordinated. Everything Sherlock isn't.

Eyes sliding shut, my lips move slightly of their own accord against his, and the detective lets out a little sound before breaking away. He's breathing so heavily, I'm afraid he'll hyperventilate. His eyes are enormous.

"John…oh god. John, I—" He cuts himself off as he jumps to his feet and flees the room, leaving me to prop myself against the bathtub to keep from falling over.

Not to mention abandoning me with an unconscious murderer a few feet away.

I flinch when his door slams shut.

Reviews appreciated. :) -C