~A New Player~
Sherlock had woken up in his own bed on more the one occasion with no memory of how he had gotten there. On such occasions he would usually wake with a start and call out to John. This time he laid there for a long moment thinking. John might not be there, he did have his own home with a wife and child there waiting. He heard movement outside his door though and knew he was there. Still he lay quietly. He would have thought the evening before was just a dream if not for the condition he currently found himself in. The after effects of whatever she had managed to poison him with made his body ache and his mind hazy. How had she poisoned him? He tried to remember feeling perhaps a pinch while they danced, some sort of injection. He moved slowly feeling and examining his body for where there may have been an entry site. He felt none. The sounds outside his door stopped. John was listening for any signs of movement from Sherlock. He had monitored him through the night after sending his slightly intoxicated wife home in a taxi. It had taken a phone call and the promise of double pay to convince the sitter to stay past midnight till either John could come home or Mary was no longer inebriated. He had checked on him only a half hour ago, his breathing was normal and pulse fine but he was still worried for his friend. Who had that woman been? Why did she make John so uneasy? He was waiting for him to wake up, to ask Sherlock about her. Sherlock knew this, and despite knowing its inevitability he was stalling. What could he think to say about her? He had not let himself think about her for so long. He closed his eyes again. He pictured a long corridor, far removed from all the others corners of his mind. It was dark but he could see a door ajar at the end, light was spilling out from it. He was walking cautiously past other locked doors. A warm breeze blew past his face from the open room. He could smell the slight sweet scent of flowers in a meadow of sun warmed grass, biscuits, vanilla, sweat, and musty library books. He reached for the handle and then simply closed the door. He could not bring himself to go in there, to remember her. He thought the smell would make his head swim and the light coming from that room would blind him. So he turned his back and walked away. "John?" he croaked finally, and there he was instantly. "How are you feeling?" John asked. "Rather like I've been drugged" Sherlock stated dryly. John was taking Sherlock's pulse again. It was steady even if Sherlock himself was not. He tried to get up but found his limbs to be very heavy and threw him off balance. He fell back onto the bed. "Did you know that woman? Did Moriarty send her?" John finally asked. "No, Moriarty did not send her" Sherlock answered quickly completely avoiding the first question. John took notice of this but decided not to address it further at the moment. Sherlock was still weak and John trusted that he would tell him whenever he needed to know. Sherlock managed to roll over to his side facing away from John. John took that as a cue that he wanted to be alone. With no other words he exited the room. He left a few hours later after he was certain Sherlock was fine and that Mrs. Hudson would be there if he needed anything. Some time had passed since the incident at the gala and Sherlock had not offered any more information about who that mysterious woman had been. It was only a few days till Christmas now and John had noticed that Sherlock was more distracted and irritable then was usual even for him. The two had just finished a case that John would later refer to in his blog as "The Wasp" when they were walking up the stairwell to the flat at 221B that they had once shared when Sherlock froze in front of him. John had not been looking up and flattened his nose against Sherlock's back. "What the hell…" John trailed off. "Shut up" Sherlock was tense. He turned to face John who had moved back a step. John was surprised by the expression that he saw on Sherlock's face, indecision. Sherlock didn't know whether he should retreat or move forward. He seemed frozen on the stairs for a moment. Then in another moment that expression was replaced with resolve. He walked up the last few steps and John watched as he placed his hand on the knob and hesitated for just a moment before letting out a deep breath and opening the door. John couldn't see past the much taller Detective but he could sense something before he even entered the room. Someone unfamiliar was there. Then John had a specific and peculiar thought. Someone unfamiliar to him was there but not unfamiliar to Sherlock. John stepped around to see who was in the front room. Judging by the back of this persons head and silhouette it was a woman with her back turned to them looking out the front window. It was her. For the past few weeks Sherlock had almost been able to convince himself that it couldn't have been real. They couldn't have danced together that night because she was dead. She had been dead for some time, over a decade. He had been dead for two years though and knew that it wasn't necessarily a permanent state. It was the first time he had ever found himself wishing that he could believe in ghosts. For a panicked second he dreaded her turning and meeting his eyes. He was worried about what his would give away and what hers would say. As if she was reading his mind she finally did turn. John felt the weight of the moment and kept silent. Sherlock's eyes were the bright colours of a field of wheat on a beautiful clear day, gold, green, and brilliant blue. Hers were the colour of the sea at night during a violent storm, dark green, black, and gray. She had hidden those eyes behind a mask. She had even had to wear a wig. Her pin straight hair fell to her chin in a curtain now. He recognized the distinct ginger and honey coloured hues. He had spent a week after her death just trying to remember the colour of each strand. Then he spent the next week trying to remember the shape of her eyes, her nose, and her chin. The week after that he moved on to her voice, then her hands, the way she moved, even her laugh. He had spent months obsessively trying to remember who she was and what she had looked liked before, before he and Mycroft had killed her. John was giving her a glance over. Her skin was paler than Sherlock and she had a speckling of freckles on her cheeks right under her eyes which made her appear younger then she was. Her cheekbones, John was quick to notice, gave even Sherlock's a run for his money. Her face was heart shaped but gaunt giving her pointed features. There was a deep scar interrupting her upper lip on the left hand side. She looked just as alien as the man she was standing across from. She was shorter then John so in comparison she was much shorter then Sherlock himself. She had a slender frame but he could tell by the way she carried herself she was athletic. Even under her simple light gray trousers, white undershirt, and matching fitted blazer and vest he could tell she was muscular. She was wearing deep burgundy coloured gloves and John noticed a dark emerald green cloak slung over the chair he normally occupied. She ignored John completely at first never averting her eyes from Sherlock. When she realized he would not be the first to speak she did. "Dr. Watson is it?" she said turning her gaze to him finally. "Yeah, um… yes" John said a bit unsure looking between Sherlock and this stranger. He was growing slightly concerned by Sherlock's silence. "I am Sarah Harris, a long ago acquaintance of Mr. Holmes." The two looked back at him but Sherlock was still standing there just staring through her thinking, processing. "Acquaintance? Sherlock has acquaintances?" John had never met anyone from Sherlock's past or personal life aside from his family which just consisted of his older brother Mycroft and his parents. "Aye, he did" Aye… Aye… Aye… that word echoed through Sherlock's head and brought him back from his memories. Sarah was looking directly into Johns eyes now. That is when John realized that he had been stepping back from her absent mindlessly. He felt safer with his back against the far wall with her completely in his sight. There was something about this woman that made you not want to look directly at her. Once your eyes locked onto hers it was as if you were caught in a trap. Sherlock had known those eyes through childhood, adolescents, and young adulthood. He had seen them fill with excitement, knowledge, and joy; he had even seen them frightened and in pain. He was unable to see her aside from that ideal now. If he had, he could have told John why she made him nervous. He had come to think of her eyes as stormy green oceans but they weren't. They were the colours of snake skin, a dark green gray with black flecks; the colour of a snake hiding in the grass waiting to strike. "Yes John an acquaintance." Sherlock had finally found his voice but had lost some of his nerve, "Sarah Harris, dead for, oh how long has it been Harris?" He knew how long. He knew how long to the year, month, day, hour, minute, the second, and so did she. "How many people do you know who have died and come back to life now Sherlock?" John felt the need to defend him again rising. "Including myself, now Ms. Harris here, James Moriarty and…" he paused before the last name "and The Woman, Irene Adler. That would make four of us John" "So three people cleverer then you Sherlock?" Sarah asked not fazed by Sherlock's hesitation on the last name listed. "Three people who fooled you." Sherlock smiled wide, John knew that smile. He knew Sherlock was very, very, angry. If this strange woman was aware of his anger she gave no notice. "John, I am sure Mary and Margaret are waiting for you at home." John was genuinely confused for a second. Had Sherlock just dismissed him to be left alone with this woman? He turned to him, "Till tomorrow John?" he asked sounding somewhat annoyed that he was still there. "A word Sherlock? In the other room" John had already seized his arm and was pushing him down the hall toward the back bedroom. Sherlock kept glancing back behind them almost as if he was checking that she was still there. Once the pair were behind Sherlock's closed bedroom door Sherlock turned to him now obviously annoyed. "Who the hell is that bloody woman?" "She did not lie John. Her name is Sarah Harris and she is an old acquaintance of mine" John's eyes bulged at this. "That is a whole lot of information you're giving me Sherlock. Who is she to you?" "I have known her since childhood. She died or so I was tricked into believing. I know just as much as you do at the moment John" He really knew nothing at all though. He often found himself wondering and guessing about Sherlock's formative years. He found it hard to even try and picture him as anything other then what he was now, the cocky, clever, quick witted detective. But in that other room was a woman who did know the younger Sherlock. What must she think of him in comparison now? "Fine Sherlock I will go. If you swear to me right now that you are not in danger". Sherlock didn't know if he was or not. "I am in no danger John." The two emerged from the room. Sherlock searched for her immediately but she had not left. She was still standing by the window, looking out again now. "It was nice to meet you Dr. Watson" she said without turning. John hesitated at the door before Sherlock gave him a slight nudge out. John was feeling anxious. He went home to his wife and daughter who both greeted him with easy smiles. At least two of the three most important people in his life were safe where he could see them.