Sorry for the delay, work and all. Just to let you know, things may not be as quick as they usually are anymore because of other commitments and the like, but hopefully not too slow. The wait between this and the last chapter was far to long for anyone's comfort.

To make up for it this one's super long, and super important. Enjoy.

Seventeen
Revolution

John lowered the phone and hung up. The dark sheen in his eyes didn't help quash my worries.

"What did he say?" I asked, my voice coming out barely above a whisper.

After a second of silent contemplation, John decisively got to his feet, patting his thighs in what looked like reluctant resolve. He wasn't meeting my gaze. "We have to search the flat."

I watched as he started turning over the cushions of the armchair, digging for something in the folds. "For what?"

"For…" he started, but then seemed to reconsider his words. He gave me a swift glance, clearly not wanting to upset anyone in the room. My nerves grew, causing my fingernails to press uncomfortably into the palm of my hand. He turned away before answering. "Mycroft says it's a danger night."

My brain went into overdrive.

I knew what that simple euphemism meant – I knew that far too well – but John had to be mixing his words up. Sherlock wasn't… He had never…

Slowly, half of me dreading the answer I knew was coming, I spoke up. "What kind of danger night?"

John gave up interrogating the armchair, stood up straight and rubbed his forehead. His voice had a defeated edge to it that I didn't think I had ever heard him use before. "Let's just search the flat."

Jeanette took a step forwards, reaching out and touching her boyfriend's arm in what must have been a supportive motion. "It, err, it might help if we knew what for, John."

John sighed, shrugged away from Jeanette's fingers, and turned his hunt to the fireplace.

"Anything…" he seemed to be having trouble getting the words out, finally being able to collect them into a plain phrase, "… made from narcotics."

Jeanette's eyebrows rose. "Drugs?"

Mrs Hudson shook her head knowingly. "Poor Sherlock."

John checked the hollow of the skull. "Yeah."

I just stood there.

I had known that was coming. What other types of danger night are there? My expectation, however, didn't help cushion the blow. Because it was so unanticipated, so very wrong. Maybe John was confused, maybe he had misinterpreted what Mycroft had said, maybe it was all one big hilarious mistake.

Sherlock didn't used to be… I mean, he had never said anything about… And he would have, wouldn't he? He knew everything about my past. He knew all about my historic issues with anything 'made from narcotics'. He had deduced my entire life story. It would only be fair of him to tell me something as important as this – especially seeing as it would be something that we both shared.

How could he not even briefly mention in passing…

But, of course, he had told me nothing whatsoever about his childhood or adolescence. I didn't even know where he grew up, or where, or even if, he went to university. He might as well have been a stranger to me.

"You alright?" John's concerned murmur shook my head loose, my mind being pulled out of the spiralling drain it had fallen into.

How could I answer his inquiry, though? I knew very well that I wasn't alright, but how on earth could I express just what was wrong to someone else? I didn't fully understand my own feelings myself.

I swallowed and gave a short, sharp nod.

"Yeah." I said solemnly. "Let's get searching."

Those questions had been bombarding the cells in my brain throughout the search, rolling around and combusting whenever they met anything remotely resembling an answer.

We were halfway through our inspection of Sherlock's bedroom, having found nothing in the untidy common areas of the flat, when it at last got to me.

"What's wrong, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, being the first to notice that I had stopped rummaging through the bedside drawer. I sat on the crisp sheets, but even that wasn't enough; I had to support myself by my arms just to stop myself crumbling down.

I swallowed, but that didn't seem to be helping my breathing to slow down. The most I could make out was a weak call, "John."

By the continued scraping of the hangers against the rail in the wardrobe, I could tell that John hadn't stopping looking for something at the sound of my summoning.

"Let's just get this over with." He told me softly, but with an edge of determination behind the words.

I shook my head slightly, and even that caused a small twinge of dizziness to form there. "John, I can't."

Mrs Hudson had made her way over to me and rested a hand on my shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. The scratching in the wardrobe continued.

"Melanie, not now." Now John's voice had more than a simple element of instruction – it was almost as if he was commanding me, no pleading with me, not to continue with this conversation. I shut my eyes and willed all the confusion to evaporate and leave me alone for a while. I could always deal with this later. Later was good. Later meant I didn't have to think about it right now.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

Why couldn't I deal with this later? I knew the answer to that, of course. I had been putting off confronting this issue for far too long already – all the doubts I had been bottling up for over three months were pushing forwards, the constraints at their breaking point.

One of the ropes finally snapped, whipped back, and set its capture free.

"Who is she?"

The question slipped out of my mouth so naturally, so easily, that for a moment I wondered why I hadn't dared speak it before now, but that feeling was fleeting and soon my coward of a soul was wishing that I had been able to cling onto my denial for a bit longer.

The movements from the wardrobe at last stopped, a large sigh taking their place.

"Melanie, can't we-"

"Please, John," I interrupted. Now that this was out there, I needed it to be answered. Otherwise I would probably never get the information I so craved, being too afraid to ask again. "Please."

There was a few seconds of silence.

Then, after all my torturous waiting, John spoke – his voice carrying all the uncertainty he must be feeling at giving me my answers. "She's, err, well, she's a dominatrix."

My eyes popped open and my head spun around so that I could see the doctor.

"What?" I said blankly, my face slackened by the news he had imparted.

"What?" Jeanette echoed from her corner, clearly shocked.

Mrs Hudson got to her feet and started fiddling with the hem of her cardigan. "I'll go and check the bathroom."

She practically ran out of the room, obviously sensing that a conversation which she'd rather not be privy to was about to take place.

I didn't remove my eyes from a frowning John. "A dominatrix?"

He grimaced, seeing his mistake too late, and tried to correct his error with the addition, "With knowledge of powerful secrets."

I blinked, really not sure how I should feel about this. "Oh."

Jeanette apparently wasn't satisfied with the amount of material she had been given. "Sherlock Holmes has a thing for a dominatrix and now she's dead?"

John immediately focused his attention on the woman in the corner, his scowl enough to give the sturdiest of men the shivers. Jeanette must have got the message, as I watched her raise her hands into the universal symbol of harmlessness before swiftly exiting the room, glancing at me as she did.

I didn't really care what she thought of me at that moment. I was too busy turning my gaze to the highly interesting weave of my jeans,

John didn't say anything, but calmly strolled around the bed and sat gently beside me, the mattress dipping under the new weight.

It took him a minute to make out his next sentence, leaving me ample time to be screamed at by all the nagging voices in my head telling me things I didn't want to contemplate.

"He doesn't think of her like that, Melanie."

I looked up from my knees, giving a short breath of miserable laughter as my eye roamed the paint on the ceiling. "Then why does Mycroft think that tonight is a danger night?"

"He doesn't…" John tried to explain, but I could tell that he already knew it was hopeless, "It's not…"

My head lolled downwards as my hand swung up, covering my mouth in a subconscious movement that I loathed with every pore. I knew what that movement inevitably meant, and I wouldn't let it happen here – not over something so unbelievably stupid as a guy. Especially over Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

I stood far too quickly for the motion to be considered natural, ignoring the corresponding head rush.

"I need to get some air." I muttered, not even paying attention as to whether John heard me as I hurried into the hall and down the staircase. I only just made it outside in time, collapsing back onto the dark door behind me and starting to shake, the tears seeping from my eyes in a way that disgusted everything I stood for, as every single emotion I had suppressed for the past three months poured out of me.

Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

I had tried my best to hide the signs of what I had just done, washing my face in the bathroom and taking several deep, steady breaths to calm myself, but I knew it was hardly necessary. John had seen the state I was in as I rushed from the bedroom, and the two others had been present at the beginnings of my miniature breakdown. They would all know as soon as I trotted into the living room what had happened to me. I could only hope that they'd let it slide and carry on as if it hadn't.

I spotted a jogging Jeanette hastening down the staircase as I wound down the corridor and turned into the living room.

"That really wasn't very good, was it?" Mrs Hudson was saying to a frustrated looking John.

Something had happened between the couple, it might have even ended, but I didn't particularly care. All I could think of asking was, "Has Mycroft rung yet?"

John scratched his forehead and looked away. "Yeah."

"And?"

John wandered over to the other side of the room, perusing abstractly over the objects on the desk. "And we need to stay with him tonight."

I felt the blow to my chest at the words, but didn't want to linger on any deeper meaning to it; all I knew for certain was that John was using the most tactful way possible for him to explain what Mycroft had told him over the phone.

"Christ," I muttered, squinting away any traces of moisture that chose to arrive unbidden in my eyes, "he took the cigarette."

No one responded to my statement. John was too busy moving curios from one side of the table to the other in a clearly very important manner. Even Mrs Hudson seemed too uncomfortable with the situation to offer her customary support. I chewed on my bottom lip. This silence was enough of an answer.

Sherlock had taken the cigarette that Mycroft had offered him. He had broken his resolute promise to quit. And over what? Over the death of someone he had once met? Over the loss of someone he might have gotten to know? Or was it over the woman herself? The woman. The fascinating, mad, intelligent, foul woman.

He had broken over her.

"I'll go make us all a nice cup of tea." Mrs Hudson said, putting the dreadful silence in its place. It reared back though and she received nothing in the way of agreement or disagreement on the matter of the tea before she left and headed downstairs to her own flat.

At least two minutes passed. Neither John nor I were courageous enough to battle against that uncomfortable silence like Mrs Hudson had. The pair of us just stood there, both in thought and neither wanting to speak our thoughts aloud.

"I can't…" I finally managed to coerce from my tongue, "I can't do this."

That caused John to stop his pointless tidying, turning and actually bothering to meet my gaze. A worried frown covered his face, as if he could already guess what I was doing. "Do what?"

I shrugged, gulped and looked vaguely around the room.

"Everything."

John shook his head. "Melanie, it'll be alright. Sherlock will get over this and-"

"I don't bloody want him to have to get over anything in the first place." I announced, the level of my voice rising into what most people would no doubt consider the average conversation volume. In contrast to this quiet, though, it sounded like screams.

John stared at me, trying to appear as empathetic as humanly possible and I knew that he meant it. His kindness was as sincere as anything he ever said. "He cares about you, Melanie. He may not show it, but he does."

I smiled sadly in defeat, my mind stuck on the image of the horrendous cigarette. "Not enough, though. Not more than some woman he doesn't even know."

Because that was the point, wasn't it? I had been in mortal peril before. I had been almost destroyed. Sherlock had almost lost me forever. Yet he hadn't crumbled then. He had stood firm, taking charge of the situation in the exact same way that he always did. He wouldn't fall – I didn't mean that much to him.

John furrowed his forehead, clearly wanting desperately to stop where this was heading. "Irene Adler is not-"

I snapped.

"Don't lie to me!" I shouted, my internal anger getting the better of me. "You know him better than anyone – far better than I do – and you know that this is important, so don't you dare tell me that it isn't."

"Ok." John agreed, taking a cautious step towards me as if he was testing the waters of my fury. "Ok, I won't."

The sobs were threatening again, but I wouldn't let them take me yet. This was too vital. I brought my arms up and hugged myself, attempting to stop the quivering of my jaw.

"Great." I said, the wavering note in my tone giving away what I was trying to keep secret. "I thought this was what I always wanted – the whole no deep emotions thing – but it's not, and I can't…"

My voice broke on the last word, causing the sentence to run to an unexpected halt.

John was shaking his head back and forth, his soft words almost begging. "Melanie, please don't-"

"He doesn't," I yelled frantically, before realising what I was doing and correcting my actions. I started again, this time in a much more sophisticated and elegant way. "He doesn't need me."

"That doesn't mean he do-"

"Shut up, John." I said bitterly. "It's not helping."

He did as told, although I could see, even through my slightly blurry vision, that he was itching to say something else to destroy my emotional worries. I scoffed, seeing that this was about to turn extremely unpleasant. The barriers I had constructed wouldn't hold much longer. I looked around the sitting room, taking everything in and sorting through my options. Finally, despite the many protests in my thoughts, I came to a decision.

"You know what? I give up." I let out with a hopelessness like I had heard only a few times in my life before. "I completely give up. Fuck Mycroft and his fucking requests. I can't stay here any longer."

Even as I had been speaking, I had starting moving about the room, collecting anything I could spot which I instantly recognised as my own.

"Melanie!" John was bellowing in panic. "Melanie, listen! This isn't going to solve anything. You're just running away. Just take a few minutes to calm down and think this through."

I shrugged on my coat and shoved the last remaining item of my possession into my handbag. There were probably a few things in Sherlock's bedroom or the bathroom as well, but quite frankly I didn't think I could face retrieving them. I'd just have to survive without them, whatever they were.

I heaved my bag onto my shoulder and made for the door, John continuing to come up with reasons for why I was acting like a crazy person, and began skipping down the steps towards the front door of 221B Baker Street.

"Melanie!"

I stopped my gait halfway down the stairs, twisting on the spot and causing the wild-looking John to take a step back in order to avoid running into me.

"John, please," I choked out, biting back the foreboding sobs. I gazed straight into his eyes, the different levels of the stairs aiding my quest for eye-contact, and strained to convey just how deadly important my request was. "Please, John, please don't tell him what's happened."

"What?" John shot back, confusion highlighting his features. "Why wouldn't I-"

"Because," I cut across earnestly, "if he cares even the slightest hint of a bit, John, then he'll notice I'm not here and do something about it."

John rolled his eyes, "That's not how She-"

"And maybe I can't deal with that anymore." I told him hastily. "Maybe I need him to notice me."

John reached out, a sadness growing in his eyes, a touched my cheek where a rogue tear had escaped to.

"He does."

I pulled away, my mind not willing to debate this statement.

"Goodbye." I whispered, leaning forwards and resting my lips onto John's cheek in a quick kiss that I hoped wouldn't be our last contact.

I turned, walked down the remaining stairs, and left.

I left Sherlock Holmes, the insane consulting detective, behind me.

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