Twenty Two
Remonstrance

I pulled away before they connected.

"Don't." I whispered, looking away from his painfully icy stare, a hint of disgust surging into my stomach. "I can still smell her perfume on you."

"And that matters?" Sherlock asked, his analytical tone not dissipating one bit.

I rolled my eyes, aggravation joining the revulsion in me. "Yes, Sherlock, the fact that you show up to my flat stinking of another woman – a woman you've done little but think about for six months – does indeed matter."

He narrowed his eyes, the smallest blot of confusion crossing his features, as he replied in a voice demonstrating that the annoyance must be spreading. "Weren't you listening just now? I didn't feel anything for-"

"Oh, stop lying to me, you big moron." I cut him off with, shaking my head from side to side in absolute defeat. "I saw the chemistry between you two and I could tell it wasn't merely an act. Sherlock, as much as it may surprise you, I'm not an idiot. I'm not alright about this, I'm not just going to forget it ever happened and I'm not going to jump right back into your bed."

His vision remained narrowed and for a moment he said nothing. It was as if he was trying to connect the dots to some great mystery in his head – something he was more than adept at anyway. This mystery, though, was about me, and that did little to comfort me.

"You care." He said slowly, as if it were a great revelation.

I was severely tempted to roll my eyes again, but managed to withhold the enticement. "Of course I bloody care, or haven't you been listening?"

Sherlock brought a hand up and waved it quickly, dismissing my statement in a manner informing me of just how ignorant I was being.

"Not about Irene Adler," he explained, "You care about me."

I stepped back, not out of shock and fright, but out of frustration. I pinched the bridge of me nose and sighed.

"We've already had this conversation." I reminded him. "It was established that I care about you almost a year ago."

The distance I had placed almost subconsciously between us vanished once more as Sherlock followed my movement and took a step forwards. He seemed to be fully in his investigative mood now, speaking just as he did when trying to describe his thought processes on a difficult case to anyone that wasn't a sociopathic genius. "Yes, but back then you had to shout it at me. Now it's written in your every move."

I saw what he was getting at. I knew what he was implying. He was about to say it out loud, about to ruin my blissful denial. I couldn't let him. It would be too hard to finally hear the words spoken, especially in his cold, detached lilt.

I swallowed and peered at him, the space between us feeling remarkable too small as my nervous statement came out barely above a murmur. "Maybe I've abandoned my pretences."

He cocked his head slightly, without blinking, telling me he wasn't buying my excuse for one second. "Possibly, or maybe there's something else."

"I, err…" I stopped, the circuits in my brain not responding to my desperate pleas. I needed to find a way out of this, but the determined edge to his stare and his proximity to me wouldn't let it formulate. The best I could come up with was a weak, "Sherlock, you don't have the right to-"

"The right?" he echoed back, the exasperation morphing into infuriation. He must not have understood what I meant, otherwise he wouldn't have asked, but any incomprehension was swamped by the irritation. "Why not? It's about me, isn't it?"

I nearly choked in bewilderment. How could he possibly not know the answer to that?

"You did not just say that." I told him meaningfully, my hidden anger seeping forwards an inch at a time.

He clearly wasn't very pleased about the conversation himself. "Let me check, oh, I think I did."

I snapped. That sarcastic comment was just one step too far. He had crossed the line.

"Because," I started, my voice rising dangerously to its enraged level, "I haven't fricking heard one solitary peep from you since sodding Christmas, that's why bloody not!"

Sherlock responded instantly. He too was visibly distressed, although his shouts weren't nearly as uncontrolled as mine. "I thought that was what you wanted!"

"What I wan-" I began to parrot back in amazement, stepping backwards in fear that I would do something stupid were I too close to this man. My nerves were more than short now; they had been thrown out of the window. "What the hell, Sherlock? How can you be that stupid?"

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You're calling me stupid; that's a turn out for the books."

"And that," I spat, not appreciating the insult one tiny bit, "is why you're stupid."

This was it for him, wasn't it? This was the most destructive thing I could say to him – the one thing he prided himself on above all others.

"I solved a murder last week by examining a flower pot." He said as if it meant something. "I am not stupid."

I threw my arms into the air, and screamed at him. "Then why the hell didn't you call?"

"Because you left me!"

The air vanished from my lungs.

I found I couldn't move or speak, let alone yell at him anymore in fury. It was true, I hadn't doubted that for a second – I had left him – but that wasn't the point. It never was that simple with Sherlock Holmes. The facts didn't mean a damn thing when compared with their underlying meanings. Because he had been so angry, so upset, as he had shouted that.

I left him.

Was it… was that big of a deal to him? Had he been telling me the truth when he had said that he thought I didn't want him to call? That I didn't want him at all?

I blinked and looked away ashamed, noticing for the first time how close I was to tears again. I had probably been close to them throughout our shouting battle, but it was only in its wake where I could see it.

"I can't just…" I made out, spotting that my words had returned to nothing more than a quiet mutter, the ire having run away completely, taking my cerebral forte with it. I didn't know what to say. Even the terribly fascinating wooden floor couldn't keep my mind off of it. It was just so… so melodramatic. "We can't just magically get back together. You do know that, right?"

I glanced up and saw Sherlock wander back to his previous seat, collapsing into its comforting arms in what appeared to be exhaustion. His expression, though, didn't speak of tiredness; it spoke of benign irritation. It wasn't even directed at me. It was more abstract than that – more along the lines of hating all relationships and all their idiotic rules.

I swallowed and gathered a bit more courage, ready to face the drama that might unfold. "This whole episode showed us that we really don't work as a couple."

Sherlock groaned. "'Works'. The whole world is obsessed with what works. No one cares about what is."

I frowned pitifully, the sadness of the past two months creeping into my expression. "And what is, Sherlock?"

I was taken aback when he once more leapt to his feet, worried that he might launch himself at me again, but relaxed when I realised he wasn't heading towards me at all. He was simply reverting to his frantic problem-solving state of mind, choosing to pace up and down the room like he was on some bizarre mission.

"It's reasonable to work out." He began, talking at speed and in his most logical voice. "We first need to admit certain points to ourselves. First, we aren't irrefutably compatible. Second, we each have habits that the other finds intolerable. Nevertheless, the third point is that there is undeniably some sort of…" He waved his arms about in an attempt to conjure the right word. "… thing here. And that thing dictates that we continue seeing each other on a regular basis. But, err… we can make some sort of…" here he paused both his speech and his gait and peered at me, suddenly seeming a lot less confident than he had been, "… adjustments, if you want?"

"Adjustments?" I repeated, uncertain as to what he meant.

His head flinched sideways, his eyes darting over my shoulder in a manner that made him look surprisingly nervous. "If you want."

I thought about it. By adjustments, I assumed that he meant altering how our relationship was structured. It was odd – seeing him like this. Yes, his impenetrable mask was still there, but it was slipping. Some of his actual emotions were leaking out. Maybe then… Maybe then he did…

"It has to change," I said with a sigh, giving in to the whining knot in my chest, "not you – I don't want to turn you into something you're not – but how you treat me."

His forehead furrowed, his nerves disappearing and being replaced with utter uncertainty.

"How do I treat you?" he asked, as if he truly didn't have a clue as to whether he had done anything wrong.

I shook my head. "Honestly? You're a complete bastard."

"No, I'm not." He instantly contradicted, as if doing so was nothing more than a bad habit. One of the habits I found intolerable, no doubt.

I ran a hand through my hair, not feeling any stirring of anger and yet completely frustrated by this man. "Yes, you are. You insult me, ignore me, only pay me attention when you're bored – we have to actually start talking to each other, Sherlock."

"We talk." He yet again argued stubbornly. "Look, we're doing it now."

"No, we don't." I said, ignoring his pathetic attempt at a defence. "All we do is fight crimes, sit in silence or screw."

"Is that not good?"

If I had been standing in front of a wall, I would have hit my head against it multiple times. He was so unbelievable. And the most outrageous part of it all was that he wasn't kidding or lying, he honestly had no idea as to whether those three things made a good romantic engagement.

"I can't believe I'm the one telling you this," I muttered overthrown by my inability to pretend any longer, "I never thought I'd tell anyone this actually; we need to start… interacting and… I don't know, connect or whatever people call it."

My eyes fixed themselves on Sherlock, watching to see his reaction to my suggestion. There wasn't much of one. He just seemed to be thinking it over, but his features weren't giving away what conclusions he was coming to. A couple of times he nodded slowly, but even that didn't give me much of an insight into his mind. Perhaps I had overstepped the mark. Perhaps this would be too much for him. I wasn't even sure whether it was too much for me. All I knew was that if I didn't at least try, then I'd end up driving myself insane with doubt.

Finally, he seemed to have collected his thoughts as much as possible, answering with a simple, "Right."

I stopped chewing on the inside of my cheek, something I hadn't even realised I had been doing during the silence, and questioned back. "Right?"

"Yes, ok." Sherlock informed me helpfully, speaking so deliberately and considered that I was a tiny bit afraid he had had some sort of mini-stroke in the past minute, which I hadn't noticed. "We can… do that."

I let out the breath I hadn't even known I had been holding in, relief and something else running amok in my brain. That something else, though, wasn't anything I recognised. It was too loose to put my finger on, too profound.

I decided to ignore it. "And if it doesn't work then we can always fight to the death. I'm sure you know some pretty disgusting and successful ways to dispose of a body."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows cheekily, momentarily forgetting his past insecurity. "Naturally."

I released a soft syllable of laughter, glad that we had actually said something that wasn't completely overdramatic. Still the awkwardness returned, almost before the chuckle had spilled from my lips, and we stood there for at least a minute, neither knowing what to say or do to make things easier.

"So, I'll, err…" I bravely ventured, "see you soon, I guess."

It was the only way I could imagine that this discomfort would leave us be. Hopefully, if we left it there for today, if we both took it one step at a time, having breaks between any discussions and not spending too much time together in short succession, then we could gradually move on. We weren't familiar with it, of course – the whole conversation thing.

His eyebrows rose briefly, before he caught on to what I was thinking.

"Yes, of course." He said with a decisive nod, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair and shrugging it onto his shoulders. In silence, he stepped up to me, stopping on his way to the door by my side. We stared at each other for a moment, neither recognising the correct way to say goodbye in such a situation. Then, calmly, he bent down and placed his lips tenderly to my cheek, whispering, "See you."

And with that he was off, any sign of uncertainty evaporating from his aura as he strolled towards the exit.

He was navigating around the doorframe when I stopped him, at last choosing to voice a question I had been pondering mundanely since yesterday afternoon. "She didn't know who I was."

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, pausing his gait and poking his head back into the kitchen. His so recent mind-frame seemed to have vanished completely. He was acting positively normal when he said, "Oh, that. Yes, well, the next time she chooses to stalk someone, she should really check the reliability of her source first."

I didn't understand, but he didn't give me the opportunity to ask any further questions.

"Cheerio." He chirped almost happily, sending me a swift devilish wink before disappearing from the doorway. The sound of the front door opening and closing in the distance found its way to my ears shortly after.

Pfft. Long chapter. I'm a little bit drained. Hope you all enjoyed and weren't upset at how I resolved any of their issues or the like. Melanie is growing up a bit.

Apparently my beta's gone a little bit insane with work over the past week and has either been studying bravely or has been locked up in her room watching anything and everything she can lay her hands on with Benedict in. Cumbernesting she calls it – I like that word.

Every girl needs a good Cumbernest.

Review?