What went wrong

In which John misses most of the action, Lana becomes infuriated with Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock begins to question himself

The lamp very nearly took Sherlock's head off as it sailed across the room and crashed into the opposite wall. Luckily, he had been able to dive out of the way as it flew toward him and now he lay, his face pressed into the worn carpet, planning his next move. Meanwhile Lana continued her assault, hurling just about anything she could reach right at him. Her aim was deadly; a heavy book hit him square on the spine, and he impulsively caught his laptop as it clipped his head. How she could manage this aim and force when she had barely regained consciousness, Sherlock could only guess. He could feel the fury building though, blocking out any deductions. There were about ninety different insults he could have thrown at her- and in six different languages, at that- but when he opened his mouth to say something, he was forced to catch his riding crop before it snapped in two on the floor, and all that came out was a very pathetic, "You know, I liked you better when you were unconscious."

Lana's reply was to hurl the nearest book at him, which hit him on the back of the neck. Hard. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock chose to end this ridiculous fight and made his final move. He wished he could have avoided this, but they were wasting time, and she clearly wasn't going to cooperate with him while he had her cornered like an animal- especially since she clearly thought he was a rapist- so he reached into a nearby table drawer and pulled out the pistol within.

Lana's pistol.

She froze, holding her latest weapon- Sherlock's violin- above her head. Her eyes were wide, and he could see her fear reflected in them. Sherlock hadn't aimed at her, but held it as though examining a priceless piece of art. Still, the venom in his eyes was unmistakable.

"This pistol is lovely," he commented, his voice deadly calm. "Light, balanced, custom made, correct?"

Despite herself, she nodded, not taking her eyes off him.

"Well, to damage such a beautiful weapon would be such a crime, wouldn't it? Or worse, to kill its owner with their own weapon; it would be such an embarrassment. But, I don't want to see that happen, and I guarantee that you don't either. So," here he cocked the gun and aimed directly at Lana's chest, "Miss, you have two options. You can put my violin down and act civil like the lady I believe you to be, or I can shoot you through the heart. I can tell you now; I won't miss, nor will I hesitate. I've been told reliably that I don't have a heart multiple times." His eyes flashed emerald green, full of answers, analysis and cold, hard focus. They didn't waiver from Lana's hazel ones; the eyes that took in every last detail and analyzed it all in front of him.

Slowly but surely, Lana lowered the violin onto a nearby pillow, never taking her eyes off the green inferno. As soon as the violin was on the ground, however, she took two steps forward and lunged.

Don't even bother to ask Sherlock what happened, how he managed to let himself be tackled by a five-foot-two American. He'll just spout off some lies about being attacked by five armed men. With sledgehammers. I wouldn't ask Lana, either, because she's going to make everything seem as though Sherlock jumped her. Using a butcher knife. So I'd take my word for it instead and leave them to their little squabbles over who's the dirty liar.

Anyway, as Lana launched herself forward, she threw herself over the nearest chair and latched herself firmly to his front, punching and biting with all her strength. Sherlock was in no mood to be pushed around by this nuisance any longer, and honestly her biting hurt, so he switched tactics. Throwing aside the now-useless colt, Sherlock shook away his thoughts of hesitation and threw her off of him. He was a lot stronger than her, and the force of his shove forced them both back into the middle of the room. Both off-balance, they crashed to the floor, Sherlock pinning her down on carpet and studying his prey as soon as the hair was shaken from his eyes. Lana spit hair out of her mouth and glared right back.

"let me up."

"is this really the best you can do? I expected better after what I saw in the alley." He replied as he tightened his grip on her wrists. Lana responded by kicking her free leg to the back of his head, misjudging it and catching him in the back. Still, pain is pain, and as Sherlock seized up in reaction to the surprise attack, Lana fought to free her hands, using her fingernails has her interpretation of crowbars. Soon, however, Sherlock recovered, and, realizing that Lana was currently trying to pry his skin off, he shifted his position. Keeping her stomach pinned beneath his knees, adjusted his grip so her elbows couldn't bend and her scraping skills were useless. He admitted his fingers smarted rather painfully, but at least the fight seemed to be dying down. Lana seemed to be calming down bit, by bit, breathing hard and glaring like a caged animal. Sherlock had to admit he was impressed; this girl had been heavily sedated and was moving with reflexes to rival his. He didn't move until he felt her relax beneath him, and only then did he stand and offer her a hand up. The hand that grasped his felt tiny and small in his own, beating with life like a hummingbird. As soon as she was on her feet, Sherlock let go of her hand and headed over to the corner into which the Colt had skittered during the fight. He picked it up carefully and handed it back to her, giving her a meaningful look. Lana stared at him, not sure what to think, and almost in defeat, she sank down onto the couch.

At once, Sherlock straightened his jacket, gave her what looked like a smile, and walked into the kitchen. Lana blinked in surprise at the sudden change in the man. She had honestly never met anyone like him before. It was hard to believe that this was the same person who had brought her here, and then threatened her with her own pistol, and now seemed to be rummaging through the fridge as though nothing had happened, all in the space of a few minutes. In fact, less than four minutes ago, she had pulled herself from a dark and hazy world of pain, with everything disoriented and raw. Everything had been on fire, and yet she could not make any movement to stop the pain. Flashes of memory flew across her eyes; light and darkness, a single shot, and death coming down. And all the while a voice was calling through the haze; voices impossible to make out.

Her eyes had snapped open, and she had found herself staring up at the ceiling. She had been lying on the couch, supported by pillows on her back and neck, but she only had time to register the room and couch for a moment before the pain caught up with her. The fire was suddenly very real, and she convulsed on herself, gripping her head, which felt like it had exploded. Lana's hands knotted in her hair as she tried to fight the agony, but she was stopped by the grip of two long pale hands, which had seized her arms and pushed her back onto the pillows. "Careful," said the voice. "You've got at least fourteen stitches in your scalp, and they're quite fresh. I wouldn't want to tear those out."

Lana had turned toward him, taking in everything through a pain-crazed glance.

He was tall, skinny as a rod but filled out in the right places. His skin was smooth and looked pale and cold as ivory, but the warmth from his hands, leaking though her shirt, told her that he was indeed human. A mop of curly raven hair fell onto his high forehead and around his angular, handsome features. His jaw was well set, strong, and gave his face a quality that created patterns of shadows and light across his pale face. A sharp roman nose, high cheekbones and a small mouth curled in mild interest, as though he knew everything and just wanted to make sure he was right. Everything about him seemed relaxed, as though taking care of complete strangers was normal for him, and she would have thought that was true if she hadn't been looking at his eyes.

They were green as serpents, and twice as cunning. He stared at her with a depth so profound it made her feel exposed. It was as though this man could see everything about her, from her good qualities to her flaws to what she did in college, but what drove her crazy was the fact that he seemed to know how much she thought he knew. It was simultaneously amazing and terrifying.

But that was Sherlock.

He had released her as the pain in her head receded, and she had managed to sit up. The entire time, he had stared at her. It was unnerving; it seemed like he was simply bored and was using her for amusement. Instinctively Lana reached for her gun; she didn't know who this person thought he was, but she wanted answers and didn't want to seem completely under his control just because she had awoken from sedation only moments before. Which, I guess is a pretty good reason to assume that, but Lana wasn't going to let that on.

The gun had been taken from her.

Lana had spun around, hate boiling up from within her. Someone had taken her gun and she was going to make them pay. The man had refocused on her as she snapped toward him, looking up from a phone he had just pulled from his pocket, and now viewed her with an infuriating look that was a mixture of concern and amusement.

She chose her words carefully before she spoke.

"What have you done with my gun and wallet?"

(Ok, I lied; she didn't choose her words that carefully. But at least she got the point across without swearing.)

He had looked surprised, a fake smile playing around his lips. "Why are you assuming that I took your wallet and gun? How do you know that your previous attackers didn't take them from you?"

"Don't be smart with me," she had shot back. "I may have been attacked, but it's not like I can't remember things. They didn't search me, and now the wallet's gone. As for the gun, those two men wanted me dead- taking my ID and weapon wouldn't do them any good unless they wanted to be caught. So where are they? What have you done with them?"

The man had sat there, and, to Lana's fury, had begun to laugh. "I was right- you are clever. So bringing you all the way back here wasn't a complete waste of time; well done."

That was too much for Lana. She had lost control, seized the nearby lamp, and had thrown it with all the force she could muster at his arrogant face. He had dodged, and… now five minutes later, here they were.

….

Back in the kitchen, Sherlock leaned against the counter and rubbed his bruised neck. He cursed himself for this thoughtlessness- he should never have brought her here. It had been on a whim, but wouldn't it have been easier to track her down later? He should have left her in the alley and called for help, but his spur of the moment decision had brought him nothing but a broken lamp and a few bruises. Again, Sherlock had to ask himself what had changed his mind. It was true; he had considered leaving the girl behind in the alley. That moment when she was on the ground, fighting tooth and claw against her attackers, he had been planning his next move. He could see the pros and cons of his choices, whether he decided to leave her here or take her to a hospital. But something had changed…and he had thrown away those plans and carried the injured woman six blocks back to Baker Street. He had risked arrest, prosecution, and losing his bag to help someone he barely knew, and even Sherlock knew that wasn't normal for him. He prided in not being able to feel anything (except those rare occasions around John), but somehow this girl with a great arm and a terrible temper had swayed the great Sherlock Holmes to do something stupid.

Sherlock paused where he stood. There were only a few possible solutions, and he was denying most of them. No one, no one, knew about…her. And just because this girl was just as resourceful and good with a gun as her meant absolutely nothing. He couldn't let the past influence him.

Sherlock wouldn't allow it.

He pulled the kettle of water off the stove from where it had sat for the last few minutes and poured the hot liquid into a nearby cup. Then he added a teabag and brought it back into the sitting room. The woman was examining the broken lamp with a mild interest. As he entered the room, she spoke, not taking her eyes away from its bent shade and cracked body. "I'm not going to apologize for breaking it, but it seems like it can be fixed, aside from the crack. You can just straighten the shade."

Even if she didn't trust him, the least she could do was act civil.

"It's fine. I hated the lamp anyway." Sherlock replied, setting the tea down in front of her. She set down the lamp on the side table and watched it steep for a few moments before looking back up directly into his face. Green met hazel and there was a strained silence. Finally, she broke the tension.

"Where am I?"

"You're at my flat. I figured you'd prefer this place to a hospital or an alley."

"So I'm guessing either you or your flat mate's a doctor, considering I haven't bled to death."

"Correct. Your eye for detail is excellent."

"I'll take that as a compliment and just go back to the questions. I doubt you'll tell me the truth, but who are you?"

"Does it matter?"

"To me, yes." she replied.

Sherlock saw no point in lying. "The name's Sherlock Holmes. Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Heart, especially since you're no longer trying to tear apart my flat. But please, Sherlock."

"Don't call me Miss Heart. It sounds like my mother. Call me Lana. Now, as I was about to ask before you rudely opened your mouth to state the obvious, how long was I out?"

"About two and a half hours. The stitching didn't take long, but your body seemed to take the anesthesia harder then I had originally expected and you stayed under due to exhaustion. Next question?"

"Why am I here?"

"You needed help."

"And a hospital couldn't have given me help?"

Sherlock paused. He was hoping he wouldn't have to bring up the case already, but he doubted Lana would drop the subject unless he answered, and he certainly wasn't going to lie to her at this point. So after a two second pause (you better believe he counted) Sherlock took a deep breath. "Lana, three nights ago, a man by the name of Mike Heart was brutally murdered in his home. He was the tenth of a string of serial murder cases, all of whom were marked with this." He threw down a picture in front of her. When she examined it, Lana saw that it showed nothing but a large eye painted in what looked like lipstick. She looked up.

"So?"

Sherlock leaned forward. "I know he was your father, Lana, and I need information to find out why he was killed. Scotland Yard is no help; they're refusing to believe that this is a serial killer. So when I happened to overhear your conversation, I realized that you were the link I needed. You have something I desperately need, and if I took you to the hospital they would have taken unnecessary precautions. That's why you're here."

Lana watched him, surprise etched across her face. "Who are you, really?"
"I've already told you, Sherlock Holmes."

"And this is what you do all day? Chase serial killers?"

Sherlock shrugged. "On a good day."

Lana smiled. "Sounds exciting."

"When I'm not bored," he replied. "Anyway, my flat mate should be here soon. Just so you know, if he finds out I'm using you, he's probably going to make you leave."

Her grin widened. "So if I lie to your flat mate, do I get the couch?"

"All yours," said Sherlock. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to come up with a good lie so that he doesn't get suspicious. I can't just keep you here; it's not like me at all."

"Well," Lana replied, "there are a couple options, but it will depend on whether or not…um…"

"What?" Sherlock prompted.

Lana looked up, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks. "Are you gay?"
Sherlock looked surprised. He hadn't expected this question to come up already. "Not that it's any of your business, but I suppose you could say I'm married to my work. Why?"

Lana grinned wickedly. "Ok, then. This should work. And we'd better hurry; your flat mate is coming up the stairs."

Up next- The Conversation and the Kiss- in which John is lost, Sherlock lies and Lana makes her flat mates dinner.