Chapter Three

Sherlock was woken by a scream in the middle of the night. He jumped out of his bed and ran to the sound; John's room.

John made it first, and found Emilia sweating and breathing heavily. Sherlock was frozen in the doorway, holding onto the doorframe and leaning into the room. Was that her?

"Emilia, are you okay? We're right here. Did something happen?"

Sherlock saw her trembling hands. "She had a nightmare."

Emilia's wide eyes looked to Sherlock. Her nightgown was soaked in sweat around her chest and down her back. She'd been trapped in the dream for a while. Her intake of breath started to calm down. She gulped for air many times before looking back down at her hands in her lap. She held them up to examine the tremors, confused. John grabbed her hands in his and caught her line of sight.

"Can you get her a glass of water, Sherlock?"

Sherlock tilted his head at the request. When did he become the maid around here?

He grabbed a glass and dropped a few ice cubes in it with loud clinks, then filled it with water. He returned to the room and held the glass out to Emilia. She freed her hands from John's calming hold and took the glass with both hands. One hand landed upon Sherlock's, causing him to be confused again. Why did she touch him?

John managed to keep a hand on her at all times, even as she drank the water. Was it a comfort technique? Sherlock just couldn't analyze it. He resumed his post holding up the doorframe.

After calming down Emilia, John asked her if she'd felt better if someone stayed in the room with her. She shrugged, and looked around. She was still really tired. How long had she slept? She leaned back on the pillows John had propped up.

"… Is there anything else I can do?" Sherlock tried to sound somewhat sincere, instead it came out annoyed.

"No," answered John. "Unless you want to stay in here with her tonight."

Sherlock pondered it for a moment, instead decided on "My bed is more comfortable."

Emilia looked to Sherlock with weary eyes. She seemed to ask him for something, but without words, Sherlock wouldn't listen.

"Goodnight, then."

After Sherlock left, John paid attention to Emilia. "I can set up the cot in here."

Emilia shook her head. She placed her hand on John's as it rested on her forearm and pet his hand, then yawned.

"I'll leave the door open at least. Is your leg okay?"

Emilia looked at it. It seemed a bit of blood was staining the bandage, but she decided to wait until morning. She nodded indicating it was okay.

"I'll be out here. It was scary to hear your voice. Maybe it won't be gone for long."

Emilia nodded again, and made herself comfortable as John left. She took another drink of the water Sherlock brought her, and then rested again.

In his room, Sherlock laid in bed staring at the ceiling, hands interlaced with each other. In his dreams, so much more happened than images his mind projected. He worked in his sleep. His subconscious was something he could control. There wasn't anything he couldn't control; he laughed at himself for that thought. What it must be like to not be him.

But it must have been hard on Emilia to have a nightmare like she did, and to even scream. That piercing scream. Tomorrow he figured he would try to talk to Emilia with the computer method he saw her and John use. He would try to be patient.

John's snore started to sound from the living room, and it caused Sherlock to sit upright on the side of his bed. What an annoying noise. He almost lay back down until he heard whimpering coming from across the hallway. Was that Emilia again?

Impulsively curious, he trekked over. The door was open, and certainly she was crying. Another bother.

"Do you need more water?"

The way Emilia turned to Sherlock showed him that he startled her. She shook her head, and Sherlock noticed the tearstains down her face. Humans were so odd. He tried another approach; the hand contact method John used earlier.

Sherlock was almost too abruptly at Emilia's bedside, and sat there. He tilted his head, pursed his lips, sighed, then promptly put his hand on her head and awkwardly pet her.

"There… there. It will be okay," said Sherlock, cringing.

Emilia blinked out the rest of her tears and her shoulders shook with laughter. Small traces of her voice came through. Sherlock took back his hand quickly and folded them in his lap as he still remained seated on the edge of the bed.

"Your voice is coming back."

Emilia wiped her eyes and nodded."I can barely whisper," she added, definitely in a whisper. It was a collection of air and soft undertones of her voice.

"I see. Well, goodbye, then."

Emilia watched Sherlock leave as swiftly as he came.

The next morning, Sherlock wasn't awoken by a scream, but something much, much better. Breakfast was being made, and the scent of bacon made his stomach growl.

With a slight tug on his dressing gown, he made his way to the kitchen with a tired look on his face. When was the last time he had been tired? It certainly has been a while. The scene in the kitchen was a little bit too normal for Sherlock not to be surprised.

Emilia was cooking, quite happily. She was making a variety of styles of eggs in a skillet, bacon and ham in the other. John was making the coffee and gathering dishes.

"Morning, Sherlock. I told her how you like your eggs. It should be done in a minute."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "How do you know how I like my eggs?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I can pay attention too. Mrs. Hudson makes us breakfast occasionally. Here's your coffee, also how you like."

Sherlock seated himself at the abnormally clean kitchen table. "Where did all my equipment go?"

"The desk. Everything is exactly how you left it."

Sherlock's eyes moved to look into the other room without his head turning. When his eyes returned to the table, Emilia was placing his food before him. John was settling in as his food was sat down too.

"This is definitely nice, I could get used to this," John said with a cheery tone.

Oh, Sherlock recognized this phase. John was beginning to like Emilia. Usually, Sherlock could find something wrong with all the women he brought here, but Emilia seemed to be okay. No ties to a previous life, no weird hobbies, just a normal, hurting, deranged girl who liked being in the kitchen. Mycroft would say she's normal.

Emilia rinsed off the skillets before seating herself to eat. She was quiet again, but happy. This was her favorite thing to do. If Sherlock didn't watch himself, he and John could definitely benefit in the weight factor from eating well, if her cooking even tasted good. Sherlock took a drink of his coffee, then a bite of his food.

Yes, it was good.

After breakfast and the kitchen was cleaned, Sherlock handed Emilia John's laptop. She looked at him bemused.

"I have things to ask, and I'm only going to be patient for so long."

Emilia nodded and started the laptop, opening a document file.

Sherlock sat on the couch with her and started throwing out questions. "Tell me in detail everything you remember, and don't leave a single distinguishing fact. Colors, sizes, noises, everything."

Emilia's face held uneasiness about it. Her fingers extended over the keys but didn't press any. She was hesitant. No, thinking. Everyone can remember everything, as long as they know how to do it. Since it was near him, Sherlock grabbed his violin and began to play it pizzicato. The sound didn't seem to bother Emilia, but Sherlock knew he would have to do some waiting.

Emilie typed fast, but also paused a few times. As she pressed the keys, Sherlock knew what she was saying.

I was going home from work. I work in a bakery. Someone threw me in a black van; I was blindfolded, drugged with something that kept me unaware of everything until the torture began. The person who did everything to me didn't make sense to me. Said this was for what I did to them. What I did to their loved one. I'm a good person; I don't recall ever wronging anyone! I felt a gun against my head. I was hit with the gun, with this person's hands. Abnormally, soft hands for a man. I was stabbed, in the leg as you saw. They cut me. I was drugged constantly. I can't describe their voice. I

Sherlock wondered why she quit typing. He looked at her and saw her crying again. This must be the part she doesn't like. Why can't she just write it? She's not actually saying it. He put the violin down.

"Sherlock, let her write it on her own time," John spoke up from behind the paper.

"I need this information if they want this case solved."

"You'll have to go at a slower pace this time."

"So what do you expect me to do in the mean time then? Wait?"

Emilia wiped her tears and looked back and forth between the men as they spoke.

"You're acting like a child, Sherlock."

"You're acting like a parent."

Emilia tried to laugh again, and a few giggles came out.

"At least I cheered her up," Sherlock said triumphantly.

"I'm going away."

"Where to?"

"Away. From you."

"Take her with you!"

"You can stand to be with her for some time, Sherlock. It's not the first time you've encountered a woman alone in this flat."

John put on his coat and left, even included slamming doors.

Sherlock then whipped his head to Emilia as she looked at him skeptically.

"Is my being here a problem?" she asked with a harsh whisper.

"No."

Emilia nodded. "I'll work on this."

Sherlock nodded, too, then picked up the violin again and walked around the flat with it, this time playing with the bow. The melody was fast paced and hectic, but Emilia blocked it out and began to write.

Sherlock on the other hand received a text.

We have more information if you need it. Whenever you decide to answer your phone.

If Lestrade had information, that's where Sherlock needed to be. He put on his coat and scarf and was about to walk out the door when he remembered something; Emilia. If John was supposed to be protecting her, technically he was too?

"Are you coming?"

Emilia looked up from the laptop. She mouthed the word 'where?'

"Just come along."

Emilia scrambled up to grab herself a coat and scarf, pulled on her boots and followed the long-legged man to the street. Sherlock hailed a cab then immediately got in. Emilia followed suit and sat more refined than she has in the past twenty-four hours. She looked more at peace. Sherlock studied her for the third time in those twenty-four hours.

Curious. Calm. Near-sighted. Does, in fact, play violin.

Everything or anything else he could try to find was either washed away or covered.

Emilia pointed at Sherlock to get his attention. After getting it, she pointed at her phone she retrieved from a pocket. Sherlock took it and realized she wanted his phone number. What a completely unladylike way to propose that question. He entered it anyway, along with John's. Upon retrieving her phone back she sent a quick message to Sherlock and John both to return her phone number to them.

I forgot to give you my number –JW

I just asked Sherlock for it. Are you alright?

I will be. I do this frequently, you'll discover that. –JW

Well, take care of yourself.

Will do. Do you need anything while I'm out? –JW

Get something for lunch, I'll cook.

Sounds like a date. –JW

A date?

Emilia silently laughed at his mishap.

No! It wasn't meant to be that! I'm so sorry Emilia… -JW

I understand, John.

Sherlock watched her text. She was happy, this time. Human interaction makes her happy. Too bad for her that wasn't his stronghold. Nor interest.

Lestrade sighed as he let Sherlock go over the papers. The newest development? A threatening letter sent in by the murdered. Even with the standard cookie cutter newspaper clippings.

I will finish what I started. Emilia Hayes will die.

"Are you sure this is even from the actual murderer?" Sherlock asked as he went over the paper.

Clippings from the past weeks' headlines. Scrapbooking glue. Used latex gloves to apply everything.

"We aren't sure, but it's something, Sherlock," Lestrade moaned out, feeling like he probably shouldn't have called him.

"It will be okay," Emilia whispered to Lestrade.

The man raised his brow. "Starting to get there. Once your voice is back you need to give me a statement on tape, Miss Hayes."

Emilia nodded and went back to observing Sherlock. He twisted the paper, looked at the front, back, front again. His face contorted into different emotions as he thought. He opened his mouth, closed it, chewed on his lip, cursed silently.

Those cheekbones.

Emilia's eyes went wide and she blushed, putting her head down. She couldn't even control that thought. She glanced back up from under her bangs. Yeah, those cheekbones.

"Emilia, quit it," Sherlock said abruptly.

She gasped in response, and laid her head on the table. Well, that was awfully embarrassing. But to save her, she got a text from John.

I'm home. I realized we're out of milk. Can you ask Sherlock to grab some? Where are you guys anyway? –JW

Lestrade called us in. I have a death threat letter. I can remind him about some milk.

Thank you. Do you need me to come take a look? –JW

Emilia looked up at Sherlock, seemingly finished with his deducing of the letter.

I think we're almost finished.

Emilia pocketed her phone as Donovan came through the door.

"Freak, there's someone here to see you."

Lestrade and Sherlock exchanged glances and followed the female to the interrogation room. Sherlock laid eyes on a young man, and began his study.

University student. Part-times at the printing shop. Malnutrition. Skittish. Anxious. Occasional theft. Not bathed.

"You're Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Why have you requested me?"

"I'm one of the men whose DNA was found on the… the girls."

Lestrade set up a recorder and began to listen carefully. This was the second time he had seen this guy, but he was cleared. Every man was cleared. They all were either at their jobs on camera, or with other people who had proof of location and times.

"One of the women, Maryanne Willows, was my girlfriend."

Sherlock looked to Lestrade. "Did all these women have a boyfriend?"

"Only a few."

"The thing is, though," Emilia noted this man's anxiousness to get his words out, "you never told me how my DNA was so relevant to Maryanne. My DNA could have been all over her. We were together."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I thought I told you. All the women were raped, and as a result of that, semen was found on the bodies. And we just happened to find yours on Maryanne."

Emilia then started to use her head. This man wasn't the one she heard, or the one she had occasionally felt touch her. The murder had no hair on their arms, yet this boy did. Emilia asked Lestrade for a pen and paper.

I recognize nothing in him with the person who attacked me.

"We've already cleared him, though, Emilia."

"Who is she?" the man asked.

"A witness," Sherlock said quickly. "Pay her no mind. What did you want?" he asked again, more annoyance showing in his voice.

"… I want to know how this was done. I want to know how to protect my identity better."

"Just always be in the right spot in the right time. I'm through," Sherlock hopped to his feet. "Lestrade, bring in all of the men whose DNA had been identified. Line them up and put them on display for Emilia. They may have been cleared, but this will clear up the holes."

"Better safe than sorry, I suppose," he agreed. "Thank you for your time, we'll call you when we know more."

Emilia nodded in acceptance of these plans. In the back of her head though, she knew this would be scary. After receiving a death threat, anyone on the street she could come across could be gunning to kill her.

"Let's go, already," Sherlock spoke over his shoulder to Emilia, and she instantly became a lost puppy on his trail.

Donovan watched with an incredulous expression. "The way she follows his bark is a bit odd."

"At least he's doing his job. Him or John, doesn't matter which. As long as she's kept safe," Lestrade replied.

John asked us to get milk.

Sherlock looked at his phone in response to the text tone from his pocket. "Should have told him to go back out and retrieve some, save us the time. Oh well, I guess I can. Here. Head inside and grab some."

Sherlock handed Emilia money and she ran inside the small convenience store. She hesitated at the milk for a moment; what kind did they like? It was all the same to her, she didn't like milk. She bought one and met back up with Sherlock outside. Their travelling home was silent, a trait Sherlock liked in Emilia, but he's sure it wouldn't last long.

Once home, Emilia got right to work on making lunch for the boys.

On the other hand, Sherlock was receiving text messages from Holmes the eldest…

Here is all the information I had uncovered on Emilia Hayes. Read when alone. -MH

The plot is taking a long time for me to unfold, and I'm sorry things seem pretty boring right now. I'll make the next chapter a little fluffy, as fluffy as strangers can get in Sherlock's case. I'm still trying to flesh out the characters correctly. So just bare with me you lovelies!