Ashton woke up in a haze, wrapped in blankets. The sun was shining on her face through the windows brightly. Her frame was padded by a delicate material. She let out a grunt, squinting and turning lethargically. A long screech left her lips as she fumbled inside her blankets, falling off the bed and to the floor flat on her face, and rolling halfway under the coffee table. Her mind concentrated on a certain something: this wasn't her home.
She was in shock, as memories overflowed back and with moderate acknowledgment she found she was in the apartment she had only ever on TV. This was Sherlock Holmes' flat. A replica, she suspected, as she was certain she was daydreaming and this was some debilitating joke.
Her fears turned to the worst as as Sherlock hurried out in his longcoat, verifying whether there might have been a break-in, burglary, or maybe an attempted kidnapping, however all he found was the late teen tangled in her covers. Sherlock frowned, "That took a level of expertise," He remarked flatly, gazing down at the girl caught in a heap of blankets.
Ash stared and then let out a choked cry that was ascending from her throat, "How did I get here?" It was a terrified yell, however and she battled against the covers, yet she didn't move off the floor. Her breathing getting to be shallow and quick.
Sherlock assessed the situation carefully, although couldn't help but roll an eye at her reaction, "We took you to our flat from the hospital since you clearly have no present home." He tugged at the blanket's tangles and yanked them off. "You've been out for a couple of days, yet I think the medications are finally wearing off. You truly do panic too often." He checked over her state, happy to find she had finally collected herself and was now calm. "Good," Sherlock mused, "Now that you're awake and practical, I can interrogate you." He grinned, energized and inquisitive, which gave her a terrible flashback to the nightmarish experience that'd occurred just the previous evening. His eyes were already interrogating her emotions.
Ash had kept her thoughts and actions in check. "I'm not a client." She spat, in spite of the fact that she needed to keep from gazing at his cheekbones. "And I already told you what happened."
Sherlock let of a gruff sigh, "Dull. We both know you're not telling me everything." His face twisted and frowned, the answers were out there, and he needed to know. He needed to know what was truly going on, and why it was. He didn't want to believe the television tale, and though he wouldn't admit it, he didn't know what else to believe. There were no facts to lead him to any other conclusion. No certainties to lead him to some other conclusion.
A muffled cough uncovered a worn out looking John Watson remaining in the door of the lounge room, who held his disappointed look at Sherlock. "Interrogation at this hour in the day? You could have at least made some coffee. She needs to rest." John pointed at Ash's depleted face and raccoon eyes.
"I didn't wake her." The detective brought his hands up in mock surrender and gestured toward Ashton, "She completed a shockingly decent impression of a caterpillar's metamorphosis, however." Sherlock murmured and looked toward his violin, yet turned towards John, "Black, two sugars."
John stood unmoving at the entryway, clearing undaunted by Sherlock's request. Rather, he crossed the room and sat in his own particular seat. He was likewise looking very dead from the absence of rest. He gazed distrustfully at Sherlock, "How on earth are so enthusiastic?"
Sherlock shrugged, confronting Ashton. "Answer my questions."
She folded her arms in rebellion, prepared to shield herself against Sherlock's clever remarks.
Sherlock nodded in agreement. "You're correct. This is Lestrade's case, now. You're a witness. If you don't talk, that makes you a suspect." He grinned astutely.
Aston about giggled, "A suspect of my own assault. Splendid, Sherlock. Go ahead and arrest me. I'm not pressin' charges." She brought her hands up in mock surrender, including a phony pouty lip.
"Answer me!" The fretful man demanded, which brought a laugh from John. Sherlock spun toward his companion, "What?"
The doctor was looking very amused with himself, watching this unfurl. "She won't answer you if you ask that way." John laughed in dismay at the dumbfounded investigator.
Sherlock shut his eyes in disturbance, "This is important and of significance." They again opened, his ice-blue pupils looking into Ash's earth-shaded ones. "It's more straightforward for you to simply let me know as opposed to observing it out of you. Shortens the case."
"Please," Ash sneered, a sudden attitude sparking out of her in self-defense, "You barely know anything about me. You told me very few things." She smugly stated.
Competition and challenge flashed in Sherlock's eyes, "I only stated the relevant information, but I do suppose I can evaluate." He took a sharp, sure breath, "You used to be in track, and recently started again. Judging by the tears in the soles, you quit for the span of two years. Perhaps off of something sentimental, like a death. Most likely your grandmother. Chocolate lover, your weakness, and recent addiction to eating nutella from the jar, which is extremely unsanitary, by the way. It's another unhealthy way to cope. Played baseball in your more youthful years, in light of the antiquated small mitt I'd found... right-handed. Although that's easy to see just by observing the calluses on your hands. By the look of it, your a writer. A decent one. Your accent screams Minnesota, but you moved to one of the larger cities, New York. "
"Wow." Ash expelled, She didn't know where this disposition had originated from earlier, but she didn't care for it. It was snarky and discourteous. "That was.. I apologize. How did you know I live.. lived in New York?"
"That was a guess." Sherlock clasped his hands together, now serious. "Now."
Sherlock faltered. His eyes furrowed in concentration and bewilderment, something that was almost never painted on his face, as his thoughts filtered back to the one thing that was on his mind: the DVD. "What is Sherlock BBC?" His mouth spat out the word, eyes gazing into Ashton's and shaking her arm somewhat. "Why am I on DVD? Why are we on DVD?" He scanned for answers. A murmur of consolation was heard from John.
Ashton's eyebrows ascended in fear, acknowledging what he'd found. Her heart gave an apprehensive shudder and she stood, her hands trembling as she edged towards the entryway, lurching. Sherlock stood, snatching her left arm quickly. Ash was stuck in a moment for what seemed like hours. Her mind flooded her with adrenaline, her eyes frozen on the detective. She could hear John trying to assure her panicked state from afar, but she was paying no attention. She shuddered, being so close the Sherlock Holmes. It was a bit mesmerizing. And then she freaked, once more.
Before she even found the opportunity to run out, Sherlock wasted no time surging after the young lady. Sherlock, who was in practice, grabbed Ash by the shoulders and maneuvered her into his chest, circling an arm around her neck into a loose chokehold. She struggled weakly against his steady arm, and he did not look amused. "Really? That was very dissapointing." he jeered into her ear, "You're not escaping, and it's very pathetic to watch your endeavors. Try not to influence me to knock you out, as I obviously have the physical advantage."
She paused, "Why do you care? You could just let me go. I'm not of importance." She gave a pull at his arms yet they didn't move from their firm grasp on her head.
"I require answers." He snarled. "Please do stop panicking, it's quite annoying to deal with." He walked off, hauling her thoughtlessly, her head still secured his arms. Sherlock imprudently let Ashton's legs thrash trying to keep up with him and the awkward position she was in.
He was mindful of John's curious eyes from the family room and he pulled the girl back in by the head. She stood flaccidly, spine slightly bent to accommodate to the placing of her head. She didn't try to escape. Sherlock tenderly pushed her from his arms, which she thrashed around, and landed clumsily onto the sofa yet again. She felt somewhat vanquished, as she'd trusted that perhaps Sherlock was only a fictional character. She couldn't tell what was quite going on, as this was the most real lucid dream she's ever had.
Sherlock now sat parallel to Ash, "What is this? It looks like you've rewatched it plenty of times." He shoved the disk case in her face.
Ashton grabbed the case, looking over the one disk she'd binge-watched almost everyday after her grandmother died. The one thing that kept her sane. She belanched, acknowledging something: you can't read in dreams; she could read it clearly. Her words were bobbled, "You mean... you haven't watched it?" She ran her fingers over the cover, following Sherlock's figure.
Sherlock shook his head, "I was tempted, however I ruled against it. I was trusting you could let us know. Appears like you recognize it." He glanced to Ash and the DVD case, then quickly to the silent John who was listening intently.
Ash wrung her hands around her wrists, "I do." She looked up, meeting the eyes of Sherlock nervously, then John. She inhaled sharply, "You guys... aren't real. God, this all isn't real. 221B isn't real. It's a television show. That's why I was hesitant to tell you, Sherlock. This is that show I'd been watching."
Sherlock didn't move a muscle. He just gazed at her, his complete attention on each word she said and move she made.
"I have evidence. You strolled into the Buckingham castle wearing a sheet. You jumped off a building for John and stayed "dead" for two years. You disassembled Moriarty's networks, with scars to prove it. You have an adorable earhat and your purple shirt is screamed over. John, your wife- oh crap- is she..? Dead? Sorry, sorry. Has Moriarty returned yet? The fandom has been waiting for season five and it's making everybody insane. Also, Sherlock, you have a sister that like, slaughtered your best friend. Or, god, has that happened? I was just watching season one. I may have just revealed to you your future-"
"We've heard enough." Sherlock was deadly calm, yet there was a waver in his tone. "So... you're saying this show holds John and my whole time we've known each other?" His eyes glanced at the DVD case, uncertain of what to do with this new data.
"Yes." Ash affirmed, flipping the case in her grasp. "At least until... well, now. There are only four seasons." She sighed, "I've rewatched them too many times to count. You... you shouldn't watch this, though."
"And why not?"
Ash remained silent for a moment, "Tragedy... and trauma." Her gaze flickered to John, "I cried in those moments, if it makes you feel better." She offered. Ashton froze, "Where would Rosie be?"
John stiffened, his face grey and ashen, his eyes dark. He exhaled, "With Mycroft." A bitter look flash across his face and he clasped his hands together tightly.
With... what? Why is she with Mycroft?" The possibility of little Rosie with Mycroft appeared to be preposterous, nearly abuse. Mycroft could be... odd around kids. He generally acted so burdened when he was to look after children.
Sherlock and John looked uncomfortable, and Ashton couldn't pin why. Had they been doing something important? Why go through the trouble to hand Rosie over to Sherlock's older git of a brother? Scenarios raced through Ashton's imagination. Had something taken place? Had something gone wrong with Rosie? Something dangerous? Was Sherlock doing something dangerous? Perhaps an experiment, a calm thought suddenly interrupted the shocked ones. Maybe, they just needed her out of the way while they accomplished something possibly unsafe in the flat.
"You... wouldn't have known." John said painstakingly, testing the waters of the unstable girl.
"Known what?" She shouted. Confusion bound each word she spoke, and as she watched the two share a look, she wriggled in her seat restlessly. "What? What's wrong?" Alarm flashed in her eyes, "What's happening?"
Sherlock investigate the girl. She had anxiety, a twisted case of it, he suspected by surveying her current nervous state. Bite fingernails were a sign, alongside her little rashes on her inner elbows, showing scratching at whatever point she had an episode. The bags under her eyes were a darker purple, so she hadn't had great rest for a considerable length of time. Her lips were dried out, and it gave him full perspective of how she bit them.
Sherlock took a deep breath, pushing away his unnecessary facts he'd noticed. "While you've been unconscious..."
"...Moriarty returned."
~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~