A/N: Hello, everyone! I'm so sorry for such a long wait. I've been trying to manage everything in life so I worked to get this one out much sooner for you all. Because I love you. I'm still happy that you all like this so much! I'm still on the fence with this chapter-it's more fluff than anything, I think-but let me know if what you think!
I don't own anything but Anna and Darlene.
Sherlock remained in his chair. Mrs. Hudson had long gone but she'd started a fire in the hearth before the cold settled in. Its light danced across the finish of Sherlock's violin. It lay in his lap. One hand fingered a made up song across the black fingerboard, the other hand plucked deftly farther down on the strings.
The pain in his hands had deterred him from doing any more than just that and at a time when he needed to play—to clear his mind—it was most frustrating.
The moans of the landing stairs alerted Sherlock's ears.
John peaked his head through the doorway. Then, with both his hands covering his eyes, he walked all the way in.
"Are you decent? May I come in this time?"
"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock growled between his teeth.
"You were lying between her legs, Sherlock." John walked in and dropped into the chair adjacent to him.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to say 'so'?
"What else am I supposed to think? You were having a nice chat?"
"We were."
John laughed lightly. "So that's what they're calling it these days." Sherlock didn't respond but looked into the hearth. "Sex."
"Yes, I understand." Sherlock quickly replied. Just because he was known as The Virgin doesn't mean he didn't understand an innuendo.
"What's going on between you two, anyways." John shuffled over and sank heavily into his own chair. The cushions sighed at his weight.
"Nothing." His eyes focused on his fingers.
"Why don't you just tell her you fancy her?"
"I don't." Sherlock flatly stated.
"Don't be so daft." John kicked off his shoes. "The only people I've ever seen you willingly have a decent conversation with is Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, me, and her. You can't deny that."
The movements in his fingers stopped, only for a second; John was right. If there was something that bothered Sherlock most it was when he was wrong. What made it worse was that John was correct.
"You make mistakes with women all the time. How do you fix it?"
John let out a breathy laugh and rolled his eyes. "I'll ignore that and pretend you're not such an ass." He settled deeper into the chair. "Are you asking me for relationship advice?"
"No."
"The consulting detective asking for advice." John smiled to himself. At Sherlock's clear and visible displeasure, John continued. "Go with the four 'S's. There's something sexy, sweet, smelly, or sentimental. Take your pick."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose.
"Why don't you go talk to her?"
"I can't." Sherlock began to pluck the strings again. "Not now."
"What did you do?" John moaned.
Anna sat on her sofa, her feet curled up beneath her body and a pillow clutched close under her chin. Loose ends of her hair hung over her forehead and into her eyes. Any makeup she'd had on that day dripped away as tears continued to dribble down her cheeks.
She looked like a mess and it didn't matter.
Sherlock bringing up the subject of her Brandon, fiancé—ex-fiancé—was considerably touchy. Though, how was he to know? She'd never mentioned him before, as she hardly did to anyone these days.
An old shoebox sat in front of her on the coffee table, its contents carefully spread out on its surface. There was a postcard, marked from a year ago, from Brandon while she was in Boston. There were a few ticket stubs and flower petals. In her hand, there was a picture of the two of them. It was the night he proposed and they appeared to be the happiest they could be.
That was a lie.
"Anna?" a voice called from her open doorway.
"Oh! John!" Anna sniffed and wiped away the mucus, tear mixture away from her face with the sleeve of her jumper. "How did you get in?" She cleared her throat and attempted to look presentable.
"Um, one of your neighbors. On their way out." John stepped in her flat. "Anna, are you alright?"
"Yes."
"You don't have to lie."
Anna let out a heavy, breathy laugh. "No." A fresh stream of tears built up beneath her closed eyes. She tried to wipe them away. "I'm sorry."
"No." John walked further into the room and took a seat at her side on the couch and put his arm around her in a comforting embrace.
Anna leaned into it and wept.
The pair sat like that until Anna's sobs subsided and settled into a calm silence.
"What happened to him?" Anna looked up from her pillow, eyes wide and puffy. "Sorry. You don't have to talk about it."
"No." Anna sat up straighter and fixed her composure and took a quick breath before continuing. "I met Brandon at Uni before I transferred over to Boston. He was sweet and kind and funny and everything I thought I wanted." Anna reached for one of the pictures lying on the coffee table. "He proposed to me just before Christmas. It was very romantic. And then I left. Things between us were alright, at first, but then we hit a lot of rough patches." Anna cleared her throat again and fumbled the picture between her fingers.
"And then, well, he left me. He never really told me he left. It's stupid really." Her face was growing warmer from embarrassment.
"And then it happened.
"He called me one morning and kept apologizing, though I didn't understand why. He told me he still loved me and that he made some mistakes but couldn't tell me. His voice was…scared. It was terrified. Well, it left me really unsettled so I caught a flight back home and I dropped by his flat."
Anna started to stumble in her thoughts, though John urged her on.
"I found him there, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood and a knife in his back."
"Oh, God." John breathed out and Anna began to cry again.
Through her sobs, Anna said, "And…and they never did say…wh-who did it. They-they're still out there." Her voice shook less now. "I don't know what he did, but he died for it."
"Anna, I'm so sorry." John rubbed the side of one arm and hugged her closer. Once more, the two of them sat in silence, both getting lost in their own thoughts. Anna's tears had then ceased, leaving only the salty trails down her rosy cheeks.
"Mary is a lucky woman." Anna sat up from John's side and offered a petite smile, which John reciprocated.
They sat in good company a while longer. It was, they had realized, the first time they'd been able to chat away from Sherlock. It was refreshing.
And the mood had lightened significantly. Anna had prepared some coffee and brought out a small tray of cookies. They laughed together, even.
"I don't mean to be nosey, but is there a special someone for you these days?" Anna smiled and that gave it away. "Where'd you meet him?"
"At the symphony. He's a tad younger than me but we'd met during a rehearsal. He'd asked if I wanted to play at his recital—he's a violist."
"Good for you." John raised up his mug towards her with a smile.
"Say, um, John. I was actually wondering if you'd like a double date sometime?
"Sounds great!"
"You're a good friend." She put her arms around his neck. "Thank you for talking tonight. It means a lot."
"Of course."
Sherlock was walking towards Anna's corner café. His one hand tucked away into his jacked while the other gripping the folds of a small brown bag. His upper lip was curling up higher with each minute.
It was only by John's encouragement that Sherlock was doing this.
"You expect her to forgive you because I talked to her? You can't be serious." John had said when he returned from her flat.
It's not that Sherlock didn't care about his friendship—since when did he have other friends?—with Anna, it's only that Sherlock hated asking for things.
He detested asking for advice, for help, or even for forgiveness.
Sherlock came to the front café door and stepped in. The chime of a bell rung as the door swung behind him. His eyes swiftly swept over the area and didn't find Anna.
"Your usual?" The usual woman called from the back of the shop.
"No. Where's Anna?"
The woman's face upturned into a smile. "Be right with you, dear." She disappeared behind a set of doors. When she returned, Anna followed, her jacket buttoned up and a purse slung over her side. Upon seeing him, Anna's face drooped. "Caught her just before she left," The woman smiled.
Sherlock could hear Anna's frustrated sigh and caught the roll of her eyes. "Let's go." She walked towards the door before he'd the chance to speak.
They walked back towards Baker Street, both in silence. Sherlock didn't mind it mostly; he wasn't quite sure what to say or how to start. He obviously wasn't the best with words. That would be John's strong suit.
However, he could sense unease from Anna. Every block or so, Sherlock would catch her stealing a glance his direction, as if suspicious and uncomfortable.
In a short amount of time, they'd reach the landing to her flat. Sherlock stopped outside the door and Anna walked up one step. They both stared at each other.
"Sherlock." Anna shoved her hands in her coat pockets. "Was there something you wanted to say or not? I do have something—."
Sherlock abruptly shot out his hand that gripped the small brown bag.
Anna's face scrunched a little, obviously confused. "What is this?" She took the bag from him and began to open it.
"John mentioned such a token would be appropriate regarding the circumstances." Sherlock locked his hands behind his back.
"The circumstances?" Anna dug around the inside of the bag and pulled out its contents. "A muffin?"
"Something sweet. For you."
"It's a muffin."
"It's poppy seed." Sherlock defended.
"Um, thanks, Sherlock. I guess I don't understand—."
"I'm sorry, Anna."
I know; there's no music in this one. There should be in the next one, though. I'm still figuring out where it's all going but thanks for reading!
If you want to keep tabs on what music I'm personally working on, check out my tumblr(listed on my profile page)! Tons of nerdy stuff there. :3