A/N: Aaaaahhh! I'm so terribly sorry for not ever updating. This last semester was really hard and I know that this upcoming semester will be even more demanding of my time. So thank you to those that have contacted me on tumblr or have added me or have left me reviews on here. It was actually very nice to see that many people still read this while I was away on hiatus.
Anyways, I'm excited where I get to go with this story now. I wasn't sure before but an idea dawned. :) I apologize in advance if the writing isn't quality or if the plot line is a little fuzzy. I'm a music major, not a writer. This is just for shits and giggles.
The song I mention in this that Anna plays: Dvorak Cello Concerto in B Minor, B. 191: II Adagio ma non troppo. Seriously listen. It has made me cry so many times over. It's damn just gorgeous.
Sometime, as the bright sun nagged her from her deep slumber, Anna awoke with a harsh clearing of her throat. Her mouth was dry and irritated, as if it stayed open all night. A trail of drool partially dry down one cheek and onto the grey pillow her head rested on.
Anna cracked an eye open and regretted it immediately. The harsh brightness assaulted her eyes.
"What did I do last night?" Anna found herself in a stranger's room. It was orderly and clean and clearly not her own.
The cool air nipped at her skin, which was strange; she always wore layers to bed. Anna peaked under the thin blankets and blushed when she found only a slinky bra and thong.
"Who did I do?"
Anna rubbed her temples. She noticed a sharp throb in the front of her skull and groaned.
She desperately needed to know what happened last night.
The last thing she remembered: being at the club with the girls.
Get some!
She got something, all right.
Anna slowly swung out of the bed and looked through the closet for something to cover whatever shred of her modesty remained.
Inside hung fine suits, collared shirts—all darkly colored—and one blue dressing robe, which she happily snatched. Anna wrapped it tightly around her body. At the bottom of the closet lay several leather shoes.
Nice taste in clothing. The room was sparse—no pictures, nothing very personal.
A breeze fluttered in the window, causing Anna to shudder. She walked up to the window to shut it but something caught her eye: her own apartment, across the street. And then her whereabouts dawned on her.
Ohshitohshitohshit!
Anna slammed her palms into her temples, immediately regretting it as it felt as though her brain rattled back and forth. She groaned and sat back down on the bed.
Why am I in his bed? Did we have sex? Where is he?
Anna tiptoed over to the door and twisted the handle, just creaking the door open. The living room was silent and there didn't seem to be anyone else in the kitchen.
Anna couldn't remember anything for the life of her and it scared her. It had been years that she'd done anything so reckless and careless. Hell, she'd never had a one-night stand before.
Of all people, it just had to be Sherlock.
Then, it surprised her. She couldn't believe it! Sherlock always was so reserved and prude. Maybe she could be as bold as to even say asexual?
Anna's eyes scanned over the living room and spotted Sherlock tightly curled up on the couch. His legs were drawn into his chest and his arms were folded around each other. His dark curls were a mess and a frown had settled on his face. Then she noticed the red lipstick smears all over his face—his neck, and his ears.
Anna rubbed her mouth with her forearm and saw a faint smear of red and gasped.
OH FUCK.
Anna spotted her shoes and her piled dress on the floor. She quickly grabbed them and made a mad dash for the door. In a shame, Anna retreated back into her own apartment across the street.
After this incident, Anna refrained from directly contacting Sherlock. He hadn't come into the café and she hadn't received any new texts from him. Being the woman she was, Anna thought she scared him away.
Was the sex THAT bad? God, what did I do?
These thoughts plagued her as she wiped down tabled between slow periods at the café.
Should I call him? What about John? He could say something for me. No, that's stupid.
Through these thoughts, Anna tried her best to act normally but there was always the nagging voice of her mother in the back of her head, shaming her for her actions. She did her best, though.
The business at the café started to pick up as the Christmas season began to inch closer and people aimed to finish their shopping earlier and earlier. Then there was Robert's performance she'd promised to play in. They hadn't played together in almost a month and Anna, being quite distracted lately, had hardly touched her cello.
That night, the first night in a few weeks that Anna returned home not entirely exhausted, Anna sat on her couch with Felix nestled at her side, a cup of warm tea, and thick socks on her feet. She sipped at the tea and looked over to the corner of the room where her cello sat propped up.
It had been a long while since she last played.
Anna got up, arranged a cozy place to play, opened a small crack in the window, and placed the instrument between her legs. After tuning up the strings, rosining up the bow, and blowing in her hands for warmth, Anna placed her bow. Without thinking, a piece came to her. She hadn't played it for a while but it was one of her favorites and always made her heart soar.
Ah, Dvorak.
With each breath, she imagined the orchestra playing behind her.
As she reached the cadenza, a little idea fluttered through her thoughts.
I hope Sherlock is listening.
Sherlock was oblivious to the swelling music across the street.
There hadn't been a good case in what felt like months and he was growing restless once more, so he retreated to his Mind Palace more often than not lately. Things weren't really cluttered in there. He just liked being away most times.
He had just finished clearing out a room.
Uh, global warming. Useless information.
Heading into another area of his palace, Sherlock found more untitled boxes. They gathered up in short piles from the past week.
Random television programs, advertisements, jingles. It was all like junk mail that he automatically threw out.
There were scraps of information that he found useful, which he kept in another box. There were street names and maps and bus routes, which he threw in the same box with other scraps.
And then there were people.
There were strangers and faces he'd never seen before. He could hear different dialects and languages and smell different cultural cuisines.
Then there was a box for John, in which he kept some information. Believe it or not, Sherlock did like to pay attention to his friend. John was important to him.
And to his own shock, a box had started for Anna. This wasn't his own doing and it surprised him. He'd never recalled seeing it before.
Seated on the floor, Sherlock pulled the box closer to himself and pulled open the flaps.
There were scraps of visual recollections from when they first met—her wrist brace, her apron, and messy work shirt—as well as audible collections—bits of Bach, Bartok, and pieces of the few times they played together.
The biggest piece of the collection had to have been the most recent, from their last time together.
It was the visual memory of Anna scantly clad in his doorway, in her drunken stupor beckoning him to join in carnal pleasures.
Sherlock curled his lip.
That particular incident was borderline embarrassing. Usually, he kept his bodily functions in check but his hormones decided otherwise. And he felt belittled.
However, it was also somewhat liberating.
Sherlock never saw the importance of relationships, romantic or otherwise. His outlook had changed once John entered his life. And then this incident happened.
He looked back at the memory of Anna. Her long legs leaded up to a 'v' that was barely covered by a lacy set of panties.
Not that seeing a scantly clad woman was particularly life changing. But Sherlock had always limited himself to certain liberties. Though they hardly ever interested him, the idea seemed exciting now.
Not only was Sherlock growing desperate for a case, but also he was desperate for change, something different.
A new, fresh energy surged through his body and his nostrils flared out
Sherlock pulled himself away from his Mind Palace and opened his eyes, then realizing the exact 'energy' he'd felt was indeed the beginnings of an erection. He rolled his eyes.
"Did I come at a poor time, brother?"
He snatched a pillow at his side and settled it on his lap, embarrassed to be caught in such a state.
Mycroft, however, sat comfortably in the chair in which John usually occupied. His legs were crossed at the knee, his cane resting at his side, and one hand lightly supported the weight of his jaw.
"What is it, Mycroft?"
"Just checking in on my favorite person." He gave Sherlock a snide smile.
The two of them sat in a momentary silence until the cello across the street began to play. This time, a viola accompanied it.
Mycroft glanced out the window, as did Sherlock.
"I bet they're quite the couple." Mycroft looked back his way.
Sherlock knew what this was about.
It had been some time ago, but he'd been warned to distance himself from Anna. Obviously, he'd ignored that warning.
"Is that all you've come to say?" Sherlock uncomfortably shifted on the couch.
Mycroft stood up and pushed aside the curtain a little. He closed his eyes, listening to the music from Anna's flat. When his eyes opened again, they were clear and dark and very stern.
"I told you before. Her companionship is not wise."
Sherlock remained silent, only clutched the pillow and watched as Mycroft moved towards the door.
"Listen to me this time. Just do what I say and stay out of my way."
Sherlock frowned as Mycroft left.
I love you all! Let me know what you think-good or bad, I'll take it all. :)