Hello everyone! I apologize for updating so late - writer's block :) Enjoy the second chapter!
The sun had dipped into the horizon, casting a painter's dream of yellows, pinks, oranges, reds, and purples in perfect harmony across the sky. I gazed at the melting pot of colors through the large front bar window overlooking the Thames River. The colors danced on the calm waters like a Van Gogh painting, only disturbed by the passing of the occasional taxi boat.
I took a big gulp from my glass of vodka. The liquor burned my throat pleasantly and I closed my eyes briefly as I felt my muscles relax. I flexed my fingers on my bandaged hand a little, wincing at the pain.
"Damn, that's going to hurt in the morning," I muttered aloud with a sigh.
"Ge' into a bit o' a nasty fight?" a thick British voice asked. I glanced up and saw the bartender gazing at me with his brow creased with mild concern.
"Uh, yeah, some douche at the coffee shop told me my shorts were too short," I responded, inwardly surprised at my easy improvisation. "So I punched him."
"Ouch."
"Yeah," I agreed, nodding and grimacing as if remembering it. "Unfortunately for me, his face was pretty tough and, well..." I raised up the bandaged hand as if to say, 'and you know the rest.'
The bartender grimaced and shook his head, waving his curly, white locks about his face. He had to be around his mid-sixties, judging by his advanced wrinkles and the way he wiped the glasses really slow and methodically, but his eyes were young and full of life. Despite their hue of grey that would normally be perceived as dull, they had sparkled with excitement as soon as I had mentioned my fight. The man leaned on the bar counter, dipping the elbows of his white shirt in some spilled liquor on the counter, and gave me his undivided attention.
The bar was pretty empty, I observed, save for a few drunks here and there and one lady sitting by herself at the end of the bar. So I assumed that this bartender was either truly excited by my complete bullshit tale of adventure or simply had nothing better to do and was glad for the distraction.
"You get into fights often, miss?" he asked, his eyes all aglow like a child's. I laughed at that and he beamed. "I mean, ya do sound real tough and all, with that accent o' yours. Where ya from, anyhow?"
"New York," I said. "Manhattan. Been here for two years believe it or not, and all my friends are as British as you can get. Somehow I haven't picked up the accent."
"Yeah," the man said. "Not o' bit, I'd say. I's thought you was a tourist 'round these parts from that accent. People get intimidated by ya often?"
"Yeah, I'd say that," I said, feeling flattered. "I've got that stereotypical New Yorker attitude to back it up, too... but that normally gets me into more trouble than it gets me out of."
The bartender laughed like I'd just told him the funniest joke in the world. His eyes beamed with warmth and I felt like I could tell this stranger anything, even my deepest, darkest secret. Perhaps even one deep, dark secret in particular that's been buried six feet deep for a long time.
"I ought to lay off, though," I mused, deciding to share a different personal narrative. The bartender's smile slipped off his face and his expression turned serious. "Ya see, I've got a godson now, and my friend's counting on me to be there for him. So... I guess I'm saying that I'd be lying if trying to suppress my inner fighter better hadn't crossed my mind once or twice."
Too bad I'm addicted to it all, I thought. The rush and excitement of Sherlock's cases; the adrenaline of almost dying but living to tell the tale. How does that one Muse song go? "Five, six, seven, minus nine lives, you've arrived at panic station."
That was only one of the many reasons I was stuck in my business. The other main one was, well, Sherlock. He was my friend and I couldn't just say, 'See ya, bud,' and then walk out on him. He'd be left alone to pay the rent and find a new accomplice - and God forbid if he turned to John, who, on top of caring for his two year old son, certainly didn't need to be putting his life on the line. Mary would kill him if he did.
"I'm sure you'll figure i' out, miss," the bartender was saying. He slid me another glass of vodka with a kind smile. I smiled and began to reach for my wallet, but he held up a hand.
"No need," he said. "On tha' house."
"Thank you," I said. The bartender merely smiled warmly before walking to the other end of the bar counter to refill the glass of the lady sitting down there.
I gazed back at the bar counter and let out a sigh. Despite the warmness of the bartender, it hadn't made my situation feel any better. The only reason I was here at this old bar two blocks from 221B was because Sherlock and Mycroft had gotten in a nasty fight.
Sherlock had started going on and on about how 'it was Christmas' because we had a solid lead on our case that we'd been working on for weeks on end ever since Dr. Hemmings had contacted us. The poor man had been on the edge of hysteria ever since he'd been receiving death threats from an anonymous emailer telling him to give him the Epinephrine or else, and I quote, "things would get so messy it would make a brain surgeon queasy."
Of course, Mycroft had cut him off and told him that we couldn't go chasing some crazed henchman of God-knows-who just because the guy said his boss had sent him. We didn't know who this boss was, what he wanted exactly, or if he wanted our heads on a pike.
Well, that sent Sherlock off. He started shouting to the rooftops about how Mycroft couldn't infringe on this case because it was his (ours, I had corrected in my head as I watched on) and not the British government's. Mycroft countered that Sherlock was his brother and therefore his responsibility and also the government's, and he would take over this case because, goddammit, he is the head of the British government and he can do what he sees fit to do.
"You're just afraid that Nicole's going to break a leg again, aren't you, Mycroft?" Sherlock retorted hotly, spitting out his brother's name like it was a disease. "Or get her hand cut, or get another concussion, or get her skin burnt from a coffee shop bomb like last year-"
Mycroft had rushed forward at that point to certainly strangle Sherlock, and he would have if I hadn't intercepted things.
"Hey!" I shouted angrily. "Let's take this down a few notches, alright?"
"Nicole, you cannot seriously be siding with-"
"Y'know what, Mycroft?" I hollered in his face, which was a considerable feat for me considering his whole half foot advantage above me. "I don't give a damn about what you have to say right now! I get that you're worried about this case, what it'll lead to, and my own safety, but for God's sakes, man - I can defend myself!"
"You know, I believed that," Mycroft hissed, and then raised his voice, "until you were almost shot in the head by Moriarty!"
What came over me next makes me feel rotten to the core. Even as I sit here in this old, odorous bar hours later, I still feel the guilt as wet and cold in my throat as I had the moment that my hand had connected with his face in the most powerful slap that fury can deliver.
Mycroft stood there, dumbfounded. Sherlock, for once, was dead silent behind me. He also, for once, had let me take care of the situation... which I had just royally screwed up.
Tears welled in my eyes and anguish stabbed me in the heart. I reached out to Mycroft, who flinched away. His face was reddening from the hand-mark on his left cheek, anger boosting the color across the rest of the surface. He promptly whipped around and began gathering his coat from the chair he had flung it on before furiously arguing with Sherlock.
"Mycroft, wait!" I hollered, hating the way my voice sounded pathetic and broken. But he was already gone; he had swept out of the room and disappeared down the stairs without looking back.
"Wait," I choked. "I'm sorry."
I put a hand to my face and felt hot tears on my skin.
"Nicole," Sherlock said gingerly. It sounded so odd on his tongue; foreign.
"Goddammit!" I screamed.
I grabbed the nearest lamp, which luckily was not lit at the moment, and I threw it across the room. It smashed into the wall above the coach and littered glass onto the leather. The bent lamp shade tumbled off of the couch and rolled across the floor before stopping at my feet.
I strode across the room, grabbing my own coat and snatching my wallet off of the side table.
"Nicole!" Sherlock shouted this time; this tone sounded far more familiar to my ears.
I stopped just long enough to turn and look at him. His face seemed constricted, like he was trying to force something out. It took me a moment to realize he was trying to mask a comforting look, and after a moment he gave up.
"The game is on, Nicole," he said gravely. "And it merely asks for every bit of us."
Exhaustion washed over me, nearly compelling me to fall to my knees. My heart gave out a cry of anguish and the stitches holding together my emotional stability and sanity began to pop apart like an oozing wound.
"Not now, Sherlock," was all I could say without breaking anything else in the room. My fists were balled at my sides and I was literally shaking with emotion.
"Please," I said. "Not now."
As I sat at the bar, remembering all of this, I thought again about leaving it all behind. Like I said, tonight was a major reason on top of everything else.
And I had thought that, after Mary had had little Henry, that everything might settle down. And it did for a while; Sherlock and I had worked cases, he retained his friendship with John, and I maintained my relationship with Mycroft. With a smile I remembered the times John and I, at those rare moments when Sherlock and Mycroft were not in the room to overhear, would vent to each other about the stubborn qualities of the Holmes' brothers. But, in reality, we loved them more dearly than we were irritated by their flaws.
I downed the rest of my vodka and inwardly rejoiced at the intense burn in my throat. I felt a quiet dizziness in my temples that brought relaxation to my tense muscles.
"For you, miss," the bartender said, making me jump. He was silent as a mouse behind the bar counter.
"Hmm?" I asked. Then I saw the glass of vodka ohranj sitting on the table in front of me on a petite napkin. I glanced up at him and smiled bashfully.
"Another one on the house?" I asked. "Really, you don't need to-"
"Oh, it's no' from me, miss," he responded. "It's from tha' lady down thair."
He gestured with his eyes towards the end of the bar counter. I glanced discreetly around him. The woman my eyes had merely passed over earlier now was gazing at me in a sideways manner while sipping her own glass of what looked like scotch with ice. Her dark brunette, nearly-black curled hair stood out starkly against her porcelain white skin, which contrasted yet again with stark red lipstick. She was donning a simple, sparkly black cocktail dress with a V-neckline accompanied with a black little shrug covering her shoulders.
Her bright blue eyes penetrated mine and immediately evaporated what little buzz the vodka had given me. She smiled at me with her scarlet lips and perfectly contoured cheekbones, and something inside me dropped and my grip on my vodka glass tightened. There was something off in that smile; she seemed not only trying to look seductive (and succeeding very well) but also amused by the whole situation, like I was a toddler trying to fit the triangle block in the square hole.
Meanwhile, the bartender had winked at me before walking away quietly into the back room of the bar, no doubt to give us ladies some privacy.
Damn him.
I immediately averted my eyes from the woman and gazed at my vodka glass, completely neglecting the new glass sitting in front of me.
Shit, shit, shit, I thought, feeling my face grow hot.
If there's one thing I hate, it's getting hit on by strangers. Another thing I hate is getting hit on by strangers when I'm in a relationship. And the last thing I needed right now, after all the shit I had just gone through tonight, was to deal with turning someone down and hoping they didn't get violent. I had already hurt one hand and I didn't want to have bandages on the other. Mycroft would want to kill me even more than he did now.
She seems sophisticated enough, my brain rationalized as I stole a quick glance at her. She was still glancing at me, sipping her drink. And women normally aren't the ones to get physically violent from a rejection, so I think you stand a chance.
Perhaps she'll be that exception, the little rat in my head offered with a cruel grin. Then she'll punch your lights out and you'll wake up with a black eye that'll make Mrs. Hudson scream.
"Just leave me alone," I murmured to myself, just above breathing level, hoping the woman at the end of the bar would get the memo telepathically. "I'm emotionally unstable right now and I cannot deal with this."
But, lo and behold, she seemed to decide to act after watching me drown in humiliation: she slid out of her seat with the blithe movements of a dancer and sauntered over to me.
SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!
Her heels clicked on the hardwood of the bar, counting down the seconds to the worst night of my life.
Click, click, click.
She reached me in long strides and was standing at my left side in no time, turning her penetrating gaze at me. She placed a calm but firm hand on my shoulder. It took all my willpower to not look her in the face.
"It seems I've made a mistake," she said. Her voice was smooth and languid. It would have been soothing if it didn't have an edge to it that cut like a knife; it reminded me of the way Sherlock spoke when he wasn't insulting someone. "I thought you had been sipping on vodka this whole time."
"I was," I murmured, my face growing redder by the minute. I inhaled and forced myself to look her in the eyes. The blue in her hypnotic eyes held my mind hostage for a moment; but I regained my vocal faculties when a little anger filtered through that this woman, whom I'd never met, had rendered me speechless.
"I appreciate the offer," I said. Her eyebrows went up in mild amusement. "But, no thank you. I'm-"
"-in a relationship," she finished.
I nodded, feeling a little grateful she'd caught on. Maybe she'd go away and stop trying to hypnotize me.
Instead, her hand began to massage my shoulder in slight, small circles. I fought to urge to be soothed by it.
"I had assumed that much," she said. Despite being dressed like a temptress, she spoke like a prosecutor in court, and I was the unfortunate witness. "But I had gotten the feeling that you had been in a fight recently." She gestured to my bandaged hand.
"Oh, no, this is from something else," I assured her. "I, uh, dropped a vase yesterday and I forgot that it's not smart to pick up the glass by hand."
"I thought you hurt your hand by punching the man who criticized your shorts," she reflected suavely. She reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my face and behind my ear, letting her hand trace from my neck back to my shoulder.
My throat went dry.
"Anyway," I said quickly, getting up from my seat. "I'm fine and so is my relationship. I don't do one night stands, so I'm going to leave so you can prey on someone else."
I made to walk away when her grip tightened on my shoulder.
"Are you sure?" she asked. She looked me in the eyes and I suddenly felt very unsure. "I can give you a night you'll never forget." She smiled, her bright red lipstick shining, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes conveyed a playful brightness, but after many years in the Manhattan police force, I knew a liar when I saw one. There was something cold and cruel behind those blue eyes and it doused off the effects of her seduction like a cold shower.
"Very sure," I retorted, letting my tone turn frigid. She caught it and raised her eyebrows again, even more amused.
"Why don't you buy someone else a drink," I offered, taking her hand and throwing it off my shoulder. Her lips thinned and the playful light in her eyes went out as if a switch had been flipped. The frigid conniving look I had suspected was all too clear now. "Maybe someone who's into cheating," I finished.
I sauntered away from her towards the bar door, but what she said next stopped me dead in my tracks.
"Give Mycroft my best, won't you?" she called in a mocking tone.
I stopped with my hand on the door as a fresh shower of horror rained on me. My heart had stopped and my breathing was shallow.
I shoved my body weight into the door and took off down the street, not stopping until I had body slammed myself into 221B and was leaning on the stairs railing, panting.
"What is going on here?" I heard Mrs. Hudson exclaim in her cute, elderly voice. She ran into the hallway and gawked at me.
"Nicole?" she asked. "What's wrong? What's happened? Are you hurt?"
"No," I panted. "I... where's Sherlock?"
"Upstairs, dear," she replied, incredibly worried. "Tell me, what's wrong?"
"Is he alone?" I asked, ignoring her question.
My heart was still hammering away a million times a minute and I felt ready to either pass out or puke. Or both.
"No, John's with him, but-"
"That's fine," I interrupted. I ran up the stairs, taking two at a time, while Mrs. Hudson hollered questions up to me. I ignored them and burst into the living room, slamming the door behind me.
Sherlock looked up from where his sitting chair, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers pressed together. John sat in the opposite chair, but had jumped up when I burst into the room, his eyes wide and bewildered.
"What is going o-" He took in my harried composure of my windswept hair and clothes, and the horrified expression I must've been wearing, and his skin drained of color, giving him a ghostly pallor in the dim lighting of the room.
In the corner, the smashed lamp was still on the floor with the glass shards on the leather couch.
"We need to talk," I said. "Now."
Please leave a review and let me know what you think! I love hearing from you lovely readers! :D
~Writer by Moonlight~