Ruth's Academy for Young Ladies was a prison, an institution. The grounds were closed in by a tall, concrete fence, all doors and windows were locked at night, and guards patrolled the corridors. Every student had a strict, set schedule. If they deviated for even a moment, the punishments limited their few freedoms so severely that most students never dreamed of disobedience. Felicity was no such student, as Sherlock found out. Sherlock, in his quest to find a place to hide, had found a place called the Record's Room; it was more of a converted library with the sole purpose of storing files on all past and current students and staff. He could tell by the dust that the room didn't often receive visitors, so he holed away in there and, out of curiosity, found Felicity's file. It was rather large, almost three times the size that of a normal student's. Considering he had time to burn until he could sneak unseen throughout the institution to find the girl in question, Sherlock flipped the file open.
On the right hand side was a stack of papers, confiscated letters (mostly from Sherlock himself, oddly enough), rap sheets, grade reports, and more. It was like a book of the past four years of Felicity's life. Sherlock started from the back, looking for papers with the oldest dates. Felicity was eight when she was entered into the Academy. At first, she was very introverted, a hard worker, a perfect student. Professors raved about her intelligence and dedication. No problems were listed.
A year later, Felicity escaped. She was only found because the police were involved when the school feared that she had been kidnapped. Felicity had been two towns over, disguised as a homeless beggar. Her brother was notified, a note was placed in her file, and she was shipped off for psychological evaluation. After three appointments, the school's psychiatrist quit and replacements never lasted more than a few months. By age ten, Felicity was being diagnosed with everything from schizophrenia to Asperger's. Each psychiatrist seemed to form a different diagnosis and Sherlock got the feeling that Felicity was more of a brilliant actor then she was a lunatic.
The last two years took up most of the file. Felicity verbally abused professors and classmates. She'd completed a few PHD's from Oxford University and let the marks for the Academy go to hell. Felicity had scared away seven roommates and gotten into fights with three of them before she was given a single room and strict instructions about leaving the other girl's alone. While Felicity was happy to oblige, the other girls were so angry and intolerant of her that they often instigated fights. Throughout her four years at Ruth's, Felicity had only one visitor once a year- her brother, Charley. That, Sherlock thought, should be blamed on the Academy's draconian policy that only family members could write to, contact, or visit attendees. If the policy were different, Sherlock would have been round at least once a week if he couldn't be entrusted with her care in the first place.
On the left hand side of the file, there was the classic 'informational' form about the student. It kept track of Felicity's height, weight, medical conditions, age, family members, ethnicity, and more. What Sherlock was really interested in were the photographs clipped to the top of the form. There was one for every year Felicity had been a student. In the first one, Felicity's smile was tight; she was still putting on a show for the world. In the second picture, she looked thinner and a bit more battered. In the third photograph, it was clear that she had hit puberty. Felicity was taller, leaner, with hints of growing curves. Her face was sharper and her brown eyes seemed darker, colder. Despite that, it was obvious that she would be a beauty when she was older. In the fourth photograph, the most current one, Felicity's face was a perfect façade. There was no emotion to be found in her face, her eyes, her expression- nothing. The sight of it made Sherlock's skin crawl as he remembered his days when he was her age- the exact same thing had happened to him. By the time Sherlock had been twelve, he had cut himself out of life completely. He was constantly unhappy, constantly cold, and to a point where he was probably a danger to himself as well as others.
Sherlock had warned Felicity, told her not to let others change her. He'd told her how extraordinary she was and how others wouldn't understand her as she grew older. It saddened him greatly to see that his advice hadn't worked for very long. He could understand why, but his heart pained him to know that someone else had suffered through what he had. Sherlock looked at the pictures a moment longer, watching innocence slip away, before shutting the file and putting it back where it belonged. It had taken him a while to sift through all of the information he'd missed in four years; the school was now dark and quiet. Felicity would be in her room where he could see her again privately.
Sherlock snuck out of the Record's Room and through the silent hallways, never making a sound. He'd found Felicity's room number in the file, so he had no problems locating her. Sherlock made his way through the hallways, wincing at the cold black doors with silver numbers on them and the unforgiving grey linoleum floors; this place was a prison. When he found Felicity's room, he picked the lock and silently snuck inside, closing the door behind him. The room was almost completely dark, save for a bright lamp on the desk. The thin, willowy form of Felicity Muller was leaning over her desk, examining and taking notes on an experiment of a clearly chemical nature (if the large set of titration pipes were anything to go by). She abruptly stiffened, her hands clenching into fists. "I warned you to stay out, Wellembry. I guess I'll have to drive my point home." She suddenly spoke; ice and venom dripping off her words.
Without warning, she turned and threw the beaker nearest to her with all the force she could muster. Sherlock barely had time to duck and roll into her closet as the glass shattered where his neck had been just seconds before. She rose from her desk with an air of uncertainty having seen the shape of Sherlock ducking for cover. The height and stature of the shadow made it obvious that she had not attacked who she thought she had. "Who is there? Show yourself." She demanded, the icy tone becoming sharper as she grasped another beaker, clearly prepared to attack again. Sherlock stood and her eyes raced up his tall shadow, cataloging information. All of the happiness was gone from what used to be her warm brown eyes. Now, they were dark, angry pools on her face. Those same eyes widened in shock as Sherlock stepped into the small halo of light by her desk, the stark, artificial glow lighting up his cheekbones and casting long shadows. Despite the low light quality, his identity was obvious.
"Hello, Felicity." Sherlock said quietly, his low voice barely rumbling through the room. Felicity eyed him a moment longer before her face washed back over to a bitter façade that Sherlock was far too used to using himself. It made his heart pinch to see that look on Felicity's face.
"It seems as if you are still alive after all." She said, her tone clipped as she set the beaker down, crossing her thin arms. "Was the 'fake genius' idea real or was that part of the show too?" She hurled at him, her words more venomous by the second, cluing Sherlock in to how Anderson must have felt on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's verbal disembowelments. Every word was a blow. In the low light of the lamp it was starkly clear how much Felicity had changed. The happiness, the innocence, the self-confidence- it was all gone. The girl that stood before him now was a spitting image of himself at that age and it tore at Sherlock's sense of resolve. He wanted to bring back the old Felicity, the little girl that was his happy little sun. He wanted to find out what had made her this way. He wanted to fix her.
"Felicity, you didn't listen to me." Sherlock said, hearing the regret in his tone. Felicity cocked an eyebrow, clearly interested by his response but still bitter enough to keep silent. "I told you that you were unique, extraordinary. I told you to stay true to yourself. Now look at you." Sherlock said, just managing to keep talking without his voice cracking a bit. He felt so guilty that he'd let this happen, even though he had no control over the situation. With every word he spoke Felicity's face got harder and harder until it was barely concealing rage.
"What the hell are you playing at, Sherlock? I am clearly fine, unique, extraordinary. I am my own person, true to my own principles." She asked in a tone of deadly calm. Despite that, the words were rehearsed- Sherlock could remember having a vitriolic speech just like it.
"No," Sherlock disagreed, unleashing his intense stare. "You're a shell of who you were before. You let bullying, a repressive atmosphere and a lack of social contact crush you, just like I did when I was your age." Sherlock took a step closer to accentuate his point. Felicity didn't move, just stared at him, the façade wavering. "Be yourself, Felicity. That's all I ask." He said quietly. Her eyes flickered, her posture wavered as Felicity stared at him with wide eyes, calculating, fighting instinct. Seconds later, Felicity was hugging him tightly, sobbing into his coat. The release from her frigidity, from her second persona, was reassuring and troubling at the same time. Sherlock knew that if she was breaking down her walls of self-protection for him then she would be alright; she'd find herself again. What worried him was what could be lasting damage from her time at Ruth's Academy for Young Ladies. Sherlock embraced her gently, steering them over to the bed that was made so precisely that John would be impressed. He held her as she cried with enough force to shake her slim frame. Sherlock stroked her hair, taking comfort in comforting another at a time when he'd lost his friends and family to take down an enemy. Felicity was his first social contact in months.
"I thought you were dead, Sherlock- and it killed me to have to hide that sorrow. Why and how are you alive?" She whispered finally, pulling away, wiping her eyes, and inspecting Sherlock with a thorough, searching gaze as if she could deduce the answer from his eyes alone.
"There used to be a criminal mastermind based in London by the name of Jim Moriarty." Sherlock started as Felicity straightened to her regal posture, wiping any other evidence of crying off of her face as if it would help her pay more attention than her already rapt response to his speech. "When my abilities threatened to slow down and even stop his crime syndicate, he retaliated. For a year we exchanged barbs back and forth- he'd present me with a case and I'd solve it. Three years ago he started to attack me personally. Moriarty drummed up the media, focused all of their attentions on my brilliance. When the time was right, he tore down my image to make it appear to the world that I was a fake and that he was an actor I'd hired to make my cases seem more legitimate."
"Ingenious," Felicity said, her face and tone suggesting that the last thing she felt for Moriarty was admiration. Every inch of her was tense. Sherlock grimaced.
"When he reached what he called 'the final problem', I was positive that I could beat him. I had a backup plan, just in case, and it quickly became necessary when Moriarty took himself out of the equation. I needed him and he killed himself so that I couldn't get out of his plan." Sherlock revealed, and Felicity looked at him wide eyes before she got it.
"There was a threat and you needed him to call it off. Who was in danger?" She pieced together, staring at Sherlock half in horror, half in anticipation.
"He had three snipers; one shot for John, one for Mrs. Hudson, and one for Lestrade." Sherlock said, his tone clipped as he remembered the paralyzing fear that had gripped him when that became clear to him up on that rooftop. The three people that had mattered most to him had their lives hanging in the balance on his account. Felicity's eyes widened.
"So you faked your own death to protect them." She very nearly whispered, looking at Sherlock with a new kind of sorrow. "How did you live? You jumped off of a building that was six stories tall." She pressed on, and for that, Sherlock was grateful. He was more than aware of his sacrifice; it had been eating at him for the past three years.
"St. Bart's was undergoing renovations before and during Moriarty's games. I changed a few of the plans to suit my own needs; there was a slight gap between the façade of the building and the back wall. When that space was open, it led straight to a hidden room on the first story. A shock mat absorbed the fall and a truck was strategically placed so that when I rolled out of the first story window, no one saw it. Fake blood and acting filled in the gaps." Sherlock explained, remembering the sharp smack of his back hitting the padded mat.
"Surely medics checked for a pulse, for breathing," Felicity pushed.
"I had help from the hospital's pathologist. I paid her and medics to be standing by, to get me out of there as quickly as possible. The only problem was John." Sherlock said, forced to pause for a moment. Hearing John completely broken, murmuring "Oh God, no," under his breath would stay with Sherlock until the end of his days. "I knew that John would not completely believe it, even if it happened directly in front of him. I knew that John would want evidence, proof. He'd want to feel for a pulse." Sherlock's lips twisted up into a smile, leaving Felicity looking taken aback at the look on his face when he was discussing something so horribly sad. "I used a very interesting trick I had learned a few years ago that had fooled John once before," Sherlock explained, and Felicity looked at Sherlock in surprise when she understood what he was hinting at. The second time they'd met she'd faked her own death to get rid of bullies by cutting off her pulse and breathing with a set of tight bands around her torso…
"You used the band-method?" She said, sounding slightly flattered, a small smile stretching across her grim and far too grown-up face. Sherlock loved seeing it there. "And it worked for you?" Felicity tacked on, the smile vanishing.
"Perfectly. From the time I was falling to the sidewalk up until I woke up in the morgue is blank to me. Molly Hooper, the pathologist, told me that I wasn't breathing and that I had no heartbeat and that John felt for a pulse and didn't find one." Sherlock reported. They sat in silence for a moment, looking at each other.
"What have you been doing for the past three years, then, if Moriarty killed himself?" Felicity asked, getting up and grabbing a box of baking soda. She sprinkled it liberally over the doorframe and the ground below it where she had thrown the beaker at Sherlock. He was slightly amused to note that she had thrown concentrated nitric acid at him and it was currently burning through the wood, wallpaper and carpet. If she hadn't neutralized it then the acid would have most likely eaten through to the concrete floor and beyond.
"I've been destroying his web of crime. It was a well-organized, global network. It took time to destroy every last strand and my work is almost complete. There is only one operative left to destroy, a sniper by the name of Sebastian Moran, and I need John's help to do it." Sherlock said, feeling only slight pride as he admitted to the vast amount of work he'd done. It almost didn't seem worth it when he considered the consequences of doing so. He hadn't contacted anyone for the past three years except Felicity just now, and he missed his old life. He was almost home, however, and that's what he was counting on to get him through. Felicity set the box back on her desk and hugged Sherlock again, burying her face into his wool coat. "What about you, Felicity? I read your file downstairs. You haven't been idle." Sherlock noted, his cheek and nose pressed into Felicity's still vibrant red hair. Felicity snorted into his chest. "Three PHDS in Chemistry, Biology and Engineering?" Sherlock prompted, and Felicity snorted again. It was baffling to see someone so young and so gifted brushing off their talents artlessly, but Sherlock understood. He'd done the same thing with his degrees in Biochemistry, Physics and Sociology when he was her age. "What about the fights?" He asked in a quieter tone, his grip tightening protectively when Felicity stiffened.
"They didn't understand and when they couldn't understand me they feared me, hated me. They wouldn't leave me alone." Felicity's voice was muffled by Sherlock's thick coat. "Then they started harassing me. When they punched me I punched back. They instigated fights and once and awhile I was more than willing to oblige them." She continued, and Sherlock felt his back stiffening in anger. He could imagine a group of girls similar to the packs of boys from his days at university. He could see how they would surround her, picking a fight. He knew just how it felt to be pushed to your limit, to punch the instigator right in the face only to have the group beat you down when you couldn't fight all of them back. He made a mental note to find these girls and scare them away, intimidate them, make them pay for what they'd done to Felicity. He was unwilling to admit just how protective he was of Felicity; he supposed that he was almost at a 'fatherly' level. For someone who wasn't a blood relative, that was careful, unsure waters to be in, but Sherlock didn't care.
"Felicity," Sherlock sighed in a sympathetic way, pressing his face into her hair. She'd been just as lonely, just as isolated as he had these past few years. "How's Charley?" He asked, and Felicity pulled away but didn't get off Sherlock's lap. Neither of them cared.
"He was deployed two years ago, to Kuwait, but I'm sure you've known that for a long time." She said, voice trembling slightly. Despite that, she held her head high, her face twisted in sadness. "He emails me when he can and visits as often as he can, but he only really comes for Christmas." She added, her tone becoming more level as she bottled up her emotion, forced it down and away.
"Don't do that, Felicity." Sherlock rebuked softly. "Don't store that emotion inside yourself." He added when she only looked at him, confused. "You know what it does," he said, letting his gaze do the work. Felicity grimaced, looking down.
"Habits are hard to break." She said simply, unwilling to go further into detail. Appearing emotionless had been key to staving off interactions with her classmates- it had been a matter of survival. Forcing herself not to feel was second nature to Felicity. Before Sherlock could say anything else, her head snapped towards the doorway, apparently listening. Seconds later Sherlock heard footsteps 'sneaking' towards Felicity's room. Felicity silently got off of him and pointed to the closet. Sherlock ducked inside it just as quietly, standing behind the door but looking through the crack. He had a perfect view of the doorway. Felicity's posture changed; she grew into a cold, unforgiving figure before she whipped the door open before it could be forced open from the other side. "Can I help you, Wellembry?" She asked coolly, her icy voice making a ferocious comeback.
"I heard voices, freak." An aggressive voice that reminded Sherlock of Anderson filtered through the doorway. The name the girl called Felicity made his blood boil with rage. He was particularly sensitive to the slur 'freak' for obvious reasons and he was not about to let someone call Felicity that and get away with it.
"Congratulations, you aren't as stupid as I thought. Yes, you heard something- a voice. Mine. Anything else I can help you with?" Felicity mocked, her words a verbal punch.
"Your voice isn't that low, freak. Unless you're a bloke as well as a butch-ugly bitch?" Wellembry shot back. Sherlock's teeth clenched in an effort not to sweep out of the closest and give this girl a piece of his mind.
"It's called acting and voice-manipulation, Wellembry." Felicity said, suddenly mimicking Sherlock's deep baritone with perfect accuracy. "Is there anything else I can help you with- do you need to know how to tie your shoes? Why the sky is blue? How to count to five?" Felicity was merciless- she didn't let this other girl affect her outwardly in anyway. As she'd said- it was all acting, and Felicity was excellent at it.
"Yeah, you can hold still while I punch your ugly face, freak." Wellembry spluttered. There was a moment of shuffling as Wellembry launched forward and Felicity swiftly dodged, grabbed her wrist, and slammed her into the doorframe, keeping threatening pressure on her arm and shoulder socket.
"If you come back here again, Wellembry, I'll dislocate your shoulder. I can't promise that I'll behave the time after that, so leave me alone." Felicity snarled in a way that even gave Sherlock a chill before pushing Wellembry back out into the hallway. Felicity slammed her door and locked it, leaning against the dark wood in silence, head bowed as Wellembry stormed away. In Felicity's dark room, Sherlock could just see the profile of her pale, thin face behind her dark red-hair. Felicity looked so unhappy that it made Sherlock even angrier. He ducked out of the closet, nudging her aside and going for the door. "Sherlock, no, what are you doing?" Felicity panted, throwing all her weight back against the door to close it when Sherlock wedged it open a crack.
"I'm about to teach that girl a lesson in manners." Sherlock hissed, getting the door half open before Felicity forced it shut again. She pried Sherlock's fingers off the deadbolt and the doorknob and held onto his hands. Both of them were aware that Sherlock was obviously much stronger and taller than Felicity. If he really wanted to, he could leave on the spot and Felicity wouldn't be able to stop him. "Please, Sherlock. It's not worth it." Felicity said in a quieter tone, her dark brown eyes searching his face. There was a moment of silence. Sherlock, in looking for a distraction, decided to bring up one of his reasons for coming to see Felicity.
"Felicity, I need your help." Sherlock said finally, giving her tiny hands a squeeze in reassurance. Felicity laughed, the tone slightly bitter. She relaxed a bit, seeing that he'd given up his endeavor to follow the girl who had been bothering her.
"Sherlock, I'd love to help you- but I'm stuck here. I can't leave." Felicity said, moving to drop his hands. Sherlock held on, turning up the intensity of his gaze.
"You got out of here once before, Felicity. With help you can most definitely do it again." He murmured. Felicity looked at him for a moment, trying to understand.
"Why?" She said finally, and Sherlock's smile twisted slightly. He knew that she wouldn't have turned down a chance to get out of her prison, but he needed her for a very sad reason.
"I'm going home, to Baker Street, to apologize and explain to John, Mrs. Hudson, everyone. I intend to go to John first. I need to break this to him slowly." Sherlock said, regret filling his tone as he wondered about John. How was he doing? What was he doing? What had happened in the three years he was gone? Would he willing to let Sherlock back into his life? And, most importantly, would John be willing to look for the hint of romance they'd felt before?
"You want me to meet him first, to tell it to him and then bring you in as proof." Felicity said, putting the pieces together. She gave Sherlock a soft smile and a nod. "Of course I will. I've missed John just as much as I've missed you."
"Excellent. How soon can you leave?" Sherlock asked, releasing her hands. Felicity instantly leapt into action. She put her experiment on hold, grabbed a backpack and a few things that she was going to need, and then quickly proceeded to braid her long, rebellious locks, just like she did the last time Sherlock had seen her. With her hair tied back, she picked up her backpack, slinging it on.
"Let's go," She said with a grin that was faintly reminiscent of the smiles Sherlock used to see on her face. Without another word Sherlock paced over to the window and opened it, sneaking through like a cat with Felicity close behind.
OoOoOoO
A/N: Hello, hello! I'm not enjoying college so much as to forget all of you lovely, wonderful people or this story! I have a lot more planned so have no fear! The way Sherlock described surviving the Fall is my own Reichenbach Theory...I hope it made sense. If it didn't, PM me and I'll answer questions. :) What do you think of the changed Felicity? Can you see how Sherlock would be the same way? Maybe? Possibly? I was trying to do a 'circles within circles' thing but it probably didn't happen that way. Oh well. OH! But did you like the bit with the bands that Felicity used to fake her own death when she and Sherlock met? Did you get that? Huh? Maybe? (If you can't tell, I'm very excited and proud about that!) SO, ANYWAY, Felicity is off to see Sherlock back to London and to help him let everyone know that he isn't dead after all. Hooray! Don't forget- he and John had a little somethin' somethin' before Sherlock jumped and everything...MUAHAHHAAHAHAHA
Thanks to louisuperwholocked on Tumblr for dealing with the author while she is hyper and for being a super beta. :D