Walking in the Air

"Goodnight, Elfie."

"G'night! See you Monday."

I adjust the strap of my satchel across my chest, place my brown newsboy hat on my head and step out into the cold, London night. Taking in a deep breath, I look up at the sky; tonight is one of those rare nights where you can see the stars twinkling up above. It's a peaceful kind of thing, seeing the stars. I don't know why it makes me feel that way. Maybe it's because they remind me of how small I am in this big ol' universe or maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic. Either way, I just like looking at the stars.

Satisfied with my intake of the sky, I smile and head down the steps to the sidewalk. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a dark figure is sitting on the last step; their legs pulled in close to their chest and their forehead is resting on their knees. Cautiously, I freeze a few steps above the figure and gulp down my nerves.

"Do-do you need me to call you a cab?" I ask.

The figure lift's its head but doesn't turn to face me; "Not unless you want to get rid of me," it says and I immediately relax; I'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. You frightened me." I say with a chuckle

"Didn't mean too," he replies, standing up right and dusting off his black slacks, "and, Ms. Stegerson, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Sherlock?"

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Elfie?" I shoot back with a smirk. He chuckles in return and holds his hand out to me.

"Always a pleasure to see you…Elfie." He says with a half mouth smile.

"As is it to see you…Sherlock." I reply, shaking his hand. His fingers gently press against my wrist as our hands linger in each other's hold for a moment too long. Our eyes lock, but then we both quickly look away. Both our cheeks are pink. Must be the cold.

"Care for an escort to the tube?" he asks, stuffing his hand in his pocket, "It's, um, not safe for you to walk alone at night."

"I'd be delighted." I reply, blushing even pinker.

"Good. Come on then." Sherlock motions his head to the sidewalk and we walk in step of each other down the street, babbling away about our work.

It's been nearly a month and a half since we first met and surprisingly, Mr. Holmes and I have become close. True, not close in the sense that I secretly want us to be, but it's safe to say we've become very, very good friends. A week or so after giving me the Ismay diary, Sherlock came back to my office and asked me to identify this emerald bracelet he had found on a body. A week after that, he came back and asked me to recite all of my knowledge on Henry the fifth. A week after that…Well, to make it short, Sherlock's visits became part of my weekly routine.

Sometimes, Dr. Watson-who I've also become good friends with- would accompany him but most of the time he came by himself. It would be around noon, just before my lunch break. Sherlock would escort himself to my office door; politely knock then enter with or without my hearsay. I didn't mind, though. I enjoyed his company.

After I had completed whatever task he had asked of me, Sherlock would strike up a regular conversation that would lead to us discussing our interests for God knows how long. We talked hobbies (mine: reading. His: dissecting body parts) outside interests, things like that. It was like we've known each other for ages; that we were always meant to be friends.

To be cliché, we just clicked.

"Sherlock, where's your coat?" I ask, noticing that his signature black coat and blue scarf are missing form his person.

"Left it at home," he says with a shrug, "I was in a rush."

"What to meet me on the steps?" I ask in disbelief.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but no." He says with a laugh, "I had a…previous engagement. I've just come from there."

"I see. Well, if you wake up with a cold tomorrow morning, don't come crying to me." I say, playfully nudging his shoulder, "You need to wrap up in this kind of weather."

"I'm fine." He replies, "Besides, I'm much more use to this cold then you are. You have no need to worry about my health, Elfie. John already does enough of that."

"Oh." I say with a nod then quickly look down at my feet: I'm still trying to figure out what's going on between those two. Dr. Watson, or John as he much rather be called, came home from Afghanistan not too long ago and was looking for a flat share. He found Sherlock and that was that. They are unbelievably close, like they've been friends since the dawn of time. It makes me wonder, though: are they more than just friends?

"No." Sherlock says with a chuckle.

"Sorry?" I ask, looking at him confused, "No what?"

"No, John is not my boyfriend." He replies, giving me a half mouth smirk. My cheeks flush a bright red and I nervously bite my lower lip: Okay, seriously, he has to be psychic.

"I-I didn't say that he was." I stutter, "I mean, not that it matters or anything. I don't care. You can love whomever you want. That is, if you love men in that way… or anyone really. I don't care. I, uh, I'm…I'm going to stop talking now."

Well done, Elfie: such a way with words.

To my surprise (and relief) Sherlock lets out a deep baritone laugh; "Thanks for the approval," he says, "but I can assure you that men aren't really my area. To be quiet honest, relationships in general aren't really my area."

"Oh," I say, looking at him, "so you don't have someone? Romantically, I mean."

Sherlock scrunches up his face in distaste and shakes his head. "Dull," he replies, "I don't have time for that sort of thing. There is just my work and I; everything else is distracting. Surely you must understand that."

"Oh I do," I lie, "Your work is very important to you. That's very clear."

Sherlock furrows his brow slightly and it seems that he's studying my face. He does this a lot, I've noticed. He has moments where he completely leaves this world mentally and just stares in silence. It's weird, but at the same time fascinating. How does a brain like his work? How does someone pick up all the miniscule details of everyday life and piece together a solution in no time flat? It's genius!

"It upsets you." He says quite plainly.

"What does?"

"The fact that I consider myself wholly committed to my work."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

I bite my lower lip and nervously kick up some gravel with my shoes; He's right, of course. How is he always right?

"Why does it upset you?" he asks, genuinely curious as to what my answer might be.

"Well, I don't…I mean it's none of my business, but…" Struggling to find the right thing to say, I look up into his eyes; they truly are one of a kind. "I think your limiting yourself," I say, "Any woman would be lucky to have you."

Sherlock chuckles and rolls his eyes: "You flatter me." He says

"No, no, I'm serious." I go on, "You're one of a kind, Sherlock and…and I think you'd make someone very happy if you considered giving a relationship a try. Besides, there must be someone you have your eye on."

"What would make you say that?" he asks, getting a bit defensive.

"I don't know," I shrug, looking up at the sky, "but…I'm sorry, I'm overstepping my bounds here. I have no right to comment on your personal life."

"No, you're not overstepping anything," Sherlock quickly replies, "Your opinion matters to me."

"Really?" I ask, a bit taken back.

"Of course. You're-you're my friend."

Hearing the nervousness and childlike quality to his voice, I look back at him. He's staring right into my eyes with a sort of sad, puppy dog kind of look; that's unexpected from a guy like him.

"I-I don't have a lot of those, you know. Friends I mean." He goes on, a tad bit embarrassed. Wait, Sherlock Holmes is embarrassed?

"Neither do I," I say, trying my best to be comforting, "I mean, I'm from a completely different country. It's hard to find people I can relate to here."

"There's no one I can relate to here." He says, "Well, except...maybe you."

"Really?" I ask with a smile

"Of course. If you haven't noticed, I hold you…I hold you in very high regard." He says, smiling back. Our eyes meet again and my heart practically jumps out of chest. That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. How can I reply to that? Yes, I want to tell Sherlock that I think he's brilliant and gorgeous and I'd be more than happy to be in a relationship with him, but that would be too much.

"I hold you in high regard as well, Sherlock." I decide to go with, "Truly."

He chuckles slightly, then turns his head to look up at the stars: "Beautiful night, isn't it?" he asks.

"Yeah, it is." I reply, still keeping my eyes on that gorgeous, distinct face of his.

It's silent between us: awkwardly silent.

"You, um, you didn't say, why were you waiting for me on the steps?" I say, trying my best to spark up conversation again.

"Ah, yes, of course! I came to tell you that you were right." he exclaims, getting rather excited, "The Vermeer painting that we were discussing the other day, do you remember?"

"Yes, what of it?"

"It was a fake."

"I knew it!" I exclaim, "You see, I told you that there was no way possible that painting could have just turned up out of the blue. How'd you figure it out?"

"By looking at the details," he says, "The supernova in the upper corner of the painting shouldn't have been there because…"

"Because there was no supernova at the time the painting was made." I finish for him.

"Correct," he says, with a proud smirk, "How did you…"

"I'm a historian Sherlock," I say with a hint of bragging, "I read about all major events. I think I'd know if a supernova occurred around the time Vermeer was painting."

Sherlock chuckles slightly and nods; "Clever girl," he says, under his breath but loud enough for me to hear it.

"Not as clever as you." I say, playfully nudging his arm, "Now go on, tell me what happened."

"Everything fell into play after that," he goes on, "Once I established that the painting was a fraud, Lestrade was able to save the little boy's…" His face becomes very stern all of a sudden and he presses his lips together tightly.

"What little boy?" I ask, but he doesn't reply. Worried, I place a comforting hand on his hand. Sherlock shutters at my touch and I quickly pull away. "I'm sorry." I say, sheepishly, "I didn't mean…"

"No, no, it's…it's fine." He says, taking my hand into his, "I don't mind it. I…I'm assuming you were trying to comfort me?"

"You look like you needed it." I reply.

"You're more right then you know," he sighs.

"Why? Has something happened?"

"Yes…a lot has happened." Sherlock looks up at the sky again and gently intertwines his fingers in mine. Is he…is he holding my hand? Really? This is happening? Good God, I feel like I'm a schoolgirl who has just had her first interaction with her crush. Get it together, Fee, you're an adult.

"Elfie," he says in a low voice, "can…can you keep a secret?"

"Um, sure. What is it?" I ask, staring at our intertwined hands.

"I've made a rather dangerous enemy." He explains, still looking ahead, "In my line of work, that's not entirely uncommon. However, this…man, he's different. He's smart, Elfie, smarter than anyone I've ever come across. He calls himself, Jim Moriarty." He quickly turns his face to me; his expression is a mixture of worry and deep thought: "You haven't met him have you?"

"No, never heard of him." I say,

"Good, and I hope you never have to," he says, looking back at the sky, "He's a spider, Elfie: he has connections in every criminal organization. We've been close to crossing paths, before but always just missed each other."

"Oh god," I breathe out, "that's…unnerving."

"Until tonight that is: I've finally met him. My match." He goes on, "Before coming here, I had my confrontation with this consulting criminal."

"Consulting criminal?"

"That's what he does; criminals from all walks of life come to Moriarty for…assistance."

"Like how you help people," I say, thinking aloud, "You consult the police, he consults…." I stop when I see a look of hurt in Sherlock's eye. "Oh, Sherlock, I didn't mean to upset you." I apologize, "You're nothing like this guy."

"The problem is, I think I might be." He says, half to himself. I watch his expression become cold and stone. He's thinking again, so deep in that brain of his. I tighten my hold on his hand, and to my surprise he squeezes in return. "I almost died this evening." He whispers, "I put myself, and John, in danger and it almost cost us our lives."

"What?" I exclaim, freezing mid-step, "Oh my god, what the hell happened? Are you…do we need to call the police?"

"That's unnecessary," he plainly states, "I can handle this."

"Handle it? Handle what? What has this Moriarty done?"

"Leave it alone, Elfie," He mumbles starting to walk forward again, "It's nothing."

Tightening my hold on his hand, I quickly pull Sherlock back so that we are face to face. His six-foot figure hovers over my 5'2", looking down at me with a stern face.

"Sherlock, this is serious," I say, unphased by his concern, "If this Moriarty character is a threat, the police should know about it."

"They will, in good time." He says, "Just…let me do my job. Why are you so concerned?"

"Because, as you stated earlier, I'm your friend." I say rather matter of factly, "I care about you." Sherlock suddenly lightens his expression as he stares blankly at me. He blinks his eyes multiple times as if he was fully processing what I had just said.

"You…care about me?" He asks

"Yes, of course." I say, but then I feel rather embarrassed. Did he interpret that the wrong way? Does he think I'm confessing something? "That's what friends do, they care about each other." I say just to be safe.

Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and runs his free hand through his dark, mop of curls. "No one's ever said that to me before." He states with a twinge of hurt in his voice.

"Well…its true." I reply, unsure of what to say to that, "I care about your safety and health and…stuff like that."

Once again, I have such a way with words.

"Elfie, listen to me." He says, closing his eyes and taking my other hand into his, "I…I need you to understand something. My job, my life, is very dangerous. I take risks everyday, some a bit more deadly than others. That's my choice, though. I have chosen to be a part of solving crimes and I am willingly putting my life on the line. Moriarty has made himself known to me as well as his intentions to...burn me."

"Burn you? What does that even mean?"

"Please you must understand this," he says, gently cupping my face in his hands, "if you continue keep in contact with me, you must be prepared for the dangers I face. Who knows what Moriarty has in store for me; caring for me will only result in unnecessary concern."

"I don't…I don't understand." I say, a bit taken back, "Do you not want me to care about you? I thought you wanted me to be your friend."

"Yes, of course I do. But I don't want to hurt you," He says rather quickly, "Caring for me will lead to hurt and I could never see you go through that because I care about you more than anything…" he suddenly stops and looks away in shame. His hands slip away form my face and Sherlock steps back. I stare him in a slight state of shock; did he just confess something to me? That he actually cares about something more than work...And that something is I?

"Forgive me," he says, "I…I got ahead of myself. Forget what I said, all of it. I'm just rambling." Cautiously, I step forward and wrap my arms around him in a hug. Sherlock tenses up at first, but then takes in a deep breath and hugs me back.

Perhaps, he just said that because he's been through a lot this evening. I don't know what this Moriarty guy said or did to make Sherlock so upset, but right now, that's not important. Right now, Sherlock just needs me to be there for him: he doesn't need to say so. I just know it.

After a few moments, we lift our heads and look into each other's eyes; he seems tired and stressed, like this evenings other events are starting to take a toll on him.

"You know if you ever need to talk, I'm here." I say, "I'll listen to whatever you want."

"Is that what friends do? Talk?" he asks, "John always wants to talk."

"Well, that's probably because John cares about you, just like I do."

Sherlock smiles slightly and nods. There's a spark in his eyes, one that I've never seen before. It's very…comforting.

"Shall we keep walking?" He asks in his normal tone, "It's getting late."

"Yeah, sure." I say, and we return to walking toward the tube station. This Moriarty topic is dropped as quickly as it came up, but I have a feeling this isn't going to be last night I here that name.

What on Earth did Sherlock mean by "burn"?

The wind has picked up, but Sherlock doesn't seem affected by it. I however am practically shaking in my boots. I wrap my arms around my self, tightly, which causes Sherlock to laugh.

"What? What's so funny?" I ask. To my surprise, Sherlock wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in so that my body is pressed against his side.

"You weren't meant for cold weather." He says, rubbing his hands up and down my arms to warm me up. I can't formulate a reply; I'm too excited at the fact that he's touching me. Taking this as my opportune moment, I rest my head on Sherlock's shoulder and slowly wrap an arm around his waist. Is it too much? God, I hope not.

To my delight, Sherlock doesn't protest to my motion: "Elfie, what are you doing tomorrow?" Sherlock asks, resting his head atop my own.

"Um, nothing it's my day off." I reply, secretly hoping that he's going to ask me to dinner, "What's up?"

"I'm going to pick up some specimens at St. Bart's and was wondering if you'd like to come along? I need someone to help me with this experiment and John will be out of town. That is if it's not an inconvenience to you."

Specimens and experiments: It's not dinner, but I'll take it.

"It would be my pleasure." I reply, "When should I meet you?"

"Meet me at my place at 9am." He says, "221b Baker Street. Bring a notebook and a pen, I'll need you to take notes."

"Alright, professor. Do I need to be prepared to take a test too?"

"…Was that a joke?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Oh…okay."

We round our last corner together and slowly pull our bodies apart. The tube station is right there and Sherlock's home is completely the other direction. It would be pointless in asking him to walk we the few extra steps.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow then." He says, holding his hand out to me.

"Sherlock," I say with a laugh, "I think we've moved past cordial handshakes, don't you?" He blushes and lets out a small chuckle.

"Oh, well, then…okay." He says, "What then do I do?"

"I don't know. Whatever you want, I guess." I reply with a chuckle; he's so adorable when he's confused. It rarely happens, but I like it.

"Alright then," he says, clearing his throat. Nervously, Sherlock leans in close and places a soft kiss on my cheek. "Goodnight, Elfie Stegerson." He whispers in my ear.

My heart is racing and I feel like I could fly.

He kissed me! Not on the lips, but he still kissed me!

I gulp down my giddy emotions and take in a sharp breath: "Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes." I reply. We lock eyes again for a short moment and for the first time, it seems like something is between us: Something that goes beyond friendship: something that is much, much stronger. Maybe my hopeless crush is stronger than I thought. Maybe he feels the same way.

"You'll miss your train." He whispers.

"Right. I'll…I'll see you tomorrow." I say, placing a quick kiss on his cheek and heading down the steps the tube. 'He doesn't feel that way about me,' I decide, 'He just sees me as a friend. Don't get your hopes up, Fee.'

Before completely heading all the way down, I look over my shoulder and watch as Sherlock walks toward his direction home, gently rubbing the spot where I kissed him as if to make sure that it's real.

Maybe he does feel something.

Hello!
I wanted this to just be a filler chapter so sorry if it's a bit rough. I have specific storyline I want to follow in the next couple chapters involving a certain dominatrix so stay tuned. Once again, if you have ideas, let me know!

Thanks for the comments and follows and favorites! They are always appreciated.

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks.