What I Did For Love-Part 1

" 'She dropped her head again on Marius' knees, and her eyelids closed. He thought the poor soul had departed. Eponine remained motionless. All at once, at the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever, she slowly opened her eyes in which appeared the sombre profundity of death, and said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to proceed from another world:-

'And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you.'"

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

Dog-earing the top of the page I'm on, I slam my book shut and glance over at the phone vibrating away on the coffee table. It's my day off and I have the apartment to myself. My plan was to finish this brick sized book then have a glass of wine and watch Russel Crowe movies until way late. My roommate, Hattie, is at her boyfriend's for the weekends, so who else could be texting me?

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

Annoyed with the sound it was making against the glass tabletop, I pick up my phone and unlock it:

'Hey Elfie! It's John Watson. –JW'

'Need your help-JW'

'Hey John! What's up? –ES' I reply back, becoming more interested; I enjoy John's phone calls and texts. It usually means Sherlock wants my help with something. Why Sherlock couldn't call me himself I'll never know. Perhaps he's just too lazy. I don't mind though; John is a wonderful man and a devoted friend. He's sort of become a brother to me, really: very protective and very sweet.

'Are you at work? –JW'

'No, it's my day off. Why? What's up? You're not going to drag me to some crime scene again are you? –ES'

'No, nothing like that, it's Sherlock-JW'

'Is he hurt? –ES'

'No, he's gotten himself drugged. I've got to get him home, but I can't carry him up the stairs. Is there anyway you can get to our flat? –JW'

Baffled, I stare at that last text and let it process through my brain. Sherlock drugged? What?

'I can grab a taxi. I'll be there in 10-ES'

'Thanks Fee-JW'

'Of course-ES'
I hang up and immediately sprint to my bedroom. I slip on a random pair of shoes, throw on my grey sweater and snatch up my satchel. 'Drugged? How does someone get drugged?' I ask myself, 'was he on a case? An experiment gone wrong maybe?' Snatching my apartment key, I shut off the lights and bolt out of the door. My long dark, wavy hair hangs down to my shoulders and I'm dressed in my grey sweat suit; I would attempt to make myself presentable when going over to John and Sherlock's place, but there was a sense of urgency in John's voice. 'No time to get all dolled up for your crush, Fee.'

After a ten minute cab ride, I arrive at 221b Baker Street. A black police car is pulled up outside the door and I immediately spot John. I quickly run over to help: "John!"

"Oh, Elfie, thank god." The doctor replies, sighing in relief, "Just in time. Help me get him out of the car."

John opens the back car door and I quickly look inside. Sherlock on his back, sprawled out across the seat, his head rolling from side to side and he's mumbling incoherently to himself. He looks like a sleepy child, fighting off tiredness with every ounce of their body.

"Sherlock?" I ask, placing a cautious hand on his shoulder, "Can you hear me?" Sherlock lifts his head slightly and looks at me with half opened eyes; I can see the feverish glaze fogging up his normally bright gaze. He furrows his brow in confusion and slowly lifts a shaking hand to my face.

"…You…" he sighs, grazing his fingers across my jaw line as if to see if I'm really real, "took…my…coat."

"What?" I ask, worried that whatever drug he's on may have affected that brilliant brain of his.

"Mmph coat…" he groans, "you…naked…"

"Sherlock, listen to me," John asks, leaning in beside me, "It's Fee, she's going to help me carry you up the stairs." but Sherlock doesn't hear him. He just slips into unconsciousness, dropping his hand from my cheek to hang limply at his side. My heart aches to see him like this not just because he's my crush, but also because he's my friend. I'm worried about him. But he's going to be fine, right?

"Grab his arm," John instructs and I gladly do so. We manage to pull the limp detective out of the car and in a standing position. I wrap an arm around Sherlock's waist and pull his arm over my shoulders so that all of his dead weight can lean against me. His head hangs low and rolls to rest on my shoulder. Wither it's a subconscious move or not, Sherlock gently nuzzles his head into the space between my shoulder blade and neck; His soft curls brushing against my neck.

"The woman." He moans in his sleep, "the woman." I stare at him in utter confusion: What the hell was he given?

"John, are you sure you don't want me to drive to the hospital?" the policeman driving the car asks.

"No, no, I can take care of him here." John replies, "Thanks Greg." The officer nods and drives off. John quickly runs up and unlocks the front door. "Right, lets get him up stairs," he says, turning back to me, "Think you can manage?" I give him an affirmative nod and adjust my hold on Sherlock.

"Travel…" he grumbles, as John tosses his other arm over his shoulders, "The hiker…"

"Yes, Sherlock, the hiker. He's dead in a field. Now come on." John says, sounding very much like a military captain. He never uses that tone of voice normally. Must only come out when he goes into doctor mode like this.

"Hiker?" I ask,

"I'll tell you about once we get him situated." John grunts, "You sure you got him?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good. Once we're inside, lean him against the wall. I'll run up the stairs and clear a path to his bedroom. Ready?"

Balancing Sherlock's weight between us, John and I manage to drag him inside the building and set him down in a sitting position on the bottom of the stairs with his back against the wall. I sit down beside him and place a comforting hand on his forehead. It's warm, but not feverously. Good, so at least he's not sick, just incoherent.

"Right, keep him talking if he starts to mumble again," John instructs as he ascends the stairs, "He needs to be awake until I can get him in a bed."

As if on cue, Sherlock lets out a soft moan then rolls his head upright to face me. He blinks his eyes open about halfway and furrows his brow at me again as if he's in denial that I'm really sitting beside him.

"Sherlock," I say as softly as I can, "it's me. It's…"

"I…know," he groans, slurring his words, "the…woman." I look at him, utterly confused. The woman? What is that suppose to mean? John said I had to keep him awake so that's what I'll do.

"Tell me about the hiker." I say, gently pushing some of his curls out of his eyes, "What happened?"

"…Tell…me." Sherlock mumbles, beginning to close his eyes again, "th-the car…backfired. Then…boomerang."

"Boomerang?" I ask, "The hiker had a boomerang?"

Sherlock nods his heavy head then slumps to the side, unable to keep his body upright any longer. I hold up my hands up in shock as he lands on top of me, his head nuzzled under my chin. I sit there completely dumbfounded; what am I suppose to do?

"Hiker…car…boomerang." Sherlock grumbles, "Phone…please."

"You…you want your phone?" I ask, trying to keep this obscure conversation going, "Okay, then." I reach into his jacket pocket but Sherlock suddenly catches my hand. I watch as he slowly intertwines his fingers with mine and studies our hands intently. He then looks up at me then chuckles slightly.

"Elfie," he whispers, "h-hello."

"Um, hi." I reply. Sherlock then gently strokes my cheek with his free and gazes into my eyes. His pupils are dilated and unfocused.

"Your eyes," he murmurs, "they're perfect."

My heart skips a beat: 'Focus, Elfie. He's not himself right now. He's not flirting with you.'

"Thank…thank you." I reply.

"Yes, like…like atoms." He goes on, hooking his hand behind my neck, "the center of an atom. So…very…perfect." Before I can even ask what he means, Sherlock pulls my head in close so that our foreheads are touching. Our lips are mere inches apart.

"Not the woman." He whispers, "my…woman." I take in a sharp breath as he places a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth. His eyes meet mine again, but shortly after, roll around in his skull and he slips back into unconsciousness. His head falls onto my shoulder, but his hand remains entangled with mine. I just sit there in complete shock: his woman? What does that even mean?

"Alright, Fee, grab his arms." John says, coming back at the perfect moment, "I'll grab his legs. Ready?" Snapping out of my thoughts, I decide to not linger on Sherlock's odd comments and just do as I'm told. I hook my hands under Sherlock's arms while John grabs his ankles. Together, we stagger up the stairs, into the flat and down the short hall to Sherlock's bedroom. Once inside, we plop him down on the bed, which looks like it hasn't been made today, and sigh. John turns Sherlock onto his side and pulls the sheets up to his cheeks.

"Breathing is normal," he says, "and no fever. He may just need to sleep it off. He'll be alright in the morning."

"What the hell happened?" I ask, "He said something about a boomerang."

"Boomerang?" John asks in disbelief, "I don't know anything about that. We were on a case for Mycroft when he this happened."

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock's brother. You did know he had a brother didn't you?" I shake my head and John chuckles slightly: "Lucky you. Come on, we should let Sherlock rest. I'll make you some tea." I nod and follow John out to the kitchen, but before I exit the room completely I look back at Sherlock, deep in his drugged sleep. He looks so peaceful and, in an odd way, very handsome. Smiling, I pull the door closed.

"Thank you for all your help." John says, preparing the kettle, "I didn't know who else to text."

"It's fine, really." I reply, taking a seat at the table/Sherlock's experiment bench, "What really happened, though?"

With a heavy sigh, John tells me the events of the day: the dead hiker in the field, Sherlock being stark naked in Buckingham Palace, everything. What really catches my attention though is this Irene Adler. I had read her name before in the papers-something about an affair with a writer-but I'm surprised Sherlock would be involved in any of her affairs. Case or not, sex doesn't seem like the sort of thing Sherlock would involve in his work.

"What does she have that the government needs?" I ask, sipping my tea.

"The contents of her phone," John explains, "I don't know what's on there but it must be pretty incriminating."

"But Sherlock got the phone, right?"

"No."

"No?"

"She out witted him, hence why he's now lying in bed high as a kite." "But…he's Sherlock. He never messes up."

"To be honest Fee, I don't think he messed up," John says with a sigh, "I think she just beat him."

Just then, Mrs. Hudson, John and Sherlock's elderly landlady, comes up the stairs and enters the kitchen: "Sorry to interrupt," she says, "that package of science equipment came for Sherlock while you two were out, John, and I wanted…Oh! Hello there. A new face." She looks at me and smiles sweetly; "You must be Elfie. Am I saying that correctly? El-fee?"

"Yes, um, hello." I shyly say with a wave, "Nice to meet you."

"Oh, I've heard so much about you." She says, getting rather excited, "Sherlock has told me all about the help you've provided him and John. Oh and look at you. You're every bit a beautiful as he said."

"As who said?" I ask with a laugh,

"Sherlock, dear," she says, "you are all he talks about now, isn't she John? It's nice, you know: Sherlock having a girlfriend. I've always said Sherlock ought to have a woman in his life. I'm so glad he found you. "

My cheeks turn a bright red and I nearly choke on my tea: "Oh, no, no, I'm just a friend." I quickly say, "I'm not…"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll let Sherlock know." John (thankfully) interrupts, "Why don't you bring it on up here?"

The landlady folds her arms across her chest and gives John a sort of sassy look: "I'm not your housekeeper, dear," she says, exiting the flat, "You can come and get it yourself."

I chuckle slightly and look down at my teacup: Does Sherlock really talk about me with other people? Did he actually say that I was beautiful? His slurred mumbles enter my mind again:

'Not the woman, my woman'.

Maybe he was trying to tell me something just now. No, of course not, he's drugged. He's not thinking straight right now. It was nothing. I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Ah, damn." John says, looking down at his watch, "I had forgotten."

"What is it?" I ask, snapping out of my content thoughts.

"It's nothing, now." He grumbles, "It's just, I had a date tonight and now I think I'm going to have to cancel. I can't get ready in time and check on Sherlock."

"Well, I can stay with him." I offer, "That is if you don't mind me just hanging out in your flat all night."

"Really? You'd be willing to do that?" John asks, "Its not until 6, and I won't be out late."

"It's no big deal." I assure him, "I'll keep an eye on him."

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0 o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o A few hours pass and John has left for his date. He went in to check on Sherlock before he left. Sherlock had fallen out of bed and was crawling around, asking were Irene Adler was apparently. Poor Sherlock, he's probably so confused. Part of me feels horrible to see him all doped up, but the other half of me finds it rather amusing. The great Sherlock Holmes crawling on the ground, like a kitten who just learning how to walk. Must be a sight to see.

After John had left, and since Sherlock had fallen back asleep, there's no one I can talk too. I tried studying the contents of the living room-The bookshelf full of miscellaneous text books, encyclopedias and novels, the spray painted happy face on the wall that was originally out lined with bullet holes, the skull on the mantel piece that I can't really tell if it's real or not (I'm hoping it isn't)-but I got bored. Luckily, Sherlock has a copy of the book I was reading at home so I've picked up where I had left off and am fully engrossed in the world of 1800's France.

Honestly though, I've been wondering about that kiss Sherlock gave me. True, it wasn't a real kiss because he was drugged out of his mind, but something still seems like he meant it. He did kiss my cheek that night he walked me to the tube and many other times after that. I always assumed that it was his way of being polite, but what if…what if it means more to him. Mrs. Hudson did say that he talks about me all the time. Could my feelings for him be mutual?

"JAWN!"

Sherlock's loud shout breaks me out of my thoughts and I immediately rush to his room. I open the door to see the world's only consulting detective sprawled out on the floor, on his back, eyes closed and groaning in pain. I quickly kneel down beside him and run a hand through his messy mop of curls.

"Sherlock?" I say, cradling him, "Can you hear me?"

He blinks his eyes open and locks onto my gaze. The drugged out haze is gone, but it still takes him a moment to realize that it's me leaning over him: "Elfie?" he grumbles, his voice less dopy then earlier, "Why are you here?"

"I helped John carry you up here." I say, "You don't remember do you?"

Sherlock shakes his head in disappointment but then looks at me with sudden realization: "Oh, stupid, stupid," He breath out, sitting up fully, "I thought you were her."

"Who, Sherlock?"

"Her." He says again, sounding immensely disappointed in himself, "Where's…where's John?"

"He went out. I'm watching over you." I say, "You okay? You didn't hit your head did you?"

"I…I fell out of bed." He replies,

"Yeah, I can see that." I tease, "Now, come on. Back to bed with you."

"No, no, I have to get my phone." Sherlock grumbles, running a hand through his hair, "It went off."

"I'll get if for you," I say, but he quickly shakes his head.

"No, I need to see the text." He says, "She had my phone."

"Who?"

"The woman."

I furrow my brow in confusion. Earlier he called me that, but now I think he means Irene Adler. But why would she have his phone?

Sherlock latches onto the bed to bring himself upright. I carefully stand with him, making sure that he doesn't topple over. His legs are wobbling like a new born baby giraffe and he is not succeeding on finding a center of balance. As soon as he makes a move for the door, Sherlock falls. Luckily, I'm there to catch him.

"See what I mean." I say, lifting him to stand, "You need to get into bed."

"I'm fine." He grumbles, rubbing his head, "I don't need…"

Suddenly, Sherlock starts to sway in place. He latches onto my shoulders and stumbles forward. I catch him again, but to my surprise Sherlock wraps his arms around me as if to use me to steady his body. Unfortunately, what he ends up doing is tangling his legs with mine and we both clumsily fall onto the bed: I'm lying with my back on the mattress and he is on top of me. At any other time, I'd be ecstatic about this: right now, not so much.

"Sherlock," I say, trying my best to wriggle out of his hold, "You really need to rest."

"You sound like John," he groans loudly, going limp as a log, "I told him I'm fine."

"Sherlock get off of me," I say, trying to lift his body off me, "this is ridiculous."

"Your ridiculous." He grumbles in reply, "Let me sleep."

"I can't if you're going to lay on top of me all night." I argue, "Now, move." But to my dismay, I can hear Sherlock's soft peaceful breathing. I roll my eyes in annoyance and just sigh heavily. He isn't going to move now. Damn it.

Giving in to my loss, I situate myself so that Sherlock's head is resting under my chin instead of face forward in by breast. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and slowly rub my arms up and down his biceps: They are surprisingly hard and muscular, due to his lengthy figure.

To my surprise, Sherlock slowly wraps his arms around my waist causing me to take in a sharp breath. Slowly, Sherlock lifts his head and our eyes lock in a deep gaze. He looks so exhausted and a bit out of it still. However, there is a sparkle to his eyes; not a side effect of the drugs, a natural sparkle. It's very…beautiful. I open my mouth to say something but Sherlock puts a finger to my lips.

"I kissed you didn't I?" he whispers, "Earlier?" Unable to formulate words, I give him a nod. He nods back and looks away, deep in thought. Then, he readjusts his body so that he is no longer on top of me. I get up to leave but find that Sherlock still has his arms around my waist.

I look back him confused; is there something he wants?

"Stay with me?" he asks, sounding a bit like a child who has just woken up from a nightmare.

"Do…do you want me too?" I ask, unsure that he really knows what he's saying. Sherlock gives me an affirmative nod and pulls me back to lie beside him. Slowly, he rests his head on my shoulder and cuddles up close to me. I hold him in return and nuzzle my head atop his. As he falls back asleep, I close my eyes and try to enjoy this rare, probably never going to happen again, moment between us.

My heart is deeply enjoying this, but somehow something doesn't seem right. This isn't how I wanted to spend a night with Sherlock. He's most likely going to wake up tomorrow morning and be in complete shock that I'm beside him. Unless, he does in fact want me here. Maybe this isn't the drug talking. Maybe this is Sherlock's way of asking me to spend the night with him.

"Sherlock," I whisper as a test, "I…I think I should go sleep on the couch."

"No," he mumbles in reply, "I need you here."

"Why?"

"Because she beat me," he whispers.

I open my eyes and furrow my brow in confusion: "Who? Irene Adler?" I whisper back. I feel his head move in a nod. Now it makes sense; Sherlock doesn't want to hold me because he has feelings for me. He wants me here for support; he's lost at his own game and, just like a child, needs to be comforted.

"Sherlock, nobody's perfect." I tell him, "You couldn't have helped it. She tricked you."

"Please," he whispers, falling back asleep, "I don't want to talk about it."

I roll my eyes and wrap my arms around his shoulders; "You're so confusing," I say, half to myself, as I close my eyes and begin to fall asleep.

Just then, I hear the most erotic sigh I've ever heard. Was that…Sherlock? No, no it was a female voice. Female? Curious, I sit up to look around.

"Ignore it," Sherlock mumbles, tightening his hold on me.

"What was it?" I ask, "There is no one else here so where the hell did that come from?"

"Phone."

"Why does your phone make that noise?"

"Darling, just lay back down." Sherlock pulls me back to lie beside him again, but this time on my side so that his body can fit perfectly along my back. Reluctantly giving up on my investigation into the mysterious ringtone, I close my eyes and try to sleep. Suddenly, something clicks in my brain.

"Did you just call me darling?"

Sherlock doesn't reply. He's already back asleep.

Hello!

So this is going to be a like a story within a story. I wanted to make this Irene Adler thing a separate part of this prequel because it's such a big moment in Sherlock Holmes' life. For those who have read my other story, Irene Adler play a big part in Elfie and Sherlock's relationship and I plan on going into detail with that here. It will be the only story in this story that will be more than a one-shot…if that makes sense.

Thanks for all the follows, favorites and reviews. (Gwilwillith, you can call them whatever you like. I personally like Elflock just cause it sounds very mythical Hahaha). As some of you know, I'm writing a sequel to The Woman at His Side and that will up as soon as it's ready. This story is just a fluffy prequel and won't have much to do with it.

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

I also do not own Victor Hugo's Les Miserables *the book in which the opening except is from*

Much love and many thanks.