What I Did For Love-Part 2
Sunlight creeps into the room from the slits in the curtains and hits my face in small streaks. Must be at least mid-morning; why didn't my alarm go off? Oh, right. It's Saturday: no work for me, thank God. After last night's odd events, really, the last thing I want to do is go into work.
The room is chilly and the sun isn't giving off to much heat. Ugh, weather in London: not one of my favorite things about this city. Not wanting to move from my comfortable, warm cocoon of sheets, I curl up into a ball and hide my face in the pillow. 'Five more minutes,' I tell myself, digging my head deeper into the pillow, 'then I'll get up…maybe.' As I pull duvet up to my cheeks, I realize something:
This isn't my pillow.
These aren't my sheets.
This isn't my bed.
This isn't even my room.
I shoot my eyes open and sit up straight. Did I spend the whole night in Sherlock's bed? Obviously, why else would I still be here? I'm still dressed in my sweats from yesterday and my hair is a complete mess. Rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I look around the bedroom and assess my surroundings. The room is only lit up by the sunlight, but I can see perfectly. It's a very small yet tidy room: there is a poster of the periodic table of elements by the door, a wardrobe, and another door that most likely leads to a bathroom. Since I feel like a complete mess, I should probably go there. Slowly, I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and allow my socked feet to land on the cold wooden floor.
Once inside the bathroom, I turn on the sink and gently splash cold water on my face. The odd interaction between Sherlock and I last night returns to my mind: tangling our legs together, falling onto the bed, the cuddling, that erotic noise. I stare up into the mirror and run my fingers through my greasy locks; what was the noise and why did it come from Sherlock's phone? I've been around him long enough to know that that is not his normal alert tone. I'll have to ask him about it when he wakes up…wait, I woke up alone. Why was I alone in Sherlock's bed? I clearly remember his arms around me when I fell asleep…and he called me darling.
Darling.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, proper genius, king of no emotions, had called me darling. Did that mean something?
Just then, the faint sound of a violin fills the room. I quickly comb my hair with my fingers, exit the bathroom and head toward the sound. Such beautiful music; really, I don't think I've ever heard a violin played so smoothly before. It's so calming and comforting. As I near the living room, I pause at the entrance and lean against the wall, just listening to the music. I quickly realize that it is Sherlock making the beautiful sound. Of course it would be; is there anything this man can't do? I knew he played the violin, but I didn't know he was that good.
John is sitting at the table, back to me, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee while the consulting detective is sort of wandering around the living room, playing the sort of soundtrack to the scene. His red dressing gown is flowing behind him and he definitely looks more like himself now. Wonder if he actually remembers anything from last night?
Sherlock catches me out of the corner of his eye and suddenly stop playing; "Ah! I was wondering when you'd wake up?" he says, setting his instrument down on his desk. Practically bounding over the furniture, Sherlock comes over to me and places his customary kiss on my cheek. "Good morning." he says, staring into my eyes.
"Uh, morning." I say, a bit taken back by his burst of energy. It's still too early for me to process this. His eyes have that sparkle to them that I noticed last night: so beautiful, so distracting.
"Fee, hey," John says, turning around to see me, "Sorry about last night. I didn't expect to be so late and I had no idea that he'd…"
"John, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says, turning back around to his flat mate, "Elfie willingly stayed over last night. If it were of an inconvenience to her, she would have left as soon as she had finished assisting you. Besides, she would not have offered to care for me while you went out on your so-called date if she didn't think she could be of some help." He then looks back at me and gives me a small smile: "Thank you for that by the way," he whispers at a volume so I can only hear him, "it was very…comforting."
"Your, um, your welcome." I say, feeling my cheeks turn a bright pink.
Sherlock nods and returns his voice to his natural volume: "Coffee?" he asks.
"Um, yes please." I reply and with a flash, Sherlock goes to the kitchen to grab me a cup of coffee. John and I exchange a look of confusion; this is odd behavior for him, very odd.
"What happened last night?" John asks in a low whisper, "I come home, find the living room empty, check on Sherlock and find you two sound asleep in each others arms. Did something happen between you two?"
"To be honest, I don't really know." I reply, taking a seat on the couch, "He fell out of bed, I helped him get up and the next thing I know he's asking me to cuddle with him."
John quickly lowers his paper and gives me a 'you're joking' glare: "He asked you to…cuddle? He? Sherlock Holmes?"
"Well, he didn't say those words, but yeah, in a way, he did." I sheepishly reply, "He said, that he needed me."
"Did he really?" John says, half to himself. He looks toward the kitchen, then at me, then back at the kitchen; he knows something, I can tell. Was there something I missed?
"It must have been the drug talking, right?" I ask, "I mean, come on. That's just not like Sherlock."
"Yeah, of course," He mutters, "just the drug."
Yeah, he's definitely not telling me something.
Sherlock reenters the room and hands me my coffee. I take a sip: Black, one sugar, just the way I like it…of course it is. I give Sherlock a grateful nod and he nods back. God, even in the morning he's beautiful.
"So, Sherlock, now what?" John asks, leaning back in his chair, "You've gotten kicked off this Adler case, so where do you go from here?"
"Kicked off?" I ask, "How do you mean?"
"My brother took the liberty of coming over this morning to tell me to back off of the case," Sherlock says, picking up his violin again, "It's stupid really; Why put me on a case then pull me off? Waste of time."
Just then that awful text alert goes off. I nearly choke on my coffee and John rolls his eyes: "Okay, seriously Sherlock," he says, "Turn that bloody thing off."
Giving John a quick glare, Sherlock quickly picks up his phone from the table and checks it.
"Another text?" I ask, but Sherlock completely ignores me.
"You knew about his new ringtone?" John asks, giving me a raised eyebrow look.
"He's phone went off last night," I reply, "I asked him about it, but he just ignored me."
John then turns to look at Sherlock again: "So this isn't the first text she's sent you? It's 'her', isn't it? Who else would have that on your phone?"
"As I stated this morning, John, I'll leave you to your deductions." Sherlock grumbles.
What does John mean by her? Irene Adler? No, it couldn't be. I look to Sherlock in surprise: "Why does your phone make that sound?" I ask
Sherlock gives me a quick glance and tosses his phone in his pocket. He has an interesting look in his eyes, one that says 'Let it go and don't ask about it.' I give him an understanding nod and quietly sip my coffee. To my surprise, though, Sherlock takes a seat beside me and set a hand on my thigh. "What are you doing this afternoon?" He asks, rather intent on me giving an answer.
"Um, uh, I don't know." I reply, "I was going to head home in a little bit."
"Perfect, I'm coming with you." He says, moving his hand to grab my own, "I need to go to the lab, pick up a few things anyway." Before I can even muster a reply, Sherlock rises off the couch and pulls me up with him. Our eyes meet and my practically jumps out of my chest. He's never look at me this way before, like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on.
"You okay?" I ask, extremely taken back by his odd behavior.
"Never better," he replies, going to grab his coat from his room, "Now, what do you need to get ready? I want to leave in 3 minutes."
"I, um, just need to grab my bag."
"Got it! Lets go." In the blink of an eye, Sherlock removes his dressing gown, snatches up my satchel from where I left it last night (beside the couch) and tosses it to me. He then takes me by the hand and drags me out of the flat with him. I quickly shout a good-bye to John from over my shoulder as we descend the stairs; he's probably just as confused right now as I am.
"Okay, what's up?" I ask, as we stop by the curb to hail down a cab, "You're acting really weird."
"Am I?" Sherlock asks, waving his hand to signal an oncoming cab, "Didn't notice."
"Sherlock." I say, folding my arms across my chest, "Talk to me. What's going on in that brain of yours?"
He looks at me and sighs; "I must apologize for last night." He says, half regretfully, "I wasn't myself in anyway and I couldn't help doing…whatever it is I did."
I furrow my brow in confusion: "Sherlock if you're apologizing for laying in bed with me last night, don't." I say, "I didn't mind and it's not like anything happened. Consider it a…friendly gesture."
"And that kiss," he goes on, becoming very serious now, "what would consider that to be?"
"I, um, I…I don't know." I reply, looking down at my feet, "I guess, because you were drugged and all, it…"
Suddenly, Sherlock cups my face in his hands and pushes his lips against my own. My eyes widen with shock and I almost loose my balance. I know I should pull away and slap him across the face, but I can't; my body is completely in shock. I close my eyes and rest my hands on his broad shoulders.
My pulse is racing.
My heart is pounding.
I can't even think straight.
Sherlock Holmes is kissing me. This is really happening. Why is this happening?
Very slowly, Sherlock separates his lips from mine and wraps his arms around my shoulders. "Good," he says, with a nod, "that was the result I was looking for."
"The result-wait, what?" I ask, trying to catch my breath, "What do you mean…" Sherlock places a finger to my lips and looks deeply into my eyes.
"Elfie, I must ask this of you," he whispers, nuzzling his forehead against my own, "You mustn't speak a word of this to John or to anyone for that matter. I am assessing something deeply personal, something I've never experienced before, and in order to get a complete and accurate result, I need you to act as if everything is normal between us."
"But...but…" I stammer, "was that-did you mean to do that?"
"Of course," he replies, "and I am sorry if I've offended you in any way, but please, I need to know that you won't speak of this to anyone. Promise me that?"
"But…but…what does that mean," I ask completely flabbergasted, "Am I apart of an experiment, like a specimen?"
"God no," he says, "I could never think of you in that way." Sherlock then brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear and sighs. "Ms. Adler did something to me yesterday," he says, "something that I couldn't explain or deduce. For the first time in my life, I felt…lost, confused and mystified. And then last night, when you were with me, it happened again and right now, after kissing you it has returned and …and I need to know that it isn't just a side effect of whatever drug I was given. You and Irene Alder have something in common; you both…" Sherlock suddenly pauses and looks away from me, deep in thought.
"I need to know what this feeling is," he says, still not looking up at me, "and I can't figure it out if things between us change."
"I…I don't understand." I say, "You just kissed me and now your asking me to forget all about it?"
"Please, just do this for me." He says, looking at me with pleading eyes, He cups my face in his hands again and gently brushes his thumbs across my cheeks: "As I've told you before, I hold you in very high regard," he goes on, "I understand that this may be confusing for you and the last thing I would want to do is upset you. But I need you to trust me on this. I had to kiss you right now for reasons that I can't explain just yet. Give me time and I will explain it all to you; that's a promise."
I look him in the eyes and gulp down my emotions. I can see the honesty and desperation in his gaze and it pierces my heart. Dear Lord, this isn't just a hopeless crush I have; this is love. I'm in love with this impossible man. It is for that reason alone that I give him an affirmative nod just now:
"You have my word," I say, taking his hands into my own, "I won't say a word about this…whatever this is."
"Thank you," he says with a sigh of relief, "thank you for your trust."
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Months pass and things, as I had promised, are normal between Sherlock and I. We never mention the kiss or cuddling together or any aspect of that night for that matter; we act like it had never happened. His weekly visits to my office have become less common though and the occasionally trip to the lab with him and John doesn't happen as often. We haven't completely stopped talking to each other, just not as frequently. Of course, all I can think about is that moment: His lips pressed against my own, his arms draped around me as he tried to explain why we have to keep our kiss a secret (which I still don't understand) and those eyes, shining and sparkling as they gaze into my own. What can I say; I'm hopelessly in love with this man.
I can't help but wonder what Sherlock meant about Irene Adler and I having something in common. From what I've read about her, Ms. Adler is cunning and smart and devilishly beautiful. Me, I'm average. The only thing I can think of us being similar is perhaps our hair, but what significance is that Sherlock? It's very difficult to not just ask him about it, but I made a promise. I promised never to bring it up and so that's what I'll do.
Christmas had come before I knew it. John had invited me over to Baker Street for a few drinks and such, but I politely declined and said that I'd be over tomorrow for a bit. Something just didn't seem right with me hanging out at their flat all night while Sherlock and I were going through…well, whatever is happening between us. Besides, I wanted to be alone tonight, which sounds depressing but trust me, it's what I need. The only family I have is my mother back in California and we aren't close, at least not close enough for me to fly over for Christmas Eve and Day.
My roommate, Hattie, did fly back home to California to be with her dad so it is nice and quiet at the apartment. I'm curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and an oversized flannel blanket watching It's A Wonderful Life when there is a sudden and fast knock at my door.
"Who the hell?" I ask myself, sitting up and pausing the film. I climb off the couch and go to the door.
Knock-knock-knock!
"I'm coming, I'm coming, just hold on." I say, slightly annoyed that my evening is being interrupted. I open the door and almost fall back in shock to see who my visitor is: "Sherlock," I say, placing a hand on my chest, "What are you dong here? I thought you guys had a party or something going on."
"May I come in?" He asks, his voice low and monotone. I nod and Sherlock rushes inside. I close the door behind him and take a good long look at my friend; He looks distressed but not in the way he looks when he's working. He looks…sad, troubled, and heartbroken even.
"So to what do I owe the pleasure?" I say, returning to my spot on the couch, "Making a personal 'Merry Christmas' call?" I smile at him, but he just stares at me coldly. I quickly notice a half-smoked cigarette in his hand; Okay, now I know something is up. He quit smoking and it would take a lot to get him to fall off the wagon now: I know, we talked about it.
"Are you going to share?" I ask, nudging my head to the cigarette. Sherlock looks down at it then back at me.
"You quit smoking." He says.
"So did you." I tease. He lets a small smirk grow across his face and he holds the stick out to me, non-lit end first. Leaning forward, I take a small hit then relax back, blowing smoke out into the air. "That's better then I remember," I say.
"I didn't come over here to hook you back on nicotine," Sherlock says, taking a seat beside me.
"Why did you come over then?" I ask, "I thought we weren't really talking."
Sherlock's face becomes stone cold and his eyes grow dark and sad: "She's dead." He states, resting his elbows on his knees and staring straight ahead.
"Who?" I ask, sitting up straight.
"Irene Adler." He says, "She died. I don't know how, but I identified her body and it was so mangled and bashed. I've just come from the morgue and I feel…something. I don't know what it is, but…it hurts." Sherlock quickly shakes his head and takes a puff at the cigarette. He looks so upset, like someone has come in and shook he's whole world to its core.
Suddenly, it clicks in my brain. I can't believe I didn't see this before: He had feelings for Irene. It makes sense now; the woman who beat him had affected his heart. Not to mention her beauty probably caught him off guard; even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be immune to her looks. Wait, could that be it? The similarity between her and I: I looked like her and so Sherlock kissed me in hopes that I could be like her. My heart aches a bit at the thought. No, no, of course not. That can't be it. Can it?
"I'm sorry," he says, breathing out smoke, "I didn't mean to drop this news on you. It's just I didn't know where else to go right now."
"It's okay." I say, setting a comforting hand on his back, "Do you want to talk about it?"
"What's there to talk about?" he says, dryly, "I…I hardly knew her."
"Then why do you think are you so upset?" I ask.
"Because I'll never get my answer," he says, "I'll never know the reason she had such an affect on me. I'll never know how or why I was so foolish and let her win. I'll never know…" Sherlock looks down at his lap and takes another hit from the cigarette, "Have you ever felt like this," he goes on, "like your stomach is tied up in a knot and you can't think properly because you're so distracted? And then you try and fix it, but you don't know what there is to fix."
"I…I have yes." I reply, cautiously rubbing my hand up and down his back, "It's called being in love. You…loved her didn't you?" He then looks at me and I give him an understanding smile. A fake one, but a smile nonetheless. Sherlock just looks into my eyes as if he were trying to read me. Slowly, he moves closer to me so that our thighs are touching.
"Come with me," he whispers and I feel my heart skip a beat.
"Wh-where?" I ask, trying to remain calm.
"Baker Street." He says, "I can't be alone right now and…I need you." I look at him slightly confused and worried; what does he mean 'can't be alone right now'? Never the less, I nod and quickly go to grab my coat. We walk out of my apartment and down the lobby in silence. As soon as we are outside, Sherlock takes my hand into his own.
"You're wrong, you know?" he says, finishing up his cigarette, "I didn't love her. I've never been in love before."
"Oh," Is all I can think of to say to him. I look down at our hands and furrow my brow in confusion: "Why are you holding my hand?" I ask, but he doesn't reply. Sherlock just flags down a taxi and we head to Baker Street in complete silence, hands still intertwined.
When we reach the flat, we head upstairs: Sherlock in the lead and me hiding behind him. As we reach the door, he suddenly stops and looks around. "You okay?" I hear John ask, but Sherlock doesn't immediately reply.
"Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time," he finally says, squeezing my hand and pulling me along as he heads toward his bedroom.
"Merry Christmas, John." I say as we pass by him. John shakes his head in disbelief and has to do a double take at Sherlock and I. He opens his mouth to comment, but we are already down the hall and out of earshot.
Sherlock opens his bedroom door and escorts me inside. Cautious, I take a seat on the corner of the bed. I don't know what he's thinking and right now that frightens me. He seems so distraught and confused that I can't predict his neck move. I watch him carefully as he turns on the lamp at the far corner of the room. He then removes his scarf and coat and tosses them to the floor.
"Why am I here, Sherlock?" I finally ask. He looks at me with very sad eyes and removes his blazer.
"Do you not want to be?" he asks, sitting beside me.
"I'm just confused," I say, looking him in the eyes, "What's going on? Six months ago, you kissed me and told me never to speak of it anyone because you're working on figuring something out and now you're acting like…well, I don't know. Is it because of Irene? Look, if you want to talk about it…"
"I don't want to talk about her." He says, "I want to talk about us."
"What is there to talk about?" I say, "You kissed me six months ago and have been cold to me ever since. Sherlock, I'm at a complete loss here. Just tell me what's going on so I can understand you. I want to be friends again, please. Just talk to me."
"Did we ever stop being friends?" he asks, looking away ashamed.
"To be honest, it felt like we did." I reply, "Look, you know that I care about you and that I trust you with my life; that's why I made you that promise to never tell anyone about our kiss. But, I don't like being toyed with. You can't play with my emotions like that and then toss them aside like it's part of an experiment."
"I wasn't toying with you." Sherlock mumbles, "I was figuring it all out."
"Figuring what out?" I ask, getting agitated with his short answers, "Sherlock just talk to me. What is going on in that brain of yours?"
"I don't know that's the problem." He spits out rather quickly. He takes in a deep breath and rests his elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor:
"I don't know what I'm thinking when I'm around you." He goes on, running his fingers through his curls, "the same thing happened when I was first around that woman as well. I couldn't deduce or think properly; it was like some external force was blocking me from doing my job. That's how she beat me; I was at a loss. Then there's you, Elfie. I look at you and it's the same effect on my brain. You and her are two completely different people and yet have the same affect on me. I couldn't understand it six months ago and I can't understand it now. But when I looked at that body tonight, the first thought that entered my mind…was you."
"Why me?" I ask; my emotions are rattling around inside of me that I can't really keep calm.
Sherlock looks up at me and straightens his back: "You don't know how many times I've asked myself that question since the day I met you," he says, looking deeply into my eyes, "You could say that I thought of you because of the similarities the two of you shared in my mind, but that wouldn't be correct."
"What would be correct then?" I ask in a small voice.
Sherlock takes in a deep breath and intertwines his hand with mine: "I looked at her body and didn't feel an ounce of what I felt when she was alive. However, my head was swarming with all these emotions and I was so confused. I'm not a man who is ruled by his feeling, you know that, and yet I couldn't help be feel compelled by them at this moment. In my mind, the only solution to this confusion was to be with you. That was the answer, Elfie: the answer I've been looking for since I kissed you that day."
"Which is what exactly?"
"That my whole being is madly affected by you and you alone. You have, in a way, bewitched me, Elfie, and I don't understand it. I've never felt this way toward anyone before and I don't know what to do. As I told you before, relationships aren't really my area thus I don't know what I'm supposed to do with these feelings. All I know is that they are wholly committed to you and, if you'll allow me to ask, I want to know if you have the same feelings for me."
I stare at him, completely in shock. How did this evening's events turn to this? I don't understand it, and yet I am utterly happy about it. I don't know what process was going on in that brilliant mind of his, but Sherlock seems to be satisfied with the end result. That, of course, being that he has feelings for me; Sherlock Holmes has feelings for me, Elfie Stegerson from Orange County, California: a nobody, an average person.
Without really thinking, I lean forward so that our foreheads are nuzzled together. "Sherlock, I…I feel the same way," I whisper, "I always have."
Sherlock gently hooks his free hand behind my neck and pulls my head in for a kiss. Our eyes meet for a fleeting second before we exchange a soft kiss on the lips. My heart starts to flutter and I feel like I can soar. Time seems to stop and there is nothing else around us.
"Will you stay with me tonight?" he whispers when our lips part.
"Of course," I reply, cupping his face in my hands, "Did you expect me to just leave after that manifesto just now?" Sherlock gives me a small smile then kisses me again. He then rises from the bed and heads to his dresser to grab his pajamas. As he's getting changed in the bathroom, I pull my hair out of my high ponytail and remove my large coat. When he reenters, Sherlock freezes mid-step and just looks at me bewildered.
"What?" I ask, "Do you not want me to stay in here? I can sleep on the couch, if you want me too."
"No, no, your fine." He says, running a hand through his curls, "I just, um…you look different with your hair down." I blush and crawl under the covers while Sherlock goes over to his dresser again. He picks up a small box and removes a black cell phone from it. I watch him as he just stares at the lock screen and gently brushes his fingers across the keyboard.
"That looks new," I say, "did you just get it?"
"Yes, in a way" he says, quickly putting the phone away. Sherlock then turns off the lamp, making the room nice and dark. I feel the mattress shift as he climbs into the bed beside me and shortly after, his warm arms fold around my middle. "Is this alright?" he whispers, placing a kiss on my cheek.
"It is very much alright." I reply, turning my body so that I am facing him. We exchange a quick kiss then Sherlock adjusts himself so that he is lying on his back. I close my eyes and rest my head atop his chest, listening to his rhythmic breathing.
"Fee," he whispers, "do…do you know how to open those kind of phones?"
"Mhm," I reply, resting a hand atop his chest, "You need a customary password. Why? Don't you know how to open your own phone?"
"It's not my phone." He replies, gently stroking my hair, "I'm…I'm holding it for awhile."
"Oh," I yawn, closing my eyes, "that's very nice of you. Whose phone is it?" I feel Sherlock's chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh and then his hold around me tight just a little.
"It's nothing." He replies, "Just…nothing."
Hello, hello, hello!
Well, that was a long chapter. I didn't intend it to be that long but I just couldn't find the right place to stop this one.
Reading it back, I realize that Sherlock may seem very OOC here and that's not my intention. I just felt that this would be the appropriate time in which he would begin to question his feelings for Elfie as well as Irene. This is new territory for him and he doesn't know what to do, which is never good for Sherlock Holmes.
Also, I wanted to make clear that they are officially a couple yet. Yes they have told each other how they feel, but there will be a more formal coming together soon…Hope that makes sense. XD
I'm not done with the Irene Adler story so there will be at least one more part to this 'story-in-a-story'. I have one more story after that, but please let me know what you guys might want to read.
Thanks for the reviews, follows and favorites. They truly keep me motivated.
I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.
Much love and many thanks.