Silhouettes Chapter 21

Oookay, we're in the final stretch. One more chapter after this, I think. It'd odd to think we'll be so near the end….

I'm currently working my way through a Star Trek piece, which might be up later on next week. It's planned out to be around 20 chapters or so. If you're at all a fan of Khan, I'd recommend checking it out. Also, I would like to recommend Let's Pretend We're Drowning by SadieMichelle, and Those Most Dear by With My Radio as really great Khan pieces. Give 'em a go!

-XXX-

It takes me sometime to open my eyes after I wake up. The sheets are lovely and cool against my skin – my mostly bare skin, I note, I'm in nothing but my underwear and bra. I roll over, curling into myself. The pillow I've got half-tucked against my stomach and head is divine.

When I open my eyes, it takes me a few very confused (and slightly panicked) minutes to realize that I am not in my room. Or even my apartment.

The room is open. Airy. I can see light green-patterned wallpaper. A square window with wavy glass dominates the wall opposite of me, framed by creamy brocade curtains. Next to it, adjacent to the door, is a framed poster of the periodic table. I blink at it. It's a very odd choice of bedroom décor.

Beside the white door is another inset with wavy glass. A bathroom. Across the room is a set of shelves, which houses a collection of leather-bound books, a few white plaster busts, pinned insects. The center shelves have their own display lights. Beside this is a skinny lamp with a wide shade. The floors are a golden wood, slightly scuffed.

I absorb all of this, mind still sunken from sleep. Shifting slightly, I feel something…solid behind me. I roll over, curious, to find myself face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.

He's lying beside me, eyes closed. I gape silently. His room? I am in his room? And in his bed, no less.

"Stop," he commands sleepily. I blink.

"What –"

"Stop thinking. You won't find anything. Sleep."

"I can't," I tell him simply.

He sighs, twisting to face upwards. His eyes open, the pupils focusing on the ceiling. I examine his side of the room. A chest of drawers, another shelf of books, a armchair in the corner, a trunk at the end of the best. Over the headboard is a framed paper-thing with a bunch of Asian calligraphy. The script is beautiful.

"My Judo certification," he says, answering the unasked question. Then, quieter, "I studied for three years."

"Oh."

We're quiet. Together we stare at the ceiling. I finally roll towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder. For a few minutes I trace swirling patterns against his pale skin. At the contact, he seems to hold his breath. When I stop, he releases the pent-up air, closing his eyes.

"Why did you bring me here?"

He doesn't answer right away. "I didn't think you'd want to be alone."

Silence falls between us again. But something doesn't sit right with me. I poke him lightly.

"This doesn't make sense. You all but exile me, and the moment I'm kidnapped your personally look me up. You go to your brother, of all people. You find me, and then bring me here?"

He lets out a breath. "Can we not sleep?"

I raise my brows. "I can't, I told you."

Sherlock makes groaning noise in the back of his throat. He rolls, and suddenly I find myself being flipped onto my other side. With a squeak, I scramble for balance. Sherlock ignores me. In a matter of seconds, we are positioned, my rump against his crouch, my back to his chest, his arms running down the length of mine, locked in a backwards embrace. His breath tickles my neck, face pressed into my hair (which, having not had a shower in at least two days, is probably not at it's best state) between the place where my neck and shoulder meet.

Spooning. We're spooning.

I freeze. This is a very un-Sherlock-thing to do.

"What," I begin slowly. "Are you doing?"

"Sleeping," he murmurs, voice muffled by my hair. "As you should be."

"You don't sleep," I remind him.

A sigh. "Once in a very long time, when I have been particularly stressed, I partake of a rest. This would be one of those times."

"You've been stressed."

"At the moment, a bit, yeah," he seethes. But I'm too preoccupied to mind.

"Over me?"

He is silent. I fear perhaps he's go through with his threat to fall asleep, then -

"Mayhaps."

I smile. He cannot see it, but I suspect he can feel it, just as I can feel his. I lean into him.

"You still haven't told me why you brought me here. And why I'm in your bed. I thought I was supposed to be Dr. Watson's girlfriend?"

His grip on me tightens briefly. "I should hope not," he murmurs. "That would mean he's two-timing…Anna, or whatever her name is. Helen, Zoe, whichever this one is."

But he doesn't elaborate on my question. I wait, then is shift against him. "Sherlock?"

There is a growl. "Woman, I am trying to sleep."

"We've been here for hours," I interject. "Since yesterday afternoon to…well, I think it's morning."

"Eleven-thirty-four."

"So, over twelve hours."

He is quiet. "I wasn't asleep all of that time."

"What were you doing?"

"Reading. Watching you. Taking on a few cases."

"You left?"

He snorts. "I hardly have to leave this apartment to do my work. Most everything can be solved with a few witness accounts and basic deductions."

"Show-off," I grumble. He bumps me teasingly. "Will you tell me why I am here?"

"I told you I didn't think you would want to be alone."

"But that doesn't explain why you decided you had to be the one to leave me in not-alone-ness. And to sleep with me, no less. Why not just prop me up on your couch?"

Silence reigns for several minutes. I wait, squeezing his forearms, the ones wrapped around me.

"It was my duty to ensure your safety," he says finally. "You went through a traumatic experience as a result of my negligence. My attempts at keeping you safe at an arms distance only endangered you further."

"I'll say," I think. But instead of saying anything too snide, I continue drawing patterns against his skin. Breath tickles my neck as Sherlock observe my fingers, playing against his pale flesh.

"So…can I know why I was selected as the kidnappee in this situation?"

He sighs. "You could not have possibly deducted, have you?"

I jab his stomach with my elbow. A soft "umpf" sounds in my ear. Sherlock shifts to sit up. I choose to prop myself up with a pillow.

"Two years ago," he begins grandly. "Victor Reer, Sharon Yu, Charlene Elis, Christopher Fitzpatrick, and several other dozen people across the continent, received an experimental surgeries in repairing bone fractures. The plastic compound was a new, experimental product by Meyer Pharmaceuticals. This autumn, it was discovered that most patients who received the new plastics were rejecting them – two years after the fact –"

"Lawsuits," I say abruptly. "They were scared of lawsuits."

Sherlock raises a brow, as if my interruption were an offense. I settle back.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, they were terrified of the legal troubles. So, instead of releasing any kind of public statement, they turn to a more under-the-table method of taking care of their problem. They kidnapped all of the patients, one at a time, to preform replacement microsurgeries. Which is how our victims all returned seemingly unharmed – they'd had very, very small incisions, and little else inflicted upon them. Leaving police baffled, and their lawyers without trial."

"But then –"

"But then," Sherlock picks up loudly. "We found one of the group that goes under the name of the Underground Kidnapper and brought them in. John and I, of course, suspected what was occurring. We were simply attempting to prove it when I received the text telling me that you had been taken."

"How could you have known?" I ask eagerly. "If there weren't any visible incision?"

"Not-quite visible," Sherlock corrects. "In interviewing one of the victims, John noticed an odd cut on their elbow. He recognized it as surgical, which had not occurred to me before. From there we narrowed our sights on medical companies, trying to find a connection between victims. All lines led straight to Meyer's. We were inches away from our break when I got that picture of you."

I cringe at the memory. Briefly, Sherlock's hand finds my forearm. He squeezes. "They were foolish to think I would not come for you."

"I don't think anyone could expect you to go all Taken on your flatmate's girlfriend," I say dryly.

At this I am again positioned against my will, pulled onto Sherlock's chest. He doesn't speak, but simply holds me there. After several minutes I fear that he has fallen asleep. I rest my chin against his sternum, lifting it from a position above his lungs. He is not sleeping, but watching me with a far-away look in his clear eyes, half-lidded.

I take this moment to consider him. To consider why, after disappearing from my life, then snubbing me when he waltzed back in, Sherlock had been so quick to sweep me away from danger and back into his arms. Seeing as I hardly know why he departed from Sussex in the first place, I doubt I will every truly understand what compels Sherlock Holmes.

"You're wondering why I left."

This is said in a seemingly casual manner, yet there are undertones of carefulness there. He's speaking with the delicacy one displays when holding a crystal bird, or some other grandmotherly fragile object.

"Of course I am."

He regards me. "I was needed."

"Needed?"

"My services required," he elaborates. "Things were steadily becoming safer for me – the associates of my rival Moriarty were disappearing, slinking back to the shadows. It was safe again – relatively speak – for me to return to my old life. And, as I told you, I still feared for yours. It was not my place to affect you, Viola. You had plans. I did not wish to sway them so that you might follow me. You're young."

"So are you."

His smile is tight. "Not the same kind of young. It was a ego-centric notation."

"If you could be described in one word, it would be 'ego-centric," I tell him.

"Was I right?" he asks curiously. "Would you have followed?"

I think, looking to the ceiling while I mull the outcomes about in my mind. "I think," I say. "I would have at least stayed in the country."

This pleases him. But I don't let him bask long.

"But that doesn't mean you're forgiven," I warn. "I don't fully understand any of your motivations, and I'm still utterly upset with you leaving without a word, plus that whole fiasco at my work."

"All done for you safety," he argues. "If I'm planning on keeping you around, I should hope you might still be…around. I had to take measures to ensure such."

I frown. "You're planning on 'keeping me?' What, is that your way of saying you're fond of me?"

He doesn't answer, but grunts. We shift again, back to a spooning position. Soon I am matching his breath as his fingers paint lazy circles against my ribs. Somewhere between sleep and awake, a thought occurs to me. With a leaden tongue, I manage, "How long was I down there?"

"Two and a half days," Sherlock replies quietly. Then, even quieter, so faint I barely make it out, "I'm sorry. "

-XXX-

I cannot even express how much time and google searches it took to properly describe Sherlock's room. There is still a lot that's been left to my imagination, but hopefully I have painted it with relative accuracy.

A few questions ought to be cleared up here, but we are by no means done. After all, there is the question of Irene, along with the real reasons behind the kidnappings!

Hope you're enjoyed!

I must apologize for my lack of response to all of your lovely reviews. I shall endeavor to reply sometime this week to the most recent lot. Know that I do appreciate all of your feedback. You are lovely.