Silhouettes Chapter 22
-XXX-
The afternoon finds me tentatively stepping out of the bedroom to creep down the stairs. I woke to an empty bed – panicked – but quickly calm when I gather my surroundings. Feeling hungry, I slip from the sheets, crossing to the chest of drawers. A bit of rummaging finds me a pair of pajama pants that look loose enough to fit over my hips. While pulling them on, I spot the grey heather sweats with CAMBRIDGE emblazoned on the thigh. I stoop to touch them, remembering the night I first saw them. It feels years and years away
Though it's dirty, I pluck my camisole from the pile in the nearby chair. Once dressed, I move from the room. At the top of the stairs I can hear the rustle of papers, clicking of keys. The noises do not tell me, who, exactly, is down there. Very slowly, I continue down.
John sits in the air chair nearest the fire, his back to me. I take the last step, wincing when my weight against the stairs makes an unpleasant creeeeeeak! John turns back. He's automatically flustered – probably because I'm in something like pajamas.
"Viola!" He rises to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. "I –"
"Sit down, John, you look like a confused cod," comes a lazy voice from beside the window. Sherlock sits at a laptop – possibly his, probably John's – typing rapidly. I blink back the afternoon light until he comes into focus.
Embarrassed, John sits again, but first he gestures for me to sit. "Are you alright," he asks, concerned, peering into my face after I sink onto the couch. I curl up, legs tucked beneath me. Of course, before I can answer, Sherlock replies for me.
"She is adequate. Hungry, but safe, aside from that. Have Ms. Hudson fetch her some tea."
"Tea doesn't feed a person," John scolds. "I'll make her a sandwich. Come to the kitchen, Vi, we'll get you fed -"
"Stay," Sherlock says almost automatically. John and I look at him. He doesn't even glance up from the screen. John rolls his eyes, then proceeds to the kitchen. From behind the laptop, I see the consulting detective bite back a smug smile.
-XXX-
"It was the wine glass," Sherlock informs me matter-of-factly.
Waking from my doze before the TV, I lift my head. "Huh?"
Since my late lunch/dinner, I hadn't really moved from my spot on the couch. It's now about eleven. John has gone to bed. Earlier, I made to go home, but John told me to stay for another night. I was hesitant, but Sherlock grunted his agreement, so I stayed.
He doesn't repeat himself. With a sigh, I sit up, "What?"
"The angry customer who threw wine on your piano, causing you to be late, leading you to take the train. It was the wine."
I stare. "Oh. Yeah. I just thought –"
"There is no such thing as coincidence."
I purse my lips. "Thank you, Sherlock."
Silence reigns again. I fall back into my doze, watching the figures move across the screen. Despite the amount of sleep I've gotten over the last two days, weariness won't allow me to truly register what occurs on the screen. I don't know how much time passes, but I find Sherlock suddenly standing before me. In the darkness, his face is heavily shadowed.
"Come to bed."
"You going?" I ask sleepily.
He gives me a look. I unfold myself carefully, rising on heavy limbs, taking the arm he has not offered to steady myself.
"What else could you be doing? "
"Case," he says simply.
I haven't removed my hand from his arm. With a tug, I lead him towards the stairs. "C'mon."
"I have work."
"I can't sleep without you," I tell him bluntly. One of his brows rises. "Oh, come on. You need rest, too. You're a skeleton," I complain, gesturing to him. "You weren't like this in Sussex. C'mon."
And, to my surprise, he follows.
Before getting into bed, I remove the pajama pants I've borrowed. Sherlock watches as the green-and-blue plaid puddles on the floor. I crawl into bed. We are not quite together, touching, but there is an element of comfort in the manner in which we lay. The cool sheets whisper against my skin as I shift to roll towards him. He's gazing up as the ceiling, paying me no mind, eyes flickering with great interest. I watch him until my eyes begin to drift shut lazily. When I'm nearly completely asleep, Sherlock moves me against his chest. From there I fall into an almost-dreamless sleep.
-XXX-
My dreams are slow, lazy things, consisting of dark colors and deep music. I wake recalling little, which is fine by me.
The bed is empty again, but I don't think anything of it. What currently occupies me is the knowledge that I really ought to go home today. To get clothes, if anything. Though, I feel it is time to get out of the hair of those occupying 221b Baker Street. Not that anyone has made me feel anything less than welcome. John is positively wonderful, and Sherlock simply treats me as a fixture – something that has always been there, nothing of particular interest.
With a heavy sigh, I turn to my clothes, still piled in the chair. The sweater I'd been wearing that night, my charcoal slacks, and camisole all lay, carelessly toss upon the leather. They're not particularly clean, but, being the best option I've got (I am in no way planning on hailing a cab in Sherlock's sweatpants and a stolen dress shirt) I slip them on. While not being especially dirty, the feeling of already-worn clothes, smelling of sweat and a subway maintenance room, give me a gross sort of feeling. I ignore it.
I wash up in the bathroom. Swiping a bit of Sherlock's deodorant leaves me feeling less guilty and more appalled, because I swore I'd never be one of those girls. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I do hold off on brushing my teeth in favor of mouth wash, three full cuplets of it. I wash my face, removing the remnants of makeup that had somehow survived the last four days. With that, I slip on my shoes, toss on my jacket, and make for the stairs.
The downstairs is empty. Neither John nor Sherlock are to be found. I'm not the least bit disappointed; this shall make things easier. I briefly consider leaving a note, but decide I'll simply text John when I'm back home, so that they will definitely know I made it.
I make my way down the two flights, pausing before I pass Mrs. Hudson's door. I hear the canned laughter of a telly audience. She's occupied, hopefully too occupied to keep me.
The outside world is overcast, unfamiliar, and loud. Baker Street isn't exactly a bustling center of culture, but it does have a lot of activity. I blink back mist – it's almost-raining, per usual – and step onto the stoop.
I see the stream of thin smoke before I spot its owner.
"You're up late," a quiet voice observes. I jump.
Sherlock stands beside the door to his flat, a smoldering cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger. He's dressed in his usual heavy woolen coat and navy scarf. Observing me with cool eyes, he takes a drag of the small white stick.
"You don't smoke," I say dumbly, frowning.
He merely looks at me.
Feeling compelled to speak, I stutter. "I'm going home. To, like, change and stuff. And I've got to email all of my professors. And my work – " I wince at the thought of explaining myself to Harry. Who knows what kind of bind Pinstripes has been in over the last several days, being without their pianist?
"It's been taken care of for you."
"What? How?" A terrifying thought occurs to me. "Oh God, you didn't call my professors, did you?"
"Hardly. My brother," he says with only a hint of distaste. "Was kind enough to inform everyone that needed informing. I believe you will return home to find several emails of lecture notes. It is lucky you are studious enough that your music teachers don't mind you missing a few practices. As for your place of employment, Harry was more than understanding. They've been fine without you. You've been granted two more days off, if you so wish."
"I don't wish. I just want things to go back to normal."
His brows rise, but he does not comment.
"I don't understand how Mycroft could have persuaded everyone –"
"Seeing as your face has graced the front pages of several papers, it was not hard."
"What?!"
Readied for this, Sherlock offers me his phone. It's a set on the page of a popular paper. He flicks his finger, showing me another news source. And another. And another.
My name and face are on the homepages of four major London papers. "Final Victim Rescued. Kidnapping Gang Brought to Justice. Meyer Pharmaceutical to Face the Courts."
"Oh my God." I lean against the white-grey brick of 221. "Oh my God, when my father sees this…."
"Dad. Shit." This thought has me scrambling for my cellphone, tucked deep within the pocket of my coat. It's dead, of course, but I press the power button anyways. "Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon….."
Nosuch luck. It's dead. I groan, imagining the heap of anxious texts, missed calls, voicemails, and emails that await me.
"I take it no one thought to contact my dad?"
Sherlock responds in the negative. "He likely didn't even know until after the fact. Come. It's about to rain."
He pushes himself away from the building, dropping his cigarette and stomping into the sidewalk before stepping forward to hail a cab. One swiftly pulls up to the curb (far more quickly than I've ever had a car come to my beck and call, but then again, I don't have nearly as much presence as Sherlock Holmes). The door is opened. I slide in, then turn to say goodbye, only to find the consulting detective has followed me inside.
"Are you coming?" I ask, surprised.
"Yes," he says shortly. And that's the end of that.
-XXX-
It's been forever! I know! You can hate me!
I just moved up to uni. The process has been tough. Plus, I'm only up here so early because I am helping other people move in so…yeah.
This is not the last chapter. I cut it off early so you guys could get something. Again, I apologize for the lateness. I have not abandoned Silhouettes. I'll be back again soon…maybe.