It's hard to believe we've reached the end. What started in May as a rough one-shot has transformed into this monster of a piece. I'm still a little surprised.
This is it guys. Thanks so much to all of my readers, especially you who have stuck with me from the start. I hope this is the ending you've been waiting for.
-XXX-
I shower and change while Sherlock occupies himself in my small living/dining room with his cell phone. Of course, he's probably poking about, as well, but I choose to ignore this assumption in favor of focusing on a hot, long, relaxing shower. Let him wait.
My cellphone goes straight to the charger, though I don't turn it on. I'm not quite ready to call Dad.
As the water falls over my skin, I consider the events of the last week. So many twists and turns, it's a wonder I'm not babbling with madness, or at least in some mild form of shock. My head is still spinning, true, but I am relatively clear-minded. If anything, I feel like I'm little more than an observer to a fascinating show. With, naturally, Sherlock as the star. I smile to myself. That's much more preferable, anyways. Still, I suppose it was my face in the papers…this reminder leads me to shudder. They won't let me live this down at work.
Once I emerge, squeaky clean and feeling positively fresh, Sherlock announces that we're going to lunch.
I glance down at my sweat pants and hoodie, then announce that I'm going to change. The detective purses his lips. Without invitation, he follows me into my bedroom.
"Privacy would be appreciated," I hint pointedly.
He ignores me – "Of course." - in favor of examining my bedside table. I groan, flopping on my mattress.
"Please, please stop deducting and let me get dressed."
"I've already seen all of you."
I blush at his bluntness. "That doesn't mean I want you ogling while I change," I hiss fiercely. "Get. Out."
He meets my eyes slowly. Then, after a beat, he sits on the mattress next to me. Grumbling, I stand up, crossing to my chest of drawers.
After selecting jeans, cardigan, and an appropriate blouse, I change into a robe in the bathroom, then leave the door propped open so that I might keep an eye on my desk. He's currently texting, though I suspect he's far less occupied than he appears. I dry my hair quickly, then secure it into a messy-ish sort of bun thing. My hair has gotten quite long since the spring. While I appreciate the low-maintenance qualities of long hair, I am consider shearing it. I consider this as I pin back several loose strands. A few pats of foundation clean up my sallow complexion. I opt for a little mascara, but that's about it for the day.
When I return to select a more appropriate bra – alas, sports bras do not work with every outfit – I find myself somewhat cornered. When I rise from kneeling before the last drawer of my chest, I fall against the consulting detective, who has seemingly followed me.
"Um," I say. "Sherlock?"
He doesn't reply. For a brief second he is merely staring, and in a flash he's pulled me against him and is doing battle with my mouth.
Stunned, I stand frozen while his lips cling to mine. It would almost be awkward if it weren't for my slowly warming blood. Still, I do little more than lean into him at first. Disgruntled, the detective pulls back to frown. When I still don't make any moves to participate, he starts on my neck and jaw. This garners this desired reaction, and I curl my fists into his shirt.
Despite being entirely unexpected, to have him against me again feels terribly nice. I shudder into his touch. My shock ebbs away. All I want to do is feel.
The collar of my robe is pushed down, revealing a shoulder. This is soon followed by open-mouthed kisses. One good thing about being sexually involved with someone who does so much deduction is that they can easily and swiftly predict what will send you over the edge. Which is probably how the folds of the robe I'm wearing are pushed aside to allow for nimble fingers against the waistband of my panties. They teasingly skim my stomach. Then move upwards to cup one breast, stroking with painful slowness. I let my breath settle in something like a sigh. Lips trail down to rest between my breasts, then, slowly, set about lavishing my nipples. One hand has moved down to that moist place between my thighs, rubbing small circles against the fabric of my underwear. The friction makes me whimper, then gasp when those fingers push aside the cotton to touch that most sensitive place. A finger dips into me. Then another. I arch and gasp as they remove themselves, then plunge back in. His palm continues to tease my clit. I'm being backed into the bed. As I sink into the mattress, I pull him with me.
-XXX-
Eventually I call Dad. The majority of the call is spent listening to him lecture and cry. I reassure him that I'm perfectly alright, that everything was handled by law enforcement. I don't mention Sherlock. I suspect later papers might mention him – the word will get out soon enough, it was his case – but I won't be the one to bring the subject up. After a half-hour, I end the call, promising I'll send a few texts and emails.
About an hour later, we've sat down to lunch at some small Italian bistro. The owner apparently owes Sherlock a favor, so we get extra breadsticks. I hardly think saving someone's mother's life merits simply breadsticks, but Sherlock is unbothered by this. He picks at the dough, crumbling bits onto the tablecloth. I am suddenly reminded of my own mother, and a question wells up in my throat.
"My mother…."
He stills instantly. Impassive, Sherlock examines my face carefully. "Yes?"
"You knew her." It is not a question.
There is a hesitation before he answers, though his face doesn't show it. "Yes."
I wait for more. When I realize nothing else is coming, I prod gently for more. "How?" I prompt him.
His jaws lock. He doesn't want to tell me. But I wait.
"There was a case. Mycroft called me. It was very hush-hush. She had in her possession something that could be…detrimental…to certain members of royalty. And my brother's people wanted it. But they weren't willing or able to do the dirty work themselves. I was employed to remove the material from her possession."
Here he pauses.
"And did you?"
A slight smirk graces his lips. "Naturally." But there is a hint of something less amused in his eyes. "After a time. She has been one of the few people to provide a true, knowledgeable challenge to me. It took me nearly six months."
He quiets again. We sit together, each lost in our own worlds of musings. So far, all that John had told me is matching up with Sherlock's tale. But I am not quite satisfied.
"You…and her…." I struggle to get the words out. "There were….feelings between you?"
The look I am cast is very sharp. I simple gaze back, pleading slightly.
"We were little more than two people playing a game," he says quietly. "And part of that game might have included flirtations and sentimentality on her part. But I was nothing more than focused on my goal. It was her attachment that was ultimately her downfall."
Here I do not inquire further. I look away.
"She was an admirable opponent." He allows this in a low voice.
"Did you know I was her daughter?"
"Not until you told me," he says dryly. "I thought it was some kind of a trick. Just a coincidence. Or my own personal hell."
I balk at this. He sighs.
"I merely meant that things between your mother and myself had ended badly. I almost wondered if she had deposited you in my lap herself as some kind of a joke. But that was not possible."
"You speak as though she is still alive," I complain.
He is silent. One brow rises. I stare.
"But no – she died. I saw the plot. I've got inheritance. She's gone."
Sherlock looks out the window. "She is gone," he agrees. "But not – gone."
Horrified, I can do nothing but gape, mouth open like some kind of stunned fish. When I don't speak, Sherlock gives me a scathing glance.
"Keep that up and your face shall freeze that way," he scolds carelessly.
"That's a wives's tale," I reply faintly.
"Something my mother always assured me would happen if I forgot my civility. I'm sure yours would have surely done the same." At my even more horrified expression, he rolls his eyes. "Oh, do, calm down."
"She's alive?" I whisper.
"And well."
"But –"
"Viola." He's serious. "She's alive. Hidden away. But alive."
"How do you know?"
"Because I was the one to saved her."
He won't tell me too much more, only that my mother will likely never be back on the continent, that I will never see me again, and that she wanted to say goodbye, but it simply was not possible. I ask if they've been in contact. He answers with a firm "no." That's about all I get from him.
I sit, stunned, while Sherlock picks at his pasta. I do not quite know how to react. What is there to say?
I want to get away. Part of me wants to just walk away. Stand up. Walk out, call a cab. Get away. I don't want to see him. My mother is alive and far from me.
After several minutes of sitting in silence, Sherlock examines me. "Viola. What are you thinking?"
I glance up sharply. "I thought you could see what I'm thinking. I thought it was all bare to you."
His face doesn't even flicker. "That's not how it works."
"But regardless, you're definitely perceptive. Then tell me," I say lowly. "What do you think I'm feeling?"
"You're unhappy," he states. "She's not gone, she didn't seek you out, and the person you currently engaged with in a romantic fashion just reveled this to you. It likely rings of something like betrayal – or, at least, has shaken your trust in me. You've been struck. I would suspect you to be in some form of distress at the moment."
I don't answer. I can't answer. He's hit the nail on the head. Again, I feel the impulse to get away, to remove myself from underneath the icy eyes that are now scanning my face. Instead, I lift my fork, scooping up a bite of my pasta, forcing myself to eat. It tastes like glue. Several seconds pass before I manage to shove it down my esophagus. All the while I stare out the window.
The city moves on. People bundled up against the chill pass by the restaurant, hurrying to escape the cold, each in a brisk stride. I see mists of frost escape the mouths of those who have only just stepped out to face the cold. Taxis wiz through the crowded street. A few leaves flicker overhead, drifting slowly in a descent that will seal the end of their cycle. The city has moved on without me in my accidental absence, as cities do.
It strikes me then that had this occurred in Sussex, I'd be stopped by everyone I encountered, questioned, and otherwise harassed for my experience. Here, no one cares. Someone might place me, note my face and vaguely recognize it, but so far, not a single soul has approached me. And that's a relief. I don't want to be known as the "Woman-Who-Was-Kidnapped" anymore than I wish to be known for being "Irene's Daughter." That's one thing I've really loved about the city. Yeah, you might get your marks – "Piano Girl" at Pinstripes, and "Sherlock's Girlfriend" among those in government – but they're only in certain groups. They're only temporary. In my hometown, I'll never not be known for being a flighty woman's daughter. Which is, at some points, a comfort. But mostly, it's a pain.
"You're right. You're better at reading people's emotions than you give yourself credit for."
For once, Sherlock does not appear smug about this. "It's all logic, Viola."
"Why," I ask slowly, struggling. "Did you lie before? Why did you say you didn't know her?"
"Because the woman who you knew as a mother and the woman I chased are hardly one and the same."
He has a point.
Sherlock leans back. "I wanted to tell you. When the time was appropriate. John had no idea, of course. You look very much like her, however, not so much as to lead him to suspect. You must forgive me, Viola."
There's no apology – but then again, he doesn't really need to give one. We're all just victims of circumstance.
I don't speak for the rest of the meal.
-XXX-
Later, we return to my flat. I didn't exactly invite Sherlock to tag along, but I didn't straight-out protest when he joined me. When we get inside I immediately remove my shoes, cross to the couch, and sink into it with a slight sound of relief. This is normalcy. My couch, my apartment, the traffic noises outside, the silence indoors –
" Have you any tea?"
- Well, not quite normalcy. Sherlock is here, poking about my kitchen. I scowl as I watch him rummage through cupboards.
"Of course," I answer crossly. "Top left. There's a tin. Kettle is on the stove. I'll be surprised to see if you can use it."
He doesn't immediately respond to my jab. After filling the kettle and setting the stove, he finds a pair of mugs, then leans against the counter as he waits for it to boil. All of his motions are very mechanical, and I observe in fascination. It is as though he's made tea ten million times, though I know this cannot be true. The man imposes the task upon all those around him. He's probably picked up the habitual-styled motions through seeing so many others.
"How long are you going to be cross with me?" he asks quietly. I raise a brow.
"Caught on to that, have you?"
He ignores the question. "I've been honest with you."
"You have," I acknowledge. "Recently."
"I could not very well have told you that in the beginning. You know why." His expression is very intense, as though he is channeling all of his understanding into me. "Being angry will change nothing. It will just serve to frustrate us both."
I am surprised he's noticed. But I'm even more taken aback but the fact that he's admitting to being frustrated. The idea that my feelings could affect his in such a manner is news to me.
"I'm sorry," I say honestly. "It's just a lot to take in, you know. I mean, aside from the whole running-off-without-a-word and then getting-me-kidnapped, this is a bit of a game changer. You've got to understand I feel conflicted."
His intent expression has not altered. "Do you trust me?"
Before I can answer the kettle screams. He turns swiftly to shut the heat off. When he returns, he bears two mugs. I accept my, musing over his question. Sherlock waits.
"Yes. Of course."
His lips purse. "Then why do you feel conflicted?"
"Because it's my mother….my living mother, who I thought was dead, who had a thing with you! Part of me wants to run for the hills, to escape this soap opera that is your life. But I can't just do that. I've got a good thing going here. I just got out of twenty years of utter boredom. You're exciting, the city is exciting, and I don't want to leave. But all of that – what was already between us, then I get kidnapped, and now my mother – is a little much."
"What do you want?"
I open my mouth, hesitating. I could tell him to get out. I could say that I want him to exit my life entirely. Yet, watching him now, I don't see much more than curiosity alighting his strange eyes. He's no longer a silhouette, I note. Here he sits, more than a half-person in the dim light of the evening. I don't know if I can attribute this change to myself or the London atmosphere. All I know is that this is the person I could only half-see in the haze of tragedy back in Sussex. This is Sherlock Holmes.
And I think, how could I miss this? Miss out on seeing the person that only just glimmered through Benjamin Holly?
"I want to figure this out," I say finally. "I want to understand you a little bit more. We started out on an odd footing. And it only got more and more unsteady as time went on. So…."
He waits as I struggle to find words.
"Let's start again," I offer feebly. "I know it's a huge cliché in RomComs, but it's the best I've got. I'm not quite ready to give up. Is that fair?"
"More than fair."
"I don't know if we'll get through," I warn. "I mean, this could all go to shit."
"Yes," he agrees simply.
-XXX-
I wake to find him standing in the window. The moon is peeking out from behind my sheer cream curtains, its light generous streaming in to the room. Cast in shadow, I can make out his striking outline against the white. Fingers steepled, head bowed, he gazes straight into the night. I'm reminded of the first time we encountered one another – the small front parlor of that cottage, firelight flickering to create a strong silhouette. "A half-person."
Sleepily, I watch Sherlock for a few seconds before calling softly. "What are you doing?"
"Thinking."
"Mmmmh. C'mere."
He joins me on the mattress. I roll into the pillow as one arm scoops around me.
"S'okay?"
"Yes," he answers. Light fingers play along the fine hairs of my neck. I drift off again, only to wake a few minutes later when his weight shifts from the bed. He has moved back to the window to stare pensively into the glass. This time, I follow. Rising lightly, I cross on my toes to stand before him, silent.
"You're worried," he states soundly.
"Sherlock?" He doesn't answer. "I should think you're the one who is troubled. What's going on inside that head of yours?"
Several seconds pass before he moves. His shoulder gently brushes mine. "It is my mind," he murmurs. "It cannot be quieted."
"You're bored," I clarify.
A slight smile purses his lips. "Indeed."
"Do you need to go?"
He grunts. "No," he allows after a moment.
"Alright," I say simply.
So we stand, silently gazing out into the glassy darkness of the city. Two silhouettes, lingering against the night. Not quite half-people – but lives working their way towards wholeness.
-XXX-
This conclusion feels a little awkward to me, but it's what came out. I would've originally tacked it on to the last chapter, but things were getting a little long there, so you got an extra chapter from the deal.
Thank you so much for following me in this. I apologize again for the tardiness of the last couple of chapters, but my life has been stupidly hectic. I have really appreciated all of the lovely feedback and follows. If you have any questions or comments I shall answer them, pinky promise, if they're answerable.
And finally, if you're into Star Trek or Labyrinth, I have two new pieces that shall be coming out within the month, so please feel free to give me a follow or browse and of my other work.
Again, all of my thanks!