John stared at the closed door for a few moments before walking away, shaking his head slightly. Calvin gave him a bemused look and took a few steps towards the door that John just retreated from.

"Sherlock?" she called, twisted the doorknob just slightly and peeking in. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Get out." he snapped, pressing his hand to the door and pushing hard, effectively shutting the small crack that Calvin had opened. She blinked twice before smikring, also retreating from the door.

Within a half-hour, Sherlock burst from his bedroom and began to stride for the stairs leading to the front door on the ground floor. His face was expressionless, as always, but everyone noted the tension he was emitting.

"Where are you going?" John demanded, and the unspoken 'without us' was tacked on the end of that sentence silently by Calvin, who looked on with interest.

"St. Bart's. Don't wait up." he answered briskly, galloping down the stairs and out the door. Calvin heard a car door shut outside before the front door of the flat even closed. She glanced around the room at the others.

"I should... um. I should go help." Molly stuttered, pulling at her earrings and hair as she gathered a few of her things. Her glamoured appearance soon melted away, and she changed into a pair of jeans and a Christmas sweater in their bathroom.

"Um, Merry Christmas, everyone." she said, scrambling down the stairs to hail her own cab to the morgue. The room she left behind was silent, and Calvin felt the need to change into something more comfortable as well... the festivities were over.

OoOoOo

Sherlock

Sherlock glared down at the body as if he were angry with it for dying so easily. It was her, alright, the measurements of the body matched exactly if the face was a bit hard to distinguish. He walked away from the sight, leaving Molly almost gaping after him.

He found a quiet corner to brood in, feeling a odd sense of loss that he'd never been exposed to before this moment. It was a feeling he had never felt, never needed to feel, and would never want to feel again. He didn't like it. It was much too distracting. To battle the feeling, he watched the snow fall outside through the window, feeling the chill of the winter even through the glass.

As he expected, Mycroft's distinct footsteps feel behind him as a door opened and closed. A cigarette was held up next to his face, and he glanced back with a slightly furrowed brow.

"Just the one." Mycroft told him in that infuriating brother tone that he liked to use with Sherlock.

"Why."

"Merry Christmas."

Not needing more encouragement at the moment, Sherlock took the fag from his brother's fingers. He anticipated the sweet feeling of real nicotine running through his veins, filling his lungs in the way only smoking could provide. The patches never really did it for him.

"Smoking indoors isn't one of those... law things, is it?" he asked as the older Holmes extracted a lighter from his coat. He lit it with ease, taking a long drag before letting the smoke float out of him slowly.

"We're in a morgue." Mycroft reminded him. "Only so much damage you can do." Sherlock didn't answer, concentrating on the familiar feeling of chemicals running into his bloodstrem through his capillaries.

"How did you know she was dead?" was the question that interupted his thoughts. He blinked.

"She had an item in her possession... one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up." He took another drag from his cigarette.

"And where is this item now?"

Sherlock chose not to answer, instead he focused his attention on the people down the hall. "Look at them. They all care so much." he told his brother. That being said, Sherlock was blissfully unaware of how much he actually could care. "Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." was the answer that came. Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. Obviously.

"This is low-tar." Sherlock realized, grimacing at the cig still between his fingers.

"Yes, well, you barely knew her." Mycroft told him. "If it had been a woman like Miss. Baker, I would be more inclined to supply you with a more potent way of slowly killing yourself." Sherlock gave a humorless laugh, turning and striding to the door to his left.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

Mycroft stared after his brother. "And a happy New Year." he answered, reaching into his coat pocket.

Sherlock flicked ash off of his cigarette as he walked the cold streets of London, foregoing a ride home with an irritatingly talkative cab driver that only John would pity for having to work the holiday. He mused Mycroft's words, 'If it had been a woman like Miss. Baker...'

What? Sherlock was anticipating him to mention John or Mrs. Hudson as the person that it 'could have been'. But Calvin? He scoffed at the idea. He'd be mildly put off, at best, if she were to die. Mostly because he would not know the explanation of her name.

He frowned as he stubbed out his cigarette on the brick wall next to him, dropping it into the snow without a second thought. He wondered if he'd actually miss her presence. Doubtful, as he'd toyed with the idea of poisoning her once or twice... just to see what would happen. He'd discarded the idea after noting that John would be very upset with him if he'd killed her.

His mind was racing for any possible way that he'd be overly effected if Calvin Baker were to die tomorrow, and was surprised to find just a twinge of... something when he imagined a vivid portrait of her dead body on his kitchen floor. Shaking away the morbid thoughts angrily, angling his head down against the irritating snow flying into his eyes. Halfway back to Baker Street now. How much time had passed? It was getting colder.

Why? Why did he care... even just a little? He was Sherlock Holmes, he had more important things to worry about than insignificant, smug women that simply loved to challenge and evade him at every turn. He'd kissed her a few times in the past weeks purely out of curiosity and experimentation. He was trying to figure out if he did have an effect on her - which he was pleased to find out that he did - and if she had an effect on him in return.

Finding a slightly elevated heartrate after his second kiss with her, he was displeased to find that his body was effected by hers. Not his mind, of course, he mind was still repulsed but his body responded as any man's would when kissing a beautiful woman. She was beautiful, after all, Sherlock just didn't care. He found the data interesting, that mind over matter didn't work as well in matters of, well, sex. But that was besides the point. Wait... what was the point, again? Sherlock didn't even know the answer to that question.

As the theme of this walk was to analyze his feelings towards Calvin Baker in comparison to Irene Adler, he moved on to another topic of her existence within his flat; her panic attacks.

Sherlock had concluded that Calvin harbored at least one type of anxiety disorder, though knowing facts about a person means nothing if they don't admit it. Especially if they are trying to hide and deny it. He'd seen her at her most vulnerable state, he'd seen her cry and sob, hell, he'd even seen her snuggled up against him, unconscious, needing the human contact after the pool incident. But no matter what he saw, she made him doubt that anything had happened at all.

He felt protective of her when he found that Moriarty was contacting her regularly, he felt the same way when shards of glass were embedded in her back and she begged him to play doctor. He enjoyed seeing her flustered, like when they slept in the same bed and she awoke to his presence.

What the hell was he thinking? She was insignificant. A mere psychology professor with a few good ideas and in way over her head in the crime field. She almost got herself killed too many times in the past few months, and could be considered a liability in his work. She was stubborn. She challenged him. She had nothing to offer him except irritation. She was frustrating in the worst possible ways.

But he still cared.

He cared for her. He did. He cared for her in the same way he cared for John but... different, somehow. And he didn't know why. He didn't understand. She had somehow wormed her way into his life and now his mind didn't like the idea of her absence anymore.

He cared that Irene was dead because of her ability to beat him. He respected her for that reason along. But Calvin... she couldn't beat him. She skidded past, evaded him only just, and ducked out of the way when he took a stab at her past... but she would never, ever beat him.

But she didn't want to. Calvin never wanted to beat him, disprove his genius, claim herself as his equal, what have you. She had stated herself, several times, that she was not Sherlock, that she didn't see the world the way he did, that she was not of his caliber. She was so self-aware of her own existence and limitations that it made it seem as if she wasn't bound by them. But at the same time, she was still ordinary. Sherlock couldn't decide which side of the spectrum she belonged on.

Sherlock scowled at the ground as he swung open the door into 221 Baker Street. He didn't care when he tracked snow up the stairs and into the flat.

OoOoOoOo

Calvin sat with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. It was late, almost two am, and Sherlock wasn't home. She wasn't exactly worried, as it was Sherlock, after all, but she was feeling extremely anxious after having to search the entire flat for drugs.

The thought had never crossed her mind that Sherlock had ever done drugs. She'd seen him with the patches, of course, but he didn't even smoke anymore. The entire process shocked her... and, honestly, scared her.

Calvin worried nonstop about everyone close to her. It was part of her anxiety and that specific aspect was rather amplified after Chase's death. Even beforehand, however, she constantly thought about her friends that she had left behind. Were they remembering to buy groceries and pay the bills? Or when John was out with a girl... did Moriarty set him up with her? Was he in danger? Irrational worrying was her specialty, curbed with plenty of books and tea. But before today... she had never truly worried for Sherlock. Perhaps she regarded him as infalliable. He was strong, intelligent beyond her capacity to comprehend, and crafty as all hell. She never found herself worrying over his absence.

Calvin instantly scolded herself for putting him on a pedistal and regarding him as untouchable. It never would do to believe someone infalliable, untouchable. Because, no matter how inhuman he could seem, he was human. He could fall, had fallen, and will fall again.

So now she was scared. She was scared because she did not want to see him fall. No drugs were found today besides an unopened pack of cigarettes in the kitchen... but apparently those were the least of anyone's worries regarding Sherlock.

When she heard the familiar pattern of three steps on the twelve-step staircase, she felt pressure in her chest loosen. She looked up slowly at his arrival while he gave John and herself a blank stare. His eyes took in the room slowly, not saying anything before turning and walking slowly towards his bedroom.

"Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time." he murmured as he trudged down the hall, leaving snow in his wake that neither John nor Calvin would clean up. Calvin bit her lip as John sighed, hearing the bedroom close in finality once again.

"He's okay." John said quietly to himself, pressing his hand to his forehead. Calvin gave him a sympathetic look and nodded.

"And he will continue to be okay, John. He's lost someone. He won't be fine, but he'll be okay." Calvin assured him, closing her book and standing. She was definitely staying up here tonight, but whether she should speak to Sherlock or not before she allowed herself to relax was the question she was considering. John rose and mumbled a quick good night before trudging to his own room on the other side of the flat tiredly. She felt a pang of worry for him. He cared so much for his friend.

Calvin angled her body in the direction of Sherlock's room, taking a few tenative steps in that direction. What was she doing? She had never had this type of reluctance in speaking with Sherlock before. What had changed? He was the same person. He had done the drugs before she knew about it. There literally was nothing different. He would most likely turn her away... but she wanted him to know that she cared, even if he didn't.

So her steps became more insistent as she reached his door, knocking twice.

"Yes, Calvin." came his low voice from the other side, and she opened the door slowly, leaning against the frame.

"Can I come in?"

"Why are you asking permission. You never have before." Sherlock noted, staring at her almost accusingly from his chair on the other side of the nearly pitch-black room. Calvin could just make out his features.

She didn't comment on his tone. "I'm sorry." she said, taking steps into the room and sitting on the edge of his vacant bed. His eyes were still fixed on a spot beyond Calvin.

"Whatever for." Sherlock replied, voice becoming more condescending at this point and Calvin blinked. He had foregone this attitude regarding her for the most part, but by the look on his face he seemed to be angry with her for some reason. "It's not like you killed her."

"You know what I mean, Sherlock." Calvin said, leaning forward and placing her elbows on her knees, folding her hands as she stared up at him through her bangs. He turned his head a miniscule amount to look down at her, mouth pressed into a straight line.

He said nothing as his eyes swept over her. He took in the mussed head of hair and sweatpants and t-shirt that had replaced her white dress. Her mouth lacked it's usual hidden smile that lurked beneath the surface, taunting him. Now, her face was serious, open, and sparked with sympathy that Sherlock did not want from her.

He didn't know what he wanted, actually.

"Is that all you've interrupted me to say?" he asked her as he stood. Calvin moved her eyes to look up from under her lashes, not moving from her position even though he was trying to intimidate her with towering over her.

"What else would you like me to say, Sherlock?" she asked, moving her head slowly back to look up at him fully. He flinched. He hated the way she said his name, and she said it a lot in serious conversations with him. It made him feel strange, although it held nothing out of the ordinary.

"You came to me. I didn't come to you." he reminded her tartly, pursing his lips in irritation. She was the last person he wanted to see right now, especially when he was so undecisive about her. She was acting as different as he was, however. Did she think him horrid? Horrid for abusing the drugs that she had been previously unaware of?

No. She did not think him any more horrid than usual.

Then why was she looking at him so strangely. Was she scared? Angry? He wanted to ask but he knew she wouldn't give him a direct answer.

"Say what you need to say, Sherlock. I'm listening." Calvin welcomed, having been silent for at least ten minutes whilst he mused internally about her intentions. He blinked, staring down at her open face.

"I am sorry about Irene, Sherlock."

He blinked slowly, leaving his eyes closed for a just a second longer than what was perceived as 'normal' for a blink. "No matter."

"It matters." Calvin insisted.

"No."

"If it didn't matter to you, there would not be cigarette smoke on your breath."

Sherlock scowled, angry now at her interference. "Don't comment on matters that you have no knowledge of. You do that enough, already. Now, get out." he commanded, flicking his chin at the door. Calvin cocked her head and smiled up at him.

"Okay." she agreed, standing up. With the movement, she was very, very close to Sherlock. Neither of them backed off for a moment, Calvin's face mere inches below Sherlock's as her knowing smile played around her lips.

"Did you ever open my present, by the way?"

"I didn't want it. Leave."

"Sherlock." she implored, glancing at the envelope laying on Sherlock's nightstand. He scowled at her, leaning over to snatch it from its resting place and ripping it open with his eyes trained on hers.

A card was all it was. It read simply,

You may ask anything of me.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock." Calvin told him, smiling in that way as she backed off from him, heading for the still-open bedroom door with easy steps. She turned and smiled at him at the doorframe before disappearing without shutting the door...

...Much to Sherlock's immediate irritation.

OoOoOoOo

Attention. This was an extremely hard chapter to write and I apologize if I failed miserably. It is very hard to write from Sherlock's POV because I imagine his mind jumps all over the place instead of focusing on one linear thought (that's what the mind palace is for) And that is very hard to portray in a manner that everyone can read and understand. So yeah. And in general, the characterization was very difficult. This was just difficult. I apologize.

Anyway. I am so sorry about the month-long wait. I am extremely stressed out and busy with AP classes, work, applying to college, mountains of homework, asdfghjkl sorry I don't like complaining or making excuses but yo Jess is just so overwhelmed.

I'm dying of exhaustion right now, or I'd say more.

So yeah. I still love ya'lls and I am still here and Season 3 is still NOT HERE GODDAMMNNITTT

This chapter didn't pan out exactly as planned but these characters have a mind of their own, I swwweeeaarrr.

Okay.

Good night.

I love you.

Let me know your thoughts.

Jess