Chapter 28: The Month of May

Emma sat on the couch, her knees curled into her chest. She had been living with Sherlock for two weeks, and he had tried to accommodate her. However, lately, he had been gone for hours on end and she felt lonely. She knew he was trying to catch her grandparent's murderers, so that she would feel better, but right now, she needed him.

All she had to fill her time was school, and going to church. She went every night to the church down the block and lit a candle for her grandparents, praying they were safe and happy, wherever they were.

Even school was quickly leaving. Emma had two months left before she graduated and went off to University. So far she had applied to a number of different schools, but had heard back from none of them. She desperately wanted to continue her education, to become a Psychologist.

Emmaline rolled over onto her side, pulling a blanket up around her. Even though Sherlock had been gone a lot, she could hardly blame him. She had been distant with him as well. And he had given her the space he thought she needed. But what Emma needed was Sherlock.

It was completely unhealthy for her to still be thinking about him, especially in the emotional state she was currently in. But Emma couldn't help but to think of him, and it was helping her to get through it.

The truth of the matter was, she had not known her grandparents very well, and she felt awful for it. At the reading of the will, they had left everything to her. As soon as she was eighteen, she would earn quite an inheritance, all thanks to the lovely people who took her in after her mother died.

The door opened and Emma was thrust from her morose thoughts as Sherlock walked in, bringing some of the spring air with him. He took off his scarf and coat, staring sadly at the lump on his couch. A few weeks ago, she had been a bright young woman. Now she seemed like a colorless blob the world had chewed up and spit back out.

Sherlock leaned over to brush her hair out of her face, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"We caught them." He told her.

This caused a slight stirring in her, and she sat up slowly.

"Really?"

"Rodney Collins and Avery Smith – both twenty-five, both in the same gang."

"How did you find them?"

"Tennis shoes." Sherlock answered simply.

Emma cocked a brow but did not ask for an explanation. She knew her friend's genius by now to know that it worked wonders.

"They're being held and questioned, and Lestrade is going to formally charge them at some point." Sherlock said, sitting down on the couch.

"Sherlock, thank you." Emma said, throwing her arms around his neck.

"I don't want to see you moping around the flat anymore; go hang out with your other friends." He urged her.

"I don't want to." She insisted.

They had had this fight multiple times over the past two weeks. Sherlock kept insisting she get real human interaction, while she maintained that he was the only human being she wanted to spend her time with right now.

"At least go to Prom." He told her.

Emma sighed and sat back on the couch.

"I don't want to go; it will depress me."

"Emmaline, please. Do it for me." Sherlock pleaded.

He needed to see some part of her life being normal, like it would have been if her grandparents were still alive, or if she and Sherlock had never met.

"Fine; I'll go." She assented with a huff.

ᶓ

Over the next two weeks, Sherlock watched Emmaline preparing for Prom. She would try out different nail polishes, hair-do's, and makeup applications, to test out how she wanted to look. Every time she asked Sherlock how she looked, he said she looked fine every time. It was the truth; Sherlock thought she looked great no matter what she had on. A week before the event she bought her ticket – Emma was going alone – and went dress shopping by herself.

Two days before the dance he saw Emma lighting the candle in the window for her grandparents, and probably her mother as well. As he sat, pretending to read, and watched her, he thought that maybe Prom was a bad idea. It was a huge social event, with everyone she knew from school, and all they would do was pity her.

As he looked at her, he noticed how thin she had become, and the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. Every night they switched off between the couch and his bed, but it seemed neither place was doing her any good. She had been eating less as well, and it worried him.

He was about to open his mouth and suggest not going, when another idea struck him. A better idea and one that he was sure Emmaline would enjoy more. So Sherlock kept quiet and waited for the day of the Prom.

ᶓ

Emmaline looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her brown smoky eye and gold tipped lashes complimented her brown eyes and olive skin. Her hair was brushed back into a high bun, her bangs brushing across her forehead. She stepped back to check her dress, to make sure it fit all right.

A dark green, sleeveless corset dress bloomed out into a full skirt. It was simple except for pleating around the waist and a jewel encrusted flower broach at the left hip. She had kept her jewelry simple, diamond drop earrings.

Emma sighed at her reflection and stood up straight. She was doing this for Sherlock, not because she wanted to. But she had to act like she wanted it, and like it was a good thing. She could probably sneak away after Sherlock dropped her off, she thought.

Emma stepped out of the bathroom and into the main room, waiting for Sherlock. He had urgently stepped out thirty minutes before, saying he would be back in time to drive her to the dance.

"All ready?" Sherlock asked, stepping into the flat.

He stopped dead in the doorway when he saw her, standing there, looking so out of place but so right. His mouth went dry and his heart began a race to the finish line, where it was he was not sure. He mumbled a few incoherent things, bringing a smile to Emmaline's lips. Finally, he wetted his mouth and asked again.

"All ready?" He asked, clearing his throat.

"What are you wearing?" She asked, looking him up and down.

"Oh, I have – a –thing, tonight." He said, unsure.

"Must be a hell of a thing." Emma said, stepping past him.

"Oh it sure is." He mumbled to himself.

Emmaline walked down the five flights of stairs ahead of Sherlock, her cheeks turning bright pink. She had been staring, but so had he. He was dressed up – in a black suit and bow tie. The thought that had, a minute ago, made her smile, now made her slightly sad. What if he had a date and that was why he was dressed up? The thought of Sherlock being with another woman caused Emma's heart to ache in the worst of ways.

Sherlock opened Emmaline's door for her, and got in the car, driving onto the street. It was a car he had borrowed from Mycroft, sleek and black. His brother did not know why he needed the car just that he had asked to borrow it. And his brother had willingly obliged.

"You just passed where the dance is." Emmaline spoke up, twenty minutes later.

"I know." Sherlock answered with a knowing smile.

"Are you kidnapping me?" Emma asked with a grin on her face.

"I suppose."

They drove for another twenty minutes, Emma practically bouncing up and down with anticipation. She could not wait to see what Sherlock had planned for her. Then she thought – he is dressed up for me. I am what he has got going on tonight. I am 'the thing'.

The thought made Emmaline so happy that she grew even more impatient as to their destination. Another five minutes, and Sherlock pulled in to an abandoned warehouse parking lot, just on the edge of the city.

"So, you kidnapped me, to kill me?" Emma asked, looking around at where they were.

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. "Have some imagination. You're still getting a Prom."

Sherlock rifled through the glove box before he found what he was looking for – a mix CD. He put it in the player and helped Emmaline out of the car – leaving the engine running, the doors open, and the volume up.

Frank Sinatra crooned from the car speakers.

"This is my prom?" Emma asked as Sherlock slipped a hand around her waist.

Sherlock nodded. "This way, you still get to dance, but you don't have to be around the crowd."

Emma put a hand on his shoulder and they started dancing around the parking lot.

"This is wonderful." Emma said serenely, staring up at her 'date'.

"I thought you might like it."

So they danced; slow, fast, to the beat of whatever song came on. Every few songs they took a break to eat food from the picnic basket Sherlock had thoughtfully packed. Emma dragged Sherlock back up and wound her arms around his back, holding his shoulders, and resting her head on his chest. Sherlock rested his chin on the top of her head, and they danced again.

The two were so comfortable with each other, and Emma was storing away minute information to go over later. The warmth of Sherlock's body, and the way it felt so close to hers. His tobacco and leather smell, the way his back felt powerful under her fingertips. He had soft, strong hands, and pianist's fingers.

As they swayed together under the bright moonlight, Emma pulled back to see him. His beautiful eyes, a startling shade of ice blue tonight, seemed to call to her. She had to tell him; he had to know how she felt. Because even though she had kept up her friendship for the past five months, it was killing her, not being able to love him.

"Sherlock, I have to tell you something."

"What is it?" He said seriously, at the tone of her voice.

"Tonight was wonderful; I had an amazing time, and this is so much better than prom would have been." She paused to gather her courage for what she was about to say. "I love you."

Sherlock smiled. "I love you too."

Emma shook her head and stopped. Sherlock placed a hand on her waist, wondering what was wrong.

"I know that we're friends, and that's what you mean. But I love you."

And in the way she said it, Sherlock understood. She was not talking about just friendly feelings, she meant it. And part of Sherlock wanted to crush her to him and never let go, because someone loved him. But that someone was his best friend. And he did not feel the same way.

"Emmaline – I –" He struggled for words, backing up.

"I know. I know; I just needed you to know how I felt."

"I'm so sorry; I—I just want to be friends."

Emma smiled sadly and nodded her head, tears threatening to spill forth. "I know; just friends."

Sherlock stood there, in that empty parking lot, where things had gone so terribly wrong. He had given her the wrong idea, and now there was no taking it back. How were they supposed to move forward from this? They could not.

"You—you can still live, with me, you know." He said awkwardly.

"Gee, thanks." Emma said wryly, walking around to her side of the car.

"Hey, you're the one who said it." Sherlock pointed out.

"After five months! Five months Sherlock, of pining after you and hoping that you would see me the same way. I know that you won't, that you can't, but I needed you to know because it was killing me, feeling for you this way and having you in the dark."

"Emmaline, I—" Sherlock was at a loss for words, and he did not need his deductive skills to see how she was feeling.

"Just – do something for me Sherlock. Look at how you feel; can you do that?" Emma asked, before getting into the front seat of the car. Sherlock got into the driver's seat and started the car, the beginning of a long and tense drive home.

ᶓ

That night, Sherlock did as he was asked. He lay down in bed and closed his eyes, thinking about how he felt, which was not easy for him to do. He searched his mind palace, which was the closest thing he had to holding sentiment anywhere within him; he kept all relevant information there.

And as he searched for mentions of Emmaline, he caught snippets of information: she hated tea, she dressed uniquely, she was lonely, she was independent, she had a great smile. Sherlock frowned at the last thought. She had pouty lips, and bedroom eyes that were a clear shade of brown; before her grandparents had died, and she had lost weight, Sherlock had thought her to be pleasantly curvaceous.

All these thoughts and plenty more, flitted through his mind. However, they did not help him think of how he felt. He went to Henry, and how upset Emmaline had been when they had broken up; she had looked worse, and more devastated, tonight.

Sherlock's jealous feelings came to mind; he had been jealous of Henry, and did that not lead one to believe he held deeper feelings for her? Emma's confession was only serving to make him more confused.

His thoughts turned back to Emmaline and how he may or may not feel about her. This was his best friend, his seventeen year old best friend who was living with him, and who had confessed her attraction to him an hour ago.

If they had been at University together, Sherlock would not have hesitated after her confession. He would have taken her in his arms and never let go. But he had been burned by women before, and even though Emma was different, he did not want to hurt her.

She was beautiful he could not deny that. When he had first met her on that plane, his heart had stopped and picked up double-time. Every time she came over, Sherlock caught himself staring at her, wondering at the fact that she wanted to spend her time with him.

Sherlock rolled over and tried to get some sleep; he wondered what Emmaline was feeling, sleeping out on that couch. He wondered if he had made her cry. He did not want to be the cause of her tears, or her pain, but Sherlock was unsure of how he felt, and she was getting him confused.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to force himself to dream of something to put him asleep. All that came to mind were Emmaline's full pink lips and how he wanted to brush his thumb across her full bottom lip before making her mouth swollen with his kisses. Sherlock groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, shoving his face into his pillows.

ᶓ

It had been three days since Emmaline had told Sherlock she loved him. Tensions were high and Emma was stressed. She had no idea if Sherlock had taken her advice to be introspective because he was avoiding her.

At the end of a very long and stressful day, Emma pulled out her easel and her paints and sat down in front of the window to paint, to ease her mind. Sherlock saw from the kitchen, and walked out into the main room.

"Can we draw a truce?" He asked.

"I don't know; what do you suggest?" She said haughtily.

"We could paint." He proposed.

Emma cocked a brow. Sherlock had never before offered to paint with her, something he did not like. If he was seriously asking to paint with her, than he truly felt bad about turning her down on Friday.

"Alright."

Emma set up a towel, for excess dripping paint, and two canvases on the floor. She put down brushes near her canvas, while he tended the fire and made it toasty.

"Ready to paint?" Emmaline asked.

She and Sherlock were sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, each with a blank canvas in front of them, forgoing the easel.

"I don't know what to paint." He told her.

"Neither do I. Just close your eyes, dip your fingers in a color, and go." She urged him.

Emmaline picked up a brush and dipped it in the red paint, starting on her own canvas. Sherlock stared at his own for minutes, thinking. Things had been slightly awkward between the two of them, ever since Emmaline had told him she loved him, and this was his way of trying to form an awkward truce.

Sherlock had no idea what to do with her confession. Emmaline was his best friend, his only friend. And this love, as she called it, could only hurt that. Sherlock did not want to do anything to upset her, but being around him clearly hurt. Whenever she thought he could not see, she looked sad.

Some of this was obviously because of the death of her grandparents, but how much of it was because of Sherlock? She had asked him to examine his own feelings, and he had tried. But he did not know what she wanted, or what she expected of him. Sherlock was not used to being introspective, nor was he used to searching for sentiment within himself.

Using these thoughts, Sherlock dipped his fingers in a random color of paint and began moving them across the canvas. He opened his eyes to see what he was doing. Sherlock had drawn a yellow heart. He cocked his head at the curious design. He had thought he was drawing a triangle.

Emmaline saw Sherlock examining his canvas.

"What's the matter?" She asked.

"Nothing…I think."

Emma smiled and turned back to her own canvas. She was busy painting a red sky. She added little touches of clouds and depth, even an orange sun for contrast. When she looked over to see how Sherlock was doing, he was still staring at his canvas.

"What are you trying to paint?" She asked.

"A triangle." He answered quietly, still contemplating.

"Do you require some assistance?" She asked, in a mimicking English tone of voice.

Sherlock turned his head to look at her, a soft smile on his lips. Emma's breath faltered as the beautiful Cupid's bow came into view. She knew it was wrong, and that she should not feel this way about Sherlock…but she could not help it. She was in love with him.

He saw the color rise in her cheeks and the way her breathing had hitched. Perhaps it was a mistake, telling her she could still stay here, Sherlock wondered. His brother Mycroft would no doubt think so.

"Yes." He answered.

Sherlock started in surprise. He had not even formed a coherent answer, yet here one was, already formed and spoken on his lips.

Emmaline smiled and Sherlock's heart began to race.

"Do you want it in yellow still?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered lamely. Apparently, he was no longer capable of answers consisting of more than one word.

"Well dip your fingers in the yellow again." Emma instructed.

Sherlock did as he was told, and held his dripping fingers over the towel on the floor. Emmaline reached over and grabbed his hand gently in hers, guiding it over the canvas. A thrill went through her at the feeling of his soft skin. She had held his hand before, but not, since she had told him. She had distanced herself from him after she had noticed how much she liked him; moving in with him had not helped her situation, and she had told him what she had promised herself she would never share.

Sherlock felt an equally enjoyable jolt of sensation at her familiar touch. He did not have time to envisage what it meant however. Her hand touched his fingers down to the canvas and began to work it up and down, in the broad strokes of a triangle.

He however, was watching her. The way the firelight danced across her olive skin and made it alight, as if she were on fire. Her silky brown hair, and how it fell over her shoulders in soft waves tonight. Down her straight nose to her high cheekbones, still flushed with the earlier sight of his inviting mouth. Then to her full pink lips, slightly parted in concentration. How many times had Sherlock imagined running his thumb over those lips, to see if they were as soft as they looked? Every night for three days he had dreamed of those lips.

His gaze continued downwards to her strong shoulders, and her arched back. The soft feeling of her hand on his alighted a curious feeling in him, one that he had never felt before. Is this love? He asked himself. Sherlock thought of the two years they had known each other and all they had been through, all they had told each other. Everything they had done together, because she was his best friend.

But he could not stop his eyes from roaming ever downward past her shorts to the backs of her thighs, thinner than they had been two months ago, but still full and beautiful, and even down to her bare feet, that were themselves clean and soft looking. Every inch of her was open to his gaze and he looked; she was beautiful.

All of this he observed in the time it took Emmaline to paint his triangle. So when she let go of his hand, he looked up, and she saw that his cheeks burned.

"Sherlock?" She stared curiously at the man that she knew, but who, right now, looked very different. There was a look in his eye that she had never seen there before.

"Shh." He whispered, inching closer to her.

Emmaline's heart picked up a drumming rhythm. For so long she had wanted Sherlock to look at her like this, to come closer, to kiss her. But what if it ruined everything? Now that it was here, was it what she wanted? She felt the butterflies in her stomach, anticipation making her nervous.

He scooted himself close enough so that he was sitting right in front of her, so close she could smell his aftershave. Sherlock was frightened. He had no idea what he was doing, only that a different part of him was ruling right now. His heart. He wanted to feel those soft lips with his own, wanted them to part under his lips. He did not want to ruin their friendship, but he felt that this was something he had to do. He was drawn to her like oxygen to hydrogen.

Gently, carefully, Sherlock reached forward with his unpainted hand and touched Emmaline's cheek. She closed her eyes and sighed at the touch. Sherlock's hand wound up, brushing into her hair until it cupped the back of her neck. His other hand rested on her other cheek. He brushed the thumb across her cheekbone, leaving a smear of yellow paint behind.

"Sherlock…" she whispered.

Emmaline could not take much more of this teasing. She was burning inside, and she needed Sherlock's kiss as a man dying of dehydration needed water. Sherlock heard her whispered plea, the desperation in her tone. And it drove him insane, knowing that he was doing that to her; knowing that he was the cause of her want, and not some secondary school boy. It caused a fire to rise in his chest, and warmth to envelop him.

Sherlock leaned his head forward slowly, testing the waters. If Emmaline wanted to pull away and end it, now would be the time to do it. However, she sat there, staring as Sherlock's eyes closed and he came closer. Every fiber of her being was yelling at her to reach forward and grab him, pulling him closer, faster. But she wanted Sherlock to do this. She wanted Sherlock to kiss her.

He leaned forward dreadfully slowly, until finally, she closed her eyes and was rewarded with the soft, sweet feel, of what she had been fantasizing about for months.

Sherlock pressed his lips against hers firmly, leaving them there for a few seconds, before pulling away. Emmaline slowly opened her eyes, to see why Sherlock had stopped.

His face was still inches from hers, and his eyes glowed in the firelight. She reached her arms forward to wind around his neck, and she pulled herself flush against him. Sherlock gasped in surprise. She kissed his chin, once, twice, causing him to moan in delight.

"Emmaline," he whispered, before trapping her mouth with his once again.

Her fingers wound their way into his dark curls as his hands pressed against the small of her back, keeping her against him. It was everything Emmaline had hoped it would be, and so much more. Sherlock's warmth enveloped her and the heat radiated out from her fingertips to her toes.

This was so much better than Henry's kisses. Emma had no doubt that Sherlock had practiced kissing on girls at University; no one could be this good naturally. The curve of his mouth under hers made her moan; it was just as wonderful as she had dreamed, and so much better. This was flesh – this was him. Her Sherlock, and no one else could ever have him.

Sherlock's lips moved more fervently at the audible sound of Emmaline's pleasure. One of his hands again moved to cup her neck, keeping her there, against him.

It was so much better than he could have imagined, if he had. Sherlock had never entertained the notion of Emmaline being more than a friend, more than the only light in his life. But now that he had crossed this line, there was no going back. There was no way he could imagine going back to just holding hands, or cuddling on the sofa. Sherlock needed this as well. He wanted to be the owner of her loving glances, and stolen midnight kisses.

He crushed her to him, holding her against him, never wanting to let her go. This was where she belonged, next to him, where he could feel the warmth of her was so close to him, and he could feel her erratic heartbeat under her rib cage. He smiled, pressing his lips against hers once, twice; they were so close, he could feel her heart beating against his chest.

Her birthday was in just a few short days…at the thought of her birthday Sherlock pulled back. Emmaline sat in his lap, breathing heavily with lids half closed.

"Your birthday." Sherlock's voice was husky.

"What about it?" Emma asked, fully opening her eyes.

"You're not eighteen yet." Sherlock pointed out.

And as soon as he had, he felt wrong. In a few days she would eighteen, and he had just turned twenty-six a few months before.

"This is wrong." He whispered.

Emma frowned as she saw clarity blooming in Sherlock's gaze.

"Don't say that." Emma pleaded.

"I'm eight years older than you. I'm an adult, you're just getting started." Sherlock looked away, staring into the fire.

"Sherlock don't say that. I made up my mind a long time ago about what I wanted." She gripped his chin, making him look at her. "About whom I want. And I don't care about the age." She whispered, bringing her mouth closer to his.

"Emmaline, I can't do this to you." Sherlock insisted.

"You can't make me happy?" She asked, pulling back to look him in the eye.

He found steely determination written there. Sherlock laughed without humor and looked down. Emma's hands were holding his in her lap, and he could not help but notice how well they fit together. Every part of Sherlock knew this was wrong, and that society would frown upon it. Mummy had instilled in him and Mycroft the importance of society.

However, looking in Emmaline's brown bedroom eyes he saw everything he needed. He saw her love for him, and love was a powerful thing. Sherlock loved her. He cupped her cheek and leaned forward to kiss the tip of her nose.

"I really make you happy?" He asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Happier than anything." She whispered back.

Something bloomed in Sherlock and he smiled, feeling his love encompass him totally. He nudged her face with his cheek and captured her mouth gently with his, tasting the sweet lips under his. She let him tease as he moved his lips to the corner of her mouth, laying soft kisses there before moving back to her lips.

He was careful, not wanting to go to deep. He wanted this kiss to mean something; he wanted it to tell her something. He pulled back slowly, letting his lips linger a moment longer on hers.

Sherlock rested his temple on hers, smiling softly, and breathing deeply. Emmaline caught him in another chaste kiss before he pulled his head away.

"I love you." He whispered.

"I love you too." She whispered back, elated.

"So you really don't care, about our ages?" He asked again, wanting to be sure.

"I don't care." She reiterated.

"Good."

Sherlock extricated her from his lap and turned back to his canvas. Emma smiled and picked her brush back up. In a few days, she would be eighteen, and she could do whatever she wanted to Sherlock. The thought brought a grin to her face, that she hid by leaning over her canvas, her hair creating a curtain.

The pair continued painting late into the night and when it came time for bed, they said goodnight in their usual way. Once Emma was situated on the couch, Sherlock came out from his room and stepped in front of the sofa.

He leaned over and brushed her hair behind her ear, kissing her chastely.

"Goodnight." He whispered against her mouth.

Sherlock walked back to his bedroom, without another word.

"Goodnight." She called, once he got to his room.

Sherlock smiled and closed the door.