Howdy everyone! Wow! Thank you so much for all of the amazing reviews! I had no idea that I would actually get 200+! Can you all be dolls and do the same thing for this chapter (I don't expect you to get to 400. Omg.)? I'm a bit fearful about this, because someone gets a little crazy in this chapter (actually a few people, now that I think about it), so I want to know your opinion. (: Hopefully you like it! I loved writing it.

Daphii: I'm studying Korean, Chinese and German. :D Everyone share the worldly love. If any of you know these languages, feel free to post your review in them and I'll leave you a little note back!

OHHH. ANDDD. Someone super-dooper awesome, whose Fanfic name I actually forget (shit)… has made Renadale some gorgeous collages! Please check them out- they're on my homepage. What would Rena wear if she lived in modern times? Well, we now have an answer to that question, thanks to my LOVELY fans. X3

OKAY, I LOVE YOU ALL.

A LOT.

So much so, that some day, if we ever meet, I will buy you orange juice.

Infinite Xs and Os,

~Mistro~

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"They're taking my luggage!" Watson shouted above the noise of practical kidnap. All three of us were being pushed towards a giant camp of tents, fires, chairs, and animals. John seemed to be having the worst of luck, but that was most likely because of his indifference. He struggled to fight against a gypsy reaching for his belongings, but eventually his strength won out.

Sherlock casually smirked to himself as I too struggled to keep up. "Laugh them away, Watson! I have her bag." He proudly lifted the bag trunk above his head. After announcing something in French, the case was being taken away.

I gasped aloud, nearly smacking him upside the skull. "You just gave them our only way of getting an audience."

"Rena's right," Watson chuckled darkly. A young boy began to poke his fingers into his pockets, but John quickly caught sight of him and swatted the rascal away. "You had her bag." His face twisted as a mass of people began to prod at his sleeves, peeling his only jacket from him without any struggle. "… Now they have my coat."

Sherlock smiled. If it weren't for Watson's displeasure, I thought he might have started clapping. A grin broke out briefly on my face, but I hid it before anyone could notice. The last thing I wanted was an angry John Watson.

We were all being led towards the largest fire in the camp, and as the air began to grow stuffier, so did my stomach. What do they have in store for us? All I could picture was them tossing us into the fire without any mercy. A shudder broke through my body. These cases are making me demented. Nothing happened like I planned, and they finally let go of us. The heat of numerous fires actually felt wonderful on my cold ears, and I shuffled a bit closer towards the smoke, without any fear of being sacrificed.

"Where is Madame Simza?" Watson spoke slowly, as though the French gypsy could not understand. White teeth smiling in amusement gave him away. He knew every word that was spoken, but cared too little for the feisty British man to answer. "Où est Simza?"

The man, whose face was nearly as black as the burnt wood, pointed towards someone. "This is Simza." The three of us turned to see the spectacle, unpleased to find a sleeping elder strangling a goose.

My head fell onto my shoulder in bewilderment. "What strange lives these people lead." Sherlock grunted in agreement, or perhaps it was disagreement. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself, no doubt at the expense of his friend's sanity.

The gypsy man began to laugh. He was rather proud of his joke, but judging by Watson's sarcastic chuckles, he was not going to get the response he wanted. I knew things were not going smoothly. John just had his wife thrown from a train. His would were already wide open, and this man was only poking at them with needles.

"Sim is a goose." Watson slowly nodded his head as the thought rolled through his brain. More gypsies had gathered around the odd English triplet, and a low hum of chuckles broke out in the circle surrounding us. For a moment, darkness flickered into John's eyes, but he hid it well.

"I am Sim!" The man proclaimed. Apparently this was hilarious for the rest of the camp, and the violinist continued on with his happy tune. Something sparked inside of the gypsy's eyes, because his fingers suddenly went for Watson's throat. "Nice scarf!" He gasped in admiration as he began to peel the fabric away. "I like!"

"Oh no!" My voice was hardly audible as John's fist went flying towards the man's nose. He hardly saw it coming, what with John's sweet face and all, and he was soon lying flat on his back. The scarf remained tied around his neck, but instead of pleasure, the man's face only held pain.

No one dared laugh. Watson had to shape up his act accordingly, or an even bigger fight was going to break out. And, perfectly enough, Sherlock began to erupt into a fit of giggles. My head warningly snapped towards him as I reached to help the fallen man from the ground. If one of us showed some dignity, maybe we had a better chance of meeting Simza. "You're not helping."

"Do I ever?" Holmes's lips spread into a bemused smirk.

"Tell them what you want," I whispered threateningly. "If you at least let them know why you are here, they won't see you as being so suspicious. Why do you never think the sensible bits through?"

Apparently this advice was good enough for the great sleuth, because suddenly proclaimed something in French. The crowd seemed concerned by his words, but I could not understand why. My French was as good as my boxing.

Something soft rubbed against the back of my shins. My body twisted in surprise and my eyes matched the feeling when I saw who was standing at my backside. The woman from the bar was still beautiful and headstrong. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was neither confused nor happy. She felt nothing, but if I saw correctly, a glimpse of hope shimmered in her amber eyes. Perhaps she knew why we were there. Helping her brother was clearly all that she wanted. She muttered quietly in our direction. "You hungry?"

My voice was out before she could finish. "Starved."

"Famished," Sherlock continued.

With a small wag of her finger, she motioned for our party to continue into her tent. Her long, patched skirt swung behind her like a warrior's cape. I was not surprised. She was as much of a warrior as they came, and much prettier than the scarred. Her feet were light and swift and before I knew it she was waiting with the tent flap held open for us. "Go inside," she said softly. "I will join you with Tamas in a minute."

"Tamas must be the one you nearly blinded," I grumbled towards Watson. He only shot me a sullen look before slugging his way inside. I could tell how tired he was; not only physically, but of the case. Surely, the main thing on his mind was his lonely fiancée and their empty room in Brighton.

"How upset do you think he is?" Sherlock's voice surprised me as we waited by the entrance.

I managed a small shrug, still feeling strange when I spoke to him. "He can handle things. He always does, doesn't he?" Sherlock only nodded. His minimal responses were making me nervous, and my self-consciousness shifted me from one foot to the other. It didn't take long for him to notice my discomfort, and oddly enough, he seemed concerned.

"Do you feel ill?"

"Not at all." The laugh that followed was not reassuring.

"Will you speak with me later this evening?" My heart wanted to give a positive answer, but my mouth could not seem to find the words. I choked on them for a bit until I finally gave up and embraced the silence. "I need to share something with you." His voice was urgent. Beneath the dirt lining his face, I could tell how important this was to him. "It's about Irene. Not just Irene, but about you as well."

"Me…?" I could hardly believe him. "What does it have to do with?" Inwardly, I prayed that he wasn't going to set me free. On the boat my attitude had been proud, but when it came to reality, I still wanted him. I wanted him more than anything.

"The train. You were upset on the boat, and I won't lie to you anymore. I want to talk about what I said just before I pushed you-"

"Are you ready?"

Both of us were lost from our hushed whispers as Simza and Tamas joined our side. Tamas looked far from pleased, but as I gave him a small smile, I watched his shoulders drop. Something about my appearance seemed to calm him down, as if he would not get punched again with a lady around. Sherlock merely nodded his head and followed the two gypsies inside.

"Tonight," I muttered with a quick tug on his sleeve. "You'd best keep your word."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks momentarily, before leaning a bit closer towards me. The other three began to speak without hearing us. I heard every syllable.

"All of my words are true if I speak them to you." For once in his life, he took his time to speak. The sentence was long, and drawn out, as if he wanted to make sure that I heard correctly. That was a small miracle in itself, but it became real when he continued to stare into my eyes. "I have never lied to you and I don't ever plan to."

Though a fire was burning in the pit of my stomach, I stood my ground. My chin lifted itself a bit higher. "Then you're telling me that what you said on the train was true." I though I saw his head nod a bit, but it was far too subtle for me to be sure. "Say it."

"What?" Pressure cracked inside of his voice. "Right now?" Panic put on her shoes and began to perform a dance inside of his pupils. My only response was a firm glare that could hardly continue on with the fluid pumping of my heart. "Renadale, that's not-"

"Tell me."

"Here." Simza's voice distracted both of us from our conversation, allowing Sherlock to breathe out an enormously dramatic sigh. I nearly scolded him for such an immature gesture, but ignored it in favor of the hospitality of my hostess. "This is for you." She jutted something out towards us with distaste. She really had no reason to trust us. Not yet, anyway.

My hands politely took the chipped plate away from her. She didn't bother waiting for a token of my appreciation, but instead wandered back to her seat. I could not be bothered to chase after her after I saw the large hunk of meat staring me in the face. "Is this…?"

"Hedgehog," she said calmly from the cloaked caravan steps. Her arms flopped lazily over her knees, and she sent me a smirk of amusement. Something about it was devious. The woman was stronger than she looked. Which said something, because she even looked vicious. "It is a traditional goulash of my people."

"Hedgehog." My lip twitched nervously as the poor creature's face came into my mind. "I'm sure it's…"

"Spectacular!" Sherlock finished as he scooped a spoonful in his mouth. Part of me almost dumped my contents onto his plate. If he liked it so much, he could have it. However, my mother had succeeded in giving me some manners. "It is honestly a delight. Send your cooks my thanks."

Simza only managed a diminutive grin, but I could tell that she believed him. Maybe she was warming up to us after all. Or, maybe just Sherlock. After all, he saved her life. "Please, sit down." She gestured towards a group of small cushions lying opposite her. The three of us followed instructions immediately, not wanting to offend the terrifying hostess.

No one said anything for quite some time. Simza and Tamas merely watched us, glancing from our eyes to our plates with expectation. I shuddered as I put the cold fork into my mouth, tasting the bitterness of the meat that lay on top of it. It caught inside of my throat, and I began to choke in the still atmosphere. All heads turned my direction until I finally tensed up my stomach and swallowed the strange mixture.

It was an effort that I did not want to try again.

Sherlock and Watson were gnawing away at theirs like it was actually satisfying, but I could not seem to get the taste of rotting meat away from my tongue. "Madam, this is a glorious hedgehog goulash." Sherlock's words took Watson and I both by surprise, and John nearly followed my previous choking example. "I can't remember ever having had better."

Watson was now pushed past his limit. I could see it in his eyes before anyone else could, and shudders rang out all over my body as he clamped his fork down onto his plate. "Do tell me, when was the last time you had a hedgehog goulash?"

"John, don't push it." I snapped sharply under my breath. He took no notice of me.

"I told you, Watson!" Sherlock's head bobbed sarcastically. "I can't remember."

"Oh!" John chuckled bitterly beneath his breath. His voice softened as he leaned closer towards his seemingly ex-best friend. "Then perhaps you've repressed it."

"Why are you two making all of this fuss?" I grumbled. "You have plenty of other logical things to argue about. This is not one of them."

Sherlock seemed to find both of these comments amusing as he let out a snarky chuckle. "You see, that's where we differ. Unlike you, I repress nothing."

John's laugh was a bit more genuine as he set his plate down. "Perfectly normal." I knew that I should have stopped their argument, but I couldn't stop thinking about my meal. Watson had managed to eat half of his, but I had only taken two long bites. I could see Tamas's eyes from the corner of the tent, dark and unforgiving. Pathetically, I hung my head and continued to shovel it in my mouth without breathing.

"How dare you be rude to this woman," Sherlock grabbed John's arm with warning in his voice. "… who has invited us into her tent… offered us her hedgehog…"

"Says the man who throws women from trains."

Another choke broiled up inside of me. When I had hit the river, a bed of water fell out beneath me. Suddenly, at the mention of that night, the coldness in the air came back to me and I physically shuddered at the memory. "Can you both please be ordinary?" My voice was not restrained. "I know it is very difficult for the pair of you, but do manage to try."

"Who are you three?" Simza's voice made us all put on grinning teeth.

Sherlock let his shoulders rise with a modest shrug. "Concerned citizens."

She barely moved an inch as she took in his words. Her stare was sharp, demanding and cold. It almost reminded me of Irene, minus the dark shadow on her eyelids. "Why did someone try to kill me?"

John let go of his previous argument and took care of the situation at hand. I was still trying to finish my meal, despite the fact that it had now turned cold. Before, I didn't think it could get any worse. I soon found out that I was wrong. "Your brother has become involved with a very dangerous man," John continued. "Who clearly believes that René has told you something that you shouldn't know."

His face. Something about his face.

I struggled to remember what the letter said, but the drawing was as clear to me as the dead animal below my eyes. "Do you have any idea?" I said softly, creeping my plate onto a nearby trunk. Tamas caught me and narrowed his eyes forebodingly, causing me to whimper and return to my previous battle.

"I don't know anything." Simza was lying. She sounded strong with her words, but someone who was innocent did not sound powerful. They sounded scared. "I've been looking for him for over a year. That was why I was in London." Her attitude began to shift as she opened up. The actual worry was coming through, and the love for her brother was obvious. "That was the last place anybody saw him."

"It's clear that your brother loves you." Sherlock's affectionate words made my heart skip a beat. It was then that I noticed a bottle of wine sitting nearby. Disgusted with the taste in my mouth and fearful from the mention of the 'l' word, I snagged it before anyone could stop me. "He'd never send you a message that would put you in harm's way." Sherlock lifted the letter up slowly. "Any information, therefore, would be, by default, unintentional."

John stepped in as I began to fill a large glass with red wine. "Has your brother sent you anything else?"

"Just a few drawings."

I should have been listening. My thoughts were too preoccupied with the wine. The droplets came out swiftly in a massive wave, but I did not bother stopping until it reached the rim. In actuality, alcohol did not suit me. I made my head spin and my legs numb, but I needed it. The day had been far too long and wine would be my escape. The smell filled my nose, and at that point, I knew there was no one else for me in that world.

"Let's just see what they have to tell us." Holmes was clearly going somewhere with this, and I watched behind the inside of my cup.

Simza reached up and took them from another trunk. Passing them to Tamas, I watched with nervous eyes as he brought them over to us. He could have gone then, but he wouldn't leave without sending me a quick whisper. "Don't drink too much, girl. The music will take you over."

I had no idea what he was going on about. That may have been because my head was spinning, or because his words sounding like drum beats in my head. My eyes flickered to the glass that was already empty. How long had that taken me? A minute? One chug? I could hardly remember. My hands began to shake, and I just pressed them annoyingly to my forehead. "Music," I grumbled. "Please let there be no music."

"Unusual choice of paper…" Sherlock continued. "Thicker gauge, designed for a printing press." He began to flick through the sketches, and I watched on with curiosity.

"Is that… is that a lighthouse?" My finger flopped onto the top photo with a heavy thud. My words were already slurring together. No one but Tamas seemed to take notice, and I was glad for that. I knew what I was doing, but I poured myself another glass.

"Could be," Watson replied. "It's also the same stock as the letter." He pressed it briefly to his nose before pulling away in disgust. "They smell musty. Must have been stored somewhere cold and damp."

A giggle escaped my lips, and I leaned back onto my hands. My second glass tumbled from my fingers, and though I was worried about staining the carpet, all I could notice was that it was completely empty. "When did that happen?" I muttered amazedly, inspecting the inside of my cup. "I only just filled it two seconds ago." Tamas hid his mouth from me. He was laughing at my current state, but instead of being offended, I simply joined in the mockery.

"What's that?" Watson's voice sounded urgent as he leaned closer towards one of the papers. "Blood?"

"Blood!" I shouted. "How awful!" They were all beginning to take notice of me then, and Tamas quickly rushed over to calm me. My brows crinkled together at the sudden sight of him. The smell of eggs and dirty hair filled my nose. "What do you want?"

He held his dark hand out towards me, his skin rough and unfriendly. "Let's go outside. Air. Okay?" He continued to nudge his palm into my face until I finally swatted it away.

"I don't want to go."

"You've had four wine." His broken English mumbled closely towards my ear.

"No, no. I've had two."

"I have watched. You drink four." He held up his fingers to make sure that his English was not incorrect. I stared incredulously at his hand, touching his fingers as though I would break them.

Oh, no. "When did I pour…" My head shook away the thought. "Forget it. I want to go outside. You can't make me, but I'm going to go on my own accord." My legs wobbled beneath me as I struggled to keep my balance. Thankfully, Tamas decided to take me under his wing and direct me back towards the entrance. Everything began to spin as I walked. I couldn't tell if I was properly making my way across the room, because the colors began to twist into one massive blob. My eyes were heavy as I tried to rub away the disturbing sight, but nothing seemed to change. "Oh, God!" I shouted, covering my face with my palms. "I've gone blind!"

"What in God's name has happened to Rena?" Watson's voice was louder than anything I'd ever heard before, and I tried to swat it away in the air. Something soft touched my cheeks, holding my head in place. "Rena, are you alright?" He paused for a moment before scoffing. "Damn it, Holmes. She's drunk."

My vision began to shift back to normal as John's warm hands kept my head in place. I could feel a stupid grin breaking out, but I let it happen. My finger touched the tip of his nose amusedly. "I'm not drunk," I muttered. "I'm happy."

"She's drunk," he groaned. "I can smell it on her breath."

"I'm not drunk!" I repeated loudly. "I'm in love!"

Before I could blink, Sherlock was shoving me towards the center of the camp. "Yes, I think it is time for her to go! Take her out for some fresh air, will you? It will do her some good. Try and get her to sleep if you can."

"Whom are you talking to?" I said as I stumbled outside. The wind hit me with force, but it only made me feel all the more alive. "This is brilliant!" My arms lifted up from my sides, as though the whole universe could fit inside my palms. "Where is the music? Aren't gypsies always supposed to have music? Play something for me! My feet want to dance!"

A couple of people sitting around the campfire began to exchange looks. Their faces were too blurry for me to read the proper expressions, but when they all began to stand up, I knew that I had won some minor victory. Their dirt-filled nails flew to their strings with repressed urgency. My hands clasped together giddily as they began to start a duo of Romani tunes.

My feet rushed me towards the heat of the fire. I could feel the flames flickering across my face; their warmth reminding me of my fireplace in London. I let my eyelids flicker shut as the music swam into my head. My hands began to twist until they were high into the air, like a true Romani. As for my feet, they suddenly had a mind of their own as they made their way around the grounds. I could hear the fiddles getting faster, their notes nearly incomprehensible from the next.

Something rough grabbed my arm, and it was only then that my eyes cracked open. A young boy held me tightly in his arms, spinning me around without a care in the world. There was no anger in my soul, and I happily moved beside him. "Who are you?" I laughed. "I don't even care anymore!"

There had never been such an occasion in my life. I had only gone to three formal balls in my entire existence, two of which I never danced. And when I finally did, it was gentle and polite, not to mention with my cousin. Things at the gypsy camp were not 'gentle' and 'polite'. They were real. People were dancing from their souls, not their instruction books.

"Rena!"

My head instantly flung backwards at the jolly shout of Dr. Watson. "John!" I shrieked, stumbling towards him and away from my partner. "What are you doing here? Don't you have to go argue with someone?" He didn't have time to answer. A bottle was suddenly flying towards us, and I caught it with shaky hands. "Oho!" I pressed the opening to my nose. "More wine. Would you look at that! Why does it smell like peaches?"

Watson gently plucked the bottle from my hands and moved it onto his lips. I watched in silence as he practically drank half of the bottle in a matter of seconds. When he had finished, the only proper thing to do was embrace a momentary silence. "Would you like to dance, Rena?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

John's hands caught my waist faster than I had anticipated, and we were soon both twirling around the circle. Everyone cheered us on as if we were one of them. For a moment, I wasn't the nervous girl from London. Renadale Adkins was someone else entirely. When was the last time I felt that free? It was like the coldness of the night was seeping from our veins and being replaced by heat of romance and moonlight.

Romance.

My whole body stopped in place. John didn't seem to notice, thankfully. He was shimmying his way through a whole crowd of people, now just as drunk as I was. My head was beginning to throb, but my eyes didn't stop searching. "He's not here," I mumbled to myself. No one cared as I drew away from the lively dancers. "Holmes?" My voice was small against the music, but when I finally arrived at Simza's tent, a wobbly silhouette awaited me.

"Renadale Adkins, you certainly know how to throw a party." Sherlock was dancing a bit in his seat as he spoke to me, but his voice was calm. I was having fun, but my lips were turned down like a sad dog.

"Sherlock…" I groaned. "I suddenly don't feel good."

My words took him from his trance. He instantly bolted from his chair to steady me in his hands. My feet began to trip out beneath me, but he came just in time. "You have a tendency to fall, don't you?"

A grunt was the only response I could think of. At least you're always there to catch me. I let my arms go limp at my side as my head began to droop down his chest. "I'm tired, Sherlock."

"You've had a rough couple of days."

"I'm tired, Sherlock."

"Yes, I know. You just said that."

Another minor giggle escaped my lips, but as I opened my mouth, nausea came flooding back. Groaning was my only comfort, and my arms flung around Sherlock's waist for support. "I just want to lie down. Can I do that? Where is a bed?"

Sherlock gently plucked my fingers from his back, one by one, until I was wobbling in place. He looked me square in the eye, but even in my drunken state, I could not bring myself to look back at him. "You're right," he sighed. "You need to lie down. Come, come. I'll take you to your tent."

He slid his hand in mine, leading me out from the warm canvas. The night was cold as we walked away from the fire, but his skin was warm in my own. My head fell lazily against his arm, and my eyes could barley stay open. Shuffling my feet along, I thought it was heaven when I finally reached a golden opening. "This is my tent?"

"This is your tent."

One foot carefully slinked inside. The rest of my body did not follow as swiftly. "What if there are snakes in there?"

He shook his head, gently urging me to go inside. "I promise they will not get you."

"So… there are snakes in there?" He was laughing too much to reply. Both of my hands flung themselves towards his as he refused to answer my questions. "Come in with me."

Now it was his turn to freeze up. The laughing was cut short and though it was dark, I could see his face turning red. "I think you're old enough to put yourself to bed."

"I'm not tired, though. I don't want to go to sleep. I want to talk to you." Sherlock sighed and shook his hand through his curls. He quietly consented, and we both made our way under the yellow fabric. Nothing stood inside besides a small sheet and a dingy old trunk. Despite the minor appearance, the scene looked horribly inviting. Sherlock was the main thing on my mind, so I had to put sleep on hold. I spun around to face him, but his back was slowly escaping my view. "Hey!" I shrieked, grabbing the fabric of his vest and tugging him back inside. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To sleep," he mumbled.

"You promised me earlier that we would talk."

He couldn't help but chuckle at this ridiculous notion. "You're in no state for that."

I shook my head defiantly. "If I'm not in a state for that, then how could I even remember it?" My words began to slur together towards the end of my sentence, making my question practically answer itself. "Please talk to me."

Somehow, my moping must have affected him, because a heavy sigh answered my desire. "What do you wish to talk about?"

"You said that you loved me."

Visibly, Sherlock's face turned into one of horror. He cracked his neck in discomfort, refusing to place his eyes on my face. "You may or may not have heard me correctly."

"Do you love me?" My question was put almost as a whine, as my feet shuffled closer towards him. My fingers reached out and took a strong hold of the fabric on his chest as my eyes pleadingly tried to meet his. "Please tell me the truth. You're killing me. The whole boat ride, I was just devastated that I didn't know. It's not because I want you to love me. I never expected that. But, you're hurting me. You're hurting me by not letting me know the truth." I had no idea how I managed to form so many proper sentences, but it worked, and I could clearly see the affect it had on Sherlock. Towards the end of my pleading, he was able to give me a strong look of reassurance. He hadn't said anything yet, but there was sorrow in his eyes. There was apology and regret. But, for what? "Tell me," I whispered desperately. "You're killing me."

"If I tell you, you won't remember tomorrow."

My body slammed against his in a flurry, as more urgent words fell from my lips. "Then tell me tomorrow. And, tell me the day after that. Tell me everyday so that I never have to get drunk again."

"Renadale, do you…" He stopped speaking for a moment. The thoughts that were running through his head were incomprehensible as usual. "Asking a drunk woman this question would be considered a folly, but I admit that I'm as curious as you."

"Curious?"

"Renadale, do you have feelings for me?" My stomach twisted. Whether it was from disappointment or the alcohol, I wasn't sure. He had to know. He had to know how much I loved him. "I mean, do you…"

"I love you."

If only I had had a camera. To capture his expression at that moment would have been the biggest advantage I could have had over him, perhaps in his whole career. "Did you just say that-?" He cut himself short with the possibility. Two shaking hands found my shoulders and shoved me towards the mattress. "This is unfair of me. You're clearly past the alcohol limit that keeps you sane."

"I'm sane!" I shouted, jumping up from the blankets. "Clearly, my words are much more sensible than yours were. Youtold me while throwing me from a train. Don't I have the advantage here?"

Sherlock's eyes scanned my body like I was a wet dog. There was a bit of disgust, empathy and annoyance all intertwined. "You obviously have no idea how bad of a state you're in now."

Like a persistent child, I walked into him. "Please tell me," I groaned while my head dropped lazily onto his chest. "Just tell me that you love me. Even if you don't mean it. Lie to me for just a minute and let me have my bliss."

"I already told you…" His hands firmly pushed my head further away from him. "… I would never lie to you."

"So, you won't say it?" My head was hanging limply from my neck. The weight of it was making me topple over myself, and before I knew it, I was lying with my face into the ground. "Why does everything I love have to die or run off?"

The ringing in my ears was getting louder with each passing heartbeat. I let out a long moan, hoping that some of my upset stomach would travel out of me through my whimpers. Even after I stopped my complaining, the sickness continued on. What made it worse was that the alcohol was making my head spin, and I could hardly keep my eyes open long enough to see if Holmes had bothered to stay.

"He hates me. He hates me more than anything." Saltiness suddenly found its way into my mouth. My fingers flew to my face in disgust, returning wetter than before. "Damn it, Renadale! You promised yourself!"

"Just cry. You'll feel better for it."

My head shot up from the pillow, my eyes darting about the empty space. Nothing was laid before me but the grass and a dusty old suitcase. Sherlock's voice was clear though, which meant that he had to be hiding somewhere. "You didn't leave?"

"No."

The voice came from behind me. Surprised by the sound, I rolled onto my backside to get a better view of what I hoped would be true. Sure enough, his tired figure was halfway draped over me, and I couldn't stop myself from grinning through the dried tears on my cheeks. "Why are you still here?"

"Someone has to look out for you." The response was more of a grumble, but somewhere behind it, a smirk was trying its hardest not to slip through. "Watson can't keep his dog from my experiments, nor his wife for that matter, so I certainly won't assign him to your better health."

Though I only managed to grasp a few of his words, laughter came out regardless. My head continued to pound as though my heart were trying to break through my skull. Wincing in annoyance, I flung myself towards his crossed legs and dropped my head into the open pit. "Sherlock Holmes-"

"Go to sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

All I could do was nod. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm pathetic. When his hands began to brush through my loose hair, all of the aggression burned with the fire outside. When I felt his rough lips brush against my forehead, the sweetness of his heart was clear to me. And when I heard him whisper in the darkness, 'I have always loved you', I knew that nothing had ever been so true.

~.~.~.~.~.~

I hate to break the mood, but… review? (: