THANKS FOR ALL THE REVIEWS. And sorry for the late update. School has started back up, and it's hard to juggle everything. –weeps pathetically- I'm also in an opera right now as a ballet dancer, so… I think you can imagine how that's taking up my time. It's really wonderful to see new faces in the comments however, and I hope I keep hearing from everyone. You're all so lovely.
Dedicated to Toxic-Mai-Panda for her amazingly sweet PM. I hope we all get to see her amazing art skills in the near future! :3 3
AND this is once again dedicated to The Saintlike Weasley for yet ANOTHER fucking brilliant banner! PLEASE go and check out the new addiction on my main page for Rena/Sherlock goodness! 3
I have the best fans in the world. All of you are incredibly beautiful.
Now I feel really bad about taking ages to update.
~Mistro
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Twenty-six years old. Twenty-six years old with nothing to give, nothing to offer to the world and nothing to look back on with a lifetime's supply of fondness. Twenty-six years old and still living with her mother. Unmarried. Childless. 'Disgrace' would be a synonym for both of the expressions.
The worst part was being twenty-six and watching the only man you'd ever loved crumble to pieces before your eyes. Watching him die out easily, like some disease caught in the dead of winter and unable to survive the spring. Fading quickly until you're so afraid to blink that your eyes burn from unfallen tears.
The train's movements were peaceful and smooth, despite the breaking of my heart. Snowfall graced us with a performance through the open doors, but only hell lingered inside. Sherlock's wounds were deepening, and though I wanted to be selfless, the pain in mine was utterly excruciating. Every turn of my neck released another sharp prick throughout my body, covering my skin in cold sweat. A scream was locked behind clenched teeth. I had to stay still. Very still.
Sherlock's mouth released short gasps for air as he crumbled further into the floor. Keeping still would be hard, but I didn't want them to worry about me. The main concern was Sherlock. It would always be Sherlock. Simza quickly moved her knees beneath him, offering him a makeshift pillow. "John, quickly!" She whispered with a terrified expression. "What are we supposed to do?" Blood rushed out from his shoulder, his neck, his face. Everywhere. There was blood everywhere. "Il est mourant…"
"Keep him still," John urged. I counted my blessings that John was alive and functioning. He could fix Sherlock this time around as he had on so many other occasions. Of course he could. Of course he can. "Hold something over the wound so the blood stops spilling from him. It'll give me a minute to think."
Spilling from him. Spilling. Like a broken cup of tea dropped from an unexpected knock on the door.
"Yes, of course." Simza's voice was flushed. I watched as Tamas gave a long look of concern, but he caught my gaze quickly and turned the focus to me. It hurt to turn my neck away, so we continued to stare at one another with an unintelligible conversation. It was only when he approached me that I fully understood how intimidating that ridiculous man could be.
"You're calm because why?" His voice was quiet, like we were sharing a secret. John and Simza were too preoccupied with their patient to notice.
"There is no stillness in me. How could I be calm in a time like this?" If he did not notice the straining in my throat, he was a fool.
John's voice rose above my own. "Simza, simza, stop! He's choking." Tight arms wrapped themselves around my chest, squeezing me until my airflow was cut off entirely. Choking. I looked down to try and push the arms away, but no one was there.
Choking. Like a wounded animal. Choking for air.
Sure enough, a sputtering sound arose from my love's cracked lips. As the blood trickled from his open chest, I could feel the same sensation happening down my back. I did not move to stop the blood from my neck from its path. Only when it reached my hips did it halt its course. Our blood would fall equally.
"Neck is hurt?" Tamas's brows came together in his forehead. His fingers gently pushed hair away from my neck. Though I wanted to be strong, a wince flew from my lungs and out into the bitter atmosphere.
"It's not the bullet that hurts," I explained. "It's…" Watching him. Watching him is what is hurting me. Watching him is killing me.
"He is going to be fine."
It was the first perfect sentence he had spoken, but somehow his words did not convince me. I couldn't bring myself to comfort him now that he had lost Marcus. There was no gentle heart beating inside me. Without Sherlock Holmes, I would lose myself. And therefore, no one else mattered.
I knew that I was dark. Evil, perhaps in the most selfish of ways. My morals were straying from the path of goodness. In fact, the path had been brushed away long ago. All that was left was a very thin line of pebbles, waiting to be stomped on and conquered. It was like my kindness was shriveling up inside of me like the heart inside of Sherlock Holmes. I wanted to kill a man today. Moran. There was no sympathy inside me for a man who offered me his food and horses, and had only just lost his closest friend. For months, I'd been leaving my mother behind to go on 'adventures' that offered me nothing but the twisted idea of romance and some form of self-worth. All because I was selfish. Disgustingly so. Maybe that was why I could never be loved.
Simza's lips parted while her hands found Sherlock's hair. Her voice set free a song in Romani, the lyrics hauntingly beautiful but hauntingly tragic. It was a song to keep him safe. It was a song to keep him alive.
Though blood dripped down my neck, I had to collapse my head in my hands. Pain cut through me like a knife and a swelling scream erupted from my throat. The noise did not sound like me, a creature begging for mercy. Tamas watched my frustration with quizzicality. John looked frightened by my sudden declaration, but anger and other warped emotions were coiling around every one of my veins. Screams were suppressing the anger straight into my muscles.
That was when I threw myself from the train.
Not that I fell off, nor did I die. There was a ladder attached to the outside of the cart. I reached out with as steady of a hand I could offer, swinging myself through the air until my body slammed with a thud against the moving vehicle. My feet gripped the steps for support as more pain slid its way to my head. Nothing was going to stop me from getting away. Not even the ripping of my own skin.
Even though I knew he needed me at that moment, nothing was going to stop me.
"Renadale!" Watson screamed after me. My head did not turn back to face him. This may have been due to the excruciating pain I found myself in, and partially because I knew his blue eyes would convince me of my foolishness. I did not need him to tell me what I was with his stare.
A coward.
Not this time. I wasn't going to listen to him, despite his frantic shouts. There were pleads for me to come back inside, laced with distressed calls of my name. As I climbed, each snowy bar took me closer towards the roof. I was thankful for its flatness, but even if it had been curved, the risk made no difference.
The roar of the wind in my ears was soothing. Like a low hum, it hugged my body with resonance. And though there was noise, it was as if that moment were heavier than a deep silence. Sharp flicks of snow scratched my wound, but I could feel the cold air running the blood dry. "See?" The whisper flooded out of me as I laid my body against the top of the train. My head pressed against the cold metal as bits of snow found their demise against the warmth of my cheek. My eyes flickered shut as I was propelled into unstoppable motion. "Sometimes the cold isn't always for the worst."
This wound isn't the worst pain.
My teeth dug into my lip as the lie trickled through my head.
The worst pain is watching him die.
That was not a lie.
My eyes open with a startled gasp from my lips. I hadn't even noticed that I was holding my breath. Like a broken toy, my body began to shake with fits of tears. They stuck to my cheeks nearly the second after they fell, but they melted the snow beneath them, burying my hair in a pool of water. I could feel the train's steam barely grazing the top of my head. If I lifted it, a world of white fog would encompass me. Maybe that world was better than the hell I was in.
"Please…" My desperation was aimed to no one in particular. "Don't… don't take…" Trying to speak was useless. Almost as useless as trying to stop the snow from falling in Switzerland. Once again, my voice did not belong to me, but this time to a shattered soul who could do nothing but pray and weep. Or perhaps, the voice did belong to me, but I did not recognize her.
I had promised myself to him. Whether he was with me or not, inwardly my heart would always belong to Sherlock Holmes. Though it was long ago, he had promised to protect me. He promised to love me. How could he do that if he was dead? How could he do that if he was not here? We do not understand the promises we are making when we make them. I didn't need protection. I could handle things myself.
I just wanted him.
"Why…?" The question was forced from my lips. Turning my eyes to the clouds, white flakes trickled into my line of vision. They hurt as they hit my open pupils, but I welcomed any pain that found me. "What is it for?" My voice was rising in my throat. "What is any of it for?" Now I was screaming at the mountains. Screaming at the Earth. Screaming at God or whoever was listening. "How has this been fair?"
"Renadale!"
I ignored the warning voice. Finding strength beneath my skirt, I lifted myself so that I could stand on top of the world. The rest of the train stretched out in front of me, each cart no more than a couple of feet away from the other. And for the first time in my life, I wanted to run. Run away from the hills. Run away from the snow. Run away from the life that I knew and the life I dreamt. The train tops were my only option. I carried myself over to the ledge. Looking down, I saw a metal hook that connected the trains together. A metal hook that kept things going. I had known another metal hook that broke a man. A metal hook that tore him and his lover apart.
Damn the metal hooks.
With a bend of my knees, I knew that I was going to do it. I was going to jump onto the next cart, and then the next, and so on. Run. Run away and never look back. Because there was nothing left for me on that train. I was tired of looking for something that could never be found, so I would have to find something that I never thought to look for.
"Renadale!"
Don't look back.
"You hear me there?"
Stop listening to Tamas.
"What are you doing?"
Run into the open.
"Renadale, he is awake!"
Just like my shout from earlier, another animal shriek erupted from the train's insides. The noise was shocking and slightly terrifying, but the more I listened, the more familiar it seemed to be. "S-Sherlock?" I could hardly believe it. My ears were tormenting me as my mind slipped further into insanity. I tore my body away from the ledge to hang my head over the door. All thoughts of running had been forgotten. Sure enough, everyone in the cart was standing up.
Everyone.
"Sherlock!" My legs flung over the edge without precaution, and I climbed carelessly into the box. Once inside, I could feel my chest heaving from surprise, adrenaline, and the overwhelming urge to kiss him. The man's state was utterly repulsive. Of course, I hate having to describe him as such, but there was no other word for it. His hair was flat and unparted, spraying out in every direction. His clothes were stained with sweat, snow and blood, the scent almost as repulsive as the hedgehog goulash. Though his eyes met mine for a second, his hands quickly collapsed to his chest before recognition came.
"Who's been dancing on my chest!?"
His sudden amount of vigor was alarming. "Where did that came from?" I whispered to Tamas. His lip curled ever so slightly before he pointed to a needle in Watson's hand. Of course. The wedding present. The answer had been there all along, almost as if he had…
Planned it?
He couldn't have.
"Me," Watson replied casually. Whether it was to Sherlock's question or my own, I would never know.
Sherlock's eyes rolled backwards in his head before sorting themselves back to normal. It didn't take him long to find me with his bloodshot eyes. He was like a deer caught in the late hours of the wood. Startled and afraid. Though I wanted to hold his gaze, I was the one who turned. There was fear inside of me. Fear that he could see right through me and into my conscience.
"Why is my leg so itchy?" Sherlock groaned.
"Because you have a large piece of wood sticking out of it," John replied. Sure enough, a splinter the size of my fist was embedded into his leg. Bright red blood was splattered like paint around the bits of tree. My hands reached forward to help him sit down, but John was already ahead of me. I felt numb. Useless. I was going to leave him. He would have been alive and I might not have been there anymore.
"You! Tamas!" Sherlock's shaky finger directed itself towards the weary gypsy. "I have an important job to discuss with you." His voice struggled to grasp air as John pushed him onto a crate. "Remind me of it… later."
Sherlock Holmes had just died, and already he was back to work. Somehow none of us were surprised. "Sit down," John ordered. He stuck out a small vial to Sherlock, whose eyes couldn't seem to focus on just one thing. "Drink this. I need to get that out before it turns septic."
When the realization that he was speaking of the splinter struck me, I had to turn away. Sherlock was going to be in pain again. His screams on the first case were enough to haunt me. His screams on the second case broke my heart. His screams on our third case gave me nightmares, but I knew his screams would succeed in breaking me altogether this time around.
With a firm step, I carried myself to the other side of the room. My breath was the only noise of comfort now. No one took notice of me; something I was entirely grateful for.
"Leave it in." Sherlock's voice whispered with a shaky tone. Any second now and he would—"Leave it in!" I could hear the sound of skin gashing from across the cabin. My eyes squeezed shut as I imagined the pain on Sherlock's face. No doubt John would be smiling. There were a few grunts and insults passed between the two, but I was too concentrated on my breathing methods to hear their banter. It was only when my name was spoken that I truly came to attention. "Why is Renadale over there?" Sherlock's voice was flushed as he asked his question. "Someone bring her over to me."
Shame boiled inside of me. They would have to drag me.
A firm hand found it's way around my shoulder. Why did my life always have to contradict itself? I gasped in slight pain, but Simza's black eyes were unforgiving and demanding. "He needs you."
"He doesn't."
"He does."
"I nearly left. He doesn't know how much I wanted to leave him when he was dying. I won't be able to face him."
"You're an idiot if you were planning on leaving," she said sharply. "You're not a gypsy. You can't jump on a train, let alone off it. Now stop wallowing in self-pity and come and see him. You're the only thing that will do him some good." Whether she was right or wrong, I had to listen. Her tone was too convincing and knowing that Sherlock was only inches away; there was nothing I could do about it. Slowly and carefully, I let her drag me across the cart until I was standing beside his makeshift bed. He knew I was there, but his eyes did not turn to me. Instead, they fixated themselves on Watson.
"I'm sorry you didn't get to Brighton."
My heart nearly shattered at his words. A weakened gasp fell from my parted lips, but I quickly sealed them to keep my emotions hidden. He almost died and his first thought was of wanting me beside him. His second thought was an apology. There was nothing that could have made me love him more in that moment. People were wrong about Sherlock Holmes. He had more heart and soul than the best of them.
John's response came after a while. He wasn't there to comfort his friend or make himself feel better for his wrongs. John was honest, as always. With a prolonged gaze, his eyes grew a bit darker with a tear lingering on the edge. "Me too." He tossed the bloodied splinter aside with a long gaze at the floor. I knew what he wanted to say. I knew who was on his mind. "I think we should go home."
"I concur." Sherlock's face wore a devious smirk. This was something we never expected him to say, especially when Moriarty was so closely within our reach. "We're going home." An audible gasp from fell John's lips. I have never seen the man looked more thrilled with blood splattered across his torso. "… via Switzerland."
There was the answer I expected.
"What better place to start a war…" Sherlock continued with a fantasized look behind his closed eyes. "… then a peace summit? I'll drop in and see my brother. I'm sure he's missed you." Sherlock's eyes cracked open. Sadness lingered in the creases near his eyes, though his mouth wore a smile. He knew something. "I know he's missed you," he said with his face turned to me.
My thoughts were correct.
This was all part of the plan.
~.~.~.~.~.~
Night trickled over the train, and though the steam continued overhead, the snow was easing up. It was cold with the open door, and the two gypsies and John found warmth in the far right corner of the room. Sherlock and I were on the opposite end, awake with blood pumping through our veins, most likely due to our incurable injuries. I could see the impulse crossing his face every five minutes. An urge to get out and fight.
"Sherlock," I said quietly from the floor beside him. "How are you feeling?"
It was the first time I had spoken to him since the others had decided to sleep. It was the first time I had spoken to him alone. Though I had loved the man and sworn by it, I was nervous to speak to him. He could see right through me just as I could see through him.
"Physically, my recovery time might be a few weeks time. Perhaps a couple of months. Psychologically, I think my brain is a bit weary and shocked from the state of things, but that only tends to make my mind sharper and more aware of its surroundings."
A bump rose in my throat. "How about… emotionally?"
"Weeds grow when you do not wish them to," Sherlock muttered with unblinking eyes. "And flowers fall when you long for them to stay with you." My heartbeat paused for a second to think about what he said. All thoughts traced back to me. Me leaving. How did he…? "Your whispering isn't as quiet as you think."
Oh.
"And I just know you." His voice had never been so quiet. "You've already predicted that this whole thing has gone according to plan, or at least was speculated to happen. I guessed many things, but I hadn't thought of you leaving."
"Sherlock…" Excuses and defenses rushed into my throat. Though I could think of hundreds, maybe even thousands of reasons as to why I could have left, none of them were good enough. Nothing was a good reason to leave Sherlock Holmes.
He shook his head quickly. "You don't have to think of an excuse. You don't need one. I should have been more keenly attuned to your reactions and your feelings." He sighed heavily, more frustrated with himself than anyone else. "I've been so focused on Moriarty I haven't been able to pay attention to the one person that matters most to me."
Though the words were beyond loving, I could not just accept them. "You deserve more than this."
"More than what?" His blooded head looked down at the ground where I was situated.
"More than this cat and mouse chase. More than Switzerland. More than a hook embedded into your chest and…" Could I say it? Would I dare to? "More than me." It was the truth. He deserved more than a girl that was willing to leave him at his worst.
A scoff was not was I was expecting to hear out of him. My neck stung with a sudden breeze blowing inside the cabin, but all of my attention was on that tiny, little scoff. "I don't care what I deserve. This is my life, and I have chosen you, whether or not you think I deserve it. Based on the implications and quandaries that I have brought about not only on my own life, but upon your life and John's life, and perhaps the lives of these lovely gypsies, I would think it would be reasonable to assume that I don't actually deserve any form of companionship. Or at worst, a kitchen wench with a reputation for lack of emotion. And a balding head." I couldn't help but laugh, despite the grim topic. He quickly turned serious. "Life is fleeting, Renadale. That is something you have to remember."
"Because…?"
"When the woman you love decides that she's better off alone than with you, you realize that you have not done your duty to show how much you love her." Sherlock laughed again, but sourly this time and almost painfully. "If you think that running around Switzerland by yourself is better off than living in London, then surely I have not done enough to give you faith in humanity. You're a lost soul, Renadale. And I cannot seem to save you."
It was by far the harshest thing Sherlock Holmes had ever said to me. And yet, it was undeniably accurate. Every step that I took, a worry planted itself in my mind. With each breath that I inhaled, fear trickled inside of me instead of blood. And with every kiss and every stare and extra heartbeat that I had for Sherlock Holmes, I grew weaker instead of stronger. His love should have made me brave. It might have at one point. But now, it was fading. Fading like the sun in the sky.
"It's easy," I said softly. Whether or not he heard me was of little concern. "It's easy to look away. It's easier to not do anything at all." My chest shuddered as the confession choked out of me. "Because I'm scared. Because I've been scared my entire life and I can't stop running from it. For a second, I can let it go and be someone else. I can ride a horse through France and feel liberated. But when the thoughts come back and the moon comes up, I get lost in the darkness of the physical world and of my own mind." He was so quiet; I thought he might have been asleep. However, I carried on. "My life isn't even that bad. That's the saddest part of it all."
A soft voice from above took me by surprise. "Why were you going to leave me?"
He was a fool if he did not know the answer. "Because I cannot live without you. I believed you were lost to us." There was a long stretch of silence. I could feel the hair standing straight up on every part of my body. Whether it was from fear, anticipation, or the night air, they refused to go down. "You didn't know?"
"I knew," Sherlock sighed. I could tell how tired he was. "I just wanted to hear you say it. I wanted to make sure that you knew it yourself." Pathetically and like a child, I found solace between my knees. My arms wrapped themselves tightly around my shins as my tear-stained face buried itself from the world. He could see my back shaking from silent sobs, I was certain of it, but he carried on like it was nothing. "You can kill me in that way, Renadale. In the way of words. You and your words could be the death of me. You don't need bullets or swords." He paused. "Just tell me that you love me."
My head snapped up angrily, though I should have been keen on the suggestion. "How could I tell you such a thing when you declare that my words physically ail you?"
"Because your words can heal me."
"That just makes me a contradiction."
"That is why I love you."
Love. He had been saying it a lot since he'd woken up. Slipping it in conversations. Talking about my own love. Talking about his. Why? What did it matter now? His eyes flickered to meet my own. A glimpse of the silver moonlight trickled through a crack in the train, dancing across his tired face. And though he was stained, bruised and battered, his expression reached a point of beauty so astounding that I nearly wept from its impact.
"I… I l-love you." My voice broke on the word, forcing me to repeat myself. Not because I was fearful of the emotion. I was fearful of what would follow.
"Albeit my madness."
"Madness does not come without a sense of wonder," I muttered up to him. He offered me a genuine smile, though my shame was still too raging to return the gesture. "What is it that makes us attracted to the unknown?"
"A feeling that I might offer you something better than what you already know." His voice was soft. With a grunt and a scooting of his body, he moved over on the wooden crate with enough space beside him for another person. My eyes grazed to the other side of the room, where my three companions lay deep in their sleep. Surely, that spot was only meant for me. "Renadale. Come." I followed his orders, crawling towards him in the darkness. His body was overly warm as I pressed up beside him. He might not have wanted it, but I took his hands carefully in my own. They were as white as a dove's wings, though hardly as soft and gentle. "You know that I am not upset with you," he whispered. "It's hard to think rationally during times like this."
A small nod of my head was my answer. He was carrying the chessboard with him. There was no getting rid of the game anymore. We would play until a winner was declared. Some pieces had to be broken. Some had to run onto the board and some had to stay behind. This was the way it had to be. More shame clouded my eyes as I pictured myself moving towards the board, but then changing my mind and running away. His hands might have been alone that night. They might have been cold and only able to comfort one another, had it not been for Tamas shouting after me. Now he could have my hands.
"Stop your weeping," Sherlock grumbled, rubbing his itchy sleeves across my face. "Although, tears do release a sort of emotional breakthrough that helps cleanse your-"
"Sherlock," I mumbled. "Science. Not a good time."
"Of course not," he sighed. "It never is."
My hands trickled over his like water, filling in the creases and smoothing the exterior. He watched carefully as I danced over each knuckle and bruise, making sure to be as gentle as I would his heart. He had to know how much I loved him. How much I yearned for him. And now, in new ways that were shameful. I was a disgrace on an emotional level, and now my mind was polluted. Or, was this how it was supposed to feel? Was this a natural thing? I was far to embarrassed to ask.
"I feel sick when you look so reprehensible," he muttered. "My own heart breaks when I watch you struggle." He did not sound like himself. However, he had actually experienced death. No one could ever be asked to return the same way. "Please don't look so frustrated with yourself."
"It's not just about my decision to leave," I cursed hotly. I let his fingers slip from my own. "It's something else entirely."
"Could you speak to me about it?"
"Of course not."
"Why 'of course'?"
My heart was racing. What if he saw the truth? What if he saw how badly I wanted him and in the way that I wanted him? No. There would have to be a limit on how well Sherlock Holmes truly knew me. "It's nothing," I stuttered. "Absolutely… nothing."
"Absolutely?"
My head snapped up warningly. Heat flickered through my eyes and burned inside of my chest. Though this time it was not from anger. It was from my secret wish. My secret husband and wife desire. And if I was planning on keeping it hidden from him, it was entirely in the open now.
"You know…" Sherlock warned. "You're easier to read than you think."
The shame and fear building inside of me was turning to one of frustration. And that frustration was becoming something else entirely. It's not that I wanted Sherlock at that particular moment, but I wanted him to know that I had never imagined a thing in my entire life and that he was the only man I could dream of. "Perhaps being easy to read isn't a terrible thing." The statement sounded more like a question when I spoke it. "Perhaps the receiver might feel the same."
"Feel the same about…?" He wasn't going to make me say it. A toothy smirk cracked across his face. It was unlike him: daring and exciting but in an entirely new way. Romantic. Passionate. Desirous. This was not the Sherlock Holmes I knew. Then again, my whole world was turning upside down. "I'm sorry, but I feel as though I'm failing to understand where you're going with this."
More than one man could play this game. If Sherlock was going to make me out to be a fool, then I would respond wholeheartedly. I would look like a foolish girl in love if that was what he wanted. What he didn't realize was that love was his biggest weakness. "Oh," I said slowly with an extra bat of my eyelashes. He instantly recognized my strange demeanor and recoiled ever so slightly. "You want to know what's bothering me?" Before he could reject the idea, I was off on my rant. "Because, truthfully, I was just curious as to what your thoughts were on the topic of…" He looked like he was going to prepare himself for a suicide mission. "Marriage."
Not even another giant hook looming over him could so profoundly express the fear that Sherlock Holmes carried on his features in that moment. With a twitch of the lip and a sputter of coughs, I knew I had struck revenge in the right time. Despite my little interest in the actual convention of marriage, getting revenge on Sherlock Holmes was agonizingly sweet.
"Marriage is a thing that two persons do when they have little else to preoccupy themselves. And perhaps for monetary reasons."
My body crawled further towards him. With the taunt, he slammed himself as far into the wall as he could. But, I was dangerously close now and with his bad arm and leg, he wasn't going anywhere. "So, what you're saying is that the best time for you to get married is when a case has ended and another has yet to present itself?"
"I'm… I'm not saying that I should… get…get…"
"Married."
"Correct. Yes. That one. That word. I don't think I should get it. Not for me."
My eyes were those of a hawk. His face was less than two inches away from mine, and I watched as his fearful eyes flickered shut. Though it did make me a bit gloomy to see his fear at such a romantic notion, laughter was the only thing I could manage to thrust at him. There were to be no more angry scowls from me. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm only joking. My talk of marriage killed you more than that splinter did."
"At least I knew the splinter was there!" His tone turned angry. "Unlike your sudden rambling of legal bindings and specifications." With a snort of disgust, he tugged the flaps of his shirt down, as if securing his manliness via his threadbare clothing. As if it were ever there. "Your words really will be the death of me."
Though he had died earlier, somehow giving him a minor heart attack was an enjoyable thing for me. I hummed myself a little ditty before returning back to my original position. Sherlock had some space to breathe, while I now had some time to laugh gaily to myself.
"You weren't really thinking of it were you?" The question took me off guard. I merely stared blankly at the bruised detective. "Marriage," he muttered. "I was talking about marriage. You weren't really considering it?"
"No. Of course not." And that was the truth. Technically, I hadn't been literally looking into the idea at the time. That's not to say that the idea hadn't crossed me before. "After twenty-six years of life and only one man that I've ever wanted to spend it with… Well, I've given up on the shoddy idea. It's a matter of time and convenience, I suppose. Two things I find myself lacking."
Sherlock's face expressed the words that were unspoken. Marriage was not as frightening as he thought. Not when you were tied to the person you loved. "Could you love me?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Could you love me," he muttered. "As a wife loves a husband." I felt sick with the question. Did he mean physically? Emotionally? Whatever he meant, my heart had already fallen out, rolled through the door and into the snow. I was frozen. There was nothing moving inside of my body. "Renadale?"
"Sherlock Holmes," I managed to squeak out. The rest of my thoughts evaporated somewhere over the mountains.
"You're not answering my question."
"I'm… not sure that I entirely understand it."
He took a heavy sigh. I hadn't noticed how much closer we had grown. Surely he must have taken my shock as an advantage; his body was nearly atop mine. Thankfully our blood had dried and nothing was dripping or ripping. "Could you love me in the way that a wife loves a husband?" He took a pause. My eyes rose slowly towards his own, the fire in them unable to be restrained. "As a wife loves a husband in the night time?"
He was playing games. A wide smile broke out onto his face once he caught sight of my instant reaction. The whole thing was just to upset me. My hands clenched until they hurt. The tightness of my body hurt my neck, and as Sherlock started to speak again, all I could hear was a bubble of noise.
So, I kissed him.
His lips were hard and chapped from the winter air and lack of general health between our company. The sudden shock caused him to loose his balance and slam his body atop mine. I could feel the cold touch of blood against my arm, but I pushed him back and stared warningly into his eyes. "If you ever tease me again, I hope you know that I will take it upon myself to-"
It was inevitable. He was going to kiss me because we needed it, not because it was what we both wanted. His lips found mine with a quiet passion. Almost dangerous with the others just across the cart. A secret fire burned between our chests and the cold air seemed long gone. When he pulled back, his watchful eyes made me self-conscious. I tried to turn my head, but his fingers caught my chin from moving. His eyes tried to express something to me, but I couldn't pick up on it. "Are you alright?" I whispered through a heavy sigh. Though the cart was wide open, I suddenly found it hard to breathe.
For a moment, I thought he was angry. His expression grew tense with unspoken frustration. Maybe he realized what a failure I was. But his body was looming over my like a blanket, and I couldn't help but feel protected rather than threatened. When he finally spoke, all of my fear washed itself away. "You are the only thing that keeps me going."
I planted another soft kiss upon his cheek, taking in the scent of him. Part of it reminded me of the smoky smell of his London flat, but the rest sensed of blood, sweat, and if embarrassment had a smell… "We'll be fine once we reach Mycroft," I reassured. He did not seem convinced. "Your brother has always had a way for showing up when he's least expected and most needed."
"I think you've gotten the two backwards."
"Either way," my voice was slow. "In a few hours, we'll be getting off of this train. Things will be back to the way they were. We will trap Moriarty in the bag and be done with it. Then we can go home together." Sherlock's eyes flickered over my face for a moment, as if taking it in for the last time. "Unless you're not telling me something."
"I've told you all that you need to know." He removed his body from mine, sitting back against the wall as before. The wood kept my back stiff and now that his body was no longer sheltering me, a brush of cold air tickled my skin. "Everything you have said is correct. Mycroft is the game changer. This will be the end of it."
My hand reached out for his, taking his warm fingers back into my embrace. I could feel bumpy scars on their way to forming, and rough patches where muscle was more visible than skin. To me, he was beautiful. "I'll never forget the day you noticed the mud on my boots."
He smirked. He hadn't forgotten either. "I knew instantly where you'd been trekking around."
My eyes jerked towards his direction without a turn from my head. "What can you tell about me now?"
Sherlock didn't waste a second. It had been ages since he'd last analyzed something. Hand-to-hand combat was the consumption of our case now. There was not much time for intrigue and mystery anymore. Oddly enough, I actually missed his ramblings. "Judging by the water stains on your left cheek, you'd been pressed up against something wet. It wasn't just your tears; those would be forming in streaks. Surely, the only other option must be snow." I tried to stop him. Reminding myself of my narrow escape would prove hazardous to my emotions, but there was no quitting once he started. "I can also tell by the ripped hem of your dress that you've been somewhere sharp and dangerous. Aha, but where could that be on a train?" His eyes briefly turned towards the door before a knowing smile came about his face. "So, after you climbed up the stairs rather shakily, which also resulted on that bruise near your elbow, you regretted many life long decisions and pressed your head into the snow to ponder your next move."
"How did you know about me regretting my life?" For a minute I thought it might have been visible somewhere on my body. A scar on my cheek or a bruise on my leg.
"Because I know you. And it's written all over your face. And when you stood up on top of that train, I could feel it from inside. I could feel in my frozen heart that something wasn't right." He blinked away what I thought might be tears. It was too dark to tell. "You were leaving me and I had no say. I would have shouted at you, pulled you back in, but I had no voice-"
My heart was trembling inside my chest. "Sherlock, please, I wasn't-"
"You were so close to running. So close to leaving. If I would have woken up and felt your absence in the room…" He fumbled with the next few words. Part of me wanted to hear them. Part of me wanted to rip off my ears with each shaky breath he let loose. "I would have rather of been dead."
Tears did not fall. Anger swelled up instead, turning those tears into fire deep inside my stomach. This anger was not for Sherlock Holmes, but for myself. "I am an ignorant woman," I confessed through a low whisper. "All my life I have been selfish. I have hid from the world because I didn't want anyone to get to know me. I was my own and no one could hinder that. The day I met you, things changed. Doors open and I got the chance to close them or keep them so. My life started the day I walked down Baker Street and knocked on your door. But I knew that it would end if I ever had to walk down that street without you."
Sherlock wasn't upset with me. He was saddened by the idea that I could have been lost, perhaps a bit disappointed, but there was no hostility written on his face. He gave my hand a tight squeeze. Electricity of some unknown force swelled between us. I wasn't the only one to feel it. "These next few days will be hard," he confessed. "I need you beside me."
"I will never leave you."
He set free a heavy sigh before closing his eyes. "You will never leave me," he muttered. "But I might have to leave you."
I thought I might have misunderstood him. I thought because of the wind and the fact that his sentence was less than a whisper that his words were only taunting. He did not clarify. I did not ask. Instead, sleep came upon us both gently at first, until I awoke in the night from a nightmare. A nightmare of Sherlock drowning. Sherlock gasping for air.
And with his last breath, he said nothing.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~
hello
we are friends
you can speak
so put words in the place down beneath words
the box thing
i want to know you
and your thought
on story
merci
-tamas