Short Message Service: Missing scene
Notes: This was written because zedille needed to know what I thought happened between the two TRF-parts and I’m posting this today to celebrate her birthday. She is, as you might know, the constant beta for the SMS series and also to this fic. I’m not completely sure she’ll appreciate this gift though since she hasn’t seen the last changes I’ve done.
Still. Happy Birthday zedille!
Summary: A non-texting fic about what happened between Vol. XIII and XIV.
-x-
There was a light knock on the door. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. If he ignored Mycroft, would that make him go away? Probably not, but Sherlock would be damned if he didn’t at least try.
Sitting on the floor of one of Mycroft’s guest bedrooms, Sherlock knew he should be grateful for his brother’s help. It was he, not Mycroft, who was to blame for the events of the last few days. Sherlock knew this, but he just couldn’t deal with his brother right now.
Sherlock had had enough by the third time the person knocked. Patience running thinner than usual, he yelled: “Piss off, Mycroft!”
“It’s not… Mycroft,” said a female voice from the other side. The last word sounded odd as if the woman weren’t used to saying it. “Sherlock, may I come in?”
Sherlock’s eyes grew wide when he realised who it must be.
“It isn’t locked,” he said with his eyes fixed on the door.
His brother’s PA smiled as she opened the door and stepped into the room. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
“That doesn’t seem to limit your ability to interpret it to suit your purpose.”
“Hush,” she said, trying to sound cocky. Sherlock could see that she had been crying, though he stopped himself before he could deduce why. He smirked, trying for the same cockiness she had, and it came surprisingly easily.
They just looked at each other for a while. Although they had met before Sherlock couldn’t remember ever hearing her voice. It sounded nothing like he had imagined.
“Why on earth are you on a diet?” he asked her. It was the only thing he could deduce that he hadn’t already known.
“Sympathy dieting with your brother,” she said, shrugging. “I cheat a lot.”
“So does he.”
“Be nice to him,” she scolded softly, and sat down on the floor next to him. She took his hand and rested her head against his shoulder.
Sherlock tensed. John was the only person he had been this close to in years. With a sigh, he laid his head on top of hers and looked at their joined hands. He couldn’t remember anyone holding his hand after he’d turned ten.
“How’s John?” he whispered.
“Safe.”
Something twisted in Sherlock’s chest. As if in response, she squeezed his hand so hard it hurt.
“He’s back at Baker Street - Molly followed him,” she told him quietly. “We do need to get her away from him, though. It’s not fair to her.”
Sherlock nodded and swallowed. “Make sure she’s….”
“We’ll keep her safe, too.”
“And Mrs Hudson and Lestrade?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and covered his face with his free hand.
“Don’t freak out now,” she whispered, “but I’m going to hug you.”
Sherlock didn’t protest and collapsed into her arms.
“We’ll sort it out. You’ll come back,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “And in the meantime, I’ll take care of things.”
“Just… stop,” Sherlock mumbled against her shoulder. “You don’t know it’ll be all right. You can’t be sure I’ll come- Just stop.”
“Sherlock, when have ever I lied to you?”
“When have you ever been completely honest with me?”
“Remember when I told you that you have nice chromosomes?”
Sherlock pulled away from her with a snort, but left her arm on his shoulders. After just a couple of seconds he leaned back in her embrace. He found it strangely comforting.
“Your brother told me what you told him about why you-“
“He talks too much,” Sherlock muttered.
“Perhaps.” She shrugged. “But I think it was brave, nonetheless.”
Sherlock took her hand again. If he closed his eyes and listened to her breathing, he could almost - but not quite - block out the memory of John’s voice screaming his name as he fell.
“What do you need?” she asked, after almost half an hour of just sitting there.
“I don’t know.” Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“You won’t figure it out sitting on the floor.”
Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft sent you to get me out of this room, didn’t he?”
“We had a feeling it-“
“I hate when you use ‘we’ for you and Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupted, frowning.
“Jealous?”
Sherlock snorted.
“Come on,” she said and got up. When he didn’t follow, she took his hand and pulled him to his feet. She didn’t let go of his hand and pulled him into another hug. After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock hugged her back.
“I really believe things will be all right again, Sherlock.”
“I need a new phone,” he said. It wasn’t what he really wanted to tell her, but it was as close he could get.
“That’s a good start,” she said with a smile, and let him go. “I’ll see to it. We can’t trust your brother with that sort of thing, can we?”
“No,” Sherlock said. “Thank you.”
“For getting you a mobile so I can keep track of you?” she asked, and laid both hands on his chest. “You know that stalking you is my favourite pastime.”
He placed his hands over hers and shook his head. That wasn’t what he had meant at all and he knew she understood that.
“Let’s go downstairs and start planning your resurrection,” she said and, with a firm grip on his hand, she moved towards the door.
Sherlock didn’t move. “Is Mycroft there?”
“This is his house,” she said and raised her eyebrows at the childishness of the question. “And you can’t deny that you need him for this.”
Sherlock sighed and followed her downstairs. She was right. He needed Mycroft if he wanted to pull this off, but admitting that wasn't nearly as difficult as accepting why he didn't want to let go of her hand.
Still. Happy Birthday zedille!
Summary: A non-texting fic about what happened between Vol. XIII and XIV.
-x-
There was a light knock on the door. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. If he ignored Mycroft, would that make him go away? Probably not, but Sherlock would be damned if he didn’t at least try.
Sitting on the floor of one of Mycroft’s guest bedrooms, Sherlock knew he should be grateful for his brother’s help. It was he, not Mycroft, who was to blame for the events of the last few days. Sherlock knew this, but he just couldn’t deal with his brother right now.
Sherlock had had enough by the third time the person knocked. Patience running thinner than usual, he yelled: “Piss off, Mycroft!”
“It’s not… Mycroft,” said a female voice from the other side. The last word sounded odd as if the woman weren’t used to saying it. “Sherlock, may I come in?”
Sherlock’s eyes grew wide when he realised who it must be.
“It isn’t locked,” he said with his eyes fixed on the door.
His brother’s PA smiled as she opened the door and stepped into the room. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
“That doesn’t seem to limit your ability to interpret it to suit your purpose.”
“Hush,” she said, trying to sound cocky. Sherlock could see that she had been crying, though he stopped himself before he could deduce why. He smirked, trying for the same cockiness she had, and it came surprisingly easily.
They just looked at each other for a while. Although they had met before Sherlock couldn’t remember ever hearing her voice. It sounded nothing like he had imagined.
“Why on earth are you on a diet?” he asked her. It was the only thing he could deduce that he hadn’t already known.
“Sympathy dieting with your brother,” she said, shrugging. “I cheat a lot.”
“So does he.”
“Be nice to him,” she scolded softly, and sat down on the floor next to him. She took his hand and rested her head against his shoulder.
Sherlock tensed. John was the only person he had been this close to in years. With a sigh, he laid his head on top of hers and looked at their joined hands. He couldn’t remember anyone holding his hand after he’d turned ten.
“How’s John?” he whispered.
“Safe.”
Something twisted in Sherlock’s chest. As if in response, she squeezed his hand so hard it hurt.
“He’s back at Baker Street - Molly followed him,” she told him quietly. “We do need to get her away from him, though. It’s not fair to her.”
Sherlock nodded and swallowed. “Make sure she’s….”
“We’ll keep her safe, too.”
“And Mrs Hudson and Lestrade?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and covered his face with his free hand.
“Don’t freak out now,” she whispered, “but I’m going to hug you.”
Sherlock didn’t protest and collapsed into her arms.
“We’ll sort it out. You’ll come back,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “And in the meantime, I’ll take care of things.”
“Just… stop,” Sherlock mumbled against her shoulder. “You don’t know it’ll be all right. You can’t be sure I’ll come- Just stop.”
“Sherlock, when have ever I lied to you?”
“When have you ever been completely honest with me?”
“Remember when I told you that you have nice chromosomes?”
Sherlock pulled away from her with a snort, but left her arm on his shoulders. After just a couple of seconds he leaned back in her embrace. He found it strangely comforting.
“Your brother told me what you told him about why you-“
“He talks too much,” Sherlock muttered.
“Perhaps.” She shrugged. “But I think it was brave, nonetheless.”
Sherlock took her hand again. If he closed his eyes and listened to her breathing, he could almost - but not quite - block out the memory of John’s voice screaming his name as he fell.
“What do you need?” she asked, after almost half an hour of just sitting there.
“I don’t know.” Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“You won’t figure it out sitting on the floor.”
Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft sent you to get me out of this room, didn’t he?”
“We had a feeling it-“
“I hate when you use ‘we’ for you and Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupted, frowning.
“Jealous?”
Sherlock snorted.
“Come on,” she said and got up. When he didn’t follow, she took his hand and pulled him to his feet. She didn’t let go of his hand and pulled him into another hug. After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock hugged her back.
“I really believe things will be all right again, Sherlock.”
“I need a new phone,” he said. It wasn’t what he really wanted to tell her, but it was as close he could get.
“That’s a good start,” she said with a smile, and let him go. “I’ll see to it. We can’t trust your brother with that sort of thing, can we?”
“No,” Sherlock said. “Thank you.”
“For getting you a mobile so I can keep track of you?” she asked, and laid both hands on his chest. “You know that stalking you is my favourite pastime.”
He placed his hands over hers and shook his head. That wasn’t what he had meant at all and he knew she understood that.
“Let’s go downstairs and start planning your resurrection,” she said and, with a firm grip on his hand, she moved towards the door.
Sherlock didn’t move. “Is Mycroft there?”
“This is his house,” she said and raised her eyebrows at the childishness of the question. “And you can’t deny that you need him for this.”
Sherlock sighed and followed her downstairs. She was right. He needed Mycroft if he wanted to pull this off, but admitting that wasn't nearly as difficult as accepting why he didn't want to let go of her hand.