Sherlock 1. Preface

**A/N:**

This is my very first work in this fandom, and also my first on this website, so please be gentle! Each chapter is prefaced with a relevant lyric from a Smiths/Morrissey song. The title to this work/series is a reference to the book of the same name by Albert Camus._ L'Étranger_ is called _The Stranger_ by English-speaking readers (but you know, "you've got to admit, that's sexier").

The story has 14 chapters in total, and none of it is beta'd (I take great pride in my technical linguistic skills). After posting the first few chapters, I plan to update once or twice a week. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work, and **pretty pretty please leave reviews to let me know how I'm doing!** Your input - both the critiques and the encouragement - is greatly appreciated.

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><p>"<strong>I've seen this happen in other people's lives, and now, it's happened in mine."<br>**

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><p><em>Prior to recent developments, I'd believed that there was no room for children's stories in the real world; no, there were greater things to focus on than the highly improbable. If you'd asked about how I saw my life, I might have said something along the lines of "nothing of significance ever happens in my life, because I am insignificant."<em>

_I am..._

_Honestly, I don't know who or what I am. Or, at least, I can't express such complexities in mere sentences: my thought processes, my beliefs, my perspective. To be as descriptive and illustrative as I can is as few words as possible (which is a rather difficult feat for me), I'll say this: I feel as if, in essence, I've been armed with the mind of a well-versed philosopher, the heart of a reckless idealist, the emotional fragility of an adolescent, the social skills of a recluse, and of course, the vocabulary of a pompous dick._

_So please, bear with me._

_As of late, I've found myself challenging concepts and ideas that I've held true for so long, all because of a man. In my twenty-eight years of existence, I've never fallen victim to false hope – to reliance on some higher power to make my life worth living. I've never been a hopeless romantic; I've never imagined myself in a love story or a happily-ever-after. Things like that don't happen outside of film and television and literature. In life, there is scarcely a purely happy ending. Because in the end, all one has is themselves – their memories, their scars, and their achievements – to keep them warm at night._

_I realize that I am insignificant. I've never tried to convince myself otherwise; optimism and expectations are brilliant obstacles in the way of achievement. That is, of course, how I see it: what chance is there that one might choose drive their own future if they're stuck believing that the universe will handle it all for them?_

_Life is not what we see in B-rate romantic dramas, or what we read in melodramatic young adult novels. It seems that we all hold such high expectations in our never-ending search for meaning in our lives. This is most likely because of the stories we are constantly exposed to, concerning great people who do great things; and everyone wants to be great._

_Never in my life would I have believed that one day, a man would be the catalyst that would be able to turn my entire world upside-down. Never would I have believed myself to be foolish enough to let another person hurt me, and never would I have believed that I would eventually fall in love – completely destructive, calamitous love._

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><p><strong>AN:** The preliminary quote is from the song "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore" by The Smiths.


	2. Coffee, 2 Sugars

"**I don't mind if you forget me. Having learned my lesson, I never left an impression on anyone."**

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><p>Eva has never been a fan of Sherlock Holmes. She doesn't think his god damn cheekbones or his popped coat collar make his callous disposition any less vile. She doesn't think he's impossibly brilliant. No, she thinks he's arrogant and narcissistic, and that his blatant disregard for other people is unjustifiable. She has such contempt for him, and why all of the people on the news and around her would regard him with such reverence and such high esteem is beyond her.<p>

She has good reason to think this way.

The first time they met, Eva had been sent to run some files up to the man in the pathology lab. When she asked why she had to be the one to do it – why their usual girl couldn't come get the files – her boss said, "the pathologist that usually does this sort of thing has fallen ill," he massaged his brow and sighed, "and furthermore, I'm terrified of the man, or I'd do it myself."

Skipping to the part where they actually meet (for the sake of sanity), she made her way up to the lab, and peering in through the window, she could make out a man – the man from the news – with a distinctive tall, thin, angled figure, sharp clothing, and an unkempt mess of curls sitting atop his head. He sat on a stool, completely still, eyes focused into a microscope. She knocked on the door to the lab, not wanting to barge in, in fear of being impolite. He didn't respond, so she knocked again harder. No response. She let herself in, treading slowly so as to not completely disturb the man. "Mr. Holmes?"

"_Oh, for God's sake._" His eye roll was almost audible.

She delivered the files, and he wasn't very kind to her in response. She didn't even have to say anything for him to tell her to _"shut up," _and he didn't thank her. He looked at the files on the desk and nodded, returning immediately to his work with the microscope. Without acknowledging her, he said, "coffee, 2 sugars," pointing across the room to a coffee pot on the counter. She obeyed, of course – and again, he didn't thank her. She turned to leave, and without taking his eyes off of the slide in front of him, he asked, "Slavic?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He pointed to the ID badge pinned to her chest. "_Eva Blažević._" No one has ever pronounced her name correctly on the first try (EVE-uh BLAH-szeh-vich). She couldn't even pronounce it correctly herself until she was at least five years old. "That's Slavic, correct?"

"Croatian."

He smirked. "American accent."

"Also half French, on my mom's side." He nodded, but didn't respond. "Can I be of any further assistance to you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, _hardly._ No, no – you're dismissed." He shooed her away and returned to his work.

_What a twat._

Much to her displeasure, Sherlock is everywhere: she sees him on the news, reads about him online, and she often hears her co-workers gossiping about the "mysterious detective on the telly."

_How can they not see what a fucking egomaniacal tool this guy is?_

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><p><strong>AN:** The preliminary quote is from the song titled "I Don't Mind If You Forget Me" by Morrissey.


	3. Dead Men Can't Press Charges

**"Gasping - dying - but somehow still alive: this is the final stand of all I am. Please keep me in mind."**

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><p>As Eva steps outside, traces of what had been a damp autumn day hang thick in the wind; a sort of fallacious petrichor lingering in the breeze. It's like the scent of damp earth, but there's an added essence to it – a synthetic, stale odor that can only come from the industrialized streets of London.<p>

Today was a particularly taxing workday for Eva. During her 8 hour shift at Barts, she had to change her scrubs twice – the first time because of blood from a clumsily placed IV, and the second time because of some toxic substance an intern managed to spew on her. Having to clean blood off of her glasses was traumatizing, much to her surprise – she's not usually squeamish. She doesn't cringe at the sight of blood, bile, needles, or open wounds. But apparently, she winces at the prospect of blood on her glasses. Of course, neither instance was her fault; she really shouldn't be the most capable nurse in her ward, being among others with much more experience than her. Her mother once told her that nursing is a natural talent: instinctively knowing how to tend to another person's wounds doesn't just come to everybody.

Regardless, she made it through the day – her shift is over, and outside the back entrance, she's bundled up in her coat, hat, gloves, and scarf for the walk home – so everything will be alright. She makes her way around the side of the building toward the street. As she turns down a dimly-lit alley – one that always has the ability to make her completely paranoid – she focuses on the commotion of the city street ahead of her. The melodic bustle of London in the evening, as hypnotic as it may feel to her senses, is interrupted by a small, labored sound.

Such a soft resonance, echoing in her skull, demanding to be heard. The sound is so muted; she can't make out what it is. "Hello?" A pause. Nothing. _Okay, breathe. Be threatening._ "I-if someone's following me, y-you should probably, you know, _fuck off, _because...because I know every p-pressure point in the human body, and... and I can render you unconscious in the time it would take you to take a single step."

_Nailed it._

There's a long, silent interval. Then, as she is listening diligently, paying close attention, the subtle murmur resounds again. It's less than a voice, but not quite a whisper. _I know that sound. _And again. The unmistakable sound of air being pulled harshly into a person's lungs. _A breath. No, a choked gasp. _Eva's eyes grow wide in realization – _someone is fighting for breath. Someone could be hurt or in danger._

Her whole body stills: she's thinking, remembering where she was standing, remembering which direction the sound was coming from, and how far away it sounded. _Right, okay, so I was there and it came from behind._ She spins around on her heel. _It definitely came from somewhere in the alley, but not from farther than a few yards away._ She squints, cursing her awful eyesight, but another gasp draws her to the source: a cadaverous, twisted silhouette, sprawled out on its side, obscured from view by a nearby dumpster.

She rushes to the figure's side, kneeling on cold pavement, her eyes finally fully adjusted to the darkness. And suddenly, she recognizes the face that lies beneath a thick layer of blood. "M-Mr. Holmes? Is that you?"

"No, he's dead, I believe."

It's a twisted, pained mumble; jagged and gravelly, but undoubtedly the thick baritone that belongs to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The little exertion causes his eyes to roll back and flutter shut, and he nearly falls unconscious before bolting his eyes open again. He's completely wrecked - his wild grayish-colored irises reflecting the sparse amount of light that filters in through the narrow alley. "Mr. Holmes? Jesus Christ." She gapes, in complete shock and disbelief. "You're supposed to be dead!"

"You do realize," he wheezes, "how utterly predictable you sound?" He just _needs _to be clever, even when he can only fit a few syllables into each of his shallow breaths.

She stands and begins pacing, palm firmly planted on her forehead. In a whispered yell, if that's even possible, she says, "They... y-you were pronounced _dead_ this afternoon! It was all over the news, and-and I... I _watched_ as they carried in the_ fucking _body – _your_ fucking body – to the morgue and...oh, oh my god, I'm losing it. I'm completely off my rocker."

He grunts in between wheezes, "what are you... going on about?"

She stares blankly at him, meeting his cold, glassy-eyed stare. Every other part of him is screaming out for help, yet what he tries to communicate with those eyes completely contradicts what his body language is saying. She takes a deep breath and forces back the tears that threaten to fall down her face - tears caused not by the scene itself, but by her doubt in her own sanity. "You can't be here. A-alive. Right now."

He takes a hard swallow and replies, "I'm here... and very much alive. Come to think of it... ironically... I believe I... I may actually be... _dying_."

She kneels at his side again. Aside from the obvious blood covering his face, there's some pooling on the pavement under his head. The blood comes from his lip, his forehead, and his nose, and it seems as if his lung capacity has been cut in half. _Could be a punctured lung, but I can't know for sure._ "I – I need to go get someone."

He throws an arm out to grasp her forearm with remarkable force. "_No_, no _please..._ please don't, you can't." He swallows. "Lives depend on it."

She facepalms again, closing her eyes and massaging her forehead. "Like yours, perhaps?"

He mumbles, "this is small... in the grand scheme of things."

"I won't stand by and watch you die here."

He pouts. "Well why not?"

She rolls her eyes. "Please, just shut up."

"I've been perfectly awful to you, if I do remember correctly."

"Oh, so you _do_ do that on purpose then?"

"More or less." As he retorts, she gets busy assessing his injuries; she moves to look at the wound on the back of his head. "No, no – oh, for _God's sake!_"

"Stop. Talking."

"I don't need the help... of a bumbling, incompetent err –" He winces as a result of inhaling too sharply, and bites back a whimper. "I can fair well on my own... thank you."

"Curious how you're in critical condition, bleeding out onto the pavement, and can still manage to be insulting." She feels his forehead for an approximate temperature, then feels for the fingers on both of his hands. _Okay, so forehead is feverish, but extremities are below average -_

"You cannot treat me... without my... _explicit consent!_" He punctuates the last two words, gritting his teeth, seething.

"Last time I checked, dead men can't press charges." He opens his mouth to speak, drawing in too large of a breath again. A single pained tear falls down his face, making a clear trail through the blood on his cheeks. "Now, would you please kindly _shut up_ and let someone else handle it, for once?" She interrupts again before he can retort. "And none of that sassy detective snark." He struggles to move, to sit up – unable to hold back the whimpers this time – but she pins his shoulders to the pavement to restrain him, _for his own good,_ she eyes begin to flutter shut again, darkness threatening the edges of his vision. In the most calm, reassuring tone in her repertoire, Eva coos, "Hey - hey, I need you to stay awake for me, please - can you do that for me, Mr. Holmes?" He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and nods the slightest bit, so she removes her hands from his shoulders. He's shivering.

The gloves come off – quite literally – as she scrambles for her bag and whips out her handy-dandy iPhone, using the flashlight to check his pupils _(dilating properly)_. The light of the screen nearly blinds her, so she decides against its continued use. She stuffs it back in her bag and pulls out a Sharpie instead. She takes the cap of the Sharpie off with her teeth, rolls up one sleeve, and starts scribbling words onto her inner forearm, including_ 'pupils OK,'_ and _'uneven breathing.'_ She continues recording observations; she checks to see if his airway is blocked_ ('airway clear')_, takes his pulse _('59 bpm')_, and records his approximate temperature again _('head warm, extremities freezing'), _deciding to put her gloves on his hands for warmth. There's an adequate amount of blood coming from the back of his skull, the source of which being a large open wound outlined in dried blood. She carefully unbuttons the man's shirt, looking for any signs of injury on his chest and neck to explain the breathing _('severe contusions on right collarbone & left rib cage')_. As gently as possible, she applies pressure with 2 fingers to the areas around the bruising. Pressing on the collarbone only elicits a whimper from the man, so she concludes that nothing is broken, meaning the bruising is solely superficial. She continues to prod the area around his left ribcage, and one particular spot causes him to howl in agony, whispering breathless pleas, writhing and twitching where he lays. _He really needs a doctor._

As if he can read her thoughts, he whispers, "anywhere but hospital - just..._please._"

She unwraps the scarf from around her neck and balls it up next to the man's left side. She firmly grasps his right shoulder and the right side of his waist and turns him onto his left side, using the scarf to support the injury to his torso. He winces, biting his bottom lip and squeezing his eyes shut. She watches as the pained expression on his face shifts to one of relief, as the repositioning takes effect, and he slowly exhales. "Alright, I'm going to have to go get some supplies from the nurses' station inside, but I'll be back in a few minutes. I can pinky-promise you that I won't tell anyone, okay?" She sticks out her pinky and gently hooks it with his. She smiles warmly at him, but his expression radiates fear and helplessness, which seems a rare sight, even to an almost-stranger. "Okay now, I need you to listen to me. It's critical that you stay calm and lie still for me until I get back. Can you do that?" He nods, biting down hard on his bottom lip. "Good. Try to breathe as deeply and evenly as you can manage. I know it's hard, but it's important, okay? I'll be right back for you."

When she returns to the alley 10 minutes later, Sherlock is in the exact position he was in when she left him. She pulls a wheelchair up next to him and puts on its brakes. Hanging from the handlebars is a tote bag, stuffed to the brim with medical supplies. "Are you alright?"

"F-fine, I'm fine."

"Alright, this is going to suck, I'm warning you." He doesn't have time to think before she's disinfecting the wound on the back of his head. She applies a very liberal amount of antibacterial ointment and gauze, placing her own hat on his head to hold the gauze in place. She helps him into an upright position and into the wheelchair. "Help" is a very mild way of putting it. Rather, she has to do most all of the legwork herself, his contribution being his effort to stay conscious. Though, to be fair, that is an incredible feat after loosing so much blood and having to shift positions. She wraps the scarf from the ground around his neck, to keep him as warm as possible, and refastens the buttons on his coat to cover his chest. Pleased with her efforts, Eva gathers her things and grabs hold of the handles of the wheelchair, starting toward the street. Somehow, she manages to push him the whole distance back to her building, up a ramp, in and out of a lift, and finally, into her flat. She also manages to lift him up onto the bed by herself. _This is going to be a hell of a long night._

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><p><strong>AN:** The preliminary quote is from the song titled "Well I Wonder" by The Smiths.


	4. The Science of Deflection

**A/N: **This is when shit gets real. All joking aside, this is actually the second longest chapter, jam-packed with dialogue and deductions and insults and bickering. It should be a real treat.

Reviews would be splendid and much appreciated!

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><p>"<strong>It begins in the heart, and it hurts when it's true. It only hurts because it's true." <strong>

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><p>When Sherlock finally comes to, the sun is just rising in the sky outside of the fogged windows. This is the first time he is really able to observe his surroundings – the flat, the makeshift hospital bed setup, the IV drip in his hand, the notepad, the first-aid kit with supplies falling out in every direction, and most importantly, the woman who saved him. From this position, he can see her asleep on the futon nearby. She lays on her stomach, with her hair in a very loose bun, her glasses disheveled, and her face free of makeup. She had fallen asleep reading.<p>

He shifts into a sitting position and winces. The sharp sound wakes Eva up in a panic, causing her to jump and fall off of the futon. She stands up and fixes her glasses on her face, shifting her gaze over to the man in her bed. He's been less than coherent – let alone awake and alert – in the past several hours since bringing him home, so seeing him staring back at her is a new development. She shuffles over to sit on the edge of the bed, folds her hands in her lap, and takes a steady breath before looking up to meet his eyes. She doesn't know what to say or where to start, so she just smiles softly at him. He gives her a steady look – a thick, piercing, inquisitive look.

She starts what is now her routine evaluation – _taking his temperature,_ checking his pupils, taking his pulse – stopping periodically to record her measurements on a notepad. She crosses the flat to the tiny kitchenette and bustles around a bit more, with her back facing Sherlock. Her cell phone rings and she ignores the call, tossing her phone onto the futon to be forgotten, and returns to what she was doing. After an interminably long silence, without turning to face him, she asks, "how are you feeling?"

He watches her intently, having already made quite a few deductions about the flat itself. Observation is important to him, even in the most seemingly inconvenient times; it keeps him grounded. "I'm fine," he grits out, his voice cracked and shaky at first. "What happened?"

She returns, handing him a large glass of water. He guzzles the drink, grateful for any sort of liquid to quench the awful, dry feeling in his throat. Eva sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed and hands Sherlock a plate and silverware. She's prepared for him a very thorough, very American breakfast – scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. "First, eat." He glares at her – he hates being commanded. He ate two days ago, so he'll be fine for a while anyway. She emphasizes, "_Eat._" Eva glares steadily at him, a silent plea of sorts. She grins when he takes his first bite, wholly expecting his reaction when he starts eating with a bit more fervor. She picks at her own food – a bowl of Greek yogurt and some fruit - and all of the food is finished in under 5 minutes.

"I didn't know I was that hungry."

"I know. Endorphins and such. Quite distracting."

His expression grows serious again."Were you planning on answering my question?"

"Well, that depends. Are you asking what I did, or what caused your pain? Because the latter, I haven't the slightest idea."

"I was asking what had happened in general, but we can start with what you did after you threatened to render me unconscious via my pressure points."

She giggles a bit. No, no – she doesn't giggle. _Well, that's embarrassing._ "Okay, we can start there if you'd like." He nods, his face completely emotionless. "Well, when I found you, you were in pretty bad shape: you managed to acquire a rather serious concussion, a laceration on the back of your head, a few gashes on your face, two broken ribs, and contusions on your collarbone and across your left rib cage. You didn't want me to take you inside the hospital, so I did just a bit of first aid."

He cocks an eyebrow and motions to the setup around the bed – an IV drip expertly hooked up to the veins in his hand, bandages in appropriate places, an array of medication samples on the side table, along with a notepad and a pen with every little detail of his treatment recorded on it – and says, "I believe the phrase 'just a bit of first aid' is a pretty gross understatement."

She shrugs. "I hooked you up to an IV, with some stuff to keep you hydrated, and some drugs to manage the pain and the fever. I, uh – I had to give you three stitches in the back of your head to stop the bleeding – so be mindful of that. I've been waking you up every hour and a half to apply cold compresses to your forehead, to check your pupils, and to make sure you don't slip into a coma, you know." He squints and purses his lips, obviously either confused or in disbelief. "And I'm guessing you don't remember any of the five times I woke you up last night, which probably has to do with the amount of pain medication that I gave you. Though, I'm glad you don't remember. It was rather embarrassing on your part. The narcotics should have worn off by now."

Sherlock reaches for the notepad on the table, reading over the scribbles on the page. Without taking his eyes from the notepad, he asks, "aren't you an errand girl?" She shakes her head, and he huffs in annoyance. His eyes flash around the room and he's silent for a moment. After a long pause, he mutters almost inaudibly, "nurse."

"Excuse me?"

"You're a nurse."

"Obviously."

"No, no – only I get to use that." She cocks an eyebrow at him. "No, disregard that last statement." He clears his throat. "So, you're Substitute Molly - that errand girl from the day Molly was ill. Am I wrong?"

She shakes her head. _Substitute Molly? Are you kidding?_ "Eva Blažević." She holds a hand out.

"Sherlock Holmes." Instead of shaking Eva's hand, Sherlock takes her hand and presses her knuckles to his lips gently. "It's a pleasure to meet you." He grins with an air of inebriation. _He must still be somewhat out of it – what, with all of the drugs in his system. When in doubt, blame the narcotics._ "So why did you stop to help me?" She shrugs indifferently, and he frowns. "Do you want to know how many people noticed me lying there and still carried on with their day?"

"No, I don't. That doesn't matter."

"Oh, I disagree. It matters immensely." He gulps down the end of his glass of water, and Eva takes the glass and the other dishes and brings them over to the sink. "I'm positive I'd be dead right now if you hadn't stopped."

She fixes them each a cup of coffee, mixing a bit of whiskey into her own mug. "Here," she says, as she hands him the coffee and sips at her own drink, letting the sharp taste calm her buzzing nerves. He chuckles, gazing down into his mug. "What's so funny?"

"No, nothing – it's just, erm, you remember how I take my coffee."

She smiles to herself and shrugs. "I just pay attention, I guess." There's an awkward pause as they each sip at their drinks. "So when were you planning on telling me what happened?"

"I wasn't, to be quite honest."

She gets up and crosses the room to retrieve something from the kitchen counter. "Let me rephrase that."

She tosses the morning paper into his lap: the headline on the front page reads, 'Suicide of Fake Genius,' and the article delves into detail about the cases that the detective set up to impress his colleagues, even going so far so as to fabricate an entire identity of an enemy and hire an actor to play said villain for him to take down. The article says that, in the end, the detective admitted to making it all up, claiming that 'nobody could be that clever' before jumping to his death from the roof of Barts. During questioning, one of the detectives that worked closely with the detective remarked, "I've always said that one day, we'd all be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the man to put it there. I _was_ right – I guess I just never expected it to be _his_ body."

"Explain."

"I believe it's all right here in the article," he says sarcastically. She gives him a piercing look – she's not playing games. "I.. I can't -" He runs his hands over his face, taking extra precaution so as to not irritate any of the local wounds. He weighs his options: should he tell her – the only person in the world that knows he's alive - or should he get up and leave? "Bollocks. Alright, I'll explain myself. But you have to swear to me that you won't tell a soul." She gives a single nod. He takes a starting breath to begin explaining several times, but stops himself each consecutive time, carefully rethinking his choice of words.

"It's not true," she states plainly. "Not a word of it – is it?" He squints at her, interested now in her perspective. "I know for a fact that you did not, in fact, commit suicide, and that the body that they supposedly found and pronounced dead was not you. Either that, or somehow, you had some help compromising the evidence. And if even one miniscule detail in the entirety of that article is inaccurate," she points to the paper in his lap, "I can pretty easily infer that the rest must, likewise, be total bullshit." She folds her arms across her chest. "Tell me I'm wrong."

He smirks. "Oh, no, madam. You're _exactly_ right."

"Right. But please, do tell me – why should I believe your story, Mr. Holmes?"

His expression evolves into something unreadable. He carefully considers his words for a moment before answering. "If you'd like, I can prove it to you." She shoots him a look that screams, _'y__ou're kidding, right?'_"No no, it's true, really. Well, I can at least assure you that the bit about me being a 'fake genius' is entirely false. I can expand from there if you'd be willing to listen."

"And how will you be able to prove your ingenious detective skills to me, exactly?"

He laughs. "With the Science of Deduction."

"Oh, really? Nice title drop there, very clever. I've read your blog a few times; It says that you can tell the state of a man's home life by the color of his tie – that you can discern a person's entire life story just by means of observation."

"More or less."

She gives him a long, tentative look. "Go ahead then – demonstrate."

He sits up and rests his elbows on his knees, pressing his fingertips together under his chin. The pause that he takes to think – that excruciating, immeasurable silence – gives Eva time to think as well. _What am I doing? There's a distinctive criminal in my bed who, as of yesterday afternoon, was pronounced dead. He says it's untrue, and I believe him one hundred percent. Or I'm playing his games, at least. I must be mad._

"Eva Blažević." She's pulled back to reality by the sound of her name. "You're here from America, of Croatian and French decent – which you did tell me, if I remember correctly, and I always remember correctly - left-handed, twenty-eight years-old and a resident nurse at Barts."

"I'm sure you can do better than that."

Sherlock hushes her. "Patience, dear; I wasn't finished." In one swift movement, he has a grip on Eva's wrist, pulling up her sleeve to reveal the Sharpie scribbles on her arm from the night before. He looks up at her with that wide Cheshire grin and those piercing eyes. "This right here, _this_ is a crude manipulation of a military tactic. You're not military, though – no, definitely not. Your posture and personal appearance doesn't reflect that of a soldier. Which means you must have picked that up somewhere. You must be rather, err – must possess some degree of intelligence." He grits the words out, as if they taste like soap on his tongue, and Eva's eyes widen in mock surprise. "Shut up." Sherlock releases his grip on her wrist. "Last night, you knew _exactly_ what to do and how to do it, the expertise of which highly surpasses whatever training you would have received in nursing school. That means that you _must _be bright. You pay attention, and you're inventive, hence the writing on your forearm.

"But you don't believe those things – no, you're a realist. A philosopher. And going by the state of the books on your bookshelves, I'd say you're an existentialist, and most likely an atheist. Moreover, you have very very low confidence and self-esteem, which can easily be read in your body language. You don't like your personal appearance, most likely due to your lack of curves, thick glasses, pale complexion, and lack of fashion sense. Like now," He gestures to her current state of dress (she's sporting a ridiculously oversized flannel button-up, thermal leggings, and tall wool socks), "You don't even care enough to bother with your personal appearance unless you have to go to work.

"You have something akin to an avoidant personality, established by evidence stating that you're working in an occupation far below your potential, which suggests that you perceive yourself as inferior or inadequate. Furthermore, you paid no mind to your cell phone when it rang earlier, and you don't have a flatmate, which shows that you distance yourself socially. It's funny though - you don't actually_ like_being alone. In fact, you crave social interaction, which is why you work in a job that forces you to deal with people. You are just so incredibly critical about the way that everyone else sees you. You don't want people to see the self-deprecating, intelligent, introspective side of yourself. You're meticulous about how you conduct yourself in the presence of others, and you hold a tight reign on your verbal filter. Though you have an ever-present stammer, your words are carefully chosen. You implement little grammatical rules in regular conversation - ones that are usually tossed aside in casual discourse - suggesting that your words are prepared before you speak. You insert various profanities and modern colloquialisms into your speech so as to not come across as rigid or calculated. Though your articulation might falter - and quite frequently, I might add - the language you use is artful and potent.

"You exhibit signs of self-destructive behavior, like smoking – there's a beaten-up pack of cigarettes in your handbag – voluntary social isolation, and drinking in the afternoon. Your choice of beverage – whiskey – shows your intent: you want to feel the bite of the alcohol, but more than that, you're out to get a buzz. This as opposed to those who drink, say, wine, for the taste experience alone.

"You try to fix everyone, both emotionally and physically, because you can't fix yourself. That's why you stopped to help me. Helping other people makes you feel better about yourself. When we first met, you let me walk all over you. You never fought back, even when I insulted you. You stopped to help even though I was cruel and probably deserved all the pain I was suffering. You didn't seek revenge, though I'm sure you're not quite fond of me in general. You're virtuous and kind-hearted, to everyone but yourself." She stares blankly at him. "That's all."

Those weren't the words she had been expecting to hear. No, and she definitely didn't want to hear them either. Mostly because they were true. Tears threaten to seep from her tear ducts. "I, um..." She chuckles, trying to hide the constricting in her throat. "I – I wasn't expecting that at all."

"Well? Did I get it right?"

"Everything – everything but the part about me being left handed." She takes the notepad and pen and flips to a new page. She writes his name with her right hand, then passes the pen to her left and writes it again. "Ambidextrous."

"I was going to say that you play the piano, by the fluent movements of your hands, and because you have a baby grand next to your bookshelves. I thought it could have been an ornament kept out of sentiment, but I wasn't entirely sure. Now I am."

"Impressive."

He has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. "I know."

She laughs uncomfortably. "Am I really that cliché?"

"Oh, no, of course not. Very few people reach that level of self-loathing, and even fewer try so desperately to hide it."

"You know, that's really not very comforting."

He takes her wrist and pulls up her sleeve again, pulling her toward him to get a closer look. In a deep, gravelly tone, he mumbles, "Oh, that's ingenious. Absolutely brilliant."

"I beg your pardon?"

The grin that's been plastered on his face grows softer. "The irony is that you've no idea the gravity of a statement like that coming from me." He slowly releases his grip on her wrist.

"Do you enjoy being able to see into people's lives, when they can't see into yours?"

"Well, that's one way to put it, but -"

"No, it's my turn."

Sherlock is at a loss for words. He sits forward, moving closer to her. "Very well. Go on, then."

She mirrors him, moving so that their faces are merely inches apart. "I think you're wearing a mask too. I think you have a mad god complex, an elitist philosophy in regard to the lives of other people. You're the Chess Master – a manipulative player, dominating the game with pawns that haven't the slightest idea of your intention. I think that you believe that you're on some higher plane of existence, like you are somehow superior to everyone else. I think you're narcissistic and stubborn, and you think you always know what others are thinking. You don't know when to shut up, and you can't turn it all off. You're always observing – deducing.

"I think you're not used to being wrong, and you enjoyed the attention that being the dark, genius detective brought you. And I think that you glorify that aspect of yourself because you can't bear to pay mind to the deficits in your personality. You don't like yourself either. You don't isolate yourself because of your superiority complex. No, I think you're just terrified of being wrong. You're afraid to have social and romantic relationships because you know that you'll push them all away – whether it be due to your personality, your behavior, your lack of social skills, your romantic inexperience, or otherwise. You magnify the only part of yourself that you like, hoping that if you showcase it well enough, it'll distract from the rest of you. That's why you had so many fans and admirers, and so few close friends."

The subsequent pause is torturous to Eva, as she glares with fire in her eyes, waiting for him to react in kind. The air is thick with tension (to Eva, at least), making it hard to breathe. He bores into her for what seems like hours, before asking, "Did a man with an umbrella put you up to this?"

"Tell me I'm wrong." He huffs and sits back, crossing his arms over his chest for dramatic effect. He immediately regrets the gesture, howling in pain when he remembers his broken ribs. She jumps to his aid. "Oh my god, seriously? You'd rather be in agony than admit that I'm right?" She places his arms at his sides, rolling him onto his left side. She has one hand on his waist and the other rubs his back while she hushes him softly.

He grits out, "that wasn't the intent, but now that you've mentioned it, I think it's working brilliantly in my favor." They both laugh awkwardly. "So how much of that did you take from the article?"

"I only really absorbed the part about you having so many fans and so few close friends, and I made my own 'deductions' from there. That, plus the part in the article where a colleague describes you as a 'cocky, grandiose, insensitive, psychopath.'"

"Anderson," he grunts quietly to himself. He clears his throat. "So how could you have _possibly_ inferred anything beyond what you read in the article?"

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"A magician never reveals his secrets."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You couldn't come up with anything more clever than that?"

"It's true though, isn't it? It's what you do. You're an illusionist, to some extent. 'The Science of Deduction' must seem to spectators as such – it's all a magic trick. Something that none of them would even have the ability to conceptualize, when, in reality, it's all just a load of tricks and tactics you've acquired that you impart with mastery and grace. It must take great skill and knowledge – I'll give you that. But the grand perception of it – that's all an illusion."

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"Probably not."

He sighs and frowns at her. "I really think you ought to be less critical of your flaws and more mindful of your worth."

She smirks and mutters, "what 'worth?'"

"And I really think you should stop deflecting with cynicism and sarcasm. It's not very becoming of you."

She gets up to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer. She rolls him back over to place it over his rib cage, which wrings a choked sobbing sound from his throat. "On a scale of one to ten, how intense is the pain?"

"Eight and a half." She rifles through the first aid kit for a bottle of clear liquid, drawing some pain medicine into a syringe before administering it into his IV. She records the time and dosage of the drug on the notepad and begins straightening up the mess. She can almost hear Sherlock's muscles relax as he lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Oh, that is _spectacular._"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Pardon the medical vernacular. I couldn't help myself.

The preliminary quote is from the song titled "I'll Never Be Anybody's Hero Now" by Morrissey.


	5. The Funeral

**"You left your tired family grieving, and you think they're sad because you're leaving - but did you see the jealousy in the eyes of the ones who had to stay behind?"**

* * *

><p>She probably shouldn't have gone to Sherlock's funeral.<p>

No, probably not. In hindsight, it seems silly, but she felt compelled to go. It seemed like a perfect opportunity: she had off work, and Sherlock was immobile in her bed. He could barely stand, hissing at every little contraction of his abdominal muscles (you don't really realize how often you use your abs until they hurt like a bitch). He could be easily occupied by Netflix (he apparently enjoys 'crap telly') and her laptop. He was incredibly uncomfortable without his usual attire – a dressing gown and a pair of boxers is very far from his standards – so Eva gave him the clearance to get overnight shipping on a few new articles of clothing (curse his expensive taste). All she had to do was tell him she was going to work and give him some drugs to knock him out for a while, and she'd be on her way.

But now that she's sitting here, on a bench in the cemetery, watching the mourners and listening to the cries and the unspoken eulogy, she feels awful. There's the added symmetry of the dreary London weather: the winter having smothered the city with a fresh blanket of snow, with bleak overcast gray clouds to match. There's no ceremony, no viewing, no service. There's just an informal gathering, a headstone, and a freshly-disturbed mound of dirt over an empty casket.

From afar, she can observe the congregation of spectators. Of the crowd, the most grievous sobs emanate from an elder woman, small and motherly with a voice so warm and soothing, and a younger woman, pretty in a plain sort of way with her emotions sprawled out on her face for the whole world to see. The two sob relentlessly into mascara-streaked tissues as they hold a lasting embrace, clinging to each other for support. A man whom she recognizes from the newspaper as Detective Inspector Lestrade stands nearby with his hands tucked into his pockets, and a few lingering reporters circle the perimeter like vultures. Leave it to the media to beat a dead horse.

"How did you know him?" She'd been too busy musing to notice that she'd been approached. Before her stands a shorter man, his nonchalant demeanor betrayed by his eyes, puffy and red from hours of crying, and violently shaking hands. She notices the knuckles on his right hand: bandaged – she imagines he acquired the injury most likely from hitting something solid out of fury. His left hand clutches a ragged tissue, while his right grips a cane.

Every part of his expression tells a different emotion – his stance shows discomfort, his hands wring with uneasiness, his face marks indifference, his voice harbors a somber resonance – but his eyes illustrate the raw, honest feelings behind the apathetic front he's trying to assert. Those eyes tell the truth of how deeply engraved this wretched sorrow is etched into his mind – how heavily the remorse and grief and and guilt weigh on his conscience. He maintains a panicking sense of worry and fear at the realization that he is now completely and utterly alone.

"I'm sorry?"

"How did you know Sherlock?"

"Oh, I – we met at Barts a few times."

"Were you a fan of his?"

"Oh, no – no, _hardly_." He shoots her a questioning glance. "He treated me like a doormat. I thought he was a narcissistic ass, but I can't help but respect the man for all that he was. And between you and me, I don't believe a word of what they're saying in the papers."

The man takes a seat next to her on the bench. A single tear falls down his cheek, while simultaneously, the widest and most sincere smile Eva has ever seen blooms across his face. She smiles back, as earnestly as she can manage. Behind her smile she hides such awful, biting guilt. Her mind wants nothing more than to betray her promise to Sherlock, because the information she holds on the tip of her tongue is enough to ease every mourner's pain – to fix them. And god knows, that's all she could ever want.

"Eva Blažević."

"Dr. John Watson."

They shake hands. "It's a pleasure, even given the circumstances." His expression grows soft. "You look like you could really use a drink." He looks as if he's about to reject her proposition, so she interjects. "Just as mates – we can go dutch. And we don't have to talk about it. Honest."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** The preliminary quote is from the song titled "London" by The Smiths.


	6. The Little Things

**A/N: **This is a short one, but potent nonetheless. I figured I'd give it to you now because it sort of goes hand-in-hand with the preceding chapter.

* * *

><p>"<strong>I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now."<strong>

* * *

><p>"What can I get for you?"<p>

"A pint of Lager for him, and a Jack and Coke for me, thanks."

"I didn't -"

"Is that alright?"

"It's perfect, just -" John Watson should know by now not to question how others might infer things about him that he hasn't said explicitly. His eyes grow wide in realization. "Are you another one of Mycroft's women?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How do you know my drink order? I mean, I think I'd remember if we've met before." She smiles internally at the unintended compliment. "Oh god, are you a journalist? I decline to comment." He gets up to leave.

"No, John – it was just a guess, honest. Remember, on the way here, you remarked about how unusual it was to be getting a pint with a stranger? I just figured that you wanted a pint." She smiles warmly at him, and he sits back down.

"And the part about the Lager?"

"Lucky guess. Plus, it's my favorite." The bartender brings them their drinks, and Eva gratefully sips at the pungent distraction from her ills.

"Not a cocktail kind of girl then, eh?"

"Meh, not really my -" She stops herself before she can say, 'cup of tea.' "not my personal preference."

In the silence that follows, all she can think to talk about is the weather.

"Is it just me, or is it a lot less pathetic drowning your sorrows in a pub with mates than doing it alone at home?"

"Why do you think I asked you to have a drink with me?" They both chuckle. "I would've been doing the latter tonight, had you said no."

"Me too, most likely." They share an awkward laugh – awkward, definitely, but satisfying nonetheless. It's a much-needed laugh. "So what do you do for a living, Miss – err -"

"Don't bother with that one, mate. Save yourself the effort." Again, awkward laughter erupts – this time much louder, though. "I'm a nurse, actually. And you?"

"I – well, I was an army doctor. Now I just blog and do some part-time work at the surgery."

"You blog?"

He clears his throat, and she can see immediately that she struck a chord – unintentionally, of course. "It's – well, it was mostly about me and Sherlock." His voice cracks at the last syllable, leaving the name broken.

"Like I said, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, John. I know everything has gone to shit and life sucks at the moment, and the last thing you probably want to do is talk about it with a stranger." She places a reassuring hand over the one he sits on the table. He flinches at the contact, but doesn't move away.

"No, it's alright. I – I just..." He takes a breath to compose himself. "You know, you don't think about the little things until after someone is gone. It's like, you feel the hurt, and you try to overcome it, but every time you feel a second's worth of relief, a minuscule detail pops up to remind you how fucked it all is." He rests his elbow on the table and buries his face in his hand. "It's always the little things that – like yeah, okay, the blog, but there's other things too. Like seeing his contact on my phone, and finding bits of his old experiments plastered to the kitchen ceiling, and seeing the bloody skull on the mantle," he starts to laugh madly, "but nothing, nothing can trump the silence at all hours that was once filled by the sound of his damned violin. That fucking violin, I took it for granted. I never thought that one day, it would be the only thing to help me fall back asleep when the nightmares start to creep in."

Seeing a man cry is always heartbreaking – especially when said man tries so very hard to hide his sadness. "John, I - I'm so sorry -"

"No, no – god, I'm sorry for acting this way." He gets up from his stool and starts to put his coat on.

"Don't be, please." He continues his attempt to leave. Eva thinks that he's probably exhausted, and decides not to protest. "Here, the least I can do is have you leave with this." She scribbles her number on his arm with her omnipresent Sharpie. "I'd be happy to meet you for drinks again."

"Good night, Eva." He walks toward the entrance and turns back for one last comment. "Thanks for commiserating with me."

"Any time, John."

After he leaves, she sits for a while to think. Naturally, nothing productive comes of it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** The preliminary quote is from the song titled "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" by The Smiths.


	7. A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square

**"But don't forget the songs that made you cry, and the songs that saved your life. Yes, you're older now, and you're a clever swine, but they were the only ones who ever stood by you."**

* * *

><p>When Eva returns home after her evening at the pub with John, she carries with her a looming buzz and an increasingly heavy weight on her shoulders. <em>What the fuck am I supposed to do with this information? He's been here two days, and his presence alone, in that time, has somehow managed to overturn all of the morals and values I've ever held dear.<em>

As she approaches the door to her flat, she can make out a soft, dainty little string of notes coming from her piano. The melody sounds broken – like the composer stumbles every few notes. She unlocks the door and enters to find her guest sitting at her baby grand piano (arguably the only "grand" thing in the whole damn building), trying out the keys tentatively and, as suspected, stumbling every few notes with inexpert hands.

Wordlessly, she approaches Sherlock from behind and takes a seat next to him on the bench. He doesn't even acknowledge her presence; rather, he carries on his tactless endeavor of fingering the keys. This is the only time she's ever seen him lacking his usual grace and fluency – _he even faced death with grace, for fuck's sake._ And for some reason, to Eva, it makes him seem so perfectly vulnerable. She watches him; she watches as his fingers attempt to dance across the keys, tripping up instead in a less-than-cadent rhythm.

She moves timidly, uncertain of her movements - of her intentions. Eva has a history of failed attempts at elegance, and the lack thereof has, unfortunately, added impetus to the draining of her self-confidence. Nevertheless, she places her fingers on the keys, the act itself imparting far more vacillation than she'd expected (and Eva _always _expects the worst). Every inch of her trembles, even going so far so as to affect her intake of breath - each successive inhale is more uneven than the previous. Sherlock looks to her, concerned, but she doesn't look to him. _Eye contact would make it so much worse._

Eva steels herself - halting the tapping of her feet and the quivering in her stomach - and closes her eyes for just a moment. Sherlock takes the hint and stops playing. He tries again to meet her gaze, but her eyes are focused on the prospective chords and finger placements dancing through her head. She takes a deep breath – _why am I so nervous? Is it out of guilt, irrational anxiety, or fear of criticism, perhaps? Or maybe, I shudder to think, out of infatuation? Of course I feel the need to impress him – but why? _

_It's not that I'm star-struck, or that I feel like he's superior. He's even more of an asshole now than he was before the fall. So why in hell do I feel so lost in his presence? It's not the bad kind of lost either. It's the kind people spend their whole lives searching for. This is ridiculous. We've hardly spent any time together, and I'm already enamored by him. It feels like being a freshman in high school - when the senior jock winks at you, and you're already deciding on what to name your children. A bit extreme as far as examples go, but it illustrates my point. So, it must be something far greater, far less superficial. Infatuation it is, then._

Eva abruptly pulls a folder from the bookcase that's less than an arm's length away from her, rifling through the folder's contents quickly. She finds the piece she's looking for - _"A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square"_ - and places it on the piano's music stand. She takes another deep breath. _I haven't performed in front of anyone since high school. Even then, I had vocal warm-ups and scales and the like to prepare me for the nerves and the excitement of performing. It's absolutely terrifying._

_S_he begins to play and sing synchronously, letting the sentimental lyrics and tuneful melody wash away her fears. The introduction is a slurred melody: played legato, and sung softly. It brilliantly introduces her rusty voice to the feel of the song, allowing for inhibitions to be freed and for worries to be cast aside, coaxing her to live in the moment. She stumbles with the keys at first, but quickly falls in step with the rhythm. For a brief moment, she forgets that Sherlock is sitting beside her. She puts every ounce of passion she can muster up into singing and playing the song. It's honest and heartfelt, and more importantly, it's her.

* * *

><p><em>"That certain night,<em>  
><em>the night we met,<em>  
><em>there was magic abroad in the air.<em>  
><em>There were angels dining at the Ritz,<em>  
><em>and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.<em>

_I may be right; I may be wrong -_  
><em>but I'm perfectly willing to swear<em>  
><em>that when you turned and smiled at me,<em>  
><em>a nightingale sang in Berkeley square.<em>

_The moon that lingered over London town -_  
><em>poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.<em>  
><em>Oh, how could he know we two were so in love?<em>  
><em>The whole damned world seemed upside down."<em>

* * *

><p><em>Oh, god, what am I doing? I'm showing off. I'm being boastful and pretentious. I'm 1-upping him.<em>

_No... no, I'm not. I'm not bragging. No – I'm leveling the playing field._

Eva watches from the corner of her eye as Sherlock's gaze alternates between the pages of the score and the movement of her hands on the keys. And then, as if Eva's life were a fucking musical, Sherlock joins in singing. He obviously has an ear for music, and can read a score – because no matter the tonal quality of his voice, he sings in near-perfect harmony. His deep and full bass is a stunning contrast to her contralto. Though this piece strays quite a bit from her normal range – relying a bit too much on falsetto – she isn't uncomfortable with the melody. The song is so smooth and symphonic that it feels like it can carry itself, without the added effort it takes to sing out of one's vocal range.

Sherlock's voice is timid and soft at first, but he too falls into step with the song eventually. Thankfully, it's not a very hard song to follow. The harmonies come with ease, and the resonance that results is sublime.

(At least, that's how it feels to Eva. Their voices separately, without accompaniment, would probably sound like shit. Hell, they probably sound like shit anyway – but they're on pitch, and she's keeping decent rhythm, and that's all that matters.)

* * *

><p><em>"The streets of town were paved with stars;<em>  
><em>it was such a romantic affair.<em>  
><em>And as we kissed and said 'good night,'<em>  
><em>a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.<em>

_When dawn came stealing up all gold and blue_  
><em>to interrupt our rendezvous,<em>  
><em>I still remember how you smiled and said,<em>  
><em>"Was that a dream or was it true?"<em>

_Our homeward step was just as light_  
><em>as the tap-dancing feet of Astaire.<em>  
><em>And, like an echo far away,<em>  
><em>a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square."<em>

* * *

><p>It wasn't perfect. It wasn't seamless or performed without faults. The separate voices both faltered and stumbled at various points, and the harmonies weren't perfect. Sherlock tripped up on the words a few times, and Eva struggled with the prospect of sight-reading and playingsinging simultaneously. It wasn't perfect, but to her, it was brilliant.

There are no words to describe the reprise - that little strand of notes from the beginning, repeated for dramatic effect before the very last line: a slow, melodic delivery of the phrase, _"a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square."_

The ending notes fade and the cadence dissolves into thin air, and Eva finds herself sitting with her fingers ghosting over the keys. She'd like to keep playing - another piece, maybe - but nothing can compare to her own arrangement of her favorite song. Every other song she can conceive of pales in comparison. Suddenly, she jerks her hands away from the piano in one unnecessarily abrupt motion._ Why, you ask? _

_Fear of criticism? Embarrassment? Shame? The uncomfortable feeling of being seen in my most vulnerable state? Take your pick._

In the midst of her introspection, she doesn't notice Sherlock turning on the bench to face her. She doesn't see it coming when strong hands firmly grip her shaking ones. The contact forces her to meet his eyes, and he sighs – his countenance a combination of '_this is awkward,' _and '_I don't know how feelings work, but I'm attempting sincerity.'_

She can't do it – she can't keep eye contact. It's strange and far too intimate for her liking.

"For god's sake -" he rolls his eyes and drops his grip on Eva's hands. She feels almost disappointed at the absence of his grip. "Stop thinking. It's annoying."

"Right." She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. _Leave it to him to fuck up a perfectly touching moment. _She gets up and fumbles through her dresser for something comfy - sweats and a thermal henley. She changes in the bathroom and makes herself a drink, mixing a cocktail of whiskey and coffee. Eva passive-aggressively storms about the flat; meanwhile, Sherlock never moves from his spot on the piano bench. His arms hang limp in his lap, and his head hangs low. Eva should be concerned, maybe, but she can't seem to care right now. Wrapping herself in the comforter from the futon, she takes herself – along with her drink, her cigarettes, and a book – out onto the balcony.

She doesn't care that it's snowing, or that she can hardly tell the difference between her hot breath hitting the cold air and the exhalation of smoke from her lungs. The moonlight serves as light for her reading; she flips to the first page of the novel and tries to occupy her mind with anything other than Sherlock, because he seems to be taking up quite a bit of space there lately.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I _may_ have been a tad overzealous in this chapter; I got a bit carried away with the music terminology and with allowing my passion for music to manifest so heavily. The terminology isn't terribly important, so if you're not familiar with it, you can just disregard it.

I did write my own arrangement of this song. I learned it in my show choir in high school. It was a really popular song around the time of WWII, and it's been redone a thousand times, but I've always thought that it's one of the most beautiful songs I've ever heard.

The preliminary quote is from the song titled "Rubber Ring" by The Smiths.


	8. Not Very Becoming Of You

**A/N: (If you're reading my work for the first time, disregard this note.) **

For those of you who have followed my story so far, thank you so much! This chapter slipped somehow and ended up not being posted - how that happened is beyond me. If you've read the next chapter already - before I caught my mistake - please read this one. It's important to the story line, and it really is worth reading. It's one of my longer chapters, but more importantly, it addresses their chemistry. There's plenty of character development in this one, plus some feels and gratuitous amounts of belligerent sexual tension.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work; I never expected it to get this much traffic! Please leave reviews to let me know how I'm doing! Both critiques and encouragement are really very much appreciated (and I'm not just saying that).

* * *

><p><strong>"I know I'm unlovable - you don't have to tell me."<strong>

* * *

><p>Sherlock steps out into the cold air and takes a cigarette from the pack that's sitting on the table. He slumps down into the chair across from Eva and lights it, casting his head back and his eyes closed, savoring the feeling as tobacco permeates his lungs.<p>

"Very smart, smoking with broken ribs."

He chuckles soundlessly. "You don't get to talk." He folds his arms across his chest slowly, careful not to accidentally hurt himself again. He's shivering. "You know, I'd be much more comfortable if you hadn't confiscated my Belstaff." He takes another heavy drag from the cigarette. "One of very few of my most prized possessions..." His tone is almost reminiscent.

"It was soaked with blood." Still, he pouts in response. "Hold on a second," she says, her eyes alight as she remembers something important. She leaves her cigarette burning in the ashtray to run inside; she returns in under a minute with Sherlock's coat in hand. "Your clothes were completely ruined; the coat was all I could salvage. I tried to fix the tears in the fabric from the pavement, and to get all of the blood stains out of it – a meager attempt at best."

A wide grin blooms on Sherlock's face; he looks like a kid on Christmas morning. He quickly puts it on and says, "Oh, that's much better." He turns his collar up against the wind and mumbles an almost inaudible "Thanks."

Eva returns to her seat opposite Sherlock, and from her corner of her eye, she watches Sherlock smirk into the collar of his coat. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing at all." He takes a pause. "You know, you're very talented."

"Well, I _am _a nurse. I find myself cleaning blood stains out of clothing on a regular basis, unfortunately."

He chuckles, heartily this time. "How can you be so obtuse?" She scrunches her face at him. _What? _"I wasn't referring to the Belstaff."

"Oh, uh -"

He interrupts. "No, don't – really, don't do that." She blinks at him, stunned and speechless. He rolls his eyes. "That preposterously asinine, foolishly humble deflection thing you throw out whenever I try to give you even the most indirect of compliments. It's not very becoming of you."

"It seems that a lot of things aren't very 'becoming of me.'"

"You're right, there_ are _a lot of things:" _Here it comes – the insult rampage._ "like how you mix liquor into your coffee, and how you stutter like a fool when you're anxious, and how the clothes you wear hang on your unshapely frame, and the hideous way you tie your hair up, and how you let people walk all over you -"

"Thanks – I get it. And I know." There's no resentment in her voice.

"You didn't let me finish. May I?" She stays silent, praying to the hypothetical man-in-the-sky that Sherlock won't expose the flaws she considers to be the sickest and most morbid, in her mind. _Please, please go easy on me. I shatter like glass when I take a blow. _He sighs. "Right. I was trying to say that you have positive aspects as well; you just _choose_ to dismiss them. You have such a way with that piano, and you have a lovely singing voice. It's not perfect, not in the slightest, but it's raw and passionate. You have such natural beauty – you've no need of makeup, with your honey-brown eyes and porcelain complexion – and your hair is stunning when you let it down. You may stutter in conversation, but I've read your writing – that tattered journal of poetry and short stories from your bookshelf. I avoided the diary, I promise. But I digress; I've read your prose and verse, and you write so eloquently. You're a poet on paper and a bumbling mess when you speak aloud. But most importantly, you have such a brilliant mind. You could be fantastic. You could do such great, important things – but you choose, instead, to waste your life away. You write words never to be seen by anything but tattered notebooks, and you make music never to be heard by anything but the walls of your flat. And, of course, you are more than capable of performing complex and very elaborate medical evaluations and treatment. Despite your strengths, you make nothing of yourself. Why is that?"

She takes a shaky breath, steeling herself. She turns into this stupid, emotional wreck in his presence; the feeling is foreign to her, to say the least. "You have a remarkably eloquent way of delivering insults – do you know that?"

"Answer the question."

"I – I'm not..." She considers her response for a moment. "I can't think of anything to say that... that doesn't sound dreadfully cliché."

"If it's true, it shouldn't matter if it sounds cliché."

"You don't get to laugh then, okay?" She buries her face in her hands, muffling her speech. "I – fuck, okay. This sounds so stupid." She takes a deep breath. "I don't matter. I know that I'm not important – that I'll never be important – and I've grown to accept that." She inhales deeply, the breath being a mixture of sniffling through her tears and the constriction in her throat _(anxiety, most likely)_. Still, somehow, her voice doesn't crack or falter on the edge of an anxiety attack. _Why am I upset? This isn't something that makes me upset. Natural disasters make me upset. Patients dying makes me upset. My own personal existentialist beliefs? No, that doesn't make me upset. That gives me comfort._ "I just – all I really want is to die knowing that I... that I was the best person I could be." For some reason or another, she feels the need to say this, regardless of its relevance in the conversation (or lack thereof, for that matter).

He glares at her. "Yes, that's very noble of you, but profundities aside, you're wrong." Red, teary eyes are revealed as Eva removes her hands from her face. _I beg your pardon?_ "No, listen carefully." He sounds angry at this point. He actively exhibits a frustrated use of gestures and speaks through gritted teeth. "You _do_ matter. You _could _be important, rather, you _choose_ to be invisible. And I don't understand -"

"Just – just stop, okay? I get what you're trying to do. In the most fucked-up, most twisted way possible, you're trying to give me a fucking pep talk –" she laughs darkly, "– you're trying to encourage me to get out and make something of myself. You want me to compose a fucking symphony or become a doctor or write a book. I get that. But you have to understand: that's all fine and dandy, but the only reason you get to think that way is because you've already made your mark. You've been important. You've been significant, and you've mattered. You were dealt that hand, with an extra helping of confidence – but I wasn't. I've fought my own demons my whole life, and I've accepted the fact that my existence is insignificant. I spent so much time caring, and eventually, I just gave up. And frankly, I have just barely enough energy left to get myself out of bed in the morning."

They hold eye contact for what seems like minutes; Eva tries to silence labored breaths, and Sherlock contemplates his rebuttal. He's not good at _feelings._He can't win. Not like this. "Why did you play that song for me? I mean, obviously, it's the most important song to you – from what I saw of your other pieces of sheet music, it was the most worn of them all – but you're not a performer. And the way you pulled your hands away so quickly when you came out of your little trance just shows how out-of-character and impulsive that performance was. From the tremor in your voice at the start, I could tell that you must've been nervous, most likely about screwing up the song or singing badly, or maybe about just performing in front of another person in general. Afterward, when I – when I took your hands in mine, I felt yours shake and I heard your ragged breathing, and saw that your pupils had dilated. The physiological manifestations could mean a lot of things, but there's only one explanation that covers all of the facts. So why, Miss Blažević, did you perform that song for me?"

"Haven't you figured out that part for yourself already?"

"I want to hear you say it."

"Say what? I – I don't know why I played it, okay? But apparently, you know my mind better than I do. So have at it – enlighten me, won't you?"

He exhales heavily, slowly, and rubs his hands over his face. He mumbles, "this is just tedious at this point." He gets up from his seat and says, a bit louder now, "I'm off to bed." He shuffles into the flat, clutching a hand to his aching ribs. Eva watches as the lights flicker off in the windows of her flat, one by one, until one small, dim light is left glowing.

_Fuck him. What is he even trying to do? If he's trying to break me down, it's working – but who would deliberately hurt the only person that they have? If he's playing mind games, I don't think I can handle that. No – no bueno. I'm too god damn gullible and naïve to fight back. He may be the Chess Master, but I'm no worthy opponent. No, I'm playing the board like a blind deer in a fucking minefield._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**The preliminary quote is from the song titled "Unlovable" by The Smiths.


	9. Conscience Does Make Cowards Of Us All

**A/N: **So it seems a_ very_ important chapter slipped somehow, and I ended up posting this chapter before its time. So if you haven't, go back and read Chapter 8, titled, "Not Very Becoming Of You." It makes much more sense of this chapter.

(Seriously, go read it. It makes this chapter sound less melodramatic.)

The italics used in this chapter indicate Sherlock's internal monologue.

Chapter content edited and mostly rewritten on 1-23-14.

* * *

><p>"<strong>To me you are a work of art, and I would give you my heart - that's if I had one."<strong>

* * *

><p>Great, radiant rays of sunlight streak in through the windows to ultimately abuse Sherlock's eyelids, demanding entrance and acknowledgment. He grumbles and groans, taking inventory of his ills: <em>rib pain – ouch, okay, don't touch it again, stitches – coming along quite nicely, headache – not good, very seriously not good, oh dear – I probably ought to eat something at some point today. <em>He opens his eyes hesitantly, squinting at the furiously blinding sun. _Why are there no curtains in this flat?_

When he finally gets himself out of bed – which, granted, takes a great deal of effort since his fall – he goes to make himself a pot of coffee, but finds a freshly-brewed pot already waiting for him. On the... _peninsula? Well, it's technically the counter, yes - but it's definitely not an island, so alright, peninsula it is. _On the peninsula sits a rather large box with a note taped to the front of it.

The note reads:

_There's a pot of coffee set to start brewing at 11, and brunch is in the microwave. I'll be back after work, around 8 or so. __As for last night, after quite a bit of thinking, I formulated an answer for you._

_Figured you might enjoy a challenge to occupy your mind._

_4-15-1 | 14-20-12 | 5-11-3 | 54-21-4 | 66-5-6 | 73-3-1 | 68-9-9 | 73-4-11 | 31-7-7._  
><em>4-9-*3~11*<em>  
><em>44-2-11 | 20-26-4.<em>  
><em>(68-13-12 | 61-3-2 | 15-18-8 | 14-2-7 | 44-18-4 | 74-1-9 | 76-5-8 | 66-1-6.)<em>

_(PS – a little birdie told me you'd make good use of this. Here's to hoping they were right.)_

_- Eva_

He opens the box to find a shit ton of packing peanuts, enveloping a leather case. He takes the case by the handle and lays it on the counter top, flipping the latches to open the top. Inside sits a violin - dusty, old, and yet somehow still glorious in its own unique way. He stares at the instrument. _How did she... what, did she just happen to have one? Still, how..._

He takes a second look at the scrambled numbers and symbols on the note. She wants him to decode it. Thankfully, Sherlock is very good with decoding messages – and this kind, in particular, he's had experience with. _Three-number sequences, separated and punctuated. It's a book code. It must be. So okay, first number of the sequence is the page number, second is the line number, third is where the word lies on the line. _

_But which book did she use as the key? _

_Come on, which one is significant? _He stands in front of her book case, frustrated by the sheer volume of books in her collection. He sets out looking for key words or significant phrases; he rules out the obvious: the dictionary, encyclopedia, and thesaurus – none of them make sense with the code. _No, it'd have to be more creative than that. So it's something with personal significance then._ He investigates the most worn books on the shelf, noting that one would have to have a thorough understanding of the language used in a book to be able to make a code from it.

He then remembers that she'd been sitting on the balcony with a book the previous night: one of the worn ones, a smaller paperback. Outside, on the grungy enclosed rectangle of concrete, Eva has _her_ spot, _her_ chair where she sits and cogitates - where she smokes, where she writes, where she enjoys her morning coffee. The cheap white plastic chair is worn down and dented on the spots where she sits most, the legs and the back of the chair bent and flexible from her constant abuse (more specifically, when she leans back on the legs and kicks her feet up onto the table). On the table sits the ever-present ashtray; there lies the corpses of cigarettes smoked down to the filter with vehemence, crushed and left in plain view as a morbid reminder, of sorts.

Next to the ashtray sits a lighter, a notebook, and_ (gotcha!) _the novel that Eva had been reading the previous night. Sherlock grabs the book from the table, flipping it over to read the cover: _The Stranger, Camus. Oh, that's clever. Very clever._

_Is it actually clever, or am I overestimating her ingenuity? _Sherlock hears an echo of Moriarty's voice, saying, "That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever!"

Sherlock remembers reading the novel once; it's one of few deserving books that he has stored away in the library of his Mind Palace. It's relatable - in a terrible, verging-on-homicidal way. It's written to illustrate the effects of apathy. The protagonist, a nihilistic man lacking any regard for those around him, shares similar views with Sherlock regarding religion, personal philosophy, and the meaning of life. _Is she trying to imply that I'm some sort of heartless nihilist - holding extreme skepticism, maintaining the rejection of all religious and moral principles? Or is she referring to the indifference and objectivity that the protagonist expresses concerning feeling and emotion? Or maybe, is this referring to her? Is she stating her views on her significance in life, illustrating what she said last night?_

_Or did she just use it because it was handy at the time?_

He checks to see if this is, indeed, the key to decode the message. Page four, line fifteen, first word: _I._

_Well, that was profound._

Page fourteen, line twenty, twelfth word:_ feel. Now we're getting somewhere._ Page five, line eleven, third word:_ so. _He decodes the full first line, noting that the symbols in between sequences are the equivalent of a space. It says: _I feel so strange and I am truly sorry._

The second line – fourth page, ninth line_...then what? What the hell is that? The third through eleventh words? _He flips to the page. _It's a line of dialogue. _The line reads:_ "Sorry, sir, but it's not my fault, you know."_

After decoding the whole message, it comes out as follows:

_I feel so strange and I am truly sorry._  
><em>"Sorry, sir, but it's not my fault, you know."<em>  
><em>Forgive me.<em>  
><em>(Take this as a symbol of my remorse.)<em>

He smirks.

He finds himself spending the afternoon playing his newly-gifted violin – he bows an old original composition and contemplates his life (or lack thereof, for that matter).

He doesn't understand the way he feels presently. Sherlock has had very few love interests in the past, if you'd even call them that - maybe two or three at the most. It shouldn't be news that he's never been in a real, committed relationship. He's only ever been intimate with a person once: years ago at Uni, his roommates took him to a pub, determined to get him to lose his virginity by the end of the night (needless to say, he did). He's an expert in many things, but romance is, frankly, not his division. He has never been very sexually inclined – of course, the human body does have certain needs, but he has dismissed its desire for intimacy with another human being, for the most part.

He's felt connections to very few people in the past. Of course, there's family, which he feels a connection to purely by means of biology. Then there's John – the one person that actually gave a damn about him as a friend. Then there's Mrs. Hudson, a sort of second mother to him; she was one of very few that he was openly warm toward. There have been acquaintances in the past, like Lestrade, his Uni mates, and Molly, but they're really just irrelevant to him now – now that he's supposed to be dead. He stores them away somewhere in the depths of his mind, because he'd never be so cruel so as to forget them altogether. There was, of course, The Woman: Irene Adler, the first person to elicit a powerful sexual response from him. His response being tacit, naturally, never having actually admitted to how she made him feel on the inside (namely, on the inside of his trousers). Relationships – both casual and romantic – are just messy. All they do is pollute the mind – Sherlock's cardinal tool – and in the case of intimacy, sex would sate his body and nothing more. The body is irrelevant. The mind is what's important; everything else is transport.

It's easy to rationalize now, in hindsight, when the situations have had time to process in his mind – but in the midst of a moment, Sherlock's mind is corrupted. He can't process his emotions, and therefore can't respond properly, with his usual well-thought-out quips and retorts. He's inebriated with these emotions – no, not just emotions, _feelings._ Emotions are thought-based, essentially; their root is in the mind and in brain chemistry. Feelings, however, can be both mental and physical; to feel is to interpret physiological responses, sensations, and the chemistry swarming the brain. For instance, feelings might include a hitch in breathing, lightheadedness, a quickened pulse, euphoria, dilated pupils, and not to mention, an unyielding erection. Feelings go beyond emotions in this respect.

And Sherlock has developed a case of _the feelings._ Slowly, it creeps in and grows in intensity. And, like a disease, it eats away at him: nagging at the edges of his thoughts, demanding to be properly dealt with.

This is different, though. The way he sees this woman – the source of both his recently ongoing frustration and his new-found perspective – is unlike anything he's ever felt before. It's not infatuation, and it's not lust. He sees her – he sees all of her; he sees everything from her freckled ivory skin and her radiant honey-brown eyes to her crooked teeth and her curveless frame. That frame – that perfectly fragile, lanky, slender frame – has appeared in his musings more than he'd care to admit. He's never understood the poetic, glorified descriptions of unconventional beauty, but now, he understands where it's all coming from: it's not superficial like typical beauty – no, it's a physical attraction that develops as a result of getting to know a person. Sherlock sees her; he sees everything from her intellect and her wit to her emotional fragility and her vulnerability. He sees her accentuated collar bones, her long, spindly legs, and the movement of her hips when she walks. He sees her hands: when they're sticking him with a needle, when they're cooking, when they're writing, when they're tending to his wounds, when they're playing the piano, when they're running through her hair, and when they're flicking ash from the end of a cigarette. He sees all of her; most importantly, he sees beyond her outer shell, and what lies beneath is the essence of what it means to be unconventionally beautiful.

He hesitates to call her a friend, because what they share is unusual and unique, to say the least. She tends to his wounds, makes him coffee, and gives him company and a place to stay. She feels eternally uncomfortable and awkward around him, and makes an effort to avoid talking to him, in fear of saying something stupid. But despite that, she's always warm. He challenges her, insults her, makes her cry, and gives nothing in return but snarky quips and bitter commentary. He does this on purpose – best not to let people get attached. Everybody's much better off loathing him. Relationships are messy.

Still, he can't help but _feel _things in her presence. It's hardly even mentionable, really – just a dull, pulsing warmth and fluttering in the pit of his stomach. He simply disregards it, just as he disregards his heightened pulse, the dryness in his throat, and the heavy weight in his chest._ Transport,_ he reminds himself. _The body is just transport._

_What is this? Why does she make me feel this way? We've only been living in close proximity to one another for a mere three days; yet already, I feel comfortable in her presence. To be fair, we've shared more than just living space. Three days feels like three weeks when one suffers such pain as I have, and we've spent these past three days together almost entirely in each other's company. Given the countless hours spent incapacitated, what else am I to do but observe? _

_When my only company is this remarkably perplexing human being, naturally, I begin to obsess. I find her intriguing in the same way that I would regard a serial murderer or a child (both of which I perceive _in a disturbingly similar fashion - I am well aware): _exceedingly complex and enigmatic, in the most fascinating, alluring kind of way. __Curious, how her demeanor hasn't changed at all in our time together. I've only witnessed her express three emotions in my presence: petrified, devastated, and sympathetic. But why does she remain so resolutely anxious? Why hasn't she relaxed around me at all?_

_So that begs the question, a question that I've never cared enough to consider before: does she think of me the same way that I think of her? When she looks at me, does she see a mystery to solve, or does she see a monster? More importantly, does she even think of me at all__?_

_Have I gone mad? I've gone mad. Completely, undoubtedly, thoroughly mad._

_"Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all."_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_The Stranger _(_L'Étranger_) by Albert Camus is one of my favorite books of all time. I talk about it in a lot of the stuff I write. Read it, seriously.

The next chapter is going to be devastating. You've been warned.

The quote at the end is a reference to Hamlet - a line from one of the eponymous character's soliloquies. The preliminary quote is from the song titled "To Me You Are A Work Of Art" by Morrissey.


	10. The Note

"**And when you're dancing, and laughing, and finally living, hear my voice in your head and think of me kindly." **

* * *

><p>After four days of harboring a dead criminal, Eva decides she ought to rethink her moral values.<p>

That is, until she comes home to an empty flat and a note.

_Miss Blažević -_

_Thank you for your kindness and hospitality; without your help, I would most certainly have perished._

_I trust you'll keep my secret. I believe – by now – that I can trust you with this information. I know it's quite a lot to ask of you, but as I've said before, lives are at stake._

_It's time for me to move on. Please don't look for me; save yourself the effort. I won't be keeping a mobile, so don't expect any contact on my part. I don't think I'll be returning, so it would probably be in your best interest to forget me altogether. So this is my goodbye, Eva._

_I am forever in your debt.  
>- SH<em>

Eva collapses onto her bed and crawls under the sheets, letting the soft fabric and the darkness underneath completely envelop her. She realizes later how histrionic and overly dramatic her response was in hindsight; she probably shouldn't have shattered into a million pieces. She probably shouldn't have cried so hard. She also probably shouldn't have spent the night on the balcony, bundled up in blankets, chasing cigarettes with whiskey, doing nothing but contemplating. Because thinking doesn't help her stay afloat – it only drowns her.

Everything of his is gone; he left no trace of himself behind. He took everything from the Belstaff to the medical supplies he'd need. He even took the violin.

Now, all that's left is a neatly-made bed, a half of a pot of coffee, and, needless to say, the metaphorical hole in Eva's chest.

_How did I not see this coming? How could I have been so blind?_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Remember how I said this one would be devastating? Just wait until the next chapter.  
>(Spoiler alert: it's an angstfest.)<p>

The preliminary quote is from the song titled "Rubber Ring" by The Smiths.


	11. Letters To A Dead Man

**A/N: **This chapter is a series of letters Eva wrote - addressed to Sherlock - in the months after he left.

* * *

><p><strong>"From the one you left behind."<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_You said I ought to write, so here. Know that I'm heeding your advice._

_I don't know why I'm addressing this to you, why I'm writing to you. Maybe it's because "Dear Diary" has become overused and predictable. Regardless, I feel that if I would want anyone to disclose my troubles to, or to philosophize with, it would most definitely be you. (I know you're not reading this, and never will, but it's the intent that counts.)_

_I'm guessing that you didn't take my feelings into account when you decided to leave without notice. I would've let you go; a tangible goodbye is all I would have needed._

_Frankly, I'm livid. I'm angry with you, and I know that if I saw you at this time, I'd most definitely hit you. But that's precisely the issue; I won't see you. I won't ever see you. I won't ever be able to hit you properly; I'll never be granted that opportunity – that liberty. And this – this is why I'm so enraged._

_All it would have taken was a proper valediction. No; no, that's not quite true. I'd have said something indefinite: something along the lines of, "Until the next time, Mr. Holmes," and I would've kissed you on the cheek and let you go._

_Also,__  
><em>_Fuck you.__  
><em>_- Eva_

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_Mother told me today that she worries about me. She thinks they'll find me dead on the pavement – having jumped from my balcony, thinking that I'd fly._

_It's tempting.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_Dr. Casey – my superior at Barts – said that he thinks I'd make a far better doctor than I do a nurse. Maybe he's right._

_I think, at this point, I'm a bit too old to be writing letters to an imaginary friend. I imagine this is all a little cliché, like I took it out of the plot of a young adult fiction novel (I may have, to be quite honest)._

_I've been thinking about you a lot lately – about where you are and where you've been. I've been wondering if you've had any luck with whatever you set out to do. I've been wondering how your wounds have healed, if you're taking proper care of yourself, and mostly, I've been wondering if you've put that violin to good use. I really hope you have._

_I'm not angry at you – not anymore, at least. I knew you had to leave eventually. I'm not sure what I'm feeling exactly: maybe a mix of bitterness and nostalgia. Somehow, I don't think that so few words can account for the way I feel._

_I really hope that you are well.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_I never told you that I met John. I also never told you that I went to your impromptu funeral, which is where I met him. We went out for drinks afterward, just as mates. I'm shocked that you never spoke of him; from what I've gathered, he was like family to you. For the record, he was a wreck._

_I made sure he left that night with my number, because I thought he made good company. I thought that maybe, if I could distract him from his misery at all, I'd feel less guilty about holding the secret from him that could make all of his pain go away._

_He called me last night, sounding rather indifferent, and asked me if I'd like to hang out. He invited me to his flat – the flat you two shared – for drinks and a movie, because he didn't feel like going to the pub. Mrs. Hudson was ever-so-kind. She didn't want to sit and watch the movie with us. I'm still not sure why that made her so emotional._

_John and I got Chinese and had a few drinks. We watched some terrible comedy film and talked for a long while before I caught a cab home. I expected some sort of romantic advance on his part, but he didn't try anything. He really just wanted to hang out as friends. The closest we got at any point in the evening (physically, that is) was when we shared a blanket on the couch during the movie. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and I leaned against him. But even that was arguable at best._

_He flashed me the occasional unconvincing smile, which only made me suspect that he felt worse than he was letting on. But don't we all do that? Don't we all hide it, to some extent? I didn't think it would have been fair to point it out. He was trying to be friends, and I wasn't going to ruin that by prying. Though truthfully, I haven't had any real friends in a very, very long time._

_I'm not sure I even know how to be a friend anymore.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_How did it feel, falling from a rooftop? I've been wondering ever since that first night, right there in the alleyway – wondering about the emotional effect that the fall must have had on you. Even if you staged the whole thing, obviously, you took physical damage; so I know that you did, in fact, fall that day. Being as close to death as you truly were – something like that must leave a scar on your psyche. I'd like to know: how did it feel, before you hit the pavement? Was there an overwhelming sense of dread or fear? Did your life flash before your eyes? Did you have a monumental revelation in midair, as gravity took its claim? Did you feel? Did you pray? Did you wish you'd grow a pair of wings before you hit the ground?_

_I still wonder if you're alright, or if you've been shot down my some top secret national security agency that found out that you were alive after all. Oddly enough, I think it'd be more justified if I were to be writing to a ghost, rather than to an estranged acquaintance, whom I haven't actually spoken with in months, and who has no idea that I'm writing to them._

_(But really, I hope you're not dead.)  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_I found a cat about a week ago, after work, in the alley next to Barts._

_I heard a loud mewling sound before entering the alleyway, but saw nothing. It was when I was only a few feet away that I saw the two huge eyes - peridot green with bright yellow specs – glaring at me through the darkness. It approached me when I made eye contact. He was a black cat, no more than a year or two old. I let the cat sniff my hand, and following that, he rubbed against my leg, purring up a storm. I tried to continue walking, because god only knows where that cat's been. He responded to my walking away with another loud meow. It sounded like a toddler wailing. I turned around and said, "Sorry little guy, but I have to go home!" He pranced toward me, meowing again. "No – no I'm sorry, I can't stay."_

_Needless to say, the fucker followed me home._

_I wanted to pick a really fitting name for the cat. It took me a few days to come up with. The cat was immediately infatuated with me: he slept with me, he woke me up in the morning by pawing at my face, and he watched TV with me. But he likes to trip me by running in between my legs and he paws at me when I don't pay attention to him. In the end, I decided to name him Pluto, after the black cat in Edgar Allan Poe's story. I thought the name was appropriate._

_I'm sure you hate cats. That seems like something that would be very characteristic of you. It's probably because they rival your intelligence and your aura of aloofness. Or maybe you just don't like them. Either way, I just can't imagine the prospect of you snuggling with a cat._

_So, there you have it. I've gotten myself a proper flatmate.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_I've given up hope of seeing you again._

_The worst part, I've learned, is seeing your face everywhere. I think I see you in public, until the stranger turns their head to dispel my hopes. I hear your voice, too, both in public and in my thoughts. I can't play that song – I hesitate to call it "our song" - without hearing your harmonies resonating underneath my voice; I think you may have left an imprint. Your voice echoes in my flat and in my mind, even to this day._

_I'm hoping that if I keep telling myself that I've given up hope of your return, I'll eventually believe it. This theory hasn't rang true as of yet._

_Here's to hoping that it may, some day.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_John and I have spent some time together in the past six months or so. He's never really talked about you; not directly, at least. If he does bring you up, it's usually an accident, and he quickly changes the subject. Lately, he's a bit less emotionally constipated. I'm so flattered that he wants to open up to me._

_He told me about his limp: a psychosomatic manifestation of the emotional stress of the war and of being a soldier. He explained that it went away when you two met, like he forgot it was ever even there. He said that when he lost you, it came back immediately. He's walked with a cane ever since. It has gotten better recently, though; he doesn't need the cane when he's sitting around at home._

_He came over tonight. We had a few drinks and sat out on the balcony, exchanging patient stories and arguing our respective Doctor Who theories. Pluto loves John; he never leaves him alone when he comes over. John supposedly hates cats, but has taken a liking to Pluto. When Pluto is sitting on his lap being pet, John likes to mumble, "I hate cats. I fucking hate cats." It's rather amusing._

_He confessed to me that he met a nice woman recently – the first one since, well, you know. He says that she's different, somehow not like the others; he pays attention to her and remembers tiny details. He joked, saying that it's easier to be a good boyfriend, now that his life has "calmed down considerably."_

_I really enjoy being his friend. Though still, every time I talk to him, I feel the ubiquitous knot of guilt in my stomach twist.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_Today, Pluto and I spent the day having a Harry Potter movie marathon. I got into a mental debate with myself, trying to figure out which house you'd be sorted into at Hogwarts. I really, honestly, can't figure that one out. Me, well, I'd definitely be a Ravenclaw. My mind is all I've got going for me. John would definitely be a Hufflepuff – hard-working, loyal, and honest._

_But you – where would you be? Would you be a Ravenclaw, for your boundless intellect? Or would you be a Slytherin, for your strong bloodline and your cunning? Or, maybe, would you be a Gryffindor, for your ambition and your courage?_

_Beats me.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_"I know it's over, still I cling - I don't know where else I can go."_

_It's so fucking stupid of me to miss you. You were here for what, three days? Why can't I fucking forget you?_

_(The reason – it's so childish. I just can't bear to admit it.)  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_You know I see myself__  
><em>_as a coward;__  
><em>_as ugly__  
><em>_and tattered__  
><em>_and imperfect._

_But I know you'd respond,__  
><em>_saying that I'm a cynic;__  
><em>_that I'm tactful__  
><em>_and scarred__  
><em>_and perceptive._

_You know I see something__  
><em>_diffident;__  
><em>_something morbid__  
><em>_and broken__  
><em>_and flawed._

_But I know you'd respond,__  
><em>_saying that I'm valiant;__  
><em>_that I'm cerebral__  
><em>_and jaded__  
><em>_and absolutely _

_human._

_- Eva_

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_I realize that this has all become a bit melodramatic. If you could see me now, you'd probably roll your eyes at me._

_I can see it in my head all too clearly.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_I'd do awful things to you – to that body of yours. Oh, I wouldn't even know where to start. I'd want to savor it all: those cheekbones, that chest, that neck, and fucking __christ,__ those fingers. I think I'd ruin you. I'd ruin you for anybody else._

_But then there are nights like these when I dream of that, when I fantasize, but I know that intimacy is a two-way street. I know that you'd have to want me back, and for once, I won't hold on hoping. I'm not that stupid, surprisingly. I know you're heartless, and I know I'll always be "Substitute Molly" to you. I'll just have to settle for my fantasies; they'll have to be enough._

_Please know that I don't think I'll ever be able to have feelings for anyone that will even begin to compare my feelings for you. No, I know you can't know that, because I can't actually tell you how I feel. How much I feel._

_I feel a lot.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_I was extremely drunk when I wrote that last one. Please disregard the things I said._

_Forgive me.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_Do you sleep at night? Do you dream? Am I ever there, in your dreams?_

_You're in mine, more often than not. It's really sad; I think I've glorified my image of you in my mind. I feel like Amelia Pond with her childhood memories of the Doctor (I know you watched Doctor Who on my Netflix account – I can see it in my viewing history – so you'd better get that reference)._

_Your voice is ever-present in my mind. I hear it in my mental arguments, often urging me to do what my heart desires, rather than what might please others._

_Do you keep me in mind? Or have you stored all knowledge of me away, to save for a rainy day?_

_P.S. It 's raining today in London.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock -<em>

_You'd think that after 10 months had passed, I'd stop thinking about you so much._

_But alas, my thoughts are like a broken fucking record – always skipping back to repeat the same line over and over again. After spending so much time contemplating and reevaluating the time we spent together, it's all become quite a blur. When it comes to details, I can hardly differentiate between what actually happened, what I hope had happened, and what I've told myself had happened. It's rather difficult to sort out the things you said to me. I still don't know whether you were complimenting me or insulting me on the last night we saw each other. I still can't tell if you actually knew why I played that song for you. I think I always knew why; I was just afraid to admit it, even to myself._

_I did it because I meant it._

_With all of my heart.  
>- Eva<em>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ***creys*

I apologize for my numerous failed attempts at humor. Sorry (not sorry).

The preliminary quote is from the song titled "Unhappy Birthday" by The Smiths.


	12. Sherlock God Damn Motherfucking Holmes

"**Can you squeeze me into an empty page of your diary and psychologically save me?"**

* * *

><p>Eva would like to say that she is actually as apathetic and as emotionless as the character she so adamantly portrays. She'd like to be numb and withdrawn and aloof. She'd like to cast out her ills and headaches into the wind, never to be heard from or seen again. She masks her worriment, her woes, her dread, her torment, and her doubt with a flimsy guise – frangible and slapdash at best. She wishes she could be cool and unfeeling. In the past, she has loathed such individuals – those callous wretches who can sport a myriad of sureness and self-confidence – but now, she's ashamed to admit, she envies them.<p>

She wishes that the prospect of cause-and-effect, in her mind, was not this twisted form of cause-and-self-doubt that she's adopted in lieu of rational reactions. She wishes she could let things go. She would like to live the life of a normal young woman; she wants to make mistakes and have one-night stands and be able to leave the house without stressing over her appearance. She'd like to have relationships with other human beings.

She'd like to live.

No matter what the catalyst, however indirect, she always feels the weight of the universe pressing into her skin. It's as if she's grieving people she hasn't lost, mourning ghosts of people she'd never known, fighting wars she'd never been a part of, braving catastrophes she'd never experienced, and weathering storms she'd never endured. It's histrionic and completely blown out of proportion. When a situation arises, it doesn't merely affect her – it always devastates her in the end. The intensity of her feelings can't be justified; they're completely irrational. But she can't help it – it's just how she feels.

But why? What has so effectively caused her to gradually fall? What compelled her to sink down to rock-bottom – to the dirt floor of this cavernous grave she has been inadvertently digging for herself for months? What was the catalyst in executing her most spectacular downfall? No – no, it wasn't him. He'd have to have taken up a colossal amount of space in her heart to leave her feeling this empty. Plus, the feeling isn't a pain in Eva's heart. There was never much there to begin with. No – it's an empty feeling in her gut and a ringing in her ears. It's a constant voice in her head – whispering doubts, chanting an anthem of isolationism, reciting the thoughts she tries so hard to suppress, and humming nonsense incessantly – when all Eva wants is a blissful, uninterrupted lull in the chaos. But silence never comes anymore; not even when she sleeps.

* * *

><p>As Eva finishes her evening shift, she can't be happier to get the <em>fuck<em> out of here. She speed-walks toward the exit, anxious to smoke, to go home, to snuggle up with her cat, and to catch up on her TV shows. The brisk autumn air has an uncharacteristically musky, woody scent to it; it smells the same here as she remembers it smelling back home. If she closes her eyes and shuts out the sounds of the city, she can almost imagine herself standing in her own backyard.

She pulls her cigarette case and her lighter from her bag. A while ago, she thought she'd been smoking too often for the wrong reasons, so she came up with this novel idea: she'd fill a metal cigarette case with, well, _cigarettes,_ each labeled with a fountain pen. That way, she had a cigarette for each "justifiable" emotion. She always made a few duplicates of her more frequent emotions as well. She takes inventory of her stock of cigarettes and her current state of mind, and decides on one of the many labeled _"ugh."_ She lights it and starts toward home. The alley she passes through after every shift no longer scares her. No – now, she smiles to herself, as she remembers the encounter with the wailing black cat that followed her home and became her companion. No, of course she doesn't imagine a blood-soaked, twisted silhouette of a man, gasping for-

She shakes the thought from her mind. _No, none of that nonsense. Not tonight. Tonight is not about that. Tonight, I don't want to be sad or reflective or poetic. Tonight, I have a date with Pluto and Netflix._ She holds these virtues dear.

* * *

><p>As Eva turns her key to unlock the entrance to her flat, she senses something is amiss the second her hand finds the door handle. She picks up on a faint, muted sound – grainy and brassy: one of her vinyl records of classical music. She recognizes the song, but cannot place the name. It's an intricately woven, complex waltz. <em>What the hell is the name? <em>She thinks back to a memory that the song may be tied to, and remembers where she first learned it: in her high school chorus, and she was one of very few that could pronounce the German words. Suddenly, the name comes to her:"Rosen aus dem Süden."_ Why the fuck am I agonizing over the name of the piece, when my record player is eerily playing in my absence? Priorities, Eva._

Pluto is a crafty bastard, but he's not _that_ dexterous. It can't be a matter of coincidence, because she hasn't played that record in years. The only other person with a key to the flat is the landlord, but he's reserved and passive: it's very unlikely that he'd invade her privacy.

_Only one way to find out._

When it comes to what she'd suspected may be the source of the music, the man who's seated on her futon when she opens the door would have been the the very last on her list of possible culprits.

_Sherlock God Damn Motherfucking Holmes._

He sits ever-so-casually next to Pluto, legs crossed, in all of his characteristically enigmatic glory. But to Eva, what's even more nauseating than the gravity of this unexpected visit is the wretched object her guest possesses in his hands: the battered leather-bound notebook that contains every one of those pathetic, embarrassing, personal, and intensely intimate letters, addressed to Sherlock, written after he vanished from her life 11 months ago.

To say that Eva is utterly mortified would be a severe understatement. She freezes in place, with her eyes blown into a wide, deadened stare, her mouth hanging agape, and her throat contracting as if she's going to cry, or vomit, or maybe both. Sherlock glances up for a split second, making eye contact with Eva, before shifting forward on the futon. He takes a long breath and says, "One second, let me finish." His eyebrows scrunch up and he reads at a faster pace as he reaches the end of the last letter, clamping the journal shut with one hand and placing it next to him on the futon. He claps his hands together, looking up to meet Eva's eyes and giving her a sincere, sympathetic smile.

She cannot move; she watches as Sherlock rises from his seat, crosses the room to lower the volume on the record player, and finally, moves to stand directly in front of her. They stand like that for an interminable pause before either can muster up something clever enough to say first.

When Sherlock takes the opportunity to initiate the conversation – of all the things to say, of a whole world of comedy and satire, of every profundity ever articulated by the human tongue – he says, "Good evening."

She blinks at him, speechless. She can't even muster up a "hi" in response. No, she just stands there like an idiot, staring at him in awe.

"Hungry?"

Words finally come to her. "I... I beg your pardon?"

"I asked if you are hungry."

"Oh.. I – uh -"

"And if not, just lie, because I went to a lot of trouble." She can smell it now – that fantastic, unmistakable aroma coming from her kitchenette. _Balkan food, you bastard!_

"Y-you left," she states plainly.

"Obviously." He turns on his heels and starts toward the source of the scent. _How can he be so nonchalant about this?_ Without turning to face her, he says, "You really must change out of those dreadful scrubs. Go on – take your time and gather your thoughts. Also, I've laid something out for you that I think you'll appreciate."

She doesn't know how to react – how to respond to such a command after such a shocking development. Wordlessly, she withdraws into her bathroom and locks the door behind her. It is now that she experiences the first moment of true mental clarity since returning home from work: she turns to find that on the back of the bathroom door hangs the most stunning evening gown that she has ever seen.

From the waist down, the gown is solid red, made of some sort of flowy material. The chest area – from the waist up – is a gorgeous, glimmering gold corset with red gemstone embellishments. The neckline is of the plummeting v-neck variety, and the short sleeves have the most perfectly-sculpted shoulders. The corset is laced up with a red ribbon and completed with a scalloped hem on both the sleeves and around the waist. On the bottom of the shelving unit next to the sink, there is a shoebox with a pair of low, gold-colored heels.

This dress is more than likely the most expensive, luxurious article of clothing she's ever had any proximity to – aside from, of course, the ones on the mannequins in boutique windows. She can see that this dress was meant to fit her in every way; it's the perfect size, of course, but the colors were chosen specifically to go with her dark, coffee-brown hair and her cadaverous ivory complexion, and the structural features of the dress were meant for her specific body type (her tall and gaunt frame, her lack of curves, and the like). Such a neckline would hardly suit women with big chests, the corset would improve her posture, and the sculpted shoulders and tight waist are intended to accentuate her angular features. And of course, nothing says sexy like a woman in a red and gold evening gown.

Eva takes her time getting ready, as Sherlock suggested. She sheds her clothing down to her underwear. Standing in front of her bathroom mirror, she takes in the sight that she is: face free of makeup, hair pulled up in a messy bun, sickly frame, and _oh god, _her eyes are red and puffy from holding back tears. She feels an overwhelming anxiety wash over her – _a panic attack, no doubt. _She tries to calm herself – to slow her breathing and her thoughts long enough to bring herself back into the present.

She remembers what Sherlock said to her about her hair on that last night they saw each other (his exact words being, "the hideous way you tie your hair up"), and frees the locks from their confines. Her hair is nothing special; it's pretty long (it comes to about halfway down her back), but other than that, it's just a naturally dark coffee-brown and auburn color, with a wavy texture to it. She runs her fingers through her roots down to the tips, and opts to leave it hanging loosely over one shoulder.

Eva isn't one to wear makeup on a regular basis; she only ever does for special occasions. Now, it's not that she doesn't _like_ wearing makeup, it's just that it would take a bit too much of her time to do it every morning before work. She's good at doing her makeup, though, and she enjoys it, even though it's not always visible underneath her glasses. Deciding to keep it simple, she traces her upper eyelid with a liquid eyeliner, adding a wing to the end for effect. She finishes her eyes with a bit of mascara before applying her favorite scarlet-red lipstick.

She of course saves the dress for last, thanking nobody in particular that she remembers how to tie a corset behind her back from her senior prom. The stupid thing fits her perfectly. _How could he possibly have known my measurements? And why he would think to get me heels – what, with the height that I already have – is beyond me. _Still, she puts them on and turns to look in the mirror.

Maybe it's irrational to both cry and laugh silently at herself, all dressed up. _This is all so silly. _She listens to his commands without question, and now she stands here, all dolled up, feeling like a fool and looking like a 5 year-old playing dress-up.

* * *

><p>It takes quite a bit of courage for her to leave the safety of her bathroom. Eventually, when she mounts enough courage, she takes a deep breath and opens the door.<p>

She didn't have the chance to actually _look _at Sherlock when she first got home. But now, she sees him – leaning against the wall opposite her, arms folded. She takes in the sight of him in dark gray trousers and a very fitting black button-up, his hair as unruly as the day they first met. He bores into her, face free of emotion, as if he'd been expecting her to come out of the bathroom at that exact moment. Eva tries to gather herself; she tries to not tremble or stumble (thank god she has an odd talent for walking in heels), but that proves to be a very difficult feat as Sherlock just eyes her from head to toe, then back up again to meet her stare. He smirks, in that way he does when he makes a deduction that makes him feel smarter than everybody else (which, granted, is usually the case). She refuses to meet his gaze, instead pressing her lips together nervously and looking off to the side to exchange anxious glances with Pluto.

Finally, he pushes off the wall and approaches her, saying, "Yes, you do clean up quite nicely." She doesn't react when he takes her hand and bows to kiss it, nor does she protest when he ushers her out onto the balcony. He's made something elegant of her weather-worn, white plastic patio furniture: he covered the table in a nice red tablecloth and put seat cushions of the chairs. The balcony itself is lit by a strand of Christmas lights – one she set up a while back but has ultimately forgot about since doing so. The only other light is a single tall candle, illuminating the places set out on the table.

He pulls out a chair for her (_seriously, what the fuck is with the chivalry shit?),_ takes the plates from the table, and gestures that he'll be right back. He comes back in moments with two plates of food, presenting one in front of Eva and taking a seat opposite her with his own plate.

The meal itself offers the most incredible smell. Of course, he'd make something he'd know she would love. _How the actual fuck did he know to make this? _Presented in front of her is one of her most favorite Croatian meals (okay, it's not exclusively Croatian, but they make it rather often there): a leg of lamb, accompanied by red potatoes and onions, all oven-roasted in a devilish combination of olive oil and rosemary. _Pečena janjetina s krumpirom. This dish was at every one of my father's family's gatherings. He taught me how to make this for Mom when I was 10, because he wouldn't be home for Mother's Day. It's one of the easiest, most impressive meals I know how to make._

From somewhere next to his chair, Sherlock pulls a bottle of wine and opens it, pouring some for each of them in the empty wine glasses set next to the glasses of ice water. Of course, as widely cultured and tasteful as he is, and being raised in such a wealthy, well-respected family, he'd know exactly what type of wine to pair with this meal: a lovely (and probably expensive) red Bordeaux. Her father would always pour her a very small glass of whatever wine they were having to drink with dinner, ever since she was a little girl (she always just wrote that off as a European thing).

She realizes then how Sherlock knew to make this: he took the recipe right out of her family recipe book. The book is an accumulation of her father's, her father's mother's, her mother's, and her mother's mother's recipes, all hand-written with marginal commentary. Eva's father always noted what kind of wine he thought was best served with his recipes. _How did he even get a hold of that?_

Sherlock folds his hands on the table and stares at her, most likely waiting for her to express her awe. He's so deliberately trying to impress her. Looking him dead in the eyes, Eva slowly, teasingly cuts a piece of the lamb and puts it in her mouth. She isn't a particularly seductive creature – at least, not usually – but tries her best to keep from giving him the satisfaction he wants. She can't help her eyelids fluttering shut at the magnificent taste; yes, it's a very simple and straightforward recipe, but the results are more than adequate. _He's probably never cooked anything in his life more complicated than a grilled cheese. _She swallows and takes her first sip of the wine, the glass lingering at her lips a bit longer than necessary so she can cherish the aroma. It's earthy and rustic, the way a classic red Bordeaux should be. She feels as if she ought to have one of those cliché long cigarette holders so commonly associated with the French. Now, it somehow seems appropriate.

She only meets his gaze for a moment before he smirks; he can read her like a book. Satisfied, he finally begins eating his own meal, and it's a long while before the silence between them is broken.

"You weren't coming back," Eva states plainly.

"I didn't want you to count on my return. I wanted you to move on – to forget me."

"I didn't."

He frowns. "Why not?"

She looks him dead in the eyes, taking a pause for breath before asking, "why did you come back?" He squints, scrunching his face up in an attempt to formulate something appropriate to say in response. "Okay, let me rephrase that – what is this all about?" She gestures to the table in front of her, referring to the evening in general.

He takes a long steady breath, pursing his lips in his typical manner. He stands from his seat with abrupt force and moves into the flat with purpose, returning seconds later with a book in his hand – no, not just any book – her journal, to be precise. He takes his previous seat again, elbows on the table, flipping through the pages of the journal and scanning the pages with inhuman speed. She has no time to react to any of what is happening before Sherlock starts reciting passages from her letters.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ***cough* I'm actually Croatian. *cough*

The preliminary quote is from the song titled "Hairdresser On Fire" by Morrissey.


	13. You Are Always Forgiven

**"The boy with the thorn in his side: behind the hatred there lies a murderous desire for love."**

* * *

><p>"<em>All it would have taken was a proper valediction. No; no, that's not quite true. I'd have said something indefinite: something along the lines of, "Until the next time, Mr. Holmes," and I would've kissed you on the cheek and let you go. Also, fuck you. Eva." <em>His voice is almost mocking, lending no emotions to the words he reads. He turns to another page.

"_I've been thinking about you a lot lately – about where you are and where you've been. I've been wondering if you've had any luck with whatever you set out to do. I've been wondering how your wounds have healed, if you're taking proper care of yourself, and mostly, I've been wondering if you've put that violin to good use. I really hope you have." _And again, he flips the page. At this point, Eva's throat is firmly lodged in her stomach, tears creeping up under her eyelids, threatening to ruin her makeup.

"_I'd like to know: how did it feel, before you hit the pavement? Was there an overwhelming sense of dread or fear? Did your life flash before your eyes? Did you have a monumental revelation in midair, as gravity took its claim? Did you feel? Did you pray? Did you wish you'd grow a pair of wings before you hit the ground?" _Eva wishes there was a better word for mortified to express her emotions at the present moment.

"_I'm hoping that if I keep telling myself that I've given up hope of your return, I'll eventually believe it. This theory hasn't rang true as of yet. Here's to hoping that it may, some day. Eva." _On the inside, she begs him to stop. She pleads that he won't speak the words that were never meant to be said out loud.

"_It's so fucking stupid of me to miss you. I was with you for what, three days? Why can't I fucking forget you? The reason – it's so childish. I just can't bear to admit it. Eva." _She can't keep the tears from welling up anymore.

_"I realize that this has all become a bit melodramatic. If you could see me now, you'd probably roll your eyes at me. I can see it in my head all too clearly. Eva."_

_No, no – please don't go any further. Please, please stop. _He goes to recite another passage, but stops himself. "No – I'll leave that one be for now." She knows _exactly_ which part he's talking about. Then, he continues. "_Please know that I don't think I'll ever be able to have feelings for anyone that will even begin to compare my feelings for you. No, I know you can't know that, because I can't actually tell you how I feel. How much I feel. I feel a lot. Eva." _His tone is still casual – noncommittal, even.

"_Do you sleep at night? Do you dream? Am I ever there, in your dreams? Do you keep me in mind? Or have you stored all knowledge of me away, to save for a rainy day? P.S. It 's raining today in London. Eva." _He smiles softly at that one.

He takes a steady breath before flipping to the last page, and with only the most somber notes in his repertoire, he reads the last few lines aloud. _"I still don't know whether you were complimenting me or insulting me on the last night we saw each other. I still can't tell if you actually knew why I played that song for you. I think I always knew why; I was just afraid to admit it, even to myself. I did it because I meant it. With all of my heart. Eva."_

With that, he closes the book in one hand with a dramatic force and places it next to his plate on the table. He folds his hands and bores into her again. _Why can't he just be direct? _"Must you..." A single tear falls, and her words catch in her throat. She quickly wipes the tear away, and finishes her sentence. "Must you humiliate me?" She bows her head and closes her eyes, trying so hard not to cry. She bites down hard on her lower lip, effectively smudging her lipstick, and buries her face in her hands.

"I want to apologize."

"You're doing kind of a shit job." Both of them laugh uncomfortably, and when Eva removes her hands from her face, Sherlock is standing in front of her holding out his hand.

She takes it and he leads her inside, and he puts some classical music on her record player. "Dance with me."

"I don't dance." He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Really, I don't."

"Tonight – with me – you do." He swiftly takes her hands and pulls her close, putting her arms over his shoulder and placing his hands on her waist. She can't hold back the look of shock on her face at this gesture. _HOLY OH MY FUCKING GOD -_

He smiles down at her; even with her height with the added heels, he still has a few inches on her. He guides her, and she slowly relaxes into it. It's hardly even dancing; swaying would be a better word for it. "I'll note that this is strange and rather uncharacteristic of me, but I suppose I owe it to you to confess my motives apropos of my return." He takes a steady breath. "I came back because I couldn't help but feel remorse in abandoning you, after all that you did for me; you never deserved to be taken advantage of."

As she internally screams, she can't help but feel impressed with herself for being so coherent. "I helped you on my own accord, Sherlock. It wasn't because you showed up on my doorstep, begging to be let in; I _chose_ to help you, and I could never blame you for that."

"But you should, you know."

"Don't put yourself down like that."

"Says the Queen of Self-Deprecation."

"...a very valid point."

"I'll be honest: I was prepared for you to hit me when you came home. Oddly enough, I still find myself wishing you had."

"Couldn't let you off that easy, now, could I?" They share a smirk, and Eva feels a blush creeping up her neck before Sherlock's expression drops suddenly into something cold and blank.

He stops moving, holding her still by the waist, and in a low, breathy tone, he asks, "Have you forgiven me?"

She sighs. "Are you kidding? Of course not. I mean, you insulted me and broke my stupid little heart, and now you're here, almost a year later, breaking into my flat, invading my privacy, making me wear this ridiculous dress, cooking me a sentimental dinner, and making me dance with you, and I -"

"Wait, you don't like the dress? I think it looks quite nice on you." He punctuates his statement by tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

She blushes. _No, stop that, you idiot. You're angry at him. Don't let him walk all over you again. _"Maybe ridiculous was the wrong word. I should've said 'ridiculously extravagant,' or something along those lines."

In a quiet tone, he mutters, "I thought you'd quite enjoy a fairy-tale evening."

"I am enjoying it, but -"

"But what? How am I to make it up to you?"

"Why the hell do you suddenly care so much about repentance?"

He huffs and says through gritted teeth, "Because I can't stand living with myself knowing that I've hurt you so deeply."

_He's talking about what I said in the letters. _She sighs. "You can't mend scars, Sherlock."

He closes his eyes and grumbles, "I know that, but there must be _something_ -"

"All it would take is for you to apologize with a little less apathy and calculation and a little more conviction. It's not about forgiving the act itself; it's about believing you when you say that you're genuinely sorry."

He looks into her eyes, and for once, she lets him. It lasts a long time, and she watches as Sherlock slowly thaws; his cold demeanor melting into a mix of realization and remorse. The intensity in his gaze never falters, which is something she's come to envy about him. He pulls away, releasing his grip on her waist, taking a few tentative steps back before turning to shut off the music. He returns immediately, to Eva's surprise, and takes both of her hands in his own.

"I need you to know, before I proceed, that I can't help that I'm so exceedingly oblivious with regard to romanticism. I say awful things – or so I've been told – and the results of what I say are often times the opposite of my intent. If I offend you, please do tell me, because I'm not intending to hurt your feelings. Have I made myself quite clear?"

"Sherlock, you don't have to -"

He hushes her, placing his index finger over her lips. "No, _please_ – this is something I need to do." The look in his eyes is pleading. She nods in response, and his finger leaves her lips. Looking deeply into her eyes, in a low, pained tone, he says, "Eva, I've been cruel and insensitive. I left for my own selfish reasons, disregarding your feelings, and I won't even attempt to justify that. I had no right to barge in and demand so much of you, after having hurt you so deeply and letting you feel that pain for so long. And you – you've suffered so much, clearly illustrated by the conviction in your letters. I've known that you've felt something for me for a long while now, but I disregarded it, not realizing the full extent of your feelings. Then, I read your letters, and even after learning how much weight each of my actions carry – how much you _really_ feel for me – I still manipulated you in a twisted attempt at redemption.

"I can't even begin to make excuses for my previous actions, and I won't waste my time trying to do so. I know that I've been a coward, an arsehole, and an unrelenting, vindictive egomaniac. It's likely that I won't ever be able to look upon this chapter of my life without feeling such excruciating guilt for all of the torment and suffering that I've caused for everyone that I've ever cared about. All I can do is hope that, one day, you'll no longer bear any malice toward me, and maybe, you'll be able to look back and think of me fondly. Forgive me, love."

He kisses her on the cheek, takes his coat from the back of the door, and puts it on over his suit. He salutes Pluto, who's glaring at him from the futon. He turns toward the door, but before he has the chance to say, 'good night, Eva,' she grabs him by the forearm and says, in a choked, pleading tone, "Don't – please." He halts, and is suddenly very close – he holds her face in his hands, analyzing her expression. She tentatively places her hands over his and whispers, "You are forgiven. I may be livid, or upset, or hurt – and with good reason, mind you. But no matter how battered or bruised I may be, by the time I crawl in bed at night, I will always be free of resentment and bitterness. God, that that must make me sound so foolish and naïve – which, granted, is pretty true. Sherlock, please know that, in my eyes, you are completely forgiven. You are always forgiven."

She isn't expecting to be backed into the wall, with Sherlock's arms braced against the wall on either side of her head. He's so close to her that she can hear his breathing and she can feel the intensity in his gaze. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes away Eva's smudged red lipstick, not showing even the smallest sign of nerves at the intimate gesture, and Eva just lets him. After tossing the handkerchief to the side, he runs one hand down her side, from her rib cage to her waist, and places two fingers over her wrist. Then, slowly, he takes her index and middle finger and guides them to press into the pulse point on his throat. She realizes what he's trying to do: he's showing her the effect she has on him.

She has a less-than-adequate amount of time to process all of this before Sherlock is pressing his lips to hers in a soft, tentative kiss.

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><p><strong>AN: **I know I'm terrible for leaving it hanging there. But I will surely make up for it in the next chapter with sexytimes and a satisfying ending; I promise.

(Please don't hate me.)

The preliminary quote is from the song titled "The Boy With The Thorn In His Side" by The Smiths.


	14. Sherlock Holmes Is Dead

**A/N: **I spent a lot of time on this chapter, so I really hope you enjoy it. (I know I did.)

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><p><strong>"This night has opened my eyes and I will never sleep again."<strong>

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><p><em>I'm dreaming. I must be dreaming – because in this world, Sherlock Holmes doesn't do "feelings." He doesn't satiate unrequited love. He isn't a sexual being. He'd never apologize, let alone admit to being wrong. He wouldn't express emotion so plainly on his face. He'd never ask for forgiveness or make an attempt at redemption. He doesn't care what people think of him. And he would most definitely never react in such a way to a girl as fucked as me.<em>

_No, if anything, Sherlock would have good taste. He'd like the classy, brilliant, interesting, and devilishly sexy ones. I'm not that at all. Yes, granted, I'm pretty intelligent, to his standards. But other than that, what do I have that he could possibly desire? I have about as much sex appeal as a fucking hamster. I look like a corpse – lanky and inelegant. I don't dress at all provocatively, and my sytle is far from sexy. When I talk, I'm a bumbling idiot, and I overthink and overreact in most situations._

_So why exactly are his lips pressed to mine as he caresses my cheek? Why has he suddenly shed his emotionless façade in exchange for something so much more raw and passionate?_

"You're thinking." Sherlock has pulled away ever-so-slightly, leaving almost no space between their lips.

"Is it annoying you?"

He frowns. "No, it's... disconcerting."

She gives a noncommittal hum and decides to be bold. She pulls him in by the back of the neck, to kiss and nip at his collarbone. From under him, she can feel his whole body stiffen the second her lips meet his skin. He braces one arm on the wall beside Eva's head, and places his free hand on her hip. Eva feels a surge of encouragement from the small, almost undetectable hitch in Sherlock's breathing as her lips works their way up Sherlock's neck, nibbling and breathing hot air on that incredibly sensitive little spot right under his ear. He gulps, and before she has a chance to do some real damage to his composure, he takes a handful of her hair and pulls her back up to him. He looks into her eyes, panting, for just a moment before removing her glasses and gently placing them on the counter. Almost immediately, he seizes her mouth in a desperate, bruising kiss.

With one hand tangled in her hair and the other holding onto her hip tightly, Sherlock pulls Eva against him, smashing their hips together. The tiny gasp that Eva emits at the feeling of Sherlock's (_seriously impressive_) hard-on allows him to force his tongue past her lips to explore the depths of her mouth. She doesn't know where to put her hands – after a lively mental debate, she settles one on his chest and the other tangled in his hair. She pulls his hips to hers again, and a throaty, hoarse moan comes rumbling from Sherlock's chest – and _boy, is that erotic_. He bites her lower lip, with the most awful/fantastic smirk splayed on his face.

They share a split-second glance before both directing their attention to the path Sherlock's hands are taking up her side to cup her breasts. He's making a conscious effort to steady his breathing, but instead, it comes out as shaky, labored pants. He palms her breasts through the fabric of her dress and kisses her again, this time, with extra passion added to the mix. Eva stifles a whimper as one of Sherlock's hands slowly moves under her neckline, and with just enough room for his hand in the dress, he does something dexterous and unidentifiable (still fantastic, regardless) to her nipple that has her melting into the wall. He sucks along her collarbone and up her neck to whisper in her ear.

"You are just so delightfully devastating – so breathtakingly beautiful."

As much as she enjoys his mouth on her neck (which, _really, _she does), Eva takes Sherlock's face in her hands and pulls him back up to face her, so she can look into his eyes – so she can discern whether or not he's lying. Because that's what people _do._

"No, don't do that. Really – really, please don't." He sighs at her confused expression. "You don't have to believe it, but believe that I'm telling the truth. You may not see it – you may not ever see it – but I do."

"You're wrong, you know."

"I'm not the one with myopia," he says, pointing to her glasses. She closes her eyes and turns her head away. Sherlock takes her face in his hands and says, "Look at me, Eva. You really ought to take heed when I confess to you what I see, particularly when I'm trying to be warm. You should know, by now, that I'm not one to impart false kindness."

She considers this a moment: _but doesn't he? He feigns benevolence when it's convenient for him. He could be doing it right now. But what would be his motive behind being so condescending? More importantly, why does he feel the need to tell me such things?_

He watches her face contort into a mix of emotions as she stumbles through her thoughts and chuckles to himself. With a handful of her hair, he kisses her lightly on the temple and mumbles, "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."

She stops abruptly, mid-thought. "You did_ not_ just quote Shakespeare."

He scoops her up into his arms and says, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Eva cannot quiet her awkward giggling, especially when Sherlock emits a low chuckle from his chest. He carries her over to sit on the edge of her bed, the atmosphere shifting all-too-quickly into something much more tense.

Eva sits on the edge of the bed as Sherlock kneels behind her, and she wonders if, maybe, he's afraid of screwing up. That might explain why they sit still in that position for a while without actually doing anything, aside from Sherlock running his hands up and down Eva's arms and shoulders. She turns her head to him and says, "Sherlock -" she decides against saying 'it's okay,' and opts instead for, "don't be a tease."

Sherlock smirks as he brushes Eva's hair over one shoulder and kisses the newly exposed skin. Simultaneously, he begins untying the laces of the corset, _really fucking slowly_. When Eva feels that the corset is loose enough for movement, she stands up, and with her back to Sherlock, she wiggles out of the dress and drapes it over the futon. Sherlock takes Eva's seat at the edge of the bed, watching intently – with a shit-eating grin on his face – as she takes off the gold heels, leaving her in nothing but her knickers. She feels so exposed; she's never been comfortable with the prospect of being naked in front of another person. But she figures that now might be a good time to change that.

She takes a deep breath and turns around, realizing that the most clothing Sherlock has shed has been his coat and loafers. And _wow, okay_, that makes her feel embarrassed. _Don't just stand there like an idiot! _She walks up to Sherlock and straddles his lap, biting back a hum when she's reminded of his arousal. She hasn't been paying attention to his facial expressions since dropping the gown, but now that they're situtated so close, she can see that look in his eyes – a mix of frantic nerves, amazement, and the smallest lack of control that seeps through the cracks in the color of his irises. He very hesitantly places one hand over her rib cage and pants heavily as he observes every inch of her exposed skin. She feels the intensity of his gaze, like fire dancing across her skin, and musters up just enough courage to press her whole body against his, taking a handful of that gorgeous head of curls and pulling him into a heavy, passionate kiss.

Sherlock's hands are suddenly everywhere: drawing paths of goosebumps down her back, lightly brushing the layer of skin over her hip bones, teasing the line of skin above her knickers, and finally, coming up to manhandle her breasts. His movements start out a bit desperate, but they soon evolve into something deliberately slow and erotic. What was initially a erratic rhythm of crashing lips, shaky hands, and heavy panting is now sensually executed with masterful hands. _Did he just need some time to warm up, or is he really just that fast of a learner? _She doesn't get a chance to think about that any further as Sherlock moves them both in one swift motion, so that Eva is positioned on her back in the middle of the bed and he's looming over her.

He meets her eyes again, as if waiting for her to object. Of course, she says nothing, granting Sherlock permission to bite and suck a trail down her neck and chest until he meets the swell of her (inadequate) breasts. He plants light kisses all over the sensitive skin before cupping both breasts in his hands, roughly sucking one nipple into his mouth and prodding at the other with dexterous fingers. _I've never liked that before now. Oh god, that tongue... _She is vaguely aware of the whimper that escapes her lips and of her hands buried in his hair. She does, however, feel the corners of his lips turn up against her skin. He switches to the other side, sucking and licking while still tending to the other with his fingers. She whimpers again and he laughs, moving his one hand away from her breast and trailing it down her stomach, teasing the skin underneath the waistband of her knickers.

She grabs his wrist and grumbles, "I'm not losing any more clothing until you do."

He smirks and puts his hands up defensively."Be my guest," he says, his voice thick with saliva and desire. _Why is that even sexy?_

After untucking his shirt, her shaky hands begin fumbling with the top button. She's attempting a slow, sensual pace, but knows she's really failing miserably at making this look sexy. Each button reveals more of his chest, which, before now, she hadn't been turned on by. That night in the alley, she had to undo his shirt to examine his chest. Maybe it's because it's no longer on a clinical level, looking at contusions and examining bone fractures – maybe it's that now, all she can feel is the warmth of his skin and the beating heart that lies beneath it.

As she finishes undoing the last button, she pushes the fabric down his shoulders, and he sits up to toss it off to the side. Eva is nowhere near strong enough to flip them around like Sherlock can, but still, she somehow maneuvers him so that he's on his back and she's on her knees, straddling him, with just enough distance between their hips to deprive them of contact. He grips her hips as she bites and sucks up and down his neck and chest, running her hands along his soft abs and chest and shoulders. She finds a particular spot on his neck that makes him moan against his will.

He brushes her hair behind one ear and whispers in the most shaky, breathless, raw tone she's ever heard, "Eva, about those -" he gulps, "about those _awful_ things... that you said – that you wanted to do t-to me..." She has Sherlock Holmes writhing underneath of her, and boy, is _that _a heady feeling. "T-_tell me_."

She smirks and gives a soundless laugh, returning to lavish that spot on his neck right next to his ear. "Hmm," she considers for a moment. She thinks about what she knows about dirty talk – which is truthfully very little – and wonders which key phrases she could use to really fuck with his head. "I've spent quite a lot of time fantasizing about this – about what I'd do to you if given the opportunity." _Now is not the time for big words or stellar grammar, Eva. Use imagery – be a storyteller._

"I've dreamt of this - of what it'd be like to touch you, to have you. I've spent entire nights alone in my bed, fantasizing about having you here, in this very spot, letting you have your way with me. I've imagined you taking control - leaving marks on my neck and bruises on my hips. Mostly, I've imagined your hypnotic voice whispering sweet nothings into my ear as you fuck me into oblivion." Fire ignites in his eyes, and as Eva traces her hand along his length over the fabric of his trousers, he growls. "I'd do anything you wanted me to do, anything to sate your desires – whether that be taking you fully into my mouth or riding your cock until you're howling my name."

He takes her by the wrists and flips her onto her back, an animalistic glint in his eyes. He pins her wrists to the duvet on either side of her head, with a most devilish look on his face. His nostrils flare and he smirks, chuckling darkly. "You say such dangerous things, you realize." His voice is the deepest she's ever heard it – a half of an octave lower than usual – with a sadistic element added to it.

"You think you could do better?"

"Are you asking me, or are you telling me?"

She mutters, breathlessly, "I'm hoping."

He laughs again, understanding exactly what she wants from him. He maintains both the depth of his pitch and his grip on her wrists, and while leaning in to suck along her jawline, he says, "I've found myself thinking about you too, you know – about having you, to be precise. I've imagined learning how much almost-touching you'd be able to take before devolving into a wanton, breathless, pleading wreck, every inch of your skin ablaze with lust beneath my touch." He punctuates this by lowering his hips to hers ever-so-gently, only making the slightest bit of contact before moving away. "I'd be shamelessly poetic about it all – you know, entangling your body's carnal desires with your heart's undeniable passion. The line between heartfelt intentions and filthy indulgence would become almost indistinguishable in the midst of it all." He begins biting her neck and collarbone, making her whimper in his grip. _Did he rehearse this?_ "I'd tease you relentlessly until my name echoing from your lips became a prayer." He kisses down her body, removing his grip on her wrists in favor of slinking down the bed. He touches her stomach, her ribcage, her hips, her thighs, and everywhere but the one place she wants him to. "Then – and only then – would I give you what you want." She shudders at this: at his voice, yes, but mostly, at his suggestion: _until my name echoing from your lips became a prayer. Then – and only then – would I give you what you want._

"_Christ,_" she groans.

"Sherlock is fine." He laughs to himself, taking pleasure in seeing Eva in her current debauched state.

"Sh-Sherlock... _fuck._ Okay, _please -_"

His expression morphs into a Cheshire grin as he pulls her knickers down in one swift motion. "Look at you: so turned on by me, and I haven't even touched you." He lays alongside her, his hand trailing across her stomach to lightly tease her sex. With his touch lingering at her entrance, he says, "I want to watch you come undone." He presses one finger into her slowly, adding a devilish little twist at the end, causing Eva to inhale sharply and hold her breath. Sherlock kisses her hard as he works his finger, hardly waiting before pressing a second finger into her. He's so affected by the moan that tumbles from her lips; he regards her form beneath him with wonder and awe. His tongue breaches her lips, demanding entrance, and after a second of hesitation, she grants him access. She lets him seize her mouth as he masterfully works those two fingers into her, curving at the end to brush against that one spot that can make her fall to bits. His lips leave hers as he pulls back to scan her face, to watch her expression as he presses a third finger into her. She can't help being so expressive – her chest heaving, mouth parted slightly, one hand gripping onto Sherlock's shoulder and the other tangled in the sheets. And_ oh god_, he puts his thumb to use; _A little to the left – FUCK. _She tenses, feeling an orgasm beginning to manifest low in her abdomen.

Sherlock pulls his fingers away slowly, grinning at the priceless expression of loss on Eva's face. He sucks the traces of her from his fingers and growls into her ear, "When you come, I want it to be with me inside of you, fucking you senseless."

She needs no more prompting to begin undoing his belt and unzipping his trousers. Sherlock stands to toe off his socks and remove his trousers and his pants, and before he can take his previous position, Eva takes him by the forearms and guides him to sit on the bed with his back against the wall. She straddles his lap and kisses him softly, passionately, and suddenly, it all feels a bit silly to her.

_I'm letting him use me. I'll always just give him whatever it is that he wants, and he'll leave. If he leaves again, I don't know if I'll be able to live with myself._

As if he could hear her doubts, Sherlock says, "Eva, I don't..." He frowns. "I don't know if I'll ever be... I can't change who I am."

"I'm not asking you to."

He sighs, caressing her cheek with one hand. "I don't _feel_ things the same way that others do. I don't have an active libido on a regular, day-to-day basis. And really, expressing myself is not in my nature. I haven't been... _sexually active_ in over a decade, and I'd like you to know that I'm breaking that interval of celibacy because I care for you, and because there's no one I'd rather share my intimacy with."

"It's been about a decade for me too, almost. But why, so suddenly, has the Grinch's heart grown three sizes? Why are you suddenly so poetic and romantic and – dare I say – caring?"

He sighs and gives her a sincerely apologetic look. "Eva, it wasn't sudden. I've felt a stirring in my mind since waking up in your flat after the night in the alley. And I must be truthful – I was planning on returning roughly three weeks ago. I came to your flat upon returning to London, just to see that you were alright. You'd gone to work for the day, so I picked the lock and went inside. I just wanted some clue that would tell me that you were doing well. But then, I found your letters. I spent hours reading them – speculating and musing over them – so I'd read all but the last one before tonight. I've had time to analyze my feelings for you – to decipher my thoughts and make up my mind. And I decided that I was wrong. Sentiment is not a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"So, what exactly does that mean?"

"Must I spell it out for you?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

He grins and bites his lip, looking down to avoid her eyes. "Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt my love."

Eva smiles at the corny reference, but regardless, she tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him into a deep, heavy, profound kiss. One of her hands trails down his abdomen and she tentatively takes him in hand, lightly at first, then stroking it slowly. Eva thumbs the slit, spreading a bead of precome around the head and slowly moving up and down his length. Meanwhile, all of the breath escapes Sherlock's lungs and his head falls back in ecstasy. He pants heavier now, his hands gripping her hips with a painful force. Eva's lips crash into his, in a less-than-elegant manner. From there, it's a blur of twisted tongues and clashing teeth, demanding and heated. The kiss is broken for a moment so both parties can take a breath, but all hope of breathing ceases when Eva aligns his cock at her entrance. She looks into his eyes for a moment, in search of any sort of hesitation or objection. In response, he cups the side of her face and strokes her cheek with his thumb, nodding to verify that this is, indeed, what he wants.

She lowers herself onto him, sinking down his length slowly, giving her insides a chance to adjust. It's as if all of the oxygen escapes the room, and both of their facial expressions are free of their usual masks. When their hips meet, Eva pauses for just a moment before deciding to move – lifting herself off until only an inch of him remains inside of her before coming back down, hard. Sherlock moans, loudly this time, and he sits up a bit to take her face in his hands and kiss her tenderly. "You are just _extraordinary_. Feels so good, so _right_." He slumps back against the wall, his hands trailing down her back before gripping her hips again firmly. He begins moving up to meet her thrusts, guiding her hips with his hands. Without displacing himself, Sherlock flips them so that Eva's laying in the middle of the bed and he's on top of her.

Eva has given up hope of keeping back the moans and obscenities that are spilling from her mouth. "Fuck, Sh-Sherlock, _ohmygod._" His body is brilliant, and as Eva starts to feel that familiar sensation conjuring up in her abdomen, she claws at Sherlock's back and moans, "I'm close... fucking h_-harder._"

Sherlock drives into her hard and fast, taking pleasure in the feeling of Eva's nails digging into his back and her ankles clasped around his waist, pulling him closer with each thrust. He changes the angle of his hips, hitting Eva in just the right spot. His head falls to rest on her collarbone, and he growls some more heartwarming things to counteract Eva's devastating obscenities. She tenses around him as she cries out his name, blinded by the electricity surging behind her eyelids. With her walls tightening and pulsing around him, Sherlock's rhythm grows erratic and he tumbles after her, moaning, "Ohmy- _f-fuck, Eva._" He comes inside of her, filling her with a mix of warmth and fullness, giving a final few hard, shallow thrusts before nearly collapsing on top of her. As they both pant, Sherlock pulls her into the most passionate kiss he can muster up enough energy for before pulling out and collapsing onto the bed beside her.

Eva turns onto her side, tangling their legs together and laying her hand over his heart. He slips his arm under her head and wraps it around her shoulders, landing his hand on the small of her back. He places his other hand on the one she has over his heart. They lay that way for a long, long while.

Eva is the one to break the silence, turning over to fetch something from the floor. She returns with her cigarettes and the ashtray she keeps in the bedside table. She places a cigarette between Sherlock's lips and holds the flame up for him to light it before lighting her own.

"I forgot about the satisfaction in the requisite post-coital cigarette."

Pluto joins them on the bed, purring and taking his spot at the foot of the bed. They lie there smoking, with their legs tangled together, for a short while. The atmosphere is silent aside from the sound of their breathing.

Breathing. It's pretty damn ironic – the symmetry of it all. Since that night in the alleyway outside of Barts, Eva's psychological association with breathing has evolved from emergency instinct, to fear, to bitterness, to longing, to heartache, to sexual desire, and finally, to closeness.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What are we doing?"

"Well I don't know about you, but I'm basking in the most glorious state of euphoria at the moment."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then, by all means, do enlighten me."

"I mean -" she huffs. "Are you... are you planning on leaving again?"

His voice takes on a somber tone. "Well, that really depends. The answer to which being contingent upon one condition, which is entirely your call. It's up to you to decide whether or not..." His voice cracks. "Whether or not you'll have me."

_Are you kidding me? _"...You know, as brilliant as you are, you can be remarkably obtuse at times."

"Believe it or not, that's not the first time someone has pointed that out to me."

"You should understand, by now, the severity of my naïvety. You know I'm an idiot." He frowns. "I... I could never turn you away."

Sherlock turns to her and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, caressing her cheekbone with his thumb. He closes his eyes and lightly presses his lips to her forehead, holding the gesture for several seconds before pulling back just slightly to look into her eyes once more.

In that moment, Eva understands. It's inexplicable; she knows nothing in particular – just the gravity of his touch and the warmth in his eyes.

"I fear that, in staying, I'll do nothing but cause pain. I don't want to hurt you – worse, I could destroy you. I meant what I said; I can't change who I am. Most days, I'm cold and insensitive. I'm very much like a child sometimes – especially when I'm bored. I have a tendency to be ignorant and inconsiderate, and I've been told I'm incredibly difficult to be around. I've caused pain for everyone I've ever cared about, in a very deep sense. Moreover, I've never done _this_ before. I've never _been _with anyone. I've never given myself to anybody fully. And quite frankly, I'm terrified." After a long, heavy pause, he exhales deeply and says, "good god, I need a drink."

He pulls on his pants and shuffles over to the kitchenette, pulling a glass from one cabinet and a new bottle of whiskey from another, as if he'd done it a thousand times. "Make that two," he turns and raises an eyebrow at her, "if you'd be so kind." She puts her bra and her knickers back on and crosses the room to join Sherlock. She walks up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her whole body into his back. He smirks but doesn't turn to face her; he just finishes pouring their drinks. Eva hops up to sit on the counter and to reclaim her glasses as Sherlock hands her her drink. He leans against the counter in front of her, between her legs, one hand on her waist, and she lazily wraps her arms around his shoulders. "I won't allow fear to be the thing that lets you slip between my fingers." She kisses him lightly on the forehead. "I'm willing to try if you are."

He pauses to think, for an excruciatingly long moment. He tastes a sip from his glass before saying, thoughtfully, "I was afraid." She looks confused, so he backs up a few measures in his train of thought. "In response to the question in your letter: when I... when I jumped from the roof of Barts, I was afraid. I wasn't afraid of dying, really; I knew that I wasn't going to. I'm not sure what I was afraid of; fear isn't an emotion I experience very often. I was just genuinely petrified, for no rational reason. It was as if I'd suddenly regretted everything I'd ever been – everything I'd ever done. I wished I could start over." He takes a long sip from his glass. "I guess you could say I was afraid of what would come afterward. Maybe I was afraid of dying in a metaphorical sense. Even though I didn't truly die that day, my life as I knew it still ended. Sherlock Holmes is dead."

Eva smirks and takes a slow sip from her glass. With the glass still held to her lips, she says, "Well that's okay. He was kind of a dick anyway."

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><p><strong>AN: **I still laugh every time I reread that last line.

I really hope you all enjoyed this fic, and I hope the ending was satisfying; I'm praying that the concluding heap of smut came out as well as I intended. I'm working on the second in the series now, and I think it has a lot of promise. Without giving it all away, I can say that it's not going to be the usual hackneyed sequel - laden with an overbearing amount of domestic fluff. There will be more plot and smut. Honestly, I'm stoked.

Pardon my excessive corny Shakespeare references.

**Please** let me know what you think! I'm always open to constructive criticism (and I'm not just saying that).

The preliminary quote is from the song titled "This Night Has Opened My Eyes" by The Smiths.


End file.

Sherlock, Hurt-Comfort, Romance