The Magpie & The Raven

t h r e e

It's only then that, as pathetic as it may seem, she lets her legs bow and her weight slide down into a sitting position against the walls. still in the corner. Dreading repacking her case but treasuring her finally moments in this room with a melancholic sort of fondness.

It all feels a little bit ruined now, after all.

Then, quite enough that it startles Calliope into sitting up just a little bit straighter, Sherlock crosses the room and crouches in front of her. He doesn't acknowledge her starting beyond staying still for a few seconds, shoulders relaxed and head bowed to her level, making steady eye contact. he holds this position, subtly using his body language to show her he isn't a threat until he can feel her relax a little, hear her release the breath she was holding.

Then, just as slow and steady as before, he advances. Just enough to press the handkerchief he was holding into her shaking hand. She almost recoils as his hands, warm and calloused, wrap around one of hers, pressing the handkerchief into her palm. But they're gone as quick as they were there and Calliope is left with nothing but the clean-pressed handkerchief and the ghostly warmth around her hand where Sherlock had held it.

It's what Sherlock does next that really confuses Calliope. Sherlock Holmes, famous detective and speculated sociopath starts to repack her case for her.

"Sir, you don't have to... do that..." she trails off as Sherlock merely shakes his head at her. The man could think of no better response, after all he was doing it as much for himself as he was for her. Something about her chaotic nature made him anxious, both in his organised and calculated spirit and anxious for her. Even a little bit anxious about her ability to take care of herself.

Calliope moves to stand then, brushing furiously at her eyes with her hand, not wanting to dirty Sherlock's handkerchief with her tears, and supporting herself with still shaking hands pressed into the wall of chipped paint behind her. The guilt of having Sherlock sort not only her but her case out too becoming too much.

But, as Sherlock's gaze shoots over to her, hard and unreadable, she stills. Then, still under his watchful gaze, sinks back to a sitting position. He seems satisfied by this as he nods gently at her and returns to gently folding her smocks and settling them atop on another in the corner of her case. it's almost embarrassing to have him go through and organise her clothes, down to her socks and undergarments for her, but he doesn't seem embarrassed in the slightest and that's strangely reassuring to Calliope. Sherlock is a new but steadying force all of a sudden.

Once he's done, Sherlock turns his gaze upon the old clock on the dresser by the window, trusting that Calliope is bright enough, or at the very least attentive enough, to follow his gaze. She does.

Upon catching sight of the time calliope is surging to her feet with a new found energy, a sense of urgency driven by the fear of her Uncle's reaction should she be late off the train in London.

Sherlock clasps her case shut as she rises, swaying on her feet momentarily, lightheaded after the morning's incidents. Then, she dashes across the room in such a way most would deem inappropriate in company, especially male company.

Skidding to a stop in front of Sherlock she becomes very aware of her nightgown, suddenly feeling the need to cover her chest as she stands in front of him. the last barrier between her and her case, the life that awaits her in London.

He doesn't move but rather holds out a dress, it's plain burnt orange linen and soft between her fingers when she takes it. Knowing this dress is everything her Uncle hates, but not wanting to give Sherlock more of an opportunity to analyse her, she takes the dress and accompanying undershirt he holds out to her. With a soft thank you she ducks into her closet to change, swapping her clothes over at an almost inhuman speed she's ready in less than five minutes. She leaves the nightgown in a heap on the floor, her Uncle certainly wouldn't let her wear it anyway, even if she did love it dearly.

Then, with Sherlock's handkerchief still clutched tightly in her hand, sh rushes out into her room again.

Sherlock's nowhere to be seen.

Her suitcase, coat, and boots are sat neatly at the end of her bed, but the man himself is gone.

regrettably, she doesn't have time to dwell on it as she's tripping over herself pulling her outwear on and rushing out the hall, down the lane and into town before she can so much as consider what she would even have said to him.

It's not until she's on the train, settled in a compartment on her own with her belongings safely stowed, that the guilt of it truly settles in.

She never even got to say goodbye to Mrs. Lane, only hoping that the basket of fresh produce she'd left out in the kitchen would suffice. She didn't get to thank Sherlock, not really, and couldn't even return his handkerchief.

And. then, once the guilt was deep in her bones, the anxiety set in. Her Uncle would be waiting for her at the station, their carriage just outside, and she was hardly dressed to see him again. Much less prepared. She didn't want to endure his harsh words or sharp gaze. She didn't want to go back to his cold, shiny house. And she certainly didn't want to be prodded or poked at by high society again.