Brilliant {A BBC Sherlock Fanfic}

Chapter Fifteen: History Has a Way

Sherlock smiled down at her, "I like those."

"Hm?" Amelia glanced down at her feet, "Oh. Thanks."

"Are you feeling well?" Sherlock asked, noting the red blood blush creeping its way up her cheeks. Curiously, he placed his hand on her shoulder. The red deepened.

"Yeah, yeah." Amelia said, trying to hide her emotional turmoil. "Just happy that this is almost over, you know?"

"And here I was believing you were enjoying my company."

"No, I really do." Amelia sighed, "You were joking."

"Indeed. Wonder why you felt the need to reassure me that you enjoyed my friendship."

"Oh, so we're friends now?"

Sherlock froze, "I didn't-" He ruffled his hair as Amelia burst into laughter. "It was a joke."

"You deserved some payback."

"There is no need to be so cruel."

"Not like you care." Amelia said, sliding into the cab. She leaned over the front seat, "Baker Street, if you will."

Sherlock took a seat beside her. He clasped his hands in his lap, idly looking out the window. This continued on for a few minutes, Amelia, Sherlock, and the cabbie sitting in a tension-filled silence. At last, Sherlock spoke. "Why do you Watsons find it so difficult to believe that I, unfortunately like every other person on this planet, have feelings?" He stopped shortly, looking into her silvery eyes. "For example: when I'm not quite sure what I feel when I look at you."

Amelia knew he wanted to say more but chose not to, most likely because the company they had. "Sherlock, you're a fascinating person. You are as difficult to understand to me, as quantum physics is to John." She handed the fare to the cabbie as the pulled up in front of Speedy's café. Amelia got out of the cab, waiting for Sherlock.

Sherlock joined her, wondering why Amelia hadn't yet gone inside. "Amelia?"

Amelia ran a hand through her hair, turning away from him. She blew out a breath, "I'm going to Hell, anyway. Might as well." She said to herself.

"Might as well what?" Sherlock asked, but before he could do anything, Amelia spun around, and pressed her hand to his jaw, pulling his head to meet hers.

Their lips crashed violently; teeth hitting teeth, and lips caught in each other. The resultant rush was incredible, and Amelia was suddenly aware of the fact that Sherlock was not moving under her touch, as still and as lifeless as a marble statue.

Amelia broke away, using every inch of strength she could summon. It was like her feet were glued to the pavement, and she had to force them to take a step away from Sherlock. She needed to-had to stop before she continued what she'd started. She had spent years of careful control over her own emotions, ensuring that she didn't let them get the better of her once again; the last time she'd done so, she'd ended up losing the one person that meant everything to her.

Now here she was, all these years later, caught doing it all over again.

People said history had a way of repeating itself, and Amelia found herself agreeing. She was stuck in a cycle of choosing the person who could be the very destruction of her; but she wouldn't let anything happen to Sherlock. Amelia had barely survived the last time she'd lost someone she'd loved.

Moriarty was never going to lay a finger on Sherlock-not as long as Amelia had any say in it.

Sherlock's breath was uneven as Amelia turned away, ragged and caught in his throat. "Amelia?" Sherlock said in a hoarse voice.

She ignored him, hurriedly unlocking the door to 221B Baker Street, desperate to get away from the man she had so hastily kissed. For the second time in her life, lust had prevailed over the logic Amelia held above all else, and she found herself dizzy with the thought.

Sherlock caught her by the wrist before she could escape upstairs and lock herself in the bedroom, clutching Two for comfort. "Amelia," He said again.

"I'm sorry, so sorry, I didn't... I didn't mean for-"

She didn't get any further, because for the second time that day, Sherlock's lips met hers, his long fingers clutching desperately at her shoulders. Neither spoke as Amelia found herself kissing him back with equal desperation and fervour. Fingers and nails clawed at the skin hidden under far too many layers of clothing as they stumbled up the stairs, crashing into walls and the railing, not understanding the dynamics of corners, nor the concept of walls.

This was primal in its simplest form. There was nothing rational, nor sane about the predicament Amelia had suddenly found herself in. This was insanity; an act of sheer folly, and lunacy-and so Amelia gave herself into the madness.