annabel lee┃sherlock holmes (✓)

vi.SCHRÖDINGER'S CAT

" I want to talk about it."

" About what?"

" My death."

He regarded her answer in silence, eyes glossing over her. She could never get use to his piercing gaze, to the way he observes everyone like a science experiment. Thunder cackled across the oppressive clouds, slashing the curtains with a streak of golden. The brief flash of color causing her to flinch against his grip, reminding her that they were still on her shoulders, grounding her in place.

" What about it ?" He murmured," Technically, you didn't die."

" Yeah," She nodded." Exactly why I want to talk about it."

The hands around her finally unmatched themselves, falling to his sides as he leaned behind the sable couch. In all honesty, she doesn't understand why he bothers sleeping in it when it's size can only allow him to rest with his legs tucked against his chest. The satisfaction he feeds off from being crammed into one tiny couch bewildered her, when he has an entire bedroom only a few steps away.

She sat across him, and for a moment the two didn't say a word.

Until the silence became unbearable.

" You're here to talk about the cat aren't you?"

Annabel looked at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. He merely gave her a tired sigh, the white button up he's wearing rumpled against the leather seat.

She nodded, submitting into his deductions and not bothering to ask him how he does it.

" You're not dead," He declared, after a moment's thought.

The rain only poured harder outside, weeping and wailing as they sprayed water across the streets, flooding the pavements.

" You saw me die."

" Yes, but here you are,alive. You're not a dirty trick, an illusion or a cat that exists between life and death. You're Annabel Lee, and even if I watched you die that doesn't matter because you're here. "

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she tightened her grip on the hand rest.

" In his theory, unless someone looks inside the box, no one can tell whether the cat is dead or alive. Yet, Mycroft tells me, or rather, I found out because he's rubbish at keeping secrets, that someone had seen what's inside the box without actually opening it."

Annabel twisted her fingers in her skirt,leaning forward,"What do you mean?"

" During the span of one week, you were living in a paradox. You were neither dead or alive, you were trapped. You told me that you recalled nothing of that night, and had gone trough seven days going around London living your life per usual while I inspected your lifeless corpse."

She flinched at his last words, bowing her head to drown out the noise of the rain, to drown out his words.

" Annabel," He begged softly,"Look at me."

When she lifted her head to look at him, she could feel something cold trickle down her cheeks. They slide against the bridge of her nose, and she struggled to hold back the rest of it.

" You were Schrödinger's cat, yes," He reached out to clasp both her hands in his," But not anymore. You're out of the box now, someone had opened it for you, someone out there knows the truth. Someone out there knows whether you're alive or dead."

She sniffled, squeezing his hands," But what if I don't want to know the truth, what if I don't want to find out, what if I'm actually -"

" Dead ?"

She gulped, trembling as if she was a frightened little child once more. She had never been this petrified ever since she was only ten, and now fear was dragging her with its tendrils as if this was their first encounter. It clenched around her throat like a fist, clawing against her quivering heart.

Sherlock pulled her under his chin, holding her in the only way he knows. Sherlock was not the one to sympathize, yet even someone as cold as him can't help but pity the dead woman who doesn't want to die.

" Oh but you want to know,don't you?" He asked, his breath fluttering against the shell of her ear," Tell me, Annabel, if you truly do know the answer, then why are you still here ?"

His question anchored her against him, her hands wrapping around his shoulder blades. The storm clashes against one another, bringing another wave of teardrops across the despondent buildings lining up Baker Streets, rivulets of rain tracing their windowpanes.

ANNABEL LEE doesn't want to open the box, but she doesn't want to be trapped as SCHRÖDINGER'S CAT either.