Orphan on Baker Street

Thirty First: Stress

Sherlock and I have been playing violin for about an hour now.

"No, Mickey," he starts, gesturing to my arms, "You're holding it all wrong. I was too nice to tell you before, but now it's effecting your performance."

"I'm sorry I've got cancer in my shoulder. My appointment is in two days; you'll have to deal with it until then," I tell him with a scowl. It's been hurting for almost a week.

I set down my violin quickly. "What are you now - my teacher? I can play a violin perfectly well, thank you."

"I never said I was your teacher," Sherlock says defensively. My feet carry me into the kitchen to make us tea. He doesn't continue speaking but instead sets down his violin and follows me into the kitchen. Sherlock sits with his elbows leaning on the wooden kitchen table, his hands in the signature tent shape just below his nose. There is a very long silence.

"Is that piece you were working on perfect yet?" I inquire casually. The kettle whistles, and I rush to pull it from the stove.

"No... well, yes. Sort of," Sherlock mumbles. "It doesn't matter."

"Who's it for?"

"Why must it be for someone? Can't I casually write my own music?"

"You can, sure, but if it was casual, I would have heard it, as well as your anger when something was wrong." I raise my eyebrows over at him.

"It's a surprise," he says as he stands up, walking back into the living room. "And I'm not in the mood for tea."

My eyes roll back in my head with frustration as I set his mug back down angrily. I take a sip of my own tea and set it on the coffee table before collecting my violin.

"Did I anger you?" he asks softly, adjusting his instrument under his chin.

"Of course you angered me," I say loudly; I've had enough. "First you bring in Lestrade when you know we shouldn't be near each other; then you let me get into dangerous business with Moriarty - which isn't the only dangerous encounter I've had because of you, by the way. What else is there? Oh, right: you won't tell me anymore about my father, who's in a lot of danger, if you haven't noticed. And you're just generally an anger inducing person."

"You know, I thought I'd see this side of you once you started chemo," he remarks, lowering his violin.

I take my mug and throw it against the wall above the desk, drenching papers with a sugary lavendar scent. "Maybe it's the stress, Sherlock," I point out loudly. "Maybe this entire Moriarty thing is stressing me out. Maybe seeing my father - or not seeing my father - is stressing me out." My gaze stays fixed on his blank expression as I walk up to him, close enough that when I look up, my chin brushes against his shirt. I say softly, "Maybe the cancer that I know nothing about is stressing me out." My bottom lip quivers, and I turn around to go back to my violin.

He's plucked my last nerve; he makes me feel like my old violin - tired, used, trash, replaceable. Sherlock is the second person to make it very clear that that's who I am, yet he insists he's nothing like the "Teacup Man".

"I'm going to take a nap," I mutter sadly. As I open the door, a hand quickly grabs onto my shoulder.

"Mickey," Sherlock utters. "You know I don't want you to feel like that."

"Actually, I don't know..."

There's a few seconds before I begin moving again, down the stairs and to my bedroom. I set my violin neatly against the wall between my dresser and the door and take a seat on my bed against the far wall.

Mrs. Hudson walks in and sits beside me, placing an arm around my shoulders. "I heard yelling and glass shattering," she explains softly.

"Did you hear the words?" I croak. Tears finally spill from my eyes, but I don't sob.

"I'm so sorry," she says sadly. She pushes my head to her neck, her chin on top of my head, and I sit there and cry in her arms.

It's hard to explain what it feels like to cry after months of holding back. There just aren't any words that do it justice. The feeling could be relief, maybe, or closure or serenity or happiness. You could also look at it from a negative aspect and describe it as emptiness or helplessness or complete despair. But that's not what this is; I feel relieved, serene, and happy. Now all I need is closure.

"Mrs. Hudson," I sniffle, pulling myself away from her. "Thank you for being there - here."

"It's alright, dear," she replies as she kisses my forehead.

"Is it okay if I get dressed and go take a walk?"

Mrs. Hudson smiles at me sympathetically. "That's fine. Just don't forget your phone."

I smile at her gratefully. "Thank you again."

She gives me another peck on the temple and stands to go, closing the door behind her as she does. Then I quickly change into some lighter clothes - it's supposed to be nice outside today - and shove my phone into my pocket.

On my way out, I let Mrs. Hudson know I'm going and hop off down the street. For someone who just cried for 20 minutes, I'm pretty happy.

I'm not sure where I'm going, but I know who I'm going to find.