It Started With Stealing | Sherlock Holmes

57 - Another Brief

"Did he say what they were?" Sherlock asked, looking thirstily at the hot beverages they both had.

She ignored this and just took another sip of her tea.

John, again, looked between the two. He repeated Sherlock's question with a slight difference, "Did he...say anything more about it?"

"Just that he would talk about it more later." She shrugged.

Sherlock tried again, "Did he say what time he would be here?"

Again at the lack of an answer, the detective looked at the army doctor, willing him to ask his question.

John repeated, "Did Mycroft say what time he would be here?"

"No. Just said in the afternoon."

"Okay." John nodded, sipping his coffee, eyes still flicking between the two.

The room was plunged into silence again.

Sherlock stared at Elizabeth, his brow an eagle's ready-to-flap wings, housing two glossy eyes beneath its feathers. He just wanted to be heard.

Elizabeth even disregarded his stare, only looking at the little red coaster on the table. She was thinking about how she would execute her plans to infiltrate the Forty Elephants gang on her own.

And John - well, he couldn't stand this anymore.

He stood, placing his mug down on the table with a resounding knock.

Both thief and detective looked at him expectantly.

"Right. I am not having this anymore."

"Not having what, John?" Elizabeth asked.

"This." He gestured to the two of them.

Elizabeth again pretended to peer around the room, still refusing to acknowledge the detective.

Elizabeth answered with a shrug, "I can't tell what you mean, John."

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to formulate the words both of them needed to hear now. Sherlock stood though, with the intention of shaking some sense into her (quite literally) and moved to grab Elizabeth, gently, by the shoulders, hoping a physical touch would bring her back to him. He was about to talk but was interrupted by Elizabeth's shrieking:

"OW, WHAT THE HELL, SHERLOCK?"

He had forgotten she was holding her tea.

Never before had you seen someone retract their hands faster than the detective did as though he were having a reflexive reaction to a hot surface. Except, Elizabeth had experienced the hot surface; he, merely the shock.

Sherlock wasted no time in grabbing tissues from the box on the table to help with the hot tea spilled down her front, "I'm sorry. I didn’t mean - "

"You never meant anything though, did you?!" She snapped at him loudly.

Tears spilled from her eyes - from the feeling of hot tea down her front or from her own built up emotions, one couldn’t tell. John again stood dumbfounded by her statement. Sherlock just became a statue, tissues ready to help but the words hit him so hard that he froze.

Elizabeth snatched the tissues from him and headed to Sherlock's room. She didn't know how she felt other than hurt - still emotionally and now physically too.

She wanted to scream.

Could she ever trust the detective again after hearing words so harsh from his own lips?