(A/N: First week of school done and special fit has me so sore it hurts to stand ...
But I can still type out a new chapter for you! I feel like this is a bit of filler chapter, but I'm not sure.
I also wanted to ask you guys - my reads are climbing scarily fast (so first of all, thanks again), but secondly is there anything you want me to do or anything I should do when/if I reach 1K? I've never posted anywhere before so I have next to zero ideas ...
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter!)
"Astra?"
I can feel someone's hand shaking me slightly, and the voice is low, so Sherlock then.
"Hm?" My eyes open blearily. It's pitch-black outside now. I can't hear rain anymore. There's a fire going in the fireplace. I brought my hand to my face, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "What is it?"
"I wanted to talk to you."
I groaned slightly inwardly. "This couldn't have waited till morning?"
"Strictly speaking, this is morning."
I fell back against the pillows on the couch. "Sherlock, you couldn't have just told me later?"
"I didn't want John to overhear."
"He's just down the hall."
"Well, yes, but trust me, he won't wake up for a while."
I sighed, realizing. "You drugged him. Is that why you wanted to make the tea?" He blinks with a slight realization.
"I -- yes. That too. But anyway. I wanted to talk to you."
"And I want to go to sleep."
"Astra, this is important --"
"Then you should've told me earlier! Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood to talk to you right now. In fact, I think I'm swinging more the opposite way. M'kay? I'd like to go to sleep." I started to pull the blanket back up to my shoulders.
"Please." I reluctantly glanced back at the detective. And sighed softly.
"You know, for an arsehole, you have the best puppy-dog eyes I've ever seen. It's really not fair."
"... Is that a yes?"
I huffed. "Fine. I assume it's about Moriarty? And the letter?" He nods silently. I sighed. "Alright. Just know that everything you tell me, I've already told myself."
"Astra, don't get attached to that psychopath. You have to know, you must know that he's trying to throw you off."
Is he? I'm suddenly not as sure anymore. Oh, hell, it's like a school crush again. 99% of you is positive they don't like you, but somehow that 1% keeps you going.
"I ... Yes, I know. Believe me."
"Astra, he does not have feelings for you. That's as ridiculous as me falling for someone."
"Sherlock, I know. I know, I just --"
"No, I don't think you do know. I manage to get through most people's emotions with my logic. Fear. Anger. But logic can never kill hope, no matter what I say."
"I don't have 'hope' --"
"You do," he said quietly. I don't think he could -- he could -- This is impossible to sort out. Because what if he is, what if he does, what then? "Astra, I don't think anyone will ever understand him. And I don't want you to disillusion yourself that you can."
"I know I can't. Why do you think --" I sighed. "Why do you think I have ... 'hope'. Or whatever this is. I don't like feeling it. I don't enjoy it." That's not entirely true. But I think the sentiment is understood. "It's because I know he's impossible to figure out, I keep -- I keep hoping I'm missing something."
"Why do you hope anyway? What about him possibly attracts you?"
"Can you please not call it an attraction? I'm not exactly used to the idea yet."
"What would you rather I call it, then? A disorder?"
I shot him a glare. "Dammit, Sherlock, I can't help who I'm drawn to! And it's not like I'm acting on it!"
You mean aside from kissing him multiple times, I assume.
I mentally push the thought away. "If it disturbs you so much, then cut out my heart. I assure you, I'm 'enjoying' it just as much as you are."
He sighs. "I just wanted to discuss. Would you please calm down?" I feel my eye twitch slightly. I have to remind myself of several things multiple times. One, that he doesn't have empathy like most people do.
Two, murder is illegal.
And three, so is arson.
I took a deep breath.
"Okay. Fine. If you'd like to discuss ... then continue."
"What about him ... draws you to him?"
I think about it. "It started somewhat like you feel. He was just another mind on our level, like Mycroft. And I was fascinated somewhat by how he thought ... I mean, his disorder is just ... It's that kind of thing where you feel like 'I want to take it apart to see how it works'."
"Fine. Slightly concerning, but most of what we do here is anyway. What made it grow to levels of attraction?" I winced slightly at the use of the word again, but bit my tongue.
"I ... Probably the continued contact? Smaller details started to pop out about him. The way he looked, talked ... Sherlock, I don't know, it just did happen. It's not as if I'm proud of it ..."
Sherlock looks at me, his eyes narrowed slightly as they stare intently into mine. "No," he said finally. "No, you're not ... But feel as if you have to choose one side, don't you? Choose to stay here, and you feel like you've lost the first real longing you've had in years. Choose to stay with him, and your guilt consumes you. No, you need somewhere in the middle."
I blinked. He wasn't trying to tell me I should be making the obvious choice. Didn't reprimand me for feeling like this, or for feeling split.
"Tell you what." My eyes snapped up to meet his. "Who said you had to choose? You've been in contact with him for a while now, obviously. And you still work with me and John. So stick with that arrangement. It hasn't steered us wrong yet, has it? It's a bad metaphor, but think of it as a Persephone arrangement. You get both worlds at the same time."
My eyes must be wide. Was he not ... mad? At all? Or protective, frustrated, anything?
"I won't be worried until I start seeing your name on the news, too. There's nothing illegal. In all technicality, while your logic is apparently failing you, you've done nothing inherently wrong. I'm not worried for now."
I feel a little stupid -- It seems like the most simple solution to a problem I was making far too complicated. Just keep things the same. The feelings I had, the kisses that wouldn't stop, none of that meant I couldn't still have both people's company ...
I reached a hand over to the chocolate bar on the side table, breaking off another piece, at the same time noticing I'd fallen asleep halfway through Fahrenheit 451. I closed the book, setting it next to the Cadbury treat.
"I ... okay ... That's ... That sounds fine."
"Under two conditions."
"Name them."
"One. I was being serious, this shouldn't be the focus of your attention when we have an important case going on. Especially since in this case, the longer we go, the more likely it is that the girl's lost already."
I nod. "Okay ... Yes. I'm sorry. I'll try to keep my head on when there's work to do."
"Good." His gaze goes unfocused, slightly distant.
"... What's the second condition ...?"
Sherlock takes a deep breath, staring for a moment at the crackling fire. "If he does anything to you ... anything without consent, or anything dubious, and especially if he hurts you, you cut off all contact immediately. Immediately, Astra, and I mean it."
I'd already made that promise to John. It was easy to extend it to Sherlock as well. "Of course. I would anyway."
"I needed to be sure." He takes a glance around the flat and out the windows for a moment. "... Fine. Good. I'm going to bed." He leaves with hardly another word.
I really want to get back to the case. Or my job tomorrow night. Anything that will take my mind off all of this crap.
My gaze falls to the gorgeous fire. Crackling. Dying, slowly. Tongues of flame rising and falling. It's mesmerizing, soporific to watch.
And soon enough, I've fallen back asleep.
---------------------------
Sherlock's POV:
My eyes open slowly, details of last night slowly falling back into my head. Rain. Moriarty. Astra. Tea.
I sat up in bed, ruffling my hair and sighing, thinking what I have to do today. Go to the girl's school. Reread the interviews with her classmates. See where they found her phone.
It's a disappointingly short checklist. I can only hope that I find some new clue, or else this case could go cold.
For now.
Not forever. But for now.
I force myself out of bed and out into the flat. I've barely gotten myself fully awake when I hear someone knocking on the door.
I glance around, hoping John or Astra is awake to open the door. No such luck. John's still presumably in his room, and Astra's asleep on the couch. I reluctantly walk over to the door and open it.
"Yes?" I muttered quietly, not wanting to wake Astra. I scanned the person. Not a client, obviously. Young boy, early twenties at a guess. Recent break-up. Hard up for money, obviously. He's doing a delivery for someone rich, but his clothes aren't rich, so he doesn't work for them full time. Someone just ... convinced him to.
"Delivery for an ... uh ... Astra ... Fawkes?" His voice comes out bumbling, and I immediately decide that I'd rather not listen to it any longer than I have to.
I take the black package from him quickly. "I don't have to pay for it, do I?"
"I ... uh ... no ...?"
"Good day, then." I shut the door in his face, examining the package and fighting another sigh. There's only one person I can think of who's rich and would send things to Astra.
The note with an 'J.M.' on the envelope helps, too. I'm tempted to read the note, but then she'd know, and I don't currently have a way to reseal the envelope. I give the flat back box a small shake, which yields nothing.
I huff, setting the package under her new book on the side table. Why is he screwing with her, anyway? She's developing feelings for him, he must know that.
But if I'm honest, which admittedly, I'm usually not, I'm more bothered by the fact that it bothers me so much. Astra's a friend. Another tenant, like John.
So why does she feel more like someone I have to watch over, someone I should be protecting? Like a little sister. She doesn't need my concern or protection. She's certainly shown that.
I decided not to think about it. Besides, slightly more pressing matters were at hand.
"Sherlock?" John's voice comes from down the hall. He's too loud.
"Hush a little. I don't want to wake her," I said, giving the slightest motion to Astra with my freehand as I relocked the door.
"Oh, sorry," he said, lowering his voice. "What's on the schedule for today, then? Had any brainwaves about the Rucastle girl?"
"No." The frustration's evident in my tone. I hate being stuck like this. I can tell that the answer is simple, so painstakingly simple. The interviews, I think, are what caused this. The lack of information from them made me lose too much hope and now I'm stuck here.
"... And the sched --?" I cut him off.
"Go to the school, follow her apparent route, then see where they found her phone. There might be a trail somebody left. For now, that's all I can think of, unless you've had a 'brainwave'?"
I'm not a fan of the skeptical tone I use, as if I'm suggesting he could never have a smart thought. I suppose it sort of happens naturally.
... I've gotten used to the mask the world expects me to wear. But never, not even for a second, assume I'm proud of it.
"... No. I'm going to grab breakfast from Speedy's." He leaves without another word. Delightful, it's seven-thirty in the morning, and I've already ticked him off enough that he doesn't want to be around me. What a lovely start to the already frustrating day.
I have a thought. How can I access the traffic cameras? Perhaps there's footage of her being taken -- no. Nevermind. The police would have checked or done what they could, even if it's not what I could do. Besides, this was someone experienced, they've covered their tracks well. This isn't some amateur, no this is a professional.
Professional ...
A single thought hits me, and despite feeling as if I've been stuck in well, I think someone may have just thrown me a rope.
There's only one professional that I know who would be in that line of work.
What if this is Moriarty's work?
-----------------------------
Astra's POV:
I blinked slowly awake, letting vague memories of last night wash back over me. Rain. James. Tea. Books. Sherlock.
I stretched a little in my lying position. I took a glance around the flat. I couldn't see John, but Sherlock was typing on his laptop at the kitchen table. He said something, but I was still groggy, and didn't quite catch it.
"Sorry ...?" I mumbled sleepily.
"Package for you. On the side table." There's a bitter undertone to his voice, telling me that the reason John's probably out is because Sherlock pissed him off. And so Sherlock's pissed that John's pissed.
It's kind of adorable how much Sherlock's mood depends on John's.
I glanced over at the side table. There was a thin, square black package sitting under Fahrenheit 451, and also a small envelope embossed with the letter 'J.M.'.
Three guesses who it is.
I suddenly realized that the second I'd seen the note, I'd smiled. My expression turned hella confused. Just seeing something from him made me smile? This was concerning on a number of levels.
"... What are we doing today?" I asked, trying to act like I wasn't as eager as I was to open the package.
"School and then where they found her phone to look for a trail," he said shortly. He didn't seem to be in a very talkative mood ... I rolled my head on my neck, feeling more awake. He suddenly stood up and shut his laptop. "I'm going to get breakfast from somewhere."
"Speedy's, or ...?"
"No." He left with hardly another word.
The second the door closed, my eyes fell back to the package and the short note. I slit open the envelope, pulling out the small cardstock note, written in neat cursive.
For tonight.
Sincerely Yours,
James
The corner of my mouth quirked up. Apparently we'd both latched onto the idea of me calling him James pretty quickly ... And I'd nearly forgotten that there was that job tonight. I mentally reminded myself to tell Sherlock and John I had something go on. Maybe I'd tell them I was meeting someone at an event downtown.
Maybe then Sherlock wouldn't be able to suss out that it was only a half-truth.
I listened for a moment to be sure Sherlock was gone and wasn't coming back before opening the box, which I could now guess was my dress.
My breath hitched slightly ...
"Son of a ..."
It was a gorgeous black gown with long lace sleeves and intricate embroidering, and while I didn't really know much of anything about dresses, I could tell it was expensive.
Of course, being the cocky bastard he was, he'd left the price tag very intentionally visible, and ... yeah. Wow.
But it wasn't too thin, or form-fitting, or too low cut, and there wasn't a disgustingly high leg slit or anything. So it wasn't intentionally slutty.
I glanced toward the door again, then back at the insanely expensive dress. I could tell it was exactly my measurements, too ...
I reached unconsciously for my phone, opening his contact.
Holy shit. - A.F.
He responded almost immediately.
I'll assume you got the dress, then? - J.M.
Obviously. You can just drop that kind of money? - A.F.
Please. That's nothing. - J.M.
THAT'S THREE MONTHS RENT. - A.F.
For you, maybe so. But for me, it's just enough to buy the perfect girl the perfect dress. - J.M.
I'm already coming tonight, flattery gets you nowhere. - A.F.
Yesterday evening would suggest otherwise. - J.M. x
I couldn't help the blush in my cheeks, and I bit my tongue. I knew he'd done it on purpose, though I wasn't entirely sure why. But I wasn't going to gratify it with a response anyhow.
I set the phone down, looking again at the dress.
I remembered the conversation I'd had with Sherlock last night. I'd been half-asleep, but I remembered most of it ... I was surprised by how little Sherlock seemed to care what happened with James ...
At least until he'd named his second condition, the same one John had already set. If he did anything to hurt me, anything at all ...
He may be the king of crime, but something tells me Sherlock and John wouldn't hesitate to hurt him back.
...
But ... this was ... he was ... someone I actually enjoyed. I liked this guy, even if, upon further examination, he wasn't perfect. And was far from it. But ...
Forget it.
I was done trying to justify the attraction I felt towards him. I couldn't help who I was drawn to anyway! And I wanted to try to enjoy it while it was there.
I decided I could use some breakfast.
I stood up off the couch, letting the blanket fall off my shoulders, and went to change. When I reemerged, I grabbed my phone and pulled a few cash bills off the table. I considered just grabbing something from Speedy's, but I could use a little more fresh air.
What was that cafe he took me to ... Right. Black Sheep. Ah, well, why not? I didn't really know anywhere else nearby.
I made sure to lock the flat before leaving and starting the short walk. Like most days in London, it was gray again, but at least it didn't quite look like rain again. Upside or downside?
I'd hardly taken a seat in the cafe when I felt my phone buzz.
Feeling sentimental? - J.M.
Honestly, I wasn't even surprised that he was having me tracked. Made sense, anyway. I even felt a slight smile tug at my lips as I answered.
Don't flatter yourself. I just didn't know anywhere else near. - A.F.
If you say so. - J.M.
I ordered a mocha and a pastry, taking a glance around the cafe. It had been ages since I'd properly deduced someone.
Okay, I thought, Let's find somebody interesting ...
There's a man at the adjacent table with his back to me. His pants look almost new, but there's a good deal of wear on the brass buttons on his back pockets. Looking over his computer, I can see it's quite an old model, but once again, quite clean. Possible OCD? Maybe just generally clean.
He's on his phone, but there are creases in one of his pockets where the phone usually goes, ones like you might see in a wallet from the cards, so likely a creature of habit. Phone always goes in the same pocket. The laptop suggests he comes here often, and stays for a while, but he hasn't taken his coat off ...
Why wouldn't he take the coat off? He's not just forgetful, he's a neat freak, so why ... I notice the positioning of his left arm, tight in front of his chest. Ah, he's hiding something. I don't really care whether it's something illegal or something as innocent as an embarrassing shirt he was made to wear, but that explains the coat at least.
No ring, but a tan line, so -- wait, I've missed it, he's holding the ring in his other hand. He's left-handed, going by the fact that he's using that hand for his phone. I take a glance at his computer screen.
He has a word doc up, and while I can't read the content from here, I can just make out the title, which just says 'By Ian Allen'. In the middle of writing a book likely, just one he doesn't have a title for yet. It also tells me his name.
Glancing at his phone screen, he has some texts with a woman named ... Rebecca, I think ... it's hard to see her name. Wife, likely, the ring's shiny, so an affair isn't probable.
"Miss?"
I'm snapped out of my deduction stupor by the young redhead waiter. He hands me my drink and pain au chocolat. "Sorry, thank you."
He nods, and leaves pretty quickly, which is all the better, because I've just noticed something exceedingly odd - there's a post-it note stuck to my arm.
It wasn't there when I sat down, and it hasn't even been ten minutes. I was so caught up in observing Mr. Allen in front of me that I didn't even notice someone slap a sticky note on me.
I pull the sticky note off my jacket and read it.
My blood runs suddenly cold, and my immediate reaction is panic, but I force myself to stay calm. I grab the pastry and mocha from the table and pay at the counter before leaving the shop and looking all around.
It seems all clear.
But it can't be.
I have to get back to Baker Street. Now.