Updated as of 12/31/16
Sherlock glanced over at Vivian. Her breathing was deep and steady. A faint flicker of movement stirred beneath her eyelids, reminiscent of REM sleep. Good. She'd grown much faster at achieving the necessary trance-like state now. The firelight illuminated the deep red undertones in her hair, nearly a perfect match to burning lithium chloride. The salt crystal compound was useful for extracting RNA, but dangerously toxic to the nervous system.
He returned his attention to the magazine, but after a few paragraphs his gaze was inexplicably drawn back to her again. John never sat on the floor like that. He always sat in his chair, feet flat on the ground or with one foot across his knee, hands neatly folded.
Not so with Vivian. She sat propped up against the base of the chair with her head resting back against the cushion, her pale throat exposed, vulnerable. Her open posture indicated she felt safe here - with him. The realization was oddly gratifying.
Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and though she appeared quiet and curled in on herself, she was hardly contained. The sheer warmth of her presence filled the room, sending a peculiar awareness pricking along his skin. It was distracting. Disconcerting.
Restless, he set the magazine down and retreated to the safety of the kitchen. He paced within the small space. What was his problem? The strange disquiet quivering at his insides couldn't possibly be caused by Vivian. She wasn't doing anything. He halted mid-step.
The problem wasn't Vivian at all - it was him. He needed a case. He needed work.
Yes. That had to be it. The little mystery from last night and the busyness of the holiday had distracted him until now. If no one was violently murdered soon, he'd have to resort to Lestrade's cold case files which weren't nearly as fun. He sighed. In the meantime, a temporary fix would have to suffice.
He lit one of the gas burners and fixed his gaze on the steady blue flame. With each exhale, he sent the simmering agitation inside him toward the fire. After several long moments the unsettling feeling receded, and cool control took its place.
He straightened. Much better. He should have completed the exercise yesterday after the dinner with Vivian, but he'd put it off. Foolish of him. He wouldn't be making that mistake again. After flicking off the burner, he returned to his seat in the living room. His gaze landed on Vivian's bare feet. Her toes were painted a glittering green. Another festive touch.
She opened her eyes and shot him an accusatory frown. Suddenly it was very much like sitting beside John.
"What?" he asked.
"You're messing with my Mind Palace."
"I was in the kitchen."
"No, not here. In my head." She threw up her hands. "You emptied a conversation shelf in the library and moved it somewhere else. And now there's a new door and you won't let me open it."
His chest tightened, sealing off his breath. She couldn't possibly mean what he thought she did. "What are you talking about?"
She looked at him like he was mental. "I'm talking about you, in my Mind Palace, messing things up. Now, how can I fix you?"
Fix him? None of this made any sense at all. "Why on earth am I in your Mind Palace?"
Her brows drew together. "You told me the library was the foundation center and to anchor it with something significant."
"I meant significant like your favorite childhood toy, the scent of your mother's perfume, or your diploma, not a person."
She gaped at him. "What? You mean there aren't any people in your Mind Palace?"
"No, that's mad. The mere suggestion is ludicrous." He wouldn't have thought it possible to add people, and yet here they were. His stomach clenched. The potential consequences for what she'd done were staggering.
Vivian's arms tightened around her knees. "I - I didn't realize. What am I supposed to do now? Delete you?"
"No," he said, voice sharp. The word burst out of him faster than thought. While he wasn't entirely certain of how to proceed, some primal part of him knew that method was wrong and had reacted instinctively. He took a steadying breath. "If I'm anchoring your Mind Palace, then removing me could endanger the whole structure." What he needed now was more information. "Tell me exactly what I've been doing."
She brushed a wisp of hair out of her face. "Well, most of the time you sit in the library reading and ignoring me, but earlier this week I noticed you stacking boxes in the corner. When I asked about them, you told me to stop pestering you and to go make myself useful in the kitchen." A small scowl. "You're quite rude, really."
"I'm hardly responsible for your mind's manifestation of me. What happened tonight?"
"The boxes were gone and so was an entire conversation shelf in the library. I couldn't find them anywhere. When I went back down the hallway, there was a new door." Confusion clouded her face. "It looked like the same door from an old house I used to live in. When I tried to open it, you appeared and said it wasn't ready and told me to shove off."
Relief washed over him. Their situation wasn't as dire as he'd thought, in fact, some of it was even to be expected. "One answer is clear. The structure of your Mind Palace is organic. It grows on its own. When your rooms become full, your brain creates new ones utilizing architecture that is well known to you, in this case, a former home. Currently, your mind is telling you that the new room isn't ready for use yet and to stay away."
"Will having you as my anchor be a problem?"
His mind raced through various possibilities, holding onto some and discarding others. "At this point, it's too soon to tell. I want you to monitor my activity within your Mind Palace, and give me a daily report. Inform me immediately if anything unusual occurs."
"Alright. What about the empty conversation shelf?"
"While I can't be certain yet, I believe your Mind Palace version of me emptied the shelf's contents into the boxes and is now integrating them into your new room." He paused. "It appears you're using me as an organizational tool."
She snickered. "I made you my housekeeper."
His lips twitched. Mrs. Hudson would have been duly shocked. "In a crude manner of speaking, yes."
Another concern rose to the surface. He had no idea how additional people would impact her Mind Palace. It could prove problematic. "Who else is in your Mind Palace? John?"
A huff of laughter. "No, not John." The humor on her face dimmed, and she looked away, fiddling with the hem of her blue jeans. "There's only you."
The steady rise and fall of his chest ceased and an unexplained warmth uncurled inside him. He'd assumed she'd added more people after him, but she hadn't. "I wouldn't recommend adding anyone else."
"I wasn't about to," she said quietly, hand dropping from her hem.
Curiosity nipped at him. No good could come from continuing the conversation. The fact that he wanted to know at all was alarming in and of itself. His gaze swept around the room, and he tapped out a rat-a-tat rhythm against the leather arm of the chair. In the end, he couldn't help himself. "Why me?"
She tensed, toes flexing hard against the carpet.
As the minutes crept past, he began to wonder if she'd ever reply. Finally, a heavy sigh left her mouth, and she rested her chin on her knees, dark eyes fixed on the flames. "I was a stranger to you, and you still helped me. Even when I didn't want to be saved - when I'd already given up hope, you refused to give up on me. I consider that significant."
"Oh." The single, inane word was all he could manage. He was far more accustomed to being appreciated for solving a murder than directly helping a person. And helping Vivian had been unique for him in more ways than one.
The corner of her mouth tilted up, and she looked over at him. "Also, since I was half-starved and you were right there in front of me, I figured using you would be easiest."
He shook his head, amused despite himself. "Taking short-cuts when building a Mind Palace is never a good idea."
A sniff. "Neither is throwing me into a muddy pond."
He lifted his teacup in salute. "Touché."
She smiled, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence.
***
Sherlock blinked up at the ceiling. Why was he in the living room? The shush of a page turning chased away the fog of sleep.
The power outage.
Vivian had moved onto John's chair, sitting properly this time. A book sat open in her lap, and a small stack rested at her feet. White teeth nibbled at her bottom lip as she stared at a page that was tilted toward the fire. She winced and rubbed at her temple.
"What are you doing?"
The book jerked, nearly tumbling to the floor, and startled green eyes met his. "Oh. You're awake."
He lifted a brow. "No, I'm talking in my sleep with my eyes open. Don't mind me."
"Alright then." She nodded and resumed her perusal of the book.
Sherlock watched her for a long moment, nonplussed. "Really though. What are you doing?" He knew she couldn't possibly be reading anything.
"Shhh. You're sleeping, remember?"
"Haha. Very cheeky."
She didn't respond.
His eyes narrowed. She was really going to make him say it, wasn't she? He huffed out a breath. "I'm awake now."
"Oh good." She raised her head, and her eyes glinted with mischief. "Did you know you talk in your sleep?"
A reluctant chuckle burst out of him, and she grinned.
He shook his head. "Will you tell me what you're doing now?"
"I promise I'm not snooping."
"Obviously, since you're illiterate."
She flinched, then snapped the book shut. "I'm not illiterate."
"You're lying." He removed the slip of paper from his pocket and held up the damning evidence. "You clearly still are or you wouldn't have had to recall a joke you'd heard and use it for your Christmas cracker instead of reading the one provided." Rather resourceful of her though.
Her lips compressed into a thin line. "I know how to read."
"And yet you're incapable of it. By definition, that makes you illiterate."
"And by definition, you're an arsehole."
The pillow from John's chair struck him in the face.
Indignation burned through him, and he sprang to his feet. "Why are you always throwing things at me?"
"Why are you always so insulting?" Fury flashed in her eyes as she stood. "It's obvious John hasn't had much luck telling you when you're being rude. I honestly don't think words are enough to permeate your thick skull."
"I don't care if I'm rude."
She picked up the fallen pillow and advanced on him, tendrils of red hair framing her scowling face. "You should care, because sometimes there are consequences."
He grabbed the pillow off his chair just in time to block her next attack. Darting backward, he retreated behind the coffee table, and looked down his nose at her. "I refuse to brawl with you."
"Fine. You're more than welcome to stand there while I wallop you." Her mouth twisted into a mocking smile. "John's not here to save you this time."
Something white hot flared inside him, and the cool calm he'd secured earlier turned to ash. His eyes narrowed, and he adjusted his feet into a more defensive stance. "The bedrooms are off limits. No destroying books."
"No biting or hair pulling."
"As if I'd stoop to such a level." He leapt onto the coffee table, scattering the party debris, and took a swing at her face. His pillow smacked her cheek, and she reeled back.
"Lucky shot," she snapped, backing toward the kitchen.
"Not lucky. Clever." He hopped down and took off after her. She led him on a dizzying chase round the kitchen table. And then again. On their third circuit, she jerked a chair into his path, and he stumbled into it. She threw a wicked grin over her shoulder at him. Growling, he put on a burst of speed, and she shrieked and sprinted for the living room. With the electricity out, she didn't see the Rubik's cube he'd knocked off the coffee table. Her bare foot landed on it, and she tripped. Hurtling toward the floor, she tucked into herself and executed a perfect forward roll, landing in a crouched position. He gaped at her, barely managing to shut his mouth before she turned around.
"Don't tell me you learned that in kick-boxing class," he said.
"That was gymnastics. Would you like a brochure?"
"No, thank you."
Vivian bit her lip, eyeing the pillow she'd dropped during her fall. It sat near his foot, far out of her reach. He bent down and picked it up, then kicked the Rubik's cube beneath the coffee table where it wouldn't interfere. It occurred to him then that he could bring their little fight to an end here and now. But to his surprise, he found he didn't want to.
He tossed the pillow to her. "Ready?"
She caught it and threw him a blazing grin. "Always."
"Excellent." He lunged for her.
Their brawl resumed in earnest, and they wove through the furniture, pillows flashing. She caught him in the back of the head, and he smacked her lower back twice in revenge. Breathless with laughter, she ran away from him. Her bare feet danced across the floor in time with his, fluid grace meeting economy of motion.
Pulse hammering, he jumped over the arm of his leather chair and launched off the bottom cushion, ploughing straight into Vivian. Limbs flailing, they crashed onto John's chair.
Any previous fighting finesse was discarded.
She pummeled his neck, chest, and side with a pillow. He winced as her wrist hit him in the kidney. He drew back and caught her in the stomach, and the air whooshed out of her, her breath warm and smelling of tea. He waited a second for her to recover, then smacked her again. Feathers exploded from his weapon, and the recoil sent most of them into his face. He sputtered, and she took full advantage of his distraction.
Wrenching herself up, she locked her knees around his waist. With only his upper back on the cushion of John's chair, his legs couldn't find any purchase. There was only one thing for it. Still clutching his pillow, he wrapped his arm around her waist and yanked them both over the side of the chair. They careened into the side table and crashed to the floor.
Glass shattered.
He froze, partially on top of her, his nose in her hair. Crushed jasmine assaulted his senses. It took him a moment to realize she wasn't moving.
He rose up on one arm. Was she injured? The teapot lay broken near her head. He recalled now that their discarded tray had been on the side table. His torn pillow hid most of her face from view. He moved it aside.
"Vivian?"
She remained still, eyes shut, face slack. Feathers clung to her hair and skin. Her breath sent a few fluttering into the air. At least she was still breathing. His chest tightened. Something dark stained the side of her head. He reached out a hand and brushed it with his fingertips. A sigh left him. Her hair was wet, but with lukewarm tea, not blood.
Her eyes snapped open, and she smirked. "Got you." The discarded pillow slapped him in the face.
He flinched back, elbow slipping, and collapsed back onto her. Her sweet fragrance engulfed him again, but this time her entire body shook with laughter. He raised himself up on his forearms and stared down at her, for once at a loss.
Shoulders quivering, she whooped aloud. "God, your face! That was priceless, just priceless."
He shook his head. She'd bested him, had faked being knocked unconscious to win. The sheer deviousness was, well, admirable. Part of him wanted to take the pillow and smother her with it.
"You've got feathers all over you." She plucked one off his forehead and twirled it in front of his nose, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
His lips curved at the pure, unbridled delight emanating from her. "You're one to talk. You look like you had a row with a goose."
"I did." She snickered, then lapsed into giggles.
This time, he couldn't help but join in. He rolled off her and onto his back, chuckling.
After a long, breathless moment, she sat up, sending a cloud of feathers floating about. Her gleeful expression faltered, replaced with one of horror. "Oh my God. I broke your teapot."
He sat up against the side of John's chair and snorted. "I can ring Lestrade, if you want to confess."
"We're British! Breaking a teapot is no laughing matter."
"Did you hit your head?"
She frowned. "No, my shoulder took most of the impact. Why?"
"Because your memory is shoddy."
"No, it isn't."
"You didn't break the teapot. We did." He did throw her into it, after all.
A grateful smile spread across her face. "I can replace it."
"Don't bother. I'm sure we've got an extra one around here, and if not, Mrs. Hudson certainly does."
"Let me at least clean it up."
He caught her arm. "Wait." He reached beneath John's chair and retrieved her heels. "While I wouldn't consider these proper footwear, they'll at least protect your feet."
"Ta." She slipped them on, then bent to pick up the shards of glass.
He righted the side table and recovered their cups and tray, miraculously unharmed. There was little point in cleaning up the feathers without proper lighting. Mrs. Hudson would take care of it anyhow. He binned the shredded pillow, then handed Vivian his torch so she could clean up in the loo. A damp kitchen towel removed most of the feathers from his clothes and hair. When he returned to the living room, he found Vivian shelving the books she'd had stacked beside John's chair.
She trailed her fingertips across one cover. "You asked me what I was doing earlier...I was trying to read." Her perfect posture broke, shoulders slumping. "I never really appreciated it - reading. I hated schoolwork. I wanted to be outdoors instead, running about in the sunshine." Her voice hitched. "But now I realize I've lost something precious, and I don't think I'll ever get it back."
He took a wary step forward. He'd seen her rage in vibrant fury. He'd seen her exhausted, yet still defiant. He'd seen her moan in delight over a meal, but he'd never seen her like this. She stood before him, a woman wounded, with grief written in the lines of her face.
"Audiobooks aren't the same, not with some stranger's intolerable voice in my head." She shut her eyes as if in physical pain.
The genuine horror of her disability cut into him then. He swallowed. If he were injured one day and couldn't read anymore, it would be like losing a lung. Unbearable. Always gasping for air, but forever short of breath.
His chest tightened, and he gritted his teeth. If this was empathy, he despised it.
She held up a leather tome and angled it toward the firelight. "Is this one any good?"
Before he could reply, she returned it to the shelf and let out a broken laugh. "Forget it. I'm only torturing myself." She sank into John's chair, and rubbed a hand across her eyes.
The ache in his chest turned to ice, then plummeted into his stomach.
He should never have called her illiterate.
He felt like a novice chemist who had mixed water with potassium, then been shocked by the violent explosion. Vivian had been right. He should care, because sometimes there were consequences. For every action there was an equal and opposite reaction. He'd thought their fight, if he could call it that, had been the end of it, but no, his labeling of her as illiterate had resulted in a deeper consequence. He'd hurt her.
His careless words had rubbed raw an already gaping wound. Unsure what do or how to make it better, he stalled for time and gestured at the book she'd asked about. "This one is good, but it all depends on what you like."
"I only ever read when I was forced to, never for pleasure." She shook her head. "I've no idea what I like."
His breath caught. So many possibilities. He whipped around, removed the books she'd shelved and returned to his chair, anticipation sparking through his veins. "Then let's find out."
Her eyebrows rose high on her forehead. "You're going to read to me?"
His fingers halted on the first page of Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner. He hesitated. Was she insulted? That hadn't been his intent. A darker thought reared its ugly head. "I intended to, that is, unless you find my voice intolerable as well."
She stared at him. "You must be joking."
His insides twisted at her incredulous tone, and he shut the book. "Never mind. It was merely an idea to pass the time."
Her arm shot out. "No, wait. I only meant you must be joking about your voice, not about reading to me."
"What?" He frowned. What did she mean by that?
She sighed. "Just ignore what I said. Please, will you read to me?"
He eyed her. Genuine interest filled her face, a welcome change from her distressed expression from before. "Fine." He opened the book, and began to read.
"Poachers, idlers, thimble riggers, skittle sharks, horse-stealers and thieves of every description rub shoulders in this book with the nobility of Europe. Meet them all through the eyes of Henry Goddard. Meet Tiger Tom, so called in consequence of his enormous strength, that he could without difficulty take a man of ordinary size by the waistband of his trousers with his teeth and run around the room carrying him thus, as a cat would carry a mouse."
She snickered, and his lips curved. He read a bit more, then switched to Paradise Postponed. She grimaced, so he moved on. Her nose wrinkled at Signature Killers, she sighed over Man's Fate, and blinked at him sleepily when he read from Industrial Gases.
Then he selected Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats.
"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk..."
She went still, and her eyes fell shut. One hand gripped the arm of her chair.
He'd found it.
Poetry.
It spoke to her, like science and forensics did to him.
When he finished the poem, she stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide with wonder.
"I didn't know it could be like that," she whispered.
He nodded, then read to her until she fell asleep.
***
When next he woke, dawn sent pink and gold in through the windows, and the fairy lights sparkled in the tree. A low hum emanated from the fridge in the kitchen. The electricity was back on. A blanket lay across his lap. One he hadn't put there. The muscles in his neck protested as he lifted his head. John's chair was empty, and Vivian's coat and scarf were missing from the hook.
She was gone.
Chill air brushed the back of his neck despite the warmth from the low-burning gas fire. The poetry book he'd read to her rested on the side table. On top of it was a note.
Sherlock,
I didn't want to disturb you, so I let myself out. Thank you for a lovely Christmas and for your company during the power outage. We should do it again some time.
-Vivian
P.S. I'm terribly sorry about your teapot. Buy yourself a new one with my winnings.
What winnings? Beneath the letter was a wad of notes and his gold paper crown. A smile slowly spread across his face, and he chuckled. He'd thought he'd outwitted the group's wager by allowing Vivian to put the crown on his head, but apparently she'd joined the betting pool. He probably had John to thank for that.
Next to the crown lay the toy magnifying glass from her Christmas cracker. He spun it between his fingertips, and the morning light caught on it, reflecting onto the mess of feathers and debris from the party scattered about the room.
He realized now that their brawl hadn't really been one at all. While it may have been sparked by anger, somehow it had morphed into play.
He'd had fun.
He replayed their fight frame by frame. A flash of pale skin. The satisfaction in taking her by surprise. Wild red hair. Spilled tea and fresh jasmine. Vivian's victorious grin.
Pain abruptly stabbed at his temples. He clenched his jaw against the discomfort. His fingers tightened on the magnifying glass, and the cheap plastic creaked.
He centered himself, cleared his thoughts, and exhaled slowly.
Another breath in. And out again.
The pain dulled, and the knot of tension inside him eased. It was only a headache. Everyone had one from time to time. He stood and pocketed the magnifying glass.
Now, where did John keep the Paracetamol?