Repens

She had brought him so high up and now the very thought of her in pain nearly killed him. This was why he had stayed far away from the harmful distraction others called love. Yet it had been the best week of his life. All of his life he had been searching for something, someone, to step foot into his world only to change it all. First is was Moriarty, giving him the perfect mystery and giving him many changes to prove his powers of intelligence. But this was so different.

He stared at the screen and couldn't help feeling as if his heart were about to explode- a biological impossibility. The way the sunlight played in her scattered hair. Her eye lashes, nose, and rosy cheeks were all reflections of her inner beauty. How he adored kissing those lips night after night, teasingly and then tenderly. Memories of his lips caressing her collarbone flashed through his mind like a film in slow motion. He could almost hear her soft laugh next to his ear but there would be no touch to accompany the familiar sound he now found irresistible. This was his favorite moment of the day, just before those big green eyes fluttered open for the first of many morning kisses. He would have done anything, anything in the world, to feel her skin next to his that minute. Tired eyes closed involuntarily as Sherlock released a lonely sigh.

"When did you take that?"

John's voice suddenly tore him from his bitter-sweet thoughts.

"The morning I showed her around London," whispered the lovesick man. "That perfect morning."

John couldn't shake the feeling that he could help in some way. But he was helping in every way he could. Seeing Sherlock like this was odd enough without it being about a woman. Yet this was not just any woman. This wasn't even THE woman. This was Sherlock's woman, the one that had won his heart in a single meeting and had changed him in a multitude of ways in just over a week. Then this happened. Just as everyone knew it would.

"Well, you'd be doing yourself a favor by getting a few hours of sleep. You'll do her no good driving yourself mad before we find her."

"What do you know about going mad?" Sherlock hissed after angrily locking the phone.

John remained silent while his jaw clenched twice. There were many nasty responses he could have made, responses most would have said just to push the brilliant mind over the edge. But John Watson wasn't trying to hurt the rude short tempered detective.

"I know how it feels to think you will never see someone you care about ever again."

There was no need to say anything more. With that, John turned to make his way back to bed.

"John," called the low voice of his best friend. "I'm sorry." Watson turned to find Sherlock close to tears. "I just…"

"I know," answered the good doctor. "It's four in the morning, Sherlock. Try to get some rest."

A few minutes after John disappeared down the dark hall, Sherlock stared at the angelic photo one last time. John was right, he was tired and needed sleep to finish the case properly. If he stayed up tonight, his mind would be more scattered than usual. He needed to be as focused as possible. Time was running out. They had been so close and now had to start all over again.

Then, as if lightning had struck his brain, a series of ideas came to mind. Each individual idea seemed to link with the next and they eventually formed a plan- well, part of a plan. He jotted a few notes on a sheet of paper on the desk. The pencil was placed back in its drawer around four thirty. Now exhausted, and a bit more hopeful, Holmes walked to his bedroom with a heart still heavy with worry.

He undressed, still thoughtful, and pulled out a pair of sleep pants from a drawer. His eyes suddenly caught something. The last shirt she had worn to bed, one of his shirts, was still on the floor just as she had left it. He couldn't bring himself to touch it until now. Ever so gently, the once completely unsentimental man put on the suddenly sacred shirt. Her body had been wrapped in this very material hours ago.

John's words played in his head before he made an honest effort to push all thoughts of her away until later in the morning. He climbed under the covers while saying the alphabet backwards, a calming technique he used to do as a child- he hadn’t don’t it to sleep since college. His body twisted and turned, trying to find a comfortable position. But no position was comfortable without her at his side or on his chest.

Sherlock was noticing more and more just how much she had become part of his routine and habits. If she were here he'd be in only boxer shorts, if anything at all. After a bit of nightly sweet talk he would have drifted right off to sleep with her somehow tangled in his arms. He took a deep breath but didn't expect the strong scent of her perfume to fill his nose. Eyes closed as tears nearly escaped. At this rate, he was never getting to sleep. It became rather clear that if he was going to rest at all tonight, he'd have to do something foolish.

He was alone so no one would see the embarrassing display. Her pillow was gathered in his arms and tucked beneath his chin as she would have been had she been there. The lump in his throat was becoming impossible to ignore. His head was starting to ache from lack of sleep. And his thoughts were betraying him.

Finally, he closed his eyes tight and whispered, "I have to find you." It was nearly whimpered. "I must find you so I can tell you."

A single tear rolled down his cheek and soaked into the mascara stained threads of her pillowcase.
---
Mrs. Hudson was up early the next morning knocking on their door. Sherlock tried to force himself awake enough to answer but relaxed when he heard John greet the old woman in a hushed tone. John invited her in and announced that the kettle had just boiled. They had just enough time to take their seats before Mrs. Hudson took a shallow breath.

"Have you…"

"We found her but they were on the move. Moriarty tricked us with a planned cabbie that took us the wrong way then we lost them." John hated seeing the usually cheerful woman so down. "But we're doing all we can. Just give us a few more-"

"Hours or days, John?" She began to tear when he didn't answer. "I know you boys are doing everything in your power to find her. And I've tried not to be a bother until now." A desperate pause. "I just…"

He heard the creaking of John's chair as he stood up to comfort her. Her muffled cries carried down the hall.

"I promise we'll get Stephanie back here as soon as possible and not a moment later." His best friend paused, undoubtedly giving Mrs. Hudson his most genuine stare. "As absurd as it sounds, there might actually be one person who is slightly more concerned than you."

As if on cue, Sherlock entered the livingroom, fully dressed with a heavy heart and an already busy mind. Mrs. Hudson glanced up at him with what he guessed was embarrassment or hope, perhaps a combination of the two. When John left the room to make the tea, Sherlock took his place kneeling at the teary woman's side.

"I give you my word, Mrs. Hudson," he began- the bloody lump from last night returning to his throat. "At present, your niece is in the greatest danger of her life. But when we find her, which will be in the next twenty hours, she will never worry for her life again. I promise."

Her shoulders began to shake a bit from his words. She had seen Sherlock's highs and his many lows but this was by far the most human she had ever witnessed him. His eyes were bloodshot and slightly puffy, as if he'd been crying- impossible. His hand gently vibrated when he sympathetically placed it on her shoulder with a squeeze. Quite frankly, he looked a bloody mess. There was a small chance that John was right.

"I just have to know one thing," the old dear whispered. "My Steph," their eyes met. "Do you love her?"

He answered only by placing a kiss on her cheek.

"We’ll be back tonight Mrs. Hudson. Please stay inside for one more day and we’ll have our girl home before tomorrow."

With that, he and John gathered their things and were out the door. The worried and exhausted woman stayed in John's chair sipping her tea and watching their small television set. But Steph had been in this room and there were traces of here all around. One of her red hairs on the carpet glowing from sunlight, a tube of lipstick on the desk, a pair of her shoes in the corner by the sofa, and a trace of her perfume on the purple shirt Sherlock had just dashed off in.