Vague Shadows

“Queen Mary’s Gardens!” Sherlock burst out, loud enough to startle me from my unconscious state. I shot up from the couch instantly, my eyes snapping open as I clutched at my chest, trying to slow my racing heart.

The moment the light hit my eyes, I winced and cringed into the couch. I had a pounding headache, and the bright fluorescence was doing me no good at all.

“What the bloody hell,” I panted, opening my eyes a little more cautiously this time and turning to frown at Sherlock. He was leaning over a bouquet of white roses, hands clutching either side of the table as his eyes bore into the flowers. I timidly swung my legs off the side of the couch and dropped my head into my hands, trying to end the incessant pounding.

“Yes, yes, it all makes sense,” he muttered to himself, beginning to hurry around the flat and collect his things. His fingers fiddled with the collar of his jacket, and his brows drew together, his dark curls falling into his eyes. Even now, with the headache and the slight irritation, I couldn’t help but admire him.

I pushed the thoughts from my already jumbled mind as I stared after Sherlock, who seemed to be more than frazzled as he shoved his arms into his coat.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked, but he didn’t even falter in his movements. It was as if I hadn’t said anything. With a sigh, I ran my hand through my curls to push them away from my face. My fingers snagged a tangled, matted part of my hair, and I pulled my hand down. Dark crimson was smeared over my fingertips, and my eyes widened. Foggy, jumbled memories of a man leaning over me began to surface, and slowly I pieced together what had happened to me.

Sherlock was in a frenzy, I was battered and bleeding, someone had broken into the flat, and I could barely comprehend the here and now. I had less than no idea of anything, and not knowing what was happening around me scared me more than I wanted to admit.

Sherlock had just put his scarf on when I looked up at him again. His eyes landed on me, and I imagined my expression had been unsettling, because he froze and stared at me.

“Give me a minute of your time and please explain what’s happening,” I asked him softly, my voice forced into evenness as I did my best to mask the almost childish fear welling inside of me. Sherlock let out a breath and forced himself to stop for a brief moment.

“Moriarty has John. He’s in danger; he’s been used as the next piece in the game. It’s his retaliation. Whoever attacked you left those flowers in your hand as a clue. The clues point to Queen Mary’s Gardens, and that’s where I’m going, Laicee,” he explained in a rush, his words so fast I nearly missed half of what he rambled off.

“How do you know this is part of his game? It doesn’t make sense-“ I began, frowning. Sherlock sighed again and gave me an exasperated look.

“It makes perfect sense, Laicee, don’t you see?” he urged, picking up the roses and waving them. I gave him a blank stare, and he let out an irritated groan, dropping his head back and rolling his eyes.

“Of course it’s the next part of our game. Why wouldn’t it be? When I found you in the warehouse, he’d written Game-“ I made a startled noise that Sherlock chose to ignore; he’d never told me about a message left beside me, but I figured he didn’t want to bother with that right now. “It didn’t make sense, but now it does. He sent me a message, from John’s phone, only saying Set. Game, Set… It’s chess, a game of chess. A game of wits with emotions and morality as the pieces, and he’s made his move.”

“You’re a little too happy for the given circumstances,” I informed him, ignoring the almost sadistic quirk of his lips as I pushed myself to my feet. My head swam a bit, but I shrugged it off.

“Queen Mary’s Gardens, though. How d’you reckon?” I asked, walking over to him and brushing my fingers over the roses. His smile got a little bigger; he loved showing off his ingenuity.

“It’s genius, really. The hint. This is a very rare rose, a hybrid tea type with a distinctive shape and a unique scent. Named the Queen Mary. A rose named the Queen Mary, and given the soil amendments I found in the stems, a safe bet to assume they were picked from the Queen Mary’s Gardens, notorious for their rare rose selection.”

I took the flowers from him and turned them over in my hands, then looked up at him. I ignored the dire situation, I ignored the slightly worrying callous glee Sherlock had, and I smiled. My reaction seemed to take him by surprise, because his face fell into slight confusion, and he blinked at me.

“You’re brilliant. Truly brilliant, you know,” I told him, setting the roses on the table. “Right, then. John needs us. Let’s-“

“You are not coming with me, Laicee,” he informed me, dropping the slightly-awed attitude and immediately snapping back to his abrasive Holmes manner. I stared at him in disbelief as he pocketed his phone and made to leave. I snagged his coat and pulled him to a stop.

“You’re joking, right?” I said, giving a short laugh as I stared up at him. His eyes flickered down, and then immediately moved off of me.

“This is very dangerous, and after all that’s happened-“

“After all that’s happened, I’m more than capable of coming along with you,” I said vehemently, crossing my arms. The thought of Sherlock disappearing along with John tightened my stomach; I wouldn't allow it. “John needs us, and I want to help him. What happens if you go off alone, and there’s no one there to help you?”

“You sound as if I’m incapable of handling my own,” he said coolly, and I snorted.

“Take it how you want it, but you’re not going alone.”

“It shouldn’t matter to you if I’m in danger-“ he began, but for once, I was the one that cut him off.

“Well you know what? It does matter, Sherlock Holmes. I care very much if you’re in danger, because I think it would ruin me if anything ever happened to you, especially if I could help it,” I blurted out without thinking, my voice breaking at the end. I tightened my jaw in an attempt to force the tears of frustration and angst back, but it was no use. I hadn't exactly wanted to come clean like that, but apparently my mouth had a mind of its own. “I don’t want-“ I tried, but my voice wouldn’t let me continue. I broke off and swallowed hard, angrily wiping the stray tear off my cheek.

Sherlock’s gaze didn’t soften, but now he turned completely to face me. There was a cold fire in his eyes, one that burned straight to my core and made my breath hitch. He closed the space between us, cupping my cheek and reaching down with his other hand to link his fingers with mine.

“It kills me every single time I see you in pain, every time I see that someone has hurt you, every single time I find you broken and bloodied and alone,” he said, his voice low and rushed, almost uncharacteristically passionate. “Which has happened more times that it ever should have. I have died many times over you, Laicee Bennett, and I will not do so again if I can help it. You will be staying here, if for no other reason that to assure me that when I return with John, you will be waiting for me, safe and unharmed for once.”

“I want to come with you-“ I began, but he never gave me the chance to finish speaking. Sherlock pressed his lips to mine, and I pressed back. The kiss was powerful, pulling the breath from me and making my legs weaken. His hand dropped from my cheek to my waist, and he held me firmly against him, keeping me upright.

His hand played with mine, his fingers tracing light designs on the inside of my wrist. I lifted my free hand and brushed my fingers along his jaw, then entangled them in his curls.

We staggered back half a step, breathing heavily into the kiss; my back hit the mantle of the fireplace, and he pressed me roughly against it, holding me in place. My mind was clouding over, my emotions in an uproar as I kissed Sherlock Holmes.

And then something hard and cold snapped around my wrist, and my eyes shot open. Sherlock pulled his arm from my waist and broke the kiss as he reached back and clamped the other half of the handcuffs to the pillar of the fireplace.

He had chained me up inside the flat.

“You insufferable, heartless dick,” I snarled, lunging for him. The cuffs snagged tight and pulled me to a startling halt, my hand falling short of grabbing the front of his shirt. He quirked an eyebrow at me as he buttoned his coat, shaking his curls back from his face.

“Don’t you dare leave me like this,” I warned, clenching my fists as Sherlock turned and headed out of the flat.

“Don’t wait up, Laicee,” he called, traipsing down the stairs.

“Sherlock! Sherlock! SHERLOCK HOLMES! UNCUFF ME RIGHT NOW! YOU UNBELIEVABLE PRAT!” I bellowed at the empty hallway, tugging angrily at the cuffs. When I heard the sound of a cab pulling away from the front door, I let out a snarl and shouted out,

“MRS. HUDSON! COME LET ME OUT!”

There was no response; either Sherlock had tied her down as well, or she had left for the evening. I turned my attention to the handcuffs; he’d done them tight enough so that I couldn’t weasel my hand free. The wood of the mantel was thick, and I knew that I had a better chance of breaking the handcuffs than I did of splintering the wood.

“Unbelievable, conniving little fuck,” I snarled to myself, continuing to yank my wrist against the cuff. I winced as the metal began to dig into my skin, but I didn’t care. The pain was nothing compared to the worry and fury welling up inside me; if I got free, I couldn’t decide if I’d hunt him down to keep him safe or kill him myself.

I’d been wrestling with the cuffs for a good twenty minutes; the skin around the cuffs was cut and bleeding, raw from my futile attempts at freedom. I’d taken to leaning back against the cuffs and pushing against the fireplace, attempting to break the metal, when I heard the front door burst open.

“Sherlock, so help you, if you don’t get your skinny manipulative arse up here with the keys, I swear on my mum’s grave I’ll rip out your skull and beat you to death!” I shrieked, twisting desperately as the cuffs refused to give way.

I heard rushed footsteps hurrying towards me, and I put on my most furious face for Sherlock to meet. The door was shoved open, and the last person I had expected to see tonight came stumbling inside, his gun drawn, his face contorted into angst and confusion.

John’s eyes met mine, and both of our faces fell into one mutual look of what the fuck is going on?

“Laicee, you’re not dead-“ John stammered, the same time I managed to say,

“You’re certainly don’t look like you’re being held captive.”

For a moment, we just stared at one another; we didn’t break eye contact until I accidently shifted to the side, forcing the cuff to dig into my bone. I winced and righted myself, relieving the pressure as John crossed to me. I expected a borage of questions, but he said nothing.

John simply pulled me into his arms and held me to his chest. His sudden burst of affection took me off guard, but I didn’t hesitate to return it. After thinking he was being tortured in the hands of Moriarty, there was nothing more comforting than holding onto his rain-soaked jumper and burying my face in his shoulder.

“Why would you tell me something like that, Lace?” John murmured into my hair.

“What? Do what?” I asked him, pulling back a bit to look up at him. Now that I could clearly see his face, I could tell he’d been crying. A lot. He frowned down at me and reached into his pocket, then held up his phone. The text on his screen made my stomach drop; not just because of what it said, but because of who had supposedly said it.

From: Laicee
Left you a surprise in the flat, Johnny boy. Shame it had to end like this. She was so pretty. Enjoy cleaning the mess I made. –JM

I pulled back from John as I pushed his phone into his hand, digging out my own from my pocket and pulling up my messages.

“I never sent you that, I swear,” I told him quickly. “And Moriarty didn’t have it. It’s been on me all day. Well, except when Sherlock had it in the freezer-“

I cut off, ignoring the puzzled expression on John’s face. I heard movement downstairs, but before I could panic, I identified the voice drifting upstairs.

“She’s not down here,” Lestrade called up; his voice snapped John out of his confusion.

“No, I- I found her, she’s up here, she’s okay,” he called, staring at me as I heard Lestrade race up the stairs.

“Lace, what’s the matter?” John asked, resting his hands on my shoulders. I looked up at him and said quietly,

“Sherlock got a text from Moriarty, sent from your phone. He thought you were being held, but you’re fine. You got a text from my phone, sent by Moriarty, thinking I was dead. He was distracting us.”

John and I locked eyes as Lestrade and Donovan came into the flat. They were asking questions, but John and I didn’t hear them. All we could comprehend was the painful truth that had just been laid out in front of us.

“He was preoccupying us, getting us out of the way,” John murmured, his face paling.

“Keeping me and you out of the equation while he lured Sherlock into his trap,” I whispered, beginning to feel sick.

Sherlock was right; Moriarty had made his move.