Vague Shadows

Soft fingers brushed the curls from Sherlock’s forehead, and his subconscious picked up the subtle scent of honey-and-vanilla hand cream. The scent tugged at him, pulling him deep from his drugged slumber, forcing him to surface into the conscious realm.

He could recognize that lotion anywhere the moment it was presented, especially in central London. It was a rare brand, very expensive, very unusual to find anywhere but southern Germany, Munich to be specific.

Laicee’s estranged aunt had sent her a bottle every Christmas since she was twelve, and it was the only lotion she wore. It was unique to Laicee; it was comforting to Sherlock.

The drugs weighed his eyelids down, but he forced them open, blinking wearily up at the one face he’d wanted to see at that moment. His room was dark, and though she was only a silhouette, it was enough. The soft glow from the hall lit Laicee’s face just right for Sherlock to see her eyes flick to his.

“Sorry to wake you,” she murmured, immediately withdrawing her hand with a sharp movement the moment she saw he’d woken up. It took him by surprise; she recoiled as if touching him caused her pain.

“You didn’t,” he assured in an easy lie. “What day is it?”

“Sunday. You’ve been out for almost twelve hours now,” she told him in a dismissive tone, grabbing a bottle of pills off his bedside table and pouring a couple out. “Here. Your tea is almost ready, I’ll be right back.”

He glanced at the pills, and then up at her as she paused by the door. She already knew the question at the front of his mind before he could articulate it.

“They’re just to help get the drugs out of your system.”

She didn’t offer him anything else besides the curt answer she called over her shoulder, and her tone made Sherlock worry. She seemed mad at him, and for once, his mind was drawing a blank. He couldn’t quite recall what had happened before he passed out, but it was clear he’d done something to agitate Laicee.

She returned a minute later, tea mug in hand. He took it silently and sniffed it carefully; she watched him and rolled her eyes.

“Fresh jasmine tea, two tablespoons of milk, one spoonful of honey. Stirred long enough for the honey to melt off, and I put a couple of chamomile leaves in because I know you like them.”

Sherlock was honestly speechless; he stared up at Laicee, brows raised, a quirk on his lips. It was clear she assumed she’d gotten something wrong. Immediately she reached to take it back.

“I’ll take the leaves out-“ she started, but Sherlock gently pushed her hands away.

“No, no. It’s perfect.” He took a sip of the tea, and an actual smile came to his face. “You made it perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she said with a small nod, turning away and smoothing down his blankets. It was if she didn’t want to meet his eyes. “Take your medicine.”

For once, Sherlock did as he was told; he’d upset her, and going against her wishes wouldn’t help him. He took the pills while he observed her, taking in all that he could gather in the dim lighting. Her clothes were lightly wrinkled and slightly unkempt; they were being worn for a second consecutive day. Paired with her half-hearted attempt to pull her hair into a bun, it was easy to deduce Laicee hadn’t been concerned with herself for a while.

As she wiped imaginary dirt off the sheets, he saw her nibbling idly on her lip. It was bad nervous habit she’d broken a while ago. The only time it came back was when her nightmares resurfaced. They went together; one was never without the other.

As she turned back to him to check he’d taken his pills, Sherlock could see deep circles beneath her light eyes, and his nightmare assumption was confirmed. She hadn’t been sleeping well. And, now that he was observing, he could tell that she was mad at him. The way she held herself, arms crossed over her chest defensively and her shoulders folded forward said all that she wouldn’t. Shifting her weight sporadically as he stared at her, eyes flickering around the room, breathing slightly quickened… she was indeed very agitated with him.

“I’ve done something,” he stated, setting his tea down. Laicee bit down a little too hard on her lip and winced, stopping her bad habit immediately.

“John says you’re to go straight back to bed,” she ordered, clearing her voice. “You’re still weak from the attack-“

“What happened?” Sherlock interrupted. Laicee began to nibble her lip again.

“Moriarty attacked you. Left you for dead. You were drugged and you need to sleep it off,” she answered a little too curtly. She wasn’t being completely honest, but it was clear she wouldn’t be opening up to him anytime soon. “So come on, don’t fuss. You’ve been sleeping well all day so don’t break the habit. Lay back down.”

“Have you been keeping watch over me all day?” Sherlock mused, raising a brow. Laicee scoffed and turned away, a hint of irritation in her emerald eyes.

“No. I’m not waiting on you hand and foot. I just came in to give you your medicine.”

The frustration in Laicee’s voice made Sherlock swallow hard; she’d never been so cold to him before. It was as if being near him upset her, and he didn’t enjoy the thought of that.

“Laicee, tell me what I’ve done-“

“If you don’t listen to me, I swear I’ll have John sedate you,” she threatened, and something told Sherlock she wasn’t even remotely joking. As Sherlock reluctantly slithered back under the covers, Laicee gave a firm nod.

“I’ll check on you in the morning.”

And with that, she turned on the spot and shut the door, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

***

It was very late into the night when Sherlock awoke again, the drugs having almost completely left his system by now. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of his room. The only light came from the hallway; his door had been propped open ever so slightly, and a lamp in the living room had been left on. Every now and then, a bolt of lightning illuminated the area, but the storm outside kept blessedly quite.

In the soft glow, Sherlock could see Laicee curled up on his old armchair. She’d moved it from the corner of the room to his bedside, and it looked as if that had been her permanent spot. Sherlock sat up quietly, observing her. She had been keeping her eye on him, and this gave him an unexplainable feeling inside of him.

Laicee was in a deep sleep, her head tucked down onto the armrest. She had a paper-thin throw blanket wrapped around her, and she huddled beneath it to keep warm. She didn’t look comfortable, not in the least, but it was obvious she wasn’t concerned about herself. His heart ached almost painfully, and it alarmed him. She was causing him this unease. The smallest gestures she performed continuously showed Sherlock how much she cared for him, and it proved to himself just how much he cared for her. The thought of having hurt one of the only people he held dear to him bothered Sherlock to the core.

As he watched her sleep, Laicee began to grow restless. She turned over on the chair and began to shiver. Her body curled up tighter, and Sherlock had a feeling what was happening.

“No,” Laicee whispered, her soft voice cutting through Sherlock’s mind. “Don’t, I’m sorry-“

Laicee flipped herself over, and Sherlock tensed; he could see tears streaming over her cheeks, and the sound of her whimpering for mercy made his stomach turn. It took him a moment to compose control over his drug-weakened muscles, but he managed to move to the edge of the bed.

“Laicee,” he murmured. She didn’t stir. “Laicee, wake up. It’s a dream. It’s only a dream. Wake up.”

“Please no,” she murmured, quivering beneath the flimsy throw blanket. “Mum, please, don’t do this-“

Sherlock leaned forward, doing his best not to fall off the bed, and rested his hand on Laicee’s arm.

“Lace-“ he began; before he could say her name, a burst of thunder exploded overhead. Laicee shot up in the chair, flinching into the throw blanket and away from his touch. Her eyes were wide with terror and the pain of her nightmare shone in their green reflection. The startlement had taken her so suddenly that she began to shiver from fear.

Sherlock held completely still, unsure of what to do. It took Laicee several moments to compose herself, and several more to realize that Sherlock was awake and attentive. She immediately tried to force the emotion off her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, getting up and hastily wiping the tears off her chin. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You’ve never dreamt of your mother before,” Sherlock noted softly, his voice nearly blending in with the storm outside. It wasn’t the best thing to say, but he had nothing else to offer as comfort, and he hoped that this would get a conversation going. Laicee swallowed hard, hesitating by the door. She couldn’t decide whether to leave and end this, or stay and pick up the conversation.

“I know that I am not the most.. compassionate person,” Sherlock began, almost unsure. “But I… I would like to help you, if I can.”

Laicee still said nothing, and Sherlock could sense he was right on the edge. In a moment, her decision would seal their relationship. Would she take his offer and open up to him, or shut herself off forever?

It was the moment that Laicee lifted her clear green eyes and met his gaze that Sherlock got his answer. The look on her face said all that he needed to hear.

“It’s my fault that you got hurt,” she said quietly, flinching as another crack of thunder exploded. “It’s my fault that Oliver is in jail. My fault that Lestrade doesn’t trust John anymore-“

“Laicee, please don’t-“ Sherlock started, but then Laicee’s voice caught, and her last whimpered sentence shattered Sherlock’s heart.

“It’s my fault my mum is dead, and I wish I could trade places with her.”

Sherlock did not hesitate as he shoved his blankets aside. He forced himself to the edge of the bed and then up onto his feet. For a moment, he swayed ominously, but the painful honesty in her words was enough to force him forward. When he reached her, he said nothing; he only looked down at her with a lost expression on his face.

Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled her into his arms and held her to his chest. The moment she fell into him, she began to cry. Her sobs were silent; her body shook as she drew in shaky breaths, her tears cutting through Sherlock’s shirt. He was not the consoling heart-to-heart guy that he needed to be, but his feelings for her seemed to guide his actions.

Gently, he led her over to his bed. While keeping a hold on her, he scooted himself back onto the mattress. Mustering all of his scattered strength, he tightened his hold around Laicee and lifted her up onto the bed as well. He laid down on his side and then tucked the sobbing girl to him, his arms shielding her from the world outside.