Sherlocked

John

The atmosphere at 221B Baker Street grew more and more glum as the days wore on, ticking down to the ball, which Rose seemed determined to go to, if for no other reason than to distract her from her taciturn and brilliant flat mate.

She called into work and got more shifts, so I didn’t see much of her, but when she was here she spend most of her time packing boxes and researching flats online. She was serious about leaving.

Sherlock disappeared whenever she entered a room, which happened often as she spent a lot of time sitting on the couch that was her makeshift bed, surfing the web and trying to busy herself by watching crap telly. Whenever she left, he would immediately return and stare at the spot where she had been moments before with enough concentration that made me think he was almost trying to will her back to the spot if only so he could run away again.

Sherlock ate even less than usual, whether it be from his own mercurial eating habits or the fact that the food was made by Rose and thus reminded him of her, I did not pretend to know. I suspected it was a little bit of both.

When the evening of the party came, Sherlock was locked in his room changing, and Rose emerged from her room, which I told her she should use until she moved out, looking radiant. It was the first time I had ever seen her in an ensemble that didn’t involve jeans. She was wearing a pale pink gauzy gown that came down just past her knees. It was a strapless number that exposed her pale, slender shoulders and long legs. She wore nude flats. She wasn’t a heels type of girl, and I sort of appreciated that about her. Maybe it was just because I was short. She wore minimal makeup, looking classy and beautiful. Any man would be mad not to think she was gorgeous. She put on a pale gold mask that tied in a cream colored bow at the back of her head, framing her kohl lined eyes.

Rose caught me staring and smiled shyly. “I’m going to get going. I think Lestrade is expecting me to dance with him,” she said, putting on her coat and picking up her clutch before leaving the flat, rose scented perfume drifting behind her.

Sherlock emerged shortly afterward, wearing a tuxedo, but still refusing to wear a tie. He stopped in his tracks on the way to the door, obviously catching a whiff of Rose’s perfume, and shook his head as if to rid his head of the scent. She took his coat and left without saying a word to me.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Rose

The cab dropped me off and I walked up the steps, telling the bouncer my name before he let me pass. A man in a bow tie took my coat and checked it under my name, giving me a ticket for it, which I put into my clutch.

I entered a huge ballroom, full of twinkling fairy lights and chandeliers. A live big band played jazz music, and along the walls were tables laden with delicacies.

“Miss Sparks!” a familiar voice called, and I turned to find Greg Lestrade in a tuxedo standing next to Anderson and Donovan, who I had met briefly during one of Sherlock’s cases.

I walked over to them, and Lestrade kissed me on the cheek. “You look absolutely stunning,” he said, and I suspected he already partook in the party’s open bar. He had abandoned his mask long ago, and it sat discarded on the table next to various finger foods.

“Thank you,” I said, and Lestrade took my hand, ushering me onto the dance floor. He was surprisingly good, and even knew some swing dancing. He guided me and I briefly forgot my troubles until I spotted Sherlock from the corner of my eye as he walked into the ballroom.

The song ended, and I excused myself, going to he bar and getting a glass of champagne. The bar was conveniently placed on the other end of the large ballroom.

Sherlock and I were some of the later arrivers; the room was crowded with groups of laughing people and dancers and couples. I easily lost myself in the crowd, wanting to avoid Sherlock at all costs.

“May I have this dance?” a voice asked from behind me as a slower number started to play.

I turned to find Mycroft standing in front of me in a well-tailored tuxedo and a plain black mask. I smiled thinly at him before taking his hand as he led me out onto the dance floor, dangerously close to where Sherlock stood by Lestrade, looking out of place in the crowd. He too had either abandoned his mask or never bothered to buy one.

I looked away quickly, not wanting Sherlock to notice I had been watching him. Mycroft, on the other hand, did notice.

“Trouble in Paradise, I see,” he said snidely.

“That’s really none of your business,” I snapped. I had always managed to be in control of my emotions, especially in the face of someone like Mycroft. However, I seemed to be out of patience.

Mycroft came closer to whisper in my ear, “I’d hate to say I told you so…”

“But you have said it, so clearly you don’t hate is much as you would like to believe. Excuse me,” I said, stepping away from him. I turned to walk away and saw Sherlock watching me. He looked away as our eyes met, and I found myself wishing I hadn’t left the house.

I retreated away from the Holmes boys and started to make my way back over to the bar when I felt a hand grab at my elbow.

“Care to share a dance with me, gorgeous?” a familiar voice asked, and I turned to decline when my eyes met with a pair of cold dark eyes peering out from behind a black mask as slick and shiny as a pool of oil. “It’s Jim, by the way. Jim Moriarty.”

Adrenaline shot through my veins and I jerked away from his hand, only to have him clamp his hand down with bruising force.

“Where’s your boyfriend, Rosaline?” he asked, his voice saying my name in a way that made my flesh crawl.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said absently, my eyes already scanning the room for Sherlock. I had wanted so badly to avoid him, but now I was desperate to have him here with me. He would know what to do.

“Tell me, is it Sherlock, or that bloke you sent packing a while back with a bloody nose?”

I turned back on him, anger seeping through my voice as I spat, “You stay away from Aaron.” He was a cheating bastard, but he didn’t deserve to get tangled with Moriarty.

“Tooooo late,” he said in a sing-songy voice. I felt his hand brush over mine, and felt cold metal on my skin. I looked down and saw the ring Aaron had given me back on my finger. My heart dropped into my stomach. Aaron held onto the ring when I gave it back to him before I left.

“The streets of London can be a very dangerous place. I heard some vagrants in an alleyway mugged him. Beat him to death. Luckily I was able to save this for you,” he said, twisting the ring back and forth on my finger.

I could scream. I could get Sherlock’s attention somehow. I tried to pull myself from his grip again, but Moriarty pulled me close and hissed in my ear, “If you so much utter one syllable or try to cause a scene, I will have my man on the balcony put a bullet in your dear Sherlock’s skull.”

My eyes darted to the balcony that overlooked the ballroom, and a man peeked out from behind the velvet curtains. Moriarty shook his head at the man, and he disappeared back behind the curtain once more.

I felt sick to my stomach, knowing I was without hope. Moriarty smiled viciously and held an arm out to me. I slipped my arm through his and walked with him out of the building and around he corner, where men waited for us. One grabbed me, sticking me with something small and sharp, and my head swam before I lost consciousness.