Save Yourself
Past
Loud footsteps above my head abruptly woke me. I sat up in the bed, rubbing my eyes. Thankfully, it was nearly noon. Otherwise, I would have to go upstairs and possibly kill either of those men.
I showered and dressed, then went into the hall to find Mrs. Hudson. Her door was open and as soon as she saw me, she began offering me breakfast. Being terribly broke, naturally I accepted. We sat down at her small table, I could hear John and Sherlock discussing something loudly, followed by John running down the hall and slamming the front door. I thanked Mrs. Hudson for breakfast before closing her door and walking in the hallway to check and see if the newspaper had arrived.
"Looking for this?" Sherlock's deep and unmistakable voice came from behind me. He was holding the newspaper, evidently he'd already read it.
"Yes, how'd you know?"
"Papercuts on your fingers. You read the newspaper every morning, even if you have to steal it."
"I'd been told you were like that. You pay attention to things, don't you?"
"More than your average person."
"What else can you tell me, Sherlock?" I asked, walking towards him up the stairs, curious to see what the inside of his home looked like. He motioned for me to step inside, I caught the scent of his cologne as I passed. He smelled wonderful.
"People usually tell me to piss off when I do this, are you sure you want me to?" Sherlock asked, closing his door and following me to the sitting area. I sat on a small couch and he sat across from me in a lounge chair.
"I'm not most people."
He paused for a moment, "No, no you're not."
"Hm, well then?"
"Well, as I said, the papercuts tell me you read the newspaper every morning, I can tell it's the newspaper by the ink on your fingers - something a book wouldn't do. Clearly you're not very wealthy by the fact you're living in the wet flat underneath me, clearly American - travelling to another country without enough money to regularly buy a newspaper, very little furniture - you're probably running from something. There are fresh wounds on your wrists, you tried to cover them up with sweaters, but I saw them when you were looking through the mail. The scars on your neck you've long forgotten about, so you don't try to cover those up. Though, they are the same type of injuries, so that suggests you'd been around the person - or persons - causing them for a long amount of time, probably a family member or boyfriend. However, the fact a ring was on your finger long enough to leave a tanline, but it's been removed long enough to slowly start fading suggests a boyfriend."
I stared at Sherlock, not sure what to say.
"I can see why most people say that," I sighed, not realizing the extent of his analyzing, "But I asked for it."
"Are you still running from him?"
"Who?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.
"Your ex-fiance. The one who tied you up and beat you, breaking your fingers with a hammer. The reason you came here."
My chest contracted and I felt my heart start skipping, I wasn't sure what to say again. It wasn't something I was ready to confront or talk about. I had no idea someone would be able to guess that. Every second I would look over my shoulder, expecting to see Derek. But Sherlock, this new person... I had no idea he'd bring it back to my attention.
"Yes, I am." I finally answered.
"I may be able to assist you."
"I've spoken to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock," I said, standing in front of him, "And she's told me you've done some things, but... This was out of the police's hands. This was out of the FBI's hands. There's nothing that can be done."
"I'm better than them." He grinned.
"Thanks, but no thanks. I can't let another person get hurt because of me."
I headed out of the door, expecting Sherlock to say something, but he said nothing and continued to stare at the wall behind me. The sudden reminder of everything I'm running from hit me like a brick. I opened my door, but found myself unable to continue walking, leaning against the archway as I began shaking and crying.
Hands wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me back to my feet and leading me toward my bed. I didn't want to open my now-red-and-puffy eyes, but I didn't have to. I could detect it was Sherlock by his cologne I'd smelled earlier. From everything I'd heard, I was incredibly surprised this stranger had come downstairs to help me.
Sherlock said nothing, but gently pushed me back onto the bed, throwing a blanket I didn't recognize - it must be from his home - over me. He stared at me for a moment, a strange expression I couldn't place on his face, before leaving the room and closing the door.
What the hell just happened?
I sat up in the bed, my hands running over the soft material he'd placed on top of me. It was excellent quality, something I could never afford. I felt the sense Sherlock wasn't very good with emotions or words and assumed this was his way of trying to tell me he wasn't blowing me off, or something like that. Or maybe he pitied the fact I'd not yet bought a blanket of my own. Either way, I wasn't ready to face him again knowing what he knew about my past, nor could I face the dozens of people I had to call to attempt to find a job. I decided to drift away into a nap, feeling the soft material on top of me and listening to the steady footsteps above me, finding comfort in knowing - strange as he may be - I'd begun the slow adventure of making a friend in Sherlock - and he was right above me.
I showered and dressed, then went into the hall to find Mrs. Hudson. Her door was open and as soon as she saw me, she began offering me breakfast. Being terribly broke, naturally I accepted. We sat down at her small table, I could hear John and Sherlock discussing something loudly, followed by John running down the hall and slamming the front door. I thanked Mrs. Hudson for breakfast before closing her door and walking in the hallway to check and see if the newspaper had arrived.
"Looking for this?" Sherlock's deep and unmistakable voice came from behind me. He was holding the newspaper, evidently he'd already read it.
"Yes, how'd you know?"
"Papercuts on your fingers. You read the newspaper every morning, even if you have to steal it."
"I'd been told you were like that. You pay attention to things, don't you?"
"More than your average person."
"What else can you tell me, Sherlock?" I asked, walking towards him up the stairs, curious to see what the inside of his home looked like. He motioned for me to step inside, I caught the scent of his cologne as I passed. He smelled wonderful.
"People usually tell me to piss off when I do this, are you sure you want me to?" Sherlock asked, closing his door and following me to the sitting area. I sat on a small couch and he sat across from me in a lounge chair.
"I'm not most people."
He paused for a moment, "No, no you're not."
"Hm, well then?"
"Well, as I said, the papercuts tell me you read the newspaper every morning, I can tell it's the newspaper by the ink on your fingers - something a book wouldn't do. Clearly you're not very wealthy by the fact you're living in the wet flat underneath me, clearly American - travelling to another country without enough money to regularly buy a newspaper, very little furniture - you're probably running from something. There are fresh wounds on your wrists, you tried to cover them up with sweaters, but I saw them when you were looking through the mail. The scars on your neck you've long forgotten about, so you don't try to cover those up. Though, they are the same type of injuries, so that suggests you'd been around the person - or persons - causing them for a long amount of time, probably a family member or boyfriend. However, the fact a ring was on your finger long enough to leave a tanline, but it's been removed long enough to slowly start fading suggests a boyfriend."
I stared at Sherlock, not sure what to say.
"I can see why most people say that," I sighed, not realizing the extent of his analyzing, "But I asked for it."
"Are you still running from him?"
"Who?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.
"Your ex-fiance. The one who tied you up and beat you, breaking your fingers with a hammer. The reason you came here."
My chest contracted and I felt my heart start skipping, I wasn't sure what to say again. It wasn't something I was ready to confront or talk about. I had no idea someone would be able to guess that. Every second I would look over my shoulder, expecting to see Derek. But Sherlock, this new person... I had no idea he'd bring it back to my attention.
"Yes, I am." I finally answered.
"I may be able to assist you."
"I've spoken to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock," I said, standing in front of him, "And she's told me you've done some things, but... This was out of the police's hands. This was out of the FBI's hands. There's nothing that can be done."
"I'm better than them." He grinned.
"Thanks, but no thanks. I can't let another person get hurt because of me."
I headed out of the door, expecting Sherlock to say something, but he said nothing and continued to stare at the wall behind me. The sudden reminder of everything I'm running from hit me like a brick. I opened my door, but found myself unable to continue walking, leaning against the archway as I began shaking and crying.
Hands wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me back to my feet and leading me toward my bed. I didn't want to open my now-red-and-puffy eyes, but I didn't have to. I could detect it was Sherlock by his cologne I'd smelled earlier. From everything I'd heard, I was incredibly surprised this stranger had come downstairs to help me.
Sherlock said nothing, but gently pushed me back onto the bed, throwing a blanket I didn't recognize - it must be from his home - over me. He stared at me for a moment, a strange expression I couldn't place on his face, before leaving the room and closing the door.
What the hell just happened?
I sat up in the bed, my hands running over the soft material he'd placed on top of me. It was excellent quality, something I could never afford. I felt the sense Sherlock wasn't very good with emotions or words and assumed this was his way of trying to tell me he wasn't blowing me off, or something like that. Or maybe he pitied the fact I'd not yet bought a blanket of my own. Either way, I wasn't ready to face him again knowing what he knew about my past, nor could I face the dozens of people I had to call to attempt to find a job. I decided to drift away into a nap, feeling the soft material on top of me and listening to the steady footsteps above me, finding comfort in knowing - strange as he may be - I'd begun the slow adventure of making a friend in Sherlock - and he was right above me.