Save Yourself

Days went by slowly and dull, heavily impacted by the ever-lingering rain outside. Sherlock and John were out of town again working on another case - I think I'd missed my invite. Sherlock insisted I stay at the flat and out of trouble, demanding I not get a job or anything else that could put me in more harms way. Derek already knew where I lived, so I didn't really see the issue with that, but I guess he's supposed to be the genius.

I'd helped myself to Sherlock's array of books, which ranged anywhere from short stories to complex anatomical encyclopedias. I'd always thought peoples homes were a great representation of themselves, which probably explained why mine was still half-empty and bare, with the exception of a few things from my leftover life. And, of course, the secret Sherlock gifts. A cough from the doorway abruptly jolted me from the book I was reading.

"Who-.. who are you?"

A tall, well-dressed man with a rather odd look on his face stared back at me. I was immediately terrified, absolutely certain he'd been sent by Derek.

"I should ask you the same question, sitting here in my brother's flat wearing only your... what is that, exactly?"

"They're pajamas," I huffed, standing up and closing the book, "Your Sherlock's brother? He never mentioned..."

"I doubt he's mentioned anything of his life, no?" I shook my head, the man smiled, "Thought so. I, of course, knew he wouldn't be here, but seeing you here is quite a surprise. Make sure he finds this, will you?"

The man handed me an envelope, which I placed on the table. As he turned to leave, he tilted his head back just enough to tell me one last thing.

"Whatever you do, don't trust my brother."

"Why's everyone keep telling me that?!" I asked, but he didn't answer. Just left me standing in the middle of his 'brother's' home, my once-good pajamas suddenly feeling silly. I picked the envelope back up, curious to know what was inside... but decided against it. Instead, I carried it to Sherlock's room, placing it gingerly on the table beside his bed.

Oh, his bed.

Suddenly, I felt like a school girl. Giggling at the sight of his bed, wondering what it would feel like wrapped up in the sheets. Wondering if there had possible been any other girls in there. I couldn't help but laugh to myself as I turned to close his door behind me, nearly running into the wall of a man, himself.

"Enjoying my bedroom, then?" Sherlock asked, that corner-mouth-grin playing on his face again. I already knew John wasn't around, these comments only came from him when we were alone.

"I was just leaving something your brother gave me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, now placing his hand on the wall right above my shoulder.

"Please tell me he didn't introduce himself."

"No," I answered, "But I do think he made fun of my pajamas... Maybe. I'm not sure."

"Mycroft has always had bad taste."

I ignored the comment, growing tired of trying to figure out if he was toying with me or actually flirting with me.

"He told me not to trust you."

"You shouldn't," Sherlock took a step closer, now inches from my face. Slowly, a long, pale finger brushed a hair from my head, "Really. I wouldn't trust me, either."

The hand that swept my hair back opened the bedroom door behind me and I began to back into it, Sherlock following. My mind didn't have time to process what was going on, it seemed as if we had gone into some trance of staring each other down. My hands found their way to the front of his coat, nearly pulling him towards me by the buttons. Standing on my tiptoes, I placed my mouth right next to his ear.

"I do trust you, Sherlock. Whether I should or shouldn't, whether you want me to or not, I trust you. I only hope that one day you can trust me back."

I backed away from Sherlock slowly, now focusing on his face. It was another strange expression, now he was staring at the floor. Part of me wanted to run from the room and forget about this moment like I had so many others, but the other half planted my feet firmly to the ground and knew I couldn't leave. For once, he seemed vulnerable.

"I've done terrible things you cannot imagine." He whispered, still not looking at me.

"So have I."

Sherlock from the ground to me, confused.

"We all do things we aren't proud of, Sherlock. There's rarely a person in this world who is proud of who they are, who will gallop around the streets screaming their love for themselves. But this is all we have. And you, most of all, have the greatest arrogant facade," My eyes began to well with tears, "It's always the mightiest who fall the hardest... Don't you know?"

"Oh, please don't cry, I hate it when you cry," His usual cold tone returned, but I knew he meant it in more than that, "I just...."

"What?" I asked, moving toward him again. I placed my hand on his, and for the first time my touch did not cause him to recoil. As much as I wanted, I didn't dare touch him more.

"It drives me insane not knowing your name, not knowing anything about you other than your scars. You have gone to... such great lengths to hide who you are, even I can only deduce a small amount. You drive me insane in... so many ways, but yet..."

"But yet?" I pressed.

"But yet I know I do not deserve you." Sherlock's face fell flat and he pulled his arm from me, suddenly tightening up again. The room seemed to grow darker. He began to walk away, grabbing his scarf from the table and throwing it around his neck. I rushed after him.

"Sherlock, wait," He paused, but didn't turn around. I knew we were both very confused and he couldn't face me, "It's Kara."

"Kara?"

"Kara Morgan. That's my name."

Sherlock turned to look at me for just a moment, mouthing the words Kara Morgan. The light half-smile appeared on his face, but he said no more. The smile disappeared in an instant, and he continued to rush down the stairs and out the door, leaving me standing in his flat alone, again, wearing my stupid pajamas and feeling like I'd either just been played or made an incredible breakthrough.