#sherlock/OFC

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 1

'A Case of Poison Ivy and Stinging Nettles'

“Very original title, John,” Sherlock snorted. John glared up at his friend, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"The whole case was about betrayal, plants, and pharmaceuticals," he shot back. "It's a clever title." "What about chemistry? There was plenty of chemistry." "Our client was a botanist," John rolled his eyes and continued typing at the laptop. "Don't worry, there's plenty of mention of your glorious prowess with chemical reactions."

On Ao3 

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC 

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 2

Chapter 1- Amelia 

~~~

Unlike most cases on this blog, Sherlock and I stumbled into this one quite accidentally.

Sherlock had made Mrs. Hudson upset, and when I revealed that it was her birthday, I quickly ushered him to the nearest florist.

That was where we met Amelia Brenner, the first person I'd ever known that spoke the language of the flowers fluently.

~~~

Amelia Brenner disliked the rain that so often plagued London. If she had a choice in the matter, she would have been back home, probably sunbathing on the rooftop of her Brooklyn apartment. Unfortunately, life had a cruel sense of humor, and that led to Amelia's present circumstances.

She often lamented that she was the one being punished for having done right by society, but the brief periods of sunshine that occasionally peaked through the London skyline, reminded her that this wasn't the all terrible exile she'd convinced herself it was.

Today, was one of those rare, beautiful, days.

And there were two grown men in the front of her flower shop bickering over which flowers they needed to purchase to appease their landlady.

“Roses are safe,” she suggested, eyes trailing to the clear sky outside longingly. “Red and yellow are happiness and excitement. Just yellow mean friendship.”

“I didn't realize flowers had their own language,” the shorter gentleman turned around with a nervous chuckle. He looked out of place, and clearly overwhelmed, but no so much as the dark-hair man beside him.

“Perfect, that'll do,” the second man shot in, visibly annoyed at the entire situation.

Amelia was just as eager to get the men out of her shop, and quickly moved to the side of the shop where she stored her roses in a refrigerator.

“Shouldn't we get her something more meaningful?” the shorter man asked, as Amelia's fingers nearly touch the stem of the yellow roses. She froze, throwing on a bright smile and turning around.

“Do you know what her favorite flowers are? We could add them to the rose bouquet,” she suggested, a passing child and their laughing friends running by with ice cream reminded her of her urgency to close up early for the day.

“God if I know,” the brunette shrugged impatiently. “John, you remember pointless things like that. Why don't you know?”

“You've known her longer, Sherlock,” the blonde, John, shot back. “Not once, have you gotten her a birthday present?”

“It didn't seem important,” he muttered, turning his attention to the numerous displays sitting in the shop window.

“I'm sorry, my friend is a bit difficult when it comes to any semblance of intimacy or emotional attachment,” John shot his turned away friend a scowl before approaching Amelia. “Are there any flowers that mean, 'beloved friend', or something similar?”

Amelia paused, half-tempted to just grab the yellow roses, but John seemed earnest in his request, despite the difficult behavior his friend was displaying.

“You know what...” Amelia moved toward a different section of the store where she had various flowers set in plastic vases for “do-it-yourself” bouquets. “Tell me about your landlady.”

“She's an older woman,” John started, hesitating slightly. “Very kind. Always has a cup of tea ready for you on a bad day.”

“Nosy, likes invading your personal space,” Sherlock chimed in.

“It's because you do things like shoot bullets through walls,” John reminded him tersely. “She gets concerned.”

Amelia plucked a few coreopsis, orange geraniums, and a large sunflower. Grabbing a few sprigs of sage and some Queen Anne's lace for accents, she moved to the main counter and dug through her drawers for a crystal vase she'd seen laying around.

It didn't take long for her to take the random assortment of flowers and turn them into a gorgeous display of yellows and orange. The white accents of the lace, pulled the whole thing together in a practical, tasteful way.

“What do they all mean?” John asked, glancing up from the card Amelia had given him to fill out and attach to the bouquet.

“Queen Anne's lace means sanctuary,” Amelia lightly touched the small white flowers. “A short sunflower means adoration, geraniums mean true friendship, sage means wisdom, and corepsis mean always cheerful.”

“That's perfect,” John practically beamed up at her, signing both his and Sherlock's name to the bottom of the card.

Amelia rang up his purchase, giving the men a small discount because she felt a little bad about their circumstances. Especially, once John went into more detail about exactly what it was his friend had done (something about a snippy comment about the woman's sweater).

“You said a short sunflower means adoration, what does a tall one mean?” Sherlock spoke up, looking quite uncomfortable as John shoved the vase into his hands.

Amelia had to bite her bottom lip to keep down the giggle that wanted to erupt with her response. She swallowed it down, turning it into a cough before coolly responding.

“Haughtiness.”

John snorted a laugh and ushered Sherlock out of the store before the taller man could make a comment. He thanked Amelia again over his shoulder and was gone in a flash.

Amelia quickly ran to the front door, flipping over the open sign to “closed”, and locked it in place. She looked at her watch and calculated she had about three hours until the sun began to set, giving her plenty of time to sit in the green house she'd constructed on the roof, and take in a bit of the sunshine with her plants.

She tided up the shop, humming an excited tune under her breath while she cashed out the register and wiped down the counters. All was going smoothly until a very urgent visitor began pounding at her front door.

Thinking she'd forgotten an order, or perhaps John or Sherlock had dropped something, she unlocked the door and swung it open.

What Amelia hadn't anticipated was the front end of a pistol to bed shoved into her chest and a group of three men to storm into her tiny space.

The last man in quickly closed the door behind him, while the other two started pulling down blinds, the gun still trained on a stunned Amelia.

“Can I help you?” she stammered, her hands up in defense, trying to think of an escape plan through the fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins. The backdoor was too far. There weren't any nearby windows.

She was stuck.

One of the men kicked down a display. Gerbera daisies scattered across the floor in a splash of color that the man quickly stepped on, and twisted his foot. He chuckled at Amelia's face, distorted in distress at the careless handling of the flowers she'd dedicated her free time to.

“The data set,” the man with the gun snarled. Amelia noticed he was missing a front tooth, and that had distracted her considerably. He fired a bullet near her feet, repeating his question.

“I have no idea what that means,” she whimpered in response. The men were working their way around the shop, kicking over display, stomping on flowers, and pouring lighter fluid over their destroyed remains.

“Don't play dumb sweetheart, it's not a good look,” he stepped closer, pressing the tip of the weapon into her cheek. “The data set with the clinical trial results. A mutual friend wants it back.”

Amelia continued feigning ignorance, despite knowing precisely what data set he was referring to. It was safely tucked away in a deposit box, across town, under an assumed name.

“I just deal in flowers,” she insisted, a small sob pulling from her chest as they continued to demolished her little shop. “If you look to the bottom of your boots, that's the pretty stuff you're destroying.”

“Don't get cheeky with me,” the man with the gun snapped back. "An American in London, setting up shop just after the biggest data breach in Chemco's history..."

“And what are you going to do about it? Shoot me?” Amelia regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. The small wave of confidence immediately fading while he moved forward. He pulled his hand back and hit her across the face with the end of his weapon.

“Am I interrupting something?” a voice asked, just familiar enough where Amelia caught her breath when she identified the source.

The king of sunflowers himself, standing in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest.

Sherlock Holmes.

“You'd be wise to turn around and pretend you haven't seen a thing,” the man with the gun aimed it toward Sherlock with a wicked grin. “This doesn't have to involve you.”

“I see,” he hummed, his eyes trailing over the scene, falling on Amelia and what she assumed was a large bruise forming under her eye. “Unfortunately, I left my mobile at the register, so if someone would be so inclined?”

The man closest to Amelia threw an elbow in her side, shoving her toward the register.

“Go on then,” he hissed, his weapon still aimed at the newcomer.

Amelia practically jumped at the touch, slowly edging her way toward the register. There was no cell phone left behind. No one had time to ask questions, because during the lull in the room, Sherlock moved.

With a crack, he smashed a large vase over the man with the gun. The goon collapsed on the floor with a grunt, the other two men moving into action with swinging fists.

Sherlock dodged the attacks, throwing one man into the counter top and knocking the other to the floor unconscious with a swift punch.

He looked up at Amelia, brow arched in question.

“Why does it smell like petrol?” he asked, an instant before one of the men tossed a lighter across the floor to Amelia's destroyed daisies.

Amelia bounded across the space in a flurry, catching him by the waist, and tackling him through the shop's open door to the busy street outside. She rolled across the ground, only being caught by the shoulder before hitting the curb.

It didn't take long for the shop to erupt into flames, the lighter fluid speeding up the consumption which the plants happily provided.

Dazed, Amelia and Sherlock gaped from outside as smoke billowed from the building.

Pedestrians screamed or stopped to get a better look. Somewhere in her muddled mind, Amelia heard someone calling the fire department.

“There's a green house on the roof,” Sherlock murmured. “Do you have fertilizer in the building?”

She sure did. Right by the register and tucked away in the workroom. She was going to bring it up that day.

Amelia's eyes widened at the realization, and it didn't take her new companion long to determine the answer.

Practically lifting her from their position, he dragged her stumbling across the street just as the first explosion sounded through the block, sending glass shattering across the area.

Dropping to the ground, covered in soot, small cuts, and dirt, Amelia looked to him and sighed.

“Thanks,” she said, resting her head against the brick building they ended on, and watching what little happiness she'd obtained burn to the ground. Go figure.

Fire sirens wailed through the block, firemen ushered passerby's out of the way, and before long, Sherlock and Amelia were scooped up by EMTs.

When she was patched up, an officer took her to Scotland Yard for a statement.

Amelia told the officers investigating that it had been a robbery gone wrong. No, she didn't know why they wanted to destroy her shop. She grew daisies and wrapped roses, why would she understand why they threw lighter fluid around the place? Of course it was reasonable that fertilizer was in a flower shop. She grew her own flowers after all.

Eventually, she was released from Scotland Yard, exhausted from the day, but with no where to go, considering her apartment was above the shop.

She had money in the bank, but her debit card and ID had been under the register when the shop caught fire. It was going to take some time before she could get what she needed to book out a hotel room. One of the officers had given her an address to a hostel they recommended to fire victims until things were settled, but the idea of something so public made Amelia nervous. She already wasn't thrilled that the news had covered the fire.

“Why lie to the police?” a baritone voice asked over her shoulder. Amelia nearly jumped out of her skin at the presence, whipping her head around and finding Sherlock standing a few meters away.

“Excuse me?” Amelia wasn't sure if she'd heard him correctly, her mind numb and tired from the days events. She just wanted a shower and a fresh change of clothes, not the second degree from this vigilante ninja detective.

“You lied to the police, you said it was a robbery,” he repeated, taking a few steps toward her, his blue eyes skimming over her face. “You're a bad liar, and that obviously wasn't a normal robbery. They were looking for something specific.”

Amelia had over heard some of the officers at the station talking about Sherlock when she revealed he had been the one who had saved her. When she asked the officer taking her statement, he just shrugged and said that he was a consultant to the Yard, but others certainly had stronger feelings about the subject.

Amelia looked around the street, largely empty aside from a few taxis and a couple walking along the sidewalk across the road.

“Fine, I'll bite,” she replied. “I'm in possession of some important research regarding a drug that's about to be finalized by the FDA and the NHS.”

“I'd venture to guess this research isn't beneficial to the company?” he asked.

“They blew up my shop and pistol whipped me,” Amelia laughed bitterly, her hand moving to touch the swollen spot on her face. “It certainly isn't rainbows and sunshine cures.”

He paused, considering her words before speaking again.

“Do you know who sent the men?” he asked, and Amelia shrugged, exhaustion continuing to creep over her. She still smelled like smoke and gasoline, her arms and clothes still ripped and black. Not that she could do anything about it.

“I'm assuming the CEO,” Amelia replied, a hint of irritation was rising in her voice as she realized how hopeless her night was going to be.

“And why would a CEO become personally involved in a bad publicity matter?” he inquired. It was a reasonable question, and Amelia might have avoided specifics but she was in no mood to play games, and it seemed this guy was going to get his answers eventually. Besides, she owed him some explanation for saving her life.

“Because she's my mother.”

Chapter 2

[maryholmes94]

One of the problems which I confront while writing my Sherlock/OFC story is the necessity of making Sherlock's love not like Mycroft's love, which means not like Molly. And that's the tricky one: on the one hand, they are brothers and alike in many ways, but on the other hand, they are very different - and so are their loved ones. I think I'm handling this not bad, but to have some readers' opinions would be great - after all, this is what fandom is about.

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 14

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 13 - Chapter 15

Chapter 14- Asphodel

~~~

They’re both idiots. Emotionally stunted idiots with only concern for the world and never for themselves.

~~~

The viewing had gone as well as could be expected. Sherlock had to admit, whoever patched the hole in the back of Maxwell’s head had done a spectacular job.

Amelia hung back, chatting politely with family, and Sherlock noticed that she never went up to the casket before it was sealed up and the memorial was moved to the gravesite outside.

Hugging her cousin as the family moved, she whispered something in Ruth’s ear that made the other chuckle quietly.

She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, and when Sherlock arrived at the graveyard, Amelia was gone.

He realized that in all the fuss and bustle, she must have slipped away before the actual memorial began.

She hadn’t been missed, the focus falling on Ruthie and her family, occasionally Lydia. Once the body was in the ground, and people began lingering around for condolences, he went for the gardens. He was positive this time he would find his friend there, as the house was being prepped for a large dinner.

Sure enough, Amelia was sat up under a tree, bundled in her winter jacket, with a sketchbook propped in her lap. She didn’t notice him approach, and barely reacted when he sat down next to her,’ glancing at the picture she was drawing.

“Asphodel,” she explained without looking up. She shaded in the stems, pausing with the end of her pencil between her lips. “A bundle means ‘my regrets follow you into the grave’.”

“Seems appropriate,” he commented.

“Burials freak me out,” she admitted. “And I couldn’t listen to the priest talk about what a great guy he was. I mean, maybe he was for a while, but he did nearly kill John.”

“And you,” Sherlock reminded her. She made a noise under her breath, dismissing his commentary.

“It’s so permanent,” she continued, her sketching a little more intense as she spoke. “Buried in the ground.”

“Flowers sprout from the ground,” Sherlock reminded her quietly. She didn’t react immediately, considering his words before she furrowed her brow in thought.

“Exactly, they spout and grow and become beautiful things,” she lowered her sketchbook to look at him directly. “A coffin just sits there. The body bloats and decays, contributing nothing and warping and bleh.”

“I’ll be sure to plant some nice roses over your body when the time comes,” he smirked.

“But that’s more productive,” she pointed at him with her pencil. “Roses thrive with bonemeal and blood. They love it.”

“I can assure you comfortably,” his smirk grew wider. “You’ll be very much unaware of your surroundings when your time comes. Dead people tend not to complain about their accommodations in my experience.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she poked his arm with her pencil. “Otherwise I’ll haunt you.”

“Ghosts aren’t real, but I’d be willing to see you try and prove otherwise.”

She snorted a laugh under her breath, folding her sketchbook shut.

“Did you see my great-aunt Marge?” she asked in a low voice.

“Is she the one who threw herself over the body?” he questioned in amusement.

“Yep,” she nodded. “She’s been complaining about not getting a cent in my grandpa’s will for decades now. Seems to think Ruthie’s gonna cut her a check today. Her son’s been playing boo-hoo all day too.”

“He called Tommy, ‘Johnny’,” Sherlock supplied, earning a fit of giggles from her. It was far more peaceful in the gardens, even if the plants were mostly bare in anticipation of the upcoming winter weather. There were certainly fewer fake criers.

“Should we even stay for dinner?” she asked, cringing at the thought. “I think I heard Mycroft and my mother are leaving soon.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock muttered, visibly relieved. He was not looking forward to holding his tongue around these people for a few more hours. Aunt Marge alone was enough to provide him snide comments for the next few weeks. “I can be packed in ten minutes.”

Amelia hopped up eagerly, offering a gloved hand and pulling Sherlock to his feet.

“Make it five and we can stop for Indian on the way back.”

~~~

Returning home was uneventful. Both Amelia and Sherlock agreed that it was a bit of a relief not to be staring danger in the face the whole time. It’d been a long few hours, but immediately upon passing the threshold of Baker Street, they were energized again.

Home was home, after all.

John and Mrs. Hudson greeted them with homemade chicken soup, the pair dropping into the kitchen chairs and devouring the meal.

“How has Ruthie held up?” Mrs. Hudson inquired, pouring tea for everyone once they’d finished eating, and moved to the living room.

“As well as you did during your husband's trial,” Sherlock replied briskly. “Favouring the grape, so to speak.”

“To be fair,” Amelia cut in, scowling at Sherlock. “She’s had a chaotic few weeks. I’d be drunk too.”

“But you haven’t been,” Sherlock pointed out. “Comparably, you’ve had a chaotic few months.”

“I have some old whiskey in the pantry. Is that your blessing, Sherlock? Or shall I start spending the nights in the pub with Jessica Reynolds?”

“You two are always at each other,” Mrs. Hudson tutted. “After what John told me, I thought you’d be like honeymooners when you got back.”

Amelia immediately turned her focus to John, who was doing his best to avoid the Auburn-haired woman’s gaze.

“Oh? And what did John tell you?” she squeaked out, face red.

Sherlock even had to admit, it was an amusing response.

“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Mrs. Hudson stood up and retreated for the stairs. “Forget I said anything. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Clever girl,” Amelia muttered after the landlady had closed the door to her flat. She kept her eyes on John, waiting for him to break. It was bound to happen. He always broke with that look.

“Really?” he set his tea down, looking between Sherlock and Amelia impatiently. “Nothing happened?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question, John,” Sherlock crossed his legs, taking a slow sip of his tea. “Would you please expand on what you mean?”

Scoffing, he turned to Amelia.

Smart, Sherlock relented. Her every expression read like a book. Perhaps they’d all gotten too familiar with one another, each roommate reading the other so easily.

“Mia?” he asked.

Amelia shrugged, mumbling something non-committal about there only being one bed.

“We didn’t bang!” she finally snapped under John's scrutinizing look. “Stop being childish John. Honestly.”

“Just shared a bed,” Sherlock hummed. “Pressed against one another the entirety of the night.”

“Fully clothed,” Amelia supplied with a huff. “You’re both enjoying getting a rise out of me and I won’t have it.”

“I think, you wouldn’t be worked up if there wasn’t something you were concerned about being taken out of context,” John reasoned, leaning into his chair smugly.

“Yeah, you thinking I’d sleep with Sherlock,” she scoffed.

“And what’s so bad about that?” Sherlock poked the bear a little further, his face stretched in feign outrage.

Between embarrassment, frustration, and panic, Amelia looked like she short-circuited at the question.

“I’m going to bed,” she stood up, grabbing her blanket, and hobbled down the stairs to her room.

“You’re enjoying this?” John asked with a chuckle.

“Immensely,” Sherlock admitted, smirking to himself.

“And how did you feel about sharing such an intimate space with her?” John quizzed, brow arched expectantly.

How on Earth did he turn it on him?

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock scanned John over. What was his goal here?

Personal satisfaction? No, John wasn’t vindictive like that. He wouldn’t cause trouble for the sake of trouble, he was trying to figure something out.

“Don’t be a busy-body, John, it’s unbecoming,” he rolled his eyes, pulling his phone out and pretending to browse the web.

“Mhm,” John tapped a finger to his chin. “And how did it feel to be ‘pressed against one another the entirety of the night’?”

“I was just teasing Amelia,” he countered.

“You’re not a robot, right?” John sighed.

“I don’t understand what you’re implying?” Sherlock huffed. “What a waste of time.”

He went to retreat for his room when John finally spoke up.

“Amelia,” he caught his friend by the wrist before he passed him. “Do you have feelings for her?”

What?

“What?” Sherlock gaped at him. “Are you mad?”

“What’s her favourite colour?” John waited.

“Marigold yellow,” he replied quickly. “I know yours too, an embarrassingly boring shade of taupe.”

“Favourite book?”

“Anything by Ernest Hemingway.”

“My favourite?”

“John, you’re not proving your point by quizzing me on basic facts about the people I surround myself with,” he pulled his hand free. “She’s a friend.”

“Would you spoon me tonight, then?” John challenged to Sherlock's back.

“Sod off!”

And so John had his answer.

Now to help Amelia and Sherlock to figure it out. He was a good friend after all, and they were a pair of emotionally stunted idiots.

~~~

Sherlock, for his part, truly didn’t believe he had feelings for Amelia Brenner.

For starters, he didn’t know her middle name. Only that it started with “O”. He could have easily gotten her birth certificate but remained convinced that would be cheating.

So how could he have feelings for someone he didn’t fully know?

Of course, John was the one pressing it. The guy who falls in love after one date, clearly confused by two close friends. Just because they were of opposite genders did not mean they automatically were attracted to one another.

And while Sherlock was attracted, a little bit, to Amelia, that didn’t change his stance. That was physical attraction, not anything deeper or meaningful and he was too much of a gentleman to lure her down that road.

He knew Amelia got flustered when it came to romantic entanglements. He didn’t actually believe she had any real feelings for him. It would have been obvious. Most people were obvious, and she’d slept with him, hugged him, touched him, without any hesitation or second thought. That’s just how she was, and that’s why it was so easy for him to tease her.

None of it was genuine.

Grabbing a book off his nightstand, Sherlock was disappointed to find it was a novel he’d finished before leaving for Sirenshore. Not willing to sulk back into the living room to grab something new, he started flipping through the pages until he found a section he’d enjoyed.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long it’d been, but at some point, John went to his bedroom upstairs and the flat was silent.

Aside from the thud of Amelia’s boot and a string of curse words in what Sherlock imagined was her attempt at being quiet.

Setting his book aside, Sherlock crept toward the kitchen, watching from the hall while Amelia made peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She’s changed to her pajamas but clearly hadn’t been sleeping, as her fingers and arms were covered with paint.

She leaned against the countertop, biting into her sandwich and reading the ingredients on the peanut butter container.

He knew she had to have been exhausted after the long trip back and the funeral. Why hadn’t she fallen asleep yet?

He glanced at the kitchen clock. It’d been nearly three hours, and it was considerably late in the night.

Then he remembered.

The basement flat. She didn’t like it down there alone, not recently.

But, with John home, she couldn’t very well sleep on the sofa as she had been. Amelia likes pretending things were fine, even when it was obvious she was on the verge of a breakdown.

“Is the bread stale?” he asked, announcing himself before stepping into the light.

“What?” she chewed a bit, confused at the question. “I mean, no? It doesn’t taste like it.”

“Right,” he nodded, moving to the same countertop and mimicking her lean. Lots of paint on her arms. More than usual. She was being sloppy, which confirmed his theory she was tired.

“What time did you wake up today?” he asked, trying to stay casual.

“Around six-thirty... you were there...” she lowered her sandwich. “Why are you being weird?”

“You’ve been up painting,” he commented, lifting her arm toward the light. “Can’t sleep?”

She tugged her arm free and took another bite of her sandwich.

“Inspiration struck,” she answered. “It’s not very good, but I needed to get it out of my system. Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I never sleep,” he replied. “If you’d like, I was going to do some reading by the fire. It’s warmer than in my bedroom. You’re welcome to come back, John shouldn’t be up until morning.”

She ate the final piece of the sandwich, watching him suspiciously.

“Is this about what John was going on about earlier?” she asked. “Because I know I got weird but seriously, intimacy and whatever freaks me out and he’s totally reading into things.”

“I know,” he stood up. “He’s John. He’ll get over it soon enough. The injury probably is making him bored so he’s coming up with fantastical ways to entertain himself.”

It made sense and Amelia seemed content with the answer.

“That’s...” she laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. Let me grab an extra blanket and something to do. I’ll be back.”

When she returned for the evening, she had a sketchbook under her arm and a blanket was thrown over her shoulders. Settling in, they both worked quietly until Sherlock no longer heard the scratch of her pencils against the paper.

Sure enough, she’d passed out, the sketchbook set aside and the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She looked relaxed, the same peaceful expression on her face as she’d had at Sirenshore.

Sherlock tossed another log into the fire. He wasn’t planning on sleeping any time soon, his mind still reeling over everything from the last weekend. He needed to find Moriarty before he enacted whatever it was he was planning.

He needed to keep his friends safe.

Chapter 15

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 11

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 10 - Chapter 12

Chapter 11- Water

~~~

Everyone useful always dies. It’s like the universe keeps changing things in a personal challenge to Sherlock Holmes.

Then we dragged along for the ride.

For once, it would be nice to catch a bad guy, have him confess, clear up any confusion, and move on with our lives.

~~~

“What?”

Amelia gaped at Mycroft, unsure if her exhausted brain had heard him correctly.

“There was a transfer issue,” he repeated, looking none too thrilled about it. “Someone sabotaged the police car. While they tried to resolve the issue, Maxwell Brenner was shot by a sniper across the street.”

“So, he’s dead?” she asked bluntly, her expression dropping as the words left her.

“Very much so,” Mycroft nodded curtly.

Amelia looked to Sherlock, a loss at what to say.

What did this mean for the case?

Did they catch who did it?

“You didn’t catch the shooter,” Sherlock guessed, and when his brother didn’t reply, he sighed. “This certainly complicates things.”

“We still have enough evidence to shut down research and development at Chemco. The Board will be held accountable, but I’m not sure if my colleagues in the States will be able to do much.”

“Probably slap a fee on them,” Amelia sighed.

“Unless, of course, we are able to locate your mother?” he tried and Amelia just shrugged. She hadn’t heard from the woman in over a month now, going on two.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d guess that her mother had beaten Max to the grave.

James Moriarty seemed to be efficient like that.

“We have to presume Lydia Brenner is out of the picture,” Sherlock cut in. “Have you found any leads on Moriarty?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied. “He’s disappeared. Though, while I’m not a betting man, I’d put money on the fact he was behind Brenner’s untimely death.”

“Which one?” Amelia scoffed bitterly. “He seems determined to wipe out my lineage.”

“As soon as he makes a sound, we will know,” he assured the pair before his phone started ringing. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get in contact with your cousin.”

“I’m not convinced he has that many eyes,” Amelia murmured to Sherlock once Mycroft was out of earshot.

“He doesn’t,” he agreed quietly. “He doesn’t want you to panic and run away. He’s going to need your testimony for any legal actions against Chemco.”

“Ah yes, because running did so much for me last time,” she mumbled sarcastically, looking over her shoulder into John’s room.

“He knows that as well,” Sherlock replied. “He’s being careful. Clearly, things are not going well in Her Majesty’s Government’s Chemco Pharmaceuticals case.”

Amelia leaned against the hall wall, releasing a long pent up sigh and closing her eyes. Ruthie would probably want to have a funeral and invite the extended family. Do it properly.

They’d need a better story to tell everyone, no point spitting on his grave. He had more than paid for his sins as far as Amelia was concerned.

Peeking at Sherlock, she frowned. John would be in no shape to attend a memorial service this week, besides, it would be bad taste to bring the guy her felon uncle shot.

There was no way she could handle going alone, though Ruthie would definitely need her support as she buried her father. Even with the bad blood, he was family and he’d been a doting parent the vast majority of her life.

Ruthie called Amelia in tears almost immediately after speaking with Mycroft. After calming her down, she asked some basic questions, hoping to assist her cousin in whatever manner she needed.

It was Max’s wishes he is buried next to his wife at the Brenner family estate in Essex; Sirenshore.

The large manor had been in the family for generations, originally having been built for the first Brenner that found success in merchant goods and trading in the early 16th century. Max had been living there since the death of the first Maxwell Brenner, Amelia, and Ruth’s grandfather.

“Mostly contraband,” Sherlock supplied after Amelia explained the circumstances to John with a groan. She was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, with Sherlock in a chair pulled up next to them.

“So you’re rich-rich,” John translated.

“I’m comfortable,” she answered quickly.

“My family is comfortable, your family has a yacht,” Sherlock added.

“Did you rent or own the apartment in Brooklyn?” John asked, sitting up, he is gaze narrowed at Amelia suspiciously.

“I mean, my mom owned the building,” she explained sheepishly, twisting a nervous strand of auburn hair between her fingers. “But I did purchase the penthouse from her.”

“Penthouse,” John repeated. “You live in a basement, but own a penthouse in Brooklyn, New York.”

“I sold it,” she protested. “I gave the money to a handful of after school programs and two large food pantries in Harlem and the Bronx.”

“And how much was that?”

“Do I really need to go over my finances with you, John Hamish Watson? When I told you we can go to Tesco without you arguing over expired clippings, I wasn’t lying.”

“Humour me,” he replied dryly.

“Just under two million,” she mumbled, looking toward the ground. “She initially sold me the property for very cheap. It was well below the market rate. And I got a steal with the present market and the realtor was a family friend…”

“American dollars?” John clarified. “Two million, dollars?”

“Brooklyn is in the United States, John,” she answered.

“Don’t ‘John’ me,” he held up a finger. “How much did your mother make last year?”

“I think you’ve broken him,” Sherlock commented. “John, this has never been a secret.”

“Honestly, why do you think I've been covering your portion of the rent?” she blinked at him, missing over her shoulder Sherlock’s suddenly panicked expression.

“You’ve what?”

“I took over your portion of the rent,” she shrugged. “It made more sense and was far less expensive overall compared to most decent places in London. Besides, you both were doing so much for me. I cover Sherlock’s too.”

“Sherlock?”

“I told you not to tell him,” the detective hissed under his breath.

“What are you talking about? He had to have known, I told you to stop collecting the rent,” she frowned, looking at him quizzically. “Unless you... haven’t... been...? Oh, Sherlock.”

“Where is it then?” John snapped. “That isn’t an inconsiderable amount of money, Sherlock.”

“I invested it in a high yield savings-investment account,” Sherlock confessed. “I was going to give you the information at Christmas.”

“You can’t just do stuff like that without asking people!” he glared between Amelia and Sherlock.

“Why are you glaring at me? I think it was more than fair for the work you’ve done for this case and the friendship you’ve provided,” Amelia huffed. “I wouldn’t let my brother pay rent if I could more than afford it.”

“The accounts nearly doubled,” Sherlock added, throwing on a smile at the irritated doctor. “Happy Christmas.”

“You two-,” he groaned, falling back against his pillows with a groan. “I don’t know how you don’t see it.”

“It was a transactional situation,” Amelia continued, clapping her hands together. “If it bothers you, you’re welcome to go back to paying rent.”

“I have been!”

“That’s between you two,” she stood up, pointing between the men. “I’m the bigger person here, and I’m going to get hot cocoa for myself as a reward for my good deeds. Do either of you need anything?”

“I’ll take some chips,” Sherlock piped up.

“That was more rhetorical, but John? You do look a little pale,” she frowned sympathetically.

“A sandwich or something would be nice,” he admitted quietly.

“Roast beef?”

“If they have it,” he smiled after her as she left.

“Why aren’t you mad at her anymore?”

“Because she wasn’t stealing my money,” John returned his glare to Sherlock. “Four months.”

“Here,” Sherlock handed him his mobile, a large number on the screen.

“What’s this?”

“The account balance,” he answered, arching a brow.

“Oh,” John's eyes widened. “That’s a lot more than four months of rent.”

“Believe it or not, I’m quite proficient at understanding the stock market,” Sherlock took the device back and pocketed it. “I’ve helped Amelia with some financial decisions as well.”

“I still can’t believe you knew about this,” John sighed.

“Wait until you see what she bought you for Christmas,” Sherlock snickered.

“Isn’t it a bit strange? She could have gotten a much nicer place, hired a security detail, but settled with us,” John mused, snorting under his breath. He leaned back in his pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

“Not at all,” Sherlock shook his head. “She trusts us. Haven’t you noticed how jumpy she gets outside of Baker Street? Of course, if one of us is with her, she’s ok, but the further we go...”

“That explains Canterbury,” John hummed, nodding to himself. “Of course.”

“She knows Mycroft and his men are swarming the halls, so she offers to get food,” Sherlock added. “And the cafeteria is only one floor down.”

“She doesn’t think she needs to buy our affection, does she?” John voiced, looking to Sherlock in concern.

“No,” he crossed his arms, leaning back. “That generosity and affection just happen naturally, I think. She’d be knitting us scarves and making biscuits otherwise.”

“Shame so many people want to kill her,” John joked dryly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone kind was killed by petty vengeance.”

“Well, not on our watch,” John cleared his throat determinedly.

~~~

“The funeral is this Sunday,” Amelia looked to the calendar on her cell phone. “That means I’ve got to get to Canterbury by tomorrow night, help organize things on Saturday, and Sunday is the big day.”

She plopped backward on the sofa, pulling her blankets over her head.

Despite the excellent job Mycroft’s men had done in cleaning up her apartment, she still felt uneasy sleeping alone in the distant space. She barely slept as it was since John’s accident, but over the last few days she’d set up a small spot on the worn sofa.

Usually, if she was asleep, Sherlock was up tinkering around, and vice versa.

It was oddly comforting knowing that if someone were to burst through the front door of Baker Street, he would be right there.

“Are we staying the night after the funeral?”

“We?” Amelia pulled the blanket off her face, looking up at him curiously. “I cannot ask you to attend the funeral of the man who nearly killed your best friend.”

“I would have gone anyway,” he shrugged casually. “Which tie should I wear? I have a tasteful burgundy one that Mrs. Hudson gave me for Christmas last year that I haven’t an opportunity to wear.”

Amelia ducked under the blanket again, smiling to herself like an idiot.

“You look best in the short-sleeved black dress,” he continued musing. “If you wear a charcoal sweater with that, perhaps the gunmetal grey tie instead.”

As miserable as this event was bound to be, perhaps it wasn’t going to be that terrible.

Chapter 12

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 5

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 4 - Chapter 6

Chapter 5- Fungi

~~~

Despite the initial tension regarding Jessica Reynolds, things seem to be progressing well with Amelia’s case. Sherlock was able to pull a number of shipping manifests from the assistant’s computer, each bound for the manufacturing factory in Manila.

It was fortunate that it confirmed almost every compound Amelia had noted when she stole the data set, at least in the cancer drugs.

The problem was the secondary product bound into the cancer drugs that caused adverse effects. The details on the manifests were less than helpful…

~~~

“Psilocybe mushroom components,” Amelia read the computer screen out loud for the third time since Sherlock had passed it to her, annoyance in her tone. “That’s it?”

“Magic mushrooms?” John asked, passing her a cup of tea, she immediately set it aside, scrolling through the computer logs further. “Seems straightforward enough.”

“John, there are over 200 different types of Psilocybe spores,” Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. “Sherlock, please tell me you have an idea for how we can possibly narrow it down?”

“How many did you use in your research?” The detective asked, reaching for his own tea cup.

“47,” she answered. “Two were almost identical hybrids, so maybe 46.”

“There you go,” he smirked over the rim of his cup. “Narrowed down.”

“You know we’re going to have to get samples, even if we run the equations, some might work but not technically be the component. Not to mention the cancer drugs might be different,” she groaned and set her cup aside, throwing her head back against the sofa.

“Sherlock, it might be time to contact your brother,” John suggested quietly, earning a glare from the brunette.

“You have a brother?” Amelia asked, her head still flung back with her eyes closed. “Please tell me he’s a reputable drug dealer because it’s going to be a pain in the ass getting these things.”

“Even better, he’s a member of her Majesty’s Royal Government,” Sherlock chimed back. Amelia snorted, remaining still.

“He could also order seizures of the shipments,” John reminded the group coolly, sensing the rising tension between the group.

“Unhelpful if we can’t properly determine the malicious components, John,” Sherlock shot back, picking up on Amelia’s frustration. “The idea is that Chemco’s random samples are unable to be traced, and random.”

“Certainly a shipment would contain some variations?” he asked the pair. Amelia threw her arms up hopelessly, and he frowned. “Sherlock, don’t tell me you’re at a loss?”

“Short of breaking into a hospital, stealing their current supply, and testing it against the 46 varieties of mushroom Mia has worked with, this doesn’t lend a more efficient solution,” the detective hummed, drumming his fingers on his chin in thought.

Silence fell over the group, each person thinking through potential solutions.

“Monty!” Amelia shot up, nearly startling John into dropping his tea.

“What on earth-?” The doctor grumbled while Amelia fished out her phone.

“Ruthie’s brother in law, Monty, he’s an, er, herbal enthusiast,” she explained, tapping into her phone. “I bought a few illicit plants from him when I first moved over. He’s basically got everything you could think of. If not, he’ll know someone who does.”

“Is he in London?”

“Canterbury, lives down the road from Ruthie and her husband,” Amelia got a ping back. “Says we can swing by tomorrow if we’d like. I know offhand, I saw at least a dozen spores in one of his cold storages. I’ll dig up my research list, I can probably narrow down the list from 46 to something more reasonable if I look through what moved to the second stages of trials.”

“And then we go shopping for illicit drugs,” John replied dryly. “And what about the cancer medications?”

Sherlock and Amelia exchanged humored glances. There was certainly something that the doctor was missing.

“What?” John gawked between the pair. “You’re not actually breaking into a hospital, are you?”

“We wouldn’t need much, maybe one or two treatments?” Sherlock asked Amelia, who nodded  after doing a quick calculation in her head.

“The binding components are easy enough to track down over the counter, though we might need a better equipped lab than what you’ve got in the kitchen,” she noted.

“That’s not a problem,” Sherlock waved her off, skimming through the list of components from the shipping logs. “Easy.”

“I don’t like it when you two conspire together. It always leads to some sort of trouble,” John pressed, frown deepening.

“John, you’re a doctor,” Amelia reminded him excitedly. “Prescribe poor Sherlock Holmes a chemotherapy treatment for the tumor in his ego.”

“No, absolutely not,” John stood up. “That violates so many ethical rules- besides, you’re a licensed pharmacist. It’d be easier for you.”

“Not here, not yet. I mean, we can let innocent, immune compromised patients die,” Amelia shrugged, leaning back into the sofa. “What a shame about the little babies with leukemia. All because my wicked mother wanted a second mega yacht.”

“What truly is the core of medical ethics Dr. Watson?” Sherlock inquired, slowly closing his laptop, his gaze boring into his friend. “Is it not to protect life?”

John Watson, caught between an American and a hard place, was less than thrilled when he finally, begrudgingly, scribbled his name on a prescription pad and passed it to Sherlock.

“If my license is revoked-,” he threatened, holding it away from Sherlock briefly.

“Will you kill him?” Amelia asked, grabbing her crimson scarf from the back of the sofa and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Because I’d be very interested in seeing that.”

“Don’t think you get off that easy,” John turned his attention to Amelia while Sherlock scampered to his coat, mocking Amelia over John’s shoulder with a smirk. “You’re equally responsible for anything that goes wrong.”

“That’s not fair, I’m an innocent bystander to your collusion,” she pouted, catching her navy pea coat when John tossed it at her head.

“Careful John,” Sherlock warned, passing the doctor his jacket, shielding his friend from Amelia’s sad eyes. “Keep her pouting like that and she’ll convince you to clean her hair out of the shower drain.”

“Just go,” John shoved the detective through the doorway, not bothering to wait for the grumbling Amelia as she pulled her boots on and stumbled her way out the door behind them.

~~~

“And you’re going to be administering the medications at home?” the chemist studied the prescription order, glancing over the paper to John with a quirked brow.

“That’s right,” he answered with a curt nod, his hands stuffed in his pockets to try and stave off the nervous energy that radiated through his core.

“To a Mr. William Holmes?” the chemist looked to Sherlock next to him. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he pulled out his ID and passed it to the woman, flashing a quick smile.

“Did you guys know that Beyonce is pregnant again?” Amelia held up a tabloid to Sherlock. “Oh wait, never mind. Just a rumor.”

“Who is this?” the chemist paused, looking up at Amelia.

“His fiancé,” she replied, setting the magazine aside and looping an arm through Sherlock’s. “Here for moral support. He’s just starting treatment and is nervous as all get out, isn’t that right, love?” For added effect, she snuggled closer, pressing her cheek against his arm.

“I wouldn’t have made it in one piece without her,” he nodded, giving her cheek a quick peck. “Just an absolute blessing.”

“We’re just so lucky to find Dr. Watson,” Amelia continued with a long sigh. “Not a lot of doctor’s are willing to do home treatments within the NHS, you know. And of course I’m completely out of my element with all of it!”

The chemist chuckled empathetically, asking how the pair met as she typed up the order for the supplies. Sherlock and Amelia shot back and forth, exchanging little tidbits about their “relationship” enough to almost convince John it was real.

“The order will be ready tomorrow morning,” the woman smiled at the trio and reached for Amelia’s hand. “I’ll be praying for you both.”

“You’re an angel,” Amelia replied, giving them a squeeze before ushering the group out of the pharmacy with a final wave at the woman.

Back on the street, Amelia slipped a hand into Sherlock’s pocket, pulling out his wallet.

“I did not know your name was William,” she studied his ID, trying to memorize the details before he snatched it from her. “And you’re only three years older than me? I don’t believe that.”

Sherlock grabbed the wallet and ID out her hands, returning them to his coat pocket with a huff.

“Is there no privacy with you?” he grumbled. “And what’s so surprising about how old I am?”

“I just figured you were older,” she shrugged. “I mean, I’m almost thirty, right? I figured you were like, almost forty or something.”

John sputtered out a laugh.

“That’s spectacular,” he threw an arm around her shoulders. “How old do you think I am?”

“John, in all honesty, I have no idea,” she answered. “Sometimes I’m convinced you’re fifty, other times you have to be my age.”

Sherlock snorted under his breath.

“It’s a fair assessment,” she insisted, frowning apologetically at John. “You get very grumpy in the mornings, and the matching flannel pajamas don’t help very much.”

“They’re warm.”

“I’m sure they’re wonderful,” Amelia smiled, patting his arm in a placating tone. “I’m just a terrible judge of age apparently. I should have know how old you actually were with all of the part-time super models you bring by.”

“Mia, you’re digging yourself into a hole you’ll regret for the foreseeable future,” Sherlock warned.

“Shush,” Amelia swatted his arm.

“That reminds me,” John glanced down at his phone. “I have a second date with Ann tonight.”

“Is she the one with the Pomeranian?” Amelia asked hopefully. He shook his head and she sighed. “I liked that one.”

“You liked the dog and I’m very allergic,” John reminded her. “Ann is a barrister.”

“Maybe you should make sacrifices for your relationships, John,” she countered. “Have fun with your boring lawyer date.”

“Ann is the boring one, that’s right,” Sherlock perked up.

“She is not boring,” John insisted, flagging down a taxi.

“We’ll call with an ‘emergency’ in a bit,” Amelia promised earnestly. “Get you out of talks about law and order. Blegh.”

“I’m turning my phone off,” he called, slipping into the backseat of the taxi.

“If it wasn’t so cold, I’d be half tempted to follow them,” Amelia mused, continuing down the street with the detective.

“Don’t, they’re seeing that action movie that just came out,” he sighed dramatically. "Boring."

“Movies never make sense as an early date,” she noted. “You can’t talk. How do you get to know anything about the other person? They could be a serial killer for all you know.”

“Exactly, hardly an intimate setting,” he shook his head in disappointment. Amelia looked at him in surprise, stifling a laugh. “What?”

“It’s hard to picture you trying to take someone on a date,” she confessed lightly.

“You’re one to talk,” he countered quickly. “You never leave the flat.”

“You literally don’t let me?” she replied with another laugh. “And arguably, I’ve gone at least one more date than you in the last month.”

“Jessica Reynolds does not count,” he shot back.

“She has the remnants of my favorite shirt on her bedroom floor,” Amelia shivered at the memory. “She counts. John’s been on half a dozen dates since then, yet I’m fairly certain I heard you making love to your calculator the other night.”

“Why did I allow you to move into my building?” Sherlock kept his focus forward. “And I’d be a wonderful date, assuming I knew who i was meeting and could plan accordingly.”

“You’d stalk your date for ideas,” Amelia bit back a smirk. “It’d almost be endearing if it wasn’t super illegal.”

“I do not have to stalk someone to take them on a decent date,” he insisted. “What about you? What would you do aside from a bar?”

“First of all, I would never take someone to a bar on a first date,” she held a hand up, stopping in front of him. “It’s tacky. Would you want to date someone tacky?”

“Ok, where would you take me?” he offered, folding his arms across his chest. Amelia considered his challenge, pulling out her cell phone and tapping at the screen. Grinning at the device, she looked up at him.

“I get a little leeway because I’m not from here,” she warned, flagging down a passing cab.

“What are you doing?” he watched her chat with the driver, and look up at him expectantly.

“I’m taking you on a date,” she answered. “Get in Mr. Holmes, and prepare to be wooed.”

~~~

The Barbican Conservatory wasn’t very busy at midday in the middle of the week, so they were able to secure entrance and tour around the large space without too much interruption from other guests.

“There are over 1,500 different plants in 23,000 cubic square feet of space,” Amelia tucked her hands behind her back. “And the ponds feature koi and carp from Japan and America respectively.”

“Did you just read the pamphlet?” Sherlock asked, looking over the informational packet. “Because you quoted the first paragraph verbatim.”

“It’s because I’m well versed in what I sought out,” she answered with a grin. “Look, flowers.”

She pulled him toward a large selection of tropical flora, naming the species as they moved through in both their common names and scientific ones.

“This one is particularly rare,” she gestured to a bright red flower, the pamphlet long discarded in her coat pocket. Sherlock listened intently, occasionally chiming in his own facts about the flora that surrounded them. He could tell she was pleasantly surprised at his own knowledge on some of the more obscure plants.

“Waitwaitwait,” Amelia pulled him by the wrist toward a large swath of sunflowers. “They’re taller than you, that’s so cool!”

“Does that make them extra haughty?” he retorted, letting her shove him in front of the flowers. She snapped a picture while he continued to quip, ignoring his comments a moment while she saved it to her phone. “Do not show that to anyone.”

“I would never,” she promised. “It’s a good picture, though.” She held her phone up, and sure enough, she’d captured a flattering angle while he’d been laughing.

“I’m not haughty,” he quickly stated.

“You know that isn’t their only meaning,” she hummed, tucking the phone away. “They also mean strength, happiness, confidence… I think they sum you up perfectly.”

“Happiness?”

“Oh that’s right, you were happy once and it was terrible,” she replied coyly. “How could I have forgotten? Happiness can mean bringing it to others as well, Sherlock.”

She turned to look at some lilacs, absently chatting while he stood frozen in place, the words running on repeat in the front of his mind.

Who did he make happy?

~~~

Amelia had a mouth full of falafel when Sherlock decided on where he was going to take her next.

“Mmwha mwean?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion. “Dwon’t swteal mwwy dawte!”

“You did an adequate job,” he answered. “But I still think I’m the superior date planner.”

She swallowed her food, eyeing distrustfully.

“I’m only interested if it’s a very old cemetery,” she replied, stealing one of his chips. “And it better be nighttime and there had better be ghosts.”

“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Sherlock clarified sharply.

“Consider this date over,” she stood up from the public bench they’d settled on. “It’s not me, it’s definitely you.”

“Amelia, come back,” he called, but she continued down the road, night starting to swallow the city. “They’re theoretically impossible.”

~~~

Amelia had to admit (though never out loud), Sherlock Holmes did know a thing or two about impressing a date (despite his disbelief in ghosts).

He purchased her a pink peony, her favorite flower, from a street vendor.

Next, they went to the aquarium, where they wandered away from the main tour and Sherlock gave his own version of the tour, naming the fish and telling her random facts about their origins. Together, they came up with complex names and origin stories for all of the fish.

“The puffer fish is obviously fed up with the whale shark’s nonsense,” Amelia laughed, pointing out the fish blowing up as the white shark passed it in the tank. “He’s probably having an affair with the puffer fish’s wife.”

“I don’t know, the whale shark was eyeing the sea turtle…” Sherlock mused, watching the mesmerizing scene next to her.

Every once in a while, Amelia would steal a look at him. The way the light reflected around them, and how it flickered through his blue eyes- should almost wished she had a paint pallet to try and capture the almost perfect cerulean color.

They left the aquarium chuckling about an octopus that had escaped during a demonstration, night having finally swept over the city.

“Ok,” she relented. “You win this round.”

“I’m not done yet,” he pulled his phone out and glanced up. “We have a final stop.”

“What else could you have planned on such short notice?” she asked, letting him grab her hand and pull her along.

“I told you, I know what I’m doing,” he teased, stopping after a few blocks, looking up at the glowing carriages of the London Eye. “It’s not a cemetery.”

“Might be better,” Amelia admitted.

And it was.

Amelia had never experienced anything so spectacular in her life. The lights over the Thames and the London skyline were unlike anything she’d seen before. The old city had a different energy to it compared to New York, and from the top of the famous Ferris wheel, she could see it all.

“I can’t believe we live in the same city as all of this,” she gestured below them. “It doesn’t seem real.”

“It looks like stars,” he agreed, looking over the edge.

“And the reflection on the river?” Amelia continued to gush in excitement, practically jumping around the edges of the capsule as they moved through the sky.

It was over far too quickly, though Amelia knew they needed to get back. John was probably long home from his date.

“You win,” she sighed. “You definitely win, but only for today.”

“That means there’s a second date?” he smirked, offering her his arm as they walk. She took it, falling in step while they tried to track down a taxi.

Amelia knew he was teasing. It was more of an outing between friends, a means to prove a point with no real intimate feelings involved. A challenge.

She repeated this to herself as she stared at the peony in her hands on the taxi ride home. Or when Sherlock made a quiet quip about extra marital whale shark affairs.

He had to prove his point, and he did. She was sufficiently surprised, and very much felt conflicted about it.

When they returned, Amelia cut into the conversation before John could ask where they’d been. He told her all about his date, and that while Ann was very nice, there probably wasn’t a third date in their future.

“Because she’s boring?” Sherlock joked, pulling out his laptop and checking his email.

“We have different interests,” John clarified sharply. “I think I’m going to take a break from dating for a bit. What about you two? What did you do all day?” His eyes fell on the peony in Amelia’s hand, and she froze, not sure how to respond.

“We went on a date,” Sherlock spoke up confidently from his perch, eyeing John and waiting for a reaction.

“You… on a date?” he looked between the pair. “Both of you? Together?”

Admittedly, it was a bit fun watching their friend process the information. Amelia just braced herself for when Sherlock clarified their challenge with one another.

“Yep,” he answered, popping the “p”. “It was a lovely day, wasn’t it Mia?”

Dazed, Amelia choked out an affirmative, her head still catching up with the fact there hadn’t been any specifications as to the motivation behind everything.

“A long day,” she forced out a yawn. “I’m going to put this in some water and head to bed. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow, don’t forget. I have our train tickets already, but one of you needs to get the chemotherapy into the fridge before we go.”

Both men said goodnight and she slipped downstairs to her apartment, sneaking a final glance over her shoulder, in case he was going to add anything else to the date conversation.

“A date?” John waited until Amelia was out of earshot. “You never mentioned being interested like that. In fact, you mocked me.”

“We were merely getting to know one another,” he shrugged. “Initially we were trying to prove a point, but it turned into an enjoyable afternoon. Though, I wouldn’t get too excited about it, John.”

“And why not?” John asked. “She’s been here for two months now, you two get along in your weird, mad scientist way, it could be a good match.”

“I’m far too busy to have time for romantic partners,” Sherlock shot the suggestion down. He stilled, his hands resting on the keys of his laptop. “And she seemed odd just now, didn’t she?”

“No more than usual,” John replied. “Worried she didn’t enjoy herself? You got her a flower, I’m sure she was enthralled.”

“A peony,” Sherlock corrected quietly. “She likes peonies. They’re in the perfume she wears.”

“Maybe she’s just deep in denial, much like yourself, and needed to sleep to get her head straight?” John snorted, standing up from his chair. “Speaking of, don’t stay up too late.”

Sherlock waved him off, staring down at his computer and re-reading the same sentence over and over. He couldn’t focus on any of his cases right now, his head was all over the place.

Grabbing his violin, he plucked away at the strings, trying to find a sound for the chaos in his head.

Meanwhile, laying in bed with her eyes closed, listening to the soft sounds, Amelia decided she had more important things to think about besides date challenges and eccentric roommates.

Things like corrupt CEOs and fungi.

Chapter 6

[ao3porcelainstorm]

Fic Playlist for “Poison Ivy and Stinging Nettles” my Sherlock/OFC fanfic!

Ao3

Tumblr 

[maryholmes94]

Элегия хрустального сердца (35272 words) by Mary_Holmes_94 Chapters: 7/7 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Original Female Character(s), John Watson, Mary Morstan, Original Male Character(s), Lady Smallwood (Sherlock), Janine (Sherlock), Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock Holmes), Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Sir Edwin (Sherlock), Eurus Holmes Additional Tags: Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Drama & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Musicians, Repressed Memories, Recovered Memories, Love Summary: Пост-Рейхенбах. По возвращении в Лондон Шерлок обнаруживает, что Джон женился, и понимает, что друг не готов простить ему обман. Судьба сводит его с Маргарет Коулсон, талантливой скрипачкой, чей отец умирает от лейкемии. Их знакомство приводит к тому, что в сознании Шерлока всплывают давно забытые воспоминания, и он открывает свое сердце ранее неведанным чувствам…

Сегодня закончила публикацию фанфика с альтернативным пост-Рейхенбахом и моим любимым пейрингом Шерлок/ОЖП

[maryholmes94]

Призрак Эбби-Грейндж - The Ghost of the Abbey Grange (16392 words) by Mary_Holmes_94 Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Stanley Hopkins, Eustace Brackenstall, Mr. Hudson (Sherlock), Mycroft Holmes Additional Tags: Angst, Drama & Romance, Domestic Violence, Grief/Mourning, Family Loss, Falling In Love Series: Part 4 of Mollcroft-Adlock-Euriarty Summary: "Я никогда не любил, Уотсон, но если бы мою любимую постигла такая судьба, возможно, я поступил бы так же, как наш охотник на львов, презирающий закон". Артур Конан Дойл, "Дьяволова нога" (цикл "Его прощальный поклон")

My first major Sherlock/OFC story. Sad, but not that badly written, I hope.

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 21

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 20 - Chapter 22

Chapter 21- Undercurrent

December 24th

“…what are you-?” Amelia started, but she was cut off by a swift punch to the stomach.

Reeling over and dropping her phone, she tried to fight back when hands went to grab her from behind. To her detriment, however, someone caught her by the scarf in the scuffle, pulling her against an unseen second assailant. Somewhere, she registered someone crushing her phone with a single stomp.

Throwing elbows and yelling, the second person held her tight until the first approached with a needle in hand. Arms pinned down, he yanked the scarf free and dug a needle into her neck.

Her world was hazy, the world spinning into a whirlpool of blackness.

Tires screeching. Her body tossed not too gently into something hard.

Darkness.

She awoke on the floor of an enclosed room. Metal paneling concealing any doorways or windows, a single blinking camera in one corner, a small chair in the center. Head still swimming, there wasn’t much she could reason out aside from basic descriptions. A single panel of fluorescent lights.

She was alone.

“Good morning sleepyhead,” a male voice projected over an unseen PA system.

Or rather, she was alone.

“You’re quite the little pit viper, aren’t you?” the voice continued. “Nearly broke one of my guys’ arms.”

Amelia smirked to herself. Too bad she hadn’t broken it.

“We’re going to be playing a little holiday game,” he continued. One of the metal panels in front of her turned around, playing a livestream of Sherlock and John finding her scarf on the ground. “You see, I don’t think the great detective will be able to focus on a few itty bitty cases while you’re out of the picture and in potential duress.”

“You clearly don’t know him,” she sassed back.

“But I do,” there was an opening across from her, the paneling sliding open to reveal James Moriarty himself, holding a microphone. “And I’m afraid he’s slipped up and is getting sentimental on me.”

Shorter than Amelia thought. Smaller too.

She took a few steps toward him, barely listening to his monologuing. Cliche. Lame.

To her credit, Amelia was pretty sure he didn’t see her fighting back as a possible option. She charged for the doorway, throwing all her strength into slamming his head into the door frame and leaping into the hallway.

He came alone. Underestimated her.

Mistake, she thought to herself, picking a direction and sprinting down the long hall.

She made it through two doors before something violent shocked her system.

Dropping to the ground with a thud and a yelp, an armed guard jabbed her in the neck again.

This time, however, she remained conscious. Instead, she lost the use of her limbs, pathetically hitting the ground when she was tossed back in the room.

Moriarty held a gauge to the side of his head, laughing as he approached her, kicking her with all his strength into her ribs.

“Feisty! Keep it up and I might just steal you from him permanently.”

Another kick.

“And here I was going to let you relax until my little game was over,” he continued, pulling up the chair and sitting in it.

The drug was beginning to wear off, giving Amelia an opportunity to try and scramble to her elbows.

“Fuck you,” she snarled, hand moving to cradle her tender side. “You’re gonna lose.”

“Not the nicest thing to say to someone who has your life in their hands,” he tsk’d. “Now what are we gonna do with you?”

“Let me go?” she asked sarcastically, pressing on her rib and wincing.

“Uh, no,” he rolled his eyes.

“Worth a shot,” she huffed, crawling to a wall and propping her back against it.

“You know, I’ve been looking at your research,” he mused, eyes glued to her in amusement. “Clever stuff. Not as clever as mine, but certainly a bit inspiring, so to speak.”

“Gonna get me high?” she mocked, inwardly slapping herself for taunting the beast. Sherlock had warned her about taunting the bad guys after the first time she'd asked the gunman in her shop if he was going to shoot her. Is this how Sherlock ended up in so many life-threatening situations? Panic sarcasm?  

She was about to find out.

“I’m going to destroy the very essence of who you are,” he snapped, standing up and kicking the chair near her. “I’m going to twist your mind to such levels of madness that I’ll be sane in comparison, and then I’m going to drop you into your boyfriend’s lap and let you stew.”

He grabbed her jaw tightly.

“I’m going to break you.”

Heaving a long sigh, she held eye contact with him.

“That sounds way less fun,” she grunted.

Moriarty paused, narrowing his eyes at her. It seemed like he was deciding something.

Maybe where he intended to dispose of her body?

“Goodnight, Mia,” he smirked before exiting the room.

Swathed in silence, Amelia dropped her head back against the cool metal paneling. Surely, Sherlock and John were already up in arms looking for her. It wouldn’t be long before they were busting down that door.

They always beat the bad guys, right?

Amelia was close to passing out from sheer exhaustion when a familiar melody began playing through the PA system, just loud enough to pull her from her tired trance.

“Sweet dreams,” came Moriarty’s voice.

“Take me home.. to the place… I belong… West Virginia…”

And it played on loop almost continuously through the night and what Amelia imagined was the majority of the next day. If his goal was to prevent sleep, he succeeded. Each time she nodded off, it would shoot up in volume, lowering once Amelia was stirred awake.

Bastard.

~~~

December 26th

This was when the videos started. Vicious clips of some of the most depraved things humanity’s monsters could conjure.

It ranged from murder, torture, violent pornography… on and on, over and over, on loop.

And Amelia decided he wasn’t willing that easily- screeching out the song from the day before, slamming her hands on the metal paneling for hours at end.

She ignored her meals out of protest, kicking the food across the room when it was slipped through a crack in the door.

She shouted the lyrics until her voice was hoarse, and after that, continued banging on the walls until she tired herself out. Only two nights without sleep, and Amelia decided she could push it another night, the videos continuing.

~~~

December 27th

She’d fallen asleep.

Damned be all, she’d fallen asleep and dreamt of abuse and mutilation.

He wasn’t winning this easily.

Breakfast was on the ground next to her, and despite her growling stomach, she held it toward the camera and threw it aside.

Today, the screen was empty. The room was silent.

Her stomach hurt from neglect. She was so damned hungry.

Another meal wasn’t dropped off that day, or so it seemed. Time was losing relevance and she’d initially measured her time by meal drop-offs.

He must have seen this little protest coming. Predicting that she’d be too weak and delirious to keep calculating things.

The room stayed quiet, though Amelia was on edge the entire time, waiting to be shown some horrific thing or ready herself for another round of sleeplessness.

~~~

December 28th

A small bottle of water had been placed next to her head while she’d slept. She guzzled it down without a second thought.

No food was dropped off.

No television or music.

She began to wonder if he was just waiting for her to die of starvation instead.

~~~

December 29th?

The music started up again. A different song thing time, and after a few hours, he started intermingling it with videos of graphic torture.

This was the first night a tube was shoved down her throat and she was force-fed a blend of mush. Also the first night of the rope.

Nutrients, she’d been told while she kicked and screeched, three of Moriarty’s men pinning her down and tying her in place.

She vomited it all over herself, earning a fresh beating from the men holding her in place.

Even if it resulted in another tube being forced into her, she considered it a small victory.

~~~

December 30-something-th

This was when the drugs started.

She woke up, ready for another force-feeding, but was instead met with a large syringe and two meaty guards.

They’d made a mistake in not leaving her tied down. It wouldn’t happen again.

She was paid back with a split lip and another needle jabbed less than tenderly into her jugular. She was thrown back onto the chair, the effects taking over quickly.

Music and the videos started. She was certain that she’d soiled herself.

~~~

January?

Someone mentioned a New Year’s party when the door opened briefly.

Had it been a week? Felt like longer.

Someone had thrown a bed into the room. Well, not really a bed; a cot.

People spoke quickly. The drugs were wearing off, someone muttered, hauling Amelia to her feet.

The room smelled rancid, a guard complained.

She vaguely recognized the hallway she’d attempted to escape in. Lots of doors.

Did she hear muffled screaming?  

Someone threw her into a small room, stripping off her clothes and shutting the door.

The water was freezing, but it at least woke her enough to give her brain some clarity.

Soap. She found a bar and started scrubbing away the filth and grease. Her hair was less than manageable, but she still did her best to work the suds into her scalp. It’d have to do.

Clothes were thrown in when she finished. T-shirt and sweatpants. No undergarments.

At least she wouldn’t be naked.

She’d come up with a plan to try and escape when they came to take her back, but the guard was faster than her, jabbing another syringe into her veins. They set her back up in the chair, arms and ankles tied down.

Instead of violence, it was a CCTV of Sherlock and John talking to Greg Lestrade. Scotland Yard, her mind hazily registered. Moriarty had access to internal cameras.

Of course, he did.

At least they were safe. Scrambling, but safe.

“They aren’t looking for you,” Moriarty’s voice commented, almost soothingly.

“Game-,” she choked out. Her throat was dry, but it was probably the first time she’d spoken in days. “You’re fucking with them.”

He didn’t say anything, the video shifting to abstract images and ominous music.

She didn’t understand until the hallucinations began to kick in. Every creature from her nightmares, beast, and monster tormented her. At some point, her screams just gave out, her vocal cords broken from prolonged use.

Amelia only barely noticed the blood around her wrists from struggling against the binding.

~~~

Probably January

This continued nonstop for days. Or what felt like days. Time didn’t feel real anymore. What seemed like hours to her might have only been five minutes.

She was given a little time to rest and clean at some point. She smelled terrible and actually looked forward to the freezing shower.

When she was back, more drugs, but someone had been nice enough to sanitize the room and layout a cot.

How sweet.

Amelia wasn’t sure what was a dream or reality after she crashed on the cot. There were bits and pieces of Baker Street, mixed with cold metal and burning ropes.

She was losing her mind. Moriarty was winning and for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what to do.

“You need to focus on sensations you know are real,” Sherlock was sitting on the floor in front of her, cross-legged, eyes watching her intensely.

“Floor,” she slurred, fingers dropping to touch the cold metal floor.

“Good,” he nodded. “What does the cot feel like?”

“Scratchy,” she mumbled, rubbing her cheek against it.

“Do you feel pain?” he asked and Amelia burst into tears.

“You’re still coming, aren’t you?” she whispered to her hallucination through a hiccup.

“Have you really started to doubt me?” he smirked and stood up. “We both know he’s keeping me busy to make it difficult to find you.”

“But you will?” her voice cracked.

“Amelia, you ridiculous woman,” he knelt down next to her face. “You’re not dumb or blind to what happens around you. Moriarty is hurting me by hurting you. He knows I lo- care- for you very much.”

“Do you?” she blinked. “John said you did... I didn’t... I think I accidentally fell in love with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He smiled, and when Amelia blinked again, he was gone.

~~~

Probably fucking March or something.  

Sherlock Holmes, the hallucination, was an unusual perk to whatever the hell was pumping through her body.

Amelia didn’t know if he was real. If she’d been more rational, she would have known otherwise. However, whatever her subconscious was manifesting to keep her grounded, she would take it.

John made appearances from time to time, particularly after a nasty beating. He’d comment on a potential break, maybe point out extra cloth she could tear off of something to make a bandage or sling.

He disappeared when the abuse stopped, all at once and abruptly.

Sherlock remained, pointing out that eating the meals was better than having them shoved down her throat. Resisting would result in deeper wounds on her wrists, and that could lead to infection...

The psychological abuse ramped up in the last days.

More violent videos. More hallucinations of monsters and demons. Moriarty would talk to her over it. Repeating phrases and words she didn’t understand, over and over.

Sherlock disappeared after that. No matter when she tried calling his name or trying to force her brain to bring him forward, all she found was terror.

“Emancipation day,” Moriarty sang when Amelia was lifted pathetically from her cot. “Let’s see...” he lifted the corner of her shirt, examining the healing injuries.

 “Didn’t lose too much weight. No permanent physical damage.” He chuckled to himself. “Let’s get you cleaned up, darling.”

The rest was a daze.

Amelia remembered warm water, a middle-aged woman carefully scrubbing and cleaning her.

When she was dressed, another woman detangled and trimmed her hair, straightening out the curls and pulling it back in a neat braid.

She was given a delectable lunch, which she picked at tentatively, waiting for the trick.

After eating, Amelia felt sleepy. Those around her seemed to understand when she began stumbling around the room.

So that was it, she realized bitterly, someone laying her on a freshly made down bed. A sedative or a poison. Would she wake up? Or was Moriarty setting her friends up to find her dead?

There was a small shuffle in the room, with all the strength Amelia had to muster, she forced her eyes open to see Moriarty sitting on the edge of her bed.

“Sleep tight,” he whispered, reaching forward and pulling down her eyelids.

An obnoxious pounding noise woke her.

Were the neighbors hitting the wall? Who was being so rude?

Door, her brain supplied.

Right. Door. Someone was knocking on the door.

Chapter 22

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 20

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 19 - Chapter 21 

Chapter 20- Rosemary

“We found him,” Mycroft explained a week later at the Diogenes Club.

“He turned himself in,” Sherlock translated briskly, crossing his arms.

“Regardless, he’s under lock and key,” his brother looked to Amelia. “Her Majesty’s Government intends to move quickly toward Magistrate’s Court and we will require your statement.”

“You have my statement,” Amelia replied, arching a brow.

“In person,” he clarified.

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock interjected. “It’s hardly been any time since Moriarty-”

“All the more reason to move forward with haste,” Mycroft countered sharply. “While the evidence is still fresh.” His eyes drifted toward the healing wounds on Amelia’s wrist.

“We have no idea the extent of the abuse,” Sherlock shook his head. “There isn’t enough evidence to move forward yet. Not while we’re still working through everything. We can’t risk him being let off.”

“Between Chemco, my uncle, and the kidnapping alone, that should be enough, right?” Amelia asked the elder brother, who nodded slowly. “That’s what the case is all about at this point.”

“If we’re so fortunate to have additional evidence by the time of the proceeding, we will adjust our case a necessary,” Mycroft closed a file on his desk and looked to Sherlock firmly. “Do not let your emotions cloud your judgment, brother mine. It’s unbecoming.”

He confirmed the details with Amelia, assuring her that Anthea would be in touch later that week.

Sherlock all but stormed out of the club, throwing up a hand to summon a taxi. Amelia hurried over, pulling his hand down and squeezing it between hers.

“Why don’t we walk a bit?” she suggested, pulling him along without too much of a struggle.

Sherlock knew he wasn’t mad at Mycroft or Amelia for that matter- he was mad at Moriarty. Everything was ticking along, Sherlock was certain, to the madman’s plans.

He had hoped that Amelia would have had more time to adjust to things again. Heal. But of course, things were never easy for Sherlock. Moriarty was pushing along the court date for a reason. An attack? A grand reveal? Of what?

“There’s steam coming out of your ears,” Amelia commented, a smile tugging at her mouth.

“I don’t like this,” he grumbled, looking over at her.

“I don’t either,” she replied, giving his hand a nervous squeeze. “But it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“I’d have hoped to help you parse through- things,” he sighed, gesturing in her direction. “If something were to happen and I couldn’t help you-”

“You sound like my mother,” she scoffed, laughing at his offended expression. “Sherlock, we can figure it out. The Magistrate won’t have him or anyone else, aside from people we trust.”

“Until he pays off a guard to stab you in the loo,” he huffed under his breath.

“My, what a dark place your Mind Palace must be,” she tutted. “Surely you have brighter rooms to enjoy? A greenhouse?”

He did, but he would never tell her that it contained every small intricacy he’d picked up on her. Her favorite foods and colours. Favorite songs and movies. Even minute details like what shampoo she preferred.

“I need to stay ahead of him,” he stopped at the side of the walkway, hands on her shoulders. “If anything more were to happen to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Avenge me, I hope?” she teased.

“You have no idea,” he mumbled. He’d tear across the world for this woman and those that hurt her? 

He had a special room in the Mind Palace for recalling those types of things.

Amelia looked at him thoughtfully, reaching up and cupping the side of his face gently.

Her hands were warmer than his.

“We’re a reasonably intelligent bunch,” she assured him with that damned smile. “It’ll be okay, Sherlock. Whatever happens, it’ll be okay.”

“If you die?” he asked, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm.

“I suppose I’ll have to help you from the great beyond,” she laughed. “Though that might prove difficult given your disbelief in ghosts.”

“I’ll hold a seance then,” he offered. “Only once. Just to be sure.”

They continued walking, hand in hand, Sherlock beginning to feel a little lighter as they joked and chatted.

“If I die?” he asked and she paused in thought.

“Don’t even joke, I don’t know what anyone would do without the great Sherlock Holmes,” Amelia answered with a frown. “Think of all the opportunistic criminals! And all the unsolved crimes, you know the Yard is basically useless.”

He knew she was being sarcastic and trying to inflate his ego at the same time, but it didn’t do much to distract him from the problem at hand.

All this joy and peace was at risk. This woman who’d stumbled quite literally into his life and brought with her the the light of the sun itself. She was too good for this nightmare he’d inadvertently brought her into, and he would spend the rest of his life ensuring she never feared another day again.

“Ruthie owns it now,” Amelia broke his train of thought, her hand leaving his to look at the building next to her. They’d made it as far as the old flower shop a few blocks away from Baker Street.

It was now boarded off, the caution tape replaced with plywood and keep out signs. The brick had been cleaned of soot, but largely the place remained unchanged from the day he’d found the Monkshood.

“Have you considered reopening?” he asked, her fingers reaching to touch where the front door used to be.

“Ruthie asked but-,” she gave a low sigh. “I guess I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop with whatever is hiding in my head.”

It was a rare sight to see Amelia deflated. The dynamics of their relationship usually rested upon Sherlock being on the receiving end of a hopeful statement or reassuring comment.

He hesitated, watching her look up forlornly at the upper levels of the shop.

Assurance. Comfort.

He knew what emotions he needed to convey, but had no idea how to begin-

Trust your instincts, you bloody idiot, John’s voice scolded from the back of his mind.

Sherlock wrapped his arms over her shoulders from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head and following her gaze up.

“You obviously couldn’t move back in,” he said.

“And why not?”

“You’d freeze at night,” he smirked to himself.

“Not ready to retire and become a flower man? Shame,” she turned around in his arms and tapped the tip of his nose affectionately. “Could still have the same amount of blood and guts. Roses and the like love all that, remember?”

“Maybe Mrs. Hudson will let us turn the basement into a greenhouse,” he offered, following behind in a few steps when she started back down the road.

“And why not your room?” she challenged. “There’s better sunlight after all.”

“I like my room,” he protested.

“And I like my little apartment,” she countered. “Though I suppose John will have to move out eventually... I hope he finds someone soon. He’d make such a great husband and father.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes while he snorted.

“If you’re so confident, marry him yourself,” he replied.

“Maybe I will,” she laughed, speeding up when she saw 221B ahead.

Before he could catch up, she sprinted inside and raced to the sound of John’s voice greeting them from upstairs.

“John Watson, will you marry me?” she asked, trying to catch her breath while Sherlock strolled past her with brows raised.

“Excuse me?” the doctor lowered his newspaper in surprise. “I thought we’d decided on the table settings for the two of you?”

“Amelia believes you’d be a good husband and father, so I encouraged her to take advantage of the opportunity before it became too late,” Sherlock explained, dropping into his chair and watching the exchange in amusement.

“All right then,” John set the paper aside and stood up. “Let’s do it.”

Wait. Sherlock’s head snapped in Amelia’s direction.

“How many kids do you think? Two?”

“Two dozen, more like it,” John took her hand and examined it. “Your hands are tiny. I’ll have to get my mother’s ring refit.”

“You two aren’t serious?” Sherlock stammered out, but the pair ignored him in lieu of their supposed engaged bliss.

“We could always buy a matching set,” Amelia suggested, holding both his hands in hers excitedly.

No, no, that’s where Sherlock’s hands went-

“I think that’s quite enough,” the detective cleared his throat and the pair finally glanced over.

“Oh no, I think this is a spectacular idea,” Amelia grabbed John’s hand and placed it around her waist, leaning into him with a grin. “We’re already best friends, and I’m told that’s the secret to a healthy marriage.”

“Decent age difference, well educated in the sciences,” John added. “And we both have a good appreciation for the arts.”

“Nope,” Sherlock stood up and pulled them apart. “How about not? You two wouldn’t even be able to have sex, it’d be too weird.”

“For you maybe,” John shot back with a smirk.

“Oh dear,” Amelia’s hand found John’s again. “I do believe Mr. Holmes is jealous.”

“Why wouldn’t he be? Our stationary would say; Dr. and Dr. Watson.”

“I do like the sound of that,” she grinned.

“And we are done,” Sherlock pulled Amelia away and sat her down on the sofa with a huff. “I’m not jealous.”

“Someone’s grumpy,” Amelia teased, standing up and giving Sherlock’s hair a ruffle. “I’ve got to call my mom. I promised I'd tell her about the meeting. Let me know when you guys are ready for dinner.”

She proceeded down the stairs with a final chuckle, the door to her basement flat closing.

Sherlock immediately turned to John with a single quirked brow.

“Don’t do that again,” he stated firmly.

“Put my hand on her waist? You know, she put it there,” John answered, coolly moving toward his chair and ignoring his friend’s glare.

“I know what you’re doing and it isn’t going to work,” Sherlock shot back tersely. He returned to his chair and grabbed a book off the table. Flipping through it, he peered back over at John again. “I mean, Dr. and Dr. Watson? Ridiculous.”

“I also like children,” the doctor hummed, returning to his paper.

“She kissed me the other night,” Sherlock blurted out. “So, just saying.”

John rolled his eyes, flattening the paper to look up.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock stuffed his face in his book, pretending to read until he felt John’s lingering gaze on him. “How am I an idiot?”

“You two-,” John shook his head with a low shucker. “I’ve never seen such infatuated but clueless people in my life. You care for her, don’t you? That’s the whole point of this nonsense with Moriarty.”

He did.

“And?” Sherlock pried, hoping that maybe his friend could provide more insight into these unusual feelings he’d been working through.

“She clearly cares for you in a similar manner,” John continued slowly.

“She was ready to marry you just moments ago,” Sherlock furrowed his brows.

“You’re really thick at this, aren’t you?” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “We were teasing you. I have no desire to marry Amelia, she’s like my sister. I have about as much desire to marry her as I would marry you.”

“That...” he groaned and threw his head back on the chair. “Why is this so complex?”

“You could just tell her you love her,” John suggested with a shrug.

He- what- the- no- not- he- didn’t- but-

“Ugh,” Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms stubbornly. “These attachments are making me weak.”

“Oh boohoo,” John scoffed. “You found someone compatible and willing to deal with your temper tantrums. How awful.”

“I’m serious, John,” Sherlock leaned forward, his expression falling earnest. “I don’t know what to do about Moriarty.”

John sensed the shift in emotion and studied his friend over briefly. Sherlock had found that John Watson was the type of person he could read in an instant- the doctor always wearing some kind of expression on his face that revealed his true thoughts.

Did he pity him? That’s what it looked like. John felt sorry for him. Pathetic. He thought Sherlock was a pathetic failure.

But- John wasn’t the type, he reminded himself at the doctor's expression.

This involved him too. Amelia was as much his friend as she was... whatever she was... to Sherlock.

“He turned himself in,” John recited. “And Mycroft wants him to be prosecuted.”

“That’s right,” Sherlock nodded.

“He’s going to do something,” John voiced, agreeing with Sherlock’s thoughts out loud. “Trigger the memories? Torment us a little longer? We have to remember that his target is ultimately you. What would hurt you the most? Losing the case? Losing Mia?”

All of it, a quiet voice whispered.

“And that’s what concerns me,” Sherlock confessed. “He’s playing too many variables this time. First, he tried to make me fail at solving cases by distracting me through Amelia’s disappearance. Then she returns, no recollection of events, and a week later he turns himself in.”

“What’s his end goal?” John considered quietly. “Why is he so fixated on you?”

“I’m not mad like him,” Sherlock realized, straightening up.

That was it. That was the difference between him and Moriarty. Sherlock had people who cared for him and he cared for in return. He had John and Amelia, Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade.

“He wants you to feel weak because you... care?” John asked, trying to follow along as Sherlock explained.

“He thinks I’m sentimental, and in his mind, that’s a detriment,” he replied, pacing the room. “That’s why he picked the clues he picked- Persephone? Ophelia? The War of the Roses? He’s well aware that in my sentiment, I would know these things and relate them back to Amelia.”

“And that, he hoped, would have distracted you and proven his point,” John nodded. “But it didn’t work.”

“No, so he knew he needed to dig deeper,” Sherlock pointed to John. “I don’t think he intended to do anything to Amelia initially. He wanted to prove a point. Scare her a little, and show me that these relationships hurt my abilities.”

“So what does that mean now?” John asked, now at the literal edge of his seat, watching Sherlock walk back and forth.

“It means that he’s going to continue playing on that sentiment,” Sherlock deduced confidently. “Another poem or a flower? He wants to get into my head and is doing so through hers.”

“That’s reassuring,” Amelia commented, falling backward onto the sofa. “At least he’ll leave my head soon. It’s really strange not recalling nearly a month in time. Did I menstruate? Who dealt with that? Where did I shower? What if I’m missing a kidney or something?”

“You have both kidneys,” John assured her quickly. “But that is a good point to consider- what do we do when he pulls the curtain on her memories, so to speak?”

“I’m preparing for the worst and hoping for the best,” Amelia supplied, staring up at the ceiling. “At least, that’s why my therapist is telling me to do.”

“We won’t know until it happens,” Sherlock agreed tersely. He hated the unknown, the unsolvable. He especially hated that James Moriarty knew something he didn’t.

“Then we watch out for signs and go from there?” John looked between the pair. “Proceed with caution?”

“For now,” Sherlock replied. “For now.”

~~~

The morning of the Magistrate hearing, Sherlock hovered over her. He hovered while she ate breakfast, hovered while she got dressed (though he did turn around after she threw a shoe toward his general direction), and hovered on their way to the taxi outside.

“Sherlock, you’ll be the first to know if something weird happens,” she promised him, patting his hand in reassurance. “I really don’t think anyone would be so bold as to do something right on the courthouse steps.”

“Just keep staying alert,” he mumbled, eyes scanning the roads, the front of the taxi, the driver.

The ride to the courthouse was blessedly short, Amelia growing tired of Sherlock’s overzealous actions. He held a hand up and made sure no one outside the courthouse was too close. Amelia snorted and pulled out her wallet.

Once Sherlock was out of the taxi, Amelia paid the driver. He paused, counting the bills before reaching into his sun visor. Pulling an envelope free, he passed it to Amelia.

Before she could ask questions, Mycroft approached and reminded the pair that they were needed inside. Amelia tucked the envelope away into her jacket, sliding out of the cab and following behind the Holmes brothers with more questions than answers at this point.

They moved through security, and before stepping into the chambers, Amelia excused herself to go to the restroom, with Mycroft calling after her to hurry.

Slipping into one of the stalls, Amelia took the moment of privacy to take a breath and pull the envelope free.

Hopefully, it wasn’t anthrax, she thought dryly, feeling the paper from the outside.

There was something inside, a piece of a fern or pine. Ripping the top, she emptied its contents on her lap, lifting the small sprig up to better examine it.

Rosemary, she recognized immediately, fingers running over the delicate periwinkle blooms.

It had to be a little gift from Moriarty. It was too bizarre to treat as some random act.

Why this though?

She checked the inside of the envelope for anything else, and finding nothing, she tucked it back into the paper and folded it into her coat. Weird.

Sherlock was outside the bathrooms, waiting with his eyes mid-roll while Mycroft lectured in the background.

“Thank goodness,” he grumbled when Amelia returned. “I couldn’t take another second with him.”

She fell in step with him, thinking to herself how to address the bizarre interaction. Pulling the envelope free, she held it up to him.

“The taxi driver gave this to me when I paid,” she explained when they stopped in front of the courtroom, Mycroft stepping inside with instructions to wait until they were summoned.

Sherlock plucked the rosemary free, brows furrowed while he studied it.

“Rosemary,” she supplied with a small shrug of her shoulders. “Nothing else though. No note.”

“Rosemary,” he repeated to himself. “And the taxi driver gave it to you?”

He looked at her reaction and she nodded slowly.

They were both thinking the same thing.

“Yeah,” she made a face. “Generally means love, lust, and mourning… though it’s been a minute since I last worked with it. I’m not sure what it would… why he would send it, you know?”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, pulling out his phone and sending John a picture with a request to double-check any other meaning behind the plant.

Amelia sighed.

There was something irritatingly familiar about the plant that made her run through every bit of flowers knowledge she possessed. It grew in coastal climates. Used in cooking, has a salty texture…

“Amelia, the Magistrate will be hearing from you now,” Mycroft peeked his head into the hall, guiding Amelia into the chambers to give her statement.

Once the doors closed, Sherlock’s phone buzzed with a new message from John.

He didn’t even have to look, the flower staring up at him from his palm. He knew exactly what this meant and exactly why the taxi driver gave it to her.

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember.

Oh no, no, no… Stuffing his phone into his pocket, Sherlock slipped into the courtroom, earning a pointed glare from his brother when he sat down next to him. Amelia was settling into the witness’ chair, nervously toying with the edge of her shirt sleeves.

“We have a problem,” Sherlock murmured to his older brother passing him the sprig of rosemary. “Amelia received this in the taxi.”

Mycroft’s face went ghost white.

“We can’t interrupt,” Mycroft grunted in frustration, watching Amelia intensely.

“Dr. Brenner, do you recognize this man?” the representative of the court asked her, holding up a photograph of Jim Moriarty.

“I do,” Amelia answered confidently, blinking a few times and frowning to herself when the representative turned to grab another piece of evidence.

“Can you please tell us how you are familiar with him?”

“I…” Amelia’s voice caught. “I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”

“How are you familiar with this man?”

“Who are we talking about?” came Amelia’s blank-faced reply, confusion evident on her face.

Oh nononono. Sherlock could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Months of work. Months of effort were about to go down the drain.

“If I may?” Mycroft stepped toward the representative, murmuring something into his ear. The panel of judges looked absolutely scandalized at the interruption.

“Excuse me,” the female barrister approached the bench, speaking in a low voice to the trio.

“We will grant this request,” the center judge, a man, replied firmly. “Return in one hour.”

Mycroft practically dragged Amelia out of the room, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. Once they were in the hall, the barrister looked to Mycroft furiously.

“Mind explaining what the hell just happened in there?” she barked.

“Just, bear with me,” Mycroft released Amelia’s arm after Sherlock smacked his hand.

Cautiously, Sherlock touched her shoulder.

“Amelia?” he asked, and her head snapped toward him. Her face was sheet white, pupils dilated, breathing rapidly.

“Sherlock,” she breathed. “Oh my god.”

Sherlock saw that Mycroft was busy trying to calm the barrister and took it upon himself to guide Amelia to a more secluded area. He sat her on a bench, taking one of her hands protectively.

“What happened?” he pressed, keeping his voice low, controlled. He didn’t want to frighten her more than she obviously was.

“I remember everything,” she whispered, tears threatening to fall over her bottom lashes. “Oh my god, Sherlock… it’s…”

She pulled her hand out of his and buried her face into her palms, hunching forward.

“I can’t do this,” she choked out, green eyes looking at him wildly.

“You have to,” he insisted. “Whatever it is, we will work through it, but you can’t let him walk away.”

“You don’t understand,” she swallowed, her whole body shaking. “I can’t. I… it’s… just…”

“You’re the key to this whole case, Amelia,” he reminded her tersely. “I’m seldom one to beg, but you have to push through. It’s for one day.”

“And if it goes to trial?” she snapped sharply, her voice rising. “And the press? And his little goons waiting in the shadows to strike? Sherlock, no. I’m not…”

She stood up on wobbly legs, backing away from him.

“I’m going home,” she choked out.

“Amelia,” he called after her retreating figure, cursing under his breath as he passed Mycroft.

“What is going on?” Mycroft demanded. “We need to be back in an hour!”

“I’m working on it,” Sherlock huffed, sprinting after the terrified woman. He found her on the court steps, legs tucked to her chest, muttering to herself under her breath. “Mia.”

The nickname pulled her back and she stilled, silencing with a shake of her head.

“I’m not doing it,” she repeated fiercely. “Call anyone else. My mother. My cousin. I don’t care. I’m not doing it.”

“Don’t think about that right now,” Sherlock sat down next to her. “You need to talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

She kept her eyes glued to the steps in front of her.

Sherlock took the opportunity to hammer out a text to John. Whatever was happening, they needed to get out of the public eye for a moment, the court be damned.

“Sherlock,” she turned to him, eyes swollen, her whole being trembling. “It was… there aren’t words.”

He’d kill him. Sherlock decided. He’d rip his spine free from his body. Throw him off the courthouse roof. Spend the rest of his life ensuring no one ever touched a single hair on her again.

She pulled up her shirt sleeves, holding up the pair of healing scars toward him.

“20 days,” she stated bitterly. “If it were possible, I would have ripped my own hands off to escape. I can’t, Sherlock. Please. I just… I don’t even know what… Christ, he’s a monster.”

“We need to get ready,” Mycroft was jogging down the steps toward them. “The court wants to start up early.”

“It’s not happening,” Sherlock shot back. “She’s in no condition for this.”

“She just needs to recite her statement,” Mycroft pressed. “Once we get the approval to move forward-”

“Mycroft, no,” Sherlock stood up, face to face with his brother.

“We might not be able to bring this forward again,” Mycroft warned sharply. “If Dr. Brenner is so frightened, you both might do well to remember that without a pending trial, James Moriarty is to be released to the public.”

Amelia’s breath hitched at the thought. Looking at Sherlock in a panic, he took a breath.

“Just…” he considered their options, none of which were pleasant. “Get a postponement. New evidence came up and the government needs to verify its authenticity.”

Mycroft stared at him a moment, considering the suggestion.

Both men knew it was a weak excuse, but they didn’t have a lot of options at this point. If they threw the case out completely, Moriarty would be free to roam and terrorize again.

“Fine,” he seethed with a low sigh. “I will contact you with the details moving forward. Get this figured out.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled to the smug satisfaction of his brother.

“Just- get out of here before the barrister sees you,” he added, a little gentler.

Sherlock plucked Amelia up and hurried toward a line of waiting taxis.

John was going to meet them at the flat, preferably with a tranquilizer on standby.

“I’m sorry,” Amelia managed once they were a few blocks away from the court. She looked a little calmer, though it wasn’t much of a difference appearance wise. She just didn’t seem like she was about to pass out from sheer horror.

Sherlock didn’t register the small apology, his mind a million miles away, running through everything that had happened.

Moriarty had planned for this to happen. To shame her. Make her give up one of the potentially largest fraud cases in decades out of fear.

Sherlock’s hand found hers. She gave it a tight squeeze. At the very least she was here and not buried in a trench somewhere. The only benefit to this was that Moriarty was keen on giving him preferential treatment.

~~~

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Amelia mumbled, wrapped in Sherlock’s robe, a cup of chamomile in her hands. She was sitting in the chair. She’d never sat in the chair, even her first night at Baker Street after her shop burnt down.

But this was another monster. This was bigger than Chemco and shady family relations; this was James Moriarty. And everything she could try and recall could be essential in figuring out what his play was. Or so Sherlock had assured her.

“The beginning?” Sherlock suggested dryly, earning a smack in the arm from John. He rubbed the spot, glaring at him pointedly. “It’s the best way to parse everything out."

John just wanted to make sure she made it through all of this in one piece. With Moriarty on the mind, Sherlock tended to become hyper-focused, ignoring the comforts and general well-being of those around him.

It was all for a good cause, of course, but given the vulnerable state Amelia was already in- having been exploited by Moriarty that very day- he wanted to keep her safe.

“Are you okay if I record this?” John asked, holding up a small recording device. Amelia nodded and took a sip of the calming tea. “Just take your time.”

“A lot of it just phases together after a bit,” she explained after a pause of consideration, a chill going up to her spine at an unspoken memory.

John wasn’t sure if he was ready to stomach what she had to say. She looked so rattled, so scared. This woman who stared down the barrel of a gun and demanded that her uncle not be a coward and shoot her- looked absolutely terrorized.

What possible demons lurked in her mind?

She took a deep breath and looked up between the men. It was her show. She was in the chair and they were ready to take on Amelia Brenner’s second case.

Chapter 21 

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 19

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 18 - Chapter 20

Chapter 19- Willow

~~~

I used to love playing pretend when I was a boy. My sister and I would spend hours dreaming up impossible scenes to play in; dinosaurs, spacemen, anything you could imagine, we would come up with.

That’s what this has felt like- playing pretend. I don’t mind it, personally. Given all that has happened, it’s a bit nice to see my two dearest friends get on and enjoy a short break from solving crimes and dealing with Moriarty.

It’s just, unfortunately, the problem with playing pretend is that eventually your mum has to call you in for dinner and you’re thrown back into reality.

~~~

And if it was an open-shut case, I never would have known from the look on your face. Lost in your current like a priceless wine. - Willow (Taylor Swift)

~~~

“And what?” Amelia challenged a laugh on her lips, teacup in her lap and watching John in amusement. “You’re opening the present or so help me John Watson, I’ll tell Mrs. Hudson.”

The doctor lifted the bundle of perfectly wrapped boxes tentatively, giving the smallest one a shake.

“It doesn’t feel right,” he continued, and Amelia sent him a pointed look.

“I opened mine,” Sherlock commented, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair.

“You did?” John gaped at his friend in disbelief. “When?”

“A few nights ago,” Amelia waved her hand, not wanting to go into detail about her complete meltdown that first night. “And Mrs. Hudson opened hers yesterday. Just open it!”

Mrs. Hudson was gifted an all-expense paid spa trip to Bath with the three ladies she played cards with each week. The housekeeper had practically screamed with excitement, pulling Amelia into a tight hug, thanking her profusely before making phone calls to set up a date.

It was nice to have a bit of normal.

“Fine,” John grumbled, opening the first box.

All in all, he loved his gifts.

Two cashmere sweaters in navy and merlot, and an original 1st edition of Grey’s Anatomy.

He set the book aside and pulled Amelia into a hug, and even though he tried to blink away the tears in his eyes, she definitely saw them glisten.

No one mentioned the lapse in time often. Only when Sherlock was working on the case did he pepper he with questions. John talked about it even less, which was sweet, but no matter how much Amelia tried to pretend things were ok, she was still reeling from it all.

The Christmas decorations had come down after the New Year, leaving the apartment sparse when she returned, having left with it covered in lights and tinsel. The days were easing into February, while she was still waiting for January.

She’d started therapy the day before, at John’s insistence. Twice a week for the foreseeable future. The hope was that the sessions would unlock whatever secrets were hidden in her subconscious.

More than anything, though, she was tired of everyone looking at her like she was this fragile thing, waiting to shatter at the lightest touch.

She’d been home a little over a week now, and it was getting old. Amelia wasn’t one who did well with coddling.

Even her mother had become almost unbearable. Constantly calling and texting.

The only person she had the energy to deal with was Sherlock. He was careful not to overstep his boundaries, but also read her like a book when she was uncomfortable.

He’d insisted on accompanying her anywhere she wanted to go, including the shops when she decided to pick out a new winter coat.

It was nice.

Amelia had always enjoyed spending time with both John and Sherlock alone, but while John felt like an older brother, Sherlock gave her butterflies whenever he spoke.

Greg had been sweet enough to avoid calling him in unless absolutely necessary. And on the one occasion he did, Sherlock made sure Amelia was left with Molly at the hospital. Safe and secure while he and John went to the crime scene.

Otherwise, Sherlock was always at her side. But it wasn’t as smothering as anyone else. He didn’t nitpick and ask her how she was feeling or fetch her things because he pitied her. It was a natural presence, a little protective, but safe and warm.

Amelia had no problem falling back into old routines, sketching by the fire while Sherlock read and John worked through a crossword. It was what she needed.

Nighttime was the only thing that had changed drastically.

Ever since that first night in her room, Amelia and Sherlock had spent every night together, alternating between beds.

The first night in his room, Amelia had burrowed her face into his pillow, much to his amusement, trying to guess the elements of his cologne.

“I’ll never tell,” he teased when she listed a few common scents.

“I will figure it out,” she vowed.

And she did. He didn’t bother hiding the bottle and a quick google search revealed a blend of pine and light jasmine.

It certainly didn’t account for the smell of firewood, old books, and wool that seemed to be all his.

Neither of them had tried to name whatever this had turned into. There wasn’t “I love you’s” or kisses in the morning. They never had sex.

It felt like an entirely natural progression of things, granted, with the underlying context of kidnapping and memory loss. But Amelia didn’t mind. She was happy. Sherlock seemed happy. That was good enough for her.

She wasn’t so naive to assume that this would last forever, either.

They’d discussed it extensively, lying awake next to one another and dissecting potential plans that Moriarty had for the future and a grand reveal was the first idea they’d agreed upon.

It was coming. She didn’t know when or how, but it was.

Amelia just wanted to enjoy this little slice of joy that they had as long as she could. They could name things and have serious talks about the future, later on. For now, she was content in this vacation-like bliss.

~~~

“10... 9... 8...”

It was a small get together, Ruthie, Greg, Molly, and the residents of Baker Street, but it meant the world to Amelia.

John had pulled up a video of the New Year’s Eve celebrations, Mrs. Hudson had pulled out hats and noisemakers, and the plan was to count down until midnight.

“..2...1! Happy New Year!”

Laughing, kisses were peppered onto everyone’s cheeks. When Amelia passed Sherlock, he linked his finger with hers, giving her a small smile when she glanced curiously in his direction.  

Turning around, she pecked a kiss on his cheek, tapping the tip of his nose with a finger, before returning to the others.

More than anything, Amelia wanted to grab him by the shoulders and kiss him like she meant it. But they hadn’t even discussed their unspoken thing or shared the first kiss at all.

So, she held her composure and sent him smiles whenever he looked in her direction.

Greg and Molly left after Mrs. Hudson announced that she needed sleep. Ruthie was offered Amelia’s bed, but the women stayed up in the flat with John, splitting a bottle of gin and laughing next to the fire.

“Christ, I needed this,” Ruthie leaned her head back, resting up against Amelia's legs hanging from the sofa.

“No kidding,” Amelia murmured, taking the bottle from John and taking a large swallow. Making a face and handed it to Ruthie. “Gin. Awful.”

“Gets better the longer you drink it,” John voiced, sprawled over his chair.

“Tastes like a liquid pine tree,” Amelia grumbled.

“I bet you like rum or whiskey,” Ruthie held up the bottle to John.

“Bloody Americans,” John rolled his eyes. “Terrible taste in everything.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Amelia fell back, throwing a pillow over her head for effect. “Deep-fried Oreos are the shit.”

“Deep-fried... Oreos?” Ruthie poked her in the leg, the gin bottle making a return. “I love Oreos.”

“They’re like, deep-fried in pancake batter,” Amelia explained, popping back up. “It makes them all gooey and amazing.”

“Holy shit,” Ruthie paused. “We need to make some.”

“Not in my kitchen,” Sherlock threw blankets around the room, snagging the gin from Ruthie and taking a sip for himself.

“Sher...lock,” Amelia slurred, putting emphasis on the final “k”. “There are eyeballs and a human tongue in the freezer.”

“We can make Oreos,” John held up a hand.

“Deep-fried Oreos,” Amelia clarified with a wavering finger. “A very important distinction.”

“You’ll burn the flat down, no,” Sherlock countered.

“Not right now,” Amelia laughed. “Silly Sherlock. We don’t have Oreos.”

“Which is a tragedy,” Ruthie complained, stealing back the gin and finishing what was left. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders like a cocoon, tackling Amelia onto the sofa. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me too,” Amelia snickered, pressing a sloppy kiss on her cousin's cheek.

“Ugh, gross, you slobbered on me,” Ruthie dropped back, wiping at her cheek in disgust.

“You got emotional, consequences,” Amelia gestured above her, hand swaying while she examined it in the air.

What Sherlock first noticed was the way Ruthie stiffened at the sight of the vicious scarring and scabbing on her cousin's wrist. The second thing he noticed was the way Amelia went quiet when her drunken focus fell on the injury.

John let out a snore and Sherlock jumped up.

“Bed,” he announced, earning a chorus of complaints from Amelia and Ruthie. “You’ve both had plenty to drink. Happy New Year, bedtime.”

“I’m not moving,” Ruthie announced, curling up on the sofa, making it as difficult as possible for Amelia to crawl over her.

“Enjoy John and his snoring,” Amelia stumbled over the edge of the rug and caught herself in the doorway between the living area and kitchen. “Mmmm goodnight!”

“Don’t be loud!” Ruthie called once Amelia and Sherlock rounded the corner to his bedroom.

Sherlock had to redirect Amelia a couple of times, helping her navigate the hallway without smashing her head or breaking anything. She dropped onto his bed with a long sigh.

“What?” he stood over her, brow quirked.

“I think you’re right,” she answered, eyes opening to look at him. “Your bed is the best.”

“I’m never wrong,” he answered, dropping next to her with a soft thud.

“So very humble,” she rolled toward him, amusement in her eyes. “You’re the humblest guy I know, Sherlock Holmes.”

He turned his head to better see her, his chest hammering once he realized how close her face was to his.

Was this the right time? They’d both had a bit to drink and he didn’t want to escalate things to an inappropriate level until they were sober and-

Amelia pressed her lips against his, her fingers threading their way through his curls.

He pulled her closer, hand cupping her cheek while he reciprocated in turn. It felt like everything the movies and books he’d read about said a kiss was supposed to be.

His brain felt like it’s erupted in fireworks, and the rest of his body-

“Oh,” he pulled away, clearing his throat. She leaned on her elbow, watching him try to adjust his pants.

“I didn’t mean to get you all fired up,” she smirked up at him. “I feel a little powerful right now.”

He turned to her, scowling at her words. Cruel. She was being mean and enjoying it.

If he half a mind- nope. Gentleman. He was a gentleman and he was going to change into his sleeping pants and go to sleep. He announced as much, stood up, and locked himself in the bathroom with a change of clothes until he pulled himself together.

He stared at his reflection, hands gripping the sides of the sink. Gentleman.

If things came to that, he’d make sure it was right.

Groaning, he threw his night clothes on and returned to the room.

Amelia was on her back, snoring loudly, having only managed to change into an oversized shirt.

Running a hand down his face, Sherlock pushed her aside and threw himself onto his side of the bed.

Amelia rolled onto him, arms snaking around his waist and her hips against his.  

Gentleman.

~~~

“Mrs. Peacock, in the library with...” Amelia shuffled through her notes. “The rope!”

Sherlock lowered his hand and smirked.

“Nope,” he replied, popping the “p” and earning a fresh scowl from her.

“What do you mean, ‘nope’? You didn’t even open the packet,” she protested.

“I told you not to play him,” John mumbled, turning the page to his paper. “It never ends well.”

“It was Mrs. Peacock, and it was in the library,” he contended before flipping a card with his fingers. “But it wasn’t the rope.”

“But- you-,” Amelia scrambled through her notes and cards. “Impossible. Because then if you have the rope it had to have been the pistol.”

Sherlock handed her the envelope and with a litany of curses, sure enough, Mrs. Peacock, in the library, with the pistol.

“How did you...?” she stammered. “I didn’t... my cards...?”

“You touch the pieces you have at the beginning of the game,” he pointed out, lifting the tiny candlestick. “Unconsciously, of course, but you do. It’s an endearing tick, but sufficient to win.”

Amelia threw her cards into the game board, gaping at him in shock.

“I told you,” John sang, folding his newspaper. “You would have been better at Monopoly or Life.”

“I just...” Amelia shook her head, lifting the three cards from the envelope again. “I’ve never lost at this game before.”

“It is easier when it’s only two people,” Sherlock tried to offer but she shook her head.

“No. This is-,” she sat back into the sofa with a sigh. “I’m going to have to think about this. Restrategize.”

“It isn’t chess,” John chuckled.

“No, this is far more serious John,” she looked up at him firmly. “I’m going to beat him.”

“Good luck,” Sherlock mumbled and she whipped her head in his direction.

“I’m going to. And you’re going to eat humble pie, accepting that I, Amelia Ophelia Brenner, am better than you at something,” she announced, hopping to her feet.

“You’re better at painting than I am,” he suggested. “This is a game based on observation and deduction. You can’t win.”

“That’s why my victory will be all the sweeter,” she poked him in the chest with a grin. “Just you wait.”

“When shall I send out the wedding invitations?” John asked the pair. “I picked a lovely periwinkle card stock you’ll love.”

“I think a summer wedding would be nice,” Amelia paused. “Find a little church in the countryside. Wildflowers everywhere.”

“Allergies could be risky,” John replied. “Wouldn’t want to be sneezing on your wedding day.”

“Ah, but I assume you’ll be best man, so I would hope you’d be on hand wut Jaime antihistamines?”

“Of course,” John nodded solemnly. “Assuming Sherlock hasn’t taken them all first.”

“I would have accounted for allergies,” Sherlock piped up. “The insects would be my primary concern.”

“Bees,” Amelia pointed out in agreement. “I’m actually very allergic.”

“So we’re back to allergies,” John said.

“I know you’re allergic,” Sherlock looked at Amelia. “Which is why I renewed your epi-pen after it expired two months ago. I’ll make sure both John and myself have a backup.”

Amelia’s hand went to her chest, eyes wide, with a small “aww”.

“Clearly we’re going to have to bump the date up,” John snickered. “A nice spring wedding?”

“Rain,” both Amelia and Sherlock replied in unison.

“Also periwinkle is nice, but what about a yellow?” Amelia hummed in thought. “Or a tasteful navy with pastel pinks?”

“You just want to cover the tables in peonies,” Sherlock snorted, fishing for his phone after it chirped with a new message.

“Is that so wrong? They’re incredibly good luck for marriages,” she sighed dreamily.

Sherlock ignored the comment, reading over the short message from Mycroft a few times, just to be sure he understood it correctly.

Moriarty turned himself in.

MH

And just like that, the fun was over.

He looked toward Amelia, who was giggling with John over fictional seating arrangements, wrapped-up in Sherlock’s robe.

This was the part he’d been dreading. The game was on, and Amelia was back on the board. This last week being so peaceful for them all. The last tease before things became messy.

Sherlock had no doubt that by the end of this Amelia would know full well what had happened, and that terrified him the most.

~~~

Now this is an open-shut case, guess I should have known from the look on your face. Every bait and switch was a work of art.

Chapter 20

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 17

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 16 - Chapter 18

Chapter 17- Rue

~~~

'Tis the damn season.

~~~

December 26th- 1 am

As it turned out, Hades was a woman. Or so she proclaimed herself over the DJs speak system to a screaming crowd. The music was turned back up, drunken party-goers mashed into one another on the massive dance floor.

StyX certainly lived up to its reputation of leading people to darkness.

Sherlock had bribed a bartender in a back alley on a smoke break to let them in. Fortunately, he was able to find John suitable clothes for the scene, his own jacket and shirt blending in with the well-dressed clientele.

“So Jessica owns this place?” John asked his friend, trying his best to avoid staring at the nearly naked dancer on a nearby platform. “Not what I expected for her.”

“Last time I saw her she was throwing herself all over Amelia,” Sherlock mused. “Granted, she was diligent in her work. Here’s hoping she got the binge drinking under control.”

He scanned the room, looking to the edges for where an administrative suite might be located.

“Don’t you two stick out like a couple of sore thumbs,” a female voice laughed behind the men.

“Miss Reynolds,” Sherlock turned with a smirk on his face.

“Long time no see, Mr. Holmes,” she gestured over her shoulder for the men to follow her to a secluded hallway. “Moriarty mentioned you would be stopping by.”

The music was non-existent by the time they stepped into Jessica’s office.

It was a neatly organized, modern space, with no trace of the lewd debauchery outside.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he was going to be kidnapping your girlfriend,” she continued with a low sigh. “Have a seat.”

Two black seats were in front of her large glass desk. She turned and started to rummage through a filing cabinet before taking a seat in her chair.

“He left this,” she slid an envelope across the desk.

“What did you tell him?” Sherlock demanded, eyeing the envelope. “Why would he help you set all of this up from your father’s accounts?”

“He’s laundering money through the bar,” she explained so casually, it almost didn’t seem like she was referencing a very serious crime. “I have one of my security guards pass his guy a large duffel bag every other week, and he makes sure my shithead of a father stays out of the picture.”

“He’s dead then,” John stated and she shrugged.

“As I’m sure you’ve done a full inventory of my life, he isn’t the best person,” she replied truthfully.

“Why are you telling us this?” Sherlock examined the envelope in the light, checking for any stray hairs or fingerprints.

“Because, despite how it looks on paper, I’m not a bad person,” she answered earnestly, leaning back a little in her chair. “Neurotic? Definitely. A little unstable? My therapist thinks so. But I do have good intentions.”

“If you had good intentions, you wouldn’t have gotten in bed with Moriarty,” Sherlock scoffed, peeling back the edge of the envelope. “He’s a maniac.”

“He has good business acumen,” Jessica frowned. “I’m not thrilled about it, but I needed my father's money to finally get my own. If he’d been indicted, it would have been locked up in legal fees and government agencies for years.”

“A nightclub is getting your own?” John snorted.

“I hire homeless folks,” she explained, narrowing her gaze at him. “People coming back into work, retirees who need a little spare income, addicts looking for a second chance. I’m on track to donate a quarter of my profits to local domestic abuse programs. I’m not a monster.”

“God, you sound just like-,” Sherlock stopped when he pulled out the card inside.

Written in neat script was a small snippet of dialogue from Hamlet.

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love,

remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you,

and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays.

O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There’s a daisy. I

would give you violets, but they wither’d all when my father

died. They say he made a good end.

“Ophelia,” Sherlock’s words were barely above a whisper, passing the paper to John.

“Wear your rue with a difference?” John looked at his friend. “Why is that underlined?”

“It’s the implication that I have different rue than the speaker,” Sherlock muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Rue for you and rue for me.”

“You can’t tell us anything about Moriarty’s whereabouts?” John demanded, waving the card toward Jessica.

“I can’t,” she replied softly. “He just told me that you’d be by after giving me the envelope. It was one of his security guys that mentioned Brenner.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Sherlock stood up abruptly, racing toward the door of the office, his mind moving at top speed.

Ophelia. What did he know about the character?

It inspired Amelia’s middle name, no coincidence there.  

Flowers. Intentional.

Ophelia went mad after Hamlet killed her father. She goes to the river and drowns.

But it isn’t intentional, or so it’s implied it isn’t.

She’s pulled into the river after falling in.  

But she doesn’t struggle and drowns in her misery.

There’s of course the medieval belief that Rue was a means of abortion.

No, Sherlock frowned. That was too barbaric for someone like Moriarty.

He’d pick his tortures carefully. Toying with his victims. He wanted to prove his genius. Show it off.

“Sherlock!” John caught up with the detective near the end of the block, grabbing his sleeve and shoving a phone in his friend's hand. “A body’s washed up. Molly’s meeting us in the morgue.”

~~~

Allison Nell, a 30-year-old real estate broker, avid swimmer. Newly engaged, but lost her fiancé during his deployment two weeks previously.

Suicide is the presumptive cause of death. Overdose of pills then wandered into the Thames.

“Why would you think otherwise?” Sherlock asked as Molly unzipped the body bag.

“Because of this,” she used a gloved hand to open a large incision in Allison’s stomach.

Pills.

Undigested pills.

Meaning they weren’t metabolized at the time of death.

“Toxicology shows a slight increase in the substance, but not a lethal dose. Or even a strong enough dose to render a woman of her size unconscious. It wasn’t the pills that killed her,” Molly explained, a small look of pity at the woman’s swollen, blue face.

“She drowned,” John lifted the police report and skimmed it over. “If she hadn’t passed out, why didn’t she swam to shore?”

Ophelia. A voice in the back of Sherlock’s mind whispered.

“Was she wearing winter garments?” he directed the question to Molly.

“A large wool coat, and heavy winter boots,” she confirmed with a nod.

“She was pulled down,” he decided. Against his better judgment, his gaze fell on the woman’s face. “With the shock of the cold water, she would have tired out, especially so with the extra weight pulling her down.”

All he could see was Amelia.

“She could have been trying to come back,” John realized, his expression set miserably. “Second guessed herself...”

“She likely fell into the river after trying to get help,” Sherlock pointed to the woman’s address. “Ran out of the house, and stumbled along an embankment, and slipped in.”

The trio stood in silence, considering the sad fate of the woman in front of them.

His phone chirped with a text message from an unknown number.

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indued

Unto that element; but long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death

~~~

“He wanted you to figure out how that woman died,” John was summarizing when they returned to Baker Street near dawn. “To tie it with the clue from Jessica... why am I getting deja vu? Is he going to lead us on another round of crimes to solve?”

Sherlock tossed his coat on the hanger by the door, stewing over the text while the men made their way up the stairs to the flat.

“I just don’t know what he’s trying to prove,” John huffed from behind. “You’ve done this before. What’s the difference?”

Sherlock stopped short at the landing, gaping into the main living room of 221B Baker Street.

Photographs of Amelia were taped all over the room, plastering the walls and bookcases with candid images that seemed to range in date from her first few weeks in London to the day she was taken.

“That’s the difference, John,” Sherlock breathed, trying his best to steady his heart rate. “He wants to prove that sentiment is a detriment.”

“He’s trying to use her to distract you,” John translated. “He’s waiting for you to slip up, but what does that mean for Mia?”

Before Sherlock could reply, both their phones indicated new messages.

A video message, followed by a second text: “Happy Christmas.”

Amelia, looking fiercely defiant was slamming her hands against a metal wall, screaming a song out of tune. She was still wearing the jeans and oversized red sweater from Christmas Eve. Her blue coat was discarded on the floor.

There was no furniture or windows, so far as Sherlock could tell from the video.

“Country roads, take me home to the place I belong,” she screeched. “West Virginia, mountain mama take me home, country roads!”

There was a significant amount of background noise and the flicker of an unseen screen outside the view of the camera. She continued her rebellious shriek, clearly trying to be louder than whatever else she was exposed to.

The clip cut off from there.

“Alive,” John whispered first, his shoulders deflating just a little. "She's alive."

It certainly was a bit of good news in an otherwise depressing evening.

~~~

January 3rd

Nothing.

Sherlock rewatched the video religiously.

He’d left the photographs on the wall, walking through the room over and over, hoping for any indication of a clue.

Nothing.

John made sure he ate. Mycroft had called once, only to confirm that they had no leads either.

Even Jessica Reynolds texted him to inform him that Moriarty’s men hadn’t made their scheduled pick-up.

Lydia Brenner was almost hysteric when she called from a secured government line. She begged him to find her daughter, knowing full well what Amelia’s fate was otherwise.

~~~

January 6th

13 days.

He received another video message.

It had no sound and was short, a five-second clip of Amelia slumped over in a metal chair.

Same room.

New clothes.

He threw his phone across the room with a shout, nearly decapitating John in the process.

~~~

January 11th

A single red rose was sitting on the fireplace mantle after Sherlock and John returned from a crime scene.

When the detective stepped forward, he must have hit a tripwire because the television flipped on a scene from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty.

“I know you I walked with you once upon a dream. I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam. And I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem. But if I know you, I know what you’ll do-,” and the scene repeated.

Over and over as Sherlock studied the simple flower.

“Briar rose!” John guessed, looking to his friend with a satisfied nod. “That’s the princess in the movie and the story. She gets locked up by the evil witch and rose thorns overgrow the grounds to stop people from saving her. She had to have true love’s kiss to wake up.”

"Why do you know this?” Sherlock quirked a brow, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

“I have a sister,” John shot back, growing defensive. “She was quite fond of the movie growing up.”

~~~

January 12th

Briar Rose Gardens is where they found the next clue, as well as a dead body, frozen on the ground from the cold winter air.

And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day,

Grown to this faction in the Temple-garden,

Shall send between the red rose and the white

A thousand souls to death and deadly night.

King Henry the Sixth. More Shakespeare.

More flowers.

At this point, Sherlock knew he was playing by Moriarty’s hand, whatever that may be.

At least, however, he was familiar enough with the Temple Gardens, practically dragging John along to their next destination.

“Rose plant… rose plant…” Sherlock was frantically searching the dormant gardens for the horned plants.

“Sherlock,” John held up a small envelope, a large rose plant next to him.

It was an invitation; a date and an address.

Chapter 18

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 15

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 14 - Chapter 16

Chapter 15- Ophelia

~~~

I missed normal. At least, normal for Baker Street. Solving crimes, going to work, and not having to worry about being shot or murdered.

It's nice, and with Amelia around, it keeps things at least a little interesting. Sherlock is on better behavior, though that didn't stop him from shooting a hole in the kitchen and earning an earful from both Mrs. Hudson and Mia the other night.

I've been doing better. The wound is pretty much healed up, and I've been able to accompany Sherlock to crime scenes again- much to Amelia's relief.

Apparently, she'd been getting sick at the sight of the bodies. Not the best habit to have when working alongside a murder consultant.

~~~

I will burn the heart out of you.

Sherlock couldn’t shake the words out of his head, his thoughts lost deep in his mind palace.

It was incredibly inconvenient, given that he was presently standing over the body of a local priest and couldn’t recall the name of the parish the man served.

“Cathedral of Our Lady the Blessed?” John voiced, peering up from his mobile.

That’s right. He knew that.

The mental image of the large church sprang into his mind.

“Right,” Sherlock stood up, straightening his jacket. “We should interview the sisters.”

“We’ll get the body to Molly,” Lestrade promised, the remainder of the forensic detectives wrapping up the small scene.

There hadn’t been much to observe. The body hadn’t had any marks of trauma or bruising. No bullet or stab wounds, no blood. No signs of poisoning. If Sherlock was less thorough, he would have chalked the whole thing up to a random heart attack.

But it was the surroundings that made the death that much more suspicious.

The priest had been found on the stage of an empty gentleman’s club. The building had been set for demolition, and during a last check of the property, a construction worker stumbled across him and called it in.

“Probably some rival showing off the priests lack moral fiber…” Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

“What?” John flagged down a taxi.

“I bet it’s someone at the parish who thought little of the priest,” Sherlock cleared his throat.

“A bit obvious then, don’t you think?” John chuckled, giving the address to the driver. “Leaving him in an old strip club?”

“Certainly not the most clever,” Sherlock agreed, sliding in next to him.

…burn the heart…

“We’re here,” John nudged Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock blinked out the window, disoriented by the sudden arrival. The parish was at least a thirty-minute taxi ride away from the scene of the crime. He quickly paid the driver and followed John to the entrance of the large building.

It was ornate, old, and the grounds were incredibly well kept, given the age of the property.

“Hello,” a nun greeted with a smile, bowing her head to the pair. “Inspector Lestrade said you would be coming.”

“Thank you, Sister…?” John replied politely.

“Angeline,” she smiled again. So many smiles. It was irritating. “I’m relieved you two were able to make it to us so quickly.”

“It’s a shame about Father Matthews,” John hummed. Sherlock could feel the doctor watching him out of the corner of his eye while the detective poked around the gardens.

“He was a good man,” Angeline sighed. “A true child of Christ in all his work.”

“Did he have anyone who would have wanted him dead?” Sherlock questioned bluntly, scanning the Queen Anne’s lace over.

“Sherlock,” John warned. “I apologize Sister…”

“No, no,” Angeline waved off John’s concern, looking to Sherlock. “He came to us with a troubled past. Addiction, adulterous behaviors… he was looking for redemption and we provided it. He’s served our parish for a decade now.”

“And someone must have disagreed with bringing in such an unworthy man,” Sherlock surmised, folding his arms behind his back.

“Most did,” she confessed in a low voice. “Though another brother, Father Colin, was especially vocal about it.”

Sherlock nodded, continuing their way around the parish while Angeline pointed out particular areas of interest, eventually guiding them to the late Father’s personal quarters.

“Have a look around,” she unlocked the door, standing aside while the men began digging through the room.

Nothing of too much interest. Some dried flowers, some notebooks, bibles…

He took a few pictures for good measure, though nothing seemed to pique his interest.

…heart out of you.

They were back in the garden. John was saying something to Angeline and making her giggle while Sherlock was knelt down next to… parsnips?

The plot was partially dug up, some flowers and carrots discarded on the soil, a spade stuck into the dirt.

He took a picture of a flower he vaguely recognized as Queen Anne’s lace and sent it to Amelia to double-check. It was almost identical in structure, with a large bundle of small white flowers at the end of each stem.

“Sherlock?” John stepped over, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock tilted the plant closer to his face, studying each tiny bulb.

“This isn’t Queen Anne’s Lace,” he stated decidedly. As if on cue, his phone chirped to life with a message from their resident florist.

Hemlock. Don’t touch it. Don’t breathe it.

Sherlock pulled away, quickly wiping his hands on his pants.

“John, we’re going to need to make a stop,” he murmured, handing John his phone.

John skimmed over the message, eyes widening.

“Yes, right,” he cleared his throat. “Thank you. We’ll be back.”

~~~

“It’s an easy mistake,” Amelia poured Sherlock a fresh cup of tea. His head was pounding, his hands still burned from the Hemlock's stem. “They’re eerily similar. Not to mention, the ends look a lot like common vegetables. Accidental exposure happens more often than you’d think, to some of the most practiced professionals.”

“Have you ever mistaken it?” he grumbled, pulling his mug to his face, his hand shaking slightly.

“I- well, no,” she frowned apologetically. “I did accidentally poison a roommate once. Unintentionally. He’d been going through some of my samples and came across some dried hemlock. Thought it was marijuana.”

“How on earth?” John stared up at her in disbelief.

“He wasn’t very bright,” she hummed in thought. “Ended up dropping out shortly after.”

“That’s incredibly reassuring, Amelia,” Sherlock muttered.

“Maybe next time, you text me the picture before you start messing with it?” she tutted under her breath. He could feel her eyes linger on him. Worry. Concern. Masked by a snarky comment.

“I think we now know how the priest died,” John shrugged, sitting in his chair. “Poisoning.”

“Is Molly a full toxicology report?” Amelia perked up, chatting with John about the potential postmortem effects of a Hemlock poisoning. “An intentional poisoning wouldn’t necessarily have any outward signs. Maybe vomiting? But if he didn’t touch it, there wouldn’t be any irritation on the skin.”

She gestured to Sherlock’s hands. He responded with a scowl, earning a snicker from his friend.

I will burn the heart out of you.

~~~

“Now I know the poison wasn’t strong enough to hallucinate me again,” Amelia’s voice teased through Sherlock’s subconscious. His mind was dark. The only sign of life the familiar New Yorker accent. “Are you dreaming about me?”

His eyes opened to a brightly lit field of wildflowers. The sun was shining above him, a handful of willow trees visible in the distance.

Next to him, Amelia was sitting cross-legged in a small patch of grass, a pile of flowers being careful strung into a flower crown in her lap.

“Isn’t this nice?” she asked him, grabbing his hand and pulling him next to her. Sherlock was struck by the way the sun hit her hair, pulling the reds out in a fiery blur. She leaned over, gently setting the flower crown on his head.

“We should go to the countryside,” she mused, leaning back, closing her eyes, and letting the sun warm her skin. “Or maybe visit my mom’s summer house back home.”

“What is all of this?” Sherlock finally found his voice, gesturing around them.

“It’s a dream, silly,” she snorted, falling back against the plush grass. She rolled her head toward him, a long sigh relaxing her shoulders. “Peaceful, isn’t it? There shouldn’t be any Hemlock here, don’t worry.”

It was like a scene out of one of those cheesy Jane Austen BBC movies. The clouds moved lazily across the sky and Amelia continued stringing flower together, holding each one up and listing its name and informal meaning.

“Be mine?” she held up a red carnation, sitting up and smiling sheepishly over the crimson flower.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock was certain he’d misheard her.

“That’s what it means, dork,” she tucked the flower behind his ear with a flourish. “Love, compassion, romance, be mine…”

His hands touched the silk-like petals, pulling the flower free and twirling it between his fingers.

“Is this supposed to be a subtle message?” he teased, giving the bloom a dramatic sniff.

“Oh Sherlock, I don’t need to be subtle,” her voice morphed, lowering in tone, an Irish lilt catching the ends of her words. He looked up, the meadow was burning around them, but when he went to reach for Amelia’s hand, it was gone.

“Asphodel grew in the underworld,” Moriarty’s voice announced from over his shoulder. “In a purgatory of sorts, between life and death, the worthy dead and the unworthy.

Asphodel’s filled the field, the smoke sweeping over the landscape, creating a grey haze amongst the white flowers.

“Are you worthy?” he taunted, following Sherlock as the detective scrambled to his feet and started toward the willow trees. “Deadly nightshade.. Belladonna, one of the most toxic plants on earth… Hemlock… well, you know all about that now, don’t you?”

The plants sprung up around his feet.

“I told you I was going to burn the heart out of you,” Moriarty continued, strolling through the deadly plants. “I didn’t think it’d be so easy. Pathetic, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ran and ran. Something in his chest told him to keep heading toward the willow trees, but no matter how quickly he sprinted, they stayed the same distance away.

“Better get out now, Sherlock,” Moriarty cackled, plucking Belladonna and tucking it in his hair. “Get out while you can.”

Sherlock jolted awake with a start, his heart thrumming against his ribs. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in his room, the moon still shining outside his window.

Only a dream. He ran a hand down his face, taking a deep breath.

An image of Amelia with flowers woven through her auburn curls flashed through his mind's eye. Laughing, the sky blue and bright behind her. Peaceful.

I will burn the heart out of you.

~~~

“Amelia, what’s your middle name?” Sherlock asked a few days later. Amelia was in the kitchen attempting her hand at some homemade chocolate chip cookies.

“You don’t know?” John lowered his newspaper, peeking up at the detective in surprise. “I know something you don’t?”

Sherlock looked to John incredulously, pausing to ensure he’d read his friend’s reaction correctly.

“How do you know?” he demanded, looking between him and Amelia for an answer.

“He helped me fill out the paperwork for long term residence,” Amelia shrugged, opening the oven to check on her baked goods. “It isn’t a big deal, I figured you already knew.”

“No, don’t tell him,” John called out.

“He’s just going to dig up my social security card or something,” Amelia replied frankly, hand on her hip. “I’d rather him not disturb my filing system. I finally organized it last night.”

She wasn’t wrong, Sherlock mentally relented. He already had a plan for how he intended to go about finding it, starting with Mrs. Hudson and the original rental application. It wasn’t cheating if he accidentally saw it on the paperwork.

“Then what is it?” Sherlock pressed, earning a long sigh from John.

Amelia laughed at John’s reaction. Fishing through the cabinets, she pulled out a pair of oven mitts, focusing completely on the task at hand.

She pulled out the cookie sheet, the scent of the cookies floating through the apartment.

Sherlock reached for one but was swatted away by a spatula wielded by the American.

“They need to cool,” she snapped. “And they’re for John. You know, our dear, injured friend?”

“What’s your middle name?” he tried again, sidestepping her and approaching the tray from behind.

“Ophelia,” she answered, spinning and swatting his hand again. He waited for her to look away, deciding to distract her for the time being.

“Amelia… Ophelia…?” Sherlock paused, pulling his hand away from the tray when she sent him a pointed glare.

“Yes,” came her calm response.

She explained that her mother had been on a Hamlet kick around the time of her birth, and her father had apparently thought the combination of names had been a stroke of genius.

“I guess I can’t say much,” he reasoned, grabbing one of the cookies and retreating before Amelia could swat at him. He downed the hot cookie in a single bite, his mouth hanging open. “Ah, hot… hot..”

“I told you to wait!” she scolded, shaking her head.

“He has no self-control,” John sighed.

“Amelia Ophelia purposely made them too hot,” Sherlock complained, dropping into his seat.

“There we go,” Amelia rolled her eyes, disappearing back into the kitchen to put the cookies on a plate for John. “Shall I start calling you William?”

Sherlock made a noise of disgust.

“I can’t believe you’d be so cruel, Amelia Ophelia,” he relented, stealing another cookie from John’s plate. “Telling John your full name and not me.”

“Well, William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she pulled off her apron and stood in the doorway between rooms, arms crossed. “I had just assumed you’d done a thorough background check.”

“I would never violate the privacy of a friend,” he lied.

Both Amelia and John snorted in response.

“You’re the one who so rudely pick-pocketed me and stole my identity,” he continued, taking a large bite out of the cookie. He pointed it in her direction. “I would never.”

“Why the sudden interest?” she asked, grabbing a tray of clean cups and a freshly poured tea kettle, setting it between the men.

“I just wanted to know,” he shrugged indifferently. That wasn’t a lie.

“Amelia Ophelia Holmes,” John hummed mockingly, sending his friend a knowing look. “Sounds like a storybook character.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, fixing herself a mug of tea.

“He’d take my name,” she stated firmly. “William Sherlock Scott Brenner.”

“I hate it,” Sherlock sat up. “You’re taking Holmes.”

“Amelia Holmes,” she tried, pulling a face of disgust. “Amelia Holmes-Brenner.”

“Mia Holmes has a nice ring,” John supplied, earning a low groan from his friends.

“John Hamish Holmes sounds even better,” she stole a cookie from his plate when he glared at her in offense, giggling as she took a bite.

“Sherlock Watson,” Sherlock tried, shrugging. “Not terrible.”

“Amelia Watson,” John shot back, guarding the remainder of his cookies from the pair.

“Amelia Ophelia Watson,” Sherlock corrected sharply. “A very important distinction.”

“William Watson,” Amelia perked up. “I think that’s my favorite so far.”

“It isn’t fair when you use alliteration,” Sherlock protested. “And I don’t go by William.”

“Why not? It’s definitely fitting for a distinguished English gentleman such are yourself.”

“Stop it or I’m referring to you as Mrs. Holmes in front of Mycroft and leaving you to fend for yourself,” he threatened.

“He’d probably think you married me against my will,” Amelia shot back, smirking. “Obviously to steal my fortune like some dastardly Victorian-era villain. We should get you an evil little mustache.”

“Oh, and he can wear the deer hat,” John agreed quickly.

“Like Spock when they went into the parallel universe?” Amelia lit up, shoot ideas back and forth with John until Sherlock stood up.

“I’m not growing a mustache,” he declared.

“It’s okay, we know you can’t,” Amelia nodded solemnly.

“I can, I just choose to be clean-shaven,” he protested, starting for the kitchen. "It's more professional."

“Ok Sherlock,” she flashed that pleasant smile. That dumb smile she did when she didn’t want to be rude.

“I’m telling the truth,” he paused and reached over John’s shoulder for the final cookie.

“I’ve never seen it,” John shot back.

“The truth comes out,” Amelia pointed to the doctor. “Don’t be embarrassed Sherlock, I can’t grow one either.”

“I’m due to meet Molly,” Sherlock grabbed his jacket, throwing it over his shoulders with a huff.

“Don’t forget your scarf,” Amelia called. “Don’t want your poor face getting frostbite. Lack of protection and all…”

“Remind me why I let you move in?”

Chapter 16

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 12

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 11 - Chapter 13

Chapter 12- Lies

~~~

I’ll admit, I’m not as good at writing these things as John is. However, he’s still admitted to the hospital and is unable to attend Sirenshore with Amelia and me.

The legal case against Chemco has continued, with a large manhunt announced for Lydia Brenner in both the United States and the United Kingdom.

Amelia had joked that perhaps her mother would turn up at the funeral out of respect for her older brother. I didn’t account for the humorous anecdote in my own considerations, however, as improbable as it would be, I’ve found the Brenner family to consistently act emotionally.

I have to take the suggestion as seriously as any other, just to be sure.

~~~

“I haven’t been out here since I was a kid,” Amelia was gazing out the window of the rental car, watching the rolling hills Sherlock navigated through. “It’s prettier than I remember, even without the leaves on the trees.”

“Lots of sheep,” he added bitterly, slowing behind a farmer and his flock. A low sigh of irritation passed his lips with a scowl.

“The house is by the water at least,” Amelia glanced over apologetically. “Far fewer sheep in the Channel, or so I’ve heard.”

“Hilarious,” he answered, swerving around the large crowd of sheep and continuing down the country road.

“Ruthie said the new chef is really good,” Amelia continued to babble aimlessly. She was obviously nervous, and while normally Sherlock would have been annoyed by the incessant noise, it provided a nice ground for him to focus on while driving.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Sherlock found himself cutting in while she talked about a great aunt that was due to attend the funeral.

“These are some of the worst people I’ve encountered in my life,” she muttered, sinking into her seat. “We’re literally wandering into a pit of vipers.”

“We could go back to London,” he offered, albeit too optimistically.

“You’re welcome to,” Amelia gave him a sad smile. “I need to be here for Ruthie. I can’t let her face these monsters alone. It wouldn’t be right.”

Looking at her, Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt for so easily suggesting they go home. Of course, she was going to stand by her cousin despite her own misery. She was stubbornly loyal to those she loved, he knew that well.

“I want to look through his study,” he cleared his throat, returning his gaze to the road. “I promised Mycroft I’d inform him if I found anything.”

She made a noise of acknowledgment, her attention now lost as they approached the large winding road leading up to the estate. Massive trees bordered the drive, with rolling fields that cut off at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the ocean.

There was a foreboding feeling that settled over the car, the manor ahead cloaked in a blanket of fog from the shore, with dark clouds rolling in toward them.

“The family cemetery,” Amelia pointed over his shoulder where a group of men were measuring out a spot for what he assumed was Maxwell. “Stables, the garden…”

It was an impressive plot of land, far grander than Amelia’s hesitant descriptions had painted it.

“Ruthie told everyone it was a hunting accident,” she supplied when he pulled the car to a stop at the entrance of the manor. “The only people who know the truth are us, her, and Frank.”

It made sense to come up with a cover story. The allegations were fresh, and there wasn’t a good enough reason to sully the reputation of a man who’d only recently fallen to corruption in his life (or so it seemed).

Sherlock took both of their bags, ignoring Amelia’s insistence she could carry her own. They’d barely made it up the steps to the house when Ruthie opened the door and hugged her cousin with tears in her eyes.

She looked awful. She must have spent several hours crying, and given the sway to her walk, she likely sought comfort in the manor’s wine cellar.

“I’m so sorry,” Amelia pulled her cousin into her arms, rubbing a loving hand over Ruthie’s shoulders, the other woman shaking with sobs. “I’m so sorry…”

Frank appeared in the door, glancing from the women to Sherlock with a somber expression. He gestured for Sherlock to come inside, leaving the two Brenner women to their privacy.

“It’s been hard,” Frank offered a space to set the bags. “Monty got here this morning to watch Tommy while we deal with all of the planning and final directives. She’s just been a mess.”

“It’s unusual circumstances,” Sherlock noted lightly, taking in the massive entryway that led to a more intimate sitting room.

��I’m glad you two were able to get here early,” he took a relieved sigh. “I’m at my wit's end. Glass of scotch?”

Sherlock took the drink politely, barely touching it while Frank filled him in on everything that had happened since Ruth and Amelia last spoke.

“Your brother is going to be stopping by tomorrow,” he added, taking a large swallow of his drink, quickly refilling his crystal glass. “He found Lydia.”

That caught Sherlock’s attention. The detective turned around in surprise.

“Alive?” he asked, much to the amusement of his host. Frank chuckled and nodded.

“She turned herself in after hearing the news of Max,” he explained. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. He called up this morning.”

Surprised? Sherlock snorted. Hardly.

Pulling out his mobile, he typed out a quick message to Mycroft, demanding an explanation. Almost immediately, there was a buzz of notification.

I thought it’d be a lovely family reunion.

-MH

So that was it. Mycroft didn’t trust any of the Brenner’s, Amelia included. Which meant, he would be keeping things from Sherlock due to their association.

What an idiot.

Sending back a snarky reply, the voices of Amelia and Ruth floated into the room, the front door closing behind them.

“We have the two of you set up in the East Wing suite,” Ruth was explaining, the women arm in arm.

“We could have taken a sofa,” Amelia smiled, rubbing her cousin’s arm affectionately. “You’re too sweet.”

“It’s more private than the other rooms,” Frank added, a sloppy wink in Sherlock’s direction.

“Oh-,” Amelia quickly caught the exchange and cut in. “We’re not- that’s not- we’re friends.”

Ruth looked horrified as Amelia stumbled through the explanation of their relationship, which left a strange hollowness in Sherlock’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Ruth squeezed her hand. “The other rooms won’t be ready until tomorrow afternoon, and they’re all set aside for the rest of the guests.”

“It’s okay,” Amelia assured her, a chipper smile fixed on her face. “I wasn’t joking about the sofa. We’ll make it work.”

Ruth suggested they settle in a bit before dinner, promising a large seafood spread and the best wine she could track down.

A maid showed them to their room, an isolated suite at the far east side of the house. There were a few rooms scattered in the hall, but once they entered the suite, Sherlock understood what Frank had meant by privacy.

The bedroom was in the very back of the ornate space, with a large sitting room taking up the entrance. Already, it seemed that someone had taken the consideration to start a fire in each of the four fireplaces.

The maid excused herself, leaving the pair to explore the large chambers.

“I can sleep on the chaise,” Amelia called from one of the rooms. “It’s bigger than my bed at home. Plus, you can’t pass up the opportunity to sleep on the beds here.”

“What kind of boyfriend would I be to make you sleep on a chaise?” Sherlock joked, following her laughter to a small study tucked next to the bedroom.

“I’m sorry about the confusion,” she answered, draped over the chaise next to the fire. “I’ll make sure the record is definitively set at dinner."

He waved her concerns off, distracting himself with a large grandfather clock at the edge of the room.

“Don’t pay it much mind,” he assured her. “We have other matters to focus on.”

“Like burying my murdered uncle,” she chimed up. When he didn’t agree, she sat up in the chair. “And what else?”

“Mycroft has stumbled upon something,” he replied vaguely, still fiddling with the clock.

“And what’s that?” her voice rose in pitch. Nervous.

“Your mother,” he answered, listening for a reaction from his companion. He felt a little bad throwing the information on her like this, but it was better to get it out of the way. In private.

“Oh,” she simply replied. “Does that mean… she’s coming to the funeral..?”

“I would imagine,” he finally turned around to find Amelia sitting with her elbows on her knees, staring off in the distance.

Lost in thought.

“What time did they say we were having dinner?” she asked after a pause of silence.

“In an hour,” he replied with a glance at the clock over his shoulder.

“Ah,” she stood up, adjusting the scarf and collar of her coat. “I’m gonna take a little walk, I’ll see you at dinner.”

She looked like she was just floating through space, stepping past Sherlock, and leaving the room without another word.

~~~

Amelia missed dinner, having texted Sherlock that she wasn’t very hungry. No one seemed to notice the lack of presence with Frank and Monty quizzing Sherlock on a recent murder in Edinburgh. Ruth just stared at her wine glass, and Tommy would occasionally chime in with a comment about his favorite color or his mismatched socks.

He decided after eating to track her down, even though the sun had set over the grounds, and cloaked the space in darkness.

He didn’t like the brisk text message or the fact she had been ignoring his response.

When he tried calling her, the phone went straight to voicemail.

It didn’t settle right with him.

He started with the garden, a logical place he could expect to find the flora enthusiast. Searching the whole area, he found no trace of her.

It wasn’t ideal at all. He started for the stables, quietly searching each stall, and finding nothing.

The small parish was empty, the storage house was eerily silent, and finally, he found nothing in the boathouse at the edge of the shoreline.

He was about to give up his search when the breeze threw a large crimson cloth at his waist.

Her scarf.

Following the direction of the wind down the shore, he found a small enclave with a figure sitting on a large rock, staring at the moon over the water.

“Lose something?” he tried to keep the concern out of his voice when she glanced up at him in surprise. He moved closer and saw that her cheeks were red from tears and she’d pulled off her boot, her ankle being soothed between her hands.

Wiping at her cheeks angrily, she scoffed under her breath.

“I forgot the drop,” she admitted miserably, pointing to the steep drop off above her. “When it got dark, I was trying to find my phone in my pocket for a light and slipped.”

She nodded to the shattered mobile next to her.

“I caught my ankle on the ledge,” she added, lightly touching the tender limb. She hissed under her breath at the touch. Even at the distance, when he turned the flashlight on his phone, he could see how swollen the injury was.

Sherlock sighed, dropping down next to her and gesturing for her to set her ankle in his lap.

“Do you have any idea how worried I- Ruth was?” he demanded, using his light to better examine the injury. It didn’t look the best, but he was pretty confident it wasn’t a break. Using the scarf, he wrapped a makeshift brace around it, helping her tuck it back into her boot.

“I didn’t think anyone would have gone this far down the beach,” she replied softly, a low chuckle when he helped her up, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I had just accepted an overly dramatic corpse that died for incredibly stupid reasons by the water.”

When she leaned in, Sherlock was hit with the scent of sunflowers mixed with sea salt. Adjusting her out of the breeze, they started the trek back to the manor.

“You’re lucky I bothered checking on you,” he continued to lecture, the pair struggling through the loose sand.

“I figured after the night, someone would have gotten worried,” she teased, nearly falling over when she slipped with her good foot in the sand.

Huffing in annoyance, Sherlock scooped her up, carrying her bridal style the remainder of the way.

“This is humiliating,” Amelia complained continuously, quickly protesting when he began to lower her back to the ground. “This isn’t going to do a good job of convincing my family we aren’t an item.”

“Who cares,” came his honest response. By the time they reached the house, one of the housekeepers informed the pair everyone was in their respective rooms for the evening.

She helped Sherlock get Amelia to the suite, and brought back a few supplies so he could properly wrap and ice the injury.

“I think you’re going to live,” Sherlock stated decidedly, studying the injury in the brighter light. “I do think we should go to town tomorrow and have it professionally examined, just to be sure.”

“If we time it right, maybe we can avoid Mycroft’s visit.”

“Even so, if your mother is staying for the funeral, she’ll likely be spending the night,” he replied.

“Always gotta ruin my excitement,” she grumbled, laying on her back on the large bed.

He wrapped the ankle with a proper bandage, elevated it, and instructed Amelia to ice it for twenty minutes.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, pulling off his coat and tossing it over a nearby chair.

The question came as a surprise to Amelia who started to decline, but her stomach gave a large growl of protest.

“Ignore it,” she insisted when he started for the door, sitting up quickly. “I’m really fine, don’t worry about it.”

He rolled his eyes, exiting the room and starting for where he guessed the kitchen was located.

The house had been incredibly well kept over the years. He could see where panels of wood had been diligently replaced, windows cleaned spotless, crisp paint on the walls, and not a speck of dust to be seen. Centuries of artifacts decorated the hall, from ornate 17th-century tapestries to trinkets from all over the world.

He was looking at a Nigerian tribal mask when the housekeeper from earlier intercepted him.

“19th century,” she explained over his shoulder. “A gift to Robert Henley Brenner, the late Maxwell Brenner the First’s father.”

“A gift?” Sherlock arched a brow, not quite believing the explanation given the Brenner family history of malice and manipulation.

“There were a few good ones,” she joked, quickly looking over her shoulder to see if anyone else heard her.

“What about your late employer?” Sherlock asked when she offered to guide him to the kitchens. “The third Maxwell Brenner.”

“I did hear what happened in London,” she confessed. “He and Lydia had an agreement regarding their father’s will, with her serving as the face while he worked behind the scenes. There hadn’t been much of an issue until he got caught up with the board demanding increased quarter profits moving forward.”

“There are only so many products one could sell,” Sherlock noted with a hum.

“I’m aware of your reputation Mr. Holmes, so I would imagine you’re familiar with the merger with the NHS?” she asked, stopping and looking at him directly.

“Amelia mentioned it,” he replied.

“That was brokered by a man with some government connections,” she supplied, lowering her voice significantly. “We were instructed to go about our daily tasks without any explanation as to who he was. They met multiple times in Max’s study.”

“You never learned his name?” Sherlock pried.

“It never came up,” she admitted bitterly. “Though I’m not so ignorant as to ignore the very obvious pattern that’s arisen over the last few days.”

“You knew he was murdered,” Sherlock stated while she nodded.

“And then Miss Mia arrives with London’s famous detective in tow?” she chuckled under her breath. “I’m surprised the rest of the staff hasn’t figured it out. This family is infamous for its intrigue and lies.”

“When was the last time the man came by?” Sherlock asked firmly.

“The day before Max left for the dinner in London,” she answered confidently. “They were arguing, lots of shouting, before the man left in a right foul mood.”

That was all of the information she had to give him, but once they arrived at the kitchen, she introduced herself more formally as the head housekeeper, Mallory Heath, and promised to “keep an ear to the ground” during the events of the weekend.

More or less, she’d confirmed what Amelia had said about Max working with Moriarty, even if names weren’t specifically mentioned. He would just have to poke around Max’s study when the family was distracted with the memorial to confirm any records and confirm a motive.

When he returned to the suite, he heard the distinct sound of Amelia snoring. He had started to recognize it after she’d picked up the habit of only sleeping when he was around. He certainly didn’t miss that it had started directly after John had been shot.

Still, she must have been exhausted if she had fallen asleep in her winter coat, a bundle of ice in her hand.

Nudging her arm, she startled awake, yawning and smiling up at him appreciatively when she spotted the large plate of food in his hand.

“You’re an angel,” she sighed, taking the plate, and sitting up. “Thank you.”

While she ate, Sherlock pulled out his laptop and dropped onto the bed next to her.  It was, admittedly, a very comfortable bed. Much larger than his own king-sized mattress at home and significantly plusher.

“Has Mycroft said anything to you about what my mother has said?” she asked quietly, nibbling on a large dinner roll.

“No,” came his deflated response. “I think he’s suspicious of something though. Why else would he attend this circus personally?”

“Then she either lied or this is still ongoing,” she reasoned lightly. “Granted, it was with Moriarty anyway. Maybe she’s confirming the details?”

“I hoped you might be able to find that out,” he replied, looking over. “I spoke with the housekeeper and she all but confirmed Moriarty’s presence here the day before Harvest Festival. If your mother can reliably affirm their connection, the motive behind Max’s demise is obvious.”

“And just what? Ask her?” she looked scandalized by the very idea.

“She spoke to my brother, willingly,” he answered. “A change of heart, perhaps?”

“Or Moriarty has a gun pointed at her head and Mycroft’s position offers her an opportunity to disappear,” Amelia shot back. “She isn’t exactly mother of the year. Or Mother Theresa."

“At least she isn’t dead,” Sherlock hummed in response. “There’ll likely be a trial in the States. And Chemco will be hit with more aggressive legal action here.”

“I’ll try,” Amelia set her empty plate on the nightstand next to the bed. Peeling off her coat, she threw it on the floor and fell back against the fluffy pillows behind her. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

“I’m always nice to you.”

“Mmm,” she closed her eyes, lifting the covers and snuggling underneath. “I’ll let that slide for today since you’re being so nice.”

“I should have left you on the beach,” he mused, opening a case file Lestrade had emailed over while they were out.

“So nice,” she rolled on her side, humming the words under her breath. “Mr. Sherlock Niceguy Holmes.”

He watched her until her breathing fell even, and he was sure she’d fallen back asleep. After the events of the day, plus the traveling, he was surprised she’d made it that long without sleeping.

Making a note to relocate after he was done working on the new case, he started digging into the triple homicide with interest.

~~~

It was sunrise when he woke up. His laptop was folded shut next to his legs, and Amelia had found her way to his side of the bed, wrapping herself around his waist.

At some point, he must have crawled under the large duvet as well, the warmth of his companion's body flush against him. It was undeniably cozy.

He closed his eyes again, listening to her steady breathing mixed with the sounds of the early morning.

Peaceful. He could actually hear himself think amongst the chirping birds outside.

This mixed with the scent of clean linens with Amelia’s subtle floral scent created an almost perfect atmosphere to wake up to.

In the back of his mind, he wondered why he was never as refreshed in the morning at home.

Amelia shifted in her sleep, nearly knocking the laptop off the bed.

Catching it silently, Sherlock set it on the floor next to the bed, attempting to slide out and get ready for the day.

Instead, Amelia pulled him back, nestling deeper next to him with a grumble of discontentment.

Considering his options, he moved back into place, snuggling under the covers and waiting for her to fall still again.

This was nice, he realized when she pressed back up against him, bringing back the warmth from earlier. He’d never liked sharing a bed with someone before. Even when he’d taken the brief nap at the hospital to sleep off his drugging, it was with significant hesitation.

But, then again, he had slept like a baby that day, and this, clearly, was not an exception to his unwitting experiment in sharing his space.

Before Sherlock knew it, he was slipping back into a contented sleep, his arm lazily thrown around Amelia’s back.

Chapter 13

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 10

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 9 - Chapter 11

Chapter 10- The

~~~

The dinner went well, all things considered.

~~~

Before anyone knew it, Sunday had arrived.

Greg and Molly had enthusiastically accepted Amelia’s invitation to dinner. Molly brought a plate of chocolate cookies, and Greg pulled a bottle of bourbon out of his jacket that Amelia hadn’t seen in the stores since moving to the UK.

Her uncle Max had spent the night with Mrs. Hudson, and helped set up the apartment for the dinner, dutifully setting out plates and making sure that Amelia and John didn’t burn the place down before guests arrived.

Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock had been ushered out of the way, with the former having broken into a bottle of champagne a little early and the latter just hovering and commenting on the chemistry of cooked meat- correcting Amelia and John every few minutes.

Ruthie and Frank arrived shortly after with little Tommy holding a plate of crudely decorated fall sugar cookies. He handed them to Sherlock, who stared perplexed at the little boy until Tommy proudly declared;

“I made biscuits,” before sprinting into Amelia’s arms with an excited squeal.

Mycroft was the last to arrive, passing Mrs. Hudson a bottle of pinot noir and taking a quiet seat in the living room to avoid that chaos of the kitchen.

“You need to tell me where you found this,” Amelia demanded of Lestrade, taking a long pull from the dark liquor with a satisfied sigh. “I can’t do gin anymore. I’m losing my mind.”

He laughed, promising to text her the address of the shop he’d found, while John turned his attention Tommy who was asking a million questions about the meal the doctor was struggling to prepare.

Molly asked Amelia how the case was coming, and the women soon fell into an intense conversation regarding some questionable toxicology reports the medical professional had come across on a recent murder.

With no one watching the lamb in the oven, the place quickly filled with smoke.

John, thankfully, caught the disaster before the place caught alight, and fortunately, the meat wasn’t too overdone (though Mycroft would have begged to differ).

The meal went well, and with drinks flowing and conversation bubbling, Mrs. Hudson convinced Sherlock to play a few songs on the violin. Ruthie, red faced and grinning over a hot toddy, demanded some drinking songs and wore the detective down until he started playing.

The upbeat music got the whole place singing along (even Mycroft muttered along to the familiar tunes).

Tommy danced around in circles until he practically collapsed from exhaustion.

It’d been a few hours, night falling outside, when Ruthie and Frank announced that it was time for them to catch the train back to Kent. Max offered to walk them to the tube, taking Tommy out of Ruthie’s hesitant hands and carrying him over his shoulder.

Mrs. Hudson dropped into John’s chair, taking a deep breath and sharing an embarrassing story of Sherlock with the remaining group.

Molly and Amelia were playing a drinking game involving plastic cups and coins, trying to explain its rules to Lestrade.

“Then you drink-,” Amelia took a swig of beer.

“Amelia-, Mycroft needs some of your drugs,” Sherlock called across the space, sending Amelia  and Molly into a conspiratorial fit of giggles. She stood up, crossing the room, her mood bubbly and light from the good company and drinks.

“I’ll be honest Mycroft, you never struck me as the psychedelic type,” she hummed, sitting on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. “Maybe a big bag of weed.”

“I’m finding it difficult to track down the samples you tested in your report,” he reported dryly. “Apparently, most reputable drug dealers aren’t interested in meeting with government representatives, no matter the price.”

“I’m trying to picture you buying some mushrooms in Lambeth,” Amelia closed her eyes and grinned. “Yep. Phenomenal. Thank you for that.”

“Do you have extra samples?” he ignored her commentary and she hopped up.

“I do, but I’ll need some help moving the bins around,” she held her hand up above her head to indicate the height of the cultivation shelf she’d crafted in her closet.

“I need to pick up some more crisps,” John dusted off his pants, standing up. “I’ll help you before I step out.”

“Don’t drop them on yourselves,” Sherlock called after the pair. “If you need someone over 5’8’’, give me a ring.”

He returned to his brisk conversation on where Mycroft had tracked Lydia Brenner when there was a distinct crack of a gun from the lower level.

“Gunshot,” he stated, looking between Lesterade and Mycroft, leaping to his feet.

Taking two steps at a time, he could hear the sound of al altercation, some more thuds, before he kicked open the door to Amelia’s flat.

The room was in disarray. Someone had been tossing drawers and throwing things off of Amelia’s bookshelves, searching for something.

Near the fireplace, there were signs of a more traditional confrontation, Amelia’s reading chair had been overturned, clothes kicked up and on the ground…

Amelia was kneeling next to John, pressing a towel into his abdomen. Nearby, Maxwell Brenner lay unconscious with a broken porcelain pot next to him, dirt and flower petals scattered about.

Between them, a single pistol. The source, Sherlock surmised, of the gunshot.

“I don’t know what to do,” Amelia pressed down as hard as she could where the bleeding was coming out with a towel she must have grabbed from one of the overturned drawers.

“Oh,” Mycroft appeared in the doorway, Lestrade over his shoulder. The inspector whirled around, pulling out a radio and calling for medics and officer backup to Baker Street,

“Get Molly!” Sherlock ordered his brother, dropping next to John’s head, checking his pulse in the neck. “John, John can you hear me?”

“Unfortunately,” the doctor grunted through pained breaths. Even though Amelia was pressing with all of her strength, the blood from the wound was blossoming out, staining John’s sweater.

“I went for the gun,” Amelia explained, her voice cracking in panic. “I’d almost gotten it, but he panicked and fired.”

“Is he awake?” Molly entered the room, taking over from Amelia. She leaned into John’s wound, earning a low hiss of pain from the doctor.

Amelia just stood aside, her hands coated in blood, her eyes widened in horror, trying to keep up while Molly worked.

“If someone else bloody asks that-,” John started, wincing when Molly reached under his torso to check if the bullet had gone through.

“Didn’t pass,” she informed Sherlock, her brows knitted in complete focus. She was asking about the type of gun, which John did his best to choke out between deep, breaths.

“Medics are three minutes out,” Lestrade called into the room.

“John, I’m so sorry,” Amelia had his hand in hers, drawing circles with her thumb over his knuckles. She looked up at Sherlock, shaking her head. “It was him the whole time. You were right about Moriarty being an investor. They were working together. Not my mom.”

“Don’t act like I’m dying,” he huffed, eyes squeezed shut in pain. Molly leaned into the wound again to try and stop the bleeding. “Not the first time I’ve been shot.”

“I think that’s the problem,” Sherlock supplied with a snort.

“I just assumed it would have been your fault,” John shot back. “You know, the final gunshot wound."

“Are you two seriously bickering right now?” Amelia swallowed back the start of a small sob.

“They’re here,” Lestrade was leading an EMT and a gurney into the room. Molly started listing off what she knew, with Sherlock peppering in any details, and John slurring out his blood type.

The doctor was unconscious by the time he was loaded into the back of the ambulance.

Amelia was clutching onto Sherlock’s arm, staining the material with their friend’s blood, though neither paid it any mind. They were both too focused on John. Sherlock felt a lump in his chest. How had he missed Max being the true villain of the Chemo scheme? Certainly there had to have been some clue?

When they returned to the flat to grab clean shirts, an officer was helping Maxwell into the hall of Baker Street, the old man complaining of a cut in his head. Amelia spotted him immediately, her grasp on Sherlock dropping.

Before Sherlock could stop her, she bee-lined for her uncle, her expression wild.

“Do you know what you’ve done!?” she caught him by the front of his jacket and threw him back against the wall, a loud thud denoting the strength with which she hit him. “You sorry excuse for a human, if anything happens to him-!”

Mycroft, surprisingly, was the one who pulled her back, her arms struggling against the older Holmes. She looked ready to rip Max’s spine clean from his body, her eyes filled with pure rage.

“You’re a piece of shit! I fucking hate you!” she screeched, clawing at the air.

“Try to better contain your feral little beast, Holmes,” Maxwell snorted. “Lord knows I couldn’t.”

Sherlock, who’d moved to intercept Amelia whirled around, and planted a fist in the center of Maxwell Brenner’s face. The was definitive crack as a result, and a policeman cut in, shoving Sherlock aside and hustling Brenner out of the place.

He stood back, hands up, while her uncle sputtered through blood and bemoaned that the detective had broken his nose.

“Too bad it didn’t go into his brain,” Amelia tutted under her breath

Sherlock smirked, grabbing a pair of shirts from his room (as Amelia’s was now a crime scene).

When he returned, she’d washed her hands and gratefully took the clean dress shirt from him.

“Bastard ruined my favorite cardigan with my friend’s blood,” she hissed, angrily buttoning down the shirt.

“He has to spend hours with Mycroft interrogating him,” Sherlock tried to reassure her, though he too was seething under the surface. It did little to calm the fuming woman, who just slammed her way outside, flagging down a taxi to the hospital.

~~~

John was in surgery when they arrived. Molly Hooper met them in the waiting area, looking none too optimistic about what little news she had to share.

“He lost a lot of blood,” she explained softly, her fingers nervously intertwined in front of her. “They think there’s internal damage. He was still unconscious when we arrived.”

Amelia chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes cast down, a strange mix of anger, fear, and sorrow. It should have been her in the OR, not him. John Watson didn’t deserve this. He was too good.

Sherlock stood still, though Amelia was certain he was trying to walk through every step of their case, trying to catch what he’d missed. Looking between them, Molly cleared her throat.

“I’m going to head home,” she gestured to her bloodied clothes. “I didn’t have anything in my locker. I’ll call?”

“Thank you, Molly,” Amelia took her hands gratefully. Sherlock just nodded, barely registering the interaction, so Amelia took it upon herself to walk the exhausted Molly Hooper to a taxi.

“Where’s your head?” Amelia asked when she returned, guiding him to one of the chairs in the waiting area.

“Where did we miss it?” He asked in frustration.

Amelia had been asking herself the same question since Max pulled the gun on her and John. He was one of the few people she’d trusted completely, and when she found out he’d been the one to betray her. That he’d been the one to call for her death.

Her heart had crumbled.

“He slipped under the radar,” Amelia muttered bitterly. “Played the game with Moriarty whispering in his ear.”

~~~

“I feel like someone shot me,” John mumbled, his eyes cloudy from the pain medicine.

It’d been hours since he’d been released from surgery, groggy and barely conscious.

But he was awake and alive.

Outside, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon.

“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Amelia replied, holding his hand to her chest. “You had us worried.”

“Mmm,” John chuckled softly. “I don’t see why. You two would have convinced God himself to give me back.”

“The Reaper wouldn’t have been able to leave the room, who are we kidding?” Amelia chided back. “I’d be yelling at him, and Sherlock would pull some deeply buried secret up to use it against him.”

John smiled, giving her hand a final squeeze before sliding it back under the covers with a shiver.

“I’m gonna try and sleep a little more...” he said, his eyes already shutting and his body falling limp. He was breathing steadily moments later, sound asleep.

“He’s really the best out of us,” she commented, watching him breath peacefully.

“I know,” Sherlock agreed in a low rumble.

“Your brother has Max in custody, right?” she moved to sit down next to him, her arms crossed, and body rigid.

“He had to have his nose treated,” he shared a sly grin with her. “But, they should begin the interrogation soon.”

“What a fucking asshole,” she muttered under her breath, her fists squeezed at her sides. “I trusted him.”

“Apparently not enough to give him a hard drive,” Sherlock mused.

“I didn’t want to bring him in too deep,” she sighed, distorting her face in disgust. “I was worried he might get hurt.”

“Did you tell him about the hard drive you sent to Ruth?”

“Of course not,” she frowned. “Less he knew and all that. Why?”

“She didn’t seem close with him at dinner,” he replied, leaning back. “I thought it was strange, given how often he visited. I chalked it up to a recent quarrel.”

Amelia hummed, trying to recall the dinner that had only happened a few hours before.

“He walked them out,” she reasoned. “Though, that was probably so he could get into my apartment without anyone noticing.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock nodded. “Ruth and Frank both seemed perplexed by it.”

He closed his eyes, his fingers steepled under his chin. He didn’t speak again.

Mind Palace, Amelia thought to herself, left a little uneasy by the sudden loneliness that swept the room with her two friends. It was the first time she’d truly been alone in weeks.

She didn’t like the silence. It meant she had time to think, and that’s when she was able to take an introspective look into her life. It was awful.

Now that Chemco had been stopped, the true villain revealed, what could she do next? There was of course helping John recover, and whatever Moriarty was up to.

But eventually John would be fine, and frankly, Moriarty would always linger above them, so planning around that was impossible.

Was it time to consider going back home to New York?

She’d thought about it once or twice. Going back to a normal life.

A friend of hers from college had reached out about an amateur art exhibition in the Village she was running. She’d wanted to see if Amelia had anything she wanted to contribute.

It’d been almost a week and Amelia still hadn’t replied, unsure of what exactly to say.

How could she even begin to explain the chaos that her life had been for the last year?

Certainly, the papers and the news would reach New York once Chemco stock started to plummet. It was too big a company to just brush aside. Her friend would probably piece it together given enough time. There was really no point in hiding it, but Amelia wasn’t ready to pull off that bandaid.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to start a contingency plan. She did have an idea for a portrait she could send a picture of… just for some input at the very least. At the most? Having a painting up didn’t mean she had to live in New York.

She could visit during the exhibition.

Maybe Sherlock and John would go with her? It could be a fun trip, a little vacation after this whole hellish ordeal.

She tried to picture her friends in the streets she grew up on. The parks she frequented or the coffee shop she’d typed her thesis in.

Her friends would be jealous that she’d found such handsome Brits to settle in with, she smiled to herself.

It’d be hilarious until Sherlock started picking away at them. She could almost hear John reminding him not to be rude. That they were her friends.

“Idiots,” she was confident Sherlock would mutter. And he’d be right. The majority of her friends from New York were from old money like she was.

They weren’t very interesting or were very well-read.

They had their money, and their trusts, and their wildly popular social media accounts. Amelia was pretty sure one of her ex-boyfriends was on a reality show now.

Maybe she wasn’t as homesick as she’d thought.

“Canterbury,” Sherlock’s eyes slowly opened and he looked to Amelia. “You told Monty not to say anything to your cousin because you had to get home to London.”

“Yeah,” she pulled herself from her daydream in Central Park, back to the hospital room.

Back to London. Back to home.

“But, when we got back, Mrs. Hudson mentioned that Ruthie had told her father that she was disappointed we hadn’t stopped over,” he continued. “But if Monty never mentioned it...”

“Max was trailing us,” Amelia finished the thought, scowling. It made so much sense. How else would Max have been able to report so confidently back to Mrs. Hudson. Amelia certainly hadn’t told him about their excursion.

“It also explains how Moriarty knew exactly where to find you,” he added.

“They sent the arsonist as a decoy,” she realized. “To distract you.”

“Moriarty would have wanted to see you fall,” he nodded. “He must have realized that Maxwell hadn’t been totally honest when he saw John and I.”

“The decoy was Max’s idea,” Amelia surmised.

“To keep Moriarty on track,” Sherlock nodded. “He tried to play the most dangerous man of all.”

“Moriarty gets mad, brings me back, demands something he knows Max won’t be able to find,” Amelia was sitting up. “But had he accounted for this?”

They both looked to where John was still sleeping soundly in bed.

“We’ll have to find out,” Sherlock’s expression brightened considerably for the first time that day. “The game is on.”

Chapter 11

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 9

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 8 - Chapter 10

Chapter 9- In 

~~~

Is it better or worse that Moriarty could be woven into this mess with Chemco?

From what I understand from Amelia’s medical notes, she’d brushed the sleeve of death, and without his intervention, perhaps we would have been planning her funeral.

Even though she started as a client, I know I see her as a member of our little Baker Street family, and imagining her gone like that… it’s chilling.

I want this all figured out. Things seemed (ironically) so much less complicated when we were chasing down the murderers of anonymous corpses.

~~~

To her credit, Amelia handled the news surprisingly well. She dropped into the sofa, staring down at the floor wordlessly. Sherlock half expected crying or maybe some brief hysterics.

Instead, she took the information and tried to come up with an explanation, much like Sherlock had been doing when he locked himself away.

“It doesn’t add up,” she spoke up suddenly. “Let’s say he’s working with my mother, why would he do the dirty work himself unless he got a benefit from it?”

“You likely caused him to lose a significant bit of money,” Sherlock reasoned, taking a seat in his favorite chair. “He doesn’t like that.”

“Then why change his mind?” Amelia continued, drumming her fingers on her chin. “Rationally, I did ruin a lot for Chemco and their investors. That hasn’t changed.”

“He does have an unhealthy obsession with me,” Sherlock supplied. “And it isn’t as if we don’t spend a significant amount of time together. He could have come to his own conclusions. He did use John against me at the pool.”

“He must have seen you at the train station,” she agreed. “But, if he was working with my mother, surely he would have known that we were working together on this? I’ve just assumed she’s been monitoring me since I stepped foot in England.”

“Unless she didn’t,” he suggested with a tilt of his head. “Or she tried to betray him, hence why he would go back on his actions. You being dead benefits your mother as well, we have to remember that.”

“Mother dearest,” she scoffed dryly. “She does something stupid like cross a dangerous person like Moriarty, he takes back his actions, leaving up an opportunity to finally connect the dots and present the evidence to authorities. That still breaks up Chemco, and starts an investigation.”

“Have you heard anything from your mother recently?” he asked and Amelia paused, biting her bottom lip and pulling out her cell phone, scrolling through the call log.

“No,” she realized, filtering through a long list of ‘John’ and ‘Sherlock’. “Not a word. She tried calling a month or so ago.”

“I wonder if he has someone on the inside,” Sherlock paused. “Or he’s taken care of the Lydia Brenner problem and now he’s on a completely different track.”

“So, we could have potentially just wasted our time?” Amelia translated, sighing.

“We saved thousands of live, that isn’t wasted time,” he reminded her and she bobbed her head in reluctant agreement. “But, it does open a new chapter in the case.”

“Wouldn’t it be a new case?” she chuckled. “I hope you don’t bill hourly, you might run me to ruin by the time this is done.”

“Make the curry again and I’ll consider it even.”

~~~

John was equally perplexed when they caught him up later that night.

“Mycroft knows?” was his first question.

“That’s what you got from all of that?” Sherlock asked with an exasperated sigh. “Yes, my brother is unfortunately aware of the situation, because the two of you decided to pull him in.”

“I thought we were done,” Amelia tried to justify, but was ignored by the detective.

“And he hasn’t intervened in bringing Moriarty into custody?” John continued.

“I would imagine he’s a difficult person to track down,” Sherlock replied dryly. “Granted, I haven’t spoken to my brother about that particular point.”

“He tried to murder Mia!” John gestured toward her. Amelia perked up, having been doodling on her sketch pad, practicing some warm-up sketches of John’s deep frowns.

“It’s true, Sherlock,” she replied, returning to her drawing. “I did nearly get murdered.”

“It’s impossible to think with you two around,” he sighed. “Moriarty will come to us when he decides it is time. We have to be ready.”

“Business as usual then,” John didn’t seem particularly pleased about the tune of events, but who could blame him? There wasn’t much any of them could do except wait for the next shoe to drop.

Mycroft had enough evidence against Chemco, and a text update confirmed arrests would begin to be made as soon as the next morning.

“Do you make turkey during your not-Thanksgiving, basically Thanksgiving-, dinners?” Amelia asked, adding a daisy to the corner of her sketch.

“My mum made goose,” John replied with a fond smile. “It’s been some time since I’ve had a good Harvest Festival dinner.”

“Goose,” Amelia pulled a face. “What about ham?”

“Too sweet,” Sherlock shot it down immediately, scowling. “You would want something savory.”

“Lamb?” John tried.

“I’m just going to make an insane amount of mashed potatoes, and you’re all going to be happy about it,” she sighed, throwing her head back.

“Ah, come on, it won’t be so bad,” John tried reassuring her. “If you need help, I’d be happy to offer a hand. Lamb shanks are delicious.”

“Lamb,” she repeated. “Okay. When in Rome, I suppose.”

“You’re in London,” Sherlock supplied, pulling out a large leather bound book and opening to the first page.

“You don’t get any,” Amelia pointed her pencil toward him, frowning. “If you’re nice, maybe you’ll get pie privileges back.”

“You’re making pie?” John lit up, and the pair continued planning the full spread for the upcoming dinner.

It was nice to take their minds off of death and destruction, if only for a few hours at a time.

John eventually excused himself to bed, leaving Sherlock and Amelia reading and drawing, respectively.

Sherlock, midway through his book, lowered it to check the fire and steal a curious glance in Amelia’s direction.

She’d fallen asleep, her sketchbook plopped open over her chest, her hand dangling over the edge of the sofa.

“Go to bed,” he nudged her knee with the tip of his shoe, but she didn’t stir.

Sighing, he stood up, grabbed her sketchbook, and moved to set it on the desk, when the picture she’d been working on had caught his eye.

She’d been sketching a picture of him, buried in his book, with notes indicating she intended to turn it into a more formal portrait. At the top, a small section denoted potential colors for his eyes, with her scribbling names out, the pencil dragging across the page as she fell asleep.

The drawing was incredibly well done. She’d gotten every detail, the subtle frown when he concentrated, the way his fingers gripped the book itself- holding it nimbly with a trained violinists hand.

He’d always thought her smart, she’d long proven her ability to work complex equations and cite the classics. But this proved to him an element he’d, to his embarrassment, had overlooked.

The always observing artist's eye.

Was this how she was always able to interpret the tiniest shift in expression? She had so quickly determined his elusive attitude earlier was about the hospital footage. Had he tried to successfully keep a secret from her for longer than a few hours?

Tucking the book aside, he grabbed a blanket off of John’s chair and draped it over her. He poked the fire, added a little more wood, and repositioned himself back in his chair, eager to pick up in his book where he’d left off.

It felt like the first time he’d truly recognized and valued John’s insight on a case. Certainly the doctor had been a refreshing change in pace and dutiful companion prior to that point, but after Sherlock had his revelation, he’d begun thinking of John as a partner rather than an assistant.

Perhaps that’s what was happening here, having finally gotten to know the American woman, he could see beyond the fixed smiles and excitable outbursts.

She was kind because she observed and watched those she cared about.

His eyes drifted back to the sketchbook.

People she cared about...

It left a funny feeling in his chest, something new and hard to explain.

Three and a half months had felt like years. The way she had fallen into Baker Street, and his life, felt so natural- he’d almost forgotten what it felt like when it was just him and John.

Initially he’d been amused by their houseguest. She was a fun puzzle, a new client who’d leave the moment the case was resolved. He’d taken her straightforward emotions for naïveté, a crucial mistake.

While others he’d encountered in his life had been outward about their brilliance, she kept it close to the chest, a refreshing change of pace that confused him greatly.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Amelia yawned, rolling on her side, her hands folded under her cheek.

“I don’t understand how you’re capable of falling asleep anywhere your body drops,” he answered, adjusting his shoulders and lifting his book back up. He didn’t read.

Instead, he stole a sideways glance at his companion.

Amelia smiled sleepily, turning onto her back now that he wasn’t facing her.

“I tossed and turned in New York,” she admitted softly, her voice barely floating above the crackle of the fire. “Maybe dealing with all of this has helped.”

He hadn’t expected an introspective answer, having assumed she would have chimed back with her usual quip. She stayed still. He could have sworn she was holding her breath waiting for something- a response- from him.

Sherlock cleared his throat, a nervous tickle catching before he spoke.

“Your research could still bring a lot of good,” he offered. Pathetic. He cringed inwardly.

“I guess,” she sounded deflated. “I never wanted to work for her, or any of those big companies. Honestly, if she hadn’t threatened disowning me, I probably would have just studied art and lived quietly in an overpriced room in Jersey.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“I wonder if it would have been,” she mused. “Comparably, ya know? Never having had to force myself through things I hated, to do work I despised, for a person who never truly cared about me.”

She paused, letting the words fall before she choked out a breathy laugh.

“Maybe it isn’t too late to find a cottage somewhere and paint trees,” she shifted in the blankets. “Find a nice creek to stand in, cry a little.”

“It sounds like you’ve been reading too much poetry,” he teased. She hummed under her breath.

“Is that such a bad thing?” She sat up, setting the blanket aside and stretching. “You should get some sleep. It’s late.”

He kept his face tucked into his book, pretending to ignore her. He heard her tut under her breath, returning to the blanket only to drape it over his shoulders.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she smiled again, retreating to her flat in the basement, a long drawn out yawn following behind her.

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until she was out of sight. Taking a slow inhale to calm his nerves, an unfamiliar scent caught him off guard.

Fragrant, but with earthy, warm, undertones. A perfume.

He leaned into the blanket, taking a deep inhale. His mind flickered to Amelia posing him under the towering golden plants at the Conservatory.

Sunflowers, his tired brain filled in.

She’d changed her perfume from the peony one she favoured.

Why?

He tucked himself deeper into the blanket, the floral scent mixing nicely with the smell of burning wood and old books.

Chapter 10