Chapter Text
Chapter One
For some reason, he had not expected the flat at 221B Baker Street to be as he left it. It was only 12 hours since he was last inside, surely nothing aside from another of Moriarty’s bombs could have changed it so much in that small space of time. Still, when Sherlock Holmes allowed the door to his home to swing open, he was shocked by the normalcy of it.
Immediately, he wished he hadn’t bothered to open the door. A shock of violet wool immediately caught his sharp gaze from where it was draped over the back of his chair. If he stepped closer, he knew the scarf would smell of jasmine and musk and mandarin oranges, the telltale scent of the owner of that article of clothing.
Why was it still there? The owner would never leave it.
“Sherlock.”
The tea tray still sat on the table beside his friend’s favourite chair, two cups placed haphazardly on the old wood. They both belonged to the married couple that frequented his flat, and no matter how he complained about the overabundance of company, they all knew it was for show. Sherlock got downright grumpy if more than two days went by without a visit from his friend.
Beside Sherlock’s chair sat another mug of cold tea. Across from that, the old, chipped cup that boasted a gaudy ‘God Save The Queen’ moniker held down a well-used sketchbook. As he stepped closer, he finally caught the fragrance on the air, though it was already fading. Sherlock had the brief, mad urge to find the bottle, spray the perfume in the room to bring it back. If the scent faded…
He dismissed the idea almost the moment he had it. The fragrance would only be a shade of what it usually was, without her inherent fragrance underneath.
Her…
Rage, thick and white-hot bubbled up from his belly. Sherlock turned to sweep the table with his hands, a cry that bordered on a growl breaking the utter stillness of the room. Glass shattered, papers fluttered, and the table fell onto its side with a wooden thud.
“Sherlock.”
He ignored her voice, knowing it would only make him feel worse. In his eyeline, unfortunately, lay his case wall. Papers and notes and all manner of things he used while working the long cases was pinned up so carefully. Sherlock attacked the wall with fervor, pulling at the papers so they ripped from the paint. The case had done nothing, it hadn’t been able to keep his mind on the matters at hand.
All of his gifts, all of his knowledge, and it did not save her. He had stood by, let it happen. How could he be so useless? The great Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, nothing more than a curious bystander when it all came to a head.
“Sherlock.”
The voice was more insistent this time.
“You’re not here.” Holmes growled in return. “You’re not here.”
“Sherlock.” The voice was alarmed. “Sherlock, my sketch.”
Without any more prodding, Sherlock turned. Under the broken porcelain that once held a British flag, lay a puddle of cold tea. It dripped onto the floor, the carpets, and stretched dark fingers over the sketchpad he had overturned with the table.
He scrambled over the wreckage to save it. Glass was moved away, the sketchpad lifted as Sherlock tried to whisk the old tea away. Though it was stained, the sketch remained as it had been that day. Mary and John Watson faithfully recreated on the chair he liked best, sipping tea and watching the scene before them. Sherlock was depicted in his own chair, holding little Hannah Watson on his lap as her sturdy little legs struggled to hold her chunky body up.
And on the arm of the settee, she had even sketched herself. Old t-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, charcoal in hand and sketchpad on her knee. It was a happy scene, Sherlock thought, a scene that he had experienced himself only this morning.
Had it only been this morning?
“Don’t go.”
He wasn’t aware of speaking, though the words seemed unnaturally loud in his ears. The sketch in his hand was laid on the settee.
“Look at me.”
“You’re not here.” Sherlock replied.
“Sherlock, neither are you.”
The realisation almost thrust Sherlock out of his mind palace. He had a glimpse of the hospital waiting room at Saint Bart’s, heard the distant wail of an ambulance siren, a scream of a name…
Olivia!
“Stay with me.” Her voice was low, soothing. “Stay with me, darling.”
When he was able, when he had confined himself back into his mind palace, Sherlock managed to raise his eyes. She was there, as he saw her in the sketch. Her tracksuit bottoms were worn with time, her damned Sherlock LIVES t-shirt covered her chest. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back from her face into a loose little bun; that well-featured face scrubbed of cosmetics. Here, there was no evidence of the accident that befell her only a few hours later.
No smears of blood, pale pallour to her skin, no glazed eyes. She was as he had awoken with her, fresh and clean and vibrant.
She was a lie.
Her lopsided mouth curved into a smile, at once understanding and kind.
“What happened, Sherlock?”
He was unaware of the emotion choking his throat until he had to gasp a breath to speak. “Car crash.”
Olivia’s blue eyes crinkled at the edges, a sign of concern. “Am I hurt?”
Immediately, his memory brought back the scan he had done when she was brought into the trauma ward. His eyes, one of his most celebrated features, gave him nothing but bad news.
“Broken tibia. Sprained wrist. Laceration to the head, heavy bleeding with concussion. Wound to the abdomen, likely to have cut into the liver. Internal bleeding. Blood type, AB positive, donors rare. You…”
“I won’t make it.”
Sherlock shook his head, feeling the acute pain of that realisation all over again.
“No.”
Olivia smiled again, her uneven smile returned as she stepped closer. Sherlock caught a hint of the jasmine of her perfume again, the scent bringing back the memory of her. Unable to help himself, he reached out to touch the ripe apple of her cheek.
“You’re saving me, then?” Olivia asked quietly, humour in her tone. “You’re going to remember everything about me, lock me in your mind palace so you won’t have to remember me when it’s over. You’re doing this because you know that in any moment, John will tell you that the doctors lost me.”
His hand was steady as he cupped her little cheek. She wasn’t real. This shade of a woman was not Olivia Connor. His mind, no matter how astute and well trained, could never replicate all of her flawed perfection, the mischief in those cool blue eyes, the understanding and humour of her smile. No. Sherlock, for all his great gifts, could never truly replicate Olivia to be truly real in his mind. She would be a ghost, a memory, nothing more.
“Don’t go.” He asked again, demanded.
“I won’t.” Olivia’s eyes shone with unshed tears. She knew how crying, showing emotions in this way made him uncomfortable. “I will always be here, in your memory of this moment.”
“Not good enough,” Sherlock argued. “You have to stay.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” Olivia’s light laughter was tinged with emotion. Sherlock watched her face, standing close, to memorise this moment. “Do you really think you can change fate itself?”
“Why not?” He returned lightly. “I changed my own. I cheated death, then fought back from its brink all within the space of a few years. I can compel you to stay. We are in my mind palace, but I know you can hear me.”
Her bright eyes were alight with mischief once more. “Well, that’s hardly rational, Mr Holmes.”
“I’m allowed a momentary lapse.” The detective replied with a ghost of a smile lingering over his mouth. “Stay. You can hear me, Olivia. Fight back.”
“Cold, hard reason, Sherlock. That is your true love.”
“No.” Sherlock shook his head, reaching up with his free hand so he could cup her cherubic face with both hands. He rested his forehead against hers. “Stay with me. Olivia. Stay.”
She coughed. Bright red blood emerged from her lips. When he looked back down, he saw the blood blooming over her shirt. Bruising covered over her face, her arms. Sherlock recoiled slightly, aware that reality had now leaked into his mind palace.
Sherlock!
He ignored the familiar, far off call of his name. He knew who it was and what he would tell him. Sherlock could not face it, not yet. He bent all of his mental strength to erasing the blood, the wounds from Olivia’s shade. She stood still, blue eyes on his, until the colour of her honey-blonde hair was restored and that damned t-shirt was clean once more.
“I’m still here.”
“You’ll stay.” Sherlock demanded, almost rudely.
“I will. But you, my dear, must go.”
Sherlock!
The detective shook his head once. “It’s John. He’s going to tell me…”
Olivia’s cerulean gaze turned far away. “No. No, he isn’t. This isn’t about me.”
Sherlock nodded once. Olivia lifted herself onto the balls of her feet, shifting closer until she could press her lopsided mouth to his in that way that made his heart clench hard in his chest. Sherlock kept this moment in front of his eyes, knowing that he would have to lock it away, deep in his mind palace.
She wasn’t real. Not here. Remembering this forced him to feel the echo of a loss that had not yet occurred. He closed his eyes, allowing Olivia to adjust his fringe as she did when they were alone. It was a goodbye…
“Go to work, Sherlock Holmes.”
--**--
Six Months Ago
He was working on a case when Lestrade came looking. In the lab at St Bart’s, Molly Hooper had given him a call regarding a few strange inconsistencies in an accidental drowning case. Molly, for some reason, seemed to be calmer when he was in the room as of late.
Sherlock deduced within moments that there was a man in her life, but he chose to keep it to himself. Well, the choice was made for him when John stood on his foot.
The second Lestrade entered, though, Sherlock put it all together easily.
A slight flush of Molly’s cheeks, a quick aversion of the eyes of Lestrade. Both pulses elevated. They remained on opposite sides of the room, addressed one another formally. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, yet again, but John interrupted.
“Accidental drowning.” The good doctor said almost jovially. “Brought on by a shellfish allergy.”
“Oh. Good. It’s not that.” Lestrade said quickly as he moved toward Sherlock behind the microscope. “We have another case. John, how’s the wife?”
“Good, good. Any day now.” John replied with the joviality of impending fatherhood.
“The case?” Sherlock interjected, thanking Molly quietly when she brought him a new batch of slides.
“Right.” Lestrade said a bit too quickly. Molly immediately scampered away. “We have a witness to a kidnapping in Southall. We have a sketch of the possibly suspect, but we were hoping you would take a look.”
“Victim?”
“Robin Sherrington, 34, single male of moderate income. No family.”
“Odd sort of kidnapping victim.” John tossed in as Sherlock continued to stare at the drowning victim’s samples. He had never seen anaphylaxis result in a drowning. The lung tissue was fascinating.
“The police received the ransom demands.”
At this, Sherlock looked up. “You have a witness to a kidnapping that was called into the police?”
Lestrade, relieved to have his attention now, nodded. “Welcome to the case, Sherlock.”
Just as the detective slid off of the stool behind the microscope, someone new breezed into the lab. Sherlock, out of sheer habit, did his customary scan of the newcomer before she had spoken a word.
Early thirties, Artist judging from the coal stains on her hands and the parchment fibers on her clothes. Well fitted suit, contrasting colours, short heeled shoes. Concerned about looks, just shy of fussy. Hair pulled into a bun, functional for work, yet feminine. Dress style typical of a professional, woven bracelet around wrist is not. Laugh lines around the eyes and mouth, person of typically good humour. Shape of a keycard under her jacket, works for the police. A sketch artist. Scotland Yard.
The sound of a slow clap interrupted his thoughts.
“Well spotted. I hadn’t said a word.”
Yorkshire accent, moved to London for work less than three years ago.
“Sherlock.”
At John’s voice, Sherlock realized he had done his deduction aloud, without bothering to think of anyone else’s reaction to it. The woman, for her part, looked faintly amused. Her mouth was categorically lopsided and when she smiled, it came off as more of a naughty smirk.
Why had he noticed that?
“Sherlock Holmes, Olivia Connor. She’s a special consultant to Scotland Yard.”
“And now there is no need to introduce myself.” Sherlock mentioned, moving to pull on his scarf and coat.
“Niceties are out of style again, I see.” The artist reached into the battered messenger bag strapped over her chest, removing a small file folded she handed to Lestrade. “I ran over on my way home. It’s the best I could do in a hurry. If you need more, let me know.”
“Thankyou, Liv.”
Sherlock noticed the small wince as he passed.
“She doesn’t like that, Lestrade. She prefers her given name.”
At Lestrade’s startled glance, Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “It is her name.”
“Right.” The Detective Inspector sighed. “Can we go now?”
Sherlock was already moving outside when he called back.
“Come on, John. He’ll want a moment alone with Molly.”
“Sherlock!”
No one saw him smirk on his way out of the lab.