Work Text:
It wasn't the first time Sherlock Holmes found himself with a knife to his throat.
It also wasn't the first time he was attacked in a doss house.
There was usually a request for his wallet, a threat to cut his throat open if he didn't comply. He didn't carry any valuables for these particular types of outings, so the whole thing was usually over quickly, quietly. Without much more than a grumble and perhaps a bloody nick on his skin.
That wasn't the case this time. There'd been no footsteps to alert him to another's presence, no rustle of fabric, no breathing, not a sound until he felt the cool bite of metal against his skin.
The softest female purr against his ear. "Don't move."
The deductions were instinctive. His ever-racing mind speeding to save his life from a lethal threat. The accent was Russian. Maybe. And she was wet. More than wet, she was dripping. Likely from the rain still pattering against the boarded windows, it'd been going on for a while. There was no wind, but she hadn't bothered with an umbrella. Why?
He swallowed hard, pinched his eyes close, pushed through the fog. Think, think, think. This assault on his life was deliberate, planned. Whoever this person was had to be highly skilled to have tracked him down, to catch him off-guard, to avoid Mycroft's security the way he'd avoided Mycroft's security to get here. Someone clever, trained, possibly Russian. Why would she let herself be caught in the rain? Think, think, think.
"Unexpectedly sentimental," he breathed, barely above a whisper. He didn't expect her to reply. He half expected her to slice his throat right then and there, perhaps muffle his dying breath with a hand over his mouth.
She pulled away from his ear, in the same motion pushing him back on the dirty mattress he'd flopped on hours before. Was it hours? Days? He'd lost track of time when he'd pushed the needle in his vein.
She swept her eyes over him without taking the knife from his throat. "What did you say to me?"
Sherlock swallowed hard. "Unexpectedly sentimental, letting yourself be caught in the rain," he repeated, still that same quiet voice. He could see her a little more clearly now, but his vision was mostly consumed by green eyes and red hair, dripping on his chest.
Sherlock considered he might still be high. Surely he'd be dead by now if any of this was real. She was clearly here to kill him. He was unarmed, vulnerable, weak. He couldn't make sense of this woman not killing him other than her being some sort of hallucination. A fever dream. He didn't usually indulge those unless it was with a specific purpose, but perhaps there was a purpose to this one. Company, contact, connection.
Only he would dream up a woman to satisfy a human need he suppressed at every turn, and find himself making her a killer. She didn't shy away from his hand when he reached up to touch her cheek. She was warm. Perhaps not as warm as she should've been, but it was cold outside. Although if she was a hallucination, he supposed that didn't matter.
Her voice was flat when she spoke, purposely flat. "What are you doing?"
"Can't tell if you're real." He brushed his thumb across her cheek. Her skin felt so real, so soft.
She removed the knife from his throat without warning, hesitated as she tipped it away. "You're high."
"Shouldn't matter if you're here to kill me," he whispered. "Shouldn't matter at all, if you're not real. And I'm having the hardest time proving you that are with the given data. I should be dead by now."
She stared at him in silence. As if debating whether or not she would, in fact, kill him, or continue to let him touch her cheek. She seemed to be favoring the latter with every passing second.
Seconds ticked by, and she sat next to him on the mattress, still without saying a word. Light from an outside lamppost, filtering through the boards, cast a little more light on her features. Her nose and cheeks were pink, her lips full, her lashes long. Drenched red hair stuck to her neck and clothes.
"You're beautiful," he said to his hallucination.
He didn't see why he should restrain himself if it was his dream. There was no harm in this. There was no danger of distraction, no danger of succumbing to sentiment. He'd come down from his high hours later and she'd disappear in a cloud of smoke. Another ghost.
She tucked her knife back under her trench coat and checked her watch. Anxious? No, calculating. She was difficult to read, but perhaps that was to be expected. He'd want a challenge. Even if it was an imaginary challenge.
She lowered her wrist, unexpectedly moving closer to stretch herself out on the mattress beside him. Close enough to touch, close enough to feel the warmth of her despite the rain and cold, but not quite touching.
She folded an arm pillow her head, brought a hand up to cover his own where it still touched her cheek. Slow and careful, like she'd never done it before, like she was afraid he'd take it away.
Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd been touched so gently.
"It is your dream," she said.
"Haven't dreamt of someone like you before." He rolled to face her on the mattress, now that it appeared she was here to stay.
"No?" She looked curious now. Perhaps she'd been curious before, but now he could see it as clearly as anything else.
"No," he confirmed, resuming his experimental brushing of her cheek with his thumb. "Usually don't."
She smiled a soft little smile. "Why am I here, then? If not to kill you."
"To keep me company."
She released his hand, reaching out to run her fingertips over his cheekbone, down to his stubbled jaw, and up again to his lips. "You want my company, Sherlock Holmes?"
"It appears I do," he spoke against her fingers.
A mix of confusion, sadness, and fascination passed over her features. "We don't have a lot of time."
He felt his lips turning up at the corner. "Are you going to kill me after all? I don't even know your name."
"Natalia." She held his gaze for a long, silent moment. "And I don't think I can kill you now."
Sherlock leaned into her touch, closing his eyes to savor it. "Stay anyway."
"I will, I am." Natalia's hand drifted from his lips to his chest, just over his heart. Sherlock breathed against her hand, half opening his eyes. "You're mine now, Sherlock Holmes."