221B

Chapter 11 - A Scandal in Belgravia

Later on, we’re back upstairs, John makes himself a drink in the kitchen and walks into the living room just as Sherlock takes his coat off.

“Where is it now?” John asks.

“Where no one will look.” Sherlock replies, walking to the window. He picks up the violin and turns back to the living room.

“Whatever’s on that phone is more than just pictures.”

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock says, then tinkers with the violin, checking its tuning. John watches him for a moment.

“So, she’s alive then. How are we feeling about that?” John says.

Somewhere in the city, Big Ben chimes the hour, and Sherlock pulls in a sharp breath.

“Happy New Year, John, Kate.”

“Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?” John asks.

Sherlock turns around, picks up his bow, and flips it in the air before starting to play a song and looking at John pointedly. John sits down in the chair across Sherlock’s as he turns back to the window, continuing to play.

Later on, when John goes to bed I go in my room and change quickly into sweatpants and a tank top. I walk over and just when I’m about to climb into bed someone opens the door and I spring up.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” I say, and quickly grab my robe and wrap it around me. “Have you ever heard of knocking? You startled me.”

“Sorry.”

I switch on the lamp on my nightstand. “What is it?” I ask him, tugging the robe closely to me.

“Another year I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

He steps closer. “Your past.”

I heave a sigh, looking down. “We are not having this conversation again.”

“What could be so bad about it? The fact that you don’t want to tell me concerns me. It makes me believe you’ve done terrible things in the past.”

“That’s because I have. You have to understand I’m not telling you for your protection.”

“From what?”

“From who.” I correct, looking at him. “I’ve told you why before.”

“Because if people come asking…” He says.

“Yes.” I say. “Good night, Sherlock.”

He bends down, places one hand on the side of my face, and kisses my cheek.

“Happy New Year.” He says.

A few months later, Sherlock and I reach the top of the stairs. He abruptly stops in front of the kitchen door and sniffs deeply. I turn around to face him.

“You okay?” I ask him.

“Do you smell that?” He asks.

“Smell what? Didn’t Mrs. Hudson get new perfume or something? That might be what we’re smelling.”

“No, I didn’t even realize she worse perfume.” He says.

“She may, I’m not sure.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

I look over and walk over to the window in the kitchen, realizing that it’s open.