You don't remember your real name. It's been too long. But when you meet the consulting detective (and his pet hedgehog of a partner), everything turns around for you. Especially when you meet the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen...
(A/N: I got a whole chapter out! Woo! So happy! Doesn't make up for a six month silence, but so happy!)
Her POV:
—--------------
I flop onto the couch, taking a few deep breaths – I can't afford to panic now.
I'm so angry at James, so so angry that he didn't tell me any of this. Why didn't he ever tell me any of this?!
But I remember the way he looked, standing there wringing his hands, licking his lips, his eyes all worried. He cares for me.
And this is all the proof I needed.
I open my history.
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The record went on and on, detailing all the homes I'd been put into, etc, etc. I was seven years old. I wasn't a baby. How could I not remember any of this? House burned down by my sister?
Then a thought hit me as I flipped and kept flipping.
I couldn't tell Sherlock any of this. Not one bit of it. Not just because right now, he had his own case, but because judging by the way bits about Jessica (Or did she go by her fancy second name?) had been scribbled and rewritten, she was the least normal of all of them.
Of us.
I flipped further.
My sister and I already had something in common, as it turned out – We had both faked our deaths, though I admittedly had done so inadvertently. There were handwritten notes all over the thing in a neat, small scrawl that I assumed were from Mycroft. We were going to have words whenever I saw him next.
Oh my –
"THAT'S WHY HE TEXTED ME THAT STUPID UMBRELLA PHOTO?" I screech aloud, remembering that first 'real' kiss I shared with James.
Once I've started ranting aloud, as it turns out, I can't exactly ... Stop.
"OH SURE, HE'll BE A BIG BROTHER, JUST NOT TELL ME HE'S BEING A BIG BROTHER! OR TELL ME HE BLOODY IS A BIG BROTHER! THE LYING SNAKE! I'M GOING TO STRANGLE THAT STUPID ICEMAN AND SHOVE HIS INTESTINES UP HIS BLOODY —"
James' POV:
—--------------
My head snaps up when she starts screaming things that I really shouldn't repeat. I hesitantly approach the library door.
"... Angel ...?" I say softly after knocking quietly.
"NOT YET, JAMES!" comes the vicious reply.
I know when to remain silent, so I carefully move back to the living room and the small glass of whiskey I'm nursing. I appreciate her saying she wasn't leaving, and telling me she still loved me, though she was angry, which is understandable. Still. That was the clearest communication I've had from ... Anyone. In ... Well, in about forever, and it saved me a lot of stress.
