One-shots/Short Stories

BBC Sherlock - Part III

The Assassin - Part III
Sherlock plucked on his violin strings absently, deep in thought. It's been a week since he confronted Mycroft. A week since he has last seen his supposedly 'dead' fianceé. And he was stumped on where to find her. Ever since finding out about her and the fact that she was still alive left Sherlock overwhelmed with feelings he had his away for years. All at once, he started to feel anger, pain, sadness, remorse, love. . .
   Sherlock hated it. He needed to concentrate in order to find her. He needed to find her before her punishment could get worse. He needed to find evidence that she wasn't behind all of this and was merely forced to. It's kind of hard to find her when she's basically the best assassin alive.
   "You okay there?" Sherlock turned his gaze to John who just entered the living room. Sherlock didn't realise his friend had entered the flat for a visit until then. Sherlock really then wished he could focus on his surroundings.
   John made his way over to his armchair, sitting across from Sherlock. John stared at him concerned. "It's been a week since we last got Desylia's location. I thought you would have it by now."
   "Emotions, Watson. . ." Sherlock murmured, plucking a string a bit too harshly. "Such dangerous things they are. I've been able to lock them away until just recently when I looked into her eyes after years of thinking I would never see them again personally."
   "Yeah," John have him a sympathetic, but somewhat bitter smile, "I know how you feel."
   "How can you normal people live with these emotions?" Sherlock complained, slouching in his armchair. "It's revolting."
   "We've lived with emotions our entire life," John explained. "We've grown to accept emotions by our side - we learnt to balance it in our everyday life most of the time."
   "I'm not used to it," Sherlock mumbled.
   "So when she was still 'alive', did you have emotions then?" John asked curiously.
   "Yes, I did." Sherlock nodded. "Even ask Mycroft. He would say something like, "Sherlock was like a lovesick puppy" or something stupid."
   "Interesting. . ." John made sure to remember that for when he wrote his next blog. "But anyway, surely you must have something to find her?"
   "I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "She could be in Serbia by now for all I know."
   A knock suddenly came from the door, startling them. Sherlock didn't hear anyone walk up the stairs, so who was that? Sherlock felt his stomach churn at his thoughts on who it might be. Sherlock immediately stood up and placed his violin on the coffee table, slowly making his way towards the still closed door. John frowned in curiosity on who it may be.
   Sherlock opened the door and was met with a body falling towards him. Reflex kicked in, and Sherlock quickly grabbed the falling body. Sherlock peered down at the body and felt his blood go cold at who it was. "Desylia?" Sherlock whispered. She was sweating badly and seemed to be gaining something similar to experiencing a withdrawal.
   "I. . ." she croaked out, her voice weak but still holding that Russian accent. "I know you. . ." Sherlock's breath hitched at what she said. "Don't. . .call 'zem. . ." she whispered, before fainting. Sherlock immediately laid her on the couch, John at his side, checking her pulse.
   "She's okay," John murmured. "Just exhausted from what I can see. What did she mean by not calling them? Call who?"
   "The federal people," Sherlock replied quickly, trying to deduce her as much as he could.

-Ran away
-Been living on the streets for a week
-Have been experiencing something similar to withdrawal - not withdrawal though
-No signs of drug use or abuse
-Must be remembering memories

"Sherlock, she needs to go to the hospital," John told him. "They'll know officially what she's experiencing."
   "No need." Sherlock rushed out. "Besides, we don't need the police marching into the hospital room."
   "But Sherlock -"
   "Look, she's fine," Sherlock stressed out. "She's just experiencing memories coming back to her."
   "Are you sure?" John asked him sternly. Sherlock met his serious gaze with his own.
   "She said so herself," Sherlock said quietly. "She told me she knows me - she's remembering me."
   "I've never seen someone react like this to gaining her memories back," John admitted, rushing to the kitchen to grab a wet cloth. "Are you sure she's okay? She will get proper help at the hospital -"
   "You're a doctor, you can help her here," Sherlock said, still by her side. He was stroking her hair, gently pushing it away from her face. He leaned down and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I don't want her to be removed from my line of sight."
   "Fine." John sighed, coming back with a wet cloth. He handed it to Sherlock, who took it from him and began lightly patting her face to take away the sweat. "I gotta go to work. Text me when she wakes up and how she's feeling. I might grab some medicine for her if her head hurts from experiencing memories."