Rivers

Chapter Seven

Last night, I needed a place to sleep because I wasn't going to sleep at my flat after what happened last time I was in there. I was planning on asking Sherlock, but he stays up late working on cases and making the loudest noises. Who would want that while sleeping? Watson told me I could stay at his place for a couple of days and he could use the help with his child anyways.

I have woken up before Watson and taken his little girl out of her crib since she was bawling her little eyes out. She's so adorable with her soft blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin.

"She likes you, doesn't she?" Watson asks, his voice cascading from the stairs. I turn around with a smile his baby has put on my face.

"I used to babysit for a job when I turned 23. The job lasted for six years so I'm pretty experienced," I tell him, patting her back.

"How old are you?" he asks me, coming down to hold his little girl. I give her to him and let him smile at her and I follow him into the living room.

"Twenty-nine," I answer him, sitting down on a blue love seat as he sits across the room on another one. His house is very clean with a very modern look to it. It smells as of pine cones and lavender detergent.

As awkward silence falls over the room, it is interrupted by Sherlock barging in through Watson's front door, yelling, "Watson! Jacqueline's missing! I went to her flat and she's not there. I even called her and she didn't answer!"

He comes to an abrupt stop when he sees me sitting in the living room. I swallow a lump of spit, remembering last night at Molly's wedding.

"My phone was um," I pause, struggling for words. Why can't I think of anything? My phone is in my back pocket! "on silent." I stand up.

"Why are you here?" he asks, confused. Wait a minute... is Sherlock confused?

"I didn't want to stay at my flat. After what happened last when I was there, I just couldn't do it."

"Why didn't you ask to stay with me?"

"You stay up late working on cases. I've heard from Mrs. Hudson and John," I tell him, flashing a grin. My heart is racing as he steps closer towards me. Watson's head is turning from me to Sherlock repeatedly, trying to decipher our looks for one another.

"But if you were there and you told me you didn't want to, I wouldn't stay up late. Anything that you don't want to happen won't happen," Sherlock says, not removing his neutral expression.

"Well then you could've just told me that. Sherlock, why were you so worried I was missing? Why were you looking for me at..." I pull out my phone and look at the time. "Eight o' clock in the morning?"

Sherlock is dumbfounded. He scratches the back of his head, searching for words. "I-- wanted to talk to you about something," he stutters. He looks over at Watson and his baby. "in private."

"You come barging into my house, asking to talk to her in... private?" Watson says, raising his eyebrows in confusion.

"Yes," Sherlock simply states.

Watson stands up and holds his baby in front of his face. He smiles at her, tickling her stomach then looks back at Sherlock. "By all means, have the whole house!" he sarcastically snickers then walks away from us, upstairs. His footsteps bounce off the walls in an echo.

"Rivers, did you say your mother had suspicions that your brother was a murderer?" I sulk back and fall into the couch that Watson was sitting on. I was really hoping it was something else. It's not the happiest subject to talk about.

"Yeah. Yeah I did," I groan. My chest tightens and my hands are beginning to sweat. It's every time I'm nervous or uncomfortable of some sort that my hands start sweating.

"Why is that?" he asks, sitting next to me. He grabs my hand.

"His mental stability. After they released him from the hospital, my mother would sometimes find stuffed animals with heads ripped off and cotton lying everywhere in his bedroom. She didn't tell me until the day he went missing," I explain to him, my voice tearing and crackling. Jake used to be fun and cheerful when he was a little boy. My mother used to tell me. She said when her and my father get a divorce, he was highly influenced by the constant bantering and arguing between her and my dad. I would always run into the attic and stay there for hours until they finally stopped. I should've taken Jake and maybe he wouldn't be dead right now.

"Do you know why Mrs. Jelekigton hates your family so much?" he questions. I turn my head the opposite direction of Sherlock and wipe away my tears. He can't see me like this. Not again.

"Not a clue," I croak out, biting my bottom lip so I don't loose control. I wipe my free hand on my pajama pants.

"Jacqueline, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried," he admits, grabbing my other hand, making my whole body turn to face him again.

"You're apologizing? You never apologize," I say, forcing a smile.

"I'd apologize for you," he mumbles, embracing me in a hug. My head rests in his shoulder, letting my tears fall onto his trench coat.

***

Sherlock told Watson and I to go to the police station with him, so we did. Now, Watson and I are sitting, watching Sherlock talk to Mrs. Jelekigton through a red chord phone, separated by a clear wall. Mrs. Jelekigton's stare is agonizing and sinister as she twitches her nose, her eyes looking dead into mine. I back up into Watson, trying to get away from her deathly look.

"I don't think I can stay here," I whisper, walking passed him. He grips my arm, pulling me in front of him.

"Jacqueline, this is for your case. This is for your brother," he tells me. He spins my body around to face Sherlock.

Sherlock hangs up the phone then turns around. He stands up and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath in and out. "She wants to talk to you."

"No," I reluctantly demand, turning around and beginning to walk out. Sherlock yanks me back. He pulls me close to him to whisper into my ear and for me to be able to smell his mint toothpaste.

"Jacqueline, I understand how hard this is for you. Don't think because I'm Sherlock that I don't, but please. This is important. If you talk to her, I can find out what has really happened in this case. I think there's more and I think-"

I cut him off. "Okay. For you."

I edge myself over to her, my body shaking and my mine racing. As I bring myself to sit down, my hands grip the table, looking for structure. The woman who murdered my brother is sitting two feet away from me. She yanks the phone and nearly stabs it into her ear. Watching her every move and taking deep breaths, I take the phone and carry it to my ear. Sherlock's hand slides into mine from behind me and I feel his extra hand massaging my shoulder.

"Don't be scared," he says.

I close my eyes and speak into the phone. "Why did you do it?"

She chuckles, leaning her body closer and closer to the barrier between us. My insides churn faster and faster and my breathing becomes more harsh.

In a slow, killing tone, she snickers, "Your brother was a special paitent. He wasn't really ill."

My hand squeezes Sherlock's, looking for something to conceal the anger. How could she say that? My brother was a mental paitent!

"No. No, no, no. My brother was sick!" I yell, standing up and making the chair I was sitting in fly away. "You can't fake something like that! He was out in that hospital for a reason and it wasn't for you to kill him!"

Sherlock turns me around and hugs me, letting my head crash into his chest. "You can't fake that," I mumble repeadetly.

"Jacqueline, come on. Let's get you out of here," Watson says, tapping Sherlock's shoulder.

Throughout everything, I continue whispering the same sentence to myself over and over; You can't fake that.