|| Be Her Guard || Sherlock Holmes x Reader

|♢| Chapter 3 |♢| Hidden Meaning

Once the cab stopped, Sherlock is the first to jump out, looking over the area before him. Nothing really stands out about it since, altogether, it is a normal, friendly neighborhood compared to the busy London streets his own flat is surrounded by.

An older lady is walking her small white dog down the sidewalk past him, laughter of children can be heard echoing from across the street somewhere (most likely from where they played in a backyard), and a few houses down on the same street, a man is mowing his lawn till it is nicely trimmed. Nothing that raises alarm.

The building Sherlock put most his attention to is a shade of yellowish orange. The grass out front isn't perfectly green, but not completely dead either. A short wall divides most of it from the flat building, a cracked sidewalk leading both around the building and to the main door. Some of the many windows are open for fresh air while others remain tightly shut. In a few, people can be seen observing the quiet area they live in with little care.

"This way," you walk past him, fishing out your keys from your back pocket and approaching the first door.

After pressing the main office button,  you wait patiently until a buzz can be heard accompanied by a click of the door. Opening it, you lead the way through the narrow hallway with Sherlock in tow, only stopping when reaching flat number 26.

Unlocking the door, you step aside to hang your coat while Sherlock squeezes on by, inviting himself to have a look around as you watch," it may not seem like much, but it's plenty of space for just me and I do feel safer in a smaller flat. The neighbors are alright, I mean, I haven't had any problems with them in the time that I've been here. Everyone in the building seems to keep to themselves for the most part. Um...can I offer you anything?"

"I'm fine."

You nod, clasping your hands together which makes it quite clear you are feeling awkward with the situation," I'm...gonna go get packed."

"Pack enough for a week," Sherlock calls after you, pulling the curtains back from your window and gazing outside. 

Your apartment has a good view of the street and someone could quite possibly see inside if you left the curtains pulled back. Tapping the glass, he concludes that it would be hard to break quickly, plus, you are on the second floor. By the time someone climbed up and broke through, either you or one of your neighbors would take notice.

As for the only other way in, the fact that the building let people inside with a buzzer could make sneaking in harder. The front door is heavy iron; only an idiot would try to break it. The question is how well the office workers do their job. If they truly look at who was at the door before letting them in, maybe no one could get to you as easily, but if they don't pay much attention, they could let your killer simply walk right on in. Examining the door of the flat itself, it isn't anything special. Someone could kick through it with little to no effort if they wanted to. If someone were to somehow get in that way, you would have no chance of exiting. 

Sherlock is aware of the fact that some people have no sense of urgency even if they heard the blood curdling screams of a hopeless young girl. He knows for a fact that you would fight till your last breath, but he doubts you'd actually be able to win in the end. You just don't have that kind of strength especially compared to a man like the one who your worried about. He'd have no trouble overpowering you. 

Making his rounds across the living room, Sherlock stops at the bookshelf, noticing all the crime and mystery books you own. Over all these years, you've still kept that passion. He also takes notice to a small picture album. It is hardly as big as his hands yet filled with pictures and memories nonetheless.

He flips through the pages with the smallest of smiles. Many of them are of your childhood with your grandparents, parents, siblings, and even some old friends. A frown only forms on his lips when coming to a picture with him in it.

It is his senior year photo. He didn't look happy in it, although, he was never happy for school pictures and neither were you. On the next page, there is one where he is actually smiling. It shows the two of you sitting on the back porch of his parent's home, looking at the camera with tiny smiles yet they're there. Thinking back to that day, Sherlock remembers his mum taking the picture despite him begging her not to...How much she adored seeing her son have such a lovely friend like you...

Every picture of your youth captures you with at least a small smile, showing a bright and gifted girl who would go on to do great things. Then the smile visibly began to falter, your eyes reflecting more pain particularly during your college years. Sherlock lets his fingers trace one of the pictures, his frown deepening. The amount of times he's heard people dismiss your lack of joy in those photos as you simply being more camera shy or just tired from school. Hell, even he made those excuses since he, of all people, shouldn't judge a poor attitude. Of course, now he knows the truth, one he wishes he would've been smart enough to notice back then...Maybe things could've been different if he had-

"-I'm done packing," Sherlock sets the album down carefully when hearing your voice, turning to face you.

You're holding a bag draped over your shoulder, your (e/c) eyes locked with his icy blue ones with a questionable stare. It's like you're waiting for him to say something about the photos; as if you know he wants to say something.

"...Do you still just survive?" You ask in a hushed voice after a long moment of silence.

"Huh?"

"You let it slip once that you don't live, but instead simply survive. Is that still true?" You repeat, biting down on your lower lip as per usual. Perhaps it isn't the best time to ask such a personal question.

"I believe life is a game until it ends at death. There's nothing truly great about it, although, John assures me it only feels that way until you find 'the hidden meaning' to it all," Sherlock says it so matter-of-factly, rolling his eyes when mentioning his flat mate's belief," but I prefer to use certain thrills to make the game more bearable."

"Those being...?" 

"Drugs, nicotine patches, murders, cases in general; all that."

"I thought you gave up drugs," you scrunch your nose.

"I only use them here and there, mostly when John isn't looking. As I said, they make life bearable. I can't survive without them when cases are low. Besides, it's normal for people to go back to their addictions," Sherlock dismisses the comment, walking past you towards the door, but before he can react it, you ask one more quiet question.

"What about 'the hidden meaning' John told you about? Have you ever tried to find it?"

He freezes in his steps, pressing his lips together in a thin line then turning to look back at you with a half nod,"...I thought I had found it at one point, but I suppose I was wrong..."