A Viola's Song

What Do We Do?

During those two months, Sherlock and Irene tried to make progress in killing Merissa, but every time they got close, someone threatening to kill them would get in their way.

And always Irene's recurring "It's not your fault."

Everyday, they tried to come up with a plan.

But a particular day stood out to the both of them.

It started out normally, the two plotting a way to "save the world."

"We could...no," Sherlock mumbled.

"Or....no," Irene murmured.

"I....you.......ugh!" Sherlock cried.

He looked to Irene.

"I can't......"

Irene frowned to herself and watched as he took out a cigarette pack. She got up and kneeled in front of him.

"No," she said as she took the pack from his hands and threw it aside.

"Please, it's no use. I feel terrible anyway," Sherlock whispered.

"Is this how you've been occupying yourself? Hurting yourself?" Irene scolded.

She could see the pain forming in his eyes. He looked down, as if in shame.

"Oh, darling," Irene said sadly.

"And do you know why?" Sherlock said suddenly as he lifted his head.

She searched his eyes for any explanation, but it was no use.

He gripped her tightly by the hand.

"You," he said sharply, "You made me like this. You made me alone, afraid, sentimental; I can't even deduce most things anymore: too many distractions. But all those distractions came back to you. When you left me Viola, a small, four year old child in that little basket with that stupid, bloody note, I felt like killing myself. I felt like killing you. If I hadn't saved you-in fact, if we hadn't met! none of this would have happened."

Irene gripped his hand tightly, too as she said, "So you regret everything?! You regret meeting me?! You regret Viola?! Even if you do, let me tell you something, Mr. Holmes," her voice was mocking as she said his name, "Your eyes dilated, too! Your pulse elevated, too!"

"Do you think I don't know that?! Do you think......I don't......," he sighed, "No, I don't regret meeting you, I don't regret Viola, but I regret something; I just don't know what. I don't like sentiment; I never have. It makes me feel terrible. But now I've dealt with it for sixteen years, and I regret I couldn't deal with such an obvious human thing. And I've smoke so much just to deal with it, that.......that- No, I told him I'm not."

"Not what?" Irene asked.

"John, being a doctor, told me........that I have a possibility of dying from lung cancer."

"No.....," Irene mumbled.

He nodded. "But now I know what I regret," he said, wanting to change the subject, "I regret the night I deduced your sentiment for me. All the things I said, how much I must have hurt you; I could have never imagined until now. I regret not being able to deal with being human."

That's when Sherlock felt their lips touch. Before they let go of the other's hand, each both felt the other's pulse quicken. Irene leaned in and wrapped her arms around his neck as she got up to sit in his lap. He really didn't know what to do besides flail but eventually settled for putting his hands around her waist.

Irene pulled away, gasping for air.

"What......?" Sherlock panted.

"Thank you," Irene panted back.

"For what?" Sherlock asked.

"For being human," Irene answered.

"I didn't deserve that," Sherlock whispered, their faces still close enough for her to hear.

Irene nodded. "Yes, you did. You said you regret hurting me and not being able to deal with being human. The old you would have said you regret being human. But now, you've got me, so there's no need to 'deal' anymore, there's no need to poison yourself anymore. You are not going to die on me."

"I'm not going to hurt you anymore," Sherlock interrupted, saying what they were both thinking.

Irene nodded as she said, "And there will be no more regrets."