Staying Alive - Sherlock (BBC)

Chapter 9

221B had returned to its normal state.

Sherlock had returned to his normal state.

Despite the fact Lizzie had clearly moved in to keep an eye on Sherlock, he rarely saw her. In the mornings he occasionally bumped into her as she was in the kitchen making her breakfast, they would exchange the usual 'Good morning's and part for the rest of the day.

Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table, his right eye glued to his microscope. He had given up on the Grosvenor Hotel and had decided to look into the inks used on the notes. So far, they looked just as useless.

He looked perfectly normal. Well, as normal as a high funcioning sociopath could be. Yet he knew that the intricate web that was his brain was falling apart.

One would think, after recent events, that now Lizzie made few appearences, he would be more relaxed. But this was not the case.

He could not sit still, even more so than usual. He had gone through so many cases in the past week, yet it took him twice as long as usual. He was distracted, by the silence, by her silence.

It was like she was a drug to him, when she was there, it was amazing, but there were disasterous consequences. Yet he craved to see her again.

When she had first left, his drug abuse soared, much to his brother's disamay. It was so long ago but he could still remember the painful longing.

That painful longing had returned.

Looking into the microscope, he could not focus on anything, his thoughts kept wandering. Why were they doing that? He didn't do that?

With an aggravated yell, he slammed his palm on the wooden table, shaking numerous test tubes and other instruments. His face slipped into his hands, elbows resting on the table, he closed his eyes.

His mind palace was the same as it should be. But its walls were crumbling, he kept coming across things in the wrong places. The Woman should not be with Redbeard, and Moriarty was running all over the place.

Suddenly, he heard something that ripped him out of his mind.

A distant memory, a buried sound, stirred in his head.

Through the walls he could hear Lizzie singing.

It was nothing new, an old blues song that she used to like.

Sherlock stood up and crashed out of the room. Knocking once, he swung open the door and stepped into her room.

Lizzie was lying on the bed, eyes closed. She wore a grey tank top that showed her pale arms and shoulders along with some black shorts that stopped mid-thigh, her legs were startlingly white. Arms clasped across her stomach, her hair tumbling off the edge of the small bed, she looked like one of the fairytale princesses who had slept for 100 years.

Exept this princess had been chain-smoking. The distinct smell of alchohol and smoke hung in the air.

"Lizzie, we need to talk." He said as calmly as possible.

She cracked an eye open and stared at him, she had stopped singing. "You have never started a conversation that way." She said blantantly. "What have you done? No wait, I can do this."

Sitting upright she thought for a second. "You want me to inject you with cocaine because you still cant reach your elbow." He opened his mouth, looking put out, but she stopped him. "No, no, you have smashed your phone and want to borrow mine."

He stared at her. "No. No I've got it!" She exclaimed, holding up a finger. Pausing for a second, she let out a giggle. "One of your clients tried to kiss you."