c. xiii :
" Sherlock. "
(The chapter is freaking long, I know.)

The cab ride was soothing. Emma relished in the sound of wheels and motor in action, as they flew her through the London's evening, towards her final destination.

Once the cabbie had been paid, she was left standing before a tall, white building, its imposing figure caressed by the warm beams of the setting Sun.

Sighing as she observed it, her gray coat bellowing behind her, Emma took a step forward and directed her high-heeled, black shoes in the direction of the door.

She was permitted inside, her features being by now familiar to the inhabitants of the structure. Although, they were quite surprised and extremely delighted to see the woman at the doorstep, for she had last visited ages back. Though, because of the goal of the place, they could not express their joy to her, at least not verbally. So they were compelled to limit their actions to smiling eyes and lips.

Those inhabitants, were peculiar men, who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy, had no wish for the company of their fellows, yet were not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals.

It was for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it contained the most unsociable and unclubbable men in town. In fact, everyone barely acknowledged Emma as she made her way through the hallway behind the man who was accompanying her, their strides firm, yet silent, any sound swallowed by the thick carpet beneath their feat.

Hallway after hallway, turn after turn, Emma finally stood before the ever so familiar wooden door, which stood tall and brought memories back to her mind of all the times she had stood in that exact same spot.

The young man gave her a nod, once the occupant of the room had given him the imprimatur to let the woman in.

Emma nodded back gracefully and once she did, he took up walking back where they had just come from.

Meanwhile the young woman returned her attention to the door in front of her. She took an inward sigh, then stepped forward and opened the door.

Emma was greeted with the same odor of clean and fresh: so indistinctive yet singular, just like its owner.

As for the man in question, who had leaned back in his leathered chair upon her entrance, a rather forced smile — yet a smile nonetheless — stretched across his stoic features, something Emma greatly appreciated, since he was known to be as cold as a rock.

The Ice Man, as she had once called him during one of her fits over him with the ever so charming criminal who now haunted every corner of her mind.

«Well, well.» Mycroft spoke, cold, impassive eyes staring her down. Emma, though, new him better than that: she was quite aware that he was, indeed, surprised at her standing there. «Five months and you finally pay me a visit.»

Emma narrowed her eyes and the singular pinch of hurt and resentment in his voice, but did give him a smile afterwards. «And aren't you happy to see me?»  

«Exhilarated.» his deadpanned voice confirmed. A long sigh followed his statement and he leaned forward, intertwining his hands on his desk. «What is it you want?»

Emma raised a brow, chuckling ever so slightly, as she elegantly and slowly glided down his carpet and towards the nearest bookshelf, her fingers tasting the familiar material of the rough and old covers. «Do people always have to have a reason to visit you?»

«Yes.» came the reply «As you are aware, I'm not quite the fancied company. People usually come to me for money, protection or with arrest warrants. Not exactly the social butterfly type. Or, well... as you ever so sophistically articulated...» Mycroft have her a pointed glare, a small sarcastic and empty smile playing on the corner of his lips. «... a condescending bastard.»

Emma pursed her lips, whirling around to face skin, a sheepish expression printed across her elegant features. «Did I say that? I really don't remember saying that... Oh!» her eyes widened in interest. «Have you lost weight?»

Mycroft's glare only hardened «What do you want?»

All cheerfulness suddenly drained from her face, as did most of the color. But she skillfully hid that by turning her back to him once more, instead facing the ever so fascinating bookshelf. Then, through a sigh, she stated strongly three single words:
«He found me.»

It was a good thing Emma had turned around, for otherwise she would've been surprised by the slight crack in Mycroft Holmes' armor: his heart, for yes, the man had a heart indeed, jolted ever so slightly at the statement, dread washing over his features, draining them from any color. «I see.» his voice came out steady and so Emma never knew what had actually occurred behind her. «Has he gotten in contact with you?»

Emma carefully put the book she was looking at back in its place with a slight thud between two other volumes, then huffing a breath «Had one of his minions drop a note in my pocket.»

«A note? How creative. And economic.»

She looked around, throwing the man a glare «Mycroft.»

«Well, what did you expect?» the man scoffed, his voice though mostly silent, with an all too familiar coldness swimming in it. «You run away from him and hide right under his nose. Really, when has your judgement become so clouded by emotions?»

Emma gulped, looking down. She felt like a child once again and was reminded of the many times she had been scolded, though, back then for much lighter reasons: a missing jar of cookies, a family portrait she had painted in pink, toys scattered around the study... But oh, how the times had changed. And here she was standing before him, all grown up, telling him about a psychopath that was on her heels: and just as Shakespeare once wrote, her gorge rose at it. So the man sighed, rubbing his tired, stoic eyes. «What did the note say?»

Emma clicked her tongue, distastefully, softly nibbling on her lips, where blood was slowly beginning to seep through the soft skin, bothered by the unstopping pain it was subjected to. «Peekaboo.»

Mycroft didn't know which urge he wanted to resist more: the one to smirk or roll his eyes. «Well... he does know how to make an entrance.»

Emma snorted at his words.

Mycroft's eyes watched her. If he were any normal person, or even Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn't have noticed the nervousness and, perhaps, anxiety the girl before him radiated. He, though, knew her for far too long and far too well to not be able to state that change in her ever collected persona. Mycroft breathed softly «Delilah–»

«–Do not call me that.» Emma's gelid voice sliced like a bullet through the air, yet cracked ever so slightly.

Mycroft didn't flinch, but anger welled up in his eyes. «You're running away from your past by staying still. Small... adjustments hardly make any drastic or useful change.»

She stayed silent, her gaze drawing in the carpet below her, her fists clenched.

Mycroft breathed, annoyedly «Delilah–» he raised his voice.

«Emma, Mycroft, my name is Emma.» Emma spoke, loudly, yet her voice, even if she tried to sound strong, came more strangled and pleading than she had expected. Her hands were shut into such tight fists that her nails dug into her skin, hurting but not bothering her in the slightest.

Mycroft watched her, emotionless. «You're being a child.» his eyes narrowed, sarcastically «Emma. And your game of hide and seek has finally come to an end.»

Finally Emma blew out a breath. And then Mycroft saw the shift in her defences: her hands relaxed, her tensed shoulders fell, and her eyes, which up to that point were filled with regret, became cold and empty. «I didn't come here for lectures, Mycroft.» she spoken and a strong sense of deja vu settled in the pit of his stomach.

For his little brother used the same mask every time he had to face a problem as well.

So Mycroft had no other choice but played accordingly.

He raised a brow «What then? Money? Protection? Or have you finally got that warrant against me?»

Emma's lips widened into a sarcastic, tightlipped smile, that never reached her stoic eyes. «I came here for a friend's advice.»

«I don't have friends, Emma.» Mycroft counterattacked, eyes narrowed. «Friends use each other for proper gain.»

Emma's eyes which had previously rolled over to glance out of a nearby window, suddenly flickered back to him, a new angry fire lightening up in them. «And I think this is a fair enough trade since you did rent me the flat at Baker Street so I could spy on your brother.»

It was Mycroft's turn to drain of all emotions, becoming cold and distant «I have no idea what you're talking about.»

Emma glared at him, pointedly, refusing to back down. «I refuse to do your dirty work, Mycroft. Making sure your brother is safe and emotionally stable is a big brother's responsibility. Not John's and especially not mine.»

A knowing smile curved his lips «Who said that that was the reason why I placed you there? After all...» he drawled. «Babies are easier to control when they're in one cradle.»

The young woman refused to let the comment get to her.

«Tough luck anyway.» she instead rolled her eyes, crossing her arms on her chest, as she walked towards the window and glanced outside. «Your baby bro doesn't trust me.»

Mycroft raised a brow, hoping to be mistaken when he heard a pinch of disdain in her voice.

«And why ever would that bother you?» he wondered, eyebrows rising above his uninterested eyes.

Emma pursed her lips, eyes focused on the trees outside the building. She stared and stared, though soon realizing that she was, indeed, not paying any attention to the landscape. Her eyes were unfocused, and Mycroft could see how the gears in her head were turning slowly, elaborating a response which he, for some reason, awaited anxiously. «He is not wrong...» she finally muttered, perhaps not even realizing that her words had been voiced aloud.

Mycroft sighed in resignation, glancing downwards. «How much does he know?» he then asked, looking back up at her.

The woman smirked, eyes scanning the scenery once again. «Only what I allow him to. Although, he is convinced that I'm working for you.» Emma spoke, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, a trace of amusement contouring her voice.

An exasperated sigh escaped Mycroft's lips, and his eyes found themselves going round 'n round, into an over exaggerated eye roll. «My brother operates on a slightly lower level of stupidity than your average human.»

«Hm...» Emma hummed, a pair of cold, blue eyes slipping into her mind. A smile slowly crept on her lips and she had to bite the back of lip as to stop it from becoming a toothily grin. «I wouldn't say so...» she spoke up, eyes trailing the oh so interesting profile of the trees. Smile still playing on the corner of her lips she glanced towards Mycroft and was startled to see his narrowed eyes pointed at her. Her grin fell instantly when she realized she had left her emotions reflect on her surface and she assumed a both, confused and defensive expression «What?» she snapped at the glaring man.

Mycroft's eyes remained cold, ironically though, burning wholes in her scull. «I would suggest you stay focused on your task and not let your judgement be clouded by your feelings. Emma.» he growled, eyes tightening into a thin line. «We both remember what happened last time that occurred.»

Emma's eyes widened beneath her frowned brows in pure outrage «Feelings? For Sherlock Holmes?» She scoffed, eyes glancing around unbelievingly. Once they reencountered the dimly-blue eyes of the man she gave him the most sarcastic smile she could muster. «Good day, Mycroft.»

With that she spun around and strode towards the door, Mycroft's eyes trailing behind her like those of a lion watching his next prey. «I shall keep a close look on the underground world.» he finally spoke up, his tense posture and almost angry voice never altering. «I'll inform you if any changes or shifts occur.»

«I do not need your help.» Emma shot back, spinning around to look at him.

He raised a brow «Oh? Well, then what did you come here for?»

As she reached the door she gripped onto the handle and looked over her shoulder, eyes glaring at him. «I'm here to lighten John's job of reporting to you of my doings. That's what friends do, after all.» her smile dripped with sarcasm and eyes burned cold wholes into Mycroft's scull. But he never faltered. Not even when she spoke an emotionless «Good day, Mycroft.» and flew his door open, only to disappear behind it.

No, Mycroft Holmes showed no emotions at all.

Who knows, though, how, under his armor, his heart was coping with watching her, of all people, leave him.

Outside, the sun was shining, London city enveloped into the embrace of light.

Emma exited, her breath ever so slightly unsteady, as blood boiled in her veins at the man she had left in the study upstairs. God, how he infuriated her. She had to fight the urge not to punch someone while she stormed through the halls of the building.

Her body betrayed her when a shudder broke free and climbed down each and every bone of her spine. Pulling her grey coat tighter around herself, even though the sun was burning into her skin, suffocating her, Emma huffed a sigh.

She jumped ever so slightly when she felt her pocket vibrate. So she took her phone out and, in a quick gesture, ripped her black gloves off of her right hand with her teeth.

She didn't even flinch at the sight of blood on her palm, a crime her fingernails were responsible for. A reminder that the meeting between her and the aloof man did, in fact, happened.

Unlocking her phone, a new message flashed up at her.

Shad Sanders Bank. Come now. —SH

As the perfect replay came to her mind a smirk curved Emma's lips and she bit her lip, nuzzling her nose into her cream coloured scarf to hide it. After all, she had a reputation to maintain, and being caught with a smile on her face as she stared at her phone, wouldn't exactly contribuite to her curriculum.

So, forcing back her smile she typed in a quick reply.

Kinky ;) —ES

Then stuffed her phone back into her pocket and walked off into the bright evening, in search of a cab that could take her to her destination.

Not noticing Mycroft's figure lingering at the window watching her walk off with a sorrowful expression on his tired features.

He knew full well who's message had put Emma in such a good mood. He knew full well that Sherlock was way beyond saving by now, as well: he was under her spell, with no way of return. And he was also convinced that Emma would not leave the detective's side even if one would drag her.

They both were beyond saving.

Mycroft knew it all too well and he ran a hand down his face, in pure despair.

«Oh, God.» he whispered to himself, standing alone in his empty office. «What have I done.»
~~~
After the cab halted to a stop and the grumpy old cabbie grumbled out the cost for her ride, Emma paid, pushed the door open and jumped out of the vehicle, inhaling the thick, London air.

As the cab pulled away from the driveway, Emma stuffed her gloves hands in her pockets and began walking towards the all too familiar enormous building.

Once inside and on the second floor, she smiled down at the young man behind the reception counter. «Emma Swan.»

She had to say no more: the woman was led down the many hallways, past numerous offices, where every passerby could not help but stare at her elegant figure gliding by.

Emma Swan was truly a rare sight, so balanced yet imperfect. Her body hid her usual black attire, though she had time to change her shirt and now wore a black, long sleeved turtleneck, which appealed more to her.

Her black high heels clicked against the pavement of the hallway as she approached a familiar office, just in time to hear a woman saying «Flew back from Dalian Friday. Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team.»

«Can you print me up a copy?» an all too familiar baritone questioned, causing a smile to curl on the side of Emma's lips.

The woman spun around to face the man who had so kindly accompanied her, yet who was not so kindly staring at her the whole time. «Thank you, I will find my way in from here.» Emma stated, with a gentle smile adorning her lips.

The man nodded and swallowing hard, eyes wide, began walking off, but not before stealing a shameless glance to Emma's rear.

The woman rolled her eyes. «Men.»

So Emma straightened her coat and walked into the office, where she could hear Sherlock saying «What about the day he died? Can you tell me where he was?»

The blonde woman next to him, who was digging behind a desk and intensively looking at the screen before her, pursed her lips sheepishly. «Sorry. Bit of a gap. I have all his receipts.» that was when she noticed an unfamiliar face in the room. «I'm sorry, can I help you?» the blonde asked.

Sherlock too looked up, in time to see a kind smile gracing Emma's lips as she watched the woman. «I'm Emma Swan.»

«A friend of mine.» Sherlock grumbled, hardly paying attention to her as his eyes focused once again on the computer «She's here to help with the case.»

«Oh!» the blonde spoke, surprised. Then a smile curved her lips as she stood up «It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan. I'm Amanda Woods. Eddie's personal assistant.» the two women shook hands, then parting awkwardly.

Emma's eyes focused on Sherlock's figure and Amanda stood there, eyes flickering between the two, as the black haired woman worked her cream colored scarf off her neck.

«I will...» Amanda then mumbled, mostly to herself «get you those receipts.» she smiled at Emma ever so slight as she passed by her while making her way out from behind the desk and disappearing out of the door.

Sherlock glanced up ever so slightly at the woman before the desk, who was carefully draping her coat over the back of the chair before her, her eyes focused on her gloved hands that seemed to dissolve into the sleeves of her black turtleneck.

The detective then looked back at the computer and finally spoke «You took your time.»

Emma smiled, not looking up «Oh, well... you know your brother. He's quite the social butterfly.» she smirked to herself as she straightened up, hands behind her back.

She sweared she almost saw a shade of a smile make an appearance at the corner of his lips, but it was more probable that it had been merely a trick of the light. «Hmm.» he hummed, his blue eyes skimming over the writings on the screen.

Suddenly realizing something was missing, Emma glanced around «Where's John?»

Sherlock sighed, squinting his eyes at the screen, as he concentrated on his reading. Emma was honestly surprised he didn't snap at her, but then again, he probably had already realised that that would result in an endless fight, which would've in turn resulted in a homicide, especially since John wasn't around to prevent it from happening. «Scotland Yard.» the detective spoke, straightening, before moving over and sitting onto the chair where Amanda had sat not long ago.

«Hmm...» Emma hummed, crossing her gloved hands over her chest, and glancing at her surroundings. «Progress?» she questioned, moving her icy gaze back to the detective, whose fingers were furiously hitting the computer's keys.

Finally he pressed send, before straightening up and taking a deep breath «I managed to gain access to Van Coon's calendar, with all of his plans for the past few weeks.» he spoke, eyes never leaving the screen before him.

Emma meanwhile had slowly made her way around the desk and filled the spot beside him, her eyes equally scanning the computer. «Anything useful?»

Sherlock huffed a breath «Barely.»

Emma nodded, her brows furrowing. Her mind travelled back to the conversation the detective was having with the victim's personal assistant and she recalled a certain phrase Amanda had said. «And the receipts?»

Just then Amanda came rushing back into the flat, causing Emma's head to move upwards to face her and Sherlock's eyes to flicker just for a second off of the screen only to fall to it again the moment later.

«Here I am!» the woman smiled, rushing towards them with a stack of papers wrapped up in her warm embrace.

«Ah!» Sherlock spoke, leaning back and forcing on a rather uncharacteristic smile, one which dropped the second the woman looked away.

This, though, gained him a slight smirk from Emma.

«This should be all.» Amanda announced once she had spread out Van Coon's receipts on her desk.

Sherlock had by now fitted up and positioned himself beside the desk, observing them intently with his arms behind his back. Meanwhile Amanda had moved between the two, to occupy her previous seat, deciding later on to remain standing.

Emma too was scanning the items, intrigued, biting gently the nail of her thumb under the glove. «What kind of a boss was he, Amanda?» she finally spoke, looking at the woman who returned her glance «Appreciative?»

«Um, no.» the personal assistant cracked a smile «That's not a word I'd use. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag.»

Emma narrowed her eyes at the woman: the slight shade of disdain and pain in her words hadn't escaped the black haired woman's notice.

Her mind raced, coming up with all possible scenarios of the situation and the outcome was quite a simple result: a relationship. That, and the pump-action bottle of luxury hand lotion at the back of the desk —identical to the one in Van Coon's flat— that Sherlock noticed when he kneeled on the floor to give himself easier access to the receipts, were all the confirmation the two detectives needed.

«Like that hand cream.» Sherlock, who had noticed the bottle, spoke then looking up, searching Emma's eyes with his. Once captured her gelid gaze, his own orbs flickered softly towards the bottle, his eyes then flashing back to her face just in time to witness the blissful realization that splashed onto it.

«He bought that for you, didn't he?» Emma wondered aloud, returning to face Amanda, whose hands were nervously fiddling with a pin in her hair.

The woman looked at the detectives by her sides in surprise, but they ignored that, instead focusing back on the receipts.

Sherlock dug in, shuffling through the paperwork, Emma following suit.

«Holmes?» she softly called a minute later, a receipt from a licensed taxi held between her long, delicate fingers.

Sherlock's head shot up at he mention of his name and his eyes focused directly on the paper that Emma was handing to him. Taking it from her hands he read its contents.

«March 22nd 2010. Timed at 10:35.» Emma muttered to herself, teeth nibbling on her nail in thought «£18.50 pounds...»

Sherlock meanwhile, handed the paper up to Amanda. «Look at this one. Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty.»

The blonde's eyebrows scrunched in surprise. «That would get him to...» her voice trailed off, in thought.

«—The office.» Emma confirmed with a nod, catching Sherlock's eye. «We spent around the same amount when we had gone to his flat.»

«Not rush hour; check the time. Mid-morning.» Sherlock thought aloud «Eighteen would get him as far as...»

«The West End?» Emma suggested, arms crossed on her chest, her eyes closed by thoughts.

«That's right.» Amanda spoke, nodding in confirmation, her eyes flickering between the two detectives. «I remember him saying.»

«Underground.» Sherlock spoke, handing a newfound London Underground ticket with the same date on it and issued at "Picadilly" to Emma, who's brows sunk deeper at the new paper in her hands.

She hummed softly, the gears in her brain turning while Sherlock scanned the other papers. «"You've got mail"?» Emma suggested through a grin, as she looked at Sherlock who stood parallel to her, on the other side of the desk.

The man threw her a glare, disappointed in her childish nature.

"You love me." The woman mouthed to him, scrunching her nose up in a mocking manner, while Amanda looked down at the ticket in pure confusion.

«So he got a Tube back to the office.» the blonde thought out loud. «Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?» she asked, looking at Sherlock.

The detective, who had dramatically rolled his eyes at the black-haired woman before him, not forgetting to add a credible scoff, then focusing back on going through the receipts, answered swiftly «Because he was delivering something heavy. Didn't want to lug a package up the escalator.»

Amanda frowned «Delivering?» she repeated, glancing between the two.

«To somewhere near Piccadilly Station.» Emma confirmed, nodding.

«Dropped the package, delivered it and then...» Sherlock's voice trailed off as he took ahold of another receipt and straightened up, his eyes flickering over it. «...stopped on his way.» he looked up and found Emma's in an instant, a small smile curving the sides of his lips «He got peckish.»

And as his smile grew wider, Emma's slowly rising to match his, he stuffed the paper in his pocket and darted for the door. «Thank you, Amanda, that will be all.»

The woman's eyes grew wide, in surprise. «Wha— you mean that's it?»

«Yes, thank you. We will inform you if there is anything else we'll be needing. Good day.» Sherlock spoke, never once glancing back over his shoulder as he disappeared through the door, Emma following suit after swiftly snatching her coat off the back of the chair where she had left it.

«It was a pleasure meeting you.» she called, giving the woman a brief salute as she shrugged her coat on, smiling. «Have a good day.»

And with that she was off, leaving the blonde secretary standing behind her desk, confused beyond belief. «A-ah, you too!» she called back, her voice weak, clouded by the puzzlement that had settled in her mind.

As Emma reached Sherlock's side in three long strides and matched his speed, the detective glanced down at her as they walked, witnessing how she expertly wrapped her scarf around her long neck.

«Where are we off to?» Emma spoke, and Sherlock snapped his gaze forward once again.

As the pair strode through the doors of the office, heading towards the escalators, the detective noisily sucked in a breath. «Caffe Espresso Italiano.»

Emma resisted the urge to raise a brow at his almost impeccable Italian accent, and instead grinned, stuffing her hands in her pockets as the pair stepped onto the moving stairs. «Fancy.» the black haired woman commented, eyes scanning her surroundings before they settled on Sherlock before her.

He stood tall, with his hands in his pockets as they rode down the escalator, he standing two steps ahead of Emma.

It amused the young woman how he, the almighty detective, now reached height.

And as the detective glanced at her from the corner of his eye, he couldn't help but raise a brow at the smile she was trying to bite back.

«So, coffee?» he asked, as they reached the ground floor and stepped onto the firm ground.

Emma smiled at his back, then waited until they reached the glass doors and opened it for her. Then she grinned up at him boldly and spoke, hands in her pockets «You're buying.»

And as she exited Sherlock smirked in the slightest at his companion, before following her into the streets of London.
~~~
«So you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from?» Sherlock spoke aloud as he and Emma walked by the infamous espresso bar, the detective engrossed in talking to himself whilst the woman followed behind him, eyes stuck on the floor before her, brows scrunched up in thought.
«Where did the taxi drop you...?»

Emma barely heard his words as suddenly she collided with someone, her face slamming into their back. Upon looking up, though, she was more than surprised to see that it had been, indeed, a chest. And when glancing upwards, her eyes couldn't help but widen when they met a pair of blue ones.

Sherlock, who had been spinning around as he walked and bumped into someone approaching from behind, was more than surprised to find the insufferable woman in his arms, spread out across his chest.

A grunt resounded in the depth of his throat as the two came in contact and Emma's body betrayed her once a shiver ran down her spine at the gesture.

She cleared her throat, taking a sharp step back and putting as much distance between them as possible, avoiding any possible eye contact with the man before her «Sorry.» she muttered, her face flushing red, an action that didn't go unnoticed by the detective, whose eyes narrowed at the sight.

Emma looked past him, pointedly ignoring his questioning stare, and her eyes widened at the man who Sherlock had bumped into, who meanwhile was muttering apologies while whirling around to face his victims.

«John!» Emma exclaimed, and unbeknownst to her, relief flooded her voice.

John looked at the two in surprise, an unfamiliar to Emma diary in his hands. «Right.» he muttered.

Sherlock too spun around and wasted no time in firing information at the poor doctor «Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died – whatever was hidden inside that case. I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information—»

«Sherlock—» John tried but was cut off by the obnoxious detective.

«—credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here.»

«Holmes—» Emma attempted as well, eyes flickering to John's diary in realization.

But the detective would have none of it «Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don't know where, but—»

That was when John pointed to the other side of the road, his face barely containing a conceited smile as he spoke «That shop over there.»

Emma smirked at him: the feeling of outsmarting the detective was nice indeed and she knew that all too well.

Sherlock looked at the shop, brows furrowed in confusion, then back to John. «How can you tell?»

The doctor grinned «Lukis' diary.» he flashed the entry at Sherlock «He was here too. He wrote down the address.» then he spun on his heals and headed towards the shop, head held high proudly.

Sherlock watched the spot in front of him, confused, until his features relaxed and he left out a silent «Oh.»

As he straightened up he heard a muffled chuckle coming from behind him and he looked at her, to glance at the last traces of happiness dissolving from Emma's face. And his brows snuck down as she glanced at him, her hands in her pockets.

«Shut up.» he muttered, stepping forward.

Which only caused another giggle from the young woman.
~~~
Emma breathed a sigh of relief, as she collapsed on the rough, plastic chair of the restaurant they were currently at: he had figured it out.

After the visit they had payed to the Luck Cat shop, Sherlock had finally figured out that the symbols were the ancient number system, known as Hangzhou.

Emma glanced up, her face relaxed despite all of what was happening in her life. Her eyes were met with a now familiar to her street, and the all too familiar The Lucky Cat store, visible from the window which she sat opposite to.

She sighed, and slumped back into the seat: they were sitting at a table at a restaurant opposite the shop.

On her left, Sherlock was writing the two Hangzhou numbers and their English equivalents onto a paper napkin, while on her right, sat John Watson, also writing notes.

Emma leaned forward on her elbows, sighing as she thought. «Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium.» she muttered to her two companions.

«What did they see?» John questioned, looking up at his companions, though neither of the two reciprocated his gaze.

«It's not what they saw; it's what they both brought back in those suitcases.» Sherlock explained.

«And you don't mean duty free.»

Emma smiled faintly at John's joke, then looking down at her empty side of the table. Just then a waitress brought over a plate of food and set it down in front of John.

«Thank you.» Emma barely heard him mutter, as she stared downwards, in thought.

That was when the young waitress cleared her throat. «Miss?»

Emma's head shot up and her eyes widened at the salad that was being set in front of her. «Wha— I didn't...» her face darkened and her head snapped towards Sherlock, who was staring out of the window, leaning comfortably back in his seat. «I thought I said I wasn't hungry!» she growled at him, but he barely acknowledged her fuming persona.

«Emma, you have to eat something.» John spoke, causing her head to flash over to him, an incredulous expression gracing her refined features.

«Wha— well, he doesn't eat either!» she pointed at the detective beside her, childishly.

John sighed, looking up from his plate, tiredly. «If your your friends jump off a cliff, do you jump with them?»

Emma's eyes narrowed «No — I'd walk down the bottom and grab their wallets. Really, father?»

John, who had been chewing, stopped once she began talking, eyes furrowing at the end. He went to open his mouth and speak when Sherlock interjected.

«I don't eat when I'm on a case.» his voice was distant and disinterested, eyes still scrutinizing the street outside.

Emma's eyes moved from Sherlock to John. «Can't I use the same excuse?»

The doctor rolled his eyes, over exaggeratedly «No.» only to take another bite of his meal afterwards.

«But why? Same brains, same humor, more charm, can't I do the case thing too?» Emma pleaded, like a little child asking her parents for a toy.

John resisted the urge to laugh, eyes focused down on where his fork was jabbing into the meat. «No, you can't.»

«Well.» Emma crossed her arms, defyingly «Why?»

John rolled his eyes once more, and began responding, his gaze slowly turning to Emma as he spoke «Bec–»

«—Because you're more human than I am.» Sherlock interrupted John roughly, gaze sliding down at the phone in his hands.

Emma's eyes widened in the slightest, a shade of surprise and, oddly enough, curiosity flickering in them, while John froze, his mouth full of his food.

The doctor looked at his plate, forcing his food down in a gulp, his usually lively eyes suddenly terrified and confused, while Emma too  focused her gaze downwards, on the plate before her, softly clearing her throat.

Silence happily settled itself around them, and slowly opened its mouth, showing off its sharp teeth. Then, mercilessly, it began devouring them, taking greedy bites of skin off their body. The only sound the three could hear, except for their breathing which they all tried to keep as soundless as possible, were the selfishly careless cars outside, which raced forward without a worry in the world.

The knife that sliced the thickness in the air, was, surprisingly, a welcomed one: the melodic voice of the black haired woman. «You could've at least gotten me a sandwich.» she muttered, eying the salad which she was picking at with her fork, her face contorted into a grimace «But a salad? Really, John? I thought you would've learned by now what type of girl I am.»

John cleared his throat, finally moving, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, as his eyes —quick as a mouse running from a cat— flickered from his plate, to Sherlock before him until they finally settled on Emma «Honestly, I hardly think you're a type, Emma.» he murmured, forcing on a smile.

«Excuses, excuses.» she skilfully waved him off with her fork, she seemingly more comfortable with the situation than him. While in reality, somewhere in the pit of her stomach, something was rumbling, and for once Emma prayed it was just hunger. What terrified her, though, was the clear knowledge that she had a plain lack of it. As her eyes slid downwards, onto her salad and she poked a tomato with her fork, she spoke, absently, trying to move their conversation forward «Remember how Sebastian told us about how Van Coon stayed afloat in the market?»

«Lost five million...» Sherlock muttered, in thought.

«...made it back in a week.» John nodded along.

«Mmmh.» Emma hummed, finally placing a carrot in her mouth.

«That's how he made such easy money.»

The doctor's eyes widened at the detective's notion, realisation washing over him like a wave on a shore «He was a smuggler! Mmm.» he hummed, then taking a mouthful of food.

«A guy like him – it would have been perfect...» and as Sherlock dove into a careful explanation of the facts, Emma couldn't help but get lost in her own thoughts, as she dueled with her salad.

Sherlock Holmes: an arrogant bastard, with no heart. Or a broken man, a snapped string of a violin?

It was both too easy and too hard for Emma to assume that the man before her was a ticking bomb of emotions, a dormant vulcano that had too many walls around him to erupt and free himself of his pain. On one hand, on the logical one, it made sense; on the other one, a more sentimental one, it awakened something in the depths of her heart to admit it. It was not pity, no... something much scarier, much stronger.

And that was when she realised something that caused her throat to run dry: Mycroft was right.

She was becoming sentimental. She was slowly loosing hold of the reigns of her heart and allowing it to run freely out of its prison, out of her hold.

Her blue eyes widened and she shifted in her seat, the wild beast in her chest now hammering out of control. She barely caught Sherlock suggesting that one of the victims had stolen something which in turn condemned his fellow colleagues to death: no, she was too preoccupied with, in her mind, running away desperately from the demons that the detective and the doctor were slowly awakening.

Curse her heart, it brought her nothing but troubles. Why couldn't she be more like Mycroft or even Sherlock: why could she not feel? Or at least, pretend better not to. After all, this life she was leading at that precise moment was nothing but that: a game of pretend.

She sighed, the plate before her suddenly becoming even more nauseating than before, causing her to grimace, as she gulped down the bile that had began forming in her throat.

Instead, she looked up, out of the window. Her eyes scanned her perimeter for anything unusual, anything to get her mind off of her problems. And she found it soon enough.

Her gaze sharpened «Boys...» her voice drawled, causing the two to look up at her «Remind me... when was the last time that it rained?»

Sherlock frowned, perking up, his head snapping to follow her gaze. The Yellow Pages phone directory sealed in a plastic wrapper, left outside the door to the flat beside the infamous store, caught his piercing blue gaze. «Interesting...» the detective muttered, and without waiting for a reply, stood up on his feet and left the restaurant.

John, who had managed only two mouthfuls of his meal, leaned back in exasperation before dutifully, yet quite regretfully, deciding to get up and follow the man, leaving behind his beloved food.

Meanwhile Emma happily shot up on her feet, exclaiming a rather dramatic «Farewell, dreadful leaves! Today is not the day you get me!»

And as she turned, she could not avoid the glare John threw at her «This isn't over.» he threatened, eyes flickering between and the food.

But Emma only smiled slyly, stuffing her hands in her pockets as she shrugged her grey coat on. «Oh, I'm shaking in my custom baby seal leather boots.» with that she was off, leaving a rather fuming John behind her, muttering abuses under his nose and how he didn't appreciate references of his beloved cartoons being used against him.

As she arrived at the end of the sidewalk, Emma glanced both ways before effortlessly hopping off the side walk and, hands in her pockets, making her way towards Sherlock on the other side of the road, her rather uncomfortable-looking high heels not slowing her down in the slightest.

The detective was running his fingers over the top of the wet exposed pages of the directory when he heard her approaching. «It's been here since Monday.» he told her, softly, eyebrows furrowed. As he was straightening up, Emma reached up and pressed the doorbell of a certain Soo Lin Yao, who appeared to be the inhabitant of the flat. The detective only waited a couple of seconds, ignoring John's arrival by his side, before looking to his right and heading off in that direction, in an alleyway beside the building. «No-one's been in that flat for at least three days.» he muttered to his following companions.

«Could've gone on holiday.» John suggested, walking behind Emma, who meanwhile was skilfully scanning her surroundings, looking for anything even in the slightest suspicious.

«D'you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?» Sherlock called, glancing at the doctor pointedly. As they reached the rear of the building, Emma watched Sherlock look up to see a cantilevered metal fire escape above his head.

What happened next surprised Emma to say the least: taking a short run at it, he leaped into the air and grabbed the end, yanking it down towards him until it touched the ground. Then he ran up the steps towards the open window of the flat.

John went to follow him but never succeeded in doing so, since, as soon as the detective reached the top, the ladder swung back to its horizontal position behind him.

«Sherlock!» the doctor called, but to no excel: the detective was long gone.

Emma spun on her heels, brows furrowed in slight distaste at the detective. «Come on, John.» she called, attracting the attention of the man in question, and they both hastily made their way back along the alley to the front of the building.

As they reached the front, they could hear Sherlock's muffled voice from the inside, but both could make out nothing. In utter frustration, John reached for the doorbell and rang it, annoyed out of his mind. «Every time.» he muttered, causing Emma, behind him, to smile. Even more so when the doctor exclaimed «D'you think maybe you could let me in this time?»

When no response came, the inpatient doctor bent down to the letterbox, pushes it open and calling a «Can you not keep doing this, please?» through the gap.

Emma suppressed a chuckle that was threatening to surface: while she was quite annoyed with the detective's attitude, she found the fuming version of John both amusing and terrifying.

Suddenly the two heard Sherlock's voice come from the flat, calling something to them.

John bent down once again, putting his ear to the letterbox, which he was still holding open, his brows scrunched up in confusion «What?!»

Emma huffed a breath when the detective's voice resounded in the same tone as it had earlier, annoyed at the detective «For a genius, he can be quite the idiot sometimes.» she muttered to herself and John, causing him to nod his head in agreement.

Just then Sherlock's voice resounded again, but to no avail. «What are you saying?» John exclaimed, frustrated. When no response came, John let go off the letterbox and straightened up, sighing in exasperation. «I'm wasting my breath.» he grumbled more to himself than Emma, walking a couple of paces away from the door, glaring around in annoyance.

Emma stood there, still, watching the door with a thoughtful gaze, her lips leaning onto her knuckle, as she kept her fist up to her lips, her elbow leaned onto the arm which she had crossed over her stomach: she would've thought he'd given up, but was pleasantly surprised when she saw the doctor racing back to the door and ringing the doorbell again, before he once again bent down to the letterbox, flipping it open once again. «Any time you want to include us.»

The woman then watched him straightening up once again, and pacing back and forth in pure annoyance as he muttered to himself «"No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with--» He stormed back to the letterbox, flipping it open and angrily shouting a «--my MASSIVE INTELLECT!"» through it.

Although that last bit was quite amusing, Emma had it of staying outside. So she sighed, straightening up. «This is ridiculous.» she muttered, stepping closer to the door and pressing the doorbell once again. «Dammit, Holmes!»

But that was when she heard it: it was faint, inaudible to an inexpert ear. But Emma had enough experience at picking up the sound of her name being called.

«Something's off.» Emma muttered to herself, brows furrowing, as she stepped back from the door, eyes fixated on it. «Try it again, John, I'll see if I can reach the ladder.» the woman ordered, as she strode back into the alley, not acknowledging John's questioning gaze and barely hearing his soft «Um... okay.»

If only John knew that her words were partially a lie: of course, she was going to check the ladder, but with her experience she was more than able to reach it.

As she arrived before it and stood where Sherlock had previously stood, she tugged her high heels off, stuffing them swiftly into her pockets, before she sniffed softly.

With that she took a run for the wall beside the ladder, then pushing off it as she leaped into the air, and landing perfectly on the metal staircase, gripping with ease onto the barrels.

She grinned at herself «Child's play.» with that she took on climbing, moaning a silent «Oh, I miss the legwork.» before she reached the floor and spotted the open window.

Carefully, she climbed through it and into the kitchen, then jumping off the table beside the window.

Her brows scrunched in confusion when, as she was stuffing her feet back into her shoes, she noticed a vase lying still on the rug. Looking closely, she noticed the wet patch on it in the precise place where the vase would have hit if it had been knocked off.

Oddly enough, though, the vase was lying on the opposite side, which brought Emma to only one solution: someone had knocked it off when they were leaving.

And since, judging by the scene and how that someone hadn't managed to pick up the fallen object so had left the flat in a rush, she concluded it hadn't been Sherlock. Which brought to one possible conclusion: it had been someone else.

Emma's eyes widened, worry washing over them like a cold shower. «Holmes.»

So she rushed into the flat, looking over the living room, only to find nothing, before striding confidently towards the bedroom.

Upon entering, her breath hitched at the scene: the ever so familiar detective was lying on the ground, motionless, a long, white silk scarf, that to her horror matched the color of his face, wrapped around his neck. «Holmes!» Emma rushed over to him, ripping her gloves off her hands as she went and throwing them aside as she dropped by his side. «Holmes. Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?» she spoke, in a rushed calmness, an edge of decisiveness in her tone. Her fingers fiddled with the white neckwear around his neck before she ripped it off him in one fluid motion, then moving onto the detective's one, snatching it off from around his neck.

She was met with a nasty red line running all around the detective's throat. The sight caused her breath to hitch. Dropping her hands onto the sides of his neck, her thumbs ran down the line, gently yet urgently, smoothening it. His bones poked into her skin, as she searched his face for other injuries, her hands gently caressing his neck. «Darn it, you stubborn, insufferable man.» she muttered, then shrugging her coat off her shoulders, before reaching two fingers to touch the right side of his throat below his jaw line.

«Pulse?» she muttered to herself, her heart leaping in her throat at the result. «Faint. Fuck, Holmes? Holmes! Holmes, can you hear me???» she spoke loudly, not allowing panic to flood her voice, but slowly losing her cool.

Moving the sides of his coat aside, she quickly flattened her hands above his chest and pressed on it hard, thrice, in an attempt to restore the circulation in his body. «Holmes, come on, you idiot!»

She moved to his face, her hands dropping by both his sides, his elevated cheekbones pressing into her palms, as her eyes searched desperately his half-closed eyelids, in an attempt to see those cold, blue irises again. «Holmes?» Her thumbs ran quickly down his cheekbones, into soft, soothing caresses, her breath slowly becoming ragged. «Holmes!» her voice raised.

And that was when she lost it. «Sherlock!» she exclaimed, desperately, an edge of panic now rooted in her voice.

That was definitely not the way she had expected to use his name for the first time.

Something else she hadn't expect quite as equally, was the detective suddenly flying his eyes open wide and sucking a deep, noisy breath in.

She jumped, her heart leaping in her throat, as she leaned back slightly, in surprise. But then she grabbed onto his face once again, her heart pounding in her chest. «Sssh ssh, Sherl, it's me, it's me, breathe, breathe.» she shushed the detective, quickly brushing his brown curls off his forehead with her hands as he grunted deeply, before cupping his face once again, staring intently into his eyes which were running around wildly, as he chocked and coughed violently. «Calm down, it's me. It's me. Breathe.»

His eyes finally stopped, focusing on hers, as she held his face cradled in her hands. «It's me, Sherlock, it's me, breathe.» she spoke, her eyes searching his face worriedly, as confusion settled in his.

She saw them scanning her face and suddenly widening under his furrowed eyebrows for some unknown to her reason. The woman hadn't even realized that her soft thumbs, tracing patters on his flesh.

When she did, she straightened up, letting go off his face, her head snapping around while her eyes searched from something. Once she found it, she snatched the pillow off the nearby couch and placed it under Sherlock's head, carefully.

Slowly his pants calmed and his chest, although still rising up and down uncontrollably, leisurely slowed.

«Lie still.» she ordered, sternly so that he was obliged to comply and jumped on her feet then striding into the kitchen, her shoes soundlessly pitter-pattering against the pavement.

Emma quickly walked into the kitchen, flying open the first cupboard she could, looking for an empty glass. «Dammit.» she muttered once she saw none and had to move on the next compartment.

Once in her hands, Emma filled it up with water from the nearby sink and rushed back to the bedroom, with the glass in her hand.

«Drink this.» she spoke, handing the glass to the detective, who had managed to sit in an upright position, leaning heavily against a nearby armchair. Sherlock glanced up at her, his breath still heavy. The woman rolled her eyes. «You can tell me how you don't need my help later on, now drink.»

Reluctantly, Sherlock grabbed the glass and chucked down the water in it, emptying the container in a millisecond. Inhaling softly, he noticed Emma's absence as he scanned the room.

«The acrobat?» he attempted to call out, loudly, but failed as his voice cracked, causing him to fall into a fit of coughs.

Emma returned the moment later, her tall, slim figure plopping back down before him, an ice pack in her hands.

«He's left before I could stop him.» Emma spoke, while his brows shot down in confusion at her sudden closeness. His eyes widened when she gently pressed the cold material against the skin of his neck, her fingers grazing over his bruised flesh. «John's outside.» Emma continued, silently, her eyes focused on her work, trying to avoid his cold, questioning gaze as much as she could. Truth be told, she had prayed inwardly that he wouldn't flinch away from her and held her breath in hope that he would let her tend to him. And, well, she refused to give that a reason. «We have to find Soo-Lin Yao. I checked the fridge: the milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. She's been gone for approximately three days, four days tops and left in a rush.» she instead said, watching her work carefully.

All the while she could feel his studying eyes flickering over her face, and she would've lied if she said that she didn't feel affected by their sudden closeness.

God, what was wrong with her today? Her mind went into a frenzy when she saw his jaw clench and unclench from the corner of eye, and to her great despair found her fingertips craving to trace over it, feel the pressure of the bone under her flesh.

She hated herself for the sudden attraction that the detective was bringing out in her, and she hated herself even further for slowly giving into it.

He would never see you as something more than a pain, she tried to convince herself and was even more infuriated when disappointment and sadness perked inside her heart.

So she sucked in a breath, and leaned back, while his eyes remained focused on her, still. «I think that should do it.» she cleared her throat, while burring her feelings in the depths of her mind. «Can you stand?» she then asked. 

And that was when she finally glanced into his eyes and was almost scared to find out that he was glaring wholes into her scull. Was he angry at her? But what for?

«Of course I can stand.» he growled, his voice, though croaky, still loud enough for her to flinch, as he leaned onto his hands, then pushing himself in an upright position, not before grabbing his scarf off the floor.

But she didn't flinch, for she was no ordinary woman. Instead her brows sunk into angry frowns as she too stood up, her posture now defensive. «Hey! Don't give me the attitude, Holmes.» she snapped back, threateningly.

«Then stop being obnoxious!» he shot back, coldly, over his shoulder, before he started making his way out of the flat, his head ever so slightly fuzzy, his vision ever so slightly blurred.

«I was trying to help.» Emma barked out, following him into the small hallway before the front door.

«Well, I don't need your help!» he hissed, angrily, spinning to point his flaming cold gaze into her eyes.

Emma's face fell for a second, which was so brief that not even Sherlock Holmes himself spotted it. The moment later, though, her eyes filled with fury, and she fired an angry «Fine!» at him.

A sarcastic smile spread across his features. «Fine.» then he flew the front door open and was met with a rather confused John.

«What the—» the doctor began mumbling, when Emma suddenly shot out of the flat and into the light, her demeanor fuming.

«The milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago.» she growled, coldly, emotionlessly.

«Somebody?» John carefully asked, his eyes flickering over the woman in confusion and slight fear, before moving to a clenched jaw Sherlock behind her.

Now, John Watson was no detective, but even he could spot the signs of a fight between the two.

«Soo Lin Yao. You have to find her.» Emma spoke, hands in her pockets, as she made her way forward, walking past a confused John.

«Wait, us— what about you??» he questioned, eyes wide, as he whirled around to follow her with his eyes.

«You'll manage.» she barked out, not glancing back once as she made her way down the sidewalk, her coat bellowing behind her.

John frowned, spinning around on his heals. «What did you do?» he demanded of Sherlock, accusingly, noticing how the man was glaring at Emma's back.

«Nothing.» his cold reply came, eyes never leaving Emma's retreating figure.

Something about his voice told John otherwise. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. «Sherlock, Emma is the most patient woman I know.»

Sherlock scoffed at his friend.

«No, she is, Sherlock, she is.» the doctor spoke, pointing a finger at his friend. He then stepped back, looking at the woman in question who had by now disappeared down the sidewalk. Slowly, he shook his head. «She is also the most stubborn one. And there is hardly anything that could ever offend her...» John spoke, eyes still elsewhere, hands on his hips.

He sighed, shaking his head, before turning back towards the emotionless detective. «She was only trying to help.» the doctor spoke silently.

«I don't need her help!» Sherlock snapped back, suppressing a cough that threatened to spill over his Cupid-bow lips, his fiery gaze on John.

«Then why did you call her!» John shot back, now loosing his cool as well. «You're the one who always texts her, Sherlock, you're the one who dragged her here in the first place!»

Sherlock's suddenly dark and emotionless eyes, filled with cynical amusement flickered up and punched directly into the doctor's ones. «Oh, but that is because of my undying feeling towards her!» he exclaimed, voice icy as the winter wind around them and the smile that curved his lips, deadlier than the empty eyes of a corpse. «That's what you want to hear, isn't it?»

John's eyes tightened into angrily narrowed eyes, under his furrowed brows, the sarcasm in the detective's voice making the blood in his veins boil «Sherlock—»

«I'm sorry to disappoint you, John, but I am not a soap opera.» Sherlock glared at him, hissing the words through a clenched jaw. «If you seek entertainment, I suggest you find yourself another partner.»

The doctor waited for a moment, incredulously staring at the man before him.

And the detective stood there, ever so cold, ever so careless, ever so unperturbed.

It was not the first time in the past couple of months that they had known each other that John had doubted of his humanity. Something Emma, being the hopeless dreamer she was, had never done.

Therefore John sighed, in resignation, realizing that there was no point in arguing with him over these petty matters, when there was a homocide going on.

So, looking down and pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head. «Fine, fine, let's just...» he muttered «...let's just give her time to cool down...» he spoke, shaking his head ever so slightly. «...that girl, Soo Lin Yao?» John finally brought up, causing Sherlock to finally glance up at him. «How exactly do we find her?»

Looking down at where he had been staring earlier, Sherlock bent down, picking up a folded envelope, quickly scanning through the words written above it in ink, before unfolding it and looks at the front of it, where he found painted in the bottom right hand corner "National Antiquities Museum".

«Maybe we could start with this.» he spoke, but his throat suddenly betrayed him, and his voice cracked, making him sound croaky.

Trying to act nonchalant, he walked out of the flat, shutting the door behind him, before heading off down the road, with a frowning John on his heels. «You've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?» the doctor worriedly wondered.

Just then a cough shook Sherlock's chest, but the detective shrugged it off effortlessly, managing out a brief and cutting «I'm fine.»
~~~
As a cabbie, Arthur humbly thought that he had seen it all: from angry businessmen and Hollywood celebrities to adults dressed as Chewbeka and tourists with funny accents, all sitting in the back of his car, separated from his own little world by a thin glass.

After all, he had been riding that same cab for over fifteen years, something he prided himself for.

And yet, when he saw a black-haired woman on a nearby sidewalk with her hand up in the air and drove over, he surprised himself when a shiver of fear ran through him at the sight of her: the woman was fuming.

Now, Arthur had been happily married for over twenty years, and Layla, his beautiful wife, still terrified him whenever she got angry. An angry woman, his grandfather used to say, is worse than a grenade: there is absolutely no salvation from her fury.

But something about this particular young lady radiated an almost murderous vibe, one that her body didn't give off, but that seeped deep inside her eyes.

So, after she muttered the address, he watched her slump into the seat of his cab from his rear-view mirror, arms crossed on her chest like a five year old child.

And Arthur obeyed, unconsciously sliding as far away as possible, forcing his gaze and mind to stay focused on the road. 

His orbs did sometimes rebel and glance at her, as if making sure that she was still there, without a knife in her hands. But after finding her always in the same position, curled up against the window, lips leaning on her closed lips and eyes burning wholes in the glass of his windows, he would breath out a silent sigh of relief and return to driving.

And when finally the time came to face his fears, Arthur tentatively glanced back at her over her shoulder and mumbled a «That'll be thirteen pounds, Miss.»

And as the woman payed, grumbling a thank you on her way out, Arthur's lungs deflated and he slumped back into his seat in utter repose. «Oh, dear.» he muttered under his nose, then shaking his head incredulously, his eye blown wide and staring into the full emptiness «Poor lad.»

Then he gathered his concentration, turned on the motor and sped off, into the wild London.

Our heroine, meanwhile, stomped her way to the door, which she unlocked and then flew open with a sharp movement of her wrist. The door collided with a loud thud which brought a surprised yelp to emerge from the depths of the building.

«Sherlock? Dear, is that you?» Mrs Hudson's voice resounded from the kitchen.

At the mention of the forsaken name Emma could hold it together no more: her eyes widened, her eyebrows scrunched down in fury and her fists clenched shut, as she left out a loud and childish «UGH!» before galumphing her way down the stairs, to her flat.

«Oh!» surprised by the loud sounds, Mrs Hudson exclaimed, emerging from the kitchen with a towel in her hands, who's rough material she was using to dry the soft skin of her hands. And looking down the stairs, where Emma's retreating back had disappeared just moments ago, she called back a «Hi, Emma, darling!»

The young woman in question unbolted the door to her dark confinements, for once not even bothering to stop and contemplate her lonely quarters. No, this time, she marched inside, grumbling mockingly under her breath «"Oh, I'm Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, only one in the world, I invented the job, meh meh meh meh meh!"»

She shrugged off her coat and tossed it aside mindlessly, then flying across her flat and to her bedroom.

Surprisingly enough, this time, she had no fear whatsoever to overstep the threshold of her torture chamber: instead she stomped right inside, flying open the drawer which had so cruelly harassed her back that morning when she had slammed into it and scanning through the items which it contained, all the while muttering angrily under her nose. «"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon!"» she exclaimed, as a rather loud thud resounded when the drawer collided with the back of its case, because of how angrily her palm slammed it shut.

But Emma barely cared, for she spun around and, clutching the items in her hand, which had been suffocated by the inhuman pressure her nails had subjected them to, she stomped into her bathroom, then slamming its door shut.

Her fuming silhouette appeared in the mirror over the sink, painting out an image of her cast-down eyes and rebellious black hair, which managed to fall from behind her ears and now hung, fearless of all heights.

«"You interested me". Oh, I'm flattered!» she muttered cynically to herself, the words from the night of their first case flooding her mind and causing her to mentally abuse herself for the weakness she had shown, as she scooped her turtleneck and pulled it off, over her head, leaving her chest bare, covered by a black, lacy bra. Then she attacked the buttons of her jeans and started working them off, her gaze focused elsewhere. «"Oh, you should be." UGH!» with a quick movement she dropped her jeans and stepped out of them, tossing them aside with her foot, where her turtleneck was lying, unmoving.

Spinning around, she turned on the water of the shower with a quick, harsh movement, causing the gelid water to collapse from its container, onto the cold pavement of the cabin.

«"You know why? Because I'm Sherlock freaking Holmes."» she mumbled under her breath as her hands dug into the mane of the black waterfall that cascaded over her shoulders, her eyes staring into thin air, focused onto something invisible.

«"Now.» she messed the back of her hair with her hand. A quirky expression made its way on her features, halting her movements to a stop. «Miss Swan...» she rolled her eyes, proceeding to shake her head as she reassumed her movements.

Slowly, leisurely, her voice faded out and her movements slowed, the world around her blurring as her mind drowned into the ocean of her memories. His rich, deep voice played in her ears as she muttered «Let's play... deduction...»

Her breath seemed to freeze inside her lungs, as her brows sunk, memories invading her mind space, killing every chance she had to survive the violent wave of tsunami they created. «Why do you never sleep...?» the detective's voice played in her thoughts, saying the exact words her lips were mirroring. Her eyes looked up and encountered two familiar gelid ones, staring at her from the mirror on the wall.

So she leaned onto the sides of her sink, to take a closer look at the creature before her. And when her lips parted once again, what left them was a ghost of a shaky, unsteady breath, followed by a sole whisper she left free into the small, dark bathroom.

«Are you scared?"...» she asked the young woman in her mirror, who's raven, black hair seemed more faded, who's lips looked chapped and who's eyes were wearing the ever so permanent blue bags, which hung around them like a scarf.

Finally, she stared into her own eyes, which looked nothing like those of the girl she once used to be: they were glassy, they were tired and, to her grand horror, empty. As empty as the heart of a heartbroken man, or the lungs of a cadaver.

Her jaw clenched, shut, and her lips pressed tightly against one another, her eyebrows remaining as furrowed as ever. Her lungs deflated into a defeated breath, and her head fell, hanging loose, her black hair spilling by her sides as she gripped tighter onto the sink for support and, maybe, relief.

And then, just like that, she noisily absorbed the air around her and straightened up, letting go off the sink, her life boat.

She stepped back and into the shower, where she let her eyes roll shut as the cold water mercilessly whipped her skin.

An hour later she emerged from her bedroom with a towel, which she was working through her black mane of hair, drying it. An oversized flannel, baggy pants and a sleeveless, U-neck black shirt replaced her usually smart and elegant attire and her long hair fell messily around her shoulders, not straight and collected as it usually was.

For once, according to the standard of the every-day society, Emma Swan looked almost human.

She snatched the remote off her coffee table then ever so ungracefully plopped down onto the armchair of her living room, turning on the Tv while tossing the now wet towel on the floor.

She settled in her seat, letting her feet dangle over the arm of her chair, and focused on the moving images on the screen, letting out a happy, peaceful sigh.

But second crawled after second, minute followed another minute, and slowly her shoulders began to slump. And to her utter horror, she realized that the familiar, unbearable feeling was slowly creeping its way to her, slowly wrapping its claws around her neck and slowly, leisurely starting to choke her.

Unconsciously she gripped tighter onto her seat, her nails crawling at the skin of her armchair, her jaw clenching.

But that was when the phone in her coat, which was lying on the kitchen's counter where she had tossed it when she came in, vibrated.

And Emma Swan had never been more glad to leap out of her chair and race towards her target in her entire life.

Once there, she gripped onto it and tore the phone out of her pocket, clutching the coat in her hand as she focused on it.

There, on her screen, sat a new message.

Heya, missy, it's Raz. I found something I think you'll like. Meet you at the National Antiquities Museum?

Emma couldn't care less how the artist got her number, all she want to do was both jumped from excitement and fall on her knees to thank the Lord whom she hadn't believed in in a long time.

She held the phone in her hand and with her sole thumb typed:

Fifteen minutes. Don't be late, Picasso.
- E.S

Then she stuffed her arms in her coat and strode towards the door, failing not to notice the smile which the mirror on her wall reflected.
~~~
After the cab halted to a stop and the cabbie grumbled out the cost for her ride, Emma pushed the door open and jumped out of the vehicle, inhaling the sharp, nightly air that had by now descended on London.

And as the cab pulled away from the driveway and Emma wrapped her coat tighter around herself, reading herself for the walk ahead of her that would've led her to the museum before her, a voice echoed in the dark air causing her to whip her head around «Oi! Missy!»

Emma's eyes instantly found those of her caller and her sharp, black brow rose when she saw the artist jogging towards her. «Raz.» she greeted, barely containing a smirk.

Once the man had reached her, he halted to a stop and bent over in an attempt to catch his breath, causing a smug smile to make its way on Emma's face. «And who's the missy here?»

The man rolled over to face her, his glaring eyes on her causing her to let out the softest of laughs as she moved her gaze to her surroundings.

«I've found something.» the man finally spoke after he'd regained his breath «Have you seen Sherlock?»

Emma shook her head, masking her grimace at the mention of the detective by moving a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear, after it had been moved by the nightly breeze. «I haven't seen him in a couple of hours.»

Raz pursed his lips, looking towards the museum, following Emma's gaze. But as they both absently scanned the grand staircase, Emma's icy blue eyes widened at the all too familiar mop of bouncing curls.

And she couldn't help but raise a brow, surprised, as she spoke «There he is.»

She looked over at the man by her side, who had been squinting, digging out the image of the famous detective in the night.

Suddenly a mischievous grin made her way on her face «Ready to run, missy?» she spoke, giving him a friendly slap on the chest, before breaking into a jog, her black converse slamming soundlessly against the pavement of the piazza.

And as the detective and John glanced upwards at the sound of triumphant laughing, both were quite surprised to see Emma, the ever elegant and always collected, giggling like a teenager as she outran the artist, reaching the feet of the stairs before him.

What surprised John even more was the difference in her outfit and hair, which weren't as collected as they usually were. No, Emma looked more like a nineteen year old teen, unperturbed by the worries of life and, well, happy to be alive.

One thing we know fully well to be hardly true.

And, upon looking up at Sherlock beside him, he could see that her appearance had caught him off guard as well, for his eyes were scanning her up and down, with a frown sitting on his features.

«Woman, you're insufferable.» the painter grumbled through heavy breaths, as he leaned onto his knees, heart rate racing.

Emma grinned, her happy eyes moving to encounter Sherlock's stoic ones. And that was when her happiness fell, her smile dissolving into her always unattached eyes, her lips into a gelid line. Sometimes she reminded John much of Mycroft Holmes himself, the always unimpressed statue.

«Miss Swan.» the consulting detective acknowledged, uninterestedly, hands hanging by his sides.

«Holmes.» it terrified John how detached and far away her voice had sounded, and just how alike the two seemed. But then she looked at his way and a soft, barely visible smile appeared on the corner of her lips, reminding the doctor how different she actually was. «John.» her tone was the same, but the emotions that swam in her eyes told him that she was, indeed, glad to see him.

So John smiled, then moving his confused gaze to Sherlock beside him, who's deathly glare still hadn't move from the woman before him.

He was staring her down and John knew that she was quite aware of it, but when she slowly glance up at him from beneath her eyelashes she hardly seemed bothered by it.

Meanwhile, John's eyes fully took in the figure beside her, his brows scrunching down in an angry frown «Oh, look who it is.» he muttered, distastefully.

Sherlock and Emma, though, seemed unperturbed by his input, for their eyes remained glued together, each one of them staring down the other, their hands in their pockets.

«I found something you'll like.» Raz finally told Sherlock, who's eyes didn't even flinch at his words: instead, his narrowed orbs flared into the woman's with burning hatred.  

Taking that as a good sign, Raz took off, trotting.

And, once he did, Emma gave the detective a smirk, lightly tilting her head to the side, before whirling around and heading off, behind the artist.

When the happened, to John's surprise Sherlock's eyes narrowed even further, a fire burning deep inside them. Then the detective stormed off, following the two retreating figures into the night, and so did the army doctor, he though in a slower pace.

Once the trio had caught up with Raz, they all walked in complete silence, except for that one time on Hungerford Bridge and heading towards the south side of the river when John, nonchalantly yet strongly spoke «Tuesday morning, all you've gotta do is turn up and say the bag was yours.»

Sherlock, who's hands under his black gloves were clenched into tight fists, rolled his eyes «Forget about your court date.»

Causing Emma to bite back a smile at John, the poor army doctor, not at the joker himself.

They travelled through the night, invisible to whoever passed by them, hid by the wings of darkness.

They followed Raz as he led them to South Bank's Skate Park and then across the under-croft. Emma could see teenagers jumping cleverly on their pushbikes and tried to think of a moment in life where she had been as tranquil and happy as they were. Sadly, only a few memories came to her mind, and the most recent ones concerned the detective she was now mad at and who was plainly ignoring her as well.

«If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?» Sherlock spoke aloud, an appreciative smirk grazing his lips as he lead the mob behind the artist. «People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message.»

And as they reached a wall Raz pointed to a particular area on the heavily-graffitied walls, there where, amongst all the other paint, sat slashes of yellow one, forming identical Chinese symbols.

«There.» Raz spoke, turning to the group after motioning towards it with his hand «I spotted it earlier.»

Sherlock's flickered across the writing, a permanent frown sitting between his brows. «They have been in here.»

«And that's the exact same paint?» Emma questioned the artist beside her.

The young man nodded «Yeah.»

And when Sherlock seemed too preoccupied with observing the paint, Emma turned to Raz who stood right beside her and silently asked «Do tell me, Picasso.» the artist cracked a smile at the nickname «How'd you get my phone number?»

A permanent smile imprinted itself on his features «Well.» he shifted from foot to foot «You know what they say. When a guy really wants something he'll get it. Especially when it concerns such a pretty girl.» he winked her way, causing her eyes to roll, in complete disbelief.

«Flattering.» she spoke, but Raz did notice a smile tugging on the corners of her lips. «But not a valid answer.»

So Raz rolled his eyes too and spoke through an ever permanent smile «It was Sherlock. He texted me your number.»

Emma cocked a brow at the man, eyes mirroring acknowledgment. «Of course it was.» she muttered to herself.

And if Raz were anyone but an painter, he wouldn't have noticed the surprise that laced her words. But that is the curse of artists, musicians and writers: as much as they seem up in the clouds, they notice the details which many people miss.

So Raz smiled softly at the woman beside him, who's mind seemed to have long departed into a voyage of throughly and ever so softly patted her arm, causing Emma's head to shoot up in alert.

He didn't flinch away and instead smiled wider that soft grin of his, which caused Emma's insides to flex involuntarily.

It was not love, or butterflies, as we call them. No, it was fear.

For she had realized that the artist before her saw right through her.

«If we're going to decipher this code, we're gonna need to look for more evidence.» Sherlock finally spoke up, looking around, eyes wandering in the farthest corners of his surroundings as he whirled around.

And when he did, he was met by the sight of the insufferable, wide-eyed woman who was staring right in the eyes of the artist, who's hand was still holding her upper arm.

The artist's touch disappeared as soon as he noticed the detective's piercing gaze on him and he stepped back, leaving a still bewildered Emma behind.

As the woman's eyes slowly turned forward to the detective, she didn't notice his cold eyes lingering on the spot where the artist had touched her.

«Yeah.» she breathed out «I think that's a good idea.» she spoke, nodding. Then she looked at the artist, who's gaze was still on her and swallowed. «We should go.» she told her two boys, her eyes though not moving away from the painter.

Raz grinned «Right.»

And that was when a soft smile made her way across her lips «Thank you again, Picasso.»

A chuckle shook the chest of the young man in question and he smiled back as he whirled around and waved, shooting back a «No problem, Missy.» before sending a look to Sherlock and John, who regarded him with similar expressions, although for two completely different reasons, and ran off into the night.

Emma's eyes lingered on his retreating figure, like a mother's blessing to a departing child. Then she turned towards Sherlock and John, only to find one of them staring right at her, with his ever unforgiving, signature glare.

Emma raised an eyebrow their way. «On we go?»

And so they did, in three different directions.

Emma wondered into the darkness, her ears picking up the ever strange sound of leafs crunching under her shoes: usually her walking was soundless, a habit she was forced into quite abruptly in her younger years.

She pulled her hand out of her pocket, the harsh nightly air washing over it like a bucket of ice. Literally.

Her fingers traced the bricks of the wall, as she walked on, her eyes, albeit they were supposed to be focused, unseeing.

Thoughts were running rampant through her mind, flooding every corner of her conscience. They burned and scarred the inside of her scull, leaving permanent marks on her boundaries.

One of the memories that were currently playing on repeat like a jammed record was the one of the note, followed by a tsunami of reminders of thoughts about its writer.

The thoughts were so many, they were so painful and seething that her steps halted to a stop and she squeezed her eyes shut, stumbling backwards ever so slightly but catching herself just in time by gripping tighter onto the wall for support.

That was a grave mistake of hers, though.

For she was weak, her body exhausted because of the evident lack of sleep. And one of the side effects of her ever nagging sleeping disorder were, in fact, the hallucinations.

So, when she felt her hand —the one which was pressed against the wall— being grabbed into an all too familiar gelid hold, she couldn't help but flinch ever so slightly.

Despite ever sense and nerve in her body were telling her to back off, to get as far away as possible from the wall, she forced her feet to remain still, rooting them into the ground.

And she squeezing her eyes shut, her lips pressing into a frown as the ever familiar chant echoed in the depths of her mind: this isn't real, this isn't real.

And there she stood, for what seemed like forever but was actually a minute, which crawled by slowly, as if mocking her with the power it held over her.

Taking in slow, yet greedy breaths and trying to regain conscience of her surroundings, Emma relaxed, and the imaginary hold on her hand and mind soon slipped away, its fingers though leaving soft brushed against her sensitive flesh.

The hallucinations, she realized, were getting worse.

She had to sleep.

Pushing that thought as far as possible from her mind, Emma sighed, opening her eyes and facing the darkness in front of her.

Once her heart had calmed, slowing down its beating, she straightened up, pushing the strands of her hair aside and gulping down the knot that had formed in her throat.

She then pushed herself off the wall rather violently, before stuffing her hand back in her pocket and striding off, away from the object that had triggered such a reaction from her.

And, as she walked, as much as her blue eyes were unfocused she did catch sight of something that instantly lifted her spirits: the railway track.

She had always loved them, even as a child: they evoked in her a sense of adventure, excitement yet fear and danger of the unknown or of being run over by a train.

Although the fear of death had slowly dissolved during the years.

All of those sentiments were still present as the all-grown-up Emma Swan jumped onto one of the sides of the railway, and began making her way forward, trying to keep balance, her hands stuffed into her pockets.

She walked on, her eyes trailing the contour of her shoes in the pitch black, her mind, for once, blank.

The burning feeling in her palms hadn't  stopped, the injuries that her nails had left there having stayed, a clear reminder of the ever charming meeting with Mycroft Holmes.

Why some of the members of that family were set on making her life a living hell was unknown to her. What bothered her most, actually, was the fact that her existence seemed to always revolve around them, first Mycroft and, now, Sherlock.

The thought of the latter Holmes still caused a fervent anger to boil up inside of her, and she took her hands out of her pockets, scratching the palms in an attempt to ease the physical and mental pain that her own nails had inflicted on the soft flesh of her hands.

«I take it the chat with my brother wasn't that pleasant.» the deep baritone of the Devil in question resounded somewhere behind her.

She spun around, much quicker than she would've wanted to, yet her balance remained unharmed and she looked up at the detective, who stood a few feet behind her, hands in the pockets of his coat.

His eyes were narrowed at her and, while his voice clearly implied sarcasm, nothing but indifference and yet, oddly enough, hidden curiosity mirrored his eyes.

Emma quirked an eyebrow at him, managing to maintain her balance as she turned around to fully face the man of the hour, stuffing her hands in her pockets, rather hastily.

«Yes, well... Your brother has that trait about his personality that makes of him an irresistible company.» she commented, almost disdainfully.

It was his time to raise a brow «That being?»

Emma grimaced, eyes flickering downwards «Assholness.»

Suddenly a slight, yet deep nonetheless chuckle rumbled in the back of the detective's throat, causing her head to shoot up in surprise, eyes widening.

Her shock was genuine, both, because of the foreign to her sound and because of the effect it had on her.

The sound was rare, rich and so deep that it caused something to click in Emma's heart: appreciation, perhaps?

Sherlock looked back at her, is eyes having moved sideways when he laughed, before crashing back into hers, their intensity pinning her to the ground. «Indeed.» he proclaimed, through that faint smile that kissed his lips, still.

She could see how the wind gently moved his brown curls across his forehead and how, despite it being dark, the sharp bones of his jaw remained clenched tightly.

Brusquely, Emma spun around, in an attempt to escape those eyes that seemed to affect her more and more with each passing second and because she realized with a start that she was, indeed, staring. 

God, when had she become so emotionally driven? Or was it just mere physical attraction? That she could deal with, but sentiments, sentiments seemed such a remote concept to her now, after everything she'd been through.

No, she had no feelings towards Sherlock Holmes.

Not now, not ever.

So, instead, she started walking once again, balancing on the side railways track, eyes focused on her feet, trying hard to ignore the burning gaze of the detective that was so mercilessly scarring her back.

She felt like a child again as her feet tried to find the perfect equilibrium on the narrowed track: it was painful for her to think just how long ago those memories belonged to.

«And I suppose that's how all your childhood has been like?» she called, not turning around, as she felt rather than heard him following her. They kept on walking forward, in silence, and she couldn't help but crack a smile as the image of a young Sherlock Holmes entered her mind: she could almost see him, in his knitted sweater, with the ever messy mop of brown curls on his head, running around and solving petty crimes. «"Sentiments are a chemical disadvantage." "Stop that, or I'll tell mummy." "Don't be smart, I am the smart one"?» she mocked, moving her head from side to side as she made the impressions of her Mycroft dearest. 

She always thought it to be quite a feat for people to imagine a time when Mycroft Holmes was merely a kid: he always seemed so well collected, so brute and cold, that it seemed almost comical to think of him as a chubby-cheeked baby, throwing angry fits when he didn't have enough sweets.

A faint smirk resounded from somewhere behind her and she had to use all of her strength not to turn around and take a peak at that little miracle. «Quite.» Sherlock stated.

Her head kept low, Emma's eyes scrutinised her shoes, not really seeing them in the process. They carried her on, down the track, into the darkness of the night, and she did little to nothing to stop them. Meanwhile question was brewing in her mind, her insides burning with that venomous curiosity that would've eaten her alive if she'd dined it its departure. «Did you believe him?» she therefore asked, referring to her latter impersonation and trying to sound as collected and nonchalant as possible, but perhaps succeeding too well.

She could almost feel his eyes rising to burn into her back, curiously flickering all over it while trying to find a crack somewhere, a way to see through her hardened shell. But Emma Swan was not one to let her emotions show, instead letting the world believe into something way more terrifying, yet at the same time pitiful and saddening: that she had none.

It was hard to think that, in reality, she had them all stuffed inside her chest, overwhelming her with their heaviness.

«Hardly.» his baritone drawled, courtly, giving her the answer she had waited with the most greedy of hungers. «There were always just enough people to boost my confidence.»

That caused an ever so soft smile to curve the corner of her lips, a smile that no one saw other than the shadows in which the two of them were enveloped. «Mmh...» she hummed, a trace of amusement lingering in her tone. «That's good... Because, otherwise, you would've been plain daft.» The words escaped her mouth before she could stop them and she wondered if perhaps she had crossed the line.

Emma could almost see him quirking an eyebrow, probably not expecting such a blunt statement from her. «Care ti enlighten me?» he asked and she could almost sense an uncomfortable yet curious edge to his tone, masked by a slightly irritated and angry one.

«Well...» she sighed, in thought, biting her lip. Admittedly, the young woman had not thought about what her answer would've been like. What would she tell him? The truth?

A heavy silence downed on them, but Emma could hardly hear it over the gears that were turning in her mind. Her feet moved on and the harsh, nightly air pinched her insides, burning them with its pleasant, gelid touch.

A frown had permanently taken residence on her delicate features, and she chewed onto her cheek as she thought over her next words. «I admit...» she then finally stared «Mycroft is smart...» That caused a snort to erupt from behind her, a snort which was silenced by her next words. «Much smarter that me...» she continued, as her feet slowly carried her on, forward.

Her mind raced back to the cold man she knew all too well: his stoic grey eyes, his ever stiff posture, the frown that was imprinted into the skin of his forehead... and yet she had always admired him, a secret which she would've died before revealing.

«His method in facing the world is flawless, considering the position he occupies.» she spoke, calculating her words carefully «He is stoic and reasonable, smart and focused, dedicated fully to his job. And, when it comes to making deductions, he does it all in a correct way: he sees, he observes... But there's just one this, one essential thing he lacks: he has his mind set on... refusing that feelings are important.» And finally she stopped, whirling around.

Yet she didn't look at the detective behind her, who's steps too halted to a stop. Instead, she focused her gaze on the darkness before her, lost somewhere off the railway, on the black wall a couple of feet ahead, running rampant in the pitch black as she allowed the words she knew would've sounded purely outrageous to the older Holmes, leave her mouth.

«And I know what you think: emotions hardly matter, what is essential is the motivation, the motivator, the motive...» she trailed off, her voice melting in the gelid darkness around her. Sighing, she finally looked at him, there where he stood, only to witness the ever unyielding, ever stiff and dominant posture in his stance and eyes. Yet, she knew he was listening to her.

And so she spoke, not to him, not to his brain but to something he tried to hide oh so desperately behind his scarf and trench coat, behind his jacket and shirt, behind the layer of his pale, raw skin: his heart.

«But people are not just made of matter, Holmes. To understand them completely, you have to understand their nature, their thoughts, their emotions. And...» she paused, knowing full well what ship she was about to embark with her next words. She knew she was about to throw herself into a boxing match, where here would've been only one winner. And heck, she was willing to take that risk. «...to do so, you must experience those emotions first hand.»

And, just as predicted by the young woman, as soon as the words left the confinements of her mind, everything crumbled: his face, the one that not long ago, had a delicate smile playing on his heart-shaped lips, turned into a cynical smirk, his eyes turned cold and mocking, any kind of softness brushed aside by hearted. And so the ever rational man before her scoffed, looking away from her.

«Emotions?» he spat, and the coldness in his tone almost caused her to finch. But she refused to let him see that he affected her. No, she wouldn't let him have that satisfaction. So she stood her ground when he approached her, his eyes narrowed down at her with hostility swimming in them. «Really, Swan?» he spat, eyes flickering over her in what Emma could only read as disappointment.

She had disappointed him.

Why did that thought hurt her so?

«Emotions turn you into a sentimental child.» he spat, mercilessly «Do tell me, what good will it be if I start crying at the side of every victim we—»

«That's not what emotions are, Holmes!» Emma interrupted, exasperatedly, slowly starting to loose her cool, as she looked into those blue eyes of his. «And it wouldn't hurt you to show them sometimes! Because I know you have them, you've got everything bottled up in your chest and one day you'll just snap—» and then she stopped herself before saying that word, that one word that she knew she had no right to say.

But as Sherlock's eyes narrowed, she realized that he understood what she had so desperately tried to stop herself from saying.

That word, that one word: and one day you'll just snap again.

She wanted to apologize, even though her pride held her back from doing so. But knew that bringing up his overdose was hardly an adult way to handle the situation.

Before she had the chance to do so little as breath, his voice cut her of, pitilessly.

«Oh?» And suddenly Emma's eyes widened, for something shifted in those bright orbs of his, something dark and cold, gelid. And she gulped, something akin to fear yet excitement sparking in her stomach. You're sick, her mind kept telling her, but Emma just stared on, at the man in front of her as the events of that evening took an all too surprising turn.

«You want emotions?» He seethed, taking a step towards her and causing her to step back, gasping faintly as she barely managed to stay upright on the thin line of the railway on which they were still balancing. «How about disgust?» he spoke, advancing further, forcing her to back up. Something inside of her crushed with that word, but she refused to let it get to her. But, oh, he carried on.

«Loathing?»

Her foot almost slipped and she glanced down at it, before snapping her gaze back to the detective, finding such intensity in his eyes that it sent a shiver dancing down her spine, taking all of her strength not to send her cowering in a corner. His eyes flickered over her face, each and every corner, before he spat, with more intensity than ever «Hate?»

Her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of those eyes staring down at her with such powerful emotions swirling in them.

That's what you wanted, wasn't it? her mind mocked her.

And suddenly Emma realized that yes, it freaking was. 

There he was, in front of her, showing emotions, showing her his real self.

And, for the sake of the man that hid behind his silver armor, Emma refused to back down, even when she was still being forced backwards. Her eyes burned with the same intense fire, as she narrowed them, glaring up at him fiercely. «How about happiness!» She shouted back, hands curling into fists by her sides. «Relief, fear?» he kept advancing, staring her down. «Attraction?» she taunted and suddenly her foot slipped. She felt herself falling backwards, but caught herself just in time, her hand gripping tightly onto what she only later realized was the detective's trench coat. When that realization dawned on her, she gulped. But she refused to let that bother her. «Love?» She barked, convincingly, her voice strong and unfaltering.

She had to stay strong, this game their were fighting had too much at stake.

The detective barely seemed to take notice of her intruding hand, too concentrated on staring her down and glaring holes into her skull. He scoffed, every bit of loathing and pity flooding his voice, emotions that made Emma even more angry. Then he looked down at her and their eyes met «You're a child, Miss Swan.» he then stated, so cruelly, so cynically that Emma's control could not help but snapping.

Her brows scrunched down in anger, her hand still clutching the detective's clothes with such intensity that it was a wonder how he hadn't noticed it. «And you're a hypocritical bastard!» she shot back.

A gelid smirk curved his Cupid shaped lips, one that shook her to her very core, her appearance though remaining just as firm as his. «I try.» he stared, sarcastically.

«Ugh!» she frustratedly exclaimed, finally straightening up but not stepping away from his form. She passed a hand through her hair in utter anger, her fingers gripping at the roots. «You make me so damn angry!»

«And what good does that do to you?» he shot back, eyes narrowed.

«You know why?» She ignored his comment, now she taking a step closer, throwing all of her self-control out of the window. By the flicker of his eyes, which slipped downwards, she realized he had taken her gesture into account, but he too refuses to back down, being just as stubborn as her. «Because you've got one too!» she finally shouted, loosing every bit of her cool. «Holmes, you've got a beating heart, pumping blood into your system, I felt your pulse when I was trying to save your life, dammit!»

And suddenly something snapped.

The tables turned and he was in control: he towered, taking one final step towards her that brought their chests to almost touch, his stance defensive, cold and yet composed.

And suddenly Emma realized that he
was in control.

Her eyes widened with one single realization clear in her mind as the light of day: he had won.

Their chests almost touching and their faces a mere inches away, they stood, they stood in a tense silence which held Emma hostage, caged by his unyielding gaze.

His eyes swept over her features, lingering on her parted lips, which were letting through ragged breaths, as the young woman tried to recompose herself.

An almost animalistic growl that caused his chest to rise and fall under his trench coat, left his lips, and he hovered above her in all of his might, ever cold, ever stoic, ever collected.

«Miss Swan...» he drawled, and Emma's insides couldn't help but jolt at his voice, which was now deeper of at least two octaves. She wondered for a second if he even realized that his eyes were still fixated on her mouth, but then again, she could not bring herself to look away from his sharp features which were now so frighteningly close either.

Suddenly those dark orbs rose and met hers, and her breath hitched in her throat at just how dark they were, how clouded with rage, conviction and something else, which was something she couldn't really put her mind on. «you are...» he growled in that rich voice of his «...a fool, if you think there is something in here if not a mechanism.» he spoke, and his voice invaded the tight space that divided them, it being the biggest obstacle Emma ever had the opportunity to face.

But that was when all her anger fell.

Her eyes stared into Sherlock's cold and emotionless ones with both, wonder and surprise swimming in them and she breathed in through her nose, the faint smell of him invading her nostrils and imprinting itself forever in her memory. She couldn't really make out its continents but the smell reminded her of something, which she later realized was Baker Street, but which evoked only one word on the spot: home.

But her thought were hardly on that, only being focused on one, sole thought: just how far gone was he?

Just how broken?

Was there still any chance for his revival?

Yes, for there was John, she was there as well, but after tonight she didn't think that was going to be of great help...

Nevertheless, that didn't erase all the moments his humanity had seeped through the cracks of his broken heart.

He could feel, Emma knew that.

And yet, as he stared her down, with those merciless blue orbs, eating her alive with his gaze as he dared her to say something, to contradict him, she couldn't help but wonder if maybe he couldn't after all...

Her eyes flickered from one of his eyes to another, searching for something in them, anything that would've looked like a cry for help. But she knew all too well that he was just as guarded as her. Meaning, she wouldn't have found any.

She swallowed a knot in her throat, her eyes flickering down for a fraction of a second, before looking up at him, in his stony eyes. «Sherlock...» she spoke his first name for the second time that day, allowing it to slip her lips only there, in that intimate yet menacingly narrowed space between them, there where her breath was fanning his face and his careful eyes could see every inch of her features. «You're not a machine.» she whispered, with conviction yet tenderness, hoping, praying that her words would sink in.

And suddenly he was leaning in, his eyes focused solemnly on her lips. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her eyes would've widened if they wouldn't have been looking at him through her hooded eyelids. «Mmmh...» Sherlock left out a low hum, eyes drawing the contour of her pink lips, his own being so deliciously close. And suddenly Emma's heart was soaring with hope: maybe she had been wrong. Maybe she had won the round. Maybe she had gotten through him, in the end.

But those thoughts faded as soon as he glanced in her eyes. She realized that his defenses had fell once more, and her heart dropped at the sight of his ever cold eyes. «But I am.» he finally spoke, his tone not angry, not loathing, not even disgusted: just empty. Completely and utterly cold.

Then he simply turned around and left.

Leaving Emma sanding there, watching  behind him as he got swallowed by the night.

###

Hi, dears.
Yes, this is freaking the longest chapter I've ever written. But the Blind Banker is one of my least favorite episodes and that's why I'm trying to insert as much of my original work as possible.

This update took longer than anticipated: I planned on updating every week but, unfortunately, a few quite unexpected turn of events occurred in my life that kind of flipped it over.

Before I get into detail of my sad life just a quick announcement: I HAVE CHANGED A COUPLE OF THINGS IN THE PAST CHAPTERS. It's mainly regarding Sherlock's point of view: I completely deleted it. I just feel like that gives him more of an authentic personality.

Well, that's it.

Do give me some feedback and tell me if I should keep writing this story.

With love,
Sofie.

Vote and Comment ;)