Eleanor burst into the laboratory, eyes wild and out of breath. Sherlock's tall figure stood by the window, looking out at the city below. He didn't turn around but the slight incline of his head acknowledged her presence.
“When did you figure it out?” he asked.
Still breathing hard, she walked closer to him. “In the cab. When we were about halfway to Baker Street.”
Sherlock turned around, amusement creeping up at the corner of his lips. “Did you seriously run all the way back here?”
She nodded.
“I had wondered,” he said, “when you would work it out.”
“Obviously not as soon as I should have. I’ve never been as clever as you.”
“But you are observant. And you’ve already figured out what no one has managed to, not even John.”
Shrugging, she said, “John has been distracted.”
“Quite so.”
There was a short silence. Eleanor became aware of the sound of her breath as she tried to calm down, but her heart couldn't seem to stop racing. She walked closer to Sherlock. “Don’t do it,” she said softly.
His eyes narrowed just the slightest bit. “Don’t do… what?” he said just as softly.
The deep baritone of his voice washed through her like a pleasant cool breeze on a summer day. Eleanor closed her eyes for a second; she took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes, she was once again struck by the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. It was as if he knew her thoughts before she even spoke them.
"Tell me," he said. "What don't you want me to do?"
“I know you’re going to meet with Moriarty. I know that he won’t kill you outright because that’ll just make you a martyr, and that would refute all his prior accusations of you being a fraud. But he wants you dead. So how to kill you without actually putting a gun to your head? Suicide. Suicide implies guilt. Suicide is a red flag to the entire world that everything Richard Brook said about you was true. But you would never commit suicide willingly. So he’s probably threatened the life of someone you care about, and that person is most likely John. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson also. Mycroft is safe because, well, he’s the British government. No one can get to him. But John, John is your only friend, and you’ve already proven time and time again that you would do anything for him. Above all else, you value loyalty. So Moriarty has threatened John’s life, and he’s going to tell you to commit suicide otherwise he’ll kill John, and you are actually thinking about going through with it.”
Another long silence. Sherlock’s gaze was steady on her. His pupils dilated. Eleanor could detect the faintest bit of surprise on his face.
“You’ve figured out more than I thought you would," he said.
“Obviously not enough. What are you planning?”
Sherlock moved close to her until he was standing right in front of her. His front just barely grazed hers. She inhaled his clean scent: soap, the smell of his skin, the slightest hint of tobacco. It made her dizzy to have him so near.
“You are the most unique woman I’ve ever met.” His voice was low, almost tender.
Her eyes jumped to his. “I’m not her. I’ll never be her. I’m just me.”
“I know,” he said, his voice still soft and low, flowing over her skin like a caress. His head dropped down, his mouth hovering just above hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek. “But you're mine.”
She barely had time to breathe in before she felt his lips on the corner of hers, the softest and sweetest graze. He moved back, his lips lifting away. For the first time ever, Sherlock, who had always been confident and certain, was unsure. His uncertainty made her want to kiss him even more. She followed him, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and lifted herself on her toes towards him. Sherlock made a slight sound of amusement and leaned in again. This time their lips touched fully for the first time.
“When did you figure it out?” he asked.
Still breathing hard, she walked closer to him. “In the cab. When we were about halfway to Baker Street.”
Sherlock turned around, amusement creeping up at the corner of his lips. “Did you seriously run all the way back here?”
She nodded.
“I had wondered,” he said, “when you would work it out.”
“Obviously not as soon as I should have. I’ve never been as clever as you.”
“But you are observant. And you’ve already figured out what no one has managed to, not even John.”
Shrugging, she said, “John has been distracted.”
“Quite so.”
There was a short silence. Eleanor became aware of the sound of her breath as she tried to calm down, but her heart couldn't seem to stop racing. She walked closer to Sherlock. “Don’t do it,” she said softly.
His eyes narrowed just the slightest bit. “Don’t do… what?” he said just as softly.
The deep baritone of his voice washed through her like a pleasant cool breeze on a summer day. Eleanor closed her eyes for a second; she took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes, she was once again struck by the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. It was as if he knew her thoughts before she even spoke them.
"Tell me," he said. "What don't you want me to do?"
“I know you’re going to meet with Moriarty. I know that he won’t kill you outright because that’ll just make you a martyr, and that would refute all his prior accusations of you being a fraud. But he wants you dead. So how to kill you without actually putting a gun to your head? Suicide. Suicide implies guilt. Suicide is a red flag to the entire world that everything Richard Brook said about you was true. But you would never commit suicide willingly. So he’s probably threatened the life of someone you care about, and that person is most likely John. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson also. Mycroft is safe because, well, he’s the British government. No one can get to him. But John, John is your only friend, and you’ve already proven time and time again that you would do anything for him. Above all else, you value loyalty. So Moriarty has threatened John’s life, and he’s going to tell you to commit suicide otherwise he’ll kill John, and you are actually thinking about going through with it.”
Another long silence. Sherlock’s gaze was steady on her. His pupils dilated. Eleanor could detect the faintest bit of surprise on his face.
“You’ve figured out more than I thought you would," he said.
“Obviously not enough. What are you planning?”
Sherlock moved close to her until he was standing right in front of her. His front just barely grazed hers. She inhaled his clean scent: soap, the smell of his skin, the slightest hint of tobacco. It made her dizzy to have him so near.
“You are the most unique woman I’ve ever met.” His voice was low, almost tender.
Her eyes jumped to his. “I’m not her. I’ll never be her. I’m just me.”
“I know,” he said, his voice still soft and low, flowing over her skin like a caress. His head dropped down, his mouth hovering just above hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek. “But you're mine.”
She barely had time to breathe in before she felt his lips on the corner of hers, the softest and sweetest graze. He moved back, his lips lifting away. For the first time ever, Sherlock, who had always been confident and certain, was unsure. His uncertainty made her want to kiss him even more. She followed him, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and lifted herself on her toes towards him. Sherlock made a slight sound of amusement and leaned in again. This time their lips touched fully for the first time.
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