"You needed him to do your thinking for you? That doesn't surprise me."
Gray ignores the barb. "He told me all about your little homeless network, how you use the poor sods to do your legwork and spy for you. I guess the great Sherlock Holmes isn't as impressive as she appears."
"What else did he tell you?" Sherlock says.
"About you? Nothing," Gray replies. "He said if I killed you, he would come after me, but I think I'll take my chances."
Sherlock smirks. "You go ahead and do that. At least I know if you do kill me, he'll destroy you. But I really don't think you're up to it."
"I've just killed three people, and you don't think I'm up to doing you?"
Sherlock stops and turns toward him, uncrossing her arms. She looks at him with a flash of danger in her eyes, her face sharp and predatory. "You killed three homeless people who were hungry, probably malnourished and underweight, probably dehydrated, none of whom had any training in self-defense or martial arts. One of them was little more than a boy. But you're not on the streets now. You're in here with me. And unlike your victims, Mr. Gray, I am not weak."
Gray pauses, looking at her with narrowed eyes like he's trying to figure her out. He doesn't look intimidated—must assume she's an easy target, like every other woman he's attacked.
She relaxes, the intensity dissipating from her demeanor. "I'm not in a rush," she says. "Why don't we have a drink?"
Sherlock takes off her coat, hanging it on the wall-mounted coat rack before she steps into the kitchen adjacent to the sitting room. She peers into the refrigerator, looking for beer.
Gray gets up from the sofa and comes around to the kitchen, hovering in the entrance. Sherlock looks over at him and straightens up, shutting the refrigerator. For a long beat, they eye each other like two feral cats crossing paths in an alley, enemies destined to fight. Sherlock can feel the tension in the air, like an electrical charge.
Gray swipes a big knife off the countertop and lunges at her. Sherlock pounces on him, grabbing him around the middle and throttling him to the ground like a linebacker. She seizes his wrist as he tries to stab her, holding his arm up above them, the knife glinting in the light. He tries hard to bring the blade down on her, and she uses most of her strength to resist him, attempting to wrench his arm and force him to drop the weapon. They're on the kitchen floor, Spencer on his back and Sherlock on top of him. He reaches for her with his free hand just as she punches him in the face with hers, and his stabbing arm lets up enough for her to twist it down and away. She kicks and tries to step on his inner elbow, and he drops the knife with a yelp, immediately moving to sit up and push her off.
They struggle in the narrow kitchen, both of them wanting to reach the knife and both of them hitting and shoving the other into the cabinets below the countertops. Sherlock has no idea if she's lost the wire, if it's still recording, or if the police are storming the building, heading straight for her. She doesn't hear anything outside the flat, as she punches Gray in the face and scrambles to her feet on the kitchen linoleum. She picks up the knife where it landed in one of the corners below the window and shuts it in a drawer as Gray stands up, facing her.
Sherlock raises her fists in front of her face and eyes him. "We're going to fight fair," she tells him, her breathing quick. "Think you can do that?"
He glares at her, his skin still pink where she hit his right cheek. "You want me to kill you with my bare hands?" he says. "Beat you to a pulp, choke the life out of you? Have it your way."
Sherlock smirks with one corner of her mouth. Gray has no idea who he's up against.
He charges at her like a bull, the smallness of the kitchen making him look bigger than he is, and throws himself at her as if he means to crush her with his body weight. She ducks and rotates out of his way, and he collides with the wall next to the window. Sherlock jumps onto the countertop and leaps into the sitting room like a cat, waiting for him to come to her.
He follows her into the sitting room looking disgruntled and dangerous, chest rising and falling as he pants.
"Where's the knife, Gray?" Sherlock says. "The one you used to cut your victims?"
"Why?" he says. "You want to skip the fight and get right to dying?"
She attacks him in a burst of rage, catching him off guard as she shoves him backward with both hands, pinning him against the wall behind him. He's surprised at her physical strength—she can see it in his face, just before she punches him. She grips his throat with her other hand, knees him in the groin, punches him in the face again. Everything around her disappears, the edges of her vision soften and grow hazy, and all she sees is the man, his every detail sharpened and ultra-clear. His blood is the brightest color about him, the sight of it piquing her lust for more.
She squeezes his throat, watches his face turn red, but before she can land her next blow, he blocks her punch and grabs her arm, pushing her hard away from him. She staggers back, losing her grip on him, and he pauses only long enough to breathe. He advances on her, starts swinging, and she blocks him, hits him, blocks him again. He slaps her hard across the face, almost knocking her off balance, and it shocks her. She blinks at him, her cheek stinging, and he grins at her, the bastard.
Sherlock hops onto the coffee table with one foot to push off from it and body slams him, wrenching him to the floor where they wrestle around in a flurry of limbs. Trading jabs with elbows and knees, wrapping legs around each other and rolling. Sherlock gets on top of him, straddles his waist, and knocks his head into the floor, before punching him. He flips her off of him and grabs her in a headlock, holding her there while she claws at his arm and writhes until she thinks she's about to pass out. In a flash of reason that cuts through her primitive panic, she decides to play dead, going limp against him. He lets go of her after a while and she lays on the floor with her eyes closed, waiting for him to get up. Hoping he leaves to go fetch the murder weapon.
She listens to Gray get on his feet, breathing hard and labored. He's slow, hopefully due to injuries she inflicted and not just because the fight tired him out. He pauses, and for a tense moment, Sherlock waits for him to move away or to assault her again.
She relaxes when she hears him step toward the kitchen and the bedroom corridor, but only for a moment. She opens her eyes, grabs the jump rope lying under the coffee table, springs to her feet, comes up behind him and hooks the rope around his neck, yanking him backward until she has him right up against her. She pulls the jump rope tight against his throat, and he leans into her forearms, unsteady on his heels as he tries to pry the rope loose. She chokes him for a minute, listening to the hoarse sounds of his aborted gasps, watching his hands flail before him.
She lets him go before he can lose consciousness, and he slumps to the floor, knees crumpling beneath him, upper body landing on the coffee table. She throws the jump rope aside and drags him coughing onto the sofa, sitting him down and straddling his lap. His head lolls and his half-lidded eyes don't focus. She returns the slap he gave her, backhanding him across the face with chilling wrath, her skin stinging from the blow. She balls up her battered hands and starts punching him, already cool with sweat.
Coppers break through the door and come flooding into the flat. Sherlock hears them before she sees them, her back turned to them as she hits Gray over and over. She doesn't stop, slow down, or pause, even once she feels the room fill with men in uniform. She doesn't even look up.
"Sherlock, stop! Stop!"
It's Lestrade's voice, Lestrade's hands pulling her off of Gray. When Sherlock finally sees her, Lestrade has a look on her face: a mix of fear, bewilderment, concern, and surprise. Watson appears beside her, anxious only for a moment, then relieved. Sherlock comes back into her body, into the room, and realizes she's panting for breath. Her heart's racing, adrenaline rushing through her brain and her body. She looks down at her hands, finds her knuckles red and raw. Her fingers throb and tingle, fists now unclenched.
She turns around and looks at Spence
r Gray. He's sprawled on the sofa, dazed and motionless, with a bunch of coppers hovering around him. His face looks worse than Sherlock's hands. Much worse.
Lestrade sidesteps Sherlock and Watson and advances toward Gray, looking down at him from the other side of the coffee table. "Spencer Gray," she says, her voice firm and somber. "You're under arrest for the murders of three unidentified persons, conspiracy to commit murder, and the assault and attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
One of the uniformed officers plucks Gray off the sofa and shoves him facedown onto the coffee table to cuff his hands behind his back.
"Take him to the Yard," Lestrade says.
"Yes, ma'am," says the officer.
Sherlock, Watson, and Lestrade watch as Spencer Gray is herded out of the flat, and the crowd of coppers follow him, leaving the three women alone.
*~*~*
As soon as Sherlock walks into 221B, she collapses on the rug next to the fireplace chairs, sprawling on her back and exhaling. She scrubs her face with both hands and looks at the ceiling, all the tension she's been holding in her body for the last two weeks now gone. She feels like she could sleep for a week, even though she knows she'll be itching for a new case in a few days.
The flat door creaks when Watson pushes it open and comes in. She stands at Sherlock's feet and smiles down at her. Sherlock meets her gaze.
"I told you we'd get him," Watson says.
Sherlock doesn't answer, feeling like jelly on the floor, basking in relief.
"I'll put the kettle on," Watson tells her and turns to enter the kitchen.
Sherlock sits up and watches her fill the electric kettle with water, set it on the boiler, and switch it on. She's been waiting to talk to Watson, and she can't wait anymore.
"Lestrade's in love with me," she says.
Watson stops and looks over at her. When Sherlock doesn't speak again, she comes back into the sitting room. "Really?" she says.
Sherlock nods.
"Our Lestrade?"
"Our Lestrade."
"But—but she's only ever been with men. Right?"
"As far as I know," says Sherlock.
Watson looks away from her. "Wow," she says. She looks back at Sherlock as the next logical question hits. "Are you in love with her?"
Sherlock pauses, her shoulders hunched around her neck and her hands flat on the rug. "She asked me to be her partner, and I said yes because it felt right. Am I in love with her? I don't know. I've never been in love before. I know that I love her and need her, and when she kissed me, I felt—happy."
A slow smile spreads across Watson's face. "She kissed you."
Sherlock pauses, dropping her gaze into her lap. "The truth is, I was confused about my feelings for her long before she made this confession to me. I've loved her for years as my friend, but something new started to creep in months ago. It made the smallest difference, but I couldn't explain what it was. And that frustrated me. I didn't tell you because I didn't know what to say. And perhaps I was afraid of wanting something from her she would never give. All the evidence left me with no choice but to conclude she was firmly heterosexual." Sherlock looks at Watson again. "You've been in love before," she says. "Tell me if I am."
Watson folds her arms against her chest. "I don't feel your feelings, Sherlock. I can't tell you what they are. You're not like anyone I've ever known. I never imagined you involved with anybody. But the sound in your voice when you talk about her is love if I've ever heard it."
Sherlock lowers her eyes from Watson's face, a pensive expression on her face.
"You're overthinking this, aren't you?" Watson says. She sighs and sits on the arm of her easy chair. "Of course you are."
"Too many things can go wrong," Sherlock says. "I'm afraid, Watson. I'm never afraid. But this—" She looks up at Watson again. "I don't want to lose her. Or you."
"Me? Why on earth would you be worried about losing me?"
"I don't want our relationship to change. I don't want to leave Baker Street or see you less, work with you less. I don't want you withdrawing from me because you think I don't need you anymore."
Watson tilts her head to one side, unfolding her arms and resting her hands on her thighs. "You're serious?"
Sherlock just stares at her, a crease in her brow.
"Sherlock," Watson says and sits on the floor in front of her best friend. "You don't have to worry about any of that, least of all now. Lestrade didn't ask you to marry her and move to a house in the country, she just told you she's in love with you. Stop thinking it to death and be happy. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."
Sherlock looks at her as the kettle's hissing peaks. She leans forward and takes Watson's hands in hers. "Neither am I," she says. "I love you, Watson. You're my best friend. Lestrade makes me happy, but so do you. I don't know what I would do without you."
Watson smiles with a glowing warmth and squeezes Sherlock's hands. "I love you, too, Sherlock," she says.
Sherlock bows her head for a moment, then looks up at Watson again. "Lestrade said it's okay that I don't want sex. I don't know if I believe her. She's never had a nonsexual romance before."
"She's also never been in love with a woman before."
Sherlock sighs. "I don't want to be unfair to her."
"I'm pretty sure Lestrade is old enough to know what she wants and what she can live with," says Watson. "If she says she's okay with a nonsexual relationship, then believe her. She loves you, Sherlock. And she's known exactly who you are for a decade. She knew before she told you how she feels. I don't think she would've asked you to be her partner if she wasn't willing to accept you."
Sherlock looks at Watson uncertainly but feels a little bit less skeptical.
Watson smiles and gets up to make the tea. Sherlock stays on the floor and thinks.
*~*~*
Later that night, after dinner, Sherlock finds herself outside Lestrade's door. For a minute or two, she just stands there, uncertain in a way she so rarely is. She knocks with hesitation, and she doesn't wait long for Lestrade to open up.
"Hi," Lestrade says, a happy light in her eyes.
"Hi," says Sherlock. "Can I come in?"
"Of course." Lestrade steps back and opens the door wider to let Sherlock inside.
Sherlock hasn't been in Lestrade's house since before Lestrade confessed her feelings, and it feels different somehow. She looks around half-expecting to see physical changes but doesn't find them.
"Can I get you anything?" Lestrade says, crossing into the kitchen. She's barefoot.
Sherlock shakes her head.
Lestrade pours herself a glass of water and takes it into the sitting room, passing by Sherlock who stands at the edge of the foyer. She sits in one of the easy chairs and looks at Sherlock expectantly, her bare legs curled up on the seat cushion.
"Are you going to sit?" she says, when Sherlock doesn't move.
"Maybe," says Sherlock. She pauses, hesitant to speak her mind.
"Is everything all right?" Lestrade says.
Sherlock nods. "I talked to Watson, about us."
Lestrade pauses, holding her glass in her lap with both hands. "How did it go?"
"Well," says Sherlock, stepping down from the raised wood floor onto the sitting room carpet. "She's pleased. She wasn't as surprised as I thought she would be. She helped put my mind at ease. Told me to stop overthinking this."
Lestrade grins. "Somebody should give you that advice on at least a weekly basis," she says and sips on her water.
"The other night, when we—talked, about being partners, we left some details out of the conversation. And they're important. That's why I'm here. We need to discuss those details."
"Okay," Lestrade says. "Details, like what?"
Sherlock hesitates, still on her feet at the other end of the coffee t
able. "I don't want to leave Baker Street," she says. "As long as Watson wants to live there, I'm staying."
Lestrade blinks. "Sherlock, I didn't ask you to move in with me."
"I know you didn't. But it's better I tell you this now, in case it's a problem."
"It's not a problem. Never even crossed my mind, living arrangements. I only just realized I want to be with you, Sherlock. We haven't even told anyone we're together, except Watson. I'm still processing the fact that I'm in love with you. I'm definitely not expecting you to move in with me right now."
"Not now, no. But if you do someday—"
"Then we'll talk about it on that day," says Lestrade. "Right now, I'm just happy you said yes to me."
Sherlock looks at her, still uncertain.
Lestrade gets up from her chair, sets her glass on the coffee table, and moves to stand in front of Sherlock. She clasps Sherlock by the shoulders and says, "I know how much you love Watson, how important she is to you. How important the work you do together is. I would never want that to change. I don't want you doing things you don't like, just for me. I want everything between us to feel right and natural. I want us to be in harmony. I want you to be happy."
Lestrade looks at her with those big, brown eyes.
Sherlock looks back at her. "I want you to be happy," she says.
Lestrade smiles. "I am." She lets go of Sherlock's shoulders and reaches for Sherlock's hand, holding it in hers.
"I don't deserve you, Lestrade," Sherlock says.
"My ex-boyfriends didn't deserve me," Lestrade replies. "You do. Trust me."
Their fingers lace together, palms pressed, and they drift closer and closer like two toy boats in a pond, Sherlock looking down into Lestrade's eyes and Lestrade looking up into Sherlock's. Sherlock rests her forehead against Lestrade's, and Lestrade shuts her eyes. Sherlock admires her long lashes flush against her warm, dark skin. She reaches up with her free hand, cups the back of Lestrade's skull, and kisses her.
She can feel Lestrade smiling into her lips.
*~*~*
In the low light of dusk, Sherlock brings a newspaper and a can of petrol to a quiet spot along the Thames, where the homeless sometimes linger. She finds the place deserted, as she'd hoped. A tall metal trash bin waits for her, the interior blackened from the fires the homeless have lit for warmth. Sherlock takes the newspaper apart page by page and dumps it into the bin, then douses the pages in petrol. She sets the can on the ground and takes a matchbox out of her pocket, strikes a match and drops it in the bin. Flames spring up, the smell of them and the burning newspaper, old ash, and soot wafting into the air around her.
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