I suppose a brief warning may be appropriate: I don't think there's much hint of the underlying plot for... a while... yeah. For those who've read my bio or other stories, this is mere a repetition of the obvious: I write because I enjoy it, thus I write what I enjoy. With Sherlock, well, I enjoy this. I started writing without hint of a plot; they were merely scenes I didn't want to forget. I welcome you only in hopes that you might enjoy them with me.

No Sanctuary Beneath the Blankets

Voices. I froze, senses perked. John's voice rumbled from the other room, too muffled for me to understand. Still, my panic receded. I was back in the bed. How? When had I fallen asleep? Vaguely, I remembered a quiet whisper, a gentle touch... Sherlock?

My gaze travelled to the door, unsurprised to find it unlocked. The rising steam from the tea cup distracted me so effortlessly, I almost chuckled. With an almost imperceptible smile, I retrieved the blessed gift, letting all thought simply fall away as I savored its warmth and rich taste. I'd meant to thank them. Yesterday, the reason for my leaving the room had been to voice my gratitude, but I'd succeeded in nothing more than a few words that could surely be perceived as rude before letting my fear chase me away. Unwarranted. My fear was unwarranted.

What had they done to earn my fear, my anger? Quite the opposite… I couldn't doubt my debt to them. If Sherlock hadn't freed me from the hospital; if John hadn't jeopardized his career to provide me with the medications I needed… I didn't want to consider where I'd be.

Why? Beyond Sherlock's vendetta against Moriarty, they had no reason to help me. Even with the man's motives, there was nothing requiring the kindness they'd showed me. I'd struck him, even; both of them. But they'd given no show of retaliation beyond patience.

With a start, I realized the now empty cup trembled in my grasp. I wanted to trust them. I wanted to let the fear and anger slip away that I might see them without the shroud of terror distorting my sight. I wanted…

What? What did I want? After I healed; after Moriarty's downfall; what did I want? What would be left? I used to think everything was so clear. I had it all planned out. How worthless those dreams seemed now. My future… What was there for me now?

Scowling, I forced the thoughts from my mind. At that moment, only one thing mattered: Moriarty. Nothing else mattered but the promise of that final kill. But I had to get through this first. I had to heal. I had to overcome this petrifying fear that so loved to watch me stagger beneath its weight.

With a deep breath, I set my feet against the smooth floor and stood. I knew what was beyond that door: the small hall paralleling the bathroom before widening into the kitchen. John was out there. Maybe Mrs. Hudson. And Sherlock. No one else. No one else… My hand touched the worn knob. Refusing to allow even the slightest hesitation, I forced my muscles to respond, slowly opening the door.

The painful racing of my heart felt almost foolish as I saw the empty chairs just down the hall. Still, I found myself centering my weight over the balls of my feet as I tread forward, cup in hand. Surely, I could at least set the dish in the sink. Just put the cup in the sink.

I paid no immediate attention to the light flicker from the other room, dismissing it to be nothing more than a television. But, my entire body suddenly tensed, unaware of the cup crashing to the floor; each muscle locked against the other. The hair stood on-end all over my body. That song… Was I trembling as my body jerked from each tiny gasp?

"Alya?"

That song… It starts in my toes, makes me crinkle my nose… They had come from nowhere. Wherever it goes, I always know… And they took me, and…

"Sherlock!"

That you make me smile, please stay for a while now… And they laughed. As they hurt me, as I begged them to let me go, they laughed.

"Alya?" A sliver of recognition, but, almost instantly, it was forgotten. Just take your time, wherever you go... "What happened?" Clinical. He sounded so clinical as he asked it. He hadn't spoken like that. He practically sang as he asked me questions for which I had no answer.

"Nothing, just-" Something touched my shoulder. I couldn't see what it was. Beyond the images and sounds and panic, I couldn't see what it was, but I didn't need to.

"No!" Had the shout come from my lips? My arms were already locked around my head – how long had I stood like that? – but, the instant I felt that touch, I flung myself back, slamming into the molding of a doorframe.

"It's not a difficult request," My teeth ground together as I tried to silence the whimpers – failed. "Just tell me everything you know about Sherlock Holmes." Wide eyes stared blindly ahead of me. The rain is falling on my window pane. Those nearly black eyes staring at me with contemptuous humor. But we are hiding in a safer place. And still, that song played.

"Alya!" My fist lashed out. There was no forethought. There was only fear. I was afraid and someone had shouted. I barely registered the jolt ripple up my arm. But I heard the sudden, pained cough as my knuckles struck flesh.

"Sherlock!" The man's shout echoed through my entire being. I knew that name. Before I could begin to remember, a hand clasped around my wrist. Holding me. Restraining me. Hurting me… and they'd laugh.

"No, John!" The order came too late. With a panicked cry, my body reacted. Wild, deadly instinct; nothing more, nothing less. I spun my arm, hindering his balance, if only slightly, resulting in only a minor shift – trained, else his hold would have failed entirely. My left hand, already clenched into a tight fist, flew towards him. Almost casually, he drew his other arm up to steer the blow harmlessly to the side.

"Wait, Alya!" I didn't understand what my assailant tried to say. Couldn't waste time for thought. Fight! Before they can hurt you… Tears slipped down my cheeks as I kicked my leg up toward him. With his left hand still grasping my wrist, he couldn't avoid it and the blow robbed him of air in a painful cough. Should have fallen to his knees, but he didn't… Still, it would slow him. Keeping my weight balanced on the same leg, I withdrew my kick quickly and slammed my heel into his chest before he could recover, launching him back onto the hard floor and freeing me from him.

Something passed over his face. Resolution. I knew that look. Panic. I felt a fresh surge of panic storm through me as he gathered himself. End it. Now!

"Stop!" Instantly, I froze. The other man had thrown himself between me and the one still lying prone on the ground. And I couldn't move. Those eyes. That impossible dance of the lightest blues and greens with that single island of hazel. With my fist a hair's breadth from his jaw, I was frozen. Trembling. My eyes darted over his too-familiar face, locking on the already bleeding cut on his left cheek. I knew this man. I knew him and…

Breathes ragged, I drew my hand toward me; saw the smear of red over the quaking knuckles. Horrified, I looked back into those eyes, jaw hanging open in a silent apology I still couldn't understand; that I knew would never be enough.

"It's alright." He murmured quietly. It wasn't forgiveness – he seemed perfectly unaware of the injury I'd given him – it was reassurance. Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks as I shook my head, nearly cowering away from him. "You're alright." He said again, in that same comforting calm. Slowly, I pulled my hands back, locking them to my chest as I sank into myself. To my horror, a sob shook my already pathetic frame, and my gaze dropped to the floor in shame. Gently, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and I couldn't pull away.

"You're alright." Those words washed through my hair and all I could do was cry. The song had long-since ended, but I couldn't shake the terror it left me with. And I clung to him. In silence, I clung to him as I cried, desperately fighting to regain some shred of control over my still panicked mind.

"I'm sorry!" It was almost a yelp, lost amidst the folds of his shirt. His hold tightened, but, before he could speak, I shied away from him. I'd hurt them.

"Alya." He called quietly. Desperately, I shook my head.

"No… No, let me go!" I pleaded, wrenching myself from his grasp. He said nothing more as I raced into the familiar bedroom and slammed the door shut, hands straining against the wood as though he might try to force his way through at any moment. And I sobbed. I hurt them. In a fit of madness, I'd lashed out blindly. They had helped me, and I was too broken to be anything but a danger to them. Still, I wouldn't leave. Because I was a coward, too afraid to risk losing myself in the infinite dangers of wandering the world alone, I wouldn't leave. And so I sobbed against the door I could only pray might keep them safe from me.

For a while, they listened in silence to her heart-wrenching sobs before Sherlock turned to his friend and offer him a hand. John almost reluctantly took it, grimacing as he got to his feet.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked without meeting the doctor's gaze.

"Yeah." Came his automated response, eyes locked on the door. "I don't know that there's anything we can do for her." John nearly whispered.

"Oh, come now, John. You know precisely the psychological symptoms she's displaying. She merely has different triggers." The detective replied tactlessly.

"Well, I didn't try to kill people." John stated defensively.

"Different causes, different results." He replied wistfully. "They may have been entirely different circumstances, but you both were at war." The doctor paused, never ceased to be amazed at the insight his friend could conjure. Still, the woman was unstable.

"Shall we put that on our gravestones, then?" He retorted.

"She won't hurt me." Sherlock mumbled absently. "Intentionally." He quickly added at John's skeptical expression.

"What?" He nearly barked. "Tell me you don't think she's fallen for you!" Sherlock's face instantly pulled up in an almost pained grimace as he met John's eyes with a look bordering contempt.

"She knows I want Moriarty as badly as she does." He correctly impatiently. "Obviously." He added for good measure.

"Has she said anything about what he has to do with all this?" John asked.

"He's the reason she was in that ring. He sold her to them." Sherlock muttered, turning his attention back to the now quiet door to his room. Had she moved? Fallen asleep? Or had she heard him say the man's name and gone silent to listen?

"Why?" The doctor asked. Sherlock said nothing a while, still nearly disgusted with the answer.

"I don't know."

"Well, I doubt she'll be coming out of there for a while." John resigned. "Might as well restock." Sherlock frowned.

"You want to leave her? Alone?" He asked skeptically.

"She wants to be left alone." He clarified. "Mrs. Hudson will give us a ring if anything happens." Sherlock started to object, but John quickly interrupted him. "Store, now!"

"Ice cream." John stated suddenly.

"What?" Sherlock asked after a brief hesitation.

"Ice cream." He said again without any further explanation before striding purposefully toward the columns of freezers. The detective merely watched him in confusion a moment before trailing after him.

"When have you ever wanted ice cream?" He questioned upon catching up.

"It's not for me." John retorted. "Obviously." He added, mockingly, allowing himself a minute to bask in the detective's rare moment of ignorance. "It's for Alya." He finally said, but this offered nothing in the way of a satiating the man's perplexity. "It's called comfort food."

"You understand 'comfort food' has no valid medicinal qualities." Sherlock informed.

"Yes it does." John replied absently, eyes glancing over the various flavors.

"Any appearance of relief is nothing more than the placebo effect." He continued.

"No it's not." John said in the same uninterested tone before he retrieved a half-gallon jug and proceeded to the cash register.