Hide and Seek

Author's Note: This is my first publication for the Sherlock category, not attempt mind you - I've tried multiple times to write a story for Sherlock, but it has never worked out. I hope it's different for this publication because I adore this story line that I've created over weeks and weeks. Please! Enjoy.

4. 221b

Was she really doing this.

She bit the inside of her cheek, chewing on the tissue until a familiar cooper-y taste filled her mouth. She was having second thoughts, she always had second thoughts when it came to Sherlock. At first, she was sure that she wanted to move out to London (John had name dropped Mrs. Hudson multiple times, enough for her to get the hint,) and she was sure Sherlock wanted it too. But then, she wasn't too sure. Laurel had been in the same predicament with the strange detective many years ago, so sure he wanted something and in the end he didn't; she could never read him. He was a puzzle, a riddle that plagued her mind, but it was only ever him.

She could tell you when someone was lying by the twitch in their cheek, or the lack of eye contact, even the way they breathed but not Sherlock. She could tell John Watson was a loyal man by the way he stood beside Sherlock, his head raised and eyes forward. She could tell that John Watson lived a life of normalcy (as normal as one could get whilst being around Sherlock,) as he fell on a schedule and a routine and not spontaneity. She could tell you what the lines on his forehead meant, or the clench in his fists, or even the twitch in his nose; she could tell you all that from a few hours with the man. She could never read Sherlock like that. Never.

She stared up at the building in front of her, two-two-one-b hanging prettily just above the knocker. Too late to second guess now, she thought. She stood on the sidewalk with a few bags slung over her shoulder before taking the knocker and knocking on the door.

It opened rather unceremoniously with the door hitting the wall behind it. An older woman answered it, looking quite concerned before her eyes brightened, "Daphne wasn't it?" Laurel cracked the tiniest of smiles, "Laurel if you please," she almost didn't have the heart to tell the woman that just by the state of her, "only my mother called me Daphne."

"Nonsense, it's your given name," She presumed it was Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door wider, "well come in, you'll catch a cold if you don't." She inclined her head in thanks before moving inside, and the door shut heavily behind her.

Sherlock plucked the strings of his violin, tuning it before running the bow across them. Perfection, like always. He closed his eyes and started playing Beethoven Symphony No. 3, well just the first ten minutes of it before suddenly stopping.

John sat in his chair, typing on his laptop about their latest case, and stopped when Sherlock spoke: "I wonder how long she's going to stand outside."

"What?" John saved his current writing, closing his laptop and setting it aside, "I'm sorry?" he tried again when Sherlock didn't speak.

"Daphne has stood outside in the seven degree* weather for almost nine minutes now." John stood up immediately and went to the door, but Sherlock stopped him, "I wouldn't worry about her. She'll come in when she's ready, no need to rush her." He simply said before continuing with Beethoven's symphony.

"I've never met one of Sherlock's friends before, from his uni days. Seems so quiet about those years," Mrs. Hudson led Laurel up the first flight of stairs, pointing at the door that sat there, "this is John and Sherlock's flat," Laurel nodded knowingly. Of course Sherlock would pick the room nearest (next nearest,) to the door and had a safe landing height from the window, well relatively safe. "Come along then, I'll show you to your flat now." After two flight of stairs (pointing out that the flat on the third landing was where John slept,) Mrs. Hudson stopped at the door and pulled out her keys, "this flat has always been a fixer upper, always needing repairs and such. You let me know if you need anything, alright dear? Not your housekeeper though." The last few words seemed to be more for her sake than Laurel's, but she nodded nonetheless.

"And of course John and Sherlock are downstairs, just a few seconds away if anything were to come up," Mrs. Hudson turned the key, opening the door and revealing a relatively clean flat, "I cleaned it before you came, everything should be dusted and wiped down. I had some extra appliances lying around, plugged them in and set them up - thought you could use some things." She stepped into the flat and Laurel followed close behind, "the previous renters left their sofa and lounge, unfortunately I couldn't turn up a bed for the night." She was worried.

"It's fine Mrs. Hudson, I can sleep on the sofa if nothing else," she smiled at the kind woman, "you don't need to worry yourself over me. You hardly know me."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on her cheek, smiling to herself rather sadly, "I apologize, but it's just something ... I don't know." She waved it off, adding on: "how silly of me. I'm going to go fetch some blankets for you tonight." Laurel nodded, thanking her again before watching her leave and shut the door behind her. Laurel turned on her heel to face the emptiness of her room.

It reminded her a lot of the apartment she rented in Hong-Kong, small and compact. Homey. She loved it already. She slid her bags off her shoulder next to the sofa before flopping down on it, her long legs hanging off the ends as she closed her eyes.

John knocked on the door and heard nothing. He knocked again, and again heard nothing. Curiously, John pressed his ear to the door.

"She's sleeping."

John jumped, spinning around and nearly screaming: "Jesus Christ Sherlock!"

"Not for long though, I suspect she has night terrors."

"And how did you come up with that one?" John asked, half-curious and half annoyed.

"She's already told us she suffers from insomnia, she says since college, but obviously she doesn't know how to handle it. The bags and dark circles under her eyes are evidence of that; she doesn't take any medication, obviously. Did you see her hands when we were taking about it a few weeks ago?" John shook his head, he was lucky if he could remember what he had for breakfast a few weeks ago, "she was clutching them around her mug; white knuckling it in fact. She was scared, terrified of talking about it. She doesn't want any one to know, she didn't want to look weak. She's always been like that."

"Oh, is this my free deducing for the week?"

John and Sherlock turned to face Laurel, who looked a mess; her hair (which looked like it was up in a bun,) was knotted and wild, sweat shined on her forehead, her eyes blood-shot, and the dark circles looking even darker.

"You didn't deny it." Sherlock stated, not missing a beat as he pushed his hands into his pockets. John avoided her gaze, only looking at his flatmate with a glare.

"I didn't say it was right either."

"I'm hardly ever wrong."

"And sometimes you're hardly ever right."

John noticed Sherlock's eyebrow twitch ever so slightly, "So!" John exclaimed, "are you hungry?"

"For some reason I thought you were going to take me out." Laurel stated as she spun her Chinese noodles around with her chopsticks, it didn't look too appetizing.

"John was being courteous, probably figured that you didn't want to go out looking like that." Sherlock said from the kitchen, sliding a petri dish underneath the microscope lens. Laurel's mouth twitched, but ignored him: "how do you put up with him?"

"The same way you put up with me for several years Daphne."

"I wasn't asking you." She snapped, looking back at him with a venomous gaze.

"You two fight an awful lot." John said quietly, looking between the two tall, lean figures hunched over in their seats. Laurel sighed, apologizing for the both of them, "it wasn't always like this. I just come to realize how spectacularly annoying he is; some of us mature while away from friends, and others," her gaze found it's way back to Sherlock, "stay the same."

"Where did you go?" John asked, picking at his rice and pork, "I mean, when you and Sherlock played you're, uh, game." Laurel held back a snort as she stopped spinning her noodles, "even Sherlock doesn't know half of them."

"At first, she traveled to Germany. Not too far away as most people start when they're traveling. She moved to France after that, then to Norway - "

"You knew I was in Norway? That's the first I've heard about it. You didn't even try to find me."

"I was on a case."

"For six months?" She cast a non-believing look in his general direction, "and I'm the bloody Queen of England." Sherlock didn't miss a beat as he reached next to him for another slide, pushing it under, and replying: "it was a complicated case," Laurel wanted to roll her eyes, "don't roll your eyes you're not a child." She huffed as she stopped spinning her noodles and pushed them away from her before standing up.

"I really don't know why I moved here," she mumbled to herself before turning to look at John with a sweet smile, "I'm going to head to bed, thank you for dinner and your company." When she went to the door, John's voice stopped her. "You're not going to stay for tea?" She sighed, his voice was sad and she didn't dare turn around to see what his face looked like. So, instead she opted to throw a dashing smile over her shoulder before walking out of the flat, "not tonight John, I'll take a rain check." And the door slowly shut behind her.

By the time she made her way back to her flat, she could hear John reprimanding Sherlock. "You have no manners!" She couldn't help but chuckle to herself, she hadn't heard anyone try to scold Sherlock before; it was amusing. She could tell immediately that Mrs. Hudson had been in her flat by the amount of blankets toppled on the sofa, and the three pillows carefully placed on the cushions. It was nearing ten o'clock before Laurel huddled under the blankets and fell asleep on the comfortable, yet lumpy sofa.

It was dark, almost overwhelmingly so. She blinked quickly, trying to grasp her surroundings but it was too blurry and too dark; she could barely see the other side of the cement wall in front of her. She writhed under her bindings, the cold metal cutting into her wrists and pulling her back. Sweat started to bead from her forehead and neck, running down her back and cheeks - no, those were tears she felt dripping from her jaw. She could hear the faint sound of water dripping, echoing off the barren walls and every time she heard the distant splash: she shuttered.
It was too cold, her appendages were shaking and she could feel goosebumps start to appear on her skin. This was a dream, she couldn't be back here. It was all a dream. She squeezed her eyes together, biting down on her tongue only to find that she was gagged and sobbed grossly; it was just a dream. The mantra she repeated as she heard the squeaking of wheels coming from outside her room. She squeezed her eyes tighter, biting down on her gag as the squeaking stopped. It's just a dream, she repeated. She was shaking, the tears rolled freely down her face and she could feel the vomit rising in her throat. It was just a dream, she repeated once more as the door opened, blinding her.

It's just a dream, she repeated as she heard someone come in. Just a dream she said again as she felt fists collide with her face. It's all just a very, very bad dream.

She bolted upwards, a heated scream almost ripping from her throat as she slapped a hand over her mouth and gagged. She ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her before vomiting her dinner and lunch into the toilet. It was all just a nightmare. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shaking as she did so. The sweat and tears stuck to her face, her head spun and she could feel her stomach twist. It was all just a very bad dream.

Seven o'clock rolled around entirely too soon for John, but he got up nonetheless and made his way to the kitchen. He continued with his schedule, putting the kettle on the stove for the water to boil before dragging his tired feet into the bathroom to quietly brush his teeth and wash his face. When the kettle was done boiling, he made himself a cup of morning tea before sitting down tiredly in his chair. Sherlock had been up all night, not really a surprise, conducting his experiments and playing the violin (at three in the bloody morning). "Morning." John mumbled into his cup, and not-so-surprisingly didn't get a reply back. John vaguely heard the knock at the door (he wanted to groan so badly,) and got up to answer it.

"I didn't know you were the boxer type John," If John wasn't up already, he was now as he hastily closed his robe and tied it off; he flushed in embarrassment before looking at Laurel's smiling face, "I'm sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, but I was wondering if I could get some directions." John's weight passed between his left and right foot before smiling tiredly, "I can escort you, I'd be faster than trying to tell you where you wanted to go."

"Would you?" She clasped her hands together, tilting her head, and smiling, "that'd be wonderful John!" He nodded, opening the door wider so she could step in. "Of course," he replied softly, "I just need to get changed and we can hea-" He stopped short as Laurel shrugged off her coat and felt his breath get stuck in his throat. When she took off her black petticoat jacket, he saw that she was wearing a short, backless dress that had a tucked skirt*; he could see she was wearing a stocking belt, the straps connecting to her stockings showed off rather nicely. John, as startled as he was, finished his sentence quickly: "we can head off. Be back in a jiffy."
Laurel watched him as he left the flat to go upstairs to his room.

"He's embarrassed," Laurel turned on her heel to look at Sherlock who was looking at her as well, "he wasn't expecting you to dress like that. Out. You look ridiculous." She could feel her cheeks turn pink and she bit the inside of her cheek, "you should go change. You'll draw far too much attention going out dressed like that, you look like you're going clubbing." She knew he meant no offense by it, but she could feel the embarrassment bubble in her stomach.

"Fine." She finally spat out before stomping out of the flat and up to hers. Ten minutes later she heard knocking at her door. She knew it was John since both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock would just gladly invite themselves in. When she answered the door she was dressed in light-blue acid washed skinny jeans which were tucked nicely into some sensible boots and a long, floral top; it was normal.

"You changed." Was the first thing he said. She just smiled and grabbed her purse, which was sitting on the counter, "I thought I'd save that dress for when I go out next, you know for drinks or something."

"Sherlock say something?" She guffawed sarcastically and snorted, "why would I change just because he said something?" She shut the door behind her before taking in John's appearance. He slicked back his hair, just like he did normally, but he had a fresh shave and was wearing a off-white jumper that fit him handsomely; he was wearing a soft after-shave as well. She smiled, "now, I need to know where the grocer is and several other places; are you ready chauffeur?" John hooked his arm with hers, smiling lightly, "of course."

"There's been a break-in John." Laurel almost choked on her water as the voice repeated itself from behind her, "a break-in at the bank, exciting isn't it?" Laurel turned in her chair, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and saw none other than Sherlock himself, standing in the middle of the restaurant with a giddy smile on his face before it was followed by a frown.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock, sit down." John hissed before pointing to the empty chair next to both him and Laurel. The two of them decided since it was lunch time and John had shown Laurel most of the places that she needed to know that he'd treat them to lunch, and now two turned into three as Sherlock quietly slumped into the chair, "now what were you saying?" Laurel picked up her water once again as Sherlock explained the case. She vaguely listened to him, too upset with him until he turned to her, "I see you changed." The water almost went out her nose as the surprise forced the water to come out of her mouth and project onto the table and her plate; many people turned their heads towards her in disgust. She sneered at him, "not because of anything. My feet were already hurting."

"Ah, well you could have simply changed your shoes and not your entire outfit Daphne; it's quite simple."

"It was cold out, I put on pants."

"You're never bothered by the cold, I've seen you dance in the rain - you aren't affected by it."

"Well now I am." Laurel snapped, her head swimming as she felt nauseated.

"Sherlock." John groaned, looking at his flat-mate with narrow eyes. Sherlock shrugged and stood up, flipping up his coat collar, and turned: "Now are you two coming or not?"

Author's Note: Quick, quick, quick author's note here! The first asterisk is because all temperature will be told in Celsius, so seven degrees Celsius is around forty-four degrees Fahrenheit; I will always put conversions at the end of each chapter for both temperature and money (if anything is mentioned in euros or pounds). Second asterisk is for the dress, which I probably didn't explain very well (the dress will make a come-back haha,) you can see what dress I'm talking about if you search: Nuclear romance backless dress (it should be the first one that pops up,) if you're interested!

So down to business: the next chapter will start into the plot of Season 1, Episode 2: Blind Banker. Be prepared ladies and gents! And thank you, as always, for the reviews/alerts/favorites/follows - it really means the world to me! Love you all and I'll see you in the next chapter!