Chapter 7

If this doesn't make sense, I really want to know, so tell me in a review…I have a tendency to forget that everyone cant read my mind…rather that no one can read my mind…se let me know!

I had been working successfully with the Browns for the better part of two months when it happened. Not only did it bring me closer to the end of my own story, it brought me closer to Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes knocked on my door. I opened it perhaps half and inch, hoping my face wasn't entirely visible.

"Yes?" I asked softly. I sounded as if I had a cold.

"Dinner…"

He trailed off, seemingly unsure of himself, for once. I was surprised he or Watson hadn't seen it themselves…but whatever.

"It's on the sideboard. I should have thought you would have seen it." I still sounded awful, but there wasn't much I could do about it. He looked at me the way he would look at a client, and I knew he was about to take the liberty of decuding my current situation.

"Are you coming down?" he asked me exaggeratedly, as if speaking to a small child.

"No," I quipped, too quickly. His eyebrows shot up, so I added, "I've already eaten. Now skitter. It's getting cold," with some degree of self-preservation. I tried to smile, even though I knew he couldn't see it. He nodded at me, then turned and walked down the hall. I left the door open until I saw him go down the stairs, then slammed it. I shouted an apology through the door, just in case he cared, then threw myself into my chair, gazing into the fire.

Perhaps an hour later, they both made a huge (and might I add, loud) show of going to bed early, or at least retiring to their rooms and slamming the doors. When I was reasonably sure they weren't coming back out, I crept out of my own room as quietly as I could and made my way, in the dark, to the study.

I stoked the fire just a little and curled up in Holmes' favorite basket chair, wrapping the afghan from the divan around my shoulders. I sighed deeply, remembering my day from hell. It still didn't seem true to me; it didn't seem possible; his kids were so normal, too normal to live with a man who would…

A hand on my shoulder brought me back to the present and I looked up into Holmes' eyes. I looked away.

"I thought you went to bed."

"Anna…why didn't you say something? Watson or I may have been able-"

"To do nothing at all. It was a fluke, I'm sure. He'll apologize when they come back from the Continent, and that'll be the end of it," I told him, still refusing to meet that misty gray gaze.

"You are quite right. I will not have you in the same house with a man who would treat a woman in such a fashion."

It was obvious, I knew. I had a matched set of handprints on my face, captured in my pale skin by the harsh blacks and blues of bruises. He knelt in front of me, cupping my chin gently in his warm, dry hands. He tilted my face up to the meager light of the fire to survey the damages; he had hit me quite hard, leaving a clear imprint or both sides of his right hand and, coincidentally, both sides of a heavy, engraved signet ring. He let me go and sighed.

"Holmes, do they take you aside in college and tell you where to hit women so it hurts the most?" I inquired bitterly. He stood abruptly and turned to the fire, resting his hands on the mantle. After a long moment, he turned back to me and pulled me to my feet.

He cupped my bruised face in his long hands, leaned in close and whispered, "I would hope that, by now, you know that neither Watson or I would strike a woman, least of all you."

I pulled out of his hold and turned away, hugging my elbows. "Of course I know that, Holmes. I wasn't referring to you specifically. I've just had… some bad experiences. I'm sorry if I upset you."

When next Holmes spoke, he was very close behind me; I hadn't even heard him move. "That is how you acquired the scar on your cheek."

I laughed softly.

"Yes, although I thought I had it covered well. After my mother died, Dad hit the bottle hard." I couldn't imagine why I was telling an almost perfect stranger the intimate details of my past, but I felt I could trust him. I felt his hands come down on my shoulders, his fingers moving in slow circles, alleviating the tension this story inevitably brought to my muscles. "After a few years, he was a full-blown alcoholic. Not long after that, he started knocking me around. At first, it was just little things, hitting me when I burned dinner and things like that....."

I was shaking, and I was fighting hard to keep the tears in my eyes from rolling down my face. Holmes was still behind me, radiating strength and listening silently. "It only got worse from there. As much as I don't want to admit it, I broke. It was my seventeenth birthday, actually, and he came home so drunk he could barely stand. I don't remember what I said, but it was obviously the wrong thing, because he came at me and struck me with a wicked backhand. He still wore his wedding ring, which had a small diamond set into the band. One of the prongs slashed across my face. He backed down when he saw the blood, but I left. Just...walked out the door, didn't even look back. I was on the redeye flight to London that night, and I've never returned. I'd already been accepted to Oxford, so I just moved in a little earlier than they expected. This new…thing just brought back some bad memories...."

My voice broke on that last word, and before I had another conscious thought, I was sobbing into his waistcoat again. His arms came hesitantly around my waist and he held me close, murmuring nonsense into my ear in an almost boyish effort to be comforting.

I pulled back when I could take a breath without sobbing, and looked up at him again. There was a soft and rather introspective look about his face. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes." I whispered, "I don't usually do that, but I think you've got me figured by now..... I-I'm sorry," I finished lamely. I looked away, but couldn't quite bring myself to disengage from his embrace. It occurred to me that this was rather Mary-Sue-ish, but I didn't really care anymore. He said nothing for a moment, so I looked away, afraid I stepped over some line.

He caught my chin and gently brought my eyes to meet his. "Anna, I never want to hear you apologize for anything like this again," he said, his voice oddly hoarse.

"If luck holds, I won't have to," I replied, smiling up at him impishly and with some degree of new confidence. He looked at me for a long moment, his arms tightening almost unconsciously around me. His face softened into a look that I have every intention of taking to my grave; he looped a hand around my neck and pulled my face to his. I gasped at the unexpected (yeah right!) pleasure found at the pressure of his lips against mine, and he took full advantage of the situation, deepening the kiss and pulling me closer against him. We stayed that way for what seemed like a century, one that I never wanted to end, but of course that little matter about needing air broke the kiss at last.

He swallowed and looked down at me again, "I- I'm sorry, I-" he stammered.

I cut him off with a firmly raised hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, I never want to hear you apologize for anything like that again."