Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Maybe it was the “opium” that Sidney may or may not have actually done.
Maybe it was the constant snapping in and out of consciousness that she was now aware of.
Maybe it was because she needed comfort from somebody who cared, someone who had empathy, and she was stuck with Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. Who was probably the fictional hero least capable of giving her any.
Either way, it didn’t change what she’d done. Which had been to launch herself at the man and kiss him as hard as she could. Which, as Sidney, wouldn’t have been that big of a deal.
But as Dr. Watson?
Sherlock pushed her away from him so hard and so fast that she toppled from the sofa and hit the floor hard. He shot across the room to put as much distance between them as he could before he began to pace, running a hand over his hair. “You’re drunk, John. Drunk and perhaps concussed.”
That was it. That was the last straw.
Her knee hurt from an injury that wasn’t hers. She was trapped in a story in a genre she didn’t even like. And all she wanted—all she needed—was for someone to hold her and tell her it was going to all be okay. Even if it was a lie.
Putting her head in her hands, Sidney couldn’t do anything except weep.
“Now, now, John—it’s all forgiven. Who hasn’t had an unfortunate choice of…actions…after a night of debauchery?” He laughed nervously.
“I want to go home.” Now she was whining like a child. And she couldn’t care less. “Virtue, please, just take me home.”
“Let’s just get you to bed, old boy.” Sherlock walked up to her, holding his hand down to help Watson off the floor. “You’ll feel better in the morning. And likely won’t remember a lick of any of this.”
Something in her just…gave up. Just fell over and died.
“Way to commit to the bit, I guess…” Numbly, she put her hand in his, and let him help her up to her feet.
Taking her cane from where it was propped up against the sofa, she limped off in the direction of her bed, and made it to the hallway before she realized she had no idea which direction to go
“I…which room?”
“Must have been laced, the opium…I’ll throw out that batch to be certain.” Sherlock tutted and gestured. “Second door on the left there.”
“Thanks.” Without another glance at him, she went to “her” room. Shutting the door behind her without even bothering to say goodnight, she leaned her cane up against the wall and limped over to the bed. Falling face-first down onto the pillow, she let out a broken sob into the feathery surface.
Virtue wasn’t going to be of any help.
She had to rely on Sherlock. And Sherlock was going to be of no help, either. Not the kind that she needed right now.
She had to find Sasha. Maybe together, they could come up with a plan to get out of this—but separate, there was no hope. And being with her sister would make the whole thing feel less…hopeless. Even if it was a lie, it was a lie she wanted to tell herself.
But how the fuck was she going to find her sister in the fictional Victorian city of London they’d found themselves in? It was huge, she had no idea where she was, she didn’t read that much Doyle to begin with, and walking fucking hurt.
And she didn’t even know who her sister was supposed to be at the moment. Vile was obviously Moriarty. But who the fuck would Sasha wind up being? She had no clue.
So she had no idea where to start.
Everything felt hopeless. She felt lost. Alone.
And very, very much not like she was on the winning side.
Shrugging out of her obnoxiously itchy men’s clothing—fabric had really come a long way since whenever-the-fuck-they-were—she crawled under the sheets and burrowed into the pillow. It smelled like someone else. Like a man she was pretending to be.
Clutching it close, she cried herself to sleep.
A hand settled on her shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, Sidney.”
Jolting, she whirled to see who was speaking. It was Virtue, smiling at her mournfully with his perfect, sun-kissed features.
Reeling back, she slapped him as hard as she could.
His head snapped to the side, and he cradled his cheek with his palm. “I deserve that. I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to break character.”
“Then what do you call this?” She gestured at the space around them. They were in that stupid unending library of his. The brighter, pleasant version. Not the creepy, dark and unsettling version of it she’d seen when Virtue had taken her to Vile’s “half” of the library.
“A dream.” He was still frowning when he turned his attention back to her. “Here, this is excusable as…a hallucination. A product of too much opium and alcohol.”
“Neither of which I actually did!” Tears stung her eyes. Wiping at them fiercely, she stormed away from him ten paces before dropping her head in her hands. “At least my knee doesn’t fucking hurt right now.”
His voice was close to her again when he spoke, though this time he didn’t touch her. “Why did you kiss Sherlock Holmes?”
“I wasn’t kissing him.” She wiped her eyes again, sniffling. Christ, she hated crying. It was always so pointless. “I needed to feel safe. To feel—I don’t know. Connected. To someone.”
“You were kissing anyone, then.” The hurt in his voice was thick.
“No. I…” She was mad at him. Furious. But he was the good guy, right? He was playing by the stupid rules. It wasn’t his fault he had to stay in character. “That’s not it. That’s not it at all.”
She’d kissed him for a lot of reasons. Desperation. Loneliness. Panic. Attraction. Need. Maybe even a little jealousy over her sister’s kiss.
But it hadn’t been Sherlock she had been trying to kiss. It’d been Virtue.
“I was trying to kiss you, but I—the reasons why are a mess, and I—I’m just…I’m so scared.” Wincing, she felt like a moron. She felt disgusting. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to you, I just—”
“I understand.” His hand settled on her shoulder again as he gently turned her around to face him.
As she let him slowly pivot her around, he pulled her into an embrace.
Christ, he smelled like summers. Like laughing with friends.
Like warm nights by a fire. Like safety.
Like home. Like all the things she needed.
Clutching him close, she buried her head into the lapel of his white suit and let him comfort her. “I want to go home…”
“I know. And I wish I could bring you there. I do. I truly do.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“For now? Nothing. Your sister and Vile are taking the lead on this one…until they make a move, we can’t do much except wait to see what horrid scheme they come up with.
Sherlock can’t solve crimes that haven’t been committed.
” He tucked her head beneath his chin and held her closer, squeezing her ever so slightly.
She felt the tension melt from her limbs. “I want to find a way to talk to Sasha. Together, maybe, we can come up with a plan.”
“If you want to do that, you’ll have to find a way that makes sense in the plot. I can’t act out of character, and you shouldn’t either. Otherwise, Vile might get…upset. If it looks like we aren’t playing by the rules. This is dangerous enough.”
“What do you mean?” Lifting her head, she looked up at him, brow furrowed.
“He can see everything that happens. The same that I can.” He gestured at the world around them. “All this is an open book to him.”
“So he knows—” She stammered. “And that means—”
“And I know what he’s up to, yes.” Virtue shrugged. “But we can’t act on it during the course of the story.”
“Why not? You know where they are! What they’re doing! You could just—just—change everything—”
Virtue’s face fell and he sighed.“You have to remember, Sidney, I’m not…
like you. I’m not really a person, deep down.
” He picked up her hands and held them together in front of his chest. Bowing his head, he kissed her curled fingers.
“I am a product of the stories you tell. And when I’m inside of one of those stories… that is all I am.”
With everything in her body she wanted to weep and collapse at his feet and simply beg him to take her home until he did.
To wail and scream and cry until he had to give in.
But she knew it’d be pointless. She could do that for centuries and it’d do no good.
Vile had mentioned the people who came before them and their terrible fates.
“I don’t want to die.” The words left her in little more than a whisper.
“Then we should work very hard to get you and your sister home before that happens.” He smiled at her, clearly trying to give her any sense of hope that he could. “I know how frightening this is. How alone you feel. But I’m right here with you, even if it doesn’t seem like I am.”
Nodding weakly, she let out a breath. “I just—”
It was his turn to end the conversation abruptly.
Placing a hand at the back of her neck, he pulled her in and kissed her. It wasn’t as roughly as she had kissed him, not even by half. But it was no less insistent. And she nearly collapsed into his arms at the sensation of it.
She had never been swept off her feet in her life.
But now she knew what the phrase meant.
She supposed if anyone would have that power…it’d be him.
Letting her eyes slip shut, she savored the moment for as long as she could.
The dream faded as Sidney woke up the next morning—it could be midday, she honestly didn’t know or give a flying fuck. Her right knee felt like it had been stuck in a vice all night, and she gritted her teeth as she forced it to move to try to get some circulation in her leg again.
Stupid Watson.
Stupid Sherlock Holmes.
She was going to pick the next genre if it killed her.
Har har. And it probably will.
Pushing herself out of bed, she got dressed. The clothing was scratchy and uncomfortable, but, hey. It had pockets. This would be all the more miserable if she hadn’t been spared all the petticoat nonsense and corsets and whatever.