Having no idea how much time you had before he decided it was time to go, you dumped your make-up on the counter in an effort to find the berry colored lipstick you wanted. It wasn’t an easy feat as you hadn’t been kidding when you said you were a lipstick junkie, poking through over twenty different shades of lipstick and a handful of glosses before you found the one you had in mind. You kept your make-up classic with a dusting of gold eye shadow and winged black liner across your lids with full lashes, all balanced with the strong opaque berry toned lipstick.
You were just finishing pulling your hair up into an appropriate French twist with some strands falling around your face to soften it, when there was a loud thunk and then a knock on your door.
You smirked, you may not have learned the first time but Van Gogh be damned if he was going to fling your door open a third time without knocking. You went to unlock the door, fighting the urge to giggle as you put a hand on your hip, “Problem, Sherlock?”
He narrowed his eyes at you as he rubbed at his shoulder where it had hit the door, “It was locked.”
A small laugh escaped your lips, “Obviously. That’s why you knock.”
Your words fell on deaf ears as his attention turned from the troubling state of your door to your appearance, his eyes trailing over your form from the floor up. He felt like his heart stopped beating for a minute and his mind definitely short circuited before kicking back up at a breakneck speed to take in every single detail of your outfit and your legs and your curves and your… unamused expression, “If you're quite done molesting me with your eyes, Sherlock, I’d like to get whatever this theory is tested and over with.”
He gave you his own unamused look before turning to walk out of the flat, “You look... presentable.”
You rolled your eyes, having caught the smile that he’d been trying to hide as he turned, and took a moment to look him over as you followed him out the door, finding it was hard to tell if he was dressed differently than he normally was because of his ever present trench coat and scarf.
Once the two of you were bundled into a cab, sitting across from each other, you looked out the window, wondering what this was all about. Sherlock had been very pleasant to you today. You assumed it was because he knew about the nightmare and his role in it and while nice it was a little disconcerting.
He’d succeed in reassuring you that he would never lay a hand on you in that way but there was still the troubling matter of your painting. There was also this niggling fear that your ex would somehow know you’d not only started up your work again but that you had a strange quasi-relationship with your brother’s flatmate.
You thought about what would happen if he did manage to find you, the punishment you’d receive, not realizing you were holding your breath until your vision blurred and you sucked in a sharp gulp of air to compensate. You cursed yourself, knowing that Sherlock definitely noticed that, and prayed he wouldn’t push anything because you weren’t in the mood to indulge him in his deductions, especially when it came to this.
You took a slow deep breath and went over color theory and cross hatching techniques in your head to keep your thoughts from wandering dangerously into memories or imagined scenarios, hoping to reassure your subconscious that that part of your life was over now.
Sherlock opted to look at you instead out the window as you were, the last time he’d seen you in anything other than a jumper and jeans was when you’d gone out after the mug incident. He was beginning to think an obsession with jumpers was something that ran in your family, as both you and John seemed to have an unending supply.
This time he could take in your attire with a little more interest than the first time as he’d been in denial then, it was always fascinating to him that just a change of clothes and appropriate make-up could make most men see a woman in an entirely different light. Up till now he couldn’t understand it, he still didn’t to an extent… it was so base. A change in appearance could hardly change if they were terribly dull or not so the new attraction was purely physical.
Considering this when he looked you over, he found that maybe when one was already content with another’s intelligence and personality the addition of physical attraction was much more enjoyable and it was certainly interesting.
His gaze seemed to have a mind of its own finding your legs, lips, and chest more often than he was even aware of and he couldn’t seem to stop chewing on the inside of his lower lip. Internally he was much the same, his heart seemed to vary in rates from dangerously slow to treacherously fast and his mind was conjuring up some very interesting images. This was by far his most complex experiment involving you so far and the results were already fascinating.
He was so busy observing himself that he almost missed the pained expression flash across your face before you took an audible and fast breath of air.
He moved to sit next to you, causing you to turn from the window to look at him, “Yes, Sherlock?”
You sighed, “There’s nothing to tell.”
“There is. Don’t lie.”
You chewed at the edge of your lip and looked back out the window in an effort to ignore him that was quickly thwarted when he wove his fingers between yours, making you snap back around to look at him.
He was unphased and caught you in his intense gaze, locking your eyes with his so there was no chance of escape, “Tell me.”
Your voice came out soft and unsure, “What if he finds me?”
You tore yourself away from his intrusive stare, “I know it’s irrational- the odds of him finding me are low- but if he did… there are so many things he would punish me for.”
Sherlock’s grip on your hand tightened, “John would never allow it.” He would never allow it.
You didn’t respond, looking out the window again pensively, you knew he was right but in truth that was part of your fear, something could happen to John if it ever came to that. He could end up hurt or in jail because of you. It was a rather terrifying thought.
Sherlock frowned at the back of your head, he wanted you to feel safe so you could go back to your normal habits instead of living by that man’s rules in anticipation of his return to your life. He even briefly wondered if Mycroft had any pull in France, maybe he would agree to put him in jail so you wouldn’t have to live with the uncertainty.
“I'm not fretting.” he denied firmly.
You just gave a knowing closed-lip smile and a small hum of amusement before looking out the window again as he scowled at you. How did you do that? How did you see these things? You weren’t supposed to know he was fretting, much less think it was cute. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was anything but cute. Handsome, intelligent, arrogant, and cheeky- among other things- but certainly not cute. What did you think he was? Some sort of over grown kitten?
You giggled, drawing him from his thoughts again and he realized he’d been making a face, which was no doubt the cause of said giggling. He opened his mouth to say something to put an end to your small bout of mirthful laughter but then thought better of it, it was far better than the worry you’d been wrapped up in just moments before even if it was at his expense.