And she thought getting blackout drunk was bad enough. Collapsing onto the sofa in the parlor—or living room, or whatever thefuckfancy people in that time period called their rooms, she put her head in her hands and simply began to cry.
It was all too much. All of it. That was the last straw. The absolute lastfuckingthing she needed. And it was what broke her.
A presence sank down on the sofa next to her, a hand resting on her back. Maybe Virtue would know the right thing to say. The inspiring hero speech to help her tape herself back together.
But it was Sherlock who spoke. Not Virtue. “Buck up, old boy. You’ll sleep it off like you always do.”
Sidney corrected her earlier assumption.Thatwas the last straw.
Why she did what she did, she had no clue.
Desperation. Opium. Booze. Panic. Loneliness. The need to feel like she had a raft in a storm.
She really couldn’t say.
Turning, she launched herself at Sherlock.
And kissed him as hard as she possibly could.
