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 whocared,someone who hadempathy,and she was stuck withSherlock-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 ina story in a genre she didn’t evenlike.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 mehome.”
“Let’s just get you to bed, old boy.” Sherlock walked up to her, holding his hand down to helpWatsonoff 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 onSherlock.AndSherlockwas 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 beingwith 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 shewas,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 thefuckwould Sasha wind up being? She had no clue.
So she had no idea where to start.
Everything felt hopeless. She feltlost.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 settledon 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.
