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Ding Dong Dell

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Ding Dong Dell

“Play for me, Sherlock. Play you.”

There are hundreds of compositions. He chooses: a piece for a dangerous woman.

He’s barely played two notes before she’s twigged it: he has had sex. Multiple times, at that.

And it is vibrato, he wants to say. The only times his hands shake is when the hypoglycemic shakes set in after too many days of being strung out. He’d be lying, however, if he said he wasn’t afraid of her. Intrigued, yes, in the same way one finds moray eels intriguing. Her mind is a terrifying machine, intricate and faceted and far beyond sanity. He’s repulsed and fascinated equally.

She presses on. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s private.”

“Nothing is private. Tell me. That music. It was a woman.”

“Yes.” The memories come, unbidden: black silk sheets left bicep smaller than the right dominant arm flawlessly waxed body feet bones damaged 4” heels small breasts the scent of her hair her body suddenly frail beneath his everything worked until it didn’t and they were left laughing at their own foolishness until she reached for him, pitching her voice lower, lower, tell me what you would do with him if…

Eurus’ eyes flash. “Ooh! You didn’t like it. Her body was all wrong, wasn’t it? Too petite, she didn’t smell right. Clever, clever, clever minds. It would be so much nicer if you could just fuck with your brain, now, wouldn’t it? Just put your skulls together and let it happen? You liked her brain. But you don’t need any more brains, now, do you? Granted, Mycroft’s ability surpasses your own, but you’re quite content with what you have. You think you’re clever. Be careful. Pride cometh before the fall. And you know all about falling, don’t you?”

“How did you get out?”

“Speaking of sex, do you know who’s fun to chat with?”

Sherlock swallows. Annoyingly, his mouth keeps going dry. He relaxes his facial muscles: give nothing away. You’re giving everything away.

“Your friend John. He’s a remarkable flirt.” Eurus chews on her thumbnail for a moment. “Play his.”

“His what?”

“You know. His song. John Watson’s song. Don’t ask me how I know you have one. Play it.”

He has at least ten. Sherlock lifts the violin to his shoulder once more, draws the bow across the strings. Eurus closes her eyes and sways a bit to the music. “Well, that confirms that theory,” she says to herself. “Let’s have it back now.”

As he returns the violin, Sherlock tries in vain to predict her movements, analyze her thought processes. It’s like trying to read seven computer screens of code simultaneously. She makes Irene Adler look dull in comparison.

Eurus retrieves the instrument and swipes her thumb over the chin rest. “Your DNA. We share so much. We should have been twins.” The violin is returned to the bed and tucked in like a child. “John likes you,” she says, shuffling back across her cell. “But he liked me more.”

“You interfered with his marriage.”

She smiles at that, scoffs a bit. “Come now. No more so than you did. I gave him what he wanted. I imagine he fancied himself a bit in love with me.”

Sherlock remains still. “You didn’t know? Did you? That he was cheating?”

“It was only texts.”

Suddenly, with the swiftness of an agitated primate, she’s there, right at the glass. “Don’t be stupid!” she yells. Sherlock takes two steps back. “You and your stupid games! Mine have always been better. Play with me, Sherlock, PLAY WITH ME!”

She quiets. Her face grows concerned. “I can help you,” she half-whispers. “Love hurts. I’ve never been but it’s clear to me you’ve been twice. Always boys, Sherlock, always in love with your little friends.”

“How did you get out?”

Eurus steps forward. “How long did you miss him, I wonder? Years?”

“Who?”

She’s nearly at the glass. “A hole, a deep, deep well inside yourself, empty, yearning. Haven’t you felt it? Haven’t you always felt it? Since you’ve been a child?”

God help him, he has.

“And then John Watson came and filled it up?”

Sherlock swallows again. He can’t help it.

“Come closer,” she beckons. “Do you want to know how I got out?”

He takes a step forward, then another.

“Our hands are the same, you know. You can tell I’m your sister, can’t you? See the resemblance? You feel it, too, can’t you? The recognition of family? We recognize our own family members so we won’t eat each other, you know. Shame. Mycroft would have made such a feast. Show me your hand. Hold it up. There, now.”

Sherlock moves closer. They’re nearly touching through the glass. She’s magnetic.

“Yours is so much bigger than mine,” she marvels. “No matter.”

It can’t be.

She laces her cold fingers through his own. “Size doesn’t matter. Unless it was his body you wanted under yours, not hers. She was the wrong weight. The musculature was all wrong. I'm right, aren't I?”

He moves his gaze from their clasped hands to her face. Remembers all the times John had called him “mad” and “insane.” Maybe it was a family trait after all. He must be losing it. She clearly has.

“Look at me. Right in front of your face. Breaking free? So easy. I learned how. You know, Dr. Watson taught me this one,” she says.

Sherlock barely has time to register her smile before her skull collides with his and he sinks into the blackness.