- c h a p t e r   t h i r t e e n -

Sherlock stood outside of Emma's door, his hands folded behind his signature black trenchcoat. While it certainly wasn't the worst thing that she could've seen, it wasn't anything that she found partically positive either. She never knew Sherlock for coming along in order to bear good news. No, the last time he had shown up in front of her door, he had been there to query her on the thievery.

He'd already made sure to knock on her door, but she seemed to be taking an awful long time to see who was standing there. This long wait was making Sherlock impatient, making him wish that he hadn't decided to do anything - but the decision had already been made.

"Sherlock," she said, opening up the door just enough so that she could poke out. If Emma needed to close the door, she wanted to do it quickly and carefully. "What are you doing here?"

"I wish to give you something."

"Well, you're going to have to do a bit more than just wish it," she said, staring out at him.

"I have it with me."

"...then, are you going to give it to me, or are you just going to stand there?"

"I would prefer it if we could do this exchange within your flat."

"That's supsicious, Sherlock," Emma groaned, pushing strands of hair away from her face. "Why the hell would you want to come inside of my flat?"

"No, I don't want to investigate your home for any reason. I just thought that this would be somewhat more personal if I were to be allowed inside."

Emma's eyes drifted down to the floor until all she could see were Sherlock's shoes. She looked at how the shiny leather contrasted with the dull and gritty surface of the ground, and found herself wondering what it would be like if she tried to draw such a thing. It would be far from the first time she'd drawn Sherlock before.

"Personal?" she finally asked. "Since when have you wanted to involve me in anything personal?"

Sherlock ended up heaving out a sigh - Emma was being far too difficult for her own good. He decided against simply waiting for her to change her mind, and instead made a move towards the door in order to open it and let him in.

"Hey!" she cried out, trying to wrench the door back from his grip.

"If you believe my behavior to be supsicious, then certainly yours must be as well," Sherlock said. "You're standing here, refusing to let me into your flat. What, exactly, are you trying to hide?"

"I'm not trying to hide anything!" Emma exclaimed, her voice far too shrill for her words to seem believable. "I swear, I'm not trying to hide anything. There's nothing to hide."

"Then let me in."

"No!"

This time, Sherlock wasn't going to let Emma get her way. He had been working far too hard to try and be civil with her, try to be polite to her, try to even be kind and sensible to her, and he was only beeing met with her being stubborn. He ended up grabbing the door from her again and forcing it open, knowing that he was stronger than her to a point where she couldn't stop him.

"Really, Sherlock?" she said as he walked through the door, her hands still clamped around it. He continued moving forwards without a word. He'd done what he wanted to do, and it would be better off for Emma in the end.

"You know, it's not very nice to just force your way into people's home when they haven't given you permission," Emma said, founding her lips slipping into her signature pout.

She couldn't help it - Sherlock was bothering her. Obviously he had some other business...or at least, that's what she thought. Why else would he be wearing his coat if he wasn't going to be heading off somewhere else?

"I don't see what reason you have to prevent me from coming inside your flat, Emma," Sherlock said. With an enormous sigh, she walked away from her door after slamming it shut. She went to stand right beside him and follow his line of sight. Sure enough, he had located the very thing she had been wanting to avoid having him see to begin with.

She started shifting herself in the direction of the object, attempting to stand in front of it so that he couldn't get a better look at it. Emma knew that there was a chance Sherlock had already gotten quite a good amount of observations from what he'd already looked at. But she couldn't help but want to push that out of her head and let it all work itself out.

Instead of fighting any further, Emma attempted to push the conversation forwards. The faster she could get it moving, the faster she could get this entire situation with Sherlock over with.

"You said you wanted to give me something," Emma said. "How about you just get that over with so that we don't have to worry about this any longer?"

"You could also explain what this is," Sherlock suggested, gesturing towards the project she was starting to block.

"Can't you deduce it or something? Head into your mind castle or whatever it's called to go find something that'll explain it all for you?"

"First of all, it is called a mind palace," he corrected. Emma started to let out an upset sound as she rolled her eyes, but he didn't let her continue. He was in the middle of his words, and she wasn't going to be stopping him any time soon.

"Second of all, just because I observe and deduce many things from the details I can see doesn't mean that I am some sort of mind reader. I don't understand where this misconception comes from."

"Well, what do you think it is?" Emma asked.

"I know it's something you've made," Sherlock began. "That was immediately obvious, judging by the paint on your finger tips and the fact that there are various bits of ribbon lying around. But I don't understand what would compell you to tie all of the ribbon to wooden pegs."

"My therapist is what would compell me to tie all of the ribbon to wooden pegs," Emma said, letting out a scoff. Sometimes she didn't understand what went on in that woman's head - she had some strange ideas, and this was one of the epitomes of it all. It seemed like some sort of exercise directed towards a child, not towards a woman in her thirties who had attempted suicide.

"Explain," Sherlock demanded.

"Well, here's the best way I can explain it - she knows I like art. She knows I like to sketch and paint, and I suppose that translated into arts and crafts in her head. She told me that in order to get over the people who have hurt me, I have to do this. It's all about people, everything that's hurt me, so that's what I have to do."

"It still remains incoherent."

"It's supposed to give me closure!" Emma snapped. "It's like...it's like knotting up a ribbon around a peg is knotting up my problems and making them something finished. Now. What the hell did you come here for to begin with. What are you trying to give me?"

Sherlock didn't speak as he handed over the papers he'd been keeping behind his back thus far.

"What's this?" she asked, her eyes glancing over the notes scattered across the page like stars pockmarking the night's dark skin. Then finally, her glance came back up to the top where the title was and Emma released a gasp as she'd been holding it back for ages even though she truly hadn't been.

"Oh, my God, Sherlock," she exclaimed, pressing her eyelids together. "What the hell? It's not...it's not even...it's handwritten...I don't..."

"I wrote it quite a long time ago," Sherlock explained. "I know it's written in treble clef, but I assume you know enough about music in order to transpose it to bass clef to be played on the cello instead."

"Irene," she said out loud. "God. You wrote this a long time ago? Why would you write this? And why the hell are you giving it to me?"

"Simple. I believe that you need it far more than I do, and as we were in similar conditions over Irene I believe it is only fitting that you receive it."

"You wrote a song for her?"

"I suppose that is the best way to explain it. Sometimes it is necessary for songs to explain things - words can only go so far when it comes to human communication. Music, on the other hand, can act as both a method of communication as well as a form of entertainment."

"And you're just giving this to me," Emma exclaimed, blinking several times in her shock. "You're just handing it over, even though this looks like an original copy...good God, I didn't even know you composed at all to begin with."

"I haven't heard much of your cello lately," Sherlock exclaimed. "Somehow I feel it would be somewhat less irritating if it were one of my own songs being played."

"Of course," Emma scoffed. But even as Sherlock allowed himself to remain in this mindset, Emma found herself simply astounded by the piece of music she was holding between her fingers. Sherlock had given her a piece of music for Irene. He knew how badly she was worked up over Irene and then he'd decided not to mock it - he was attempting to comfort her over it.

Sherlock had done an awful amount of things to and for Emma, but this was one of the select few she felt legimately thankful for. Just by scanning over the music she could see that it was expertly crafted, created out of raw emotion that she didn't think Sherlock was capable of producing.

"Thank you," Emma murmured. She turned her back on Sherlock in order to put the music in a safe place where Florenz couldn't jump up and tear it into shreds. This was one piece of music that couldn't be replaced. She expected Sherlock to want to leave at this point, but as she turned around she found that he was still standing there as if rooted to the ground.

"Now, you were explaining this project of yours that your therapist has demanded you to make."

"Natalie is a funny one," Emma exclaimed, rolling her eyes. While outwardly she attempted to give the appearance she was moving along to the new subject, on the inside she remained practically paralysed by the fact she'd been given Irene's song, written by Sherlock himself. She moved herself to the board with all of its pegs and ribbons and began to explain.

"Maddie was one of the first ones I tied a ribbon for," she said, gesturing towards the uppermost portion of the display. "And then Irene was the second. I know they're the same person, but in my mind they don't...they don't intersect."

She didn't check if Sherlock was listening to what she was saying - she simply just continued, expecting him to bark at her at any given moment and stop her from saying another word. When he didn't, Emma simply explained more of the ribbons she'd put up.

"This one is Leon, that was surprisingly easy to get over - probably because I purposefully spilled soda all over him the last time we were together, you must remember him...and there's one for John, another relatively easy one...we honestly weren't together for all too long, and I stopped caring about him in that way not long after we'd broken up, but it only felt right to include him."

Sherlock didn't say a single word after this, making sure to allow everything she was currently doing to compute in his mind. Yes, it all made quite a large amount of sense thus far - but there was always the possibility that he was being mixed up by her all over again. For once, he would allow her to simply continue to speak.

"This one is for Owen," she said, running her fingers delicately over the ribbon. The way she handled it made it seem as if the piece of cloth were fragile, as if she pressed too hard the whole thing would just fall apart. She took a deep breath as she stared at it for a moment, trying to let her feelings from that prior experience soak in.

"White with red spots," Sherlock noted. He was about to go further when Emma started interrupting him. "I know what you're thinking," she sighed. "I know, I shouldn't be representing my closure with him using a ribbon that looks like the blood on that wedding dress. But my therapist doesn't need to know that, and you can just shut up."

"I haven't said anything," Sherlock responded.

"Sometimes you can hear what people are thinking," she sighed. "Is that what you mean when you say that people are thinking too loud for you to think?"

"That's something I never thought you would've understood."

"You never thought I would've understood anything that goes on inside of your head," Emma sighed. "Anyways...thank you for the music. Thank you."

"If this is your way of telling me that it's time for me to go, it's not time yet. There is one more thing I must know before I leave."

"And what would that be?" she groaned in response.

"I assume I have a ribbon," Sherlock said, raising his nose slightly up. "You're always whining about the various ways I've ruined your life, so it would only make sense if you had one for me."

Emma remained silent, just running her fingers across the ribbonsall over again as if they were precious swatches of fabric and she wanted nothing more than to allow herself to feel them over and over again. Sherlock wasn't watching her behaviour - he didn't believe that he had to. It would be simple for him to figure out what was going on with her, just as it always had been.

"You would most likely have a blue ribbon for me, one resembling my scarf - you wouldn't want to do any sort of dull colour. It would defeat the purpose, of course."

He paused, waiting for Emma to agree that he'd been correct about it all as per usual. He was confident he'd managed to predict her behaviour and what she'd done, and now it was just a matter of her confirming it for him. After how many times she'd managed to perplex him as of late, he felt it was necessary that she confirmed what was going on.

Yet she didn't open her mouth. Emma didn't make a single noise, only continued looking at the ribbons she'd arranged so nicely across the pegs. She wasn't going to give Sherlock an answer, not this time around.

A/N Do you know how long I've been waiting to post this chapter? Well, this plotline in particular. I don't actually know myself - I just know it's been an awful long time since I came up with the concept and tried to push it all together.