The Glass Rose

Chapter Eight

It was over. The wedding would be canceled due to the groom being locked away for trying to murder the bride. She wouldn't walk away from this arrangement unscathed, but she would walk away from it. She was still alive. She did it. She fought for her life and won.

The silence that fell over the apartment was broken by the sound of someone trying to unlock the door. With how effortless it was, she knew the lock wasn't picked, it was simply unlocked with a key. Only one other person had a key to her apartment. She didn't know if it was a good or bad thing; she hadn't forced Sherlock to return it. If they were on good terms, she'd want nothing more than him to come into the apartment and comfort her. While on poor terms, however, it was a bit more complicated. She didn't want him to return because he felt like he had to as a detective. That she was just another victim. She wanted him to choose to help his friend. But they weren't friends. She made that rather clear. It was her fault and on top of it all, Sherlock was right. There was something off about Martin. Sure, he yelled insults at her, but she now realized that it was from a place of fear and concern, not hatred.

She heard him twist the doorknob, but the door wouldn't open because of the large cabinet she pushed in front of it. She didn't know how she would face the detective who was once her closest friend. He had every right to still be upset. She had used him. Time and time again, and he did as she asked willingly. He was right about Martin, and she accused him of not being happy for her. Maybe a part of her wanted him to be against her marrying, no matter how great the man was.

"Adelaide? Can you open the door?" She completely ignored him, still staring out the window, using the fire poker for balance. She didn't know what to say to him. She wanted to thank him for caring, even after she called off their friendship, but didn't know how. A loud bang against the door rang through the apartment, startling her. It sounded again and again until she heard someone slip into the room and close the door behind them and lock it. "Adelaide? Are you-"

"You were right. There was something off about Martin. After killing my older brother, he attempted to kill me. I suppose you truly are a great detective, congratulations." She spoke in a monotone manner, still refusing to face him. She held the firepick in her left hand, leaning on it for support. He remained silent, but she could feel him staring at her. "If you're just here to gloat, go ahead! I won't stop you. You were right and I was wrong! Are you happy now?" At last, she turned to face him. His eyes widened when he saw her front. She looked relatively unscathed from behind, but while facing him, he was able to see every injury. His eyes ran over the cut on her forehead and her bleeding cheek to the cuts in the sleeves of her light blue dress. His eyes then ran down to the small cuts in her corset then at last landed on the knife sticking out of her.

Her eyes, however, were glued to the carpet. More specifically, her once perfectly white carpet which she prided herself on keeping clean now had splotches of deep crimson. She rushed over to the kitchen, dropping the firepick as she did. She ignored the blood on the cabinet her head was slammed against, grabbed a few towels, and filled a bucket with water. She hurried over to the carpet and got to work scrubbing as fast as she could. Sherlock simply stood there in shock, watching as the blood from her injuries dripped onto the carpet, making the stain even larger. She dunked the now crimson-colored towel in the water and rang it out and continued scrubbing. She felt like her lungs were closing despite the fact they were entirely unscathed. She didn't know what was happening. This had never happened before. She was gasping for air, and she knew her lungs were inflating, but still, she felt like she couldn't breathe.

She looked down at her carpet, imagining her brother's death. Was there a lot of blood in that? Was he in pain before he at last slipped into the unknown? Who cleaned up his blood when it was spilled? All questions she would never have an answer to. She dipped the towel in the water again, ringing it out, and began scrubbing again. She felt Sherlock's eyes on her, hating the look of pity spread across his face. She turns to face him at last.