Grateful
A/N: Just a touch of Thanksgiving… Originally written while sitting in gridlock on the New Jersey Turnpike as a gift for handful of sky… She was kind enough to take the time and edit it, so I felt the need to post it… however late it may be…
She takes the stairs slowly. Listening for signs of movement over the pop and hiss of the fire. She is not thrilled with the way their conversation ended last night, how they parted way and ended the day with harsh words hanging between them.
They don't usually quarrel.
She finds him where she left him—standing beside a neatly banked fire, only now he's dressed as if he were prepared to attend a dinner party, as if he were actually going to attend the one he'd blown off only hours ago.
It is curiosity alone that leads her towards him.
She'd broached the subject of him joining her for Thanksgiving dinner with her family. Her mother had brought it up every chance she'd had once the leaves had lost their green, but Joan had mentioned the day to him only twice, including last night, hoping to layer in enough affection and genuine hope so as not to come off in a dutiful sense.
It's not as if her invitation was the only one he'd received. Strangely enough, there are plenty of people in their lives who would enjoy his company on such a holiday. He turned them all down, of course, with the same disregard and disrespect he'd shown her last night.
He has his hands stuffed in his pant pockets, brown waistcoat open to reveal a crisp button-down the color of burnt pumpkins. He's traded sneakers for brown loafers; his socks are a collage of random stripes: purples and yellows and a few variations of green. He is cleanly shaven and she wonders if she's ever actually seen the skin along his jaw before.
"I suggest we take the tube, Watson, traffic is supposedly outrageous today." He takes an added interest in the gloss of the wooden floor as she steps across the library threshold slowly and with too much care.
She stops, the winged back chair is all that stands between them. The fire off to her right throws shadows across his face as it cannot compete with the sunlight struggling to push through the drawn shades.
She does not speak. Can't seem to find a way to convey anything she needs to say; maybe it's because she has no idea exactly what it is she's feeling or what it is she thinks she needs.
He takes a breath, clears his throat and shifts his gaze to the dwindling fire. "I've given much thought and taken much time and it would appear I have been inconsiderate and offensive in regards to your request."
He finally meets her eyes. Still she does not speak.
"Your motives have never been selfish or inconsiderate." Her eyebrows go up when the words hit her heart. She drops her arms from the defensive stance and instead drops an elbow to a palm and draws the other hand to her lips.
"You've always put me first. Have been the only one to do so, and to do so continuously. Even throughout my ever-changing moods and shifting views, you've been a constant in my life." He drops his eyes and lifts a hand to trace the patters on the wing of the chair. "Your affection has always been genuine. You've never once made me question your intentions and it has come to my attention that I have yet to express my gratitude or return such devotion."
He takes a step toward her, leaves a stretch of room that barely keeps their body heat from mingling.
"Today is important to you. And you are all that is important to me. Should my presence at dinner be all you request of me, then I am most humbly at your disposal."
She smiles after a beat of heavy silence, holds his eyes until he does the same, and then she steps away, stops beside the front door and her waiting winter coat. The words she longs to say won't come, so she coats the once she can manage with a touch of humor to help ease the tightness in her chest.
"My mother called you, I take it."
His smile broadens as he steps over and lifts the ivory wool she's so fond of. He lets the smile drop away as he holds it out. His tone is serious and soft when he speaks again; it's laced in something frighteningly close to what she would consider affection.
"I will confess she did call, but I must also confess that it was after I made my decision. Needless to say, she was thrilled to hear I'd be joining your little family gathering for dinner."
"Uh-huh," Is all she can muster as she settles into her scarf and buttons up against the city wind.
"And while we are on the subject of confessions, I will admit that I am more than slightly curious to met your cousins and meet who won the 'Henry' battle."
She laughs and relaxes into their once-again steady rhythm as he follows her out into the crisp winter air. Their silence is compatible as they fall in step with the ebb and flow of travelers rushing to get to the people they love. It isn't until they are standing before Mary Watson's door, the chime of the doorbell a muffled whisper, that he finds the need to speak again. He takes her elbow and she feels the hesitation in him, wishes she could force some confidence on him with just the connection of eyes and the beginning of a smile.
"Before this all begins and in case we are not allotted the opportunity for me to say so later, you are what I am thankful for, dear Watson. Not just today, but every day that came before it. And I will continue to be all the days after."
She is not given the opportunity to reply, for the door flies open and her mother lets out a happy cry, a small boy on her hip and she drags them both in out of the cold, her eyes fixated on Sherlock with a look of disbelief. When she finally turns from him it is throw her free arm around her daughter and hug her hard. "He came for you, Joan. Don't let him convince you of anything else." She meets his eyes over her mother's shoulder before he turns his gaze towards the baby reaching for his glen plaid scarf and the genuine smile he aims at her leads her to believe it's true.