A/n: Originally a one-shot that morphed into something more. Focuses on Joan Watson, as seen from title, and her journey with and away from Sherlock Holmes. All suggestions and feedback are welcomed!
Chapter 1
(2 years ago)
The last of the day's light disperses into the distance and would have left her room in total darkness if not for the lamp by her bedside. Few shadows grace the room, the result of sparse furniture. She shuts the novel that has been open to the same page for the past ten minutes, and an audible sigh escapes her. The thought that it had been a wrong move deleting the past photos of colleagues and friends from her laptop would not be chased away. The uneasy feeling rears its head again. She grimaces, unwilling to identify it as regret. If only thoughts of 'what-could-have-been' would cease existing.
If only.
Of course, they will never fully go away. A blessing and a curse, having a mind that often ponders such issues.
It never is a problem for him. His mental skills alone are on a different level altogether, coupled with a more than substantial level of self-confidence. All of that meshes together to create the perfect mixture. That is why he excels at his art, and she has failed at hers.
The image of an ashen man lying on the operating table flits through her mind, and she clenches her jaw against the sudden surge of emotion. Twelve years of medical school, and nothing prepared her for that one moment where she would witness a patient die due to a single mistake that she made. Were those twelve years all for naught? Perhaps if she hadn't become a doctor, it might have saved his life. She recalls vividly the gush of blood, the slick surface of the scalpel in her hand, the paralyzing fear, the tremble of her fingers that refused to still, and the accursed blurring of vision.
Her knuckles are white, skin stretched against bone. Slowly, with concentrated effort, she straightens her fingers, pressing palms against the rough material of her blanket.
Compared to how much she had brooded over the incident in the past, she's doing much better. At least, this is what she tells herself; time will numb the pain. These moments of self-blame and oppressive guilt are fewer and further between now. No more sleepless nights, no more days of staring into space, having lost direction in life, no more wallowing in the hate of being the cause of the accident.
Accident.
As though the word itself is capable of getting you a free pass from the consequences of taking a man's life.
"Watson."
She is shaken from her reverie, disrupted by a voice that is not one of her own.
Sherlock stands there in his customary pants-and-sweater outfit, feet snug in his brightly-coloured socks. His hands are stiff and straight by his sides, fingers curled into his palms. What is different, however, is his expression.
She has seen that look before.
His gaze darts to a corner of the room before landing back on her. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
He always knows when she lies, yet the response tumbles from her lips anyway.
Force of habit, perhaps.
She expects him to nod, a sign that he knows she acknowledges his concern, and he does so, yet instead of ambling off to his space down the stairs, he continues standing there with that perturbed look on his face.
The silence stretches. His features make a contortion of some sort, and his mouth twitches. "If you ever need to talk, Watson..."
Her throat constricts for a second. "I know," she says, and immediate relief floods his face.
He nods again, to himself, it seems, and turns away. She swallows the urge to call him back, to stay with her, and keep her company. It is almost ironic, how their roles seemed to be reversed in this very situation. She always thought he needed her to be around, to be his pillar of support, and most of the time, that is the case.
Today is different. Today she needs companionship like a man in the heat of the desert needs water for his parched throat.
She is stubborn, and his name does not make it past her lips.
An hour of tossing and turning on her bed proves her efforts at slumber to be futile. Her mind refuses to succumb to sleep. She gives up and rolls to the side of the bed, springs creaking under her. Wrapped in her comfy, red sweater, she ventures out of her room and pads quietly down the stairs to the warm, welcoming glow of first floor.
He sits on the table, cross-legged, head bent low to its surface as he peers at the object of his scrutiny with a magnifying glass.
The tiniest of smiles tilts the corners of her lips. "Sherlock."
Her voice breaks the stillness of the room. His head jerks up. "Yes?"
"I was wondering if you've got some time to talk."
He sits motionless for a few seconds, looking at her blankly. She wonders if he has already forgotten his earlier offer. Just as she is considering that walk back up the steps, he takes a sudden breath and scrambles off the table. He stands by it awkwardly, rubbing his thumbs and index fingers by his side. "Coffee? Tea? Cocoa? People drink hot cocoa in times like this. I've heard women do sometimes, at least. Or they have ice cream. Comfort food." His brow furrows. "Never worked for me, but we can give it a try. There's probably time to make a trip down to the store. It shouldn't take me more than—"
"I don't need food, Sherlock," She stops him mid-ramble. "I've a question that I thought maybe you can offer your opinion on." She gives him a wan smile. "You always manage to provide a solution for my problems."
She glances tentatively at him sideways. His jaw muscle twitches slightly.
"Ever had those moments where you wonder if you're supposed to be here?" Before the silence becomes too daunting, she pushes ahead. "You know, believing that whatever you're doing is the right direction in life? All that they say about purpose, and what you're meant to do… do you think you can mess that up?" She taps the top of the table lightly and aims a wry smile at him. "Don't often get a sober companion coming to you for advice, do you?"
"You haven't been my sober companion for a while now, Watson," he says quietly. "As you very well know, I consider my spiraling into a drug-induced state a weakness." He pauses. "There is no doubt it is not the direction a person ought to take in life. I suppose you would say I veered off the right path in life…but I don't view life as a straight line." He makes a sharp turn to face her. "You studied to be a doctor. You became a doctor. You saved plenty of people. You made an honest mistake, and it led you to become a sober companion, and that led you here. To be a consulting detective. I believe we have many right," he air-quotes with his fingers. "Directions, not just one. The image of life, if there is one, would be more of a winding river than a straight road. One failure does not erase all the good you've done with your skills. Even now. Tell me you're not utilizing what you've learnt over the past years in our cases."
She raises her gaze from the jagged scratch on the table and sees him staring at her.
"Every step is a step that brought you here, Watson, and you are who you are because of it. Would I label my taking drugs as a right direction? Probably not, but I can say with certainty that I have come out a stronger person from overcoming that obstacle."
His words become her thoughts as she lies in bed, wide awake in the darkness, until finally, the welcoming oblivion of sleep washes over her, scattering bits and pieces of his advice on the shore of consciousness where she would find them when the next day dawns.
"Good morning, Watson!"
He greets her in a tone entirely too chirpy for the morning of grey skies that promise of snow. With a half-hearted attempt at what would be a returned greeting, she makes a beeline for where she'd find her own source of perkiness. The welcoming aroma of coffee beans permeates the air, and she shuffles to a stop before the pot. He has taught her many things, but, alas, she has found that his enthusiasm for mornings is not contagious. She hears the sizzle of oil to her right and guesses without having to turn her head that he's making his favourite breakfast food again. The cracking of eggshells confirms her theory.
"Hate to ruin the moment while you're indulging in your addiction, Watson, but upon getting up this morning, I noticed that my locks were out of order."
"My condolences," she mumbles, refusing to budge from her catatonic state.
"I suppose I ought to be more specific. Did you move them?"
Her moment of Zen melts into exasperation. How did she ever end up being housemates with a man who gets his nose out of joint over disorganized locks? "No, Sherlock. God forbid I switch the positions of your beloved locks." She walks over to the fridge, yanking the door open. "Perhaps you were sleepwalking and re-arranged them."
"I admit in some of my worst moments, I may be unappealingly unoriginal, but there is always a process in which I do things, and those locks, this morning, were in no particular order."
His voice rambles on, and she lets it fade to a background drone. It is too early to make the effort to process his sentences. She mentally runs through the list of tasks that need to be accomplished today. Call her mother to update her on her life, reschedule the dinner date that she missed yesterday which, much to her embarrassment, she has not yet contacted to apologize for her absence, and drop by the grocery store.
"You know," she cuts him off in the middle of his stringed words as she is peering into the fridge. "Maybe you did move those locks in your sleep, and it's your sub-conscious mind telling you that you need to chill." She spots the carton of cream partially hidden behind the block of butter. "I know you're a man of details, but studies show too much stress makes you age faster." The tray full of empty eggshells on the counter catches her attention. "And consuming that many eggs isn't good for your cholesterol levels either."
"While I appreciate your good intent, Watson, you are hired as my apprentice to apply your medical skills to dead bodies, victims, and suspects of cases we are assigned to, and to occasionally fix me up when I get shot," he adds as he cracks another egg into the bowl without missing a beat. "What you are not hired to be is my personal nutritionist." He waves his hand at the refrigerator. "Pass the milk, please."
She rolls her eyes, but complies with his request.
"I'd have you know that recent research has implied higher consumption of eggs is not associated with increased risk of coronary heart disease or stroke. Therefore, you have nothing to worry about."
No matter what anyone says, even from the mouth of the genius living with her, eating five eggs for breakfast hardly seems to be nothing to worry about, but as is her habit with most of his comments, she lets it go and grabs the cereal from the cupboard.
"Yes, if you intend to have breakfast this morning, I advise you to do so within the next half hour."
"Plans?"
"With a dead body. Captain Gregson wishes to have our presence around for their latest case. Which," he does a sudden ninety degree turn to face her. "Brings to mind that I should let you know Detective Bell commented favourably on your dress yesterday." He stares at her unblinkingly with an expression that she is unable to discern. A second later, he returns to his beating of the eggs. "Of course, let's not forget that it was I who picked the outfit for you. What with you sleeping late as usual, it has become some sort of a hobby of mine."
A compliment, or an insult? Probably both. With Sherlock, that has often been the conundrum.
"And in case you're wondering, I have absolutely no interest in bearing the title of your fashion advisor. Although I suppose there's no harm in telling you that I think those impractical high heels greatly hinder the speed of your running ability. Just so you know, if we're ever chased by those wretched minions sent by evil masterminds, I'm not carrying you on my back."
"I feel loved," she remarks dryly as she dumps a spoon in her cereal.
"And your skirts can stand to be a little longer. It gets rather distracting for the cops. You know, they have duties to perform." He must feel her glare because he goes on to say, "Merely stating my observations, Watson. I have absolutely no issues with your clothes, but a fact is a fact. Men are susceptible to the weaknesses of the flesh." He scrapes the heap of scrambled eggs into a clean bowl and carries it over to the table, pulling his chair in as he seats himself opposite her. "Eggs?"
She declines. Her hunger subsides after a few spoonfuls of cereal, and she surreptitiously studies her companion, busy forking up his breakfast from his bowl. "What's this case we're working on?"
"Lovers' spat gone wrong. Girl shot by boyfriend who then committed suicide. Captain Gregson suspects foul play, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's an open-and-shut case. People fail to realize that most often, the ones who hurt them are those closest to them."
She doesn't have to ask what is on his mind, or more specifically, who. The name of the woman who has left an indelible mark on her companion hangs heavy in the air like the snow-laden clouds outside the Brownstone. She'll never admit it to him, but there is a part of her that is genuinely curious about what kind of woman Moriarty really is to have succeeded in tricking one of the smartest men in the world.
Their conversation has come to a lull. She watches as he finishes his breakfast. Occasionally, he'd be willing to open up to her, but most of the time, he'd rather brush her and the questions he considers to be invasive away. One never knows which category a moment will fall under. She decides to venture forward with tentative steps. "So," she begins hesitantly. "You'd rather not let anyone else get close because of the risk of getting hurt?"
His chair gives a sudden screech as he stands. "You deduce what we have and tell me, Watson," he says, voice noticeably subdued.
She stares at his back as he walks away from her. His bowl clatters in the sink.
"I'll never hurt you, Sherlock."
The words spill out before she manages to fully comprehend the magnitude of that single sentence. When she does, it is too late to take them back.
He makes no move to face her. "You can't promise that."
She remembers those words as her own when he assured her he would never let any harm come to her. Any shadow of doubt that she has spoken too quickly, of making a promise she may not be able to keep, disperse from her mind. He has bound himself to the promise of keeping her safe. Can she not do the same for him?
"And yet," she says quietly to the back facing her. "I have."
(present day)
An instrumental version of 'Silent Night' drifts from overhead speakers, and sharp, staccato sounds penetrate the otherwise quietness of the building as black heels click against the ceramic tiles of the hospital's lobby. It is 2AM in the morning, and surprisingly few visitors occupy the dark blue cushioned chairs lined up against the pale yellow walls. A middle-aged man with a day's worth of stubble, eyes ringed with dark circles, sits, elbows on knees, head in hands. His gold ring reflects the lights on a glittery Christmas tree by his chair. His red and black plaid shirt hangs untucked, the ends of his jeans rising above his ankles, showing just enough to tell her he'd hurriedly slipped into his shoes without bothering about socks.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looks up, eyes brightening as though he expects her to be the bearer of good news. She is not, unfortunately. The only reason she is here during her shift is because the vending machine on her floor has broken down, and she is in need of caffeine. She walks past him with an apologetic smile and slots a couple of coins into the machine. It emits a whirring sound, and as it begins to dispense coffee into a paper cup, she hears a beep from her pager.
She's being summoned.
Picking up her cup of coffee, she makes her way back to the second floor.
He has his arm resting awkwardly on the table when she enters the room. She notes the blood on the front of his shirt and the gaping wound on his hand. "Sorry about the wait." She offers him a fleeting smile as she snaps on a pair of disposable latex gloves. She had taken a minute to clean up. "How did you cut your hand?"
"I had an accident."
The clear, crisp accent rings in the air. British.
"Were you cooking, washing, or handling any dirty equipment?"
"Glass. Forty minutes ago. I stopped the bleeding."
"Well, let's see what we have here," she says as she prepares to examine his injury.
He stays silent as she cleans his cut. His gaze hasn't wavered from her since she walked into the room. It is a little unnerving.
"I hope you're left-handed. You won't be writing with this hand for a while." she teases lightly, trying to dispel the nervousness that has settled at the pit of her stomach. She has done plenty of stitching jobs in the past. There is no logical reason for the uneasiness.
"Ambidextrous, actually. It won't pose any problems."
The self-assured way of speaking makes her chance another look at him, but she can read nothing from the stoic expression on his face. He doesn't flinch at the injection she gives him to numb the area, nor does he turn his head away to avoid watching her stitch the cut. As a matter of fact, he seems to be strangely enthralled by her work. It is the only time he has taken his eyes off her; to fixate on the needle threading in and out.
"It's rare," she mentions as she tugs at the thread. "Most people don't like watching their flesh get pricked with a needle."
"I'm not most people," he replies.
She throws him an inquisitive glance, but the expression on his face is still indecipherable. Putting the strange remark out of her mind, she returns to the job at hand, and within a minute, is placing a dressing on the treated wound.
"Keep that area away from water for the next 48 hours. After that time period, showers are fine, but try not to get the wound soaked." She pulls off her gloves, reciting the list of dos and don'ts that has been ingrained in her memory. "Some minimal bleeding might occur, but if the area starts to get red and swollen, especially if you notice that you're running a fever—"
"You don't remember."
It stops her short. She looks up from the chart. "I'm sorry?"
"You don't remember," he repeats.
There is no flicker of recognition, but something in his voice, a note of desperation, makes her take a moment longer in hopes that perhaps she would be able to place him. Seconds later, she gives up scrutinizing him because there is only a blank canvas where she sees him.
Before she can apologize, he grabs his coat and stands. "I see how it is," he says abruptly. She thinks he is about to leave, but a couple of steps before reaching the door, he stops and angles his body towards her. "Thank you," he says in a low voice. "For the stitches." His hands fidget a bit, and after a long while, he proceeds to say, "They're beautiful." Without waiting for a reply, he turns and disappears through the doorway, not sparing a backward glance.
She isn't certain what would qualify as an adequate response. She's met her share of odd characters during the night, but never one who has praised her on the quality of her stitches. Having lost the opportunity to thank him now that he is gone, she turns her attention to his chart, a foolish thought suggesting that perhaps she can learn something about that man from it. The tiny seed of curiosity has taken root. She doesn't know where all this interest in a patient is coming from, only that it is present.
She notes his personal details printed out neatly in black ink, and the first question forms in her head.
What kind of name is Sherlock?