He was up at his usual hour, a bit before dawn this time of year. First time he'd wakened normally in days, actually, and he was looking forward to getting reacquainted with his scanner and apps over a bowl of cereal. When he came out to the main hallway he was startled to see her. She had cleared off half the red table and was sitting with her back to the library. The coffee press was there, half-full, next to a small plate with the remains of a muffin, and she was writing in a notebook, mug in hand. A few pieces of paper were stacked to the side, familiar forms with blank spaces for answers to problems he didn't want to solve.
Watson drank tea in the morning: two cups of Assam or English Breakfast, invariably. Coffee happened later in the day, when she wanted a sharper edge. And she was never up before him. He took a deep breath.
"Watson? You're up early. What's all this?"
"You know what it is." She kept writing as she spoke, not looking up until she finished the sentence.
He clenched his jaw, jutting his chin forward, just as she knew he would, defiant and petulant. "I didn't take any drugs."
"No. But you were high, intoxicated to the point of psychopathy. I was here, remember? In this room. When you idly flicked the straight razor like it was a toy and brandished the ice pick as you described the frightening clarity you were experiencing." She looked at him calmly. "Care to consider what I was experiencing?"
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, not making eye contact, eyes flickering as he avoided looking at any of the hiding places he'd accessed that night.
"I'm not interested in apologies right now. We have work to do. Because of your disdain for this process, neither of us was ready for... For what happened. I'm not doing that again."
"Which part?"
"I'm not joking Sherlock, and I'm not taking your shit. Go get something to eat, and we'll talk. If you ditch me now, I won't be here when you get back."
The temptation to flee was almost overwhelming, as was the temptation to call her bluff. She had waited two hours for Liam, years after their relationship was over; surely she wasn't ready to give up on him yet. But then Liam hadn't been a raving lunatic. To the best of his knowledge.
He did not want to do this. [did not deserve this. a second chance. and what if i use up that second chance now and later squander it; there wouldn't be another.]
He still didn't know what he should have done with Moran. The indecision burned in his chest, like pyrosis. He hadn't been lying when he told her that everything she had taught him brought clarity. It was that other thing that pushed him past logic into the pure rage that seemed to be the only emotion he could feel without shame. She was right; it was the most exhilarating high he'd ever experienced.
Inside that pyre, he felt invincible. He couldn't imagine anything stopping him from leaping for it if that door opened again. No, not if: when. When Moriarty opened it. Everything was so simple inside the burn; cause pain to end pain; kill to kill it. Was that what he wanted his life to amount to? He felt the longing inside, the faint, deep "Yes!" to that question. But it was getting weaker. He wanted... something. Something else. Which meant he was forgetting the other thing, letting go, betraying his previous oath to hold tight until revenge swept him away.
The thought of systematically examining the other thing made him feel sick, worse than the indecision. There was nothing reasonable about it. He could not even name it. This. The other thing. A pathetic state of affairs for someone dedicated to observation and the application of the scientific method.
She came down to the kitchen and found him standing by the window overlooking the back garden. "What are you doing? It's been 20 minutes."
"Sorry, Watson. Did you think I'd taken you up on the offer to avoid this conversation forever?" He gave her the twitch of a rueful half-smile he used when he knew he'd made a mistake in judgment.
"No. I made sure all the doors were bolted this morning so I'd be able to hear you leave. These original doorknobs are lovely architectural features, but the lock mechanisms are noisy." That got her a surprised look and a small nod of appreciation. She ignored it and continued.
"So here's the thing. If we're going to work together, whether it's your work or mine, I expect you to be honest with me. But that goes both ways. So I have to tell you. I lied about your father agreeing to extend my contract. I'm not working for him any more."
He was surprised, which surprised her; she half-expected him to have already deduced that. "Of course he wouldn't. I really must have been out of my head —"
"Stop! Don't change the subject. This isn't about your resentment of your absent father." Sitting down at the kitchen table she muttered under her breath, "Or at least not yet." He glared at her but kept quiet.
"I stayed here these last few days because I care about you and didn't think you should be alone, and I was able to do it and I wanted to. But now you have to decide if you're willing to work with me on my terms, not his. And, well, whether you have any terms of your own."
He sat down and rested his fidgeting hands on the table, taping his fingers in sequence as if running scales. "How many addict gatherings are we talking about?" He knew he sounded sullen but didn't know how not to.
"You do have to go to meetings, whether with me or with Alfredo. But the key point for me is communication. You have to talk about the painful things. The triggers. You're your own puzzle, here. You need to understand why you reacted the way you did and how you can respond differently. I know you won't give up on stopping Moriarty. But revenge is a poor strategy for offense or defense, and it's a terrible waste of your strengths. You can do better if you let me help."
She paused and seemed unsure whether to continue, or whether he wanted to interrupt. He did not, his head turned away from her towards the back window. When she spoke again, her voice had the same calm certainty as before. "The second thing is that I want to continue working with you on cases." That brought his head around to stare at her. "You were right; I enjoy it and would very much like to stay on, if we can figure out how to make it work. Eventually I'll need an income, so there are logistical aspects to address. But the main concern is whether that's something you want. A partner."
She took pity on him (and herself) and suggested they talk again that afternoon, after he'd had some time to think. He bolted up out of his seat and was gone just as she expected, but instead of hearing the front door, she heard him take the stairs three steps at a time, all the way up to the roof.
When they met again, he sat in the upholstered salmon chair as if it were a throne and gestured toward the plastic chair in front of the computer. She pulled up a wooden chair from the other table and set it slightly out of his line of sight so he had to shift his position. Two could play this game.
"Watson, I took up your proposal with my other consultant," he said, waving Angus. "What kind of commitment are you prepared to make to pursue the profession of deductive investigator? When we last discussed this, and recall I raised the subject first, you turned down every proposition I made in favour of taking another sobriety client."
"You offered me the position of apprentice housekeeper intern."
"I am not entirely unwilling to entertain your terms to some degree. But you have resisted all claims to be involved in my investigations before now, despite your subsequent participation. That stemmed from a wish to maintain a professional distance as sober companion, obviously, however inconsistently applied. How would you describe yourself in this new role? And do you seriously consider your outfit suitable attire for a job interview?"
He was wearing hot pink socks (no shoes), jeans, and the "I'm not lucky" shirt he put on the day they met. It might have been washed since then, she thought.
"Well, I'd be a consulting sober companion, you might say. You know, not paid for my services... I'm starting to think you may need something slightly different: grief counseling or maybe anger management for homicidal maniacs; I'm not sure." He screwed up his face in irritation, then released it in a loud exaggerated sigh. "In any case you still have a lot to process from the last 18 months, and probably from before that. It gets in the way of your work as an investigator. At least some of the time. You can't dispute that. Don't try —" she said, as he started to open his mouth. "As for the detective work, do we have to label it yet? It's still pretty new to me, and it might not work out. If it turns out you like pushing my buttons more than I can take, or if I'm not good enough to keep up... Can we see how it goes for a few months?"
It was suddenly obvious to her how confident she sounded as addiction specialist, and how unsure of herself as investigator. It had been a very long time since she wanted to do something she wasn't already certain she could do well. Around the time she met Liam, in fact. [fuck. please let that be a coincidence. i'm a feminist and a medical professional. please let me not be motivated by the desire to fix broken men. how pathetic.]
That night, when she let him know she was heading up to bed, he got up from the desk and came over to the stairs. She was a few steps above him, and he looked straight ahead, apparently speaking to her knees. "I do want to apologize, Watson. For my behavior to you that night. Until you referred to it I had not, I had not imagined what it would have been like for you, to—, to see me like that." He looked up at her. "I am very sorry, in particular, if what I did made you—, made you feel threatened. In any way. I would not want to do that."
She gave him a sad smile. "Thank you. I know you mean it." He nodded and walked away and she continued up the stairs. I'm sorry; I know.They each wondered how many more times they'd have that conversation.
When he got up the next morning, he could hear the water running as he came down the stairs to the kitchen.
"Hey," she called out as she filled the kettle. "What kind of tea do you want?"
- end -