In the Midst of the Blackest Storm
Author: Stella aka Orison
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Elementary and those two wonderful characters named Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson are property of CBS and other very lucky people. This is merely for fun.
Spoilers: Spoilers for episode 2x03 "We Are Everyone" and general knowledge of the series.
Summary: A short, post-ep piece about Joan, Sherlock, music and a thunderstorm.
Author's note: Hi everyone, it's been a while. Not new to the fanfic world, but definitely new to the Elementary fandom. My Muse recently awoke from a deep sleep and is suddenly very active so there might be more in the future.
A special thank you to my beta reader, amindamazed. I'm really grateful for your insight and comments.
"Do you think we're cut off from the world? You know, neither of us dates, neither of us really goes out much. At all, actually."
"We're not cut off from the world. We're engaged in creating one that's actually worth living in, one that addresses our needs entirely, and eliminates everything extraneous."
Joan Watson blinked and squinted at the numbers on the clock glowing on the nightstand.
2:21 am.
She lay in bed, blankets pulled up to her waist, her long hair spilling like dark water on the pillow beneath her head. Sleep eluded her tonight, her brain focusing instead on the conversation she'd had with Sherlock a few days earlier.
"Well, my friend signed me up for this dating website, and I think I'm gonna put my profile up. You know, so be nice if I bring anyone around, okay?"
"Won't be an issue."
"Why won't it be an issue?"
"Because you won't actually bring anyone around."
She blinked again, trying to force her eyes to accommodate to the darkness. Of course he'd thought she wasn't serious. Since they'd started their partnership, she'd come to realize that Sherlock could be controlling, even possessive when it came to her, and did not welcome any "distractions" outside the boundaries of their regular life.
He'd been quite vocal about it, his proverbial bluntness leaving no room for interpretation. He was fully engaged and totally committed to his job as a police consultant, and expected the same from her. Relationships were a complete waste of time and effort.
A loud crack of thunder shook her out of her thoughts. Outside, the night looked deeper than usual, streetlamps and highlights unable to fully penetrate the gloom. She pictured angry clouds rolling in, settling an eerie blackness over the city. A few moments later the windows rattled and the first, fat raindrops spattered against the glass.
Joan sat up, back against the wall. The laptop power light flashed next to her and she briefly considered checking if someone else had winked at her on TrueRomantix. Frivolous, she knew. And yet she was the one struggling to carve some 'real world' time out of her daily schedule, firmly believing that it was essential to her well-being. She could be focused and committed to being a detective and still have fun with her friends. Well, those few that she had left.
Sherlock viewed the job as a welcome distraction from his life. She, on the other hand, didn't want her work to define her. She'd made that mistake years ago when she was a surgeon, sacrificing everything else only to end up heartbroken and alone after Mr. Castoro had died. No. There was more to life than investigating deaths, and with a little luck she could even manage to convince him of it.
She tossed the covers aside, now completely awake. Maybe a cup of tea would help. Her bare feet hit the floor just as a flash of lighting lit the room, followed by another clap of thunder. The storm was raging outside, winds driving the rain fast and hard through a heavy blanket of humidity. Joan reached for her red sweater and put it on, tugging the sleeves further down on her wrists as she moved towards the door. Her hand had just touched the knob when the music started. Hesitant at first, then bolder, one note swiftly melting into the other as Bach's sonata echoed through the walls of the brownstone, travelling from Sherlock's room to the library and up to the second floor.
Joan stilled.
She had come to love this piece, magnificent and yet complex, learned to appreciate its spiritual and emotional power. Sherlock called it 'the greatest piece of music ever written'. He'd even shared a theory according to which the partita, and especially its last movement, had been written as a tribute to Bach's first wife, though that had never been proven.
It was a challenge on so many levels, he said, a simple melody that seemed to get harder the more you played it, and that a lot of musicians had tried to master with disappointing results. It didn't surprise her at all that he'd chosen to tackle it. Sherlock was anything but ordinary.
Instead of heading downstairs to the kitchen she slowly tiptoed back to one of the windows and just stood there, looking at the rain falling in sheets from the heavy sky.
He hadn't played Bach in months, and she wondered what emotions were driving him tonight. Sherlock was always careful not to reveal his feelings, but she thought he'd looked...sad when she'd come home after her dinner date with Jeff, his face lined with the silent grief of someone who's seen too much.
"I've lived most of my life with the firm conviction that romantic love is a delusion. It's a futile hedge against the existential terror that is our own singularity. Then I met someone who calls herself Irene Adler, and that forced me to re-examine those convictions. She, of course, turned out to be a criminal."
"Never really discussed how that made you feel."
"I feel liberated. I am, now and forever, post-love. And, as such, I'm free to pursue a life of meaning."
His words had struck her, awakening bittersweet feelings of protectiveness she would have said she didn't possess. Despite all the talk about the futility of love and being committed to the job, she knew he was still not over Irene. No, not Irene. Moriarty. Or whatever her name was these days. The woman had been his one meaningful connection, and she'd ripped his heart out. Anyone would be devastated, especially a man like Sherlock who came from a neglected childhood and had been on the receiving end of bullying through most of his school career.
"I think it's sad that you've given up, I think you have a lot to share if you cared to. I shouldn't be the only one who knows you."
She'd hesitated after that. Looking at him, she could've sworn she saw turmoil and pain in his eyes. Maybe even a hint of fear. That brief exchange had left her with a lingering sense of sadness and she felt compelled to help, to show the whole world the side of Sherlock Holmes that he kept hidden from view, buried under layers of sarcasm and wit.
Joan cared a great deal about him. She'd left behind her career and embraced a world she barely knew anything about to follow him, after all. A giant leap of faith everyone had questioned but her, but a decision she didn't regret. And neither did he. He'd flat-out told her once he was better with her. Sharper, more focused. Had vowed never to allow any harm to come to her, as if he could stop evil just by looking at it. His affection didn't always come across in the way he worded things. It was small gestures, like making her breakfast in the morning or offering to come with her to the cemetery, that spoke volumes about how he truly felt. Not to mention he'd named a whole new bee species after her.
The thought of that afternoon on the roof watching the newborns crawl their way into the world always made her smile. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have any friends, she'd been told. Sherlock Holmes doesn't relate to others like normal people would. And yet the weirdest thing had happened: they'd developed a bond, stronger than any relationship either of them had experienced so far. If people actually bothered to scratch below the surface they'd realize he wasn't really that difficult to understand, especially now that he'd come such a long way. He was healthier, happier. Even able to address his own needs and open up about his feelings. Nothing like the man she'd met a year ago, and she figured even more different than the one who'd needed to resort to drugs to dull his senses.
She liked to think part of his success was hers, and that his journey to sobriety had also been her journey towards acceptance and self-esteem. Life had scarred and twisted them both into thinking not to believe in anything again. What they needed now was learning to go beyond that and start living again.
When the music ended, she was still staring out the rain-streaked window at the street below. The downpour had slowed to drizzle, and the wind had died down. She could still hear distant thunder but the worst of the storm was over. Wrapping the sweater tighter around herself, Joan walked back to the bed and slid under the covers. Time to get some real sleep. Sherlock would undoubtedly have her up at the crack of dawn and she needed to be alert to keep up with him.
As if on cue, she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs. He was finally getting ready for bed as well. It still amazed her how long he could function with little to no sleep. Much longer than she'd ever been able to go during her days as a surgeon.
Joan unconsciously held her breath, expecting to hear the bathroom door open and close and the water running as he brushed his teeth, part of the routine she'd grown accustomed to in the year they'd spent together.
She heard nothing. The brownstone had fallen completely silent. Puzzled, she turned towards the door, focusing her gaze on the tiny sliver of light filtering in from under it. A shadow, his shadow, was partially obscuring it.
She pulled the blankets up to her chest, ready to pretend to be asleep as soon as the doorknob began to twist. Despite their countless conversations about boundaries, Sherlock had sneaked into her room on more than one occasion, scaring the hell out of her. Yes, it was annoying, and a complete invasion of her privacy, but for reasons that she could not fully articulate she'd come to find it kind of reassuring to have him watch over her as she slept.
A full minute passed, then two. Neither of them moved. Joan wondered if he wanted to tell her something, and debated whether or not she should make some noise to let him know she was awake.
She didn't have time to act on any of those thoughts. Another glance, and she realized he was no longer there. She sighed as she ran a hand through her hair. Was she glad he'd left without saying a word? Disappointed? She really couldn't tell. Her former client-turned-partner-and-friend had managed to surprise her again.
Grabbing the computer, she opened the 'Sherlock Holmes' file she'd created a few hours before and began to type.
Screw sleep.
She had a story to tell.
THE END
A/N: The title was inspired by the following quote:
If patience is worth anything,
It must endure to the end of time.
And a living faith will last
In the midst of the blackest storm.
- M. Gandhi