Disclaimer: All recognizable Elementary characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners including, but not limited to Arthur Conan Doyle and CBS. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this fan fiction story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No financial gain is associated with the publishing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Post-ep for "No Lack of Void" (2x20). This is what I imagine the scene being when Sherlock returned from the cemetery where he said his goodbyes to Alistair. Enjoy! -dkc
Mourning
Sherlock returned to the brownstone, his eyes red from recently shed tears. Joan sat in the chair awaiting his return. Her worry since Alistair's death was not that Sherlock would relapse but that he would close himself off and deny his grief.
"I called," Joan said, attempting to keep reproach from her tone.
"I was at the cemetery," he removed his coat and scarf.
"Are you okay?" She asked, approaching him.
Sherlock turned to face her. The anguish reflected in his features. He didn't need to speak for her to know what was needed. She wrapped her arms around him. His usually taller frame crumpled into hers. She held him to her, his face against her clavicle, feeling and hearing his sobs.
"It's okay," she whispered.
As his sobs lessened, her fingers that had been running through his thinning hair slid to his cheek and tilted his chin to look at her.
"I apologize," Sherlock looked ashamed of showing his emotions, his very raw emotions.
"Don't," she insisted. "Grief is healthy."
He offered a cynical chuckle before placing his head on her shoulder. For as long as they had known each other, lived with each other, worked with each other, they had never shared a moment quite as intimate as this one. Him allowing her to see his grief was a huge step for them.
"I need to go to a meeting," Sherlock admitted.
Joan had learned in her time as a sober companion that the eventual need for attending meetings was not necessarily that the addict feared he or she might use, but sometimes that the addict was angry at the addiction itself. Knowing how Alistair had died, Joan understood Sherlock's anger and fear.
"Let me get my coat and shoes," Joan said.
"You don't have to go," Sherlock grabbed her wrist as she turned her back to get her things.
Joan turned to him and offered a look that Sherlock had come to associate with friendship and love.
"I want to," she replied.
He didn't drop her wrist and she didn't break eye contact with him. There was something in the look on his face that Joan could not place. The fear and anger washed away and something else moved it. It wasn't desperation—she knew her comfort was sufficient, as he had calmed down. It wasn't confusion—he seemed to have accepted whatever it was he was feeling or thinking.
The contemplation on her own face gave way and she leaned toward him. She couldn't tell if it was her or him that closed the small space between them. Their lips met. His thin, determined lips felt unusually soft on her lips. He could taste the remnants of her lipstick. The kiss was short, but sustaining.
When they parted his mouth formed that slight sideways smile that she had come to know so well. It made her blush.
"Let me get my things," she quickly turned away from him, hiding her reddened cheeks.
Once Joan had her shoes and coat, they set off. He held the door for her as they exited the brownstone. As they reached the sidewalk, Joan found herself once again surprised by how open Sherlock was being. He casually took her hand in his and didn't let go.
They walked the entire way to the meeting hand in hand, talking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
-finis-