Stay
She's there for him and he's there for her. They don't voice these facts, that's as unnecessary as saying that Nuneaton is a horrid place, but they know it. They both know pain and grief all too well, and they are both wise enough to know they wouldn't have gotten as far alone as they got together. And often, one of them takes advantage of this fact. Sherlock asks Joan to monitor his sleep every now and then, and she asks him to please accompany her to a family gathering, and they go, easily, quietly, and without ever questioning.
But it's on a stormy Saturday evening, when the town is quiet and the cases are scarce and Sherlock is going stir-crazy, that Joan decides it's time to understand what is it that's happening. He's sitting next to the fireplace on his favourite armchair, striped sock-clad feet plopped over an ottoman, Summa Theologica resting on his lap. A cup of tea – most certainly cold judging by the amount of time it's been there – rests next to him on the coffee table, and she takes a moment to wonder if she'll ever be able to remove the stain that cup is leaving on the wood. She takes a brief glance at him, hoping she didn't linger long enough for him to notice, but she's not rapid enough. He notices her there, and closes his book on his lap before glancing up at her.
"Watson, why don't you just say whatever it is that you want to say and preserve your shoe soles?" he asks, and she considers just dropping it.
But she won't. She needs to understand this co-dependent relationship they have, needs to understand if they're still just partners and friends, or if the nights he slept or her floor and held her hand after a particularly frightening case got the best of her have changed their relationship. She recognizes that her own need for labels is rather pathetic. They're adults, they don't have to explain what they have to anyone, but for some reason, she feels like she needs it explained, not for any third-party, but to herself.
She hesitates for a moment before asking him. "What are we?" she blurts out, eyes glued on the sheer pulchritude on his face, trying – and failing – her best not to look too nervous.
"What part of our existence are you referring to?" he asks, and she can't tell if he's being serious or just pulling her leg, but decides it's best not to intervene with his response "We're beings in the macrocosm. Sapient creatures, some of us. Consumers of oxygen. We're…"
"You and me, Sherlock." She says "We as in us. Holmes and Watson. Joan and Sherlock. What are we, the two of us?"
He ponders for a moment, before taking his feet off the footrest and reaching for the cup of tea. He seems annoyed by the question, confused even, which is something she's sure she's never seen before.
"I do not understand what is it that you plan to achieve with this inquiry, Watson." He tells her, setting the cup back on the table "I fail to see both your point and what caused you to pursue this, and I'm honestly gobsmacked at the blatant ignorance of it."
"Excuse me? Ignorance of what? I'm just trying to understand the kind of relationship we're harbouring." She says, and it's almost a whisper. She's not normally fazed by never-ending rudeness, but this is not exactly a normal situation. "God, Sherlock, can you not see it? Something has changed here. Between us. You fall asleep by my side so often I've come to startle when you're not there. You have been observing me. Not just normal Sherlock Holmes observations, but personal observations." She tells him, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "You bought me flowers last week. My favourites."
She looks at him, pleading, begging him to just tell her what he thinks, explain what he's doing, where they're going, what he wants.
But he doesn't. It takes him a second, and then he's dashing off to lord knows where, his coat and shoes disappearing alongside him through the front door.
She's not entirely sure what she expected, but that certainly wasn't it. He ran from her, almost literally ran from her, and as always, there she stands, confused, annoyed, and so, so very intrigued. Accept the fact that Sherlock Holmes is and always will be a mystery, she says to herself, before she can drag her feet up the stairs and into her bedroom. He will not be there tonight, that much she's sure of, but not much else is clear.
It's well after one when she hears the doorknob turn. A faint light comes from the hallway, and she sees a shadow, his shadow, standing on the doorway.
"Sherlock?" she calls, her voice drowsy with sleep.
"I don't know." He responds, shifting on his heels.
"Don't know if you are Sherlock?"
"Don't know what we are." He tells her "I'm not a common man Watson, and you can't expect my relationships to be common. I enjoy your company, there's no one else I'd rather spend time with, and I'd go to any length to protect you, but I doubt there's anything in these words you don't already know." He continues "Therefore, I invite you, Watson, to tell me what we are, for I do not know."
He's right. She knows all of that already. But for some wicked reason, she needs that affirmation.
"We are whatever we want to be."
"And what is that?"
"I don't know." She really doesn't. Sherlock is chaotic, careless, infantile, completely crackers prick, and a romantic relationship with him sounds in no way desirable, and yet, a future without him seems unfathomable. She can't fight for that relationship alone, and she's bloody near sure he won't fight alongside her.
"Well, be sure to inform me once you do know." He says, and turns around to leave the room.
"Sherlock."
"What?"
"Stay."
Author's Note: Blimey, I cannot believe I did it! I've been meaning to write an Elementary fic for so long now but never got around to it, but now it's done! Not sure about the quality, but I hope you enjoy it anyway, and please let me know what you think!