title from "miss atomic bomb" by the killers. missing scene, which takes place during "scandal", and after irene gives the code to sherlock, but before the fireplace scene.
connected to my "forgotten in the archives" story, though it's not really necessary to read it.
i also feel that i should mention this story is exactly 999 words; for some odd reason, that makes me proud.
but the fall from grace
irene and john, in the aftermath.
Her first impression of 221B Baker Street was how singular it is; Irene cannot distinguish the difference between Sherlock's and John's possessions—this is not two roommates sharing a flat, but two friends living together. And judging by the state of the two bedrooms, they do not spend much of their time apart. Not that Irene had that impression the first time Sherlock and John first walked into her life—between the code words, the apology and the worry over each other's well-being and the fury that comes when the other is threatened (John, with a gun to his head; Sherlock, with a gun to his heart) and it seems that they will not escape unscathed.
Her second impression of the flat—now, as Sherlock curls himself on the leather chair with a violin resting in his lap, and as John tidies the kitchen, though he studiously ignores the table—is comfortable. The boys do not see any need to make conversation, but they never ignore each other. Irene catches them staring at the other for seconds or minutes. Sherlock will call out John's name and he'll answer make it yourself or Tuesday or Sherlock, why are you asking me, you already know the answer you git. (to which Sherlock will smile and John will giggle and Irene will be left in the dust.) John will ask Sherlock if he should avoid the sugar, or third cabinet, or since when did we own a rolling pin and he'll answer yes or no or john, your observational skills need improvement (to which John will huff and Sherlock will giggle, and Irene will not understand a word.)
(When she sat in the red chair, the boys glanced at each other with something between amusement on Sherlock's side and half-hearted irritation on John's. Irene figured the exchange had something to do with the chair belonging to John. And what intrigues her about the conversation is not the subject matter (God knows she has heard far stranger ones—or, saw, in this case) but that they did not say a word.)
Hours pass after Sherlock cracks the code and she has sent the text to Moriarty. John seems to be finishing up, placing dried dishes into the cupboards and Irene uses this opportunity to distract herself, just for a little while because starring at Sherlock does get a little boring.
She makes no sound when she slithers up to John, but when he turns he doesn't start in surprise.
Frowning, he seems to wait for her to say something; she doesn't, of course, curious to hear what he has to say. Shaking his head, John turns to his jacket hanging on the kitchen door. "I'm going out for a bit. Keep an eye out for him, yes?"
Casting a glance back at the detective, Irene sees him lost on the case. "Aren't you going to tell him?" She refuses to acknowledge keep an eye out for him, only because she does not know how, not like him.
John jerks his head in the general direction of his flat mate. "You see him—he won't come out of his...stupor for a while."
"He's been thinking for hours," she points out, feeling that she must have missed something.
And apparently she has because he's shaking his head and the laugh that rips out sounds more bitter than amused. "Look, just...let him be. He might still talk to me—he does that—but don't feel the need to answer. He doesn't expect one half the time, anyways," he says, lifting his left shoulder in a shrug.
Irene could ask and why doesn't he but she knows where that would lead and the last heart-to-heart they had wasn't something she quite enjoyed.
(She has always kept her heart locked in a jar tucked under the covers and no one has managed to find it yet. But Dr. Watson knows hearts, and hers is no exception.)
If she recalls correctly, John did not enjoy it either.
(His heart is kept on his sleeve and he does not mind when the world sees. But his heart is kept in a glass box so no one can touch it, except Irene tore open the veins and ventricles until she got to the core and made him rethink everything.)
He's hesitating at the door, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders hunched over; she can't tell if he needs to say something or if he is waiting for her to talk.
Irene almost says stay, don't trust him with me but all that comes out is, "You look sad." She smiles to ease the tension; adds with a grin, "Don't you trust me?"
He laughs like he has forgotten how to. "I trust you to look after him while I'm at the pub," he replies, and she thinks he is trying not to sound bitter, but they effort is useless because they know how the other works.
(They both follow their hearts, though Irene desperately tries not to. Somehow, they manage to soldier on.)
Irene offers a suggestive smile. "Careful not to flirt with anyone; don't want to make Sherlock jealous."
Devastation shatters his face, but what she doesn't understand is why pity seems to fill in the seams.
"We're not a couple," he sighs without vitriol. "I like girls," he says firmly; lost.
Irene could contradict him. She could rip him apart until his heart and his mind lay shattered on the floor. She could rip out his heart and squeeze until he calls out for the only one he will ever love.
But John could do the same, except make her understand who she will never have.
They both hate having their secrets shown to their world.
(To Sherlock.)
But Irene cannot say yes so she does not say anything at all.
Except, perhaps, she should have spoken because John is walking out the door leaving Irene alone in the flat with a man just as lost as the other.