"I just want to know that I'm not kidding myself by staying with you."
Fucking chivalry. She kicked the ball across the library, enjoying the noise it made against the brick hearth. She hadn't played soccer since high school, but after the first couple of tries she'd got the rhythm of it back and stopped knocking over the stack of file boxes on the floor and hadn't had to follow the rolling ball across the lock room for several volleys. The sound echoed through the silent house. Sherlock was at the prison, letting Sutter know what his wife had done. They were both waiting for Moriarty's call.
I will never allow any harm to come to you. That's not what she had asked him, and now it wasn't her safety he should be worried about, once he did what she expected he'd do next. She kicked the ball as hard as she could and the rebound off the edge of bricks shot the ball at an angle to crash into the bookcase behind the couch. A cascade of books followed, and she was tempted to leave them where they landed, let him deduce what had happened. Instead, she sighed and walked over to start putting the books back on the shelves with a silent apology to Ms Hudson.
She wasn't going to be coy about it. As soon as Moriarty hung up, she would call Sherlock and ask if he'd heard from him. And then she'd know where they stood.
She wanted resolution to this case and would get it regardless of what he'd pull in the name of protecting her, but after that, if there was an after that, it would be time to reevaluate. The terms of their partnership were largely unspoken, as befit two people with a lot to say about anything other than themselves. He'd been an encouraging and challenging teacher, but he had no experience accepting encouragement or challenge from peers. He had no experience believing he had peers. If he couldn't shift the contents of his thick skull to accommodate this new nattering, there'd be no point in staying on.
She assumed Gregson would always find her presence disquieting on some level, as a potential liability he could not control as long as he allowed Sherlock to work cases. His sexism was not overt, couched in defining her as less experienced and unarmed, and placing her within Sherlock's shadow, all indisputable. In Sherlock's case, it was more complicated, the sexism overshadowed by a generalized sense of superiority which was then kept in check by a damaged psyche terrified of being responsible for harming others, and a self-appointed responsibility to apply his intellectual gifts to protect them. It pissed her off when he forgot she belonged in a different category — that he invited her to work with him — standing beside him as a partner, equal in that responsibility, not another potential casualty he needed to handle. She was getting tired of being pissed off.
-.-.-
It was obvious he was struggling to maintain his equilibrium and indeed had faltered repeatedly the day before. The conversation they'd had only a few days ago, before capturing Gottlieb, had reassured her. He'd been able to see his limits clearly, and he had given her far more credit than she expected for making that clarity possible. But now, after three days without sleep and the strain of not being able to grasp the brass ring that Moriarty dangled just out of reach, he was slipping out of control. Instead of the hyper-rational cold vengeance seeker, she was reminded of the impulsive and emotional outbursts of their first few weeks together. She hoped he had been in touch with Alfredo even as she was sure he had not. She suddenly wondered what happened to that cocaine he'd told her Rhys had tried to give him.
This was her conundrum: There would always be temptation for him to use and temptation for her to want to intervene, not as consulting detective but as sober companion. A sober companion might save his life, but she would never be his colleague. If she expected him to learn to see her as the latter, she would have to make the commitment to it, too.
-.-.-
As irritating as he'd been, Gregson had a point when he said Sherlock would always need somebody. She knew that staying would involve some kind of caretaker role for her, occasionally reining him in and playing interference with others, being back-up addiction support when Alfredo wasn't available. If that's all it would ever be, then even if he was wrong about where she did belong, Gregson was right that this wasn't it. She picked up the ball and hugged it tight against her ribs, trying to quell the deep disappointment welling up inside.
The cloned phone started pinging.