I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along
— My Immortal, Evanescence
She felt a myriad assembly of profoundly intricate emotions at her flatmate's return.
First was the stupefied awe over the utter miracle that he was alive, alive and breathing, no broken bones or snapped neck or cracked skull, his eyes not staring emptily skywards. Then she felt furious, surging, overwhelming anger at the thought of him leaving her, leaving her without a hope in the world, not bothering to even give her a sign, just letting her drift along like a lost, heart-shattered ghost for three miserable long years.
Then she felt strangely blank, like walking through a fog or seeing and hearing the world through a veil of cotton. She couldn't quite comprehend that he really was back, that he lived. Of course she wanted to, but it was hard to accept that this could possibly be real, that it wasn't just another fantasy dreamed up to try and console herself.
Now, three weeks later, she had hardly spoken to Sherlock. They moved around each other, uncertain and unfamiliar, not really sure of what to do anymore. They didn't fight, but they didn't talk either, except for little things, a few sentences smattered here and there each day. She gained back a bit of her weight, having lost more than a stone during his three-year absence.
She returned late from the surgery after a godawful, sick-people filled day, too exhausted to even be irritable, and scavenged up a bit of leftover Chinese from the fridge, not bothering to heat it up. She had no desire to deal with anything that might happen to be residing in the microwave at the moment, and was quite content to eat her several-days-old takeout cold. Sherlock was reading silently on the sofa, only having raised his eyes once when she first stumbled through the door, and she wondered briefly if she really wanted to bother watching a bit of crap telly before she turned in.
"So, what were you doing today?" she wasn't really sure why she chose now to start striking up a conversation, but the words slipped from her lips before she registered it.
"What?" he returned, looking up from his book.
"Nevermind. I'm going to bed."
The first night that he was back in Baker Street had proved awkward because of the fact that Jane had taken to sleeping in Sherlock's room, and actually hadn't used her own in well over two years, and for some reason she was suddenly reminded of this.
Sherlock grunted in response, his gaze falling back to his lap. She paused a moment, then retreated up the short flight of stairs to her bedroom, flicking the lightswitch on. It was cold out, biting November winds whispering haunting melodies through the long nights, but she didn't take the effort of clothing herself in appropriate sleepwear, just tossing her faded jeans and creamy jumper to the floor and pulling an oversized T-shirt on before crawling between the sheets, shivering lightly at the sudden cold embrace.
Sleep evaded her, lurking around the edges of her tired mind, always there but never quite in reach, taunting her with painful memories, thoughts of red blood spiderwebbed across pale skin and unseeing eyes of ice, of thundering cracks as bullets flew through the air to pierce frail human flesh with burning steel, filling her eyes with unshed tears.
At some point she heard a creak, and then the unmistakable form of Sherlock was hovering beside her bed, his tall black figure outlined by pallid moonlight seeping between the shutters. He didn't say a thing, just leaned forward and lifted up the sheets, slipping in beside her and bringing with him a breath of icy air.
"Relax, Jane," he whispered, breath washing warmly across the side of her neck.
"What do you think I've been trying to do?" she snapped, shifting over a bit (she wanted to get away, not make more room for him, of course) and turning her back to him. He was still on his side of her bed, the room filled for a few minutes with only the creaks of an old house and their soft breathing.
"You aren't going to fall asleep that way," Sherlock stated, cracking the silence.
"What the bloody hell are you doing in my bed anyway, Sherlock?" she demanded, beginning to turn back over in order to glare at him properly. She found herself entrapped in long arms before she could though, Sherlock's body pressed flush up against hers. He was surprisingly warm, for she had always assumed he must exist in a mostly permanent state of ice, something like a vampire.
"What ar—"
"Shhh," he hushed her softly, rubbing a hand soothingly along her bare arm.
"Bu—"
"Just be quiet, Jane," he hissed. "I can't help you if you refuse to cooperate."
She felt far too fatigued to put up a resistance, and let herself sink against Sherlock's chest. He hugged her closer, pressing his nose to theback of her neck in a strangely caring gesture. Actually, everything he was doing was oddly . . . tender. Maybe he felt guilty? Did he feel bad for not giving her any sort of communication, not a single word? Maybe he's trying to say sorry by being comforting because he can't actually say it.
"I can say sorry, Jane." The statement was uttered softly but bluntly, untainted by any emotion, somehow sturdy and fragile in the same breath.
"Stop reading my mind, you twat."
Sherlock sighed, bumping his nose against the back of her head, whether in irritation or affection she wasn't sure. "You know I can't read minds, Jane. I only—"
"Observe and deduce, yes, yes, I know. Can I sleep now? Please?"
"If you promise to actually speak with me tomorrow, yes."
"Yes. Sure. Goodnight." Jane closed her eyes, allowing herself to settle against Sherlock's warmth like a sleepy, contented cat, exhaustion and a strange, sudden sense of peace washing her into repose.
She's almost too far gone to notice when Sherlock's hand settles on her hip, familiar and comforting, a motion he hasn't appeared to have forgotten during that endless absence, and she falls asleep with a faint but genuine smile on her face.