1.
Sherlock hasn't moved from his space, staring at that envelope. I've been wandering around trying to busy myself as though I am not worried. I must have made about six pots of coffee for him at this point. He's surrounded with mugs. I've even managed to wash all of our dishes, in spite of myself. Sherlock will never do them anyway. I am walking past him, considering disappearing in my room, when his eyes move to me.
I settle beside him and place the tips of my fingers on his wrists. "You know, it's not going to-," I begin but I stop at his expression. Vaguely, I wonder if he knows his face betrays such sweetness. He moves forward, and it occurs to me that he's tired, overwhelmed, and quite probably scared. I feel a weight on my shoulder, and I come to recognize that he's placed his head there. I can feel the breath pulse through his nose and out through his mouth as I move my fingers over the bones in his hand to slip them between his fingers.
Between us, there is no resistance. Sherlock isn't afraid to be vulnerable with me anymore; when it's just us, he feels safe. And I'm not sure that he's felt that way in a long while. Embracing him like this feels natural, and I hope that I'm comforting him as much as he's comforting me.
Gently, I press a kiss to his forehead, and glance down at his face. Those wide tired blue eyes are closed, as is his mouth. I'm starting to forget what his voice sounds like at this rate; but I remember what he said about non-verbal communication. I wonder what he thinks he's communicating, but either way, it's...something good, as far as I can understand it.
I don't know which of us moves first, but soon we're laying against the floor, his arm around my waist and his face in my throat, my own arm under his head still. It's rather heavy at this point, but I can't bear to disturb him. He is so sweetly tucked against me, I want nothing but to allow him this. His hand is still entwined with mine, the clasp of our fingers hanging between our bodies, our lower halves discretely separated.
Sherlock swallows, I am close enough to him to hear the sound. I gingerly move my hand from under his head, quietly muttering, "I'm sorry my-," before he interrupts, "I understand." I move closer to him, pulling our clasped hands so that they rest at my waist as I rest my face on the floor before his. His eyes are opened and are on mine then. I don't feel like he's staring, and his eyes aren't reading me; he's just looking, openly, innocently into my eyes.
And through the entirely of our relationship, through my observations of Sherlock's interactions with others, I'm not sure I've ever seen him appear so vulnerable.